Category: Houston: BCM and DGH

It’s not often you can see a real saint, either before or after canonization. I saw mine some thirty-five years ago, on Sunday, September 14, 1987. A few years later, the site where I saw him would become “Sea World.” At the time, it was only a very large, open space in the Westover Hills section of San Antonio. I, along with all of the other clergy in the State of Texas, had been invited to take part in the Papal Mass to be celebrated by Pope John Paul II during his visit to the United States. As a Permanent Deacon, I was to help distribute communion to the 350,000 people expected to attend the liturgy. Karen was not one of them. She, Sister Alice and our pastor, Fr. Ed, were scheduled to attend a meeting in Washington, D.C. of catechists involved in the Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults. One of her recollections of that event was a line from a song performed by the Saint Louis Jesuits: “Is there intermission at the Beatific Vision, or do we have to sit around and watch all day?” Somehow, that verse may be related to what I saw in the Alamo City on the same day.

Of course, the vision I beheld was not the “Beatific One,” not even a “blessed” one. John Paul II was not declared a saint until 2014, along with Pope John XXIII. Nevertheless, he was well-received by Catholics and others throughout the world during his lifetime. I saw him, at a distance, at that Mass he celebrated during his two days in Texas. However, that event almost did not take place. Three days earlier, on a Thursday, a storm with winds exceeding 75 mph, tore through the site, destroying the ten-story backdrop for the Mass. Somehow, a smaller, but still very attractive, alternative was completed before the opening procession on Sunday.

I do not recall anything about what John Paul II said during his homily. But several vivid memories about Communion are still retained. Each Deacon was vested with his own alb and white stole, mine with the insignia of Christ the Good Shepherd. We each wore a cream-colored, pentagonal medallion depicting hands enfolding a chalice and host. We carried a blue, pottery ciborium with the same design. We were allowed to keep them as mementoes of the event; mine resides on a table in our living room. Each ciborium was filled with a hundred or so unconsecrated hosts. We sat in a reserved section near the altar. During the consecration, we uncovered the bowls, as the Pope recited the usual invocation. A few minutes later, each deacon distributed Communion to the three-hundred-thousand present at the celebration. For me, this became my ultimate memory of the event, and not necessarily a pleasant one.

Each deacon had been assigned a numbered location for the distribution of the hosts. I’m not sure any of us made it to his predetermined site. As I moved toward the place to which I had been assigned, hundreds of people stretched out their hands to receive the host. There were no lines; there was no order to the distribution. On the positive side, it did seem like we were the disciples there in the wilderness, feeding the 5,000 from the seven loaves of bread blessed by Jesus, himself. The problem came with the “leftovers.”

On the hillside where the thousands had gathered two millennia ago, the remaining bread and fish filled twelve wicker baskets. Fortunately, at the time, there were no fish for us to be concerned about in San Antonio. But there were the consecrated hosts. Having completed distributing Communion to those who had come toward me, I still had at least a half-filled ciborium. Apparently, other deacons experienced the same condition.

Before the service we had been instructed about what to do with the consecrated hosts exceeding the number which could be consumed. We approached the receiving area, which held more than twelve huge wash tubs as receptacles and emptied our bowls into them. There were considerably more than twelve wicker baskets filled with them. It was my understanding that after the service, earth would be placed over the area and the consecrated hosts would be buried for eternity, or until such time as excavation occurred for the erection of Sea World on the same site. The image of those buried hosts has stayed with me for more than three decades.

I wish I had more memories about John Paul II’s visit to San Antonio, but I do not. My favorite pope is the one who was canonized with him: John XXIII. I continue to have fond memories of visiting his tomb in the crypts beneath St Peter’s Basilica. On top of his plain sarcophagus, a single red rose had been placed.

Interestingly, one of our earlier visits to Rome is also associated with John Paul II. He died on April 2, 2005, the time when we had scheduled a visit to Europe. Our flight to Rome was delayed by our missing a connection in the airport in Paris on our way from Houston. It appeared that every bishop in the world had also chosen flights from Paris to Rome to be there for the conclave to choose John Paul’s successor. Luckily, we met a young woman in the De Gaulle International Terminal who helped us make a telephone call to the Grand Circle tour company office in Rome and aided us in obtaining tickets to continue our travel. A few days later, we were in our hotel in Sorento, when the tv-newscast indicated that Josef Ratzinger, a non-Italian, had been elected pope. Both we and the local media thought this to be an extraordinary event.

I am pleased I had the opportunity to see Saint John Paul II at a distance. It’s doubtful I have been, or will be, in the presence of a declared saint. On the other hand, it is said we are all called to be saints. There is a likelihood I have already been in the presence of many undeclared saints. At least, I’d like to believe that’s the case. It would be wonderful to see saints who are still around me, everywhere I go.

If Mary Ellen had been feeling well, we would not have been robbed. Mary Ellen and Wheeler Crawford were our “across-the-street” neighbors on Grand Valley. They were from Fishkill, New York and Mary Ellen had the greatest New York accent I’ve ever heard in person. Her lectionary readings on a Sunday at Christ the Good Shepherd were a wonderment of sound. Her neighborhood shouts to Wheeler were equally amazing. Mary Ellen was also the local town-crier, knowing just about anything and everything of importance going on in our neighborhood. One of her portals for observation was the window above her kitchen sink, directly opposite to our driveway. For most of the day, she had an excellent view of our property. Except on that day in early April of 1986, when Karen and I had a telephone call from Aunt Mary summoning us to come to Ohio, immediately, since my father had taken an unexpected turn for the worst in his health.

Usually, if both of us were to be out of town, because of a planned vacation, we routinely made arrangements that included informing Mary Ellen and other friends we would be gone. We often took the precaution of notifying the local sheriff’s office so that a patrol car passing through Ponderosa would be aware of our absence. It was also common for us to set the light-timers in several rooms, giving the appearance that someone was in the house in the evening. However, the suddenness of our needing to leave town precluded this planning, as we hurriedly booked a flight to Niles.

It turned out that Aunt Mary’s assessment had proven incorrect; my father was not in any immediate danger. Karen and I returned to Houston and discovered that the window on the backdoor had been broken and the house had been ransacked.

The items we found to be missing were those which were easily transported in a pillowcase, evidently one taken from our own bed. However, I was distressed that my mother’s engagement and wedding rings were gone. I had inherited them the year before, following her death. They were probably not expensive, but they did have a very sentimental meaning. This was also true for a black, onyx ring with a silver fraternity crest I had possessed since my junior year at Kent State, as well as a gold-plated DU fraternity pin I had presented long ago to Karen. Her own, attached Alpha Chi Omega pin had also been taken. Ironically, they also made off with my father’s coin collection, which he had given me only a short time before. The collection, itself, was of average value; he liked collecting coins but had no further use for them. I, myself, had no interest in coins. Fortunately, my stamp collection, of somewhat greater value financially and emotionally, was left behind.

Karen also lost her jewelry, which, at the time, was mainly of the costume variety, rather than the real gems I was able to give to her in later years. She did lose a number of clip-on earrings. As a result, she decided to have her ears pierced. Posts and loops with true gems replaced those which had been lost. The only other item that seemed to be missing was a small, fox stole her mother had given her. Karen seldom wore it, but the sentimental loss was, nevertheless, significant.

There was, however, one pair of items which were not taken, but had been considered by the thieves. Smudged fingerprints were found on two gold-plated pyx used for carrying consecrated hosts from the church to where they would be distributed to sick people who wanted to receive communion. I have often wondered if those responsible for the break-in were actually Catholic-raised robbers, superstitiously concerned about the nature of what they took and what they left behind. We also thought they may have been teenagers living in the neighborhood. They had carried off only items easy to transport and to fence. Common electronics remained untouched. The only other “clue” came from our observation that they had consumed most of a quart of orange juice left in the refrigerator. I would guess they were young teens, not yet interested in our liquor cabinet.

In the weeks following the robbery, I did make visits to the local pawn shops, but without identifying any of the missing items. Apparently, the criminals, themselves, traveled farther from home to fence what they had taken. The police did not locate any suspects. The fingerprints recovered from the pyx evidently were not on file – indicating, to me, that the culprits were young, and probably from the neighborhood, since they knew we were away for several days.

During these days, there was the usual sense of “violation.” Some unknown persons had been in our home and had robbed us. Would it happen again? Once they had successfully accomplished taking small pieces, they could carry away in a pillowcase, would they come back for larger items?

Mary Ellen was as disturbed as we were about the robbery. Perhaps, even more so. If she had not been ill in bed during those four days, she would have been standing at her window over the kitchen sink, observing everything going on in the neighborhood and being very willing and capable of notifying the sheriff’s office of what she was seeing. I agree: if Mary Ellen had been feeling well, we would still have the jewelry, coins and a moth-eaten fox stole, one not worth being stolen.

We finally sold our home on Grand Valley and moved to Cypress, another suburb in northern Houston. At times, the years before our relocation had been anxious ones. We no longer enjoyed heavy storms. There had been a period when I found it exiting to sit on the hallway stairs leading to our second floor and watch the lightening as I looked through the screen door onto our porch. However, after Allison had deposited her foot of water on the tiles of that foyer, I was more anxious, than thrilled, each time there was a heavy storm. There is no entertainment in watching water creep over the front lawn and praying it will stop before it reaches the six-inch high slab making up that porch. Our prayers had been answered on several occasions; we had only one flooding during our eighteen years on Grand Valley. On the other hand, the requirement of letting potential buyers know we had been flooded, did decrease our chances of a sale. Then came two families from Chicago who wanted to live in homes close to one another. They bought two houses in Ponderosa Forest; one of them was ours.

One of our hobbies had been looking at new houses. Karen and I made “mushroom hunting” drives each weekend. Every realtor was responsible for a new batch of signs planted like fungal groups along the major streets in the Northwest. We followed their trails by looking but not taking any interest in buying. Then we happened upon the Longwood subdivision in Cypress, Texas. The homes, mainly in an acceptable price range, were located among the pine trees along Little Cypress Creek. The property at the corner of Wynfield Drive and Amsbury Lane appeared to be higher than the other lots in the neighborhood. We thought we might be safe there. We bought it and chose one of the house plans for our home in Cypress. We made weekly trips to watch it being built; I still have a video of the hours we devoted to those visits.

The community of Cypress was truly out-in-the-country. There was no country store; the main intersection for Cypress had the usual chain grocery store, drug store and gas station. There was even a stable nearby to offer a peaceful view on our drives from downtown to Longwood. Although the local parish of Christ the Redeemer was only a few minutes away, we continued to be part of the Christ the Good Shepherd community, where I remained as an active deacon. The drive time was only 45 minutes, if Louetta Road or Cypress Creek Road had no significant accidents. On a late evening, after meeting with couples preparing for marriage, I could make it in thirty.

The house, itself, was a one-floor, contemporary structure. We no longer wanted a second story, given the problems my father once had in climbing stairs at the age I was now approaching. I well recall how he sat on his stairs and made his way slowly up or down depending on where he next placed his rump. If his “lumbago” was hereditary, I wanted to be prepared.

We had as many rooms on a single floor as we had in our previous homes, albeit on a slightly smaller scale. The living and dining rooms faced south and were constantly hot. My study overlooking a good-sized backyard was comfortable at all hours. Karen now had her own prayer-room space. There was a guest bedroom in addition to our own master bedroom suite. The feature we liked best was a large family room, with built-in bookcases and a fireplace, adjoining a kitchen with a skylight. Entertainment was easy with open access between the two areas.

My interest in gardening returned. We had a pergola built over our patio that was covered with wisteria. I planted purple iris along one fence and jasmine and bougainvillea along another. A large pink magnolia bush did well near the covered patio, which was bordered by clematis and caladiums. One side of our house was framed with climbing roses; the front held gardens for crape myrtle, lantana, and day lilies. The fourth side was very close to that of our neighbors, who used one of their bedrooms as an exercise room. Unfortunately, the two pine trees we had purposely left standing in our front yard succumbed to pine-bark-beetles two years after we moved in. It was quite remarkable what small, unseen critters can do to twenty-foot trees.

I greatly enjoyed the neighborhood, itself, with its winding paths for walking and bike riding. Once again, we did not really get to know our neighbors, themselves, even with block-parties and neighborhood-night-out gatherings. Most of them appeared to be young, working couples. There were few children seen during the day. The local pool and nearby tennis courts appeared to be full of young folks when we passed by. We did not join the neighborhood golf club, but occasionally ate lunch in its grill. In order to have neighborhood friends, when you no longer have kids in school, it seems you need to join a country club. We never did.

On a few occasions we visited Tin Hall, located at the center of Longwood; it was the second oldest dancehall in Texas. The upper floor shook dramatically when weekend cowboys participated in line dancing on it. We first saw Tin Hall several years before we had moved to Longwood. One of my favorite memories was a result of our CGS community holding parties there. It was amazing to see and hear Fr. Ed bellowing out Cotton-eyed Joe! When we lived in the area, the music from Tin Hall was never heard at our residence on Wynfield. However, their fireworks display on July Fourth was worth watching, even at our distance.

I could have been very happy, I believe, continuing to reside in Longwood for the remainder of our lives in the Houston area. I formally retired when we lived there and looked forward to relaxing in the backyard, even if I had to do the digging for new plants and cutting the ever-growing grass that did so well with annual fertilizing each spring and fall. This life concluded some seven years after it had begun, when I requested an information booklet about a place called Eagle’s Trace.

If eating cookies and desiring a slice of pecan pie can be overlooked as bad habits, I have had only one: cigarette smoking. I never cared that much for alcohol; excess drinking was never among my addictions. My maternal grandmother consumed more than she should have. Consequently, my mother never drank alcohol. My father seldom had a beer, but on occasion would drink a small amount of wine or whiskey. In college, for social acceptability, I learned how to nurse a beer or a Scotch-and-soda for extended periods. Later, private or professional cocktail parties were to be endured, not enjoyed. During my younger days, drugs were not readily available; I had no interest in trying them, when they did become culturally acceptable. My only exposure to marijuana came in the form of unavoidable inhalation while rushing through the entrance tunnel to the Student Union at UMass.

Although a majority of my male friends in high school had the Fonzy-look with a cigarette package rolled up in the sleeve of a white T-shirt, I waited until I was a freshman in college before I took on that appearance. Cigarettes with coffee (double cream, double sugar) became a way of daily life at Kent. At Cornell, the cream was eliminated, thanks to those damn tetra-packs, but the rest of the habit remained. In fact, it increased over the years, despite an increment in cost. A twenty-five-cent pack of Pall-Malls no longer existed. Some forty years later, a twenty-dollar bill was needed for a carton of filtered, Benson & Hedges cigarettes that were a silly millimeter longer. At a current average rate of $8.00 per pack, a single cigarette demands a price higher than I once paid for a pack of twenty!

For more than forty years, I had retained, despite the intense nagging of our kids, this destructive habit. Fortunately, I did not enjoy cigars and their odor. During college, I had attempted to smoke a pipe, but could seldom keep one going for more than a few minutes. On the other hand, I knew all of the scientific reasons for quitting cigarettes. Yet, I smoked even when my professional work on cytochrome c oxidase indicated I had to desist on those days when I was involved with laboratory experiments on oxygen metabolism.

I did reduce the sites for indulging in the habit. Once we had moved to Longwood, I never smoked inside of the house. I no longer smoked in the car. At work, I did not smoke inside Baylor; I would carry a cup of coffee with me as I retreated to an outside patio, and later, to a bench farther from the building.

I had also devised a scheme for fake-smoking, since I had to do something with my hands while engaged in otherwise boring, routine actions. By rolling up a small piece of notepaper, I could construct a tube for handling and sucking, when one filled with tobacco was not possible for use. It worked, except when a joking friend would attempt to light my non-burning cigarette. My three-pack-a-day habit was greatly reduced by this subterfuge.

At points during the previous three years, I had been able to go for a couple of days without inhaling tobacco smoke. My ersatz paper tubes had provided sufficient finger movements. I also had taken up origami during boring meetings. A table area in front of me often became the nesting grounds for a variety of birds, which I would offer to other participants at the closure of the session.

With the beginning of the third millennium, it seemed that something special should be done, personally, to commemorate the year. Furthermore, as my great-grandchildren began to expand in numbers, I thought I might like to live long enough to see them grow older. These conditions might provide additional reasons for not buying another pack of cigarettes. However, my resolve did not materialize. I continued to smoke, usually outdoors, and only thought about quitting.

On Good Friday of the year 2000 I ran out of cigarettes. I thought it might be penitential for me to go without smoking for the rest of the day. On Saturday, I thought I might resist smoking for another twenty-four hours. A similar resolve occurred on Easter Sunday. By Monday, I realized there might not be any reason for me to start again, at least for a while. I have not had a cigarette since then.

Strangely, I continued, on occasion, to dream I restarted the habit I had maintained for more than forty years. Within each dream, I became extremely annoyed and angry with myself for returning to that habit. This addiction has remained within me for the last twenty-plus years, but I have not yielded to it. Perhaps it’s good that a package of cookies is half the cost of a pack of cigarettes.

Is retirement an event or a process? Some men don’t really want to retire and avoid doing so at any cost. Perhaps, they fear they are only what they “do” and there is no reality in who they “are,” who they “might be.” My high school friend, Bob Wick, once told me he could never retire. He enjoyed his life as an artist; he had more than only “work” as an artist. So maybe it’s true, an artist cannot retire; the practice of art is their life, not their work. Perhaps, this is also the case with others who completely integrate their life, what they do, what they accomplish, with who they are. This was not the case for me.

I sought integration, unity within my own life, but did not find it during my working career. I was pleased when I retired from my daily interactions at Baylor College of Medicine in June 1999. No doubt there were days when I enjoyed my work, what I was doing, the interactions I had with others. There might have been days when I thought I must have accomplished something. However, some twenty years later, I have difficulty in considering what they might be. Nevertheless, I still remember the immediate events associated with my leaving Baylor Med.

My retirement process began a year before I physically left the College. It began when Bobby Alford, the Academic Dean of Medicine and my immediate supervisor, informed me that my contract for the following academic year would not be renewed, according to instructions he had received from Ralph Feigin, the new BCM President.

I was 63 at the time; my original plan assumed I’d retire at age 65. Did it really matter that my retirement would be a year earlier than I had planned? The amount in my TIAA-CREF retirement fund, at the time, indicated I could retire at any time I wanted. As it turned out, the 2000 – 2002 “Recession” eliminated 50% of those funds, but the figures in 1998-99 were comforting enough for me to begin the process.

I was enjoying our new home in Longwood. I looked forward to gardening and outdoor efforts with new plants. Grass cutting would be less welcomed, but it could be the time to hire help for this recurring task. I knew I would be well occupied with the enjoyable events I had undertaken as a Permanent Deacon at Christ the Good Shepherd. Perhaps, I could now realize the integration in my life that I had sought for so many years. Leaving Baylor Med would be welcomed.

The actual events, however, were somewhat of a surprise to me. In 1999, I would have been with the College for twenty-two years. I knew many faculty and staff members. It was frequently the case that a retirement party, usually given by one’s department or office, would be held in honor of the departing member. The secretaries and financial assistant in Alford’s office did gather for punch and pastry. They presented me with a photocopied selection of recipes under the title: Bubba Camerino’s Gumbo. They knew I enjoyed fixing gumbo and would make good use of their effort. I have.

At the time, I had two weeks of vacation time “owed” to me. In late June 1999, on my last day with Baylor College of Medicine, I packed up my personal belongings and left for a vacation trip with Karen to the University of Notre Dame, for two weeks of classes on spiritual direction. Looking at it one way, I never “retired” from the College, I merely went on vacation and never returned.