JOSEPH AND HIS AMAZING ATTITUDE OF FORGIVENESS

I am a lifelong lover of history. I come by it genetically. My parents, Richard and Marilyn Moran, both read history, almost exclusively. My father, the Irishman, tended toward Roman and Italian history, while my mother, the Italian, tended toward British and Scottish history. In fact, her love of all things Scottish spilled over into other areas of family life. Throughout my childhood, I was never without a kilt skirt and matching argyle knee socks. Additionally, although my mother’s music preferences were Italian opera and music typical of the ballet, she had an affinity for the Scottish highland bagpipes, recordings of which were few and far between at that time. In 1976, to celebrate the American Bicentennial, she took all of us to see a performance of the Queen’s Royal Marines and the Black Watch Highland Pipeband--complete with the regimental dancers
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Before my parents, there was my grandmother Rosalie Rice Moran. Rosalie did graduate from Lindbloom High School, unlike my grandmother Josephine who ended her education at the 8th grade. College for Rosalie meant reading just about every book in the local library. She devoured history book after history book and when she had read all the history books available, she started on the astronomy books. My father recalls having to make the trip to the library for her because she could not carry all of the books that she wanted to read. Every book would be consumed before the next trip. Rosalie was knowledgeable on just about any era of political and/or church history. She was the only devout Catholic ever to say, and I quote, "Martin Luther was right."

I suspect the history gene went back beyond Rosalie. The Irish are great storytellers and those stories come from deep within a subconscious store of historical knowledge, now written but originally part of a great oral tradition. And so I have read my share of history, but much to my frustration it is only a fraction of what I would have liked to have covered by now. Just when I was reaching a point in life where I thought I would have more time to catch up on my dusty library I also find that I cannot retain the information like I used to. The facts may be fuzzy but general principles have stayed with me. Principles tend to reside in the heart rather than the head. One principle that I cannot seem to forget is that every race, nationality or belief system has been persecuted at some time in the past. I also know that those same races, nationalities and religions have had blood on their hands. No one is innocent of murder and all have experienced years, decades or centuries of oppression. It is the story of man’s existence ever since God cautioned Cain that "…sin is crouching at the door. Its desire is for you, but you must rule over it."

My own ancestors left Ireland when they were on the verge of starvation at the time of the Great Famine. The potato blight itself was no man’s fault, but the response of the British overlords was no response at all. They cared little for the Irish and the fewer there were of them, the better. From the time the British first conquered the clans, they would have preferred to eliminate them. It was said that Oliver Cromwell had a Philistine policy toward the Irish. And this is where the conflict lies for me: Cromwell was also responsible for challenging the age old belief in the divine right of kings by deposing the Stuarts and setting one of the foundational stones for the Declaration of Independence. Cromwell the genius had a blind spot.
So, still alive but barely existing, my ancestors left their families behind and were herded into the hulls of "coffin ships" headed for America or Canada or Australia. The conditions they endured while on those ships were not much better than the conditions of the slave ships before them. Just as many of the slaves died during the voyage, many of the starving Irish did also. The history is heartbreaking.

Those who survived and established roots in America began to do well. They weren’t lazy and they certainly weren’t stupid. America has proven that no group of people is lazy or stupid. Given the opportunity, the Irish worked hard and became productive in spite of scorn and discrimination by the Protestant establishment. That didn’t bother the Irish. There was plenty of room in America to spread out and circumvent the system. Eventually, in cities like Boston and Chicago, they became the establishment and controlled the system. Most importantly, these working class folks began to send money home to Ireland and that money kept their families alive. And that brings me to Joseph.

The account of Joseph is told in Genesis, chapters 37 through 50 – the very last book of Genesis. Here was a young man who did nothing wrong, but was threatened with death and sold by his brothers to traders who then sold him as a slave in Egypt. He was put in charge of a household, accused of rape, thrown in jail, freed from prison after 13 years, and set over all the land of Egypt, second in command only to Pharaoh. The Scriptures tell us "And whatever he did, the Lord made it succeed." (Gen. 39:23) It was as governor that Joseph used his authority for seven years to set aside one-fifth of the produce of the land in anticipation of a famine. When it did arrive, the famine extended far beyond Egypt and caused people from all over to flock to Egypt to buy food…including the sons of Jacob. Joseph recognized them, but they did not recognize him. So he used their blindness to test his brothers to see if they had changed, if Benjamin (Rachel’s only other son) had survived, and if Jacob was still alive. The brothers passed the test and Joseph was reunited with Jacob and Benjamin. The children of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob took refuge in Egypt and were well fed and protected by the most powerful man in all the land.

However, the brothers’ felt less secure when Jacob died as recorded in Genesis 50:"When Joseph’s brothers saw that their father was dead, they said, ‘It may be that Joseph will hate us and pay us back for all the evil that we did to him.’ So they sent a message to Joseph, saying, ‘Your father gave this command before he died, "Say to Joseph, Please forgive the transgression of your brothers and their sin, because they did evil to you." And now, please forgive the transgression of the servants of the God of your father.’ Joseph wept when they spoke to him. His brothers also came and fell down before him and said, ‘Behold, we are your servants.’ But Joseph said to them, ‘Do not fear, for am I in the place of God? As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive, as they are today. So do not fear; I will provide for you and your little ones.’ Thus he comforted them and spoke kindly to them." (Gen. 50:15 – 21)

I have never been able to read through this without crying. Not even at this moment. I feel Joseph’s sadness at the words of his father and the mistrust of his brothers. I know I am obligated before the Lord to see His hand in the bad in order to appreciate the good. Whenever I hear people in this country demanding more than what they have already been blessed with because they are unwilling to forgive—always using the crimes of the past to justify the extortion of the present—I am reminded of Joseph’s amazing attitude of forgiveness. His relationship with God gave him the insight to know that while his brothers meant it for evil, God meant it for good.
While I have always been moved by the account of Joseph, I would never want anyone to misinterpret my view of injustice and suffering. Injustice should be opposed at every turn and once defeated those responsible for the misery should be brought to justice and punished accordingly. The children and grandchildren of those who have suffered should always be taught of those trying times in history much like the children of Israel were taught of their ancestors’ slavery in Egypt through the Passover celebration.
I want my Evangelical children to know the history of their Catholic forebears and what they suffered under the tyranny of Protestant Reformers with whom we have more in common doctrinally. We are Americans because of that tyranny, and that is the goodness of God in spite of their evil intentions.

WHY MARRIAGE IS ESSENTIAL FOR WORLD PEACE

Once again I have found myself being harassed by some thoughts in my subconscious that I have ignored in the past but cannot ignore anymore. I was at my daughter Rebekah’s on Sunday celebrating the first birthday of grandson #2. As is the case with all children just turning one year old, Caleb just kept staring at the adoring crowd wondering when they were going to go home and leave him in peace. I stood on the deck just behind the confused guest of honor, cutting the cake and scooping ice cream as Rebekah opened the gifts. I too could look out at the adoring crowd of about thirty, and it hit me just as it has hit me several times now since my daughters have married; that is my family out there in the yard. It is a Swedish crowd. I did not have much contact with the Swedish culture growing up so I have had to learn to be accepting. All of the Nordics tend to be very clean and well organized and thanks to their Protestant upbringings, they lack those outbursts of anger so characteristic of what I am used to. Coming from the South Side of Chicago, I am more inclined toward Irish, Italians, Greeks, Mexicans, African-Americans and a sprinkling of Jews. In my old age I find myself having to expand my horizons due to the institution of marriage.

Seriously though, the people who now make up my extended family were once just strangers. I had no cause to like or dislike them had I crossed their path for any reason. Now though, I am obligated by God’s design to give them a special regard I would never have considered had my daughter not married. I myself am related through marriage to nine other Danahers, their spouses, children, stepchildren, grandchildren and even their new sons and daughters-in-law. And through their new sons and daughters-in-law, I get to meet their extended families on occasion. When all of these extended members are considered, I have sixty-one family members through marriage on my husband’s side. All of the Danaher grandchildren are just getting started on their families so there is still a great expansion to occur in that clan. My daughter Rachel has married into a family of six siblings (including her husband) which has provided her with four in-law spouses, eight nieces and nephews, a widowed mother-in-law and her second husband. When I attend Rachel’s family gatherings I am again impressed by the fact that I probably never would have crossed paths with these very nice folks from a western suburbs and now they are part of my extended family. I am obligated by God’s design to regard them differently because they are the grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins of my grandson, Ryan. Obviously the ties that really bind are the offspring of these marriages.

To me, marriage gives everything a different perspective. By marriage, I am drawn into a new circle of relations. For the sake of family unity I am required to put myself aside and, in the words of St. Paul, "Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those weep. Live in harmony with one another. Do not be haughty, but associate with the lowly. Never be conceited. Repay no one evil for evil, but give thought to do what is honorable in the sight of all. If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all." (Romans 12:15 – 18) Of course these instructions were meant to be applied to all people, not just family. But the best training ground for life in general is the family. We can walk away from casual acquaintances that may be annoying or for whom we do not want to make time, but it is in the best interest of family harmony to heed St. Paul’s instruction. Hopefully, from the center of my family, this practice of sympathy, empathy, cooperation, humility, and patience will spread like a great web and those that are now my extended family will also apply these principles to their greater clan. To be clear, it is I who have learned from them and not the reverse.

I know that world history is littered with the bones of the victims of clan warfare, but none of those clans ever had the benefit of a national Constitution, written by men who had the full benefit of biblical literacy, both Hebrew and Greek. They also had the benefit of a classical education, which concentrated on the western cannon of history, literature, science and philosophy and were able to come to the logical application of those learned principles within the structure of a representative republic. Our Constitution is not perfect, but it goes a long way in discouraging clan warfare with the possible exception of the Hatfields and McCoys. Even when the clans of Europe were playing "steal the head off the enemy," they very often relied on intermarriage between their children to bring peace between their tribes.

Fast forward to Chicago’s recent 46th Ward "Run Amok Party," with the resident hoodlums battling on the streets in the neighborhood for all to see and some to record on video cameras. This evidence of the deterioration in the 46th Ward prompted residents to contact Alderman Helen Shiller’s ward office to beg for help in controlling rival roving gangs of young men. Ms. Shiller did not respond to her residents, so they showed up at a meeting she was attending for Chicago 2016. Their frustration with the neighborhood crime and Ald. Shiller’s perceived lack of concern boiled over into angry demands and she then scooted out and never responded to them or the media. It may be time for Ms. Shiller to retire to Vladimir’s Home for Retired Bolsheviks. But I digress.

My reason for mentioning this Chicago melee is because it is the latest example of what happens when young men have no immediate family responsibilities from which they inherit extended family responsibilities, which in turn encourage a young man to be a productive member of a community. How many of those young men seen running and fighting in broad daylight do you think were married? How many were married with children? I’m sure everyone of them have children somewhere being "raised" by the young women who allowed them into their beds, but not one of these men is married. They don’t have to be. Today’s relationships are fluid and always changing. Marriage is passe. Sex is something to be enjoyed between two or three or more people. It’s kind of like going out to lunch. Take from it what you can get and then go home. As long as our politicians continue to advocate rewarding the irresponsible with the hard earned money of the responsible, the deconstruction of the Constitutional principles of self-government will continue to bring about the kind of chaos seen in that video of the 46th Ward. The consequences of the deconstruction of the Judeo-Christian worldview by the media and the intellegensia of academia are playing out in pockets of society; but those pockets are getting larger and pretty soon they will be interlocking with each other until there will only be small pockets of Judeo-Christian advocates trying to keep the barbarians from breaking through the gate to play "steal the head off the enemy".

We can continue to preach the gospel of condoms and birth control to each generation, but none of those consequence thwarters really get to the heart of the matter and certainly they do nothing for the principle that young men are better men when they are married and gainfully employed supporting a wife and their children. I am proud to say that one of my favorite books of all time earned its author the award of Male Chauvinist Pig of the Year by the National Organization for Women. His name was George Gilder and the book was Men and Marriage. I read it maybe twenty years ago and need to read it again. At the time, however, it seemed to hit the nail on the head with every chapter.

My opinion will instigate many to protest that marriage hasn’t always served women well, which is partially true. The world is comprised of sinful human beings for whom oppression is the favorite pastime. No one should settle for a life of subjection to one’s own personal tyrant. But the answer is not the eradication of marriage or the redefining of marriage (which is really the eradication of marriage). All one has to do is view the video of young men running rampant through a neighborhood of women and children to realize that the alternative to monogamous marriage is no alternative at all.

MRS. MORAN AND MRS. THURSTON

Marilyn Moran was a stay-at-home mom for her entire life which gave her the freedom to be the political activist she was meant to be. I do not remember a time when we weren’t involved in some political campaign or protest and it all seemed to revolve around keeping the way of life that we believed was the logical extension of "unalienable rights". Rights which could only be granted or taken away by God and seemed to always be under assault by some government entity trying to do good to us whether we liked it or not. My first job in a campaign was when I was nine years old and my mother had my friends and me passing out literature for Barry Goldwater. It was 1964 and she paid us by taking us to see the Beatles in A Hard Day’s Night. Later that year we stood outside at the airport with signs welcoming Goldwater to Chicago. In between the rallies and meetings we stuffed envelopes for candidates.

In 1967 my Dad ran for alderman of the 13th Ward in Chicago. We were Republicans but the local Republican organization had their roster of candidates and they were not ready to let someone come in off the street and upset the guys waiting for their own nod from the party. Besides we are a somewhat independent family of conservatives and so Richard J. Moran ran as an Independent. When I think of the effort it took to organize and run a campaign I have nothing but admiration for the efforts of family and friends at that time. Out of a field of about 11 candidates in the primary, the Republican came in behind the Democrat and my dad was only 330 votes behind him. The Republican eventually won the general election and then ended up going to prison. So much for the party choice. That was the end of his political career and it was the end of my dad’s also. Lacking the support of a party and the money that comes with it, my father decided once was enough. My mother would continue to fight the good fight including two or three stints debating Jesse Jackson on Irv Kupcinet’s local late night talk show.

In the late 1960’s and early 70’s I was attending Bogan High School on the South Side of Chicago. Bogan was one of only two high schools in the Chicago system that was completely white, reflecting of course the racial makeup of the community. The Chicago Board of Education had been keeping itself busy desegregating their schools in accordance with the Supreme Court decision of 1954 which ordered school districts nationwide to bus students to schools outside of their communities in order to achieve racial integration. When all of the schools except Bogan and Taft were obediently exporting and importing students in order to do something that had nothing to do with education, the Chicago Board of Education turned its attention to lily white Bogan High School and that’s when the educrats met Marilyn Moran and the Bogan Broads.
Every Wednesday throughout the school year, I knew I would find my grandmother Josephine at my house when I returned from school because Marilyn and the Bogan Broads were downtown at the Board of Education keeping a watchful eye on the board members and opposing them at every turn as they tried to implement a desegregation plan for Bogan. This effort to keep their kids in the school that was closest to home and reflected the culture of their community earned them the opportunistic scorn of every prostituted politician in Chicago. And of course they were labeled racists. These fierce mothers believed in the concept of neighborhood schools. They didn’t care what color the students in the other neighborhood schools were; they wanted their children to attend school in their community. There would be time for learning how to get along with people of other cultural backgrounds after high school. The Bogan Broads weren’t the only parents who held to this conviction. Their allies at these Wednesday gatherings included African-American parents living in the neighborhoods from which we would be trading lab rats. They also preferred that their children attend school close to home. They were a minority within a minority and were rarely heard above the activists that characterized the desegregation movement.

The student body of Bogan may have been 100% white, but its teaching staff had started to change color and no one I knew objected. Teachers were teachers and it didn’t matter what color they were because they were - teachers. That was the annoying part. Some of the white teachers were disliked and some of the black teachers were disliked. Some of the white teachers were very popular and some of the black teachers were very popular. No black teacher was as popular as Mrs. Thurston; our physical education teacher. She was the female version of General Patton and we loved her. When she spoke we all listened. She had a unique way of explaining certain "facts" in our health class that made us laugh uproariously. I never intended on giving Mrs. Thurston any trouble but I was very lax about bringing my gym suit home on Fridays to be laundered. I ignored her general warnings about suffering consequences if we did not do so.
Since we had the newfangled permanent press uniforms my friends and I could get away with not bringing the suit home every week. Mrs. Thurston regarded this as dismissive of her authority and she would have none of that. As tough as she could be with us kids, I think she was concerned about how a black teacher should or could approach the white parents of her students. Being true to her bold nature, she mustered the courage to call Mrs. Marilyn Moran, one of the Bogan Broads, who could be seen occasionally on Irv Kupcinet’s show going nose to nose with Jesse Jackson. I don’t know if Mrs. Thurston was even aware of my mom’s part-time preoccupation. I do know that when she called, my mom thought she sounded a little sheepish. And that made my mom angry. When Mrs. Thurston was done explaining what my infraction was and how she hoped that my mom could talk to me about my lack of personal hygiene, my mom began to lecture this minority teacher. And this is how it went – "Mrs. Thurston. Just because you are a black teacher in an all white high school doesn’t mean that you should be intimidated or afraid to discipline your students if they do not obey you. From now on you have my permission to kick my daughter’s ass if she gives you any trouble whatsoever". That’s pretty much how my parents viewed the village raising a child.

I don’t know where I was when this conversation took place, but when I returned my mother and father let me know that Mrs. Thurston had their permission to do to me whatever she needed to do to get my attention. And when I arrived at gym class on Monday, Mrs. Thurston began bossing me around with a renewed enthusiasm. I took that gym suit home every week after that.

DOES THIS MAKE ANYONE ELSE DEPRESSED?

I did my weekly grocery shopping yesterday and it was as uneventful as always. This time though I took note of something that occurs every week, but usually remains in my subconscious. I don’t hate grocery shopping but I don’t love it either. I enter the store in my usual good mood which then begins to dissipate as I make my way up and down the aisles and I begin to face the fact that I am not going to get out of there for anything less than $200. My serotonin level really begins to crash when I take one of those turns around the aisles at the front of the store near the checkout lines. It happens every week, but I usually do what I always do when I feel depressed - I ignore it. Works like a charm. This week however the melancholy was particularly heavy which forced me to stop and consider the cause. Are you ready for this? It is the presence of the gossip rags that highlight and broadcast every dysfunction of every current entertainment sensation and I use the word sensation very lightly. This time it was some publication giving Jon Gosselin an opportunity to proclaim his innocence in the demise of his marriage. I don’t want to see or hear this stuff anymore. Who are these people and why do they command our attention? They’re losers because if they had any true intelligence, talent, or extraordinary ministry to people, they wouldn’t have the time or need for excessive public attention. The most I credit these exhibitionists with is being shrewd.The saddest thing about the Gosselin story is not the self-absorbed parents; it is the tragedy of what this is doing to eight children who are living the Truman Show.

When the headlines aren’t about Jon and Kate, they’re about someone’s battle with eating too much or not eating at all. Again self-absorption. But the most disturbing headlines have to do with young women who seem to have it all, but continue to be very needy and desperate which then causes them to make foolish choices in men. The men eventually respond to the neediness by being unfaithful which causes the women to spin out of control until another poor decision is made to fill the need. And the cycle continues to be unbroken. Women consistently selling themselves short in the name of love and premarital intimacy. Occasionally a magazine article or a segment on Oprah will try to paint one of these women as strong and independent; not needing a husband because marriage isn’t necessary. It isn’t long before TMZ catches her stalking her ex boyfriend.

When Rachel and Rebekah were approaching their teen years, I made a decision that there would be no teen magazines in our house. I felt every angle of these magazines set a young girl up for failure. Even though they talked about feminism and independence, they still spent too much ink on the need to impress the guys. I didn’t want my girls to get sucked into the mentality that one’s significance came from being attached to a boy. My mantra was "You can have a boyfriend or you can have a life, but you can’t have both." When I see maybe 4 or 5 magazines at the checkout focused on who got dumped and who the dumpee is going to date next, I get depressed. I know that most young girls are caught up in all of this nonsense and I can’t imagine that their own relationships are healthy if their model in life is a shallow, stunted blonde with puffy lips and a huge chest. My advice to all of the young girls out there; when you’re at the checkout, read the gardening magazines.

MEMORIES OF JOSEPHINE - Part 1

My grandmother, Josephine Brucellaria Mazziotti was the last grandmother in America. After she died in 1983 I noticed a decline in the number of grandmothers. I think they all went out into the workforce. Some because of a legitimate need for supplemental income and others because they thought that by virtue of the generation into which they had been born, they had missed something. So, the grandmas ventured out to find whatever it was that modern women were supposed to experience. Others simply let grandpa talk them into moving to warmer weather. Not so Josephine. Because of her dedication to her grandchildren, I have only ever wanted to emulate her. Ever since my five children were small, people have asked me what I planned on doing when they were all out of the house and on their own. The pressure I felt to come up with an answer was sort of like what children feel when someone asks them what they want to be when they grow up. I would reach inward to my very simple mind and always come up with the same answer: I wanted to be the kind of grandmother that Josephine was. How unfeminist of me.

By all accounts, as they trickle in from the few remaining Italians in our family, Josephine had an unhappy marriage to Anthony Mazziotti. My mother never had many warm recollections of her childhood. She was the third of three children and there were ten years separating her and her next sibling, my Aunt Lorraine. She was born a few months before the crash of 1929 and by then her mother, Josephine, was feeling the strain of being married to a man who fancied himself an entrepreneur. He left a job working as an airplane mechanic to do who-knows-what, creating a financially unstable condition at home. All hope was eventually dashed by the Great Depression. My mom recalled one incident of coming home from school with a piece of art work only to have my grandmother slap her in the face when my mom approached her for approval of her creation. She never forgot the shock and hurt she felt, but as an adult she understood that Josephine suffered under the yoke of marriage to Anthony. My grandfather died seven years before I was born, leaving my grandmother and mother, age 17, to fend for themselves. My grandmother worked for awhile to support them and eventually things got better, but generally speaking, Josephine never had much in life. She and my mother moved in with my great-grandparents, Baldassare and Clementina Brucellaria, and when they died soon after my grandfather, Josephine occupied the home at 6757 S. Hermitage in the Englewood area of Chicago permanently. When I was born in 1954 my parents were living in a rented apartment across the street. From the moment I was born my grandmother was a constant presence in my life. She was there when I was a baby and even after my parents bought a house in the Ashburn neighborhood farther south and west, I spent my weekends at Grandma’s keeping her company.
Actually, my fondest childhood memories are of my Grandmother’s house in the old Italian neighborhood known as 69th street. The original inhabitants of that area were Dutch and Swedish. As those ethnic groups began to prosper, they moved to the suburbs and were replaced by Italian immigrants who had spilled over the borders of their original neighborhoods closer to the downtown area of Chicago. My great grandparents had lived in one of those neighborhoods but soon bought the home that I knew as my Grandmother’s house. They owned two lots – one for their house and one that became a saloon that my Grandfather Anthony operated. Eventually they sold off the extra lot and building and it was bought by the Schuba family who continued to run a saloon known as Lefty’s – my father’s favorite watering hole.

On Friday nights my father would head back to the "old" neighborhood to have a few beers with his buddies. He would bring me along so that I could spend the weekend with Grandma. He would get there in time to listen to the ball game and I would get there in time to have a bowl of Cornflakes with Josephine before we went to bed. I would wake on Saturday morning to the smell of fresh perked coffee and toasted Italian bread. My grandmother would make soft-boiled eggs for me to accompany the 10 pieces of toast I would eat. It was a treat to have toast at her house because she didn’t have Wonder Bread; she had bread from Naples Bakery on 69th Street. The day would be spent following her around as she tended her garden, hung laundry, or made pies. She had an old wringer washer in her basement, never owned a dryer and she made the best pies ever. Blueberry, Lemon Meringue, Coconut Custard, Banana Custard. To this day I rarely ever eat pie in a restaurant because they can’t compare to hers. Often she would spend the day making spaghetti sauce with meatballs or neckbones or sausage. Saturday evening I would wait patiently on my Grandmother’s front porch for my Dad to arrive at Lefty’s for the evening. As soon as I saw his car I would run next door to the saloon. This was the highlight of the weekend. My Dad would sit me on a stool and he would buy me pop and a box of pretzels: the stick kind in that little flat box. I would enjoy being with the guys, but it wasn’t long before it was time for the kid to get out of the bar and head back to Grandma’s. I don’t know how serious the law was about 6 year olds in bars, but my father was very serious about me not picking up any bad language, which would flow in proportion to the beer. So, back to Josephine’s for Cornflakes and Lawrence Welk.
Sunday morning consisted of the usual breakfast and yes, I drank coffee. Josephine did not have a problem with kids indulging in caffeine. At the corner of Hermitage and 67th street, the bells would be ringing at Our Lady of Mt. Carmel Church. I would head off to Mass by myself since the Italian side of the family rarely graced the inside of a church. My poor mother had to walk down to the church when she was nine years old and ask the priest if he would baptize her. Happily, I was not without family at church. Sitting in the back I could usually see my Irish grandparents in the front. Joseph and Rosalie Moran lived just three blocks west of Josephine in the same neighborhood. As soon as church was over I would touch base with my Grandma and then walk over to the Irish side and spend the afternoon eating Oreos and hard candy with my other grandparents. This is where I was able to indulge my love of dogs because Joe and Rosalie owned a little black dog named Tinker. And that is why my Irish grandparents were always known to us kids as Tinker Grandpa and Grandma. I loved that little house on Wolcott too. Tinker Grandma decorated in an early American style and although my mother thought it tacky, I never understood what the problem was.

When the visit was over I headed back to Josephine’s where my Dad would retrieve me to go home. Many times Josephine would also be retrieved along with the spaghetti sauce and pies. The weekend would culminate in a huge Sunday dinner complete with beer or pop as a treat and yes, I drank beer. My father did not have a problem with kids becoming accustomed to drinking alcohol as part of a meal. When the meal was over I would beg my grandmother to stay overnight with us. I hated to part with her. Since she rarely had anywhere to go she usually stayed with us for a couple of days before my dad took her back home.

I loved that Italian neighborhood more than I cared for my own. The "old" neighbor hood had trees lining the street and the yards all had trees and flowers. In contrast my new neighborhood had just been constructed on prairie and farmland. There wasn’t a tree to be found and for some reason my parents’ generation preferred that sterile barberry bush look with manicured lawns. But in the old neighborhood I could sleep outside at night on the porch rattan lounge chair and listen to the breeze blowing through the great pear tree that hung over the house. This was a real fruit-bearing pear tree and when the pears were ready to be harvested, the slightest breeze would cause them to fall from the branches hitting the house with a loud thud. I remember nights trying to fall asleep with the constant thudding of the pears as the wind brought them down. The next morning Josephine would head outside to see what kind of harvest she had only to find that the squirrels had helped themselves to one or two bites of each pear. This is when I was privileged to hear my grandmother curse and swear in Italian through the garden, as she would pick up pear after pear only to find it contaminated by the squirrels.

I live in a suburb of Chicago that has huge oak trees. When I relax outside in the summer I close my eyes and am transported back to that neighborhood as I listen to the sound of the wind in the trees and the barking of a dog in the distance. I have a garden, which contains the very peony bushes, and forget-me-nots that grew in that yard on Hermitage Ave. Clementina Brucellaria planted the peonies, and the forget-me-nots were a Mother’s Day gift to Clementina from my mother. Soon, my grandchildren will be old enough to stay with grandma and grandpa for the weekend. They will follow me around as I garden, hang the laundry and make pies.

Interesting blurb on the subject of idolatry

I sat down this morning to finally catch up on the latest issue of Touchstone Magazine and found this little blurb by Peter Leithart in the Quodlibet section that I thought coincided with what Lutzer is discussing Ten Lies About God.

Leithart says -

"The other day, the Dow went above 8000 for the first time in months. I've got almost nothing invested, but my first thought was, 'Whew! We're going to be okay.'
My second thought was a self-castigating one: What is it but idolatry of mammon to feel relief and hope at a 100-point rise in the Dow? Have I been so deeply corrupted that I put my hope in a purely nominal increase in value? Have I been so thoroughly taken in by the evangelists of mammon that we call our "major media"?

MEMORABLE MOTHERING MOMENTS: Ballet, Blueberry Pie and Sensitivity

In the last 30 years of the 20th century a new malady has developed that afflicts mostly women. It causes heartbreak for many parents and serious concern for many more. That malady is anorexia and every mother with teenage daughters was on alert for this and other eating disorders that might do serious physical and emotional damage to their daughters. I paid attention to media discussions on the subject and kept a sharp eye on my girls, especially Rebekah because she was in ballet where eating disorders go with the territory. And by the way, those Italian genes which craved pizza and pasta, along with the Irish genes which craved beer, are what sunk any hope for me of ever having a career in ballet when I was younger. All the other ballerinas headed home after class to eat some carrot sticks while I was planning on meeting my girlfriends for beer and pizza. I was hopeless.

I learned to cook from my Italian mother and, with a little tweaking to accommodate updated health and well being information, we had decent eating habits. My kids were all physically active so none of them was overweight. Still I was always keeping tabs of any changes in their diets. The dilemma occurs when your happy healthy daughter is starting to maybe eat more than she should and you, the Mom, has to figure a way to curb her enthusiasm for food without sending her over to the dark side. One day while Rebekah was helping herself to a second slice of blueberry pie at dinner, I realized that I was going to have to stop this without trashing her self-esteem. I watched her and I pondered this for about 30 seconds before I said, "You know, you’re past the point where you are growing up. From now on you’ll just grow out. So, if I were you, I’d quit eating a second piece of dessert." How’s that for sensitivity? Stellar isn’t it.

That is one of those Mommy moments that haunts me although 13 years later I have not seen any damage. In fact I wonder if Rebekah even remembers me ever saying anything to her. Ironically there is one incident that she and Rachel do remember vividly and I have no recollection. It was another great moment in mothering history. I think I will let them have the privilege of telling that story sometime soon.