Category: Reflections in General

The month of February has its limited number of days, thanks to Julius Caesar, but it also may have more holidays than any other month. Not everyone celebrates all of them, but those who do appear to be very enthusiastic about those they choose to follow.

I am puzzled, however, regarding folks who get excited about the behavior, on the Second Day of the month, of a small, yet pudgy, critter. According to the Pennsylvania Dutch, if he is scared by seeing his shadow in bright sunlight, he will retreat to his burrow, and there will be six more weeks of wintery weather. I can understand how the Chamber of Commerce of Punxsutawney, PA, would tout this viewpoint, but it is a strange alternative to the religious origin relating to Candlemas and celebrating, in the early Christian church, the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple and the concomitant Purification of Mary.

Nevertheless, a groundhog’s shadow may be as relevant to one’s well-being as the blessing of throats on the Feast of St. Blaise, held on the following day. I recall how, as a youngster, I was expected to have the priest place candles on both sides of my neck, as he recited the appropriate prayer to ensure I would not have a sore throat during the next six weeks. Fortunately, the candles were not lit at the moment of the blessing. I do not remember how therapeutic the procedure might have been.

The holiday associated with the middle of the month, February 14, is celebrated by more people than those who follow the behavior of a groundhog, even if he had his own movie. Valentine’s Day, with its estimated annual commercial value in excess of 25 billion dollars, is outdone by only Christmas and Halloween, two other holidays that originated as holy days for early Christians. However, following the Second Vatican Council, it seems that St Valentine has lost his sacred role, while retaining his secular followers.

As a child, St Valentine’s Day was not one of my own favorite, publicly supported holidays. I remember that each homeroom held a large, white-papered box with symmetrical red hearts glued to it. Into this slotted box, kids placed their cards to be distributed to fellow classmates, like a mail-call in military camps. I seldom received more than two or three cards in return for the ones I had purchased for every member of the class. At home, there was no expectation of flowers or of heart-shaped, candy-filled boxes.

In the public forum of school and business, Valentine’s Day did outperform the holidays which came before and after the sending of cards, flowers and candy. On February 12, school kids recalled Lincoln’s Birthday, and, on February 22, we remembered Washington’s Birthday, which was usually more important than Abe’s day. The color blue was added to the red and white that had been displayed for St Valentine. Heads with colonial wigs were more prevalent than those with beards. We may have been freed from classes on the day dedicated to Washington, but never for Lincoln. Neither President was commercialized. That process had to wait until Presidents’ Day replaced the two, separate remembrances.

In 1968, federal law established the concept of a three-day government-endorsed holiday, with Monday added to allow for an extended weekend. Abe and George were set aside as individuals. They were now joined together for a single national holiday on the third Monday in February. On that day, banks and post-offices were closed, and every store selling a product was opened for extended business. Now, in the second decade of the third millennium, it appears that Presidents’ Day has become Presidents’ Month, a month of sales. The event is a financial bridge, along with Valentine’s Day, between Christmas and Easter.

Although Easter, itself, must wait for either late March or early April for its celebration, the month of February does allow for Mardi Gras, the “Fat Tuesday,” which precedes Ash Wednesday and the beginning of the forty days of Lent. When I was growing up, this Creole-French holiday was not part of my Italian-Polish heritage. I was well aware of the time when we would say “farewell to meat,” but carnivals were summertime events, not a two-week merriment of parties and parades in midwinter.

Ash Wednesday was the beginning of almost six weeks of going without candy, desserts and other goodies. Lent was a period of fasting interrupted by only St. Patrick’s Day and, a few days later, by St. Joseph’s Day. Living in Niles, which was divided between Irish and Italians, as evidenced by two citywide parishes, St. Stephen’s and Our Lady of Mt Carmel, it was a toss-up as to which holy day would allow for a few hours of pleasant eating.

In my early years, I was vaguely familiar with, and enjoyed participating as much as I could, in the holidays of Groundhog Day, Candlemas/St Blaise, Lincoln’s Birthday, St Valentine’s Day, Washington’s Birthday, and Ash Wednesday. It is only upon our move to Houston that I became aware of the inclusion of Trail Rides and of Rodeo, which occupy two or three weeks in mid to late February. After all, Texans had to have some excuse for partying once the build-up for the Super Bowl had passed and the Second Sunday in February had gone by.

Several years ago, Karen and I saw a performance at the Houston Rodeo. I’ve forgotten the name of the musical entertainer we heard, but I admit I prefer recorded country music to the current up-close-and-personal screamers who attend live events. I would enjoy revisiting the livestock venue and country-western booths of the midway. I would be interested in sampling the exotic fried foods that are an essential contribution to gourmand living for Texans. However, the aging process may preclude our participation. It may be easier to attend the birthday celebration of our grandson, Dillon, and his own son, Shiloh, on February 17. However, with the move of their family to Atlanta, the actuality of our celebrating with them becomes improbable.

The month of February concludes with the commemoration of one final, personal event. I was ordained as a Permanent Deacon by Bishop Morkovsky on February 25, 1984. Since this date often occurs after Lent has begun, Karen and I quietly celebrate this sacrament by ourselves. We have an opportunity for reflection about what has occurred in our lives and what hopes still to remain for the future.

In addition to February being the month with so many individual holidays, both public and personal, it is the only month in which there is also a month-long celebration. For the last fifty years, since 1976, the federal government has dedicated the entire month to “Black History.” Since the days of the civil rights movement of the 1960s, it was thought by many that the contributions of these citizens had been neglected in the schoolrooms of the nation and that this omission should be remedied.

Considering the number of days dedicated to specific celebrations found in the month of February, along with the weeks for Mardi Gras, Presidents’ Day, Trail Rides and the Rodeo and Livestock Show, it’s a wonder that there are any days left for actual work by Houstonians in this abbreviated month. Then again, it is the only month that gains an extra day every four years.

The celebration of Easter was not a major event of my childhood in Niles. Of course, my mother and I would go to mass early in the morning, but that was true for almost every Sunday of the year. There was nothing special about the service on Easter. The then-prevailing cultural custom focused on the Easter Parade, or at least the movies and songs did. There was no parade in Niles, itself, nor at Our Lady of Mt Carmel, my home parish. Some of the women, of course, might wear a new hat. This, after all, was the era when every female wore a head covering of some sort while attending mass. Hats were preferred, or perhaps, even more so, a lace mantilla. As a last resort for the forgetful, there was always a white handkerchief, or, in a real emergency, a Kleenex balanced on top of her head.

My father never went to mass on Easter. Actually, he never went to church for anything other than an occasional funeral. Yet, for some strange, unknown reason, he always held to a very strict fast on Good Friday. He never attended the Stations of the Cross; the Good Friday fasting was his only association with any rite of which I was aware. Unless “going-up-the-hill-for-dinner” was a religious rite. On Easter, the three of us made that exodus as we did on Thanksgiving, Christmas and most Sundays of the year. The meal, itself, was an ordinary one. The only distinction was the presence of a brioche di Pasqua, bread braided into a wreath, with brightly dyed eggs baked on top. I preferred the Easter bread that incorporated scrambled eggs, sausage and prosciutto ham hidden inside of the baked loaf.

In my own home, coloring boiled eggs was the only ritual associated with Easter. I tried to have a steady hand on the thin, wire holder as I dyed an egg halfway with one color before turning it over and dying the other end in another color. I found it fascinating to attempt different combinations and produce either remarkable results or muddy mistakes. No one on my mother’s side of the family was adept at producing pysanka-embellished eggs. Occasionally, I would attempt to make one or two with a wax pencil marking out designs that would have colors different from the background used for the whole egg. The required, multiple dunkings seldom produced a result remarkable in any positive sense.

The earliest Easter event I do recall is being given a blue peep. This was the time when dyed animals were associated with this holiday, as much as colored eggs were. I named this little, live chick “The Blue Fairy” in honor of a character from Pinocchio. She lived in a shoe box. I also have vague recollections of a bunny rabbit, kept for a short time in a wire hutch on our back porch. I have no idea what became of them.

I probably had Easter baskets with candy eggs, but they are not part of my memories of the Season, until our marriage and the arrival of our kids, and many years later, of our grandchildren. My most vivid recollection of an Easter basket concerns one Karen and I had the first year of our marriage. As was the usual case at the time, we drove from Ithaca to Ohio for the holiday. We transported an Easter basket on the window shelf in the back of our car. At the end of the eight-hour drive, the basket contained a large chocolate puddle with two candy eyes staring up at us, the remains of what had once been a cute bunny-rabbit. Afterwards, we were very cautious about transporting chocolate animals.

Our own three kids always had individual baskets of candy for Easter. We took great care to assure that the distribution of goodies was identical for each thatched container. Every year there was a new set of baskets, along with fresh artificial grass. Our closets became filled with leftover containers; I’m not sure why we seldom reused previously purchased ones. When grandchildren arrived, it became mandatary to buy new ones every year, since the current baskets went home with each of them.

The celebration of Easter Sunday became more joyful when grandchildren were added to our extended family. Plastic, colored eggs containing jellybeans and chocolates were hidden in our backyard. Jordan, Kirby, Dillon and Kennedy were seldom satisfied with only one pass at locating the treasures. Usually, we had to re-hide them for a second search. Fortunately, two passes seemed to be sufficient.

As the number of grandchildren grew, the hiding of eggs became less prevalent. This event was replaced by a blessing of Easter baskets at a brief service at the local parish, usually St Ignatius which Ken’s family attended. Videos of grandchildren searching through azalea bushes and elephant ears in our garden on Grand Valley were replaced by those of one of our grandsons holding the Book of Blessings for use by the presiding deacon who, at noon on Saturday, blessed the bread and sample foodstuff to be used for the Easter meal. Afterwards, we all went out for an early Easter lunch in a restaurant. Before the recent COVID years, on Easter Day, after mass, we would go, with Chris and his family, to a more extended buffet-lunch, often at a pleasant, well-staffed hotel.

Interestingly, most of my recollections about celebrating Easter seem to be of a nonreligious nature. They focus on food and candy, rather than upon the true centrality of the Resurrection. However, this aspect became very important to Karen and me about forty years ago.

An essential part of our ministry at Christ the Good Shepherd was our participation, both before and after my ordination, in the parish’s RCIA program, i.e., the Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults, in which non-Catholics are brought into the Church by baptism, confirmation and first Eucharist. At this time, the Triduum, the three-days from Holy Thursday through Easter, became important in our lives. Karen and I were deeply involved in the formal instruction of Catechumens and Candidates, i.e., non-Catholics wanting to become Catholics and baptized Catholics who had never been confirmed but now desired to do so. We always looked forward with joyful anticipation to the three-hour vigil service on Saturday evening and greeting those we had walked with on their journeys of faith.

Although formal presentations were important for the RCIA during the months prior to the Triduum and formal entrance into the Church, another annual event was the associated Pascal Seder meal that became a fellowship event during the week prior to Easter. Since the mass, itself, was associated with the Last Supper, a Pascal meal celebrated by Jesus and his Jewish disciples, it seemed appropriate for RCIA participants to join in a re-enactment of this essential religious event, even if the roast lamb were replaced by fried chicken from the local KFC. The other components were provided by the Catechumens, Candidates and RCIA staff who made chopped chicken liver and charoset: apples, walnuts and spices combined in a never-the-same-way-twice mixture.

Every attempt was made to follow the Haggadah of a true Seder, but the historical connection with Eucharist was also present. It was this Christianized format that finally led to the current demise of the Seder as part of the conclusion of the RCIA prior to the Triduum. Apparently, some thought that the Jewish Passover was being belittled when it was combined with its Eucharistic result. Most parishes now do not include this fellowship meal, thus (in my opinion) forgoing an important historical example of a diversity which actually indicates a basic unity in Judeo-Christian cultures.

At the same time, I might mention that the Passover meal continues to be celebrated by the Jewish Community at Eagle’s Trace and Christians have been welcomed at this event. Karen and I attended for several years. On the other hand, the most significant Passover Seder in which I have participated was a real-deal one presided over by Mark Entman, a dear friend who was a member of the faculty of the Department of Medicine at BCM. Mark and Carol invited us to their home and synagogue for such events as Passover, Sukkoth, and their daughter’s bat mitzvah. They were also invited guests for my own Ordination.

The celebration of Easter is, indeed, an important event, one with potentially many associations. Culturally, it may be a time for new bonnets and clothing. These symbols may be a sign of the verdant freshness of spring, and its pagan goddess, Eostre. The rebirth of spring is demonstrated both by the fecundity of the rabbit and the nature of eggs, in general. In modern, cybernetic times, “Easter eggs” are hidden messages contained in electronic codes in computer programs. On the other hand, the true meaning of the holiday, the holy day, is hidden in the meaning of the Resurrection of Christ. Indeed, He is Risen. If this is not the case, then all of Christianity is no more important than a hollow chocolate bunny with its ears bitten off.

Fireworks are awful – in the true sense of the word. When a darkened sky is instantaneously filled with exploding light, when brilliant holes in the heavens suddenly expand to arc across the entire celestial realm, when the ground shakes beneath my feet, when the smell of gunpowder with its unique notes of sulfur and saltpeter invade my nostrils – it is then that I become completely filled with awe. Awe-filled, awful, awesome. I am deeply moved, physically and emotionally, whenever I behold that Chinese-created wonder above and around me. Yes, I love fireworks. I’ve had the joy of experiencing them in many places. I long to feel them once again, someday, some place.

My first recollections of the wonder of fireworks are those accompanying displays at Waddell Park in Niles, when I was very young. They may be one of the few events to which my mother and father took me. We may have gone for an extended-family picnic on the Fourth of July. We did that on very rare occasions. In the evening, when the ground quaked beneath me, my heart pounded with the same rhythm. Air pollution did not yet exist and people could stumble through the smoke rolling through the park after the grand finale, when all of the bombs were exploded in one burst of all-consuming sound and fury.

My next memory of a worthwhile pyrotechnical display is related to Schoellkopf Field at Cornell University where, on the evening of Independence Day, all of Ithaca seemed to assemble. The crescent stands on the side of the field were filled with more than students who had remained during the summer. The scaffolds, visible in the twilight on the thirty-yard lines of the stadium, disappeared as golden outlines of wooden tanks erupted into view. They battled one another with red-rocket bombardment, until one fizzled out, signifying defeat. Bets could be taken whether the left- or the right-side would win the war that particular year. Of course, there were also ground towers topped off with wheels revolving, both horizontally and vertically, and shooting off golden streaks of light, accompanied with hissing sounds to make the falling fire even more dramatic. However, their sounds were modest in comparison with the screams of rockets propelled high into the air where they burst not only into radiant plumes of golden chrysanthemums but also galaxies of red, green and blue suns. The viewers oohed and aahed while wondering if the expanding cloud of light would actually touch them before it dissolved into falling ash.

The town of Hanover, New Hampshire offered its particular version of colonial fireworks as instructed by John Adams so many years ago. The long-term residents, dressed in eighteenth century clothing, paraded the Commons on Independence Day, itself. The only problem experienced with the evening lights and sounds belonged to Phoebe, our newly acquired canine addition to the family. July 4th was her first day with us. She never could bear the booms of the night (nor thunder of any storms) and cowered away, even with as much comfort as our daughter, Deb, could offer her.

Corvallis, Oregon, on the other hand, in lieu of parades and evening displays for the Fourth of July, recalls sparklers. Deb loved to wave them; Ken was held at a respectful distance, away from their circular movements.

Sparklers followed us to Maryland, and later to Amherst. However, a major memory for this period comes from the all-inclusive, all-consuming blaze of fireworks on the Mall in downtown Washington, D.C. There may have been ground displays, but my memory has excluded them. The focus for this national holiday was the sight of the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial bathed in fiery red, white and blue streamers, spirals and swirls of light. Once again, the ground shook with the thunderous results of the “rockets’ red glare, bursting in air” – even if it was not over a harbor in Baltimore.

It is difficult for me to decide, however, if the glory of the Fourth of July celebration is more memorable as seen over the Mall in Washington, D.C. or the harbor in Boston. We had the marvelous opportunity, one year, to watch from a boat on the harbor, as the cosmic lights overhead were accompanied by the sound of the 1812 Overture echoing from a nearby radio. We listened to the canons of the Boston Pops, synchronized with the flashes of glory rising up from Boston Common. We tried to guess if the next sighting would explode in one massive dandelion-flower or become a series of simultaneous spirals screaming their way to self-destruction. It did not really matter what color would be spectrumed toward us; they were all marvelous to behold.

Seeing live fireworks without the shudder of the earth is not quite the same adventure as being on land and having a bodily experience of what is being viewed. Although I enjoyed the experience in Boston Harbor, it differed significantly from watching fireworks on a larger, people-packed boat on Sandusky Bay. We happened to be in Ohio one Fourth of July and, instead of driving out to Cedar Point to be part of its celebration, Karen, her sister, Tami, and I viewed the midwestern night sky from the deck of a ferryboat cruising the bay. Although the displays from Sandusky, Cedar Point and Put-In-Bay were very acceptable to view, the experience was incomplete, since it lacked the trembling earth beneath me and the odor of cordite around me. Unlike many viewers, I did escape the confines of the ferryboat cabins to stand on the top deck, where the ground-based lightning flashes appeared long before their rumbles were heard across the water.

We had another kind of experience viewing fireworks while traveling outside of the United States. When we were in Brugge, Belgium, the town was holding a festival for a local event. Having visited the booths and rides around the square during the day, we were able to see the aerial display that evening from our hotel. The cobblestone street was repeatedly lit by flashes which might have been reminiscent of bombardment during a much earlier time in Belgian history. Nevertheless, the colors, sounds and smells matched those of any small town in the States.

Usually, fireworks are experienced along with a warm night in July. However, there was one display I viewed while freezing under a flash-filled sky even though I wore layers of hooded sweatshirts under a heavy jacket. This was the December when Karen and I went to see the Grand Illuminations, a display initiating the Christmas Season in Colonial Williamsburg. We, and a thousand admiring guests, stomped our feet and proclaimed approval as the low-level rockets exploded over the Governor’s Mansion. Hot chocolate and mulled cider made the adventure even more heartwarming, as we watched the glare above us and listened to the drums and fifes of young marchers passing by. The sky was constantly blanketed with the silver and magenta lights of rockets fired in rapid repetition for almost a half hour of overhead bombardment. In Colonial Williamsburg, the holiday season truly begins with a bang.

Our exposure to live fireworks for the Fourth of July in Texas has been limited. In our early years we made short, but traffic-filled, trips to locations near Tomball College, a center for the display. On another occasion, before the 249-highway was complete, we parked on the overpass near the Houston Racetrack to see, hear and smell the fireworks shot off from its track. To compensate for a lack of attendance at local displays, our two boys tossed their own firecrackers in the street in front of our house, as Karen and I watched from the balcony of our French-colonial home in Spring. When we lived in Cypress, the Old Tin Hall, a dancehall built long ago in this area, presented local aerial fireworks visible from our front yard. Probably due to lethargy and a dislike of grid-locked traffic, we have driven downtown only once in four decades to be part of what some Houstonians never miss. We have, from time-to-time, watched TV to see the rockets bursting above the bayous, but the result is not the same as being an active participant. Nevertheless, we remain content to watch, once again, the movie version of the musical 1776 and appreciate the history of why we celebrate the Fourth of July with fireworks.

Over the years, I have presented homilies at Christ the Good Shepherd in which I have spoken of the awe of the Holy Spirit in terms of the awe of a great fireworks display. For me, such a display is suggestive of the glory of God, the awesomeness of the Holy Spirit. I may never again experience the sights, sounds, and smells of an actual fireworks display, but I do long for the illumination, trumpet blasts, and flagrance of the essence of all fireworks to come.

The First Monday in September might have been called “Labor Day” and might have been associated with a celebration of the cultural and social events involving the labor movement in the United States, but for me, personally, it was merely to mark the end of summer and the beginning of a new year. Labor Day was designated as a federal holiday, dating back to its declaration as such in 1894. However, it was never, in my life, celebrated as one. There were neither fireworks nor parades as there were for July Fourth. Thanksgiving had turkeys and large family reunions. Presidents’ Day, when I was growing up, actually consisted of two days for celebration, one for Lincoln on February 12 and another for Washington on February 22. Memorial Day on May 30 had military parades, decorations for the graves of those who had died in battle, and red poppies, made from a heavy material having the properties of both silk and felt. However, Labor Day had nothing remarkable about it, other than to bring summer to a close and for the school year to begin.

Labor Day was the last chance for a picnic in the park. For some reason, people were willing to pack food into hampers and drive to an outdoor place to eat it. If your family arrived early enough, they might find a table and benches near a grill, where hamburgers and hot dogs could be burned over hot charcoal, adding its own flavor to the meat to be consumed. If you had to arrive later, you needed to pack the makings for ham sandwiches, along with the last slices of watermelon for dessert.

As Memorial Day marked the beginning of the potential weeks for vacations, Labor Day signaled their conclusion. If you lived in a small town in New England, you prepared for the last days of tourists. Shops would be closed with the possibility for a week of reopening in late December, if Christmas visitors were to be accommodated. Back then, public school classes would begin the next day; they never started before Labor Day.

My personal year began in September, not January. The academic year initiated my annual life cycle. This commencement was reinforced when I joined the federal government with its own fiscal year from September 1 through August 31. Some people maintained you had to stop wearing white clothing after Labor Day. I, on the other hand, had to stop using any of last year’s funds, unless they had been designated for carryover. It was only with retirement that I could change, mentally, from September to January as the time for new beginnings.

In its early years, Labor Day was meant to honor the cultural and social needs of manual laborers, those who produced iron and steel or assembled vehicles made from these sources, as well as those of workers in the ever-expanding railroad industry. At the end of the nineteenth century, it was common for laborers to perform their tasks twelve hours a day, seven days a week. Children as young as twelve years of age would work in textile mills for similar periods. Most laborers were recent immigrants who were willing to accept low wages in order to provide for their expanding families.

This labor movement was part of my own family history. My father worked in one of the steel mills that stretched from northern Indiana through Ohio and into Pennsylvania, the area which, later, was to become known as the “rust belt” of the nation. However, from back in the mid ‘forties, I vividly recall the red glow on the horizon above Youngstown on those evenings when steel was being poured. I also was aware of the Donora smog of 1948 that resulted in some two dozen deaths in that Pennsylvanian mill-town. My own town was not without its share of soot during the winter months, when it poxed the snow around our house and hastened the formation of grey slush in the streets. These conditions were an acceptable part of life, occurring well before anyone knew the consequences of environmental pollution.

Our family’s heated arguments about labor and factory work did not include such concerns; instead, they focused on the merits and demerits of labor unions, with my father vociferously in support and my favorite uncle taking management’s views, since he was a supervisor in one of the local steel mills. I, myself, did not understand the concept of my father being “on strike” every few years. He saw these weeks as opportunities to work with his brother and their father in the wallpaper-house-painting jobs that brought in money to supplement the meager funds provided by the AFL and CIO during such strikes.

In those days, Labor Day was officially in praise of those who performed manual labor to earn their wages. It seldom included farmers who continued to work twelve-hours a day for seven days a week. Office workers, being white-collar rather than blue-, did not seem to be involved in the holiday – or, perhaps, this appeared to be the case, since none of our male relatives or family-friends held such positions. Only three women in my extended family were gainfully employed. Aunt Mary worked in the local General Electric factory making light bulbs. Aunt Betty was a nurse. My mother was the cashier for a Five-And-Dime store at a local mall.

This federal holiday has become less of one over the postwar years. When steel mills moved offshore and were joined by the auto-industry which used their product, the labor movement began to lose its appeal. It is only recently that service workers such as those engaged by Amazon or by the hospitality industry have begun to renew a potential interest in the movement. The current unemployment rate is at a record low of 3.7 percent. Companies are finding it difficult to entice new employees. Many who are employed are part of a new movement called “quiet quitting,” in which workers perform the minimum requirement for their jobs and have little interest in remaining with them.

There was once a time when a person desired and expected to remain in the same job for life, with only minor changes in what they did for eight hours a day, five days a week. This generation of my beginning days of employment did shift to a generation in which it was expected that one would hold a series of jobs with different companies, not always in the same field. Now there is a desire and expectation that you can work at home, some distance from any central office. Some postulate that truck drivers will be replaced by robotic controlled vehicles!

Originally, tradesmen and artists were self-employed. They lived above their shops or were journeymen while developing their skills. The industrial revolution took textile workers from their homes and into factories. Blacksmiths now poured larger vessels of molten metal and rolled out sheets of steel in factories. Labor moved from individuals to groups of workers performing similar tasks. Labor Day was set aside to honor this movement, this ingathering of workers as a community.

Although the future, as always, is unknown, is there a possibility that this holiday, the first of the “Monday Holidays,” will melt into merely another long weekend for shopping, for marking the end of the time for summer vacations and for the beginning of a period for buying new stuff for Halloween and Christmas? Is Labor Day to become another holiday that wasn’t?

During this first week of May, thousands of Americans, many of whom are Texan, celebrated “Cinco de Mayo,” a holiday in honor of a defeat by the Mexican army of French invaders who outnumbered them two-to-one. The battle, occurring near Puebla, Mexico, on May 5, 1862, boosted Mexican morale regarding the threat of a Napoleonic takeover of their country. However, in the following year, French forces reached Mexico City and Maximilian I was proclaimed Emperor of the land once conquered by Spain. In 1867, Maximilian was overthrown, and France failed to re-establish its empire in the New World. Although the Battle of Puebla was celebrated in the years following this victory against France, it never became a national holiday in Mexico.

However, the celebration of Cinco de Mayo has become a cultural one for Mexicans living outside the country, particularly in the United States, where it has also been popularized among gringos residing in the southwest. Some believe the major backers of this celebration are associated with beer, wine and tequila manufacturers. Indeed, it would appear that the “Fifth of May” is not a holiday so much as it is a drinking event. Statistics indicate more alcohol is consumed for Cinco de Mayo than for either Super Bowl Sunday or St Patrick’s Day, two other “holidays that aren’t.”

I had never heard of Cinco de Mayo when we lived in Ohio, New York or New England. On the other hand, Paul Revere Day was celebrated as a school holiday in Massachusetts every April 18, to the great pleasure of our son, Kenneth, whose birthday was on the same day.

When I was growing up, my favorite quasi-holiday celebration occurred on October 12. Back then, it was known as Columbus Day. Northeastern cities with high populations of Italian immigrants held their own parades and drinking parties. My hometown was too small for parades; I don’t remember a band marching through Niles for any event. I had to go to Youngstown if I wanted to see one; but I never did.

Although October 12, for many years, was recognized throughout the country as a national holiday, it has, in modern times, become non-existent as a celebration of the “discovery” of America by an Italian admiral employed by Spanish monarchs. Given the destruction of native cultures under Spanish rule, exemplified by Christopher Columbus, some modernists have attempted, with limited success, to rename the October 12 holiday as “Indigenous Peoples’ Day.” The failure of this name transfer may be a result of the difficulty of using it as an enticement for week-long sales associated with a buying spree held between Labor Day and Halloween.

While Italian-Americans may have lost Columbus Day as their drinking holiday, Irish-Americans continue to have strong control of St Patrick’s Day for their own beer parties. Perhaps, adding green things to whatever you wear, and believing in Leprechauns with pots of gold, make for greater fun than merely eating more pizza, which can be done any time of the year. Some older Italian-Americans have attempted to counter St Patrick’s Day on March 17 with St Joseph’s Day on March 19, but they have had only limited success with their altar tables set with cultural foods. The real masters for a similar performance remain with Mexican-Americans who have re-established their “Dia de los Muertos/Day of the Dead” celebrations on November First or Second. No doubt, candy-skulls and related macabre edibles are more desirable than a variety of Lenten fare.

In recent years, further efforts have been made by cultural groups to introduce and promote other, new holidays. One of the more recent results has been the establishment of “Juneteenth National Independence Day.” This holiday, established by federal law in 2021, celebrates the Emancipation Proclamation signed by Abraham Lincoln on September 22, 1862, declaring the freedom of slaves in the Confederate states, effective January 1, 1863. However, news of this event was not delivered to Texas until June 19, 1865, following the end of the Civil War. This announcement in Texas of the Emancipation Proclamation marks the date for the current national holiday on June 19.

Juneteenth is the most recent national holiday established by Congress. In 1986, Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, celebrated on the Third Monday of January, is another recent holiday, one authorized by the Federal government to mark the birth of MLK.

Other successful commercial holidays include Mothers’ Day and Fathers’ Day, both with equally confusing punctuation. Although the concept of a special day for mothers goes back to the Civil War period and the later Suffragette movement of the Nineteenth Century, the Federal authorization for Mothers’ Day occurred in 1914 under President Wilson. The event not only honored mothers: it also rapidly became an economic stimulus for both the candy and floral industries.

The corresponding national holiday for fathers had to wait until 1972 when President Nixon signed the bill for its official inauguration. However, gift giving for men evidently is less lucrative than it is for women; the Third Sunday in June has not had the same economic benefits as the Second Sunday in May, especially for the restaurant business. A third commercial holiday, the one for Grandparents, become an official national holiday when President Carter signed its proclamation, in 1978, declaring this special designation for elderly mothers and fathers to be the First Sunday after Labor Day. Although Mother’s Day was part of my own childhood, I had no part in any day honoring either fathers or grandparents. I have also been confused as to whether I should limit my wishes for my own sons on these particular Sundays and allow the gift-giving to be up to my grandchildren.

I usually end up sending electronic greetings on all of these uncertain holidays. In fact, the easy ability of sending electronic cards and the increasing cost of postage for hard-copy ones, has resulted in using only the Internet for wishing friends and relatives the best on all of those holidays that aren’t, as well as for many that really are.

The question for many kids at the end of October might be: “Is it more fun to give or to receive?” The object of the question is, or course, candy or other treats. Is it more fun to dress up in a costume and seek goodies door-to-door in your neighborhood or is there greater merriment in answering a knock on the door and hearing screams and laughter, along with the demand trick or treat. For toddlers, the answer might well be – open the door and be surprised by the ghosts and goblins waiting there, along with an occasional princess or hobo. Once toddlers stop toddling, it is probably time for them to join the receiving end of the line. This may have been the case for me in my younger days.

I recall how the porch light was turned on so that it could function like a candle drawing moths to a flame. A darkened porch meant you weren’t really welcomed and would probably knock and clamor without any reward. Although this lack of a response might call for a trick, one was seldom forthcoming. Toilet-papering a tree took too much time and effort that could be better spent moving onward to a porch-lit house.

I personally recall only a single Halloween when I dressed up and went seeking treats. I was about seven years old. My homemade costume consisted of an old dress, reluctantly donated by my mother. It came all the way down to my feet, encased, somewhat, in low-heeled shoes which seemed as cumbersome as trying to walk on stilts. Underneath the flowing dress, a stuffed pillow was tied around my waist in an attempt to take up some of the slack. My mother had also located some lipstick and rouge, items she seldom used, to add to my otherwise unmasked face, topped by some kind of silly, flowering hat, also seldom used for real occasions. Unfortunately, the major memory I have of that evening is the teasing by other kids in my neighborhood, especially the boys, who insisted I was really a girl dressed like an old woman. I never went trick-or-treating again.

At least not as an active participant. Years later, like most parents, I did join the small packs of mothers and fathers waiting patiently near the curb while my own three kids made their cheerful way up the sidewalk to a well-lite, open door. Rockville, Maryland, was one of the better places for their holiday begging, since the homes were close together and populated with young children.

Occasionally, our three beggars wore store-bought costumes, which turned into yearly hand-me-downs. A favorite was a skeleton printed on a black suit for Deb, a berserk-faced clown in a golden outfit with a tremendously wide tie for Ken, and a prankish, red-suited Indian uniform for Chris. With our move from Rockville to Amherst, they outgrew this wandering tradition, which may have been due, in part, to there being only four houses on our street.

Ponderosa Forest, our neighborhood development along FM 1960 in suburban Houston, was more populated with treaters of an appropriate age, as well as with trickers who were not, but would arrive without any costume long after the porch lights had been extinguished.

It became an annual challenge to predetermine how many bags of candy should be purchased in the days before the 31st. Buying them too early, led to a decreased supply-on-hand comes the night for distribution. Buying too many, lead to an oversupply for the days of early November. An under-supply could be augmented, if necessary, with pennies saved for just such a purpose. Another decision had to be made about allowing a small fist direct access to the candy bowl, itself. Each year a determination was required sometime during the dole, about whether the hand of the getter went into the bowl or the hand of the giver limited the number of items each received.

Unfortunately, there also came the era during which one had to reconsider what treats would be given and what treats would be allowed to be consumed. In the good-ol-days, folks gave out individual penny candy, or fruit for the more nutritionally conscious parents. But once razor blades and other obnoxious additions became part of the scene, both givers and getters preferred pre-wrapped items, even if an adult survey had to be made before anything could be tasted by the impatient beggars. Amazingly, some emergency clinics volunteered to x-ray the offerings to assure that their full services would not be demanded hours later.

Although the history of Halloween often indicates that the custom originated in Medieval Europe, as being All Hallow’s Eve in association with the following All Saints’ Day, my own experience has been that this is really an American celebration. In late September, once the back-to-school sales have been completed, our shopping malls become orange and black arenas populated by skeletons, ghosts, and huge spider webs. These creatures also appear on neighborhood lawns. Even the doorway shelves at Eagle’s Trace have their share of spirited decorations equal in number to those of elves and Santas found later for Christmas, which was once the major time for neighborhood holiday extravagances. On the other hand, in 2013, when we visited the Czech Republic, Austria, Slovakia and Hungary during late October, I saw few, if any, spooky items in their otherwise Americanized shopping malls. No doubt they were keeping all of their costumes hidden until Mardi Gras.

My favorite Halloween memory as an adult is a result of another vacation trip in October 2014, to Sandusky, Ohio. Since Karen’s hometown is a tourist haven for the nearby vacation attraction of Cedar Point, we made early reservations to stay at the local Wolf’s Inn Family Resort. We were greatly surprised, upon our arrival, to learn that only one other couple had booked a room. The desk manager, the only employee we met during our five-day visit, told us that the resort was officially closed for week-long maintenance during this low-visit season between the end of summer and Christmas. Nevertheless, the entire resort, even though it had neither staff nor guests, had been decorated for Halloween. Dracula stood guard over the huge fireplace in the lobby that also exhibited the usual skeletons, spider webs, scarecrows and other creepy things in orange and black. During the day and early evening, the empty lobby with its still-life inhabitants was a marvelously spooky place to spend time by the fire, which the manager kept burning to ward off the October chill in the air of this deserted inn. It was the best place, ever, to experience the mystery of a nostalgic Halloween.

I’ve made comments about each of the major holiday/holy day celebrations in which I have participation, albeit at a low level, historically. There is another celebration, a personal one, which I have neglected to accommodate even more than I have the public events. My birthday. For most of my life I tried to ignore it, not because I dreaded the passing of the years, but rather, because everyone else around me had ignored it, even more. I was well into my middle years, before May 25 became a day I welcomed.

My parents did nothing to acknowledge my birthday. I never had a birthday party. I do not recall ever having a birthday cake, certainly not one with candles to blow out. On the other hand, I was not the only one lacking a birthday celebration. I do not recall any event associated with either my mother’s or father’s birth date. Hers was June 7, 1907; his was May 29, 1908. Actually, I do not remember celebrating any relative’s birthday, although I’m sure that my cousins did have parties. It’s just that I do not remember attending any of them.

Following our marriage, Karen wanted to celebrate my personal day. Her attempts became a major problem between us. I greatly enjoyed giving a party for her and presenting her with a gift on September 17. However, having never experienced receiving a birthday present, other than some new clothes, I was uncertain how to respond, in my twenties, to this new event. The worst experience occurred the year when Karen tried to give me an onyx ring. Knowing that I did not like to receive birthday presents, she hid the ring in a Cracker Jack box. When I opened the box, I recognized it contained not merely a prize, but a present. It was a handsome black stone in a silver setting; it may have had a diamond chip in the center. Nevertheless, I refused to accept it and she returned it to the jeweler.

After this fiasco, I attempted, in the following years, to accept having a birthday celebration – with a minor party, cake and a reasonable present. We continued to have an annual birthday party in September for Karen, and, later, real celebrations for Deb, Ken and Chris, whose friends were invited to gatherings only during their childhood years. As our children grew into teenagers, the cake and ice-cream were meant only for the immediate family. There were a few years when my parents made the trip to visit us about the time of one of their grandchildren’s birthdays. My folks made much better grandparents than they did parents, perhaps recognizing that times and relationships were now different.

It wasn’t until we had moved to Longwood that Karen initiated the event which changed my own acceptance of my birthday. She planned a surprise party, knowing that it could be a disaster, if I continued to act the way I had for so many years. She invited close friends, mainly understanding fellow-deacons and their wives, to appear at our home, while I had been sent on an errand. As I neared the house, I noticed extra cars parked in the neighborhood and, upon walking up to our door, had glimpsed Deacon John Charnesky peering through a window. Realizing what Karen was attempting, I was determined to enjoy myself. I did. It was the beginning of a series of years of appreciated celebrations of my birthday.

I continued to take delight in seeing that Karen’s birthday was well-celebrated. We often went out for a dinner in a restaurant; there was no reason for her to have prepared her own meal. The first year after our marriage, I created a disaster in my efforts to be the chef. I had done minimal food preparation before our marriage; warming up a frozen TV dinner was usually sufficient during my first year of graduate school. However, I did try to fix steak, potatoes and our favorite: fried onion rings. At the time, I could not tell the difference, when shopping in the local grocery, between a Bermuda onion and a pinkish-white turnip. Fried turnips are not the same as fried onion rings. I think the steak finally turned out ok, although the entire preparation time took longer than I thought it would.

I also recall a delightful birthday for Karen that we celebrated in London in 1997. It was complete with a cashmere sweater I bought for her in a shop on Oxford Street. Our visit began in late September, so there was a delay in her receiving her present, but it was worth it, I think. On the other hand, she did celebrate her 70th birthday in Slovenia. We began the morning on Lake Bled, continued with a visit to Ljubliana, capital of Slovenia, and returned to Bled in time to attend a seven o’clock mass at St. Martin’s before going out for a pizza dinner. In more recent years, I usually have given her a family party with kids and grandchildren at Brookwood, where she has, from time to time, volunteered as a docent.

There was also an interval when there was a joint birthday party for Tracey, Chris and me. Our daughter-in-law’s date is May 24, the day before mine, and Chris’ on May 30, five days later. At one time, our families gathered for a lobster dinner, prepared either in a pot in our house or by Kroger’s. The menu was finally altered when our grandchildren no longer preferred hotdogs, but desired to consume the crustaceans along with us.

With the passing of years, our birthdays have been honored in many places and in many different ways. I have enjoyed all of them, regardless of the venue and the menu. I’ve even learned to have fun on my own day. I hope this experience lasts awhile longer.

(For many years I went on an annual Ignatian Retreat at Grand Coteau in Louisiana. A series of extracts from meditations I experienced over these years is given here.)

January 5, 1982: Tuesday: 3:00 p.m.

It’s now 3:40 p.m. How to begin a journal of this sort? Well, just begin. Use the words I jotted as triggers for my reflections. (I carried a notebook with me and jotted down words that came immediately to mind, since you can’t write a journal while you’re walking!)

The first thing I really saw when I left the Retreat House was an azalea bush with pink flowers and buds. What a glorious sight to behold in early January for a Yankee! A walk along the garden path. Leaves crackling under foot. I kick at them, a little boy kicking leaves. I want to dance to the music. Why not? I take a turn, a dervish turn. I feel foolish. I grin. I ask, “why not?” I felt like dancing, so I danced. It is good.

In front of me I see the new graveyard for Jesuits. For a moment I feel guilty with my delight in contrast to the tombs. Then I say, but they are with the Lord. There’s no reason for me to be sad. A statue in front of me, with arm upraised. I think of the line: “I am the Way.” I feel happy, delighted, at peace. I smile.

A tangle of Spanish moss at my feet. I think of Audubon Park and the first time I saw Spanish moss. With Karen back in January 1978, when I went there for the meetings on my way to Houston for the first job interview. I get lost in reflection on how Jesus led us to Houston. And about the wonderful time she and I had in New Orleans.

A little ravine ahead of me; I jump it and almost slip. I laugh. The Lord will protect me. He won’t let anything happen to hurt me this week. No broken bones at the beginning of this trip.

Ahead of me, the vaults of the mausoleum. I think of my visit to Ohio in October. My talk with my mother about her wanting to be buried in one, not underground. I think about her, about her cancer diagnosis, about the prayers and how they were answered. I’m content, not sad. I’m grateful.

Now there is the double line of trees stretching before me, leading off to a new land. I walk toward them. At my feet, I see a beer bottle and a Styrofoam cup. I’m sad. Man and nature.

I’m closer now to the winter trees. Bare arms raised toward the sky. I think about how I once thought of Disneyesque trees clutching; these do not clutch. They’re God’s tree, not Disney’s. I come to the style over the fence and feel childish delight in realizing a fairy tale scene, climbing over a style, into an enchanted land.

I see the green fields and feel the cool wind. I think of my young teen years in Ohio, the joy of walking across a field, with melting snow and cool winds in early spring, alone except for Duke, my collie. What fun we had. I could feel lonely, depressed, but I feel overly nostalgic joy.

I walk along the lane. I’m happy. Again, I feel like dancing. I do a dervish. I swing my coat-jacket around my head. I think, “What if someone sees me?” I’m torn between wanting to be seen and not wanting to be seen. I ask myself, “What’s wrong in being seen happy and joyful?” Nothing is wrong, so long as it’s real, not a facade. I judge mine is not fake; it’s real. I grin; I smile. I’m happy. I want to share this with Karen. I wish she were with me. I think about her.

I see a smudge of dark clouds along the horizon of an otherwise blue sky. I think of Oregon and the coke burnings. I reflect about Oregon and our mixed happiness there. I think about the major decision to leave academe for government administration and how God enters my life choices.

I think of a paraphrase of Aeneas! “I am what I have touched and what has touched me.” I stop to write the note more clearly than my earlier jottings made while walking. I hear a birdsong. It calls to remind me I haven’t really been praying in a formal sense. I’ve merely have been delighting in what I have seen and in remembered joy. Yet I say to myself – that’s stupid! I have been praying by these very things.

I write a longer note while standing there. “He’s given me this – not because I deserve it but merely because He love me – us, yes – me as a person. Own it!” I think how reluctant I’ve been to personalize God’s love, to think in terms of: He loves me and not just He loves us. I feel a lump in my throat. I’m sad. I continue to reflect on the difference between I am good and We are good. As I write the phrase, the wind comes up. It blows the pages. I stop my note taking. I have a desire to pray right here and now.

There’s a tree in front of me, with huge spreading roots, an inviting seat. Almost a lap. I sit down. I adjust myself. My jacket behind me. I begin to focus like Francis taught in his exercise that first night. (Fr. Francis Vanderwall and Fr. Joe Tetlow presented a weekend workshop for an Ignatian retreat, which I attended prior to beginning the full, five-day retreat with Sr. Ruth, a staff member of the Jesuit Retreat Center at Grand Coteau.)

I begin to pray. I’ve forgotten the words I said. My eyes were closed. I seemed to sense Jesus’ presence. He put his hands around by face, like a friend or a father comforting a child. His arms were around me. Warm, comforting. But I stopped. I opened my eyes. I ended it. I told myself I want to get more comfortable, to prolong the experience, to be better attuned to it. I readjusted my position. I laid back against the tree. I closed my eyes. But nothing happened.

He had gone, for now. Yet I sensed a reassurance that he would be back. The week is just starting. I waited a few minutes more. Still, nothing came. My prayer was feeble. I opened my eyes and after a moment of sadness began this reflection. It’s now 4:25 p.m.!

4:50 P.M. A reflection on the way back to the Retreat House: an encounter with the Lord is like lovemaking. Don’t try to improve it while it’s going on; just let it flow naturally. A second reflection, on a magnolia I passed. Some flowers are fully open, some are still in buds, some are past their prime, others have fallen to the ground; all are from the same bush. Each has its time and place in God’s Plan.

January 5, 1982: Tuesday: 8:30 p.m.

I was reluctant to begin my first exercise in prayer. I was expectant, hesitant of the outcome. A feeling much like being wheeled into an operating room, trusting the surgeon, but still leery of the results, let alone the process. However, in this case, the operation was a success.

I went into the St Regis room. I chose a cozy corner. I removed the two cushions from the chair standing there and placed them on the floor – with one propped up as a backrest. I took off my boots. I became aware of the nap of the rug beneath my fingertips. The tactile sensation, I judged, would keep me in touch with reality. With my eyes closed, I began to relax. At the same time, I sensed my surroundings: the table beside me, the Bible close at hand on the floor next to me. I increased the awareness of my body – the touch of my clothes, my slow and regular breathing. Somehow, through my fingertips touching the carpet, I was in contact with the entire room.

I felt a cool breeze on my face even though the windows were closed. It was comforting, relaxing. My skin felt warm. I heard what seemed like a cricket outside the window. “Now what would a cricket be doing here in January – even in Louisiana?” I asked myself. The clock chimed the quarter hour; I focused on the sound of my cricket. I forced him to say “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus” – I used his rhythm to set my prayer metronome.

[The cricket] stopped and I knew it was time to turn to Isaiah. I heard a fly buzz by as I opened the page I had previously marked. I began to read the passage. I saw a potter’s wheel and the clay vessel on it being turned and shaped. I focused more intently on the half-seen image. [It] was not a complete picture – more the sense of the picture of a potter’s wheel.

I thought about the idea of being formed, shaped. I thought about how discontent I am with my own physical form, my own shape. Yet I sensed pursuing that line of thought might not be fruitful for prayer. I allowed Him to guide my reflection. And it came to me that I was being “told” to pray about being re-formed, made anew, rather than being formed at a previous time and merely accepting that original form. That idea brought me comfort. I began to appreciate that I am in the process of being re-formed; that He is making a new vessel of me. The potter was re-shaping the vessel, making it better, allowing it to conform to new and better purposes.

How did I feel about the reflection of being re-formed? Good! Pure and simple. In both sets of meanings. I did feel “pure” and “simple.” I felt warm, cozy, comfortable; I felt loved. I seemed to drift away from the scene of the potter’s wheel. As the perceptions faded, I heard the clock chime the half-hour. My prayer had lasted only fifteen minutes. There seemed to be plenty of time to go on with Isaiah. I opened my eyes and reached for the Bible [and read:] … “Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name –” With a struggle, I completed the line: “– you are mine.” I closed my eyes.

Name. What’s in a Name? For openers, I was named for my father. Suffice it to say that the phrase triggered off a set of reflections. At first, I thought that my thoughts would go toward my father whom I detested for so many years. I thought I had resolved those conflicts; I did not want to meditate on them here – not when I wanted to pray to God. I wanted no temptations to go into a negative recollection.

Suddenly, I sensed (heard?) the phrase: “In nomine Patie, et filio et Spirtu Sancto!” It kept repeating inside my head! But the phrase shortened to “Nomine Patre” – “Patre”. The juxtapositions, the similarity of Patie, Patre, Pat, Padre, Pater, Father, [were] overwhelming me! What was He telling me? I seemed to sense, to know: He is my Father! No matter what I may have thought about my biological father, God was still – now, then and always – my Father! I seemed to know it with absolute clarity.

In my prayer period, I had come to the realization that He is my Father. I let myself bask in that. And as I did so, a strong sensation began to occur. I seemed to sense (to “see”) a tent, a desert tent, staked out before me. I felt a cool breeze from that desert. The carpet beneath my fingertips was warm sand. I experienced, once more, a great comfort, a peace. I knew that the tent was my Father’s tent! I lay there – feeling the warm sand and the cool breeze. The winds came up. The tent grew taller. It became more of a tabernacle than a desert tent. It grew toward the sky – taller and taller. It became a mountain. And yes, it was Cecil B. DeMille’s Mount Horeb! And yes, I did take delight in the imagery! I wanted it to go on – to keep on rolling. I was anxious to see what would happen next.

It was then that the “fly” dive bombed the table near my right ear! I actually sat upright and out loud said: “Beelzebub!” Now, as a rational person, I have been reluctant to subscribe to Evil Spirits! But I really personified that obnoxious critter as the Lord of the Flies. I honestly did!

Only it turned out not to be a fly. It was some sort of tick or beetle, about the size of my little fingernail. It sat there on the edge of the table and did not move! I sat there too! And stared at it. Brown it was, with a green spot on its back.

What to do?

I must have watched it for serval minutes. Would it fly away – and if it did, would it return to disturb my prayer once more? I could not bring myself to squash it! I really looked on it as one of God’s creatures, Beelzebub or not! What right did I have to kill it!? I continued to stare at it. I dared it to move! I commanded it not to move! I wanted to return to my prayer! Yet, I was reluctant to. I was sure that it would next land on my face. I decided to sit there – facing it and continue the passage from Isaiah! As I read about the Lord’s being with me over rivers and through fires, I was amused by wondering about His being there with beetle-ticks! Honestly!

Then I got to the phrase: “I give Egypt as your ransom.” Beetles and Egypt?! Now really – that’s too much. And ransom? I saw the glass ashtray on the table. Yes, I turned it upside-down over the beetle! I’d hold “Egypt” captive and demand a ransom of quiet prayer! I had found a way not to kill the Beetle and to continue my prayer!

With a pleased, amused feeling, I lay back on the floor and closed my eyes. And Jesus laughed! He really did! I sensed (heard) the line: “OK, you win! That’s enough for tonight.!” I really did have the sensation that Jesus was there, laughing and smiling about how I had solved the problem of not killing that bug and still being able to continue my prayer.

But I couldn’t. He had left for the time being – not to be summoned at my call, not now. I lay there; the clock chimed the hour. I got up – happy, relaxed. And amused. I started to laugh. And so help me, it seemed that Jesus was laughing with me! Two friends who had shared a great joke! I felt giddy. I wanted to run and tell people how funny, how playful Jesus is! I really did. I wanted to dance and sing.

There is a table in the back of St Regis. It was clear of the statues that had been there earlier in the day. It seemed like it had just been waxed. I sat down on that table and began to spin around – like a little kid on a playground whirl-around. Suddenly, I saw that illustration of Jesus on the wall, the one which is one of my favorite representations. I got off the table and went over to that picture and pointing my finger at it said something like. “You really are very funny; you know that don’t you!” Have you ever noticed that in that representation He is just about ready to laugh!

I wanted to rush out of that room and share my delight with others. Yet with the Silence I knew I couldn’t. But I was grinning from ear to ear, the human Cheshire cat! I decided to go into the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. Maybe, at least, someone would see my happiness, my childish exuberance – if you will. When I got there, two [other] retreatants were there. They hadn’t begun their retreat yet. And I couldn’t tell them of my joy. But I could show it! I actually mimed a dance! I got my coffee, returned to the St Regis, picked up my Bible and boots and returned to my room. I was still filled with joy. As I opened my door, I half expected to see Jesus waiting there!

It’s now 11:15 p.m. I’m still too “hyper” to go to sleep. I’m on the way to the kitchen. But on the way, I might check to see if the beetle is still there – under the ash tray. You see, a few minutes ago, a beetle flew into my bedroom! I ordered him out. He didn’t go. Forgive me, Lord, but I squashed him!

January 6, 1982: Wednesday: 2:45 p.m.

I was determined to find the Bluff. It was mid-afternoon when I left the Retreat House and set off down the lane, the path my Spiritual Director had told me to follow in order to reach the site overlooking the ancient banks of the Mississippi River, which once flowed by what is now Grand Coteau. The Jesuit community had built a summer house there. It was merely a large porch with its four sides open to the cool breeze of a bright Louisiana day. I had been assured that the view would be spectacular, and the surrounding fields would provide a welcomed peacefulness.

I climb over the style at the end of the path and cross the road to continue along it, hoping that this is the way my Director had meant me to follow. I cross over an animal grill in the road – one I assume had been placed there so horses and cows won’t wander across from one field to another.

There are, indeed, horses in the field I’m walking by. I become concerned whether they’ll chase me. They seem so large. I remember Deb and her love of horses. If horses wouldn’t hurt a little girl, why should I be afraid? Besides, isn’t God with me? I pass a small group of cows, too few to be called a herd. There is still some trepidation. I remember the cow that once chased me when I was 10 or so – and the gash I got in my leg as I made it over the barbed-wire fence. Nevertheless, I go on, past the little shack with the dog watching from the porch, until I reach another fence; this time there is no style. This can’t be the way to the Bluff. I retrace my pathway back to the main road. The dog, cows and horses go unnotched. I’m merely pleased to be here.

I walk along the paved road until I come to the Duchenne Girl’s Academy and turn down the road there, still searching for the Bluff. I pass some stables and outbuildings. The road seems to end. I retrace my steps. I think I detect a bit of annoyance within myself. I focus on the trees and wildflowers.

I pass the playgrounds for the Academy, and, in the distance, I see the swings and a single teeter-toter. The girls are nowhere around. I head for the teeter-toter. An elderly gardener sees me. He may wonder what I’m doing there, but when he appears to glance at the Bible and journal I’m carrying, he says hello and goes back to his work.

I spread my jacket on the teeter-toter and, lying on the inclined plane, begin to relax. Perhaps, this is where I should meditate. Without warning, drops of rain fall from the clouds which had gathered without my really noticing them. I think of sprinkles of holy water and of tears. I’m pleased. The drops increase and I decide to move on.

The shower stops. I’ve reached a double line of old oak trees. They head back in the direction of the Retreat House. Perhaps I should go home. I walk down the aisle of trees. They make a complete canopy above me. How good it feels. It seems as if I’m entering the nave of a cathedral build by God, Himself. The thought warms me.

I reach the end of the aisle. A fence is in front of me. There is no style. I wonder what I should do. I see that some bushes, which, with their dying, have pressed down part of the barbed-wire fence. I gingerly make my way over it. The field I enter appears green and glorious. It invites me. I walk to its center, determined that this is where I must do my next reflection. I know it is to be on the Psalms.

I spread my jacket on the ground; beside it I toss the flannel over-shirt I’ve been wearing. The sun is once more out. I begin to compose myself. Yes, what better place to meet God. I read Psalm 8 in its entirety. It seems so fitting here. I’m pleased again. I decide to read it out loud. I do. I decide to chant it, in my own style. I begin. I reach the line: “What is man – “and manage to complete the verse. I lie back to pray. Nothing happens. I try to re-focus, to relax, to feel the sun and hear the wind.

What comes to me is a concern, not only about my lack of prayer, but also my physical location. The sky becomes cloudy again. How will I get out of this field? Suddenly, it seems immense. I feel both lost and trapped. I decide I must leave. The exercise suddenly seems hokey to me, reading the Psalm out loud. Even being so sure that this field was the perfect place to read it, to meditate. To call God to me. What presumption!

I’m angry with myself. I’m also sad. I’m contrite. And I’m also scared. I tell myself that this not where God wants to meet me. He has something else in mind. Some other place. I gather up my jacket, flannel shirt and books and head across the field. I feel more lost. Just as I had been about to turn back, I recall that I had seen a girl across the field, toward the far side. Now I am wishing that I’d seen how she had left the field.

I come to the far fence. No style there. No breaks. Only barbed wire. I turn to the left toward a line of trees, thinking that they mark a way, and a style will be there. There is none. I follow the fence. I pass the place where I had entered. I do not want to go that way; it’s in the wrong direction from the Retreat House. I continue to follow the fence. Still no break. How did that girl leave the field?

Finally, I see a place where the wires seem to be pulled apart. I know I’m too heavy to climb over a barbed-wire fence. Not with the fragile poles I see supporting it. It’s been too many years since I’ve crawled through a fence. Finally, I make my decision. I’ll try it. I put my jacket back on. I pry the wires apart and just manage to get through. I’m in another field. I can see the Retreat House in the distance. But there is now another fence in front of me. I’m hot, tired, frustrated. I’m angry with God. I want to blame Him for the predicament. I tell myself that He didn’t get me into this state of mind. I did it to myself.

I wander along the fence looking for a passage. There is none. I ponder different routes. I angrily set off across the field, more hot, tired and annoyed with God than ever before. And, as I walk, I begin to hear that little voice inside my head. It says: “Do you really trust me? Has all of this been an intellectual game? Do you really trust me?” I answer that I don’t know – I may even say it out loud I want to trust Him. I want to pray for His direct help.

All of this seems, then and now as I write this reflection, so very ridiculous. The field is not all that far from the Retreat House. Intellectually, I know I’ll get back but emotionally I feel trapped, lost. I can’t believe that this is some kind of testing. Surely, He doesn’t really work this way. And all the time, I perceive the voice asking: “Do you really trust me?”

I see a yellow butterfly.

Although I do not cry, I want to cry. There are no tears, only a complete awareness that I do trust Him. I walk across the field and follow the butterfly directly to the place where someone has removed part of the fence. I know, as I walk toward that spot, there would be a passage. And as I walk, my pace slows down. I had been fearful. I’m no longer afraid. And when I do come to the fence and see that opening, I’m not surprised. My feeling is one of expectancy. It’s almost anticlimactic. I cross into the final field toward the Retreat House.

I feel emotionally exhausted. I am sad that I had doubted. It’s not so much desolation as a lack of consolation. I see patches of small, purple-red blossoms. Having passed them, I go back and pick one and put it in my buttonhole.

I reach the last fence, climb over the style there, and sit in the chair nearby. It is here I begin this writing. Drops of rain blur the page. I pick up my books and head to the Retreat House. I’m sitting now in my room. I’ve taken the flower from my buttonhole and hold it between my fingers in front of me as I write this.

What does it all mean? I’ve recorded what has transpired. But can I really write of the fear I had, of the sense I had of being tested? And If so, did I pass the test? I was scared. The reasons do not seem to be valid ones on a rational basis. I really was not in any danger. But I felt that way. I was asked to trust. I did.

One side of me says it’s all a charade. And the other side says that what I experienced was real. I felt lost. He asked for my trust; I gave it to Him – and He led me safely home.

Does one have to be lost in a big way – lost at sea, for example, or can you feel lost in your own back yard, so to speak? And right now, as I write these lines, I do feel at peace. I seem to conclude that if I felt lost, I was. And if I trusted in Him, I did. And it doesn’t matter how big the example might be. Nor how small. My peace is on the verge of happiness. The heck with this written reflection. I’ve got to pray.
(4:00 p.m.)