Young Love and Our Lady of Guadalupe

This post originally appeared as an essay in The Philadelphia Inquirer, December 2015.

By Julie Owsik Ackerman

Antonio had told me for weeks not to miss the celebration for Our Lady of Guadalupe, but then he had broken up with me. What to do? In my own Catholic upbringing, we have May Processions to celebrate Mary in the spring. They involve little children, a ceremony, a Mass, some punch and cookies afterwards maybe. But during my junior year of college in Cuernavaca, Mexico, my friends had insisted that the celebration for La Virgen could not be missed, broken heart or no.

 

So, on Dec. 11, I go with my Mexican friends, who were also Antonio’s cousins, to the festivities, having no idea what to expect. A party night for Mary? It is chilly for Cuernavaca, around 55 degrees, and we huddle outside the Guadalupe shrine closest to my friend Norma’s house. The neighborhood women pass out warm tropical drinks that tasted like guava. I wait, stomach clenched, and find myself praying to Mary for help. Help me to stop loving him. Help me to stop hurting him, and myself, and my boyfriend from home. I wouldn’t have prayed to the Mary of my youth about these troubles, but La Virgen, I think she might understand.

Our Lady of Guadalupe, La Virgen or Virgencita to Mexicans, is the apparition of Mary when she appeared to an Aztec man named Juan Diego in 1531, 11 years after the arrival of the Spanish in Mexico. She returned to this humble man four times, asking him to go to the bishop and build a temple in her honor on the spot where she appeared. She explained, “All those who sincerely ask my help in their work and in their sorrows will know my Mother’s Heart in this place.”

Asking an Aztec man in 1531 to go tell the bishop to build a shrine is kind of like asking an undocumented immigrant to get a private audience with the governor for a pet project. But Juan Diego did as the lady asked him. He went to see the bishop, who asked for a sign that he was telling the truth. So the lady told Juan Diego to gather up the roses that were blooming, on a hillside where there had never been flowers, put them in his cape, and not to show anyone but the bishop. Again, Juan Diego followed instructions, and when he went to the bishop and opened up his cape, the roses tumbled out revealing the image of the lady. That image of her still exists, on the same cape, hanging in the cathedral built on that hillside.

Mary appeared to Juan Diego as a dark-skinned, dark-haired woman, speaking his native language, Nahuatl. She doesn’t look otherworldly, angelic, but like a real woman, and she sounds like the kind of mom everybody wants.

We wait at the shrine, drinking our punch. I wish mine were spiked with tequila, but no such luck. Norma knows that Antonio and I have broken up, and though she has no official position, I know she thinks what everyone seems to think — I should live in the now, enjoy myself. I hear drums in the distance, then a sound like a parade approaching. The dancers appear.

They are all young men, dressed as viejitos, old men and women, their costumes including demonic-looking masks, raggedy clothes, canes. They do a simple, traditional dance that came from the village in Guerrero from which their families originated. Percussion fills the air, but the loudest sound I hear is my heart, as I watch only my love. It’s obvious who he is, costumed or not. He and my host brother are the tallest pair by far, and he the most graceful dancer. The rhythm, the dancing, the night — it’s enough for me to forget all the reasons we shouldn’t be together.

“You’re staring,” Norma says, nudging me.

I pull my eyes away, look at her. “I’m watching the dancers.”

“You’re watching one dancer.”

I sigh, don’t bother denying it. Help me, Virgencita.

“It is well, littlest and dearest of my daughters. Am I not here who is your Mother?”

After dancing for a while, the viejitos remove their masks, greeting friends in the crowd. I want to run, I want to hide, but what is the point? We share all the same friends. I might as well get used to this.

“Are you not under my shadow and protection?”

Antonio approaches, extends his hand in the customary greeting, kisses my cheek. I think I might crack in half from the pain. I see the same hurt on his face, which is no consolation. Why did we break up again?

“I’m glad you came.” He says it so quietly, with such sincerity. It is an arrow in my heart. I can’t look at him, only nod.

“Hey, cabrón!” one of his buddies shows up with a flask of tequila — thank God — and offers it to us, pouring it into small paper cups. The women pass out tamales and more punch, but after a precious few minutes it is time for the dancers to process on to the next shrine.

He turns to look at me. “Will you come with us?” he asks.

“How long will you dance?”

“All night.”

And then I see it — why we have broken up. Because as much as I love being here for this moment, this is only a moment to me. I am dropping in, passing through, and he is upholding a tradition passed from one generation to the next.

“Yes, I’ll be here,” I say. For now. I don’t have to add this part. He knows it. He kisses my cheek, lingering for only a moment longer than he should. I inhale his scent, like spring rain, reach up a hand to touch his face, but stop short.

He returns to the dancers, I return to Norma, hollow as the drums that surround us.

“Here I will see their tears; I will console them and they will be at peace.”

I am not yet at peace, but following the dancers that night processing from shrine to shrine, I begin to believe in La Virgen. I lose a boyfriend, but I gain a Mother.

Julie Owsik Ackerman is finishing a novel based on her experiences studying in Mexico. <julieack@gmail.com>

Hey Mexican National Futbol Team, Here's What to do in Philly

First of all, let me say, Bienvenido. Nuestra cuidad es su cuidad. Having spent a lot of time traveling in Mexico, enjoying the beauty and culture of your country, I wanted to offer some tips on how to spend the time you have in our corner of the world.

1.       Get a cheesesteak. It’s our thing, what we’re famous for here in Philly. So unless you’re vegetarian, then yes, get the requisite cheesesteak. Dalessandro’s is the best cheesesteak in Philly, but, it’s a bit out of the way, in Roxborough (600 Wendover St, Philadelphia). You can’t go wrong with Jim’s (400 South Street), Tony Luke’s (various locations) and most people like Pat’s (1237 E. Passyunk Ave.) I’d avoid Geno’s, since they have an obnoxious order--in-English-only policy.

  

2.       If you’re looking for a taste of home, go to the Italian Market in South Philadelphia – now full of Mexican restaurants and markets. The Taqueria Veracruzana (908 Washington Ave.) is my favorite, but feel free to shop around.

3.       After filling your belly, be sure to wander down South Street. Night or day, something interesting is always happening on South Street. It’s a great place for people-watching, for shopping, for wandering.

4.       From South Street, head into Old City. Here is where you’ll find Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell. You can learn about the early history of the United States, including fun facts about the hot and sweaty summer when the Constitution was debated.

5.       Round out your visit with a stroll down the Ben Franklin Parkway, modeled on the Champs Elysees in Paris. Walk the wide boulevard, enjoying the fountains, flowers and sculptures. Duck into the Barnes Museum to see an amazing collection of modern art, the Rodin Museum if you enjoy sculpture, or head to the mother museum, the Philadelphia Museum of Art, where you can see a bit of everything, including two works by Diego Rivera.  

6.       Finally, no trip to Philly is complete without running up the steps of the Art Museum, like Rocky, and jumping up and down at the top. It’s fun, it’s silly, it’s mandatory. Just do it. Then take your picture with the Rocky statue at the base of the steps.

There are many more things you could enjoy here in the summertime: a Phillies game, a trip to the Jersey shore, an afternoon at a winery, an outdoor concert at the Mann Center, dinner at one of our many world-class restaurants. Do it all, and come back again. 

Our Heritage Connects us to Family

In lieu of writing any new material, I thought I'd share some work that's been published elsewhere over the past few months. Happy summer :)




Originally Published in The Philadelphia Inquirer March 17, 2015

By Julie Owsik Ackerman

Why do we care about St. Patrick's Day?

I'm a third-generation Irish American. My mom's grandparents immigrated from Ireland and my grandparents were born in Philadelphia. So if I'm not looking for an excuse to drink too much Guinness, why celebrate at all? Why does it even matter to me that I'm Irish?

For me, the answer is that it mattered to my grandmom, and I loved her. Dorothy Higgins Wade grew up with Irish parents, in St. Brigid's Parish, in the Irish community in East Falls. Although she moved out to the suburbs when she married, she carried a love of that community and her Irish heritage with her, passing that love down to her daughter, who passed it down to me.

In 1997, Grandmom, my parents, and I traveled to Ireland for a family reunion. More than a hundred family members gathered from the United States, Ireland, England, and Australia for the occasion. It was the first time my Irish American grandmother had ever visited the homeland, and she was thrilled. I was 21 that summer, a wee lass, and was suffering through a heartbreak in true Irish fashion - by drinking a lot, writing poetry, and crying on the shoulder of anyone who would listen.

The trip helped me in ways I couldn't have imagined. After arriving in Dublin, the first odd thing I noticed was that everyone there looked like my family. I'd never been anywhere like that before. This was comforting at a time when I was feeling so lost and rejected.

Also, the Irish really are the friendliest people you'll ever meet, a trait that Grandmom and I both shared. Over the course of the 10 days, we would leave Grandmom on a bench to rest while we explored, and every single time we would return to find her with a new friend. Every time.

It became increasingly difficult for me to be sullen and sad while surrounded by so many cheerful and friendly people.

After a day in Dublin, we made our way to Sligo for the reunion weekend, and we had a big party. One of my younger Irish cousins had just joined a boy band, which sang a few songs at the gathering. That band would turn into teen sensation Westlife a few years later.

After the party, some cousins and I went out to a club, and I met a cute Irish guy who kissed me in an alcove while rain poured outside. Walking home later, my cousin Julie and I lost our way and hitched a ride with the local police. Dancing, kissing, riding in police cars - Ireland was bringing me back to life.

After our weekend in Sligo, we went out to the family farm in County Mayo. As I stood with Grandmom in the doorway of the small home where her mother was born, my pain didn't disappear, but it shrank a bit.

I saw that, yes, my broken heart mattered, but in the scheme of a life, it wouldn't be the only thing that would matter. I couldn't articulate it yet, but I know now that a seed of hope was planted that day with Grandmom: I would love again; I would marry; I would travel one day with a beloved child and tell him about people I loved who had passed on; he would hold my hand while I cried, just as I did for Grandmom.

All of those things have come true.

So when St. Patrick's Day comes now, I don't start drinking at 9 a.m., and I don't go to parades or pull out a copy of James Joyce's Ulysses.

But I do make one of Grandmom's recipes, handwritten on index cards just for me. I do listen to some Irish music, even if it's just Blackthorn in my kitchen. I do call my mom to hear her say, "Top of the morning to you, my pretty colleen."

And I do remember how much it meant to go to Ireland, to be with my Grandmom and my family, and to see that I was a part of something bigger than myself. I was loved, maybe not by one particular man, but by Dorothy Higgins Wade and a whole clan of crazy Irish folks.

Back to School

Last weekend, after visiting Manhattan on Saturday, and staying with dear friends for the night in Pelham, we stopped by my alma mater, Fordham, for a brief visit. Usually when we go to the Bronx, I want to go to Mike's pizza, or Ann and Tony's for penne a la vodka, or Butchie's for their chicken sandwich. I love to walk through the Botanical Gardens, or visit the zoo, or walk up Fordham Road or Arthur Ave for a slice of local life. But this Sunday, in the dead of winter, after a very full day on Saturday, all I really wanted to do was walk through campus, and have brunch in the cafeteria, much as I would have twenty years ago.

I charmed the security guard with my true story of being an alum, wanting to visit and buy some Christmas gifts from the bookstore. He allowed us to park for free on campus. (Christmas miracle!) We walked through the biting wind, stopping for a picture in front of Keating Hall, and Daniel actually looked at the camera (miracle number two!) Walking into Keating, memories leapt out at me: the absolute confusion in Calculus, which I promptly dropped for an easier version; the glory of studying with Elizabeth Johnson, one of the premier feminist theologians of our time, as a freshwoman; her asking me to read one of my essays about gender aloud to the class; feeling sometimes slighted as a woman by the Jesuits; feeling enlivened by New York City - that anything was possible.

As we walked around campus I remembered writing for 'the paper,' the alternative campus newspaper, and that they asked me at the end of my freshman year, to be the editor-in-chief. I declined the honor, not wanting the responsibility, but I did keep writing. Looking back, it was good to remember that even then, I was a writer. That fact was obfuscated for awhile, but it has always been a part of who I am.

Brunch was pretty much the same, though they do have a gluten and nut-free station now. I told Carl how I had fought for vegetarian options in my day. Daniel had donuts, ice cream and frozen yogurt, which is probably how I ate when I lived there. "Is it possible to put on the freshman fifteen in one day?" asked Carl as he came back with his third plate of food.

The bookstore was closed, and though I didn't leave with any souvenirs, I did take home a clearer sense of myself, which is probably better than another Fordham t-shirt.

Adios a Cuzco

It´s with a heavy heart I say goodbye to Cuzco tonight. As with so many places I´ve been, like Paris, Mexico City, Lisbon, I´m leaving wanting more. Four days was not nearly enough.

And yet, we had a whole day to wander the streets on our own yesterday. That´s my favorite thing to do in any city I visit. We climbed cobblestone hills, we rested in plazas, we bartered for gifts. We befriended Augusta and her son Cesar Augusto, a two year old who rode around town strapped to his mommy´s back all day. It was a gorgeous, unscheduled, group-free day--utterly glorious.

Today we rode out to a llama farm, through scenic mountain towns, past Incan ruins named something that sounds just like "Sexy Woman." I loved the llamas and alpacas. I could have spent hours feeding them, petting them, admiring the babies. Then we watched traditional weaving, and saw how they make dyes from plants. And yes, then we shopped and shopped and shopped some more.

I saw the Sacred Valley, the mountains and rivers. I explored the city of Cuzco, even popped into a few churches tonight on the way to dinner. I ate like an Incan princess, and lived like Spanish royalty. This trip was so much more than I ever could have dreamed. So I will try to focus on all we did, and not the things I would also like to do. Maybe I´ll just have to set my next novel in Cuzco, so that we´ll have to return.

Hola from Peru

Dear readers, through a generous twist of fate, I find myself in Peru for a week with my dear friend Jan. Life is bueno. Muy bueno.

We spent the first twenty four hours in Lima. I was reminded of my mom´s saying, "If your standards are low enough you can have fun anywhere." Many people in our group weren´t impressed with Lima, and I´ve been better places, but for the mother of a 10 month old baby, I was honestly thrilled to sleep until 9 a.m., have a cup of coffee in a quiet hotel room, and enjoy the ocean view. Also, I got to take a nap later. That´s a damn good day.

Then today we landed in Cusco. If Lima felt like a generic city, Cusco is what I imagined Peru would be. Bright colorful textiles, old stone plazas, grand churches, baby llamas.

 

Cusco is literally breathtaking--at 12,000 feet, it is very difficult to breathe. When we landed I felt short of breath and light headed. My heart pounded. Very disconcerting. But I´d been hydrating all day, and I sat down while we waited for our luggage. When we arrived at the hotel, I immediately sat down and was served a cup of coca tea. This is what the locals drink to help with the altitude. It´s miraculous. After two cups I felt almost normal. So what if it´s made from the same plant that´s used to make cocaine? This is vacation after all.

After lunch in an ancient monestary, a bath in the sumptuous jacuzzi, and another nap, we headed to dinner. We are traveling with a super nice group of folks, eating and drinking like royalty, and not paying for any of it. A girl could really get used to this.

Maybe the best part of Cusco is our hotel. I feel like I´m living in a fairy tale. Not only does our bathroom have a jacuzzi and heated floors, it has a crystal chandelier. The hotel is a mansion from the 1600s, with these amazing antiques, paintings, chandeliers. Our room smells like cedar. The bell boy just gave us a lesson in local history and literature. I am loving every second. Just soaking it all in.

 

Tomorrow we go to Machu Picchu. My heart is already overflowing with joy and gratitude. They say that at Machu Picchu your heart opens, so stay tuned for that.

My Mexico

Cutest passport ever

Some people thought I was crazy to bring my four-month-old son with me to Mexico a few weeks ago. Of course I cleared it with the pediatrician first, and invited my mom to join us, thank God, but why would I do this? Come with me for a few moments to My Mexico, to see for yourself why I return again and again.

Upon your arrival, the bride meets you at the bus station. No matter that her wedding is in three days and she has a million things to do. She comes herself, and remains unruffled when your infant son screams for the entire thirty minute cab ride to her house. Later, as she holds your son so you can eat in peace, she says, “Pobrecito was just so tired from the journey.”

Your host mom has dinner ready when you arrive—homemade tortillas, filled with cheese, topped with freshly made salsa verde and ensalada de nopal—cactus with reputed healing properties. And of course, your favorite—sweet, delicious Mexican Coke in a glass bottle. 

In the morning, the octogenarian abuelita arrives to stay for a few days. After telling a sad story about a fight she’d had with her daughter, she says, while crying, that she is unsure about where she will live. Then your baby appears. When abuelita takes him in her arms, her whole being lights up, her smile shining out of her eyes. She is lost in the pleasure of holding this little one. Seeing her joy warms you from head to toe.

Later, as you walk the baby in the stroller, a passing bus driver honks and yells “Guera” out the window.

In the zocalo, spotting a teeny embroidered shirt you want to buy, you realize you know the woman selling it. She greets you with great warmth, so happy to meet your baby and says, “You must be grateful for this gift from God. Not every woman is granted the privilege of being a mother.”

Asking a woman in the street for directions how to walk to the market, she tells you sternly it’s not safe to do so with the baby. When she can see that you really want to go, she relents slightly and says if you must go, you can take the bus, and tells you how to do it.

A man hops onto the bus, up the stairs and into a seat, loudly joking with the bus driver. He has no legs, so he walks on his hands. No one stares.

Driving to the wedding, the mother of the bride invites the cab driver to the reception, and means it.

At the wedding reception, everyone demands to hold the baby. They comment on how pale he is, how he looks like his father, how he’s a muñeco—a little doll. No one bats an eye when he cries, or when you nurse him. You notice in a new way how children are a part of the landscape, viewed as treasures, not as noisy bothers.

All dressed up for the wedding

Three sisters—ages 18, 15, and 13, adopt you and your son at the wedding reception, following after you, sitting with you while you nurse him, running to get whatever you need from the diaper bag. They can see you need help and they provide it. You’ve never met them before.

You catch your macho host brother wiping away tears as his baby sister says her vows. Later he grabs your hand and pulls you to the dance floor where you shout together, “No pares, sigue sigue.” Nearby, you find everyone from infants in arms to grandmothers, laughing, dancing, singing.

Waking up the morning after the wedding, you learn that not only had the post party continued until 2 a.m. the night before, but that your host mother, the mother of the bride, had made a pot of pozole as large as a keg of beer, for her birthday party, which begins at 11 a.m. and lasts well into the night.

Daniel's abuelitos

At the airport restaurant in Mexico City, you sit, sad and tired, eyes barely opened. The waitress shyly asks if she can hold your son. When you gladly hand him over, the entire staff gathers, passing the baby around, smiling, and laughing.

After returning home, you call your host mom to tell her you’d returned safely. She says, “Ya extraño el llanto de Danielito.” I already miss Daniel’s crying.

The next morning you emerge from the shower, greeted by the baby crying. You look at each other, somewhat shocked that no one has appeared to comfort him. You’re both thinking, when can we go back to Mexico?

Back to Reality

The last few weeks have been a roller coaster between finishing my writing workshop, taking an exam for work, getting ready for vacation, traveling, then coming home. Our vacation in New Orleans was heavenly. Beignets, barbeque shrimp, po’ boys—I think everyone who’s pregnant should go to New Orleans. I also took advantage of our Babymoon to take naps, wander around art galleries, poke in and out of stores, get a pedicure. I don’t believe that our life will be over when the baby comes—thank god—but I am trying to savor these last few weeks of having the time and independence to do adult things.

If New Orleans was a fantasy, re-entry was a nightmare. Forgetting how difficult transitions can be for me, I spent the better part of last week feeling very cranky, and then upset with myself for feeling that way. As if one can talk oneself out of grumpiness. Now that I’m through to the other side, I thought I’d share a few things that helped.

1) I recognized I was cranky. That may seem small, but for me, just putting a name to something is often helpful.

2) I accepted that I was cranky. This is huge for me. I’m blessed with a pretty sunny disposition, so whenever I’m feeling down, I want to make it go away immediately. This time, I gave myself permission to be in a bad mood, which didn’t make it go away, but did ease the self-flagellation.

3) I bought myself a coke. Sometimes eating or drinking something sweet will sweeten my disposition. It did help, at least temporarily.

4) I listened to music, another mood elevator.

5) On Friday and Saturday, I rested. A lot. I had many things I wanted to do, and felt like I should be doing, but I was exhausted. So I gave myself permission to rest. Even at 8 months pregnant, this is difficult for me. Especially when my to-do list is so long! (But then, it always is.) After meeting my essential commitments for the day, including my minimum daily word quota, I let myself off the hook. Often when I’m cranky I’m either tired or overwhelmed. After resting for the better part of two days, I was rewarded with superhuman energy on Sunday, reinforcing the idea that if I take care of myself, I’m better able to efficiently meet my responsibilities.

6) I reminded myself to focus on the positive. Like many simple ideas, this one is hard to practice. Coming home from vacation to reality can be hard. I kept thinking things like, “Why can’t I spend every afternoon shopping and eating beignets?” “Why do I have a schedule?” “Why must I go to work, and food shop, and do laundry?” But then I read something that reminded me that when I focus on the negative, the negative grows, and when I focus on the positive, the positive grows. So this week I made a strong effort to focus on the positive in my life. From things as small as the scent of lilacs in the air, to making a chocolate tart for my parents’ birthday meal, focusing on the positive helped me feel better, and seemed to draw more positive experiences.

With some rest and some perspective I have remembered that I love this life, here at home. I need the structure, even if I don’t always like it. I love to cook, I love walking around Narberth, I love the satisfaction I get from working, and writing, and caring for my home. It’s just the transition that’s rough. So next time I go away, I’ll try to remember, reality is good, I just need to wait out the transitionary period.

Olympia

Watching the Winter Olympics, starring cold and ice, made me long for Olympia, Greece, the stop on my cruise that followed Crete. After docking at the lovely port town of Katakolon, and driving through the scenic Kalamata countryside (covered with olive trees, just as you would imagine) we arrived at Olympia, birthplace of the Olympics.

Even before I learned that Olympia was a sacred site to the ancient Greeks, I felt the holiness in the air—something about the mountain mist, the quiet, the light. The Olympics were part of a festival that honored Zeus, and included processions, ceremonies, sacrifices and prayers as well as athletic contests. Games were held at Olympia as early as 776 B.C. and continued for more than 1,000 years. For each Olympiad a sacred truce was enacted to allow the athletes, spectators and pilgrims to travel safely to the site. The contests included footraces, discus and javelin, wrestling, boxing and equestrian events.

On our tour we saw the gymnasium, where athletes trained in the nude. “Think about that the next time you’re at the gym,” said our guide, Demetrios. Then we admired the Philippeion, (pictured above) a building Alexander the Great had built in honor of his father, and according to Demetrios, one of the most beautiful buildings in ancient Greece.

Most impressive to me was the imposing Temple of Zeus which once housed the gigantic gold and ivory statue of Zeus that was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. Though unfortunately the statue has disappeared without a trace, the size of the one pillar that remains standing (34 feet tall, 7 feet thick, weighing 9 tons!) allows you to imagine the grandeur of the original structure, worthy of the King of the Gods.


Temple of Zeus.


Temple of Zeus


After passing Hera’s altar, where the Olympic torch is lit for each modern Olympics, we paraded through the gateway to the stadium, where athletes competed as early as 2,500 years ago. The marble start and finish lines are still there, begging tourists to pose on them. Demetrios reluctantly allowed us to take photos, but only if we stood at the starting line, as the ancient Greeks would have.


Me behaving like a tourist.

As I watched the Olympics over the last two weeks, I thought of Olympia and the ideas from ancient Greece that live on: that sports can bring people together, can bring peace, at least temporarily; and that competition, which causes us to strive for greatness, pleases the gods.

Valentine's Day in Harlem

I don’t really celebrate Valentine’s Day. Maybe too many Februarys without a sweetheart scarred me; maybe I find overpriced red roses and prix fixe meals at crowded restaurants annoying. However, as a person in a ten-year relationship, I do appreciate an excuse for romance. So on February 13, Carl and I did some sweet things—saw a movie, relived memories from our early relationship, held hands. But on the 14th, we eschewed all things traditional and headed off to Harlem.

We met Carl’s brother Kenneth, who was visiting from California, at 125th Street and took the A train uptown to The Cloisters, a medieval art museum at the northern tip of Manhattan. From the subway stop we climbed up the winding paths of Fort Tryon park, the icy breeze invigorating as our hearts pounded, not in romantic thrill, but the effort of climbing up to the museum, though the quiet snow-covered park, the views of the Hudson, and arriving at a medieval monastery did have a certain charm.

Once inside my husband asked at the coat check if the museum had anything special happening for Valentine’s Day. The clerk looked even more surprised by this question than I must have, finally saying, “You being here, that’s what’s special.” As if that wasn’t sweet enough, fifteen minutes later, he tracked me down to tell me he had thought of some romantic items on view in the Treasury, including a wooden box depicting the German goddess of love spearing someone with an arrow. Standing in front of that box later, I squeezed Carl’s hand and kissed his cheek, seized by Valentine’s spirit.

We left Medieval Europe and traveled back to Harlem, searching out the outpost of Dinosaur Bar-B-Que, a Syracuse institution, where the brisket and ribs are worth the hour wait, especially when you can watch The Orange on TV. The red bows in the bartenders’ hair, little bottles of champagne on many tables and Valentinis splashing out of glasses were festive without being obnoxious, and the crowd of mostly large family parties was perfect for our own party of three.

Leaving Dinosaur, heavier and slower, though happier, we walked from 131st and 12th Ave, peeked into Grant’s Tomb, continued on to Columbia where some enterprising students had built an actual igloo on the quad. (We peeked into that too.) Onward we marched to the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, the largest gothic-style cathedral in the world, longer than two football fields and tall enough to accommodate the Statue of Liberty (without her pedestal).

The size of the building is what impressed me most, though I also loved the rosette stained-glass window and the American Poet’s Corner, which included Edna St. Vincent Millay and this quotation of hers: “Take up the song; forget the epitaph.” Maybe not romantic, but inspiring to this poet.

From there we walked through Morningside Park, up 125th Street, the commercial artery of Harlem, past The Apollo, and all the street vendors with their hearts, teddy bears, and flowers, ending up where we had started.

Exploring New York, visiting museums, cathedrals, parks, wandering down streets known and unknown, feasting on barbeque, sharing it with two people I love—that’s pretty close to my ideal day. What more could I ask for in Valentine’s Day?

Labyrinth, Minotaur, Crete oh my!

I wanted to go on this cruise as soon as my aunt and uncle mentioned it to me. Greece, Malta, Tunisia, Spain, Portugal, I thought "Yes, yes, yes, yes and yes." It wasn't until I got the itinerary that I learned we were going to Crete, and when I saw that we could tour King Minos' palace, I had to look twice. King Minos, as in the guy who built the labyrinth to house the Minotaur? Wasn't that just a myth?

For those of you who don't remember, King Minos was the guy who thought he could trick Poseidon, the sea god, by sacrificing not the bull Poseidon had sent him, which was exceptionally beautiful, but a substitute bull.

Apparently King Minos hadn't heard any other myths, because the gods always find out when you try to trick them, and they have very creative forms of revenge. In this case, Poseidon made Minos' wife fall in love with the bull, resulting in her bearing its child, a half-man, half-bull--the Minotaur.

Minos had his architect Daedalus construct a labyrinth to house the Minotaur. Wackiness ensued, including children regularly sacrificed to the Minotaur, until Theseus showed up from Athens to kill it. When Minos locked Daedalus and his son in the labyrinth as a punishment for helping Theseus, the clever architect designed wings from wax and feathers so they could escape. What child can forget the story of Icarus, who disobeyed his father, flew too close to the sun, which melted the wax on his wings and sent him plummeting to his death?

The stories swirled through my brain as we drove to Knossos, the archaeological site. The ruins themselves were, especially after the Parthenon, not very impressive--no labyrinth. But walking around the site of Europe's oldest civilization, with settlements dating from 7,000 B.C., I felt inspired as a storyteller, because long after the palaces came crashing down, the stories remained.




Above are recreated frescoes on the palace walls at Knossos.

Below, according to my tour guide, is the oldest road in Europe.



Sailing away from Crete. Pretty, huh?

The Isle of Rhodes

This is the boat. Sorry, the ship. The Vision of the Seas holds 2,000 passengers and 765 staff.



As a first-time cruiser I had two main concerns. My biggest fear was that I would arrive at a port, fall in love with it, and want to spend days, not just hours there. Having always traveled independently before, if I wanted to stay somewhere an extra day or two, I could make that happen. Although I enjoyed each of our stops, there was nowhere I felt heart-broken to leave after one day, with the notable exception of Lisbon, which I'll get to in a few posts. So worry number one was unnecessary (as so many worries are.)

My second fear was that I would feel crowded, like a sheep being herded from place to place. For this reason I resisted the "excursions" run by Royal Caribbean, thinking I would prefer to explore most places on my own without a big crowd and a bossy tour guide. Julie and I set off for Rhodes on our own, unencumbered by an annoying tour. The first thing we saw were these Medieval walls. I was instantly charmed.



This is an eight-foot tall poinsettia bush that blew our minds.



This is a pretty building and ruin. I'm sure a tour guide would have been able to tell us its significance.



Though we had a lovely day, at the end of it, I understood the wisdom of the organized tour. When I travel independently, I do research before leaving home, and have a guidebook with me to help me navigate a new place. For this trip, I hadn't done that. So Julie and I wandered around, not really knowing what we were looking at. We spent two hours looking at shards of pottery in the archeology museum before finding the amazing sculptures on the second floor. We got lost in some sketchy very-off-the-beaten-track alleys. For the rest of the trip, we signed up for tours. Sometimes a girl has to admit when she's wrong.

The Adventure Begins

Here is the first of a few posts about my recent two-week trip to the Mediterranean.

One of my favorite parts of any journey is the time after I walk out my door before I arrive at my destination. Filled with euphoria at having completed packing (my least favorite part of travel) I love that in-between time when I can anticipate the adventure ahead, read, listen to music, sleep.

On this trip, I took the train to the airport alone, wiled away a few hours there, met up with my cousin, aunt and uncle, boarded our flight, watched part of the new Harry Potter movie, read my Rick Steves Athens guidebook, slept for five hours. When I awoke, I slid open my plastic shutter and saw the run rising over Europe:



A little while later, we flew over the Alps, which may be the best thing I've ever seen from a plane window:



(Though flying out of Mexico City at night is also damn impressive.)

When our flight lands in Athens, the first thing I see is an Ikea. Our waiting driver chariots us off to our hotel where we have an early dinner and drop into bed by eight pm.

I wake up at 11 pm, and think it’s time to get up for the day. Eventually I drift off again, and fortunately when I wake up, my lack of sleep has not dampened my enthusiasm for Athens. Neither does the pouring rain, our difficulty finding a cab, or our driver taking us to the wrong place. I am under Athens’ spell.

Julie and I find a sweet café on a cobblestone street, get croissants and Cokes and huddle at a table under a large umbrella, watching Athenians pouring off the metro, wearing their Sunday Best. When the rain stops we decide to forgo the museum and go straight to the Acropolis, which graces the top of the nearby hill. We wander awhile, taking a circuitous route through the neighborhood, hitting a dead end, and doubling back before making our way up the hill, discovering ruined theaters, and spectacular city views.

At the top of the hill, I stand in awe of the Parthenon as people have for 2500 years. Even with the scaffolding, patches of new marble and crowds, it is magical.



After a lunch of Greek salad and chicken souvlaki, we walk toward the Olympic Stadium, which has held sporting events for 2,500 years and is built entirely of white marble. The Athens Classic Marathon was that day, run along the route taken by the messenger who ran from the town of Marathon to Athens to announce the Greek victory over the Persians at the Battle of Marathon in 490 B.C. (the origin of modern marathons.) Julie and I arrive just in time to see this guy finishing the race, having run in a Spartan costume complete with helmet, sword and shield.



Our perfect Athenian day ends with wandering through the city center, over to the ancient agora, or marketplace, and dinner of mezzes--like tapas, but Greek food. The next day we boarded our ship, and I left Athens reluctantly, wishing I'd had just one or two more days to explore.

The Open Road

My unwitting but effective strategy for warding off end of summer blues has been to spend as much time as possible in the car these last weeks. This included five hours to get to Syracuse on Wednesday, another five to Brooklyn on Saturday, two hours to get from Bay Ridge to the East Village and back on Sunday, three hours to get to Queens and back to Brooklyn yesterday, then another two to get home from there.

When at 11 pm last night we pulled up to our sweet little twin house, on our quiet street in our small town, my newly-planted hydrangea in the yard, tomatoes ripening on the vine, our own bed waiting for us inside, I had never felt happier to be home. Then I remembered that we’re off to Boston on Friday for the weekend—another ten hours of driving ahead of us.

At least Carl and I fixed the car radio, which had been cutting out unpredictably, because though this may surprise you who know us, we do eventually run out of things to say to each other. After an entire summer together and approximately 300 hours in the car, we can still kill a few hours with conversation, but even we have our limits.

So maybe the trick to being happy at home is to occasionally leave it for long enough that I miss it. We have been mostly at the shore for July and August, because we are very very lucky, and though I don’t think I’ll ever get my fill of the shore or surfing, I do start to miss my friends and family after awhile. (Especially on days when I can’t surf.)

The joys of the road included visiting Carl’s family in Syracuse and upholding our annual tradition of attending the Great New York State Fair, where we ate Gianelli sausage, drank chocolate milk, sampled the mysterious Pizze Frite, and watched our niece Alyssa jump and somersault in one of those crazy harness contraptions. Then it was off to New York City to visit Dan, admire Baby Courtney, and attend the U.S. Open, where this lifelong tennis fan was inspired by the unknown players battling for a shot at their dream and at the best players of my generation displaying grace, greatness, complete dominance. Sharing the experience with my husband, parents and little brother made it all the sweeter.

After Boston, I will settle back into our fall routine. For today, I’m grateful for a good night’s sleep, for reconnecting with some faces I hadn’t seen all summer, for walking Nalu on our regular morning route, and for the prospect of cooking in my own kitchen—the joys of home.

Another Little Rincon of My Heart

Carl and I crossed a milestone last week—our first surfari. I hope it’s the first of many, especially after hearing Carl say over and over, “This is the best vacation ever!” We went to Rincon, a small town on the west coast of Puerto Rico, a place that draws world class surfers with waves that can get fifteen to twenty feet high. Think about that. That means you’re standing on a surf board, riding a wave that is more than two or three times as tall as you are. Big.

Now, Carl and I are beginner surfers, and I’m not stupid, so before I booked our trip I made sure there were surf breaks with sandy bottoms and small waves. But as soon as we arrived we drove to the big wave breaks, Escaleras and Marias, neither of which looked terribly scary, though bigger than anything we see in New Jersey. We ate at a spot overlooking the ocean, watched some surfers in the water as the sun set, and I felt equal parts terrified of getting in the water and impatient to do so.

After a failed attempt to go out on our own, we secured the services of Melissa, a surf instructor. She met us at Marias, pulling up in a big black pickup truck with eight surfboards stacked in the back. She personified surfer chic, wearing a cool mismatched bikini and a crocheted black dress coverup with long blond hair, toasty tan skin, and yes, sea blue eyes. She took some time to watch the waves, looking dissatisfied. We peppered her with questions, which she patiently answered with her eyes mostly on the ocean.

“Normally, Maria’s is better for lessons because the rides are longer, and it’s not as crowded as Domes, but today...”

She placed a call, found out that Domes looked better and so we found ourselves at Domes, paddling out with her. Melissa watched the waves and when she saw a good one, she told us to get ready, when to start paddling, then pushed us into the right spot on the wave, shouting “You got it!” once it was time to stand up. The first few waves I stood up, but not for long. She was positive and encouraging, spotting mistakes and helping me to correct them. “You did great on that one,” she said as I got back outside after my first wave. “Next time, make sure you’re looking up. You always want to look in the direction you’re going.”

I wasn’t always able to follow her advice immediately, but I learned to feel what I was doing wrong, and little by little I put a few of her nuggets into practice. By the end of our hour lesson with her, I had the longest ride I’d ever had.

Stoked, we set up a lesson with her for early the next morning, meeting her back at Domes with more confidence and excitement than I’d had for surfing in a long time, maybe ever. We paddled out more quickly, and got into waves right away. I learned how to drop into a wave without my board nosediving, I caught some waves, stood up, had another few great rides, garnered some applause and “Go get it, girl” type encouragement from local surfers, all of which was great.

And then that afternoon I had the moment that made the whole trip worthwhile, the highlight of my surfing career, when all by myself I spotted a wave, turned around, paddled for it, caught it, dropped it, and rode it.

Flush with victory, I paddled for wave after wave, but found it hard to position myself correctly or get my timing right. My frustration and exhaustion grew. I saw Carl paddle out a distance away and watched him make a new friend and have some great rides. After resenting him from afar, I swallowed some pride, some more sea water and paddled over to where he was. His new friend was a sweet 22 year old, handsome like a Disney prince, who said, “Hey Julie, I’m Eric, why don’t you hang out with us?” Though we had some laughs, I didn’t catch any more waves that day, but I held on to my earlier breakthrough.

The next morning I woke up feeling lousy, but the town was buzzing about a swell arriving that day, and we had arranged to meet Melissa that morning, so I bikinied up, gave myself a pep talk and headed to the beach.

For Rincon, the surf was so-so; for me it was huge. The waves were 6-8 feet, so if you’re on your board, the wave is over your head. Just standing on shore I was scared. My discomfort increased when I found out Eric was taking us out that morning instead of Melissa. Sweet as he was, I had a feeling that he was a natural, and naturals often don’t understand the limitations of mere mortals. But I pushed my reservations aside and paddled out.

My fear/adrenaline exploded as I saw a giant wave hurtling toward us. “Paddle, Julie, paddle!” Eric said, easily speeding up his arms. I moved as quickly as I could, but when I saw I wouldn’t make it over the wave, I rolled over, holding my board above me, hoping it would wash over me, but unfortunately, the wave ripped the board out of my hands and I went tumbling after, my arms curled over my head to protect it from the board and the coral reefs. When I emerged, gasping for air I saw the next wave bearing down and dove underwater, my right leg yanked by the force of the water trying to drag my board to shore. I came up, tugged the board back to me, kicked and strained my way back on top, only to be knocked off by the third wave. I waited for the fourth one to pass before trying to get back up. I was beaten down, discouraged, disoriented.

Eric came back toward me, his arms effortlessly, playfully moving his board forward. “You okay?” he asked. I nodded. “Okay, we gotta get out before the next set, come on.” I paddled my little heart out, gasping for air, arms burning. “I’ll give you a little boost” Eric called before pushing me from behind, catching up to me, then pushing again. “Come on, you can do it!” I paddled paddled paddled, arm over arm. After all that, I had to at least get past the break. At least that. After what felt like forty minutes, but probably was only ten, I finally got outside, on the verge of physical and emotional collapse, but beyond the break.

Ten seconds later Eric said, “Hey Julie, here comes a good one, you want it?” I didn’t even have the breath to answer him, let alone catch the biggest wave of my life. Carl went for it, and got destroyed. The mountains of water were rising under me and falling away into thunderous foam, my dread and fear growing with each one.

Finally I decided I’d try to catch one wave. After one, I could go back to shore, but I had made it outside, so I owed it to myself to try. I told Eric and Carl my plan, turned around and steeled myself. Eric saw one coming, I started paddling, he pushed me and I immediately knew my timing was off. The water swallowed me up, tumbled me around, and spit me out. I was done.

I paddled back in fighting back tears. As I climbed over the reef out of the water, I tucked my feelings away, determined not to cry at the beach and plopped down on a surfboard next to Melissa. “I’m trying to not be mad that I’m the one who took up surfing and Carl is better and braver than me already,” I said. Melissa nodded. “My younger brother doesn’t teach surfing, and he’s a better surfer than me,” she said.

Commiserating helped soothe my wounded ego. So did a break from the beach, and speaking Spanish, something I do very well. Maybe best of all was returning that night to watch other surfers in the big waves. I don’t know where those people came from, but they surfed as well as the people we watch in movies. They dropped into the waves, jumped up and skimmed across the top, and popped 360 aerials. Sitting on the sand with the sun setting into the water I realized that those were waves for experts, not for people who had just started last summer.

I learned a lot on the surfari. I learned it’s good to admit when you need help, because you might get some. I learned that I am still a beginner, and I can’t expect myself to keep up with experts. I learned that even great surfers miss waves, misjudge, get caught inside, wipeout. I learned that though it’s good to try, it’s also good to admit when something is too much. Finally, I learned that as hard as surfing is for me, as much as it brings up, being in the water still beats being on the beach.

Disney Hangover

I’ve had a Disney hangover since we returned from Florida last week. Part sadness, part exhaustion, part common cold, part reluctance to return to reality, part inability to process the experience. We packed so much into five days that like a liver on New Year’s Day, my soul is struggling to process the experience.

I’ll spare you the blow by blow—it would exhaust you just to read it—and rather just list some favorites. My favorite sound of the trip wasn’t Finding Nemo, When You Wish Upon a Star, or God forbid, It’s a Small World Afterall, but rather the sound of the lovely Sophia, now 21 months old, saying “Hi Julie!” with the sweetest exuberance ever heard, 400 times a day. My favorite sight? The giggling nervous excitement of the three kids waiting to hug Winnie the Pooh, Tigger, Piglet and Eeyore ties with the sweet, trusting look of 13-year-old Alyssa when she asked me to sit next to her at dinner. My favorite touch? The feel of Sophie taking both of my hands in hers once the Buzz Lightyear ride started. My favorite taste? The Prosecco from “Italy,” the crazy almond covered sweet pretzel from “Norway” and a surprisingly good grilled veggie sandwich on olive bread with sun-dried tomato paste from a fast food stand at Hollywood Studios. My favorite smell? The roses that bloom everywhere in Epcot, even in January. Yes, I stopped to smell them.

Add to the above the shared stories, meals, walks, bus rides; the shared adrenaline rush of Everest, Rock n Roller Coaster, Tower of Terror; talking and laughing with Andy and Nat at the beach; chasing Sophie down the hall as she laughed her head off; trying out castanets and headdresses with Alyssa, and you’ll get a fuller, yet still incomplete picture of what made the trip so special.

So why sad? For one thing, knowing that Sophie woke up in California the morning after she’d gotten home and said, “Mommy, I go see Julie now.” If that’s not bittersweet, I don’t know what is. Coming back to a cold, gray, snowy Philly doesn’t help matters. Neither does the block I have against working on the book. And though I know I couldn’t have kept up the Disney schedule much longer, though I know I have to get back into my routine, to my structure, and yes, to work, it still feels hard to accept that my world no longer revolves around what time Illuminations starts.

I know there are Disney haters out there and I can understand that. But as an artist, I have a lot of admiration for the imagination and vision of Walt Disney and the Disney corporation. Say what you want about it, but Disney knows how to put on a show. They know how to create characters that people relate to and love. They know how to tell stories, create spectacle, and to create a world so magical that people spend thousands of dollars just to spend a little time within it. And God bless them, they know how to market.

Is their marketing to children nefarious? Are we all just hostage to the influence of their evil advertising? I don’t know, maybe that’s part of it. Maybe I should protest, resist. The younger Julie did. But now I think, if all of my in-laws love going to Disney World, and I have a great time every time we go, why fight it? Why not suspend cynicism and disbelief for a few days and just enjoy? More and more it feels like how much I enjoy myself wherever I am is up to me. So I decided to have a great time in Disney World, and I did. And yes, I came home with a pink Mickey Mouse t-shirt, which reminds me to take life a little less seriously, try to be more child-like, and believe in the magic, at least some of the time.

I Love New Yor-or-ork

My love affair with New York has been long, and like any long-term relationship, full of ups and downs. But right now, I feel like we're on our second honeymoon, The City and I. It all began when I was little, the first time my parents brought me to their company’s annual meeting in Manhattan. We stayed at the Marriott Marquis, right in Times Square. With all of New York City at our feet, nothing compared to the crazy spaceship-like all glass superspeed elevators, like something out of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. But I also remember Rockefeller Center, the Christmas tree and decorations, ice skating. I remember FAO Schwartz, ribbon candy from Fannie Mae, an exotic pizza place called Sbarro's.

The affair continued in my teen years when I set off with two friends for a day trip to New York. We took Septa to Trenton and NJ Transit into the big city. We went to the top of the Empire State Building, to Macy’s, to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island. We posed in front of the bull on Wall Street, a hand on each of the bull's butt cheeks.

And then I was ready to commit, to take the relationship to the next level--I moved it. Three years I spent living in the Bronx, exploring all five boroughs, and when college was over and I moved to California, I left feeling I had unfinished business, sure I would be back. We were on a break, but not breaking up I told myself.

But after a year on the West Coast, I had changed. I told New York it was me, not it. I settled in Philly, tried to keep up an affair with NYC, going to visit what seemed like every month for years. But like any long distance relationship, the distance took its toll. Time between visits grew larger and larger. I felt I didn't even know New York anymore.

Then this summer, I felt a taste of that old infatuation again. After a long weekend in August, attending the U.S. Open, staying in my friend's gorgeous West Village apartment (the same friend who planted his hand on the bull's butt cheek fifteen years ago) I wanted more. Suddenly New York had the old draw, the hypnotic appeal that lured me there in the first place. I just wanted to be in it.

A brief visit in November was just a tease. Only time to drive by Louis Vuitton, Tiffany's, Bergdorf's--places I've never visited, but in my new rosy view of the city added to its appeal. More, I needed more! So we returned last weekend. Visited some of my favorite places--the New York Botanical Gardens, where we saw the miniature New York, made of botanical materials for the Train Show (pictured above). We ate on Arthur Ave, at Ann and Tony's, one of my favorite Italian restaurants, and walked Fordham's campus, providing me some visceral memories of what it was like to be 18, 19, 20, 21 in New York City.

And then we ventured to an unknown part of New York, somewhere I'd always wanted to go--Coney Island.

What's happening in Coney Island on a Sunday morning in December? Not much. A handful of people walking on the beach and boardwalk. An icy wind blowing from the sea, stinging my skin through my pants. Sea shells mixed with broken glass and cigarette butts on the sand. Horseshoe crabs. Growling Rottweilers guarding amusement parks behind barbed wire. Boarded up windows. A sign that says "Shoot the Freak Paint Ball - Live Human Targets." A tree decorated with plastic bags. Customers in the original Nathan's Hot Dogs at 9:30 am.

I was surprised that it was a beach. I didn't know the Atlantic Ocean came right up to New York City like that. Do people lie on the beach there? Swim in the water? Surf? I don’t know. But I left with even greater love for New York. Because where else can you find Coney Island? What other city has so many places, so dear to me, and also an endless variety of new places to see and explore?

Me and New York. We're totally back together.

3 Cities and a Funeral

We’ve been gone for 11 days, flying first to Oakland, California, then Portland, Oregon, then back to Philly, then hopping in the car to drive to Syracuse. I’m thrilled to be a)back in our quiet house in Narberth, b)writing again, c)not having to drive or fly anywhere for the foreseeable future. Before moving forward, allow me to recap our trip.

Part 1 – Sophia

I love the Bay Area, and have logged a lot of time there over the years. Every time we visit I fantasize about moving there. About waking up every morning to the sun shining on the Bay, surrounded by calla lilies and birds of paradise. California has always been magical to me, first in my imagination, and then in reality. It was where I met my husband, and is closer to my ideal in temperament, temperature, and philosophy than the East Coast has ever been. Is it my spiritual home? The fact I would even think or write that sentence may answer that question.

But the highlight of this trip was my niece Sophia. She is 11 months old, and we have that instant chemistry that is so rare in human relationships. For whatever reason, we instantly understood each other. Love at first sight. Her little face made me smile every time I saw it. Above is a picture so you can understand what I mean. I didn’t know someone could be goofy at 11 months, but she is. What a ham. She’ll do anything for a laugh. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why we understand each other...

Part 2 – Suzy and Barry

Suzy and Barry are my dear friends from college. Suzy was my roommate, and Barry was her boyfriend, (now husband). Suzy and I also had that rare, love at first sight experience. We used to speculate if we hadn’t randomly been assigned as roommates freshmen year if we would have found each other and been friends. The answer, of course, is yes.

Suz and Bar saw me through one of the roughest times of my life. I hope everyone is so lucky to have friends who can just be there, at your ugliest, neediest, saddest, most pathetic moments, without pity or forced cheer. What an amazing gift. Thankfully, that period of darkness is long behind me, but these amazing friends are still in my life.

In a weird cosmic twist, at the same time I was leaving my law career and embarking on this writing journey, Suz and Bar were making some drastic changes of their own, leaving New York after thirteen years, changing careers, and moving to Portland, Oregon. It was great to see them in their new environment, to see the changes and to know that whatever changes life has in store, we can always reconnect, using humor as our home base. And food, of course. Who knew they had such amazing barbeque in Portland, Oregon? Suzy and Barry deny that played a role in choosing Portland, but come on, guys, I know better.

Part 3 – Gramps

My husband’s grandfather died while we were on vacation. What to say about Gramps? He was father to 12 children, grandfather to 41, great-grandfather to 26. Yes, those numbers are correct. I am honored to be one of the spouses who married into his tribe. He attended daily mass at his beloved parish church, Most Holy Rosary, and I’m told he especially loved the stained-glass windows. During the funeral mass, the sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the window with words from the Hail Mary, and I knew that Gramps was still with us.

My favorite thing about Gramps was his wit. He left behind hundreds of jokes, one-liners and stories. My favorite recent example was from just last week, lying on his deathbed, apparently unconscious. He woke up, looked at his daughter and asked if any mail had come. She asked if he was waiting for something. He said, “Yeah, I want my check from George Bush.”

God bless you, Gramps. Thank God you passed your humor on to your children and grandchildren, and apparently, the lovely Sophia. His legacy of laughter, love, and family will live on and on.