My new patron saint...

Claude Newman

I first read about him on Fr. Blake's blog, and continued on Paul Priest's blog, and did more research and found detailed information on this site. The icon is by Br. Claude Lane of Mt. Angel Abbey.

Chronology of Claude Newman's life.

Fr. Robert O'Leary, SVD (1911-1984) seems to have condensed and slightly altered the circumstances leading to Claude's imprisonment, perhaps for the very simple reason that he wasn't perfectly certain just what all the facts were, or, since it was only 20 years after the events he relates in the radio recording he made of the story (1960's), many of those involved were still alive and kickin'. In the end, his main concern was Claude's miraculous conversion, which he did know about first hand. The trail is a bit cool now, 60 years after his execution. Claude Newman Chronology:

-1923- Dec.1, Claude Newman is born to Willie and Floretta Young Newman in Stuttgart, Arkansas.

-1928- Claude and his older brother are removed from their mother by Willie, who takes them to be raised by their grandmother, Ellen Newman, in Bovina, MS, east of Vicksburg.

-1930- 6-yearold Claude appears in the Federal census, living with his Grandmather in Warren County. They reside on the Ike Henry place.

-late 1930s- Claude spends time in the CCC (Civilian Conservation Corp)

-c.1939- Ellen Newman marries Sid Cook. Soon he becomes sexually abusive toward Ellen.

-c.1940-41- Claude works on Ceres Plantation in Bovina, owned by U. G. Flowers. Sid Cook was born and raised on this place. If Claude Newman has married, it was not registered in Warren Co. Perhaps he was married in another county, or parish of Louisiana. In any case, he is no longer with her by Dec. 19, 1942.

-1942- Dec.19, Egged on by dominant friend Elbert Harris, Claude lies in waiting in Sid Cook's house (Cook and Ellen Newman have separated). Shoots Sid as he enters. Takes his money, then flees to his Mother in Little Rock, AR., arriving on the 20th. First time she has seen him since he was five. She is now re-married to a man named Rogers, who finds Claude a job. Claude goes by the name 'Ralph'.

-1943- Claude has been apprehended, returned to Vicksburg, and makes a coerced confession on Jan. 13. Despite protests of Claude's lawyer Harry K. Murray, confession is admitted as evidence. He is found guilty by an all white jury. Is to die in the electric chair on May 14, 1943. Appeal to re-try the case is rejected by State Attorney General. Sid Cook's patron, U. G. Flowers, has too much influence. Jan.20, 1944 is given as new date for execution.

-1943-44- Probably sometime late in 1943, Claude puts on a miraculous medal, begins having visions of Mary. She encourages him to find a priest and become a Catholic. Fr. Robert O'Leary, SVD of St. Mary's for Colored, and Catholic County Doctor Augustine Podesta, minister to him.

-1944- Jan.16, Fr. O'Leary baptizes him 'Claude Jude' in jail, with Sr. Benna Henken, SSpS standing as his sponsor. Just before Claude is to be executed on Jan. 20*, a stay of execution of two weeks arrives. He is finally put to death on Feb.4, 1944. Claude has his favorite dessert, coconut pie, on the night before he dies. His body is taken the historic Black cemetery, Beulah, for burial. Some months later he appears, along with the Blessed Mother to a reprobate, who is himself seated on the electric chair. The man repents and is saved from eternal damnation-- at the very last moment.

-1945- Fr, O'Leary founds Immaculate Conception Parish (for Colored) in Clarksville, MS

-1960's- Fr. O'Leary records Claude Newman Story for radio broadcast.

-2001- Claude Newman Story appears on internet.

-2002- While looking for information on Cardinal Newman, Br. Claude Lane of Mount Angel Abbey, happens on the story.

-2003- In the early summer, Br. Claude is inspired to write the icon "Mary, the Teacher." Began the task of researching Claude Newman's life with initial help from Catholic Family News, and the researches of John Sharpe, Sr. of Phoenix.

The Story: Chapter Two, Part two

Chapter Two: Part two


Although life must have been relatively happy while dad was away, it wasn’t exactly Sunnybrook Farm for mom. Grandma Eliason, my father’s mother, often came up from the cities to lend a helping hand to her new Catholic daughter-in-law. Granny’s name was Della, and she had been married to Oscar Nelson, my paternal grandfather – a gem of a man, an artist and a scholar. He came over on the boat as they say, from Sweden; his family settled in North Dakota where they established the beginnings of a rather prosperous farm, until the depression. I have no idea how he met Della, herself a first generation Norwegian, but they married and had four children; Hermann, my dad Ken, Viola, and Jim. They divorced after they lost the farm in the depression and moved to St. Paul. The boys finished high school and lived with their dad, and Aunt Viola finished school while living with Della.

Betty Mae despised Della, and Della supposedly hated my mom. Although later, while I was in grade school, when the rather fashionable Protestant matron came around, she usually seemed very respectful of my mother, if not afraid. I often noticed how grandma visibly bit her tongue, then her lips, with tears welling up in her beautiful hazel eyes, while mom berated her. Suddenly, her hands shaking as she grasped her handbag, she would be off, placing a slobbery kiss on my lips before she ran out the door.

I believe I mentioned that we kids found letters of my dad’s from Japan, some were love letters between Betty Mae and Kenny, and others were penned arguments between Kenny and his mom. Dad was kind of a mama’s boy – he idolized his mother. I don’t know if it was because the divorce was Oscar’s fault and she came off as the victim, or what. At any rate, he found himself in an awkward position, love for his mom and love for his wife. The first strike against my mom had been the fact she was Catholic and intended to raise me a Catholic. Della was furious that I was baptized in a Catholic church.

Though born and raised a Lutheran, Della remarried after the divorce, becoming the wife of “Daddy Ed” a Pentecostal tent preacher, with the reputation of being a lascivious man. Della played the tambourine at the prayer meetings, always wearing her characteristic v-bodice dresses, swinging and swaying to the music. Grandma Eliason was quite a beauty, and probably something of a draw for the men folk to come out to the revival meetings Ed conducted. I actually remember him – without hearing anything from anybody, he just came off creepy and mean to me. Betty Mae later claimed he had put the make on her, touching her breasts and other parts south. In mom’s eyes, that somehow made my grandmother a slut for marrying Daddy Ed.

At any rate, while dad was gone, granny often stopped by between gigs to check in on mom. Unbeknownst to Betty Mae, grandma had been writing to my dad claiming mom was cheating on him – I have no idea if it was true or not. The upshot of their correspondence led Della to take it upon herself to rescue me from my unfit mother. One day, while mom was coming out of the dime store downtown, ‘Della’s car screeched to a halt, almost driving up on the curb. With the engine still running, she jumped out of the car, lunged upon my mother and attempted to snatch me out of her arms. A huge struggle ensued, lots of screaming and tears, until a policeman came over and ordered granny back into the car and off she went. I was saved from being raised a Protestant!

Naturally, I have no recollection of the scene since I was no more than a year old, although it must have impressed me and contributed to my love of drama. Nevertheless, my recollection of the episode is limited to what my mother told everyone, over and over; when she attempted to convince her listeners my dad’s mother was insane. At the time mom was successful in getting a restraining order against Della and her preacher man husband. (He kind of looked like President Truman.) It wouldn’t be the last restraining order against Della, and mums liked them so much, she would come to have them served on others from time to time. She loved restraining orders as a form of punishment – better put, harassment - against people she wasn’t fond of. They were easier to obtain than say, commitment papers, arrest warrants, reform school admissions, what have you. Mom reserved these threats to be used against immediate family members only and then just for special occasions.

I expect many of the fights which ensued between Kenny and Betty Mae upon his return from Japan, may have centered on the tumultuous relationship with her mother-in-law. I’m sure there were many stories about mom that grandma had written to my dad, needing clarification. Obviously mom was successful in convincing my dad that grandma was a liar. No doubt the “grandpa’s hands” story may have convinced dad to renew the restraining order against the Eliason’s. Although that may have cut some of the funding grandma supplied dad – she had always been good for a loan. That lost resource may have been another motive for dad embezzling funds at work.

To be continued.

(I'm doing shorter segments per post.)

The Story: Chapter Two: Part One

Chapter Two: Part One (Sorry, graphic language.)

Leaving New Richmond was very difficult for my mother. Life in a small town was not at all about night-clubbing and partying, I’m convinced this period represented a new beginning for her. My dad had more than a good job; he had a position, a career full of potential. They owned a house – the last house we ever owned. My mother had her gardens, which Beth, Skip and I helped her to tend.

In fact, when she was dying, before anyone knew she had incurable cancer, she asked my dad to call me to let me know she was in hospital. She told him to be sure and tell me she had been thinking about how we gardened together and how I invited everyone to come and “smell all the ‘putty pews’” – my words for pretty flowers. Dad called me and told me that over the phone. Oddly, her reminiscence had been my signal she was dying, and before leaving work to visit her in the hospital, I called my friend Fr. Gerry to set up a time for him to come to hear her confession. I surprised her at how quickly I showed up at her bedside.

“You didn’t have to rush over here, I just wanted your father to let you know I had fallen and they are doing tests. The doctors were just here. I’m glad you came though.” She said, clasping my hand.

“When dad said you brought up the ‘petty pews’ I knew it was serious. You’re going to die aren’t you.” I stated that so matter of fact, I startled the two of us. It almost took my mom’s breath away, prompting her to reply with stunned surprise.

“How did you know that? Have you spoken with the doctors? You saw them before you came in here! Don’t tell your dad yet, I want to tell him when it’s time. He won’t be happy about this; I’m scared I’ll get beat up for it.”

She kind of shrugged her shoulders with a giggle, and then we both laughed, not that it was so funny, it was simply the absurdity of the situation; my dad angry because she was dying and taking it out on her – nothing ever changes. I then explained that when she mentioned how we used to garden it was like a clarion call to me that she was dying. I had no idea she had been sick since the previous Christmas, nor had I talked to her until that July day. No doubt, God or our angels had a hand in our silent communication; however, I think it was mostly based in nature, the bond between a mother and her son. Again, I’m getting ahead of myself – the story of her death is an entire chapter to itself.

Throughout my childhood, mom loved to recall life in New Richmond, once again providing evidence it was the happiest time of her life. She loved our dog Hermann, the big Labrador who had been a babysitter for all of us until my sister was old enough to supervise even him. Hermann went with us to play at the park across the street. He took us to Mass and was so well behaved; the ushers allowed him lay beneath our pew at the back of the church. Mom and dad never attended Mass, so Hermann accompanied us, with Beth, who had already made her First Communion. The church wasn’t far from the house, a mere two blocks down the street.

In a special way, Hermann was most especially my dog, since he never left my side, although he also knew I was his meal ticket. We used to hide in the cupboard under the sink and take naps – after we ate our dog biscuits. Mom loved to repeat the story, “Terry and Hermann would be under the sink, with the doors closed and you could hear Terry, ‘One for Hermie, and one for Terry’ until they had their fill of biscuits and fell asleep. When I’d open the door Terry would be lying on the dog, with his thumb in his mouth and holding the tip of Hermann’s tail in his ear.” That memory delighted her for the rest of her life.

I think mom found a certain bliss after my dad went into the Army, she was alone with the three of us, and she settled into domesticity. I’m quite sure she attended Mass each Sunday with all of us, and knowing her piety, she must have prayed numerous novenas for my dad and for all of us kids. Something also tells me she consecrated all of us to the Immaculate Conception at the time, which may account for my particular devotion. I’m quite sure she would have requested nuns she had known from her school days with the Notre Dames, to pray for us as well. (There must be some reason that my brothers and sister turned out as well as we did.) Her devotion to St. Therese of Lisieux had been intense all of her life, and when I was born, she named me after her – not the name Therese of course, but Terrance, with the nick name of Terry. Several years later I had lamented my lack of a patron saint, and nagged mom to tell me who mine was. Short fused as she was, she slammed the lid down on a pan and shouted, “St. Teresa!”

“Which one? Which one?” I asked eagerly.

“Jesus Christ! THE LITTLE ONE! Are you happy now?” She was going way over the top, and I knew I better leave her alone.

Indeed I was happy though, Therese had been a favorite saint of mine even back then in 2nd grade, and I immediately adopted her as my godmother. Looking back upon the incident, I’m fairly convinced my mom’s ‘high anxiety’ was not only related to her neurotic guilt about her spiritual state, but she may have been concerned about gender issues.

While my dad was in Japan, she never cut my hair while I was growing up. No, she was not trying to make me a little girl; she just loved my hair – which strikes me as very funny today. “Ooooo! Love the hair!” Anyway – it was special – it was almost white blonde and wavy. Don’t worry; I’m a male, and I have always been duly embarrassed by photos from that time. Thank God when dad returned from the service, he immediately took me to a barber and had it all cut off, telling my mom, “He looks like a God damned little girl.”

End of 1st part of chapter two. 1st rough draft.

(Photo credit: Little Shirley Temple. LOL!)

The Story Continued - Chapter One - Part Two...

CHAPTER ONE: Part Two

That said, my second memory around the same period is of her lying at the bottom of the stairs in a navy blue satin robe with rose piping, whimpering. My dad had pushed her. That is all I remember however. My sister Beth has no recollection of the incident, although she does recall my father beating up my mother at that early stage of their marriage.

From what I can determine, the Nelson’s lived in New Richmond for about 6 years. Unfortunately, it remains a sketchy period for piecing together family history. What I can figure out – mostly from various accounts retold by family members now deceased - Kenny and Betty Mae moved to New Richmond soon after they married. However, they were surely seeing one another before my brother Skip was born, which means they were a couple when my mother worked as a black-jack dealer in Reno, while waiting for her divorce to be finalized. Although, I doubt my dad joined her there.

I know that Beth was sent to San Francisco to live with Nana and Bumpa during my mom’s sojourn in Nevada. And I believe my dad continued working as a shoe salesman at a department store in downtown St. Paul while mom was away. Skip was 3 years older than me; therefore the year of the divorce had to be 1946. This timeline makes more sense, since, soon after my mother’s return from Reno, Skip was born. According to my father’s account, he was present for Skip’s birth.

Though dad never adopted Skip, he often tried to prove his love for him by repeating the story of how he had been there for my mom during his difficult birth. (This was because, so the tale went, the rotten first husband had deserted her.) Dad also claimed to be responsible for naming my brother “Skip”. We all had been told this story over and over, until it became fact. Oddly enough, my brother was given the same name as his father, Robert, although mom insisted he had been named for her brother Robert – not his father. At any rate, the reason Skip was given that name should have been obvious, yet for our family, it became sort of a multiple choice answer, depending on the condition of my dad when he told the story. Thus, any of the following explanations might apply.

A) The birth was difficult but the strong baby boy “Skipped” into life.
B) He was such a little commander; he was just like a “Skipper” on a ship.
C) My dad didn’t name him and may not have been at the birth.
D) My mother and dad called him Skip so she wouldn’t have to call him “Bob” like his real dad.
E) Who knows – they lied about everything.

Okay, so at some point, maybe a few months after Skip was born, Betty and Kenny were married at the courthouse in downtown St. Paul. They and the wedding party then drove up the hill to the Cathedral to have their wedding photos shot there. I know this because they had a photo, just one photo. Of course, I don’t really know if they had simply posed on the steps of the Cathedral on another occasion, only to represent the same photo in later years as a wedding picture. Whatever the case, when I happened across the photo, my mom passed it off as from her wedding day. I suppose I was about 6 or 7 years old when I asked about the picture. I clearly recall asking her why she hadn’t been wearing a wedding dress, and she quietly explained it had been fashionable at the time to get married in a suit. (This would hold true during war time and in cases when the bride couldn’t afford a gown.)

Obviously impressed my parents had been married in such a grand church, I pressed mom for more details. I wanted to know where all the pictures from inside the Church were. She quickly stated the priest did not allow photos in the Church. (That was probably true for the time as well.) Excited about anything to do with the Catholic Church and sacraments, I eagerly asked if the Archbishop had married them. Suddenly, exasperated with my incessant questions, she grabbed the photo from me and shouted, “That’s it! I will not be brow beaten like this! Get outside!” Shortly after that, Beth explained to Skip and I how it came to be that she and my brother had a different dad. That day Beth taught us the definition of divorce and how it applied to mom. She did her best to explain why they could not be married in the Catholic Church, which meant they lied about the Cathedral wedding and had really married before a Justice of the Peace instead. Then looking at me, knowing how religious I was, she added that they were probably going to hell too, all because they got married outside of the Church. But I’m jumping way ahead here.

Back to New Richmond. Somehow, sometime, after the wedding, mums and dadums bought a house in that quiet, idyllic, unsuspecting little Wisconsin town. Dad had been hired by a plastics company there. From what I understand, he was in management, and worked in accounting. I was born in 1949, and baptized at the Church of the Immaculate Conception in the town – my baptismal certificate is the only evidence I have that we really did live there. Unfortunately, anyone who could help me out with memories from the time as to what life was like for the Nelsons, have either died, or repressed their memories – which is pretty much what my sister has done. As I mentioned, what memories she does retain are all mixed up as far as the timeline of various events. Thus, to make a long, boring story short, I’ll cover that ground quickly with what I’m able to recall from the anecdotal evidence repeated to me throughout the years my parents were alive.

After I was born, my dad was soon drafted into the Army to serve in the Korean conflict – which began in 1950. In his tour of duty, he never saw combat, although he had been a medic stationed in Japan. I know my parents corresponded, but the letters have since been lost. Dad returned home and was reinstated to his position with the plastics firm. As mentioned, Beth recalls our parents fighting a lot, and by that time, dad had already escalated to physical abuse, behavior I thought relatively uncommon for newlyweds. Why he would get so angry that he physically abused my mother, I am unsure, but I have my theories.

From the moment of my birth, my Catholic, wanted-to-be-a-nun, guilt-ridden, neurotic mother decided I was a bastard in the eyes of the Church, since I was born “out of sacramental wedlock”. Naturally, that idea never sat too well with my dad, a born and raised Lutheran, who was sure to knock mom around every time she brought the subject up. (Which she seemed hell bent on repeating throughout my childhood, especially when she got angry with me or my dad.) As I said, I have no recollection of any violence at that time, except for the time my mom was lying at the bottom of the steps – in her silk robe. Turns out, that robe was a souvenir my dad brought back for her from Japan.

I suppose I ought to have mentioned that my mom and dad were party people, sort of Nick and Nora Charles types. Amongst their circle of friends were cocktail lounge lizards, a couple of close relatives who liked the night life, along with a few other shady characters. My dad was an excellent dancer; my mom was not, although what she lacked in dance floor grace, she made up for with her seductive charms. Dad danced with other women, mom flirted with other men. (No offense to be-spectacled women, but in the ‘40’s and ‘50’s, I had the impression women who wore glasses were considered unattractive, therefore, as a child, I couldn’t imagine what men saw in her?) That said, I’m fairly certain Kenny and Betty’s social life became the main source of their problems, not simply because of mutual jealousy and insecurity, but because finances were strained as well. In a small town, although they didn’t have the night clubs they enjoyed in the city, Betty and Kenny were regulars at the local taverns, and adjusted quite well to the “common life”. In fact, I think they must have had starring roles as the down-to-earth, sophisticated city slickers who moved to the country to settle down.

As their social life gained momentum, so did the drinking, and as I hinted, the money was apparently running low. Soon my dad started appropriating funds from the company he worked for – to supplement their lifestyle and probably meet house payments. It wasn’t long before he got caught – it was a small town – everyone knew each other, and the Nelson’s were living the high life. I have no idea how he got caught, all I know is, he lost his job and went to jail. Neither do I know what happened at his trial, much less who his lawyer would have been. My dad was a charmer and must have presented very sincere, so it is not surprising the judge let him off with a suspended sentence. Of course we lost the house and moved back to St. Paul, Minnesota… and no one - except my mother, would ever again dare to bring the matter up.

Earlier I mentioned the verse from Psalm 50, "O see, in guilt I was born, a sinner was I conceived." I hope you are beginning to see how that verse fits in with the story of my life. Although, as my story unfolds, I’ll explain how guilt had been perverted to become synonymous with shame. Guilt is about something we did, shame is about who and what we are. Yeah, guilt can be expiated… shame is far more destructive and debilitating.

End of Chapter One.

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Note: This is a very rough draft, so expect some editorial changes. Photo: Nick and Nora Charles.

Georgette - it is your feast day!

Or maybe not.

In Auvergne in France, St. Georgia, virgin. - Roman Martyrology, February 15.

Happy feast day anyway!

(I was unable to find any images of her. Otherwise she was a virgin anchorite who lived around the year 500.)

What I think of Valentine's Day...

Not much.

I thought I should mention him though - since he is a saint - although there are several Valentines, three commemorated in the old martyrology on February 14. I know the Roman Church celebrates Cyril and Methodius on this date, therefore I assume St. Valentine is no longer celebrated universally. The 'holiday' in the U.S. is little more than a spectacle of sentimental camp and romance.

I chose this picture of St. Valentine as patron of epileptics. He is depicted healing an epileptic young man.

Life doesn't have to be ugly. See, look at the birds out there. Listen to their call.

"Tooweet! Tooweet!"

I woke up this morning and I thought to myself, "People are jerks!" They discriminate against one another, lie, cheat, steal, rape, and murder.

The other day, a local woman reported that her girlfriend abducted the little four year old boy she had been caring for. Her girlfriend had taken him from her home and just disappeared. Just like that!

Huge uproar. Everyone in the Twin Cities was looking for the little boy named Demond Reed. Turns out the woman beat him to death, while two of her own little kids held him by the arms. She then stuffed his dead, unrecognizable body in a garbage bag. Afterwards, she called the police to say her girlfriend had abducted him. "Tooweet! Tooweet!"

God bless the poor little boy.

He is much better off dead. Much better off.

(Photo: Demond and his murderer, Carla Poole. Kare-11)

It's Poetry Tuesday Now...

Those darn flashbacks!

I'm so confused with this autobiography b*** s*** - I can't remember what day it is. Anyway - here is a beautiful piece of lyric poetry from a moment in time in my life...

Grace

.

When the truth is found to be lies

and all the joy within you dies

.

When the garden flowers baby are dead

and your mind, your mind is full of red

.

Your eyes, I say your eyes may look like his

yeah - but in your head baby I'm afraid you don't know where it is

.

Tears are running, ahhh, running down your breast

and your friends baby they treat you like a guest.

.

Don't you want somebody to love

don't you need somebody to love

wouldn't you love somebody to love

you better find somebody to love!

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

While "researching" this literary gem, I happened across some very interesting sites dealing with the psychedelic-trance-rave-anarchist culture. I once viewed a documentary about dance-trance-rave, featuring Buddhist monks who felt the movement would be beneficial in unifying humanity in a new world order of peace and love. Does anyone know more about this than I do? Paul Priest maybe?

[Lyrics: Grace Slick, Jefferson Airplane]

The Grammy's

REHAB - Amy Winehouse won big!

Even though the song cracks me up - and she does too - I really like it a lot. I'm guessing she will probably die young if rehab doesn't work. God help her.

Chapter One - for real!

Chapter One - Part One

I expect it all starts with the parents, doesn't it. I mean, they are the ones who fell in love and got married, and I was born - they started it. "O see, in guilt I was born, a sinner was I conceived." (Ps 50) I've noticed at Mass, whenever Psalm 50 is used as the responsorial psalm, this particular verse is often skipped over. Despite the fact the verse refers to original sin, I sometimes imagine its deletion may be more of a politically correct over-compensation. Considering the contemporary situation of so many children born out of wedlock, or in irregular circumstances, such as in a petri dish, the liturgists may leave it out so as not to offend anyone. However, that would never have been a concern in my family.

My mother Betty had been married to Bob before she met my dad. My uncle Tom once explained to me how my mom had been pushed into an arranged marriage by my grandmother. Therefore, even though she had two children by him, my brother Skip and my sister Beth, uncle Tom claimed mom could have had her first marriage annulled - although she ended up with a divorce. I know my grandmother liked Bob - aren't those typical 1930's names - Bob and Betty? I'm also fairly certain my grandmother thought Bob would be a successful businessman. Always the status conscious snob, my grandmother very well may have insisted my mother marry him. That entire story is so sketchy however, and since most of my relatives lie, I'll probably never know for sure what happened. Why are these details important? Because of the "O see, in guilt I was born, a sinner was I conceived" reference. The reader will find out it was the source of all the insanity.

Weighing all the stories as to what happened with the first marriage, I can't imagine my domineering mother consenting to an arranged marriage in the first place. My grandmother - Nana -as we called her, Ethel to her husband Frank - is that name funny or what? Which reminds me of a fight my brother Skip and I once got into. Somehow Nana's name came up - Ethel - and I cracked up. I said she was Ethel the ape from the Laurel and Hardy film Swiss Miss. Skip thought I was being disrespectful and started yelling at me, then crying, as if I killed Nana or something. Anyway - I felt pretty ashamed, especially since I had also been accused of not loving my mother for disagreeing with Skip who had insisted mom was more beautiful than the Blessed Virgin. Even then I thought he was a tad too obsequious in his relationship with parents and relatives. But I digress.

Getting back to the subject at hand, I'm pretty sure Ethel would have preferred that Betty remain an old maid at home, working, and continuing to supplement the household income, rather than marrying her off. Indeed, when my mother tried her vocation at convent school, Nana had her drop out, called her home, and sent her out to get a job to help both of my uncles through seminary. Which leads me to believe my mother either 'had' to get married, or rushed into the marriage to get away from her mother. Their mother-daughter combination was an epic love-hate relationship if there ever was one. My mother described her life with my grandmother as difficult and abusive when she was sober, when she had been drinking the language was much more colorful.

For whatever reason, my mother left her first husband, often repeating stories of poverty and abuse as the motive, and I have no reason to doubt it. In those days, especially amongst German Irish Catholics, divorce was absolutely the last resort - in fact, it would be better to die than get a divorce. However, Betty Mae did it. She met my dad Ken while waiting for the divorce to be finalized. My dad had first dated my mom's sister, Mary, as well as Ethel - they're mom. My grandfather Frank knew about Mary, but not about his wife Ethel. I think he knew, he was simply a meek man and wouldn't have said anything. That's a whole story in itself; think of Ethel as Kathleen Turner in Serial Mom, and you might understand the relationships in that family. I'm not kidding. My mother knew about everything that had gone on, but fell in love with my dad anyway. My dad was a charming fellow.

Mums and dadums were married by a court clerk and I was born soon after. I don't remember the birth of course, yet strangely enough, I have vivid memories from my infancy. The most unbelievable memory marks a time when my family lived in New Richmond, Wisconsin. We moved there before I was born, and due to complications in mom's pregnancy, I was born in St. Paul. Hence the trips back and forth across the Minnesota border to Miller hospital in St. Paul, for follow up procedures. At birth, my dad was asked by the doctor which one of us he should save if things went wrong. Dad told him to save the mother.

As for my uncanny memories from the time, the way mom told it, I would have been about 6 months old, and therefore unlikely to remember anything from that period. Nevertheless, I distinctly remember being carried by my mother down the steps of a train in winter. (Of course I wouldn't have known what a train was until later.) I clearly remember feeling the cold air and snow flakes blowing across my face. Although it was night time, I recall seeing lights and the white of the snow. I felt my mother shivering from cold and covering my face with a blanket. I also sensed what I later came to understand as fear or insecurity. Although my mother always insisted living in New Richmond was the happiest period of her life.

That said, my second memory around the same period is of her lying at the bottom of the stairs in a navy blue satin robe with rose piping. My dad had pushed her. (Perhaps to be continued.)

.

[Photo at top: My Grandparents on a return trip home to visit us. Nana and Bumpa had moved to San Francisco, he had a printing business, she worked in fashion at I. Magnin. Yes I know - the photo is Ma and Pa Kettle - but they kind of looked like this to me. Although, Nana would have been wearing rhinestone-studded cat glasses with a jeweled neck chain. The above photo of Peggy Guggenheim is to illustrate the eyewear fashion of the time for another blogger. Nothing is made up in the above narrative.]

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NOTE: This is my attempt at writing a story of my life. I think it will be too difficult to construct a text - and I don't know if I want to expend the energy. What do you think? And be honest.

The Story of My Life.

Foreword

This is no joke, I've always wanted to write my autobiography, even from a very young age. Since it is Lent, and I have to be charitable, I decided I'll write about myself directly, rather than in veiled references to other people's lives and actions. At the moment I can't remember where I read it but a philosopher or psychologist said every man should write the story of his life, which made me realize one doesn't have to be famous to bore people with the details of one's life - in this case, the documentation of what made me like this.

Of course this isn't going to be great literature by any means, far from it, more like notes from a psychiatrist's couch than anything. I have no idea why I've wanted to write something autobiographical - but it seems I have had the same ambition since childhood. Omigosh! It was the Diary of Anne Frank that did it! No wonder I had gender identity issues when I was little! Or maybe it was the Little Flower's Story of a Soul? I never read a guy's story of his life until I met Holden Caulfield in Catcher In the Rye - which may explain some other stuff about me - but we will get to that latter.

I attempted to write about my life several times in really funny "novels" - nothing printable at all, mind you - and they were only funny because they were so badly written, pretentious, completely dumb. The first one was titled, The Cardinal In the Bushes - a direct rip off from Salinger. My mother found it and freaked out completely. I burned everything. The second novel, I Am My Own Experiment (LOL!), was burned immediately before entering the monastery. I just burned the last one a few years ago, just in case I died and my family found it. I can't tell you the title - it is too insane - and to think I read it to my writing class. I'm pathetic - but I make myself laugh - and hopefully you will too.

So anyway - there is no escaping it - I've decided to write my life story on the blog, and hopefully it will be made into a movie - starring Aaron Eckhart naturally. Okay! That was funny! More seriously, this may answer the one question many people have asked me over the years, "Wha' da' hell wrong wit' you?"

(Now remember, if I really decide to follow through with this and actually post, it will simply be 1st draft stuff. I have never written beyond 1st draft stage.)

Fasting...

“Your fast ends in quarreling and fighting, striking with wicked claw.” - Isaiah 58

Be careful not to take on too much this Lent.

Thoughts on the Rule of St. Benedict...

St. Benedict is quite clear that outward conformity doesn't count.

When Benedict talks about handling (the monastery tools) with care, about reverence and respect for material things, he does it in a way that is immediate and specific, and therefore difficult to evade. The Abbot hands out the work tools to the brothers, and he keeps a list, recognizing that these items are on loan and that everything matters. At the end of time, whether it is when the harvest is finished, or at the end of one's life, or the day of judgment, they are to be collected back again and "recollegenda." The Latin word carries a sense that when work is done and the harvesting is complete, the tools are to be gathered in again. They are only on loan, and they've got to be returned. Since the Abbot is the exemplar of Christ for the brothers, I see that Christ has lent me all the good things in my life. This includes the earth, everything.

Benedict tells us to enjoy these things-- and return them. We don't possess. He is telling us about attitude, about the attitude of detachment-- or better non-attachment. This is about the interior disposition of the heart. Benedict is quite clear that outward conformity doesn't count. There must be unity-- this theme is a keynote-- between the exterior and the interior.

St. Benedict gives us a specific example from a particular time and place-- behavior in choir. When singing the psalms, the heart, voice and mind must be in harmony. At times I've lived guided by others expectations. Put on the mask; pretend that something is there and in place when it was not. Benedict blows this sky high when he says that our handling of things can come out right only if the starting point is the right attitude. In my case, this has applied particularly to my sons as they've grown up. I have had to realize they are on loan. I mustn't seek to control; I mustn't possess; I mustn't try to organize their lives, telling myself that it's for their own good and that I know better than they do. No, I have to let them go free. I have to handle them with care, respect and with all courtesy of love. - Esther de Waal

I need an attitude adjustment.

Did you love your dad?

God as Father.

"The holy Fathers consider even heroic deeds as acts of a hireling. They claim that the fear of suffering is the way of a slave, and that the desire for reward is the way of a hireling. But God wants us to come to him on the path of a son; motivated by love and zeal for his glory, we should conduct ourselves with honor and enjoy his saving presence in our hearts and souls." - The Way of A Pilgrim

I lived a great part of my life trying to please my dad. In nearly everything I did, I consciously or unconsciously sought his approval and favor. But most of all, I wanted to please him to avoid his wrath - his punishment when I displeased him. That was what I called "loving my dad". I never realized how much I tried to gain his approval until after he died. After he died, I understood my love had been subservient. That was a crisis for me.

Loving God cannot be the same way. I hope to love him for himself, because he is lovable in himself. Obviously I am not there yet.

On the observance of lent...

"When you fast, do not look gloomy like the hypocrites. They neglect their appearance, so that they may appear to others to be fasting." - Matthew 6

Offline for Ash Wednesday.

"Are those pussy willows?"

Customs for Ash Wednesday

In places where palms can't be found for use on Palm Sunday, it is often the custom for Ash Wednesday to bring pussy willow branches inside and place them in vases of water -- in the same way that cherry branches are brought in on the Feast of St. Barbara -- so the catkins will bud and stay fresh for use in place of palms on the Sunday before Easter. Even where palms are available, this is a lovely custom that reminds us of where the Season of Lent is headed... - Fish Eaters

Lent starts tomorrow...

I don't know what to give up.

Should I give up blogging? Probably.

I like to do things for Lent, rather than give up stuff. But I will do both this year.

Oh. I can't tell you what it is though.

However, here is a list of things people may want me to give up:

Blogging about gays.

Commenting on other blogs about gays.

Blogging anything.

Commenting anywhere.

The Internet.

Night-clubbing.

.

Driving to the liquor store drunk.

More on the sexual abuse scandal...

Sex Abuse and Denial

Everyone is posting something on Philip Lawler's new book, "The Faithful Departed" which deals with the clergy sexual abuse scandal. (I posted on it here.) Gerald from Cafeteria Is Closed has a very good post on the subject as well. Gerald pretty much focuses upon the denial involved - which some people seem content to perpetuate.

And so I told her...

And so I told Cathy - "Yes, one may either wear a hat, a scarf, or a chapel veil to the TLM." She opted for a hat, after I convinced her it didn't make her look masculine at all. (Was that mean?)

Police state...

Nanny state.

Virginia Beach - where is that? Is that 700 Club country? Anyway - the cops raided Abercrombie & Fitch and confiscated "obscene" advertising stills, charging the manager of the store with displaying obscene images. LOL! I KNOW! - all the religious bloggers will agree with that one; even though plumbers have been displaying the same butt-shots for decades, and don't forget Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Editions of whose got the nipple. Blogging moms hate A&F. (I am listening to A&F's playlist as I write this. Really fun music.)

Okay fatty!

I read where Mississippi wants to pass a law prohibiting restaurants from serving food to obese customers - hungry or not. LOL! I think the rules for mildly obese people will be that they are not allowed to order dessert.

Arm the kids!

West Virginia considers giving gun lessons in public schools for children. I know a pastor in St. Louis Park, MN who might agree with that proposal. It does make sense for more efficiency in school shootings, a well trained shooter would have a better chance of getting the people he wants.

Remember - carnival only lasts until midnight Tuesday - then we have to be good. And lighten up, remember the proverb - "There is no problem we can fix."