Category: Golden Years

Seeing a Saint

by

November 22, 2020

9:08 pm

Leave a comment on Seeing a Saint

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.

We Were Robbed

by

November 22, 2020

9:06 pm

Leave a comment on We Were Robbed

Houston: BCM and DGH

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.

Longwood, Cypress, Texas

by

November 22, 2020

9:04 pm

Leave a comment on Longwood, Cypress, Texas

Houston: BCM and DGH

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.

Bad Habits

by

November 22, 2020

9:03 pm

Leave a comment on Bad Habits

Houston: BCM and DGH

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.

Retirement

by

November 22, 2020

9:02 pm

Leave a comment on Retirement

Houston: BCM and DGH

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.

Eagle’s Trace – Pioneer Days

by

November 20, 2020

9:50 pm

1 Comment on Eagle’s Trace – Pioneer Days

Retirement and Eagle's Trace

I enjoyed living at Longwood in Cypress, Texas. It was a true replacement for my home in Amherst. Ponderosa Forest in Spring had merely been a place to live while working in Houston. We had planned on living in Texas for five to seven years, the usual maximum length of time for us to reside anyplace, during the previous twenty years. When we arrived in Houston in 1977, I was sure we would move back to New England and to another college town. Our kids decided otherwise. They had grown up and married. Their wives, Tracey and Kelly, had deep ties with Houston making it unlikely, I thought, that our sons, Ken or Chris, would choose to go somewhere else to live.

Then grandchildren came along. Since our own kids had never resided near their own grandparents, we thought we should remain in Texas. Baylor Med paid me well. Although I continued to respond to selected announcements in the employment section of the Chronicle of Higher Education, I realized movement to another academic location was not likely.

My life in Longwood was peaceful. The backyard with its newly covered patio and accompanying landscaping was an excellent place for a smoke and a cup of coffee, especially a cappuccino. Following one of our several vacations in Italy, Karen had encouraged the purchase of a machine which, at first, we routinely used for late afternoon relaxation. Until I gave up smoking. Apparently, I also gave up cappuccinos unless we were in a foreign country.

I did not mind the forty-five to sixty-minute drive to Christ the Good Shepherd, where I continued my diaconal ministry. Karen was content to drive for the same amount of time to her own ministry at the Cenacle, on the westside of Houston. We were a bit closer to Deb who now resided in San Antonio and a bit farther from those remaining in the Tomball-Woodlands areas. Retirement life in Cypress was filled with contentment. But I was curious.

I had seen an advertisement for a new retirement community in west-Houston, not too far from the Cenacle on Kirkwood. I requested that Erickson, the company backing the development, send me a brochure. I had no intention to look for a retirement community, even though, on our routine drive to CGS, we drove past Gleannloch Farms, which was in the process of building one. At the time, the concept of a self-contained retirement community was unusual for Houston.

The Erickson booklet I received looked interesting enough that I thought Karen might enjoy seeing it. We scheduled a visit to their trailer on Texas Highway 6 that served as a sales office for a development called Eagle’s Trace. Having seen it, Karen said this was where we were going to move. I had no reason not to agree.

At the time, I had no idea she was very willing to stop daily meal planning and preparation. (At Eagle’s Trace, an evening meal would be included in a monthly service-fee.) Although I continued to enjoy gardening, I agreed I liked to view the results more than to perform the daily-required upkeep, itself. A retirement community would accommodate our newly expressed desires. We continued to explore the possibility.

We visited locations on Louetta Road and Cypresswood Road in northwest Houston, an area with which we were very familiar. Although Gleannloch Farms looked interesting, it would be a couple of years before it would be opened. The Cypresswood community consisted of limited apartment-space, except for two adjacent cottages. In comparison, Eagle’s Trace would be more readily available and have facilities which might be of interest to us.

There would be on-site medical care with several internal medicine physicians and other specialists, e.g., cardiology, audiology, optometry, and dentistry. An extended care facility would open two years later. The main building would have a bank, grocery store, and library as well as a swimming pool and physical fitness equipment. Although nothing had been constructed, the floor plans looked promising.

We made a deposit to become “priority members” and chose a two-bedroom plan we thought would be acceptable. Unfortunately, other people thought the same thing, and we needed to wait until the second building would be completed. However, shortly afterwards, we were offered another plan which included a den, thereby expanding the available space. Although it would be more expensive than any other home we had ever owned, we decided this is what we wanted.

We put our Longwood property on the market and sold it six months before Eagle’s Trace was scheduled to open. With no other place to live, we rented a first-floor, three-bedroom unit at Stoneleigh Apartments on Spring-Cypress Road. One bedroom became a storage room for unpacked boxes awaiting our final move to Eagle’s Trace. A pathway was left for maneuvering among the containers mounted all the way to the ceiling. Some of our furniture and larger belongings, which could not be crammed into our apartment at Stoneleigh, were placed in a storage building on Spring-Cypress. CGS was only fifteen minutes away from our new, albeit temporary, home.

This was our first experience, since our days at Dartmouth, in which we lived in an apartment. It was interesting getting reacquainted with the lifestyle. We were pleased our unit at Eagle’s Trace would be on the top floor, rather than below residents who must be dropping exercise weights in the middle of every night, as they seemed to be doing at Stoneleigh.

We lived in this cramped location for five months. Eagle’s Trace became available a month earlier than we had thought would be the case. Unlike other residents who would “downsize” on their move to Eagle’s Trace, we actually would expand our immediate space!

Meanwhile, we had made trips to our new home-site, as often as we could, and eagerly awaited seeing the actual building. We were in luck; two weeks before we were scheduled to arrive, friends had moved into the same model we had chosen. Karen was able to measure their rooms and plan where our furniture would be placed in ours. She did an extremely accurate job; only one bookcase needed to be relocated after our actual move-in.

Our original day for scheduling a moving van was November 16, 2004, a date which would accommodate the use of the elevator needed to transfer our belongings to the fourth floor of the building designated as Pecan Grove. Late in the afternoon of our move-in, a major storm arrived. Our movers had to stop their activities. That night, we slept on mattresses on the floor. The ET director made a special visit with his flashlight to check on our comfort, which was minimal but acceptable. I used the stairs to obtain something to eat for our first dinner in our new home.

It was fun to be pioneers. The shelves in the closets and their final painting occurred the day before we moved, the day we saw our apartment for the first time. We also saw that the ceilings in both bathrooms had been painted to match the color of the walls; management claimed this was the current style. When we entered our pink bathroom, it felt as if we were entering someone’s mouth. Maintenance used white paint to re-cover the ceiling there and in the green bathroom as well.

The storage cages for our floor were unfinished. After several days of “extras” being stacked in our living room, we rented an off-site storage space. Although we had previously discarded a lot of our kitchen equipment and other, small, once-needed items, we quickly learned we should make another trip to the local Good Will depository. These were our only move-in problems.

The only other problem I had was trying to remember, without the aid of signage, how to get from the main building to our apartment. I finally looked for the hallway with the glass windows connecting the buildings. I was significantly lost only once.

It did not take long to begin the joys of living in a retirement community. In fact, in the months (and years) which followed, our usual description to inquiring friends was that living at Eagle’s Trace was like living on a cruise ship, but one with much larger cabins.

Eagle’s Trace – Retirement Living

by

November 20, 2020

9:45 pm

Leave a comment on Eagle’s Trace – Retirement Living

Retirement and Eagle's Trace

Before moving from a four-bedroom house to a two-bedroom (with “den”) apartment, we knew there would be changes in our lifestyle. The most common one is related to “downsizing.” Modern businesses, when they reorganize their corporate structures, often refer to the process as “right-sizing.” This reinterpretation is relevant, as well, for living in a retirement community.

Karen and I knew we must give up/eliminate/throw-out large (and small) items we would never need in the foreseeable future. Furniture, of course, requires the largest modification. One of our three “extra” bedrooms at Longwood had already been converted into a study for me. Although a second bedroom had been set aside, in part, for accommodating guests, there would now be no reason to keep any bedroom furniture for use by guests. (They would have access to a guest suite at ET or could stay in a nearby motel.) In addition to beds and dressers, there were the usual living room and family room stuff. Who needs a six-foot, colonial style couch in an apartment? Along with end-tables, sideboards and other cabinets?

We made a compromise for the dining room. The table and chairs were eliminated, the hutch would be kept, but the once sacred, wedding dishes, stored within, would now be used for daily meals – mainly breakfast and lunch, since we would eat dinner in the Garden Room, the common dining room at Eagle’s Trace. Our children and older grandchildren were given the option of taking our used furniture, as we had once experienced with our own parents when we established our first homes in Ithaca and Hanover. What they didn’t want (which was much of what we had to offer!), was given to charitable agencies. At the same time, we would no longer function as the storage place for items they had left under our care until they, themselves, had “larger” houses for their own self-storage. Now was the time to take it or forget about it!

The major hardship we had concerning downsizing was our book collections. All of mine had to fit into the two bookcases assigned for my study. (No longer would there be a wall of built-in bookshelves.) Karen’s collection would be relegated to a single bookcase in her study, the den which adjoined our new family-living room through its arched doorway. My study, which tended to be more jumbled, would use the space originally allocated for a second bedroom, since this room had a door that could be closed to hide that jumble.

Karen donated a bookcase, with spirituality-related books, to the Cenacle. My theological books and others relating to my diaconate work were packed off to the Library at St. Mary’s Seminary. Our most interesting donation was a complete set of the Encyclopedia Britannica given to the new, local Harris County Community College. The librarian was pleased to receive it and offered the assistance of a young student to help me carry the boxes from my car into the building. The amusing part was that the student had never seen a printed set of encyclopedia books; he was truly amazed that such a non-Internet publication existed!

Of course, over the first months in our Eagle’s Trace apartment, we did need to buy a few, smaller, items to replace what had been downside. A cabinet for the TV. Another one for my computer and its accessories. A small table and two chairs for the eat-in-kitchen. Two recliners and a very small leather couch for the family-living-dining-room. Although we retained pieces of our heavy New England furniture, the new, contemporary additions mixed well with the established items purchased more than fifty years!

Living a retirement lifestyle was more than accommodating the furniture. As we downside our material possessions, we up-sized new activities available at Eagle’s Trace. The retirement-living principle at ET was to join an existing interest-group or create one you wanted to join! Ultimately, more than ninety different interest-groups were established by our residents. Our individual focuses began to shift from our religious communities at the Cenacle, Christ the Good Shepherd and St. John Vianney to those within our retirement community.

Karen became active in a choir-singing-group and various prayer-spirituality-groups. I joined a book-club and even used the physical-fitness center to counterbalance a sedentary life. She joined the walking club. Karen also organized days-of-prayer and related mini-retreats for women as well as other efforts associated with neighbor-to-neighbor communication. I began to facilitate an interfaith bible-study as well as presentations for adult religious education, under the title of The Catholic Project. Ultimately, we joined Legacy in Words, a memoire group which led to the production of this blog, CamerosAndCarousels.com.

The only area we purposely avoided was any long-term involvement in committees associated with the “governance” of Eagle’s Trace, although we did accept a short-time assignment to the Residents’ Life Committee, which had oversight for the counseling efforts we enjoyed. Karen agreed to serve on the Election Committee for the Residents’ Advisory Council, which offered suggests to the management team of our Retirement Community. I even got conned into serving on the Civility Committee for the RAC.

The concept of the need for a committee charged with making suggestions for “civility” in a retirement community is, perhaps, a strange one. However, many elderly folks, who were used to owning their private homes on private property, did not recognize the differences which may result from hundreds of people living under the same roof. It had been decades since we had resided in a dormitory with its individual and communal spaces. We had forgotten that noise might be transferred through ceilings and walls, that someone might dispose of trash in unexpected places, that a borrowed cart used to transport purchases from the car to the apartment should be returned to a common site and not left in hallways or elevators. Yes, living in an enclosed community, even with independent living, does demand a level of basic civility, if arguments and estrangements are to be minimized.

Karen and I learned that those who reside within Eagle’s Trace may do so like a hermit, who lives in solitary confinement, or like cenobitic monks, those living in community, who gather as needed for meals, prayer and work. Retirement living should not be the same as survival of the fittest!

Retirement Living – Pros & Cons

by

November 20, 2020

9:40 pm

Leave a comment on Retirement Living – Pros & Cons

Retirement and Eagle's Trace

On October 10, 2022, Eagle’s Trace celebrated its Seventeenth Anniversary. This event has led me to think about the pros and cons of our decision, in 2004, to move to this retirement community, scheduled to open the following year. When I first heard about this new form of housing, new, at least, to Houston, I never thought we’d actually become involved. Having seen an advertisement in the local newspaper, I sent off for the brochure being offered. It looked interesting enough for Karen and me to attend a presentation in a prefabricated building about an hour’s drive from Longwood, the community where we had been happily living for seven years.

Longwood, with its pine forest and bike-paths, was a new development in Cypress Texas, a rural town north of Houston. Elsewhere, I’ve described the physical nature of our Longwood home, a place which, I thought, would be our location for all of my retirement years. We were living a life I had once merely dreamed about. Nevertheless, I was curious about the concept offered by Eagle’s Trace, a community of individual apartments with amenities that included two dining rooms, a swimming pool and exercise room, a computer room, a library, a beauty salon, a bank, a community store and an on-site medical facility with two doctors and other specialists, along with a dentist. There would even be a new building for extended care as well as one for a spirituality center.

Having attended the presentation, Karen announced to me, much to my surprise, that this is where we would be moving! She looked forward to not needing to prepare dinner each evening, but to eat out, depending upon a menu which offered a variety of steaks and poultry. Occasional lobster was also featured. She maintained, correctly, I would enjoy the results of great landscaping, without the effort of maintaining it.

Having downsized our possessions by giving them to our children and several charities, we moved into our never-seen-before apartment, two weeks after Eagle’s Trace opened for business. For the last seventeen years, we have never regretted our decision to move to a place we continue to maintain seems like living on a cruise ship with much larger cabins.

The advantages of the amenities offered were realized, along with several we had not foreseen. The security of the complex allowed us to continue taking foreign travel without having to be concerned about what might happen to our home during our absence. The delay in erecting a long-term care facility did not impact us, since we had not moved to ET with our terminal years in mind, but rather an active place for living as senior citizens. We would have preferred that the onsite dentist and audiologist had remained, but we were able to retain all of the off-site health specialists we had used previously. A formal religious or spiritual center was never constructed, but our continued participation with our home parish and the nearby Cenacle House, as well as our new involvements with prayer and adult religious education within our new community were fulfilling compensations. The advantages we had anticipated, now, in reality, delighted us. However, the passage of time has brought about a few disadvantages I had not envisioned when we first entered our years of retirement living.

It’s possible that one significant change would have occurred even without the physical move from a large house to a compact apartment. Nevertheless, I associate the resulting modification more with size than with time, itself.

We no longer gather together as a nuclear family as we did in the early days of our marriage. Previously, Christmas was celebrated as a joyful, daylong event in our own house, filled with relatives: our three children, their spouses, their children and, occasionally, other members of the extended family. We quickly learned our limited-in-size apartment would not accommodate such holidays as Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter. It was now time for us to travel to their homes for such gatherings, rather than for them to visit us.

For a while we were able to substitute with events held at a series of favorite places. We sponsored gatherings at a Chinese restaurant we had discovered many years ago. Nearby Brookwood, with its unusual meal setting and shops, offered an annual place for entertainment. Sunday gatherings were now held at Logan’s Roadhouse, where the grandkids, as well as their parents, could throw all of their peanut shells on the floor, an action frowned upon in the Garden Room Restaurant, an alternative afforded at Eagle’s Trace. Birthdays were now celebrated where our children lived, not where we lived. Perhaps, there was an advantage in not needing to prepare for a party and to clean up afterwards, but the change does appear to be a significant one when it comes to memories.

In the earliest years of our marriage, I fondly (and not-so-fondly) recall the trips Karen and I made for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter and summer vacations to both Niles and Sandusky, Ohio, from upstate New York and New England. Finally, with our move to Texas, those visits were reduced. Rarely did our parents visit us. So, it should not be surprising to me the time has come when a transfer of venues would become prevalent.

With the growth of the families of our grandchildren with their own offspring, the rate of change has increased. Birthdays are now celebrated in their homes with their friends as well as with the relatives who can make it. Housewarmings and Oktoberfests are held in new neighborhoods for new generations. Along with the retirement living of its elders, there is a continuing need for the daily living of every generation wanting to enjoy and celebrate life, itself. Life changes: life stays the same.

Eagle’s Trace – In Sickness and in Health

by

November 20, 2020

9:35 pm

Leave a comment on Eagle’s Trace – In Sickness and in Health

Retirement and Eagle's Trace

Some elderly folks believe the most important advantage of living in any retirement community is the health care opportunity provided during those years when sickness may be more prevalent than health. Although Karen and I agree it is very comforting to have medical facilities readily available, we have not seen this to be an essential requirement. I do admit, however, that as much as I enjoy living in a small town, or even in a country setting, I would not move to a location where one must travel for hours to reach either a physician or a hospital. I fully appreciate having two physicians physically present at Eagle’s Trace, during an eight-hour workday, and available 24-7 for on-call emergencies. I have enjoyed taking only an elevator to the location where blood can be drawn for laboratory testing, if one can really enjoy such an activity!

When early residents moved into Eagle’s Trace, we were assured that an extended care facility would be constructed within a year or two. The unit, to be called the Renaissance Center, would provide assisted living, memory care, and rehabilitation. When there was a delay in the construction, many residents were irate with the “broken commitments” made by the Erickson enterprise. Karen and I were not among this group; we had not moved to a retirement community for its long-term health facilities. We were interested in an active retirement.

Construction of Bayou Vista, the renamed Renaissance Center, began in January 2012, some eight years after we moved into ET. The recession of 2008 – 2009, as well as a period when Erickson suffered the threat of bankruptcy, resulted in the delay. Fortunately, Karen and I did not require the facility, except for her use of rehabilitation procedures that, at the time, could be found on the first floor of our main building.

Karen liked the medical assistance routinely provided by Dr. Reina Patel, the first M.D. at Eagle’s Trace. I had Dr. Holden, who had been the medical director before he returned to academic medicine. Dr. Brian Tremaine has been an excellent replacement as my general medicine practitioner. On the other hand, the specialists, who were proposed to have an on-site presence, did not materialize. I have remained, however, with the former ET audiologist when she left us. Karen and I went through a series of dentists until we found a nearby practice. For several years, we continued to visit our Baylor ophthalmologists and dermatologists at the Texas Medical Center, where we have been treated since the days I worked at BCM, before transferring to ones who have offices closer to ET.

Over the last fifteen years, as our own health has been modified, we have added a few more specialists in disciplines relevant to our needs. A neurologist became one of my annual reviewers as a result of global transient amnesia. I experienced a GTA episode during a one-hour incident, the details of which my memory does not hold – except for remembering I kept asking Karen what had happened during the lecture we were giving to an ET class at the time it occurred. Several days at a local Memorial Hospital, along with magnetic resonance scans and parallel examinations, did not reveal the cause of the problem, which is the usual case with GTA. A year later I had to excuse myself from a meeting with a couple I had been preparing for marriage. As a result of this second GTA episode, I could not remember how I had managed to drive home from CGS. Nevertheless, once a year, I continue to see Dr. Diaz, who has assured me that motor-skills and other learned behavior continue to function during the episode, although the memory of the associated events does not.

Karen’s new specialists are involved with orthopedic surgery. Several years ago, she had both knee joints replaced, one-at-a-time. After laboring through an encounter with the walls surrounding Dubrovnik, Croatia, she decided the time had arrived for new knees. The results were fantastic. Once more, it was pleasant to use the elevator to commute to rehabilitation sessions, even if the bends and stretches experienced there were not pleasant for her.

At this time, we learned how quickly the ET first respondents actually responded. Karen had been given a brace for her knee, to be used during the initial post-operation week. She had removed it in the bathroom. Her weakened leg collapsed and so did she. I was at CGS at the time and, thus, not available to help her. Fortunately, the bathroom has a pull-cord for emergencies reported to the front desk at Eagle’s Trace. When she did not answer the immediately ringing telephone, two respondents arrived within five minutes of her cord-pulled-notification that they were needed. There are great advantages living in a retirement community equipped for the unique needs of its residents.

Having had a successful surgery on her knees, a few years later, Karen was willing to have the ball and socket of her right shoulder replaced. Meanwhile, her orthopedic surgeon had returned to Tennessee. His replacement was not as fine a surgeon. Since the pain and degree of motion for the treated shoulder became worse following the replacement, she decided to forgo any action on the other one. Having recently found another specialist, she has obtained some comfort from cortisone treatments. Final consideration for the second shoulder remains pending.

Recently, during our seventeenth year at ET, she has had her right hip replaced. She is becoming a bionic woman, at least of her right side. Although she expected an easy recovery, since hip-replacements are supposed to be easier than either knee or shoulder renewals, her body is now that of an octogenarian, one that required ten days in rehab-care at Bayou Vista before returning to our apartment. On the other hand, I finally learned how to use our dishwasher and washing machine while she was recuperating.

The only other surgery during our retirement years has been for the removal of cataracts from my own eyes, again one-at-a-time. Another Baylor specialist removed them with the result that I saw the color blue as it was meant to be seen, a magnificent color devoid of the greyness it once possessed. The artificial lenses have allowed me to dispense with the eyeglasses I have worn since I was in the first grade. A year later, I noticed some distortion in my long distance vison while driving, but I continue to be thrilled by what is so actually visible across a once beclouded room.

Our personal problems with sickness and any diminished health have been minimal here at Eagle’s Trace. We recognize this is not the case for our friends. A significant difference in living in a retirement community from that of a usual neighborhood, results from the demographics accompanying the two locations. We have experienced an increase in the frequency of deaths, especially since those who moved here at the same as we did are “aging in place.” We are among them. However, there is probably no better place in which to age in place than here at Eagle’s Trace. Here it is very comforting to live in sickness and in heath, until death do us part.

Hurricanes

by

November 20, 2020

9:30 pm

Leave a comment on Hurricanes

Retirement and Eagle's Trace

Usually, the residents of the Gulf Coast are the ones who worry about hurricanes. After all, the most destructive one ever recorded for the United States was the unnamed storm that wiped out Galveston on September 9, 1909. It has been reported that about 8,000 people died as a result of that tragic event.

However, even New England is not immune to hurricanes along its shores as well as in the Connecticut Valley, itself. The local history of Amherst, Massachusetts, recalls the devastation roaring through the Pioneer Valley on September 12, 1938. Although the death toll was less than 10% of the count associated with the turn-of-the-century storm in Galveston, the overall destruction was significant enough for the town to name its high school athletic team: The Hurricanes. The overall results of the current storm, Henri, striking New England’s coastline may be less significant but the residents of its inland towns have, nevertheless, been inundated by the usual accompanying floods.

Karen and I have had sufficient exposure to floods from tropical storms to understand the physical and psychological damage hurricanes, the cyclones of the Atlantic Ocean, can cause.

Our introduction came in late June of 1989, ten years after we had moved to what our property deed called “a hundred-year flood plain.” In the long run, it was fortunate that these conditions had been officially stated; we were obligated to carry flood insurance. Our policy covered the amount needed to repair the damaged floors and walls and replace the water-soaked furniture of our Spanish-colonial home.

Following that 1989 event, we are among those Houstonians who are psychologically troubled whenever the rainfall exceeds several inches per hour. It is deeply stressful to watch the water line creep toward your house. When we finally were able to sell our home on Grand Valley Drive in Spring, Texas, and buy one in Cypress, we made sure our new property was among the highest in the neighborhood. Fortunately during the years we lived there, passing storms avoided us, flooding only the community golf course.

It was in 2005, as we neared the completion of our life in Cypress and prepared to move to Eagle’s Trace, that we expanded our tropical storm experience to one for a true hurricane. At the end of August, Katrina arrived in Louisiana and a significant percentage of New Orleans residents suddenly appeared in Houston. Many transferred from the Astrodome to homes in other parts of the city and became permanent members of the Houston community. At the time, having sold our property in Cypress, we were living temporarily in an apartment complex in northwest Houston, awaiting the opening of Eagle’s Trace in November.

Our plans called for us to drive, in early September, to Dallas where I was to officiate at the wedding of the daughter of close friends who, previously, had resided in Houston. Following the wedding, we were to drive to Grand Coteau in southern Louisiana for our annual Ignatian retreat at the Jesuit Center there. Our plans were radically changed by Rita, a hurricane headed toward our part of the gulf coast in mid-September.

We left our apartment in northwest Houston early on Thursday morning so that we would be in Dallas for the rehearsal scheduled for the following day. After six hours of so-called driving, we arrived in The Woodlands – a trip which usually took a maximum of twenty minutes. Karen and I spent a total of fourteen hours in our journey from northwest Houston to Dallas. As we idled along, we had several interesting conversations with newly found friends in the cars in the adjoining lanes of Interstate 45. Fortunately, there were compassionate Texans who walked along-side of the traffic and offered us free bottles of water. Our Dallas friends were overjoyed that we arrived in time for the rehearsal on Friday and for the Saturday wedding I was to witness. Only one other couple from Houston accomplished the journey, the soloist for the wedding, along with her husband.

We never did make the trip to Grand Coteau, Louisiana. However, when we called to cancel the plans for our retreat there, the Jesuits were pleased, since the Center was now filled with religious refugees from New Orleans and the surrounding area. The saddest result, however, was that this cancellation ended our twenty-five consecutive years of annual retreats at this Jesuit Retreat Center.

As residents of Eagle’s Trace, we have also experienced the passage of hurricane Ike (September 1, 2008) and hurricane Harvey (August 27, 2018.) In both instances, the management of our retirement community, as well as its residents, have been of magnificent benefit to us. The staff worked to provide for our well-being, even if the meals had to be unhealed. Flood waters rose in surrounding neighborhoods, but our grounds remained unencumbered. As a result of Harvey, the number of our future residents increased; former neighborhood residents purchased apartments here, because they chose not to live any longer in their flood-prone homes.

The US Corp. of Army Engineers is now relocating its headquarters to a site opposite to the entrance for Eagle’s Trace. Because of multiple political reasons, it may not be possible to erect an “Ike Dike” in Galveston Bay, although discussions continue about its construction. Nevertheless, given the merit of our staff and cooperation of our residents, our own community should be able to continue to endure future gulf-coast storms, no matter what they are called.