As You Like It.
One day not long after the death of my father, Diana presented me with Shakespeare's As You Like It. She did not tell me why but of this I am certain. Diana wanted me to reread and understand these words:
"All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.
At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.
And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' brow.
Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth.
And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part.
The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav'd, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound.
Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything."
—
Jaques (Act II, Scene VII, lines 139-166)
And just possibly, possibly likely, Diana hoped that I would remember that life is not always Hamlet, not always King Lear but oft a Comedy of Errors, oft As You Like It, perchance, perchance, perchance A Midsummer's Night Dream.
§§§
Diana. I always called you Diana. And Diana you are and shall always be to me.
When we met, I recognized You – Thou, my friend – instantly. We saw, I believe, each other's souls clearly that day and throughout the years of our friendship, which was not without its ups and downs – both of us well acquainted with the latter in ways literal and figurative. I subsequently told you, my dear Diana, that I knew « right then and there » who you were.
I did. I understood in 1996 without having read your autobiographical manuscript, without having read Broken Voyages. I saw immediately the brilliant girl full of sunshine and laughter; I saw the bright Southern Belle, a student leader at Chapel Hill; I saw the English and History teacher in Virginia; I saw the founder of the docent program at the Folger; I saw the socialite in Washington. I saw the mother who gave her girls her brilliance and beauty; I recognized immediately in you, dearest Diana, the mother who gave her girls delightful, delightful experiences of fancy when they were little, who read to her daughters and gave them the world of poetry and music and literature and all of the things you so loved.
Others might wonder how I saw all of this at our first meeting. You know the answer, dearest Diana, because we had occasion to speak many times of our first meeting.
But perhaps no one else knows.
Allow me, Diana dear, to tell them now. Allow me to share some of my sweetest and dearest memories of you with them. Allow me to express to your belovèd sister and daughters my abiding love for you.
I begin then with the answer that may sound a little peculiar but that is nonetheless true. I knew whose presence I was in because when Diana Arneson De Vere and I first met, Diana was beautifully dressed; an elegant woman in her Fair Isle sweater and tailored slacks. And pearls. Most of all the pearls told me her story. Most of all the pearls. (And if I had had any doubts about the accuracy of my perception, they would have all been erased when I received my first of many notes from Diana on her monogrammed stationery. Likely Crane's, I still remember thinking at the time!)
The woman I met that day at Lucia's for lunch – shortly after the « Moods, Muses & Music » benefit with Kay Redfield Jamison – was so distinguished, so lovely. A True Lady. I knew instantly that I wanted you to become my friend. And so you did, so you did. In deed. And in truth.
But first I had to do what, at that time, was one of the most difficult things I had ever faced. For you see, Diana had given me the manuscript of her autobiography that day at Lucia's and had asked me if I could help find a publisher. I read the manuscript and spent a long time searching my soul for the way to tell Diana that I did not believe the book could be published as it stood. After much reflection and – I will be honest – deflection of her calls, I summoned all of my courage.
Here is what I said, as nearly as I can remember: « Your life fascinates me. You have lived such rich and full experiences. But. I think you need an editor before looking for a publisher. »
When I say I needed all of my courage to say this to Diana, who had entrusted me with her soul in the form of her manuscript, I am not in the least exaggerating.
Thus began, with Diana's gracious nod and thanks, a sisterhood of two souls; a sisterhood, a sorority of two, that I cherish. Here, Now, Always.
A friendship best described by Montaigne:
On Friendship
As for the rest that we ordinarily call friends and friendships, they are but acquaintances and familiarities, brought together by certain events or for convenience, by means of which our souls converse with each other. In the friendship I speak of, our souls intertwine and blend together, with so universal a mixture that they wear away and can no longer find the seam that has joined them. If someone entreated me to say why I loved him, I feel that it can only be expressed by answering:
Because it was he, because it was I.
Beyond all my discourse and apart from what I can say, I know not what inexplicable and inevitable power mediates this indissoluble union. We sought one another before we had seen one another; and because of the reports we had heard of one another, I think a heavenly ordinance created a greater affection in us than would normally have been the case;
We embraced one another with our names.
And at our first meeting, which was by chance at a great feast in the town, we found ourselves so taken with one another, so well acquainted, and so bound together, that from that moment forward, nothing was so near to us as one another….
…. begun so late … there was no time to be lost. And this friendship was not to be modeled or directed by the usual pattern of friendship that requires lengthy conversation.
It is neither one particular consideration, nor two, nor three, nor four, nor a thousand:
It is I know not what quintessence of all this mélange, which, having taken hold of all of my will, induced it to plunge and lose itself in his, which likewise having taken hold of his, brought it to plunge and lose itself in mine with identical hunger and longing.
In truth, I say “lose themselves”, leaving nothing that belonged either solely to him or solely to me.
§§§
It is also quite true that while we loved each other dearly, our relationship became complex at times. Diana did not much care for what I believe she saw accurately as my immaturity in the face of some of the « Seven Ages of Man. » No, she did not care for that part of me at all. She was not one to suffer fools gladly. We never really spoke about this clearly but there were times when (I believe) she simply would not tolerate my “foolishness.” Had no use for it whatsoever or at those times for me, either. No ma'am.
There were other times when she was ill or troubled, that she had no wish for my presence, for me either. Except this wish perhaps: That I should not be present to her suffering.
I reflected upon this a long time particularly after one of her hospitalizations when a mutual friend called me on the carpet for not having recognized how ill she was becoming and for not having done something about it. This was when I learned that Diana had absolutely forbidden this friend to inform me of her hospitalization. (He did so anyway. Damn the torpedoes and full steam ahead.) The only explanation and the explanation that to this day I feel is accurate (although it may be error writ) is that Diana wanted our friendship to remain untainted by visits to psychiatric wards.
Yes. I believed that then and I believe that now.
Further complicating our friendship and love at times was the fact, and I do mean fact, that Diana was much more innately bright than I, so very, very gifted and so much more knowledgeable than I about literature and poetry and philosophy, theology and music – in short, about all of the beautiful things in the world that we both loved. In the deepest places of our souls we both knew that it was unfair – UNFAIR, GOD! (Unjust God? I often thought) – that the bright and beautiful Diana's voyages had been broken and that mine had not. Camille Claudel, whose life has inspired mine in many ways, wrote: Once I was beautiful. Then everything broke.
That, I always thought, was true of Diana's voyage. In part. But only in part. Indeed, a (more than) tragic part for all of you who loved her best and always. But you see, the « broken » part was the part I did not live through with her then and that she would not allow me to share in the thirteen years of our friendship. I believe as I suppose I must – for what then would I have to believe? – that those were the terms (of an endearment so dear?), a gospel of sorts according to Diana, on which our friendship had to be founded. « Only the sunny hours. » As you like it, my dear. As you like it.
The Diana I knew and loved was a woman whose Soul was Light and whose love and zest for Life could not be taken from her despite the unexpected and devastating turns her life had taken at times. The darkness never overcame her although she surely experienced many a dark night of the Soul.
§§§
In life and now with her passing, whenever I think of Diana, these are the words that fill my soul:
Grace. Dignity. Love abiding. Love excelling.
Her constant love for her family, her « girls » was a thing of beauty for me to behold.
Diana has always and will forever be an inspiration for me, a shining example of how to live, how to turn grief and sorrow into Acts of Grace. How to meet Grief and Sorrow with integrity, with dignity. How, despite adversity, to live life with joy. Ah, Diana. Soul friend and preceptor. These are lessons still much needed by your younger, more impetuous and impulsive friend, Christiana.
Since learning of Diana's last sojourn in the Valley of the Shadow and of her passing, my memories of her have been my constant companions. Before sharing some of these, I need to say this:
When I moved to France after my wedding in 2007, I corresponded a bit with Diana by email. Then receiving no more replies, I thought: Well, that's Diana; She's out and about, going here and there, notably Washington, Colorado and California, doing her own thing. « There will be time, there will be time » at some point once again « for the taking of a toast and tea. » Hearing nothing from Diana, she heard no more from me to my great shame now. But in my desk drawer – frequently opened – is the golden Godiva box Diana gave me in which nestles in soft tissue paper her tape recorded reading from Broken Voyages. Oh, how I have always imagined the stunningly beautiful Diana – à la Anne Sexton, seated on the edge of a table, legs crossed, face tilted up – at her own poetry readings.
I will forever regret not having had another « toast and tea» and just time to be with Diana.
§§§§
I opened my remarks at my father's memorial service with these words from Shakespeare:
« When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past.... »
Diana reminded me of my father in many ways. Her dignity matched his; her grace and bearing so like my father; her blue, blue eyes. Her « no-nonsense » approach with me. Those eyes could laugh merrily but oh! rue the day when they stare sternly into yours. Mine, that is. Yes. There were a few times – no words needed, the « Look » largely sufficed – that Diana reminded me figuratively, sometimes even literally, to « Sit up straight and behave the way you were taught to behave. »
Watching Diana process with the choir at Saint David was like watching my father process at Bradley Hills Presbyterian Church in Bethesda, Maryland. And Diana stood, in the Saint David's choir, exactly in the same place as my father had at Bradley Hills. Second row. Squarely in the center.
Yes. Both my father and Diana: Squarely, securely seated and standing in the center of
God's presence.
§§§
Let me now share some of my sweet thoughts, a few of my remembrances of Diana with you. Let my heart speak to yours of the lovely gifts that Diana bestowed upon me, of the Fragrance of Faith and Love and Hope with which my friend embraced my soul. All perfect gifts, tangible and intangible, for my soul and spirit.
The greatest of these many gifts, by and through her Love for me, was to usher me back from a certain wilderness of my own. Yes. Diana knew I needed God in a new way and that in order to find what I so desperately was seeking, I also needed a community of faith. Diana slowly but surely brought me to The Episcopal Parish of Saint David. Words, mere words, cannot convey the depth and breadth of this Gift, for by inviting me to join her at Saint David, Diana was also sharing an intimate part of herself with me – one of the most intimate parts of her soul, I believe – for which I am forever grateful. Through this great gift of herself and her faith, Diana led me out of the wilderness into a new Light. Amazing Grace.
Diana also honored me as did you, Liz, by making me a a guest at your wedding. It was an honor. And a privilege. I understood. And will never forget Diana's joy and beauty that night.
Diana shared with me, as you know, her love for all of you. That, too, was an honor for me and I loved to hear the stories of each of you – to hear and feel her love. Sister and daughters.
All of these moments shared with Diana were sacred. I truly believe this.
And then there were the tangible gifts, each conveying a special message, among them:
A beautiful white satin robe with a rose embroidered on the back;
A white nightgown embroidered with meadow flowers;
My first monogrammed bath and hand towels, that I use still here in Saint Caradec;
A delicate bejeweled box adorned with the flower of our youth, dogwood;
Book bags, a moleskin notebook.
The gift of Broken Voyages and her reading.
The « MCA » engraved keychain from Tiffany's after Diana witnessed the legal changing of my name back to Adams. Of course you know what the note enclosed in the first Tiffany box I had ever received read: « What is in a name? » Ah. Diana. We talked about our names quite a bit, didn't we?
And the lunches. And the dinners. And the poetry afternoons. And so much more.
So much more.
That which brought us together, Diana and I – our Moods, Muses & Music – gave us a deep, nearly instant understanding of each other.
I respected Diana; I cherished Diana's soul, her grace, her beauty, her keen intelligence, her wit.
My love for her and my gratitude to her and for her life shall abide always.
Over the past few months I have thought of Diana often as another friend of mine gave me Flannery O'Connor's The Habit of Being, as well as her biography. I kept wondering what Diana would have to say about it. I kept thinking about a young woman not in Georgia but in North Carolina. I wondered if Diana liked Flannery O'Connor much. I doubted it as I felt that Diana would not particularly have cared for the very dark side that O'Connor brings into the light of day. But I did think maybe Diana would have laughed at O'Connor's wittier letters, that Diana would have also understood better than I the concept of « passive diminishment. »
O'Connor likened grace to many things of course, referring to it with respect to her father's death as « a bullet in the side. » My grief at Diana's passing to the other side of the Veil has allowed me to understand what O'Connor meant. To understand now that grief is a form of Grace and that Grace in the form of grief has the power to transform and to heal us.
From my recent reading I have also learned that Flannery O'Connor prayed this « Prayer to Saint Raphaël », the Angel of Happy Meetings and of Healing, every day:
O Raphael, lead us towards those we are waiting for, those who are waiting for us! Raphael, Angel of Happy Meetings, lead us by the hand towards those we are looking for! May all our movements, all their movements, be guided by your Light and transfigured by your Joy.Angel Guide of Tobias, lay the request we now address to you at the feet of Him on whose unveiled Face you are privileged to gaze. Lonely and tired, crushed by the separations and sorrows of earth, we feel the need of calling to you and of pleading for the protection of your wings, so that we may not be as strangers in the Province of Joy, all ignorant of the concerns of our country.Remember the weak, you who are strong--you whose home lies beyond the region of thunder, in a land that is always peaceful, always serene, and bright with the resplendent glory of God.
Amen.
I believe that Diana is in that land. Always peaceful, always serene. That land of Joy, bright with the resplendent glory of God.
I shall end my remembrance of Diana with a poem that my friend, Alla Renée Bozarth, has given me to help me.
Beyond the Edge of the World
After what you think of
as your life
there is a Reality
the soul staggers into,
light-blind but glad
with relief, taking
its first full breath~~
everything new,
nothing hurting,
familiar joys made lively
again, without the glitches,
pain or regret,
and new colors everywhere,
experiences related to the senses
but without limits, precise
and unmuddled, music
unimaginably sublime,
gardens with creatures that speak
their names in the musky fragrances
they give, nothing nasty or poisonous,
no allergic reactions or toxic surprises,
friends with no hidden malice lurking under the skull.
And there is at last no need
for compasses, prisons or pens.
There be dragons here indeed,
luminous beings made of brilliant,
diaphanous colors and iridescent light,
whose work is to transport the soul
to all the ports of heaven past heaven,
easier than air. Kinder than light.
The intensely now of the wonder
replaces sequence and urgency~~
intense not because it will end or the soul fears that it will,
but because there is bottomless depth and infinite breadth instead of horizons.
To fall into it while still in the body of time would make one dizzy,
but in the body of color and music, movement is all-possible, and joy.
The then that is now and the moment that was
are forgotten in all their heaviness of duration,
their unbearable delays of redemption,
their absence of insight.
All that remains are essence and love made right,
everything that the young universe in all
its fourteen billion years of straining could not make happen.
Alla Renée Bozarth
From Purgatory Papers, copyright 2009.
§§§
Adieu, my dear Diana. A Dieu.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Pansies -- That's for thoughts....
« Pansies, that’s for thoughts… »
From _Hamlet_
When I was six, I did not know about Ophelia nor did I speak French so I could not know that the word for « pansy » in French is “pensée”, meaning also « thought », nor could I, did I know, that the pansy is a symbol of Christian remembrance.
But when my mother told me, in November in our living room in Storrs, Connecticut, that my best friend, Johnny Lougee, had died that day from childhood leukemia, I said,
“I want to give him pansies for his grave.”
Purple pansies.
Purple, the color of royalty but also the color of passion, from the Latin, “patire” –
to suffer.
Pansies then became very important in my family because of course my parents knew all of the meanings of this dear flower.
Johnny’s parents, Bob and Grace Lougee, were the best friends my parents had. They were all soul mates. As I said in the remembrance of my father, “Grace and Dad provided the Irish influence, Bob and Mom were the poets.” I call Grace and Bob “Aunt Grace and Uncle Bob” and they are as dear to me as were my own mother and father. The happiest and most carefree hours of my life – until now – were spent with them and my parents at the seashore every summer at their homes in Quonochontaug,
Rhode Island.
When my mother was dying, they came. I was not there but my father told me that when Uncle Bob, a reserved and self-contained man, a New Englander after all, descended the stairs after visiting my mother, tears were streaming down his face.
On the day of my mother’s memorial service I gave Aunt Grace a porcelain “pansy” box that I had given my mother and that was on her dresser where she could see it every day. To Uncle Bob I gave my mother’s favorite book that they discussed every summer.
War and Peace.
“The end of all meetings, parting;
The end of all striving, peace.”
Christiana Adams-Caille
June 3, 2008
11:40 am
June 28, 2009
From _Hamlet_
When I was six, I did not know about Ophelia nor did I speak French so I could not know that the word for « pansy » in French is “pensée”, meaning also « thought », nor could I, did I know, that the pansy is a symbol of Christian remembrance.
But when my mother told me, in November in our living room in Storrs, Connecticut, that my best friend, Johnny Lougee, had died that day from childhood leukemia, I said,
“I want to give him pansies for his grave.”
Purple pansies.
Purple, the color of royalty but also the color of passion, from the Latin, “patire” –
to suffer.
Pansies then became very important in my family because of course my parents knew all of the meanings of this dear flower.
Johnny’s parents, Bob and Grace Lougee, were the best friends my parents had. They were all soul mates. As I said in the remembrance of my father, “Grace and Dad provided the Irish influence, Bob and Mom were the poets.” I call Grace and Bob “Aunt Grace and Uncle Bob” and they are as dear to me as were my own mother and father. The happiest and most carefree hours of my life – until now – were spent with them and my parents at the seashore every summer at their homes in Quonochontaug,
Rhode Island.
When my mother was dying, they came. I was not there but my father told me that when Uncle Bob, a reserved and self-contained man, a New Englander after all, descended the stairs after visiting my mother, tears were streaming down his face.
On the day of my mother’s memorial service I gave Aunt Grace a porcelain “pansy” box that I had given my mother and that was on her dresser where she could see it every day. To Uncle Bob I gave my mother’s favorite book that they discussed every summer.
War and Peace.
“The end of all meetings, parting;
The end of all striving, peace.”
Christiana Adams-Caille
June 3, 2008
11:40 am
June 28, 2009
It further occurred to me last year that my father's belovèd brother, Robert -- Bob -- called his little brother "Johnny."
May perpetual Light shine upon them all and envelop all of us.
I give you, my friends and family, violets because they still bloom.
John and Mary Adams by Robert W. Lougee
John and Mary
Chris, you asked me to write an “essay on John and Mary.” Since essays, like sonnets, have a standard form, I fear, benighted as I am, that should I attempt an essay I would produce a defective work to the scorn of the literati, so let us call this merely a piece.
As an historian I cannot escape the imperative to start with a brief account of our relationship with John and Mary. I will follow with some thoughts on my perceptions of them.
As an inveterate pedestrian, I walked to work daily past your house on Hillside Circle. After observing a little girl solitarily at play and since we had a little boy often solitarily at play, it occurred to me that together they might enhance the fun of their play time.
One day I boldly knocked on your door to be greeted by your sister and then your mother. Visits were arranged and I took pleasure in seeing you two doing things that kids best do together. I particularly noted the zeal which you both displayed in placing a number of coat hangers on bushes throughout the adjacent woodlands.
The social interaction of the children was soon followed by that of the parents. The foundation of this relationship was the first of a lengthy series of “birthday dinners” designed to celebrate the birthdays of Mary and Grace. This primal event was held at the Public House in Sturbridge and proved a most enjoyable evening as did all subsequent ones. As for paying the tab for these dinners, you acute father proposed that each of us would be responsible in alternate years, thus eliminating any unseemly altercations to end the meal. He even kept a record in his ever present pocket notebook. So I was never able to welch.
In the mid-60s, your family moved to Washington (Rockville), and we acquired the humble sea-green cottage at Quonochontaug. The geographical separation did not end our friendship. Indeed, it grew in closeness and mutual affection in subsequent years. We frequently visited you and spent a number of Thanksgivings at your house. Each summer during many years, “your growing up years,” you and your folks were with us at Quonochontaug.
My memories of our times together there are many, none more vivid than the picnics on the long lonely stretch of beach west of the breachway which we reached by my little sloop. My recollection is particularly sharp of the day John and I got on the outgoing current of the breachway and capsized. Fortunately, we were rescued and the “Irish Navy,” as your father called it, survived for another day.
During these years, we scrupulously attended each others family functions. You were all present at both Lorraine and Bobby’s weddings. (At Bobby’s wedding John arrived with a bag of garbage in his car. He assured me he could not find a place to deposit it, and that he did not mean to use it at the reception.) You came also to our 50th wedding anniversary celebration, and we were present at your graduation from Mt. Holyoke. I had the honor to serve as head usher at your wedding and to propose the toast at your reception. (I proposed the toast in French, probably so badly pronounced that only the English speaking people there could understand it.)
On a sad note we visited your mother during her last days and took comfort that she managed a smile when we arrived. Several years later we visited your grievously ill father at the Washington nursing home. He bravely got out of bed to greet us but soon weakened, and my farewell to John was to help him back into his bed.
On a brighter note, I must not neglect to express the joy that was ours to observe as you matured through the years, to sense the enthusiasm you felt for the beach and the waves, and to appreciate the kindness and affection you showed us.
Now, as for my perceptions of John and Mary, I believe succinctness rather than prolixity may best convey them.
John had a directness in his approach to persons and things. Thus, Sartre-like he saw “existence before essence” and let the essence, i.e., his view, derive from the existence of the subject under discussion. His ranging interest of “how things are going,” in politics, in higher education, in contemporary culture, or in the pharmaceutical industry, and his comments on them were critical but without petulance or cynicism. His ethical judgments were not as a moralist drawing on principle, but as an appraiser assigning a value. Endless hours of conversations I had with him made these and other characteristics evident, but most of all revealed a conscientious man, not always at peace with the world, but very much a part of it.
Mary, with her immersion in literature, her keen and penetrating grasp of the people whom she encountered, her subdued sense of humor, and appreciation of irony (even mine), and with her need to unburden herself (as indeed she did with Grace in their late nocturnal sessions) was a woman delightfully pleasant and engaging, but not completely knowable. It has been said of “War and Peace” that no thought or experience or human situation is left out. That Mary could find fascination and perhaps solace in her reiterated reading of this rich and variegated work helps us to know her better, I think, than anything else.
My piece on “John and Mary” may not touch on all you wish me to write. However, I hope it does reflect the sincere and deep friendship which it was our good fortune to have with them through many years.
Robert W. Lougee
Storrs, Connecticut
November 2008
Chris, you asked me to write an “essay on John and Mary.” Since essays, like sonnets, have a standard form, I fear, benighted as I am, that should I attempt an essay I would produce a defective work to the scorn of the literati, so let us call this merely a piece.
As an historian I cannot escape the imperative to start with a brief account of our relationship with John and Mary. I will follow with some thoughts on my perceptions of them.
As an inveterate pedestrian, I walked to work daily past your house on Hillside Circle. After observing a little girl solitarily at play and since we had a little boy often solitarily at play, it occurred to me that together they might enhance the fun of their play time.
One day I boldly knocked on your door to be greeted by your sister and then your mother. Visits were arranged and I took pleasure in seeing you two doing things that kids best do together. I particularly noted the zeal which you both displayed in placing a number of coat hangers on bushes throughout the adjacent woodlands.
The social interaction of the children was soon followed by that of the parents. The foundation of this relationship was the first of a lengthy series of “birthday dinners” designed to celebrate the birthdays of Mary and Grace. This primal event was held at the Public House in Sturbridge and proved a most enjoyable evening as did all subsequent ones. As for paying the tab for these dinners, you acute father proposed that each of us would be responsible in alternate years, thus eliminating any unseemly altercations to end the meal. He even kept a record in his ever present pocket notebook. So I was never able to welch.
In the mid-60s, your family moved to Washington (Rockville), and we acquired the humble sea-green cottage at Quonochontaug. The geographical separation did not end our friendship. Indeed, it grew in closeness and mutual affection in subsequent years. We frequently visited you and spent a number of Thanksgivings at your house. Each summer during many years, “your growing up years,” you and your folks were with us at Quonochontaug.
My memories of our times together there are many, none more vivid than the picnics on the long lonely stretch of beach west of the breachway which we reached by my little sloop. My recollection is particularly sharp of the day John and I got on the outgoing current of the breachway and capsized. Fortunately, we were rescued and the “Irish Navy,” as your father called it, survived for another day.
During these years, we scrupulously attended each others family functions. You were all present at both Lorraine and Bobby’s weddings. (At Bobby’s wedding John arrived with a bag of garbage in his car. He assured me he could not find a place to deposit it, and that he did not mean to use it at the reception.) You came also to our 50th wedding anniversary celebration, and we were present at your graduation from Mt. Holyoke. I had the honor to serve as head usher at your wedding and to propose the toast at your reception. (I proposed the toast in French, probably so badly pronounced that only the English speaking people there could understand it.)
On a sad note we visited your mother during her last days and took comfort that she managed a smile when we arrived. Several years later we visited your grievously ill father at the Washington nursing home. He bravely got out of bed to greet us but soon weakened, and my farewell to John was to help him back into his bed.
On a brighter note, I must not neglect to express the joy that was ours to observe as you matured through the years, to sense the enthusiasm you felt for the beach and the waves, and to appreciate the kindness and affection you showed us.
Now, as for my perceptions of John and Mary, I believe succinctness rather than prolixity may best convey them.
John had a directness in his approach to persons and things. Thus, Sartre-like he saw “existence before essence” and let the essence, i.e., his view, derive from the existence of the subject under discussion. His ranging interest of “how things are going,” in politics, in higher education, in contemporary culture, or in the pharmaceutical industry, and his comments on them were critical but without petulance or cynicism. His ethical judgments were not as a moralist drawing on principle, but as an appraiser assigning a value. Endless hours of conversations I had with him made these and other characteristics evident, but most of all revealed a conscientious man, not always at peace with the world, but very much a part of it.
Mary, with her immersion in literature, her keen and penetrating grasp of the people whom she encountered, her subdued sense of humor, and appreciation of irony (even mine), and with her need to unburden herself (as indeed she did with Grace in their late nocturnal sessions) was a woman delightfully pleasant and engaging, but not completely knowable. It has been said of “War and Peace” that no thought or experience or human situation is left out. That Mary could find fascination and perhaps solace in her reiterated reading of this rich and variegated work helps us to know her better, I think, than anything else.
My piece on “John and Mary” may not touch on all you wish me to write. However, I hope it does reflect the sincere and deep friendship which it was our good fortune to have with them through many years.
Robert W. Lougee
Storrs, Connecticut
November 2008
In loving memory. A tribute to John G. Adams by his niece, Suzanne. August 2000
This is the first time in my life that I don’t have an Uncle John. I had an Uncle Earl [Aunt Florence’s husband], three Uncle Ed’s, but only one Uncle John, Uncle JG, or Uncle Doctor, Sir…depending upon his stature at the time. My Dad always called him Johnny.
This may seem strange to those of you who knew Uncle John later in life. But, he was the little brother whose Father died when he was 13. He started working in the drug store to contribute to the family well-being, just as his older brothers and sisters were doing to help Grandma. When he returned from the War, he bought the drug store..aka/Adams Pharmacy, in 1946…the rest is history!
What a wonderful drug store it was…with booths in the back for ice cream Sundaes, with nuts and whipped cream…and everyone in the family kept their jewels in the pill boxes! The drug store became quite important when my Father was diagnosed with cancer only months after he returned from Germany. Uncle John and Sooner [John Forbarick—my father’s best friend] let my Mother practice on them..giving shots…soon they handed her oranges and let her make her mistakes there! Uncle John was much more patient and understanding then.
I was lucky to be born at the time I was because I was the only baby in the Family and Uncle John spoiled me rotten…everything was fun..the whole Clan as well as surrogate family members congregated at Grandma’s at least once a week. I found a letter he had written to Grandma while he was on R&R in Austria in June of 1945 where he actually said to his Mother..they were having “one hell of a good time.”
Uncle John was probably Pittsburgh’s Bachelor No. 1, with his yellow Mercury convertible, his Springer Spaniel, Jaggers, his golf clubs, tennis racquets and other trappings. Luckily for him and all of us, he met Mary and he gave me my newest—best friend, Beth. I was no longer the center of attention, but that was OK. Subsequently, we got Chris, who Beth and I, as teenagers, tolerated until she became quite the lovely lady and is most loved by us both..as Beth’s real sister and my adopted sister.
Uncle John helped everyone in the family…and everyone looked to him for advice and counsel. Uncle John always tolerated things from me that he would never have from others [AND THAT IS THE TRUTH!], but Uncle John and I had a bond that lasted my entire life. We each understood that nothing was the same after March of 1947 in that special part of our hearts [and that is also the truth—my father worshipped your grandfather], and we always cut each other slack because of it. I loved Uncle John with my whole heart…he spoiled me as a child, and treated me as an equal when I reached adulthood. My eyes are blinded with tears…tears of love for a great man who was the survivor of this generation of Adams’s.
To Chris…I offer this from “Hamlet”:
“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance, pray, love, remember:
And there’s pansies…that for thoughts…there fennel for you, and Columbines. There’s a daisy; I would give you some violets, but
They withered all when my father died.
They say he made a good end.”
This may seem strange to those of you who knew Uncle John later in life. But, he was the little brother whose Father died when he was 13. He started working in the drug store to contribute to the family well-being, just as his older brothers and sisters were doing to help Grandma. When he returned from the War, he bought the drug store..aka/Adams Pharmacy, in 1946…the rest is history!
What a wonderful drug store it was…with booths in the back for ice cream Sundaes, with nuts and whipped cream…and everyone in the family kept their jewels in the pill boxes! The drug store became quite important when my Father was diagnosed with cancer only months after he returned from Germany. Uncle John and Sooner [John Forbarick—my father’s best friend] let my Mother practice on them..giving shots…soon they handed her oranges and let her make her mistakes there! Uncle John was much more patient and understanding then.
I was lucky to be born at the time I was because I was the only baby in the Family and Uncle John spoiled me rotten…everything was fun..the whole Clan as well as surrogate family members congregated at Grandma’s at least once a week. I found a letter he had written to Grandma while he was on R&R in Austria in June of 1945 where he actually said to his Mother..they were having “one hell of a good time.”
Uncle John was probably Pittsburgh’s Bachelor No. 1, with his yellow Mercury convertible, his Springer Spaniel, Jaggers, his golf clubs, tennis racquets and other trappings. Luckily for him and all of us, he met Mary and he gave me my newest—best friend, Beth. I was no longer the center of attention, but that was OK. Subsequently, we got Chris, who Beth and I, as teenagers, tolerated until she became quite the lovely lady and is most loved by us both..as Beth’s real sister and my adopted sister.
Uncle John helped everyone in the family…and everyone looked to him for advice and counsel. Uncle John always tolerated things from me that he would never have from others [AND THAT IS THE TRUTH!], but Uncle John and I had a bond that lasted my entire life. We each understood that nothing was the same after March of 1947 in that special part of our hearts [and that is also the truth—my father worshipped your grandfather], and we always cut each other slack because of it. I loved Uncle John with my whole heart…he spoiled me as a child, and treated me as an equal when I reached adulthood. My eyes are blinded with tears…tears of love for a great man who was the survivor of this generation of Adams’s.
To Chris…I offer this from “Hamlet”:
“There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance, pray, love, remember:
And there’s pansies…that for thoughts…there fennel for you, and Columbines. There’s a daisy; I would give you some violets, but
They withered all when my father died.
They say he made a good end.”
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Joshua
Saint-Caradec, France
June 24, 2009
Noon
The Feast of Saint John the Baptist
A Tribute to and a Prayer for Joshua and His Family
by Christiana Adams-Caille, a friend of the family
Note: Joshua and Nicholas wanted to make a bonfire and they found gasoline, which they used and that burned them both over 90 percent of their childs' bodies. Thanks be to God, their suffering has ended. I wrote this on the very day that Joshua passed to the other side of the Veil. Amen.
Joshua Jon. Belovèd son, grandson, nephew, friend. Belovèd child of God, whose name means “God is Salvation”and “God is Gracious”:
“The English name Joshua is a rendering of the Hebrew: יהושע, "Yehoshua," meaning means "Yahweh is Salvation," "Yahweh delivers," or "Yahweh rescues" from the Hebrew root ישע, "salvation," "to deliver/be liberated," or "to be victorious" "salvation." It often lacks a Hebrew letter vav (ו) after the shin (ש), allowing a reading of the vocalization of the name as Yehoshea
(יְהוֹשֵׁעַ) - the name is described in the Torah as having been originally Hoshea before being changed to Yehoshua by Moses (Numbers 13:16).”
Recalling also the story of another Joshua, whom Moses entrusted with the leadership of the Israelites:
“According to the Bible, Joshua was the son of Nun, of the tribe of Ephraim, which would become known as the most militaristic of the tribes of Israel, largely through Joshua's campaigns. He was born in Egypt prior to The Exodus, and was probably the same age as Caleb, with whom he is occasionally associated.
“As Moses' apprentice, Joshua was a major figure in all the events of the Exodus. He accompanied Moses part of the way when he ascended Mount Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments (Exd. 32:17). He was one of the twelve spies who were sent on by Moses to explore the land of Canaan (Num. 13:16, 17), and only he and Caleb gave an encouraging report, a reward for which would be that only these two of the spies would enter the promised land (Num 14:23-24). He was commander at their first battle after exiting Egypt, against the Amalekites in Rephidim (Ex. 17:8-16), in which they were victorious.
“Joshua was appointed by Moses to succeed him as leader of the Israelites. The first part of the book that bears Joshua's name covers the period when he commanded the conquest of Canaan. At the Jordan River, the waters parted, as they had for Moses at the Red Sea. Joshua led the destruction of Jericho, then moved on to Ai, a small neighboring city to the west. However, they were defeated and thirty-six Israelite warriors were killed, because Achan had taken the ‘accursed thing’ (some treasures from Jericho). When Achan's sin was exposed, he and his family and his animals were stoned to death and the favor of God was again restored. Joshua was then able to defeat Ai. The Israelites faced an alliance of Amorite kings from Jerusalem, Hebron, Jarmuth, Lachish, and Eglon. At Gibeon Joshua asked God to cause the Sun and Moon to stand still, so that he could finish the battle in daylight. This event is most notable because ‘there was no day like that before it or after it, that the LORD hearkened unto the voice of a man: for the LORD fought for Israel.’(KJV Josh 10:14). From there on, Joshua was able to lead the Israelites to several victories, securing much of the land of Canaan.
“In the second part of the book that bears his name (Joshua 13 onwards), Joshua describes the extent of the ‘promised land’ and divided it among the tribes of Israel. At this time, much of this land remained unconquered.
“When he was ‘old and well advanced in years’ Joshua convened the elders and chiefs of the Israelites and exhorted them to have no fellowship with the native population because it could lead them to be unfaithful to God. At a general assembly of the clans at Shechem he took leave of the people, admonishing them to be loyal to their God, who had been so mightily manifested in the midst of them. As a witness of their promise to serve God, Joshua set up a great stone under an oak by the sanctuary of God. Soon afterward he died, at the age of 110, and was buried at Timnath Serah.”
We recall also the stories of Jonathan and David, of John the Baptist and John, Christ’s beloved disciple and friend….
***
Since April 18 it seems for all of us that “there was no day like that before it or after it, that the LORD hearkened unto the voice of a man: for the LORD fought for Israel.”
On this day, the carefree little boy, Joshua, became a “warrior”, our leader and our teacher.
On this 24th of June 2009, the Feast Day of Saint John the Baptist, we thank God for this child’s life as he prepares to join the communion of saints whom we can no longer see but whose presence is felt, through the Holy Spirit, in our daily lives. We thank God for Joshua’s life and sacrifice because through his life and death and through the life and death of his friend, Nicholas, many lives – and of this I am certain – will and perhaps have already been saved.
Joshua is and shall always remain – in deed and in truth – salvation for others.
I am convinced that each person who knows the story of Joshua and Nicholas will now and forever warn parents and children of the dangers of fire. I believe that as they heal, Joshua's family and friends will join together to ensure that vast and renewed public education efforts concerning fire safety throughout North America and beyond will occur. The telling of the story of Joshua and Nicholas will become, if I may, the new “Book of Joshua.”
This is the victory of this precious child, Joshua, and of his friend, Nicholas.
***
And now I ask that you join me in a Prayer for Joshua and his Family.
Gracious Mother, Father God,
We give you thanks for the life of Joshua. We trust in your Love for this child and his Family as his soul prepares to come unto You and as his Family prepares to release him to Your Spirit. We trust in Your constant presence with him and with his family. We trust in your saving mercy and through your Grace, the absence and end of suffering for this child. May his Passion on this earth soon be over.
Lord in your Mercy,
Hear our prayer.
Thy Will Be Done.
Lord in your Mercy,
Hear our prayer.
We pray that the Holy Spirit will descend as a dove from heaven soon to take this child, in a divine Chariot of Fire, straight into your welcoming Arms.
Lord in your Mercy,
Hear our prayer.
We pray for the peace of Joshua’s family. Have mercy upon them and grant them peace.
In their great sorrow, be for them a constant and abiding presence.
Grant that they may feel Your saving presence.
Grant that they may feel You holding them in your Arms as you do their belovèd son, grandson, and nephew.
Lord in your Mercy,
Hear our prayer.
***
We ask all of these things in the name of your Son, Jesus Christ.
In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.
Amen.
****
Ever since writing my tribute to Joshua yesterday, the opening lines of the following poem have been in my heart and my mind.
The poem, by John Greenleaf Whittier, is
"The Barefoot Boy" ....
Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed bystrawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy,—
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art,—the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye,—
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood’s painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee’s morning chase,
Of the wild-flower’s time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole’s nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine;
Of the black wasp’s cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy,—
Blessings on the barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood’s time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread;
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O’er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch : pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt’s for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
AAh! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
***
Joshua and Nicholas, as you said in your note to me, are playing now--eternally "barefoot boys with cheek of tan!"
And they know joy.
Blessings are upon them.
Now and always.
Source for the story of Joshua: Wikepedia
June 24, 2009
Noon
The Feast of Saint John the Baptist
A Tribute to and a Prayer for Joshua and His Family
by Christiana Adams-Caille, a friend of the family
Note: Joshua and Nicholas wanted to make a bonfire and they found gasoline, which they used and that burned them both over 90 percent of their childs' bodies. Thanks be to God, their suffering has ended. I wrote this on the very day that Joshua passed to the other side of the Veil. Amen.
Joshua Jon. Belovèd son, grandson, nephew, friend. Belovèd child of God, whose name means “God is Salvation”and “God is Gracious”:
“The English name Joshua is a rendering of the Hebrew: יהושע, "Yehoshua," meaning means "Yahweh is Salvation," "Yahweh delivers," or "Yahweh rescues" from the Hebrew root ישע, "salvation," "to deliver/be liberated," or "to be victorious" "salvation." It often lacks a Hebrew letter vav (ו) after the shin (ש), allowing a reading of the vocalization of the name as Yehoshea
(יְהוֹשֵׁעַ) - the name is described in the Torah as having been originally Hoshea before being changed to Yehoshua by Moses (Numbers 13:16).”
Recalling also the story of another Joshua, whom Moses entrusted with the leadership of the Israelites:
“According to the Bible, Joshua was the son of Nun, of the tribe of Ephraim, which would become known as the most militaristic of the tribes of Israel, largely through Joshua's campaigns. He was born in Egypt prior to The Exodus, and was probably the same age as Caleb, with whom he is occasionally associated.
“As Moses' apprentice, Joshua was a major figure in all the events of the Exodus. He accompanied Moses part of the way when he ascended Mount Sinai to receive the Ten Commandments (Exd. 32:17). He was one of the twelve spies who were sent on by Moses to explore the land of Canaan (Num. 13:16, 17), and only he and Caleb gave an encouraging report, a reward for which would be that only these two of the spies would enter the promised land (Num 14:23-24). He was commander at their first battle after exiting Egypt, against the Amalekites in Rephidim (Ex. 17:8-16), in which they were victorious.
“Joshua was appointed by Moses to succeed him as leader of the Israelites. The first part of the book that bears Joshua's name covers the period when he commanded the conquest of Canaan. At the Jordan River, the waters parted, as they had for Moses at the Red Sea. Joshua led the destruction of Jericho, then moved on to Ai, a small neighboring city to the west. However, they were defeated and thirty-six Israelite warriors were killed, because Achan had taken the ‘accursed thing’ (some treasures from Jericho). When Achan's sin was exposed, he and his family and his animals were stoned to death and the favor of God was again restored. Joshua was then able to defeat Ai. The Israelites faced an alliance of Amorite kings from Jerusalem, Hebron, Jarmuth, Lachish, and Eglon. At Gibeon Joshua asked God to cause the Sun and Moon to stand still, so that he could finish the battle in daylight. This event is most notable because ‘there was no day like that before it or after it, that the LORD hearkened unto the voice of a man: for the LORD fought for Israel.’(KJV Josh 10:14). From there on, Joshua was able to lead the Israelites to several victories, securing much of the land of Canaan.
“In the second part of the book that bears his name (Joshua 13 onwards), Joshua describes the extent of the ‘promised land’ and divided it among the tribes of Israel. At this time, much of this land remained unconquered.
“When he was ‘old and well advanced in years’ Joshua convened the elders and chiefs of the Israelites and exhorted them to have no fellowship with the native population because it could lead them to be unfaithful to God. At a general assembly of the clans at Shechem he took leave of the people, admonishing them to be loyal to their God, who had been so mightily manifested in the midst of them. As a witness of their promise to serve God, Joshua set up a great stone under an oak by the sanctuary of God. Soon afterward he died, at the age of 110, and was buried at Timnath Serah.”
We recall also the stories of Jonathan and David, of John the Baptist and John, Christ’s beloved disciple and friend….
***
Since April 18 it seems for all of us that “there was no day like that before it or after it, that the LORD hearkened unto the voice of a man: for the LORD fought for Israel.”
On this day, the carefree little boy, Joshua, became a “warrior”, our leader and our teacher.
On this 24th of June 2009, the Feast Day of Saint John the Baptist, we thank God for this child’s life as he prepares to join the communion of saints whom we can no longer see but whose presence is felt, through the Holy Spirit, in our daily lives. We thank God for Joshua’s life and sacrifice because through his life and death and through the life and death of his friend, Nicholas, many lives – and of this I am certain – will and perhaps have already been saved.
Joshua is and shall always remain – in deed and in truth – salvation for others.
I am convinced that each person who knows the story of Joshua and Nicholas will now and forever warn parents and children of the dangers of fire. I believe that as they heal, Joshua's family and friends will join together to ensure that vast and renewed public education efforts concerning fire safety throughout North America and beyond will occur. The telling of the story of Joshua and Nicholas will become, if I may, the new “Book of Joshua.”
This is the victory of this precious child, Joshua, and of his friend, Nicholas.
***
And now I ask that you join me in a Prayer for Joshua and his Family.
Gracious Mother, Father God,
We give you thanks for the life of Joshua. We trust in your Love for this child and his Family as his soul prepares to come unto You and as his Family prepares to release him to Your Spirit. We trust in Your constant presence with him and with his family. We trust in your saving mercy and through your Grace, the absence and end of suffering for this child. May his Passion on this earth soon be over.
Lord in your Mercy,
Hear our prayer.
Thy Will Be Done.
Lord in your Mercy,
Hear our prayer.
We pray that the Holy Spirit will descend as a dove from heaven soon to take this child, in a divine Chariot of Fire, straight into your welcoming Arms.
Lord in your Mercy,
Hear our prayer.
We pray for the peace of Joshua’s family. Have mercy upon them and grant them peace.
In their great sorrow, be for them a constant and abiding presence.
Grant that they may feel Your saving presence.
Grant that they may feel You holding them in your Arms as you do their belovèd son, grandson, and nephew.
Lord in your Mercy,
Hear our prayer.
***
We ask all of these things in the name of your Son, Jesus Christ.
In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.
Amen.
****
Ever since writing my tribute to Joshua yesterday, the opening lines of the following poem have been in my heart and my mind.
The poem, by John Greenleaf Whittier, is
"The Barefoot Boy" ....
Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed bystrawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim’s jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy,—
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art,—the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye,—
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood’s painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee’s morning chase,
Of the wild-flower’s time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole’s nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine;
Of the black wasp’s cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy,—
Blessings on the barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood’s time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread;
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O’er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch : pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt’s for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
AAh! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
***
Joshua and Nicholas, as you said in your note to me, are playing now--eternally "barefoot boys with cheek of tan!"
And they know joy.
Blessings are upon them.
Now and always.
Source for the story of Joshua: Wikepedia
Friday, May 29, 2009
Application to United Theological Seminary: August 2003
PART 5. SELF-ASSESSMENT
Character: Ethical integrity, self-discipline, and sense of responsibility
Our character develops throughout our lifetime. I see it as I see souls—a sculpture that is always in process, constantly being transformed. Not only our joys but also our most grievous mistakes shape who we are and how we encounter the world. One such moment clearly stands out as a turning point in my life. One of my colleagues invited my friend, G, and me to dinner at his home. This friend's wife, whom we barely knew, greeted us and invited us into the kitchen, where we pitched in to clean the vegetables. G was standing at the sink and I was across the way from her. Our hostess then began to tell us of the wonderful trip the family had just taken to Europe. She went on to add that the trip was marred by only one thing: there were a lot of loud, impolite Jews on the trip, and she, for one, couldn’t stand their attitude.
G stopped in the middle of what she was doing and just stood there.
I just stood there, too. Frozen. I did not say a word; I just looked at G. I remember thinking, “I don’t know what to do.” But I did. I knew what to do; I had not done it.
As G drove us home, I apologized to her for my silence. She graciously accepted my apology, saying, “It’s all right.” But it was not all right at all. That night, I vowed that I would never again remain silent when ignorant people say heinous things.
I am not proud that I did not speak out that night, but I know that my silence taught me a great deal about character and integrity and about the kind of person I wanted to be. And that is the kind of person I am still becoming.
Interests: Personal interests and/or social concerns of major interest
In the mid-1980s I developed an interest in mental health issues and began volunteer work with Sylvie, a young girl who changed my life. Sylvie was profoundly autistic, but her eyes sparkled when I sang to her and hugged her. Thus began my journey to United Theological Seminary. In the meantime, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 1988 and that increased my interest in mental health issues. In 1992, I left the for-profit sector and joined the Mental Health Association. I have subsequently been involved with issues pertaining to elders—both in my work at the Alzheimer’s Association and with United Way. I suspect that both mental health and elder-related issues will continue to inform my journey.
Naturally I have other interests as well, such as reading and writing, poetry groups, films, art, and music. I most enjoy time spent at the ocean, which always restores me.
3. Religious interest: Comment briefly on your spiritual journey or specific areas of religious inquiry
In January 2003, I began a course entitled “God and Christ” at The College of Saint Catherine.
I wondered where it would lead me (not suspecting at the time that it would lead me to United). I filled my journal with my doubts and my struggle; I had not expected to ask the questions I pondered. At the end of the course in May I was able to say “Credo!” This one word promised me an entirely new beginning.
Since then I have thought often about the word “credo.” To accept as true. To give one’s heart to…. And that is what brings me to United—to prepare myself fully for the contribution I wish to make in God’s world.
Until recently, my faith had been built upon these short, powerful declarations that, in my opinion, tell us a great deal about what we need to know and what we need to do:
Jesus wept.
“I thirst.”
“Follow me.”
“Feed my lambs.”1
I now understand that these words have been showing me the way, but a critical piece was missing. I have found it, and it will provide the sure foundation for the building of my faith and the sculpting of my soul that I hope will take place at United Theological Seminary. “Credo!”
LET MY HEART BE BROKEN….
Vocational statement, July 2003
M. Christiana Adams
“Let my heart be broken by the things that break the heart of God.” This sentence was on a collage I saw in a high school where I was talking to the students about depression and other mental health issues. It is indeed heartbreaking when young people suffer from depression or any kind of illness. I have never forgotten the collage because I have made these words into a familiar prayer to which I have added another sentence: And let God heal our broken hearts. Even as we are moved by the pain of our world and as we act to diminish it, God is healing our hearts also and strengthening them for what lies ahead. What lies ahead for me, I hope, is chaplaincy or some other form of ministry in hospital, nursing home or hospice settings. This decision has been a long time coming. I have searched my soul for ten years, and it has taken me awhile to say “Yes!” and to feel ready for seminary. Now I am ready and here I am.
My years at United Theological Seminary will test my vocation and test me; I understand. It is also entirely possible that I am not suited for this work. But today, after a lengthy period of reflection and prayer, I believe I am. And I am going forward in this direction trusting that this is so. Let me describe some of the experiences that have brought me to this place.
After twelve years as a management consultant first in Paris, then in New York and finally in the Twin Cities, my first position in the nonprofit community was Director of Education at the Mental Health Association of Minnesota. We created many outstanding outreach programs, including Breaking Down Barriers, Building New Foundations for the faith community. My favorite program (I called it “Brainstorm”) led me to Anoka Regional Treatment Center on a monthly basis, where I spent time talking with the people hospitalized about what we needed to do to make things better and offering them information about community resources. This was,
I realize now and I think I knew even then, a form of ministry. I loved it; this was the part of
my position at the Mental Health Association that I missed the most when I went to work in public radio.
When I left the Mental Health Association, I was about to learn even more about caring. My father, once dynamic and full of vitality, had taken on many characteristics of the desert fathers. He had retreated from the world. Even our minister suggested one day that Dad should have been a hermit. But he was not.
Then he became very ill physically and I spent time caring for him, not in the same ways as we had cared for my mother when she was dying of brain and lung cancer, but in different ways.
I came to understand—finally, finally—that it did not matter what my father said or did not say. What mattered was what I did or did not do, what I said or did not say. What mattered was my presence and my love. After he died, I understood that something else mattered—and that was holding hands. Susan Andrews, our pastor, knew how very important this was. She said afterward, “John didn’t talk to me, but when I prayed and held his hand, he grasped mine fiercely.” Presence is important, but touch, I learned, conveys the thoughts “that lie too deep for tears,” the thoughts that otherwise might remain unspoken. Everyone needs a hand to hold.
This is a lesson I will never forget.
A friend of mine has been hospitalized for more than nine months at Anoka Regional Treatment Center, and she hates it there. Who wouldn’t? Recently she became very ill and was not able to form a sentence. I was extremely concerned—in fact, for the first time in my life, I thought “God! You have to do something!” I am not a family member; all I could do was pray. So I added my friend’s name to prayer lists. Then, adding insult to injury, she fell and broke her ankle, and her health declined even more. What was happening here?
A few weeks went by and I learned from her brother that my friend had been transferred to a nursing home in the Twin Cities. She would not have to go back to Anoka. I’ve visited her several times; she’s recaptured her speech and is already complaining about the nurses, a sure sign she’s getting better. The other day when we went outside for a little while, my friend looked at me and out of the blue said, “I am thankful.” And I am thankful to have had this experience with her. It allowed me to remember that sometimes things must get worse before they get better. It demonstrated how prayers can be answered in very unexpected ways.
God works in mysterious ways….
The mystery of God swirls around us constantly and we are blessed when we are given the sacred gift of feeling the immanent presence of the Holy Spirit. I have had several experiences of this, but one of them transformed my life. It occurred two days before my mother passed away. I was sitting with her and decided for the first time to pray the Lord’s Prayer aloud. I added, “You know, Mom, I pray all of the time.” My mother, who had not spoken intelligible words for two months, turned to me and said, “I know that you do.”
I am certain that God hears our prayers, that Jesus Christ suffers and rejoices with us, and that the Holy Spirit fills our lives. God is right here, right now, no matter where we are. God needs us to carry that message in many different ways. I feel particularly called to hospital and nursing home ministry; I feel comfortable in these places and with people, perhaps especially those who are somehow suffering and often wounded. Many of the people dearest to me, family members and friends, have experienced grave illness. I have spent many hours with them, learning how to be still and listen, learning when to speak. My own experiences with illness and the brokenness that we all share have blessed me with insights I would not otherwise have. I believe that all of it—all of the joys and sorrows that have graced my life and have made me “strong at the broken places”—will allow me to serve others with compassion and love.
“The place God calls you is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet” (Frederick Buechner). This is how I feel about my goal to attend seminary. I am as certain as I can be that my studies and all of the experiences I will have at United Theological Seminary will prepare me for the unique place to which God is calling me.
1 I am enclosing the essay I wrote entitled “Soul Sculpting” for the College of Saint Catherine. It tells the longer story that I have summarized here.
Character: Ethical integrity, self-discipline, and sense of responsibility
Our character develops throughout our lifetime. I see it as I see souls—a sculpture that is always in process, constantly being transformed. Not only our joys but also our most grievous mistakes shape who we are and how we encounter the world. One such moment clearly stands out as a turning point in my life. One of my colleagues invited my friend, G, and me to dinner at his home. This friend's wife, whom we barely knew, greeted us and invited us into the kitchen, where we pitched in to clean the vegetables. G was standing at the sink and I was across the way from her. Our hostess then began to tell us of the wonderful trip the family had just taken to Europe. She went on to add that the trip was marred by only one thing: there were a lot of loud, impolite Jews on the trip, and she, for one, couldn’t stand their attitude.
G stopped in the middle of what she was doing and just stood there.
I just stood there, too. Frozen. I did not say a word; I just looked at G. I remember thinking, “I don’t know what to do.” But I did. I knew what to do; I had not done it.
As G drove us home, I apologized to her for my silence. She graciously accepted my apology, saying, “It’s all right.” But it was not all right at all. That night, I vowed that I would never again remain silent when ignorant people say heinous things.
I am not proud that I did not speak out that night, but I know that my silence taught me a great deal about character and integrity and about the kind of person I wanted to be. And that is the kind of person I am still becoming.
Interests: Personal interests and/or social concerns of major interest
In the mid-1980s I developed an interest in mental health issues and began volunteer work with Sylvie, a young girl who changed my life. Sylvie was profoundly autistic, but her eyes sparkled when I sang to her and hugged her. Thus began my journey to United Theological Seminary. In the meantime, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 1988 and that increased my interest in mental health issues. In 1992, I left the for-profit sector and joined the Mental Health Association. I have subsequently been involved with issues pertaining to elders—both in my work at the Alzheimer’s Association and with United Way. I suspect that both mental health and elder-related issues will continue to inform my journey.
Naturally I have other interests as well, such as reading and writing, poetry groups, films, art, and music. I most enjoy time spent at the ocean, which always restores me.
3. Religious interest: Comment briefly on your spiritual journey or specific areas of religious inquiry
In January 2003, I began a course entitled “God and Christ” at The College of Saint Catherine.
I wondered where it would lead me (not suspecting at the time that it would lead me to United). I filled my journal with my doubts and my struggle; I had not expected to ask the questions I pondered. At the end of the course in May I was able to say “Credo!” This one word promised me an entirely new beginning.
Since then I have thought often about the word “credo.” To accept as true. To give one’s heart to…. And that is what brings me to United—to prepare myself fully for the contribution I wish to make in God’s world.
Until recently, my faith had been built upon these short, powerful declarations that, in my opinion, tell us a great deal about what we need to know and what we need to do:
Jesus wept.
“I thirst.”
“Follow me.”
“Feed my lambs.”1
I now understand that these words have been showing me the way, but a critical piece was missing. I have found it, and it will provide the sure foundation for the building of my faith and the sculpting of my soul that I hope will take place at United Theological Seminary. “Credo!”
LET MY HEART BE BROKEN….
Vocational statement, July 2003
M. Christiana Adams
“Let my heart be broken by the things that break the heart of God.” This sentence was on a collage I saw in a high school where I was talking to the students about depression and other mental health issues. It is indeed heartbreaking when young people suffer from depression or any kind of illness. I have never forgotten the collage because I have made these words into a familiar prayer to which I have added another sentence: And let God heal our broken hearts. Even as we are moved by the pain of our world and as we act to diminish it, God is healing our hearts also and strengthening them for what lies ahead. What lies ahead for me, I hope, is chaplaincy or some other form of ministry in hospital, nursing home or hospice settings. This decision has been a long time coming. I have searched my soul for ten years, and it has taken me awhile to say “Yes!” and to feel ready for seminary. Now I am ready and here I am.
My years at United Theological Seminary will test my vocation and test me; I understand. It is also entirely possible that I am not suited for this work. But today, after a lengthy period of reflection and prayer, I believe I am. And I am going forward in this direction trusting that this is so. Let me describe some of the experiences that have brought me to this place.
After twelve years as a management consultant first in Paris, then in New York and finally in the Twin Cities, my first position in the nonprofit community was Director of Education at the Mental Health Association of Minnesota. We created many outstanding outreach programs, including Breaking Down Barriers, Building New Foundations for the faith community. My favorite program (I called it “Brainstorm”) led me to Anoka Regional Treatment Center on a monthly basis, where I spent time talking with the people hospitalized about what we needed to do to make things better and offering them information about community resources. This was,
I realize now and I think I knew even then, a form of ministry. I loved it; this was the part of
my position at the Mental Health Association that I missed the most when I went to work in public radio.
When I left the Mental Health Association, I was about to learn even more about caring. My father, once dynamic and full of vitality, had taken on many characteristics of the desert fathers. He had retreated from the world. Even our minister suggested one day that Dad should have been a hermit. But he was not.
Then he became very ill physically and I spent time caring for him, not in the same ways as we had cared for my mother when she was dying of brain and lung cancer, but in different ways.
I came to understand—finally, finally—that it did not matter what my father said or did not say. What mattered was what I did or did not do, what I said or did not say. What mattered was my presence and my love. After he died, I understood that something else mattered—and that was holding hands. Susan Andrews, our pastor, knew how very important this was. She said afterward, “John didn’t talk to me, but when I prayed and held his hand, he grasped mine fiercely.” Presence is important, but touch, I learned, conveys the thoughts “that lie too deep for tears,” the thoughts that otherwise might remain unspoken. Everyone needs a hand to hold.
This is a lesson I will never forget.
A friend of mine has been hospitalized for more than nine months at Anoka Regional Treatment Center, and she hates it there. Who wouldn’t? Recently she became very ill and was not able to form a sentence. I was extremely concerned—in fact, for the first time in my life, I thought “God! You have to do something!” I am not a family member; all I could do was pray. So I added my friend’s name to prayer lists. Then, adding insult to injury, she fell and broke her ankle, and her health declined even more. What was happening here?
A few weeks went by and I learned from her brother that my friend had been transferred to a nursing home in the Twin Cities. She would not have to go back to Anoka. I’ve visited her several times; she’s recaptured her speech and is already complaining about the nurses, a sure sign she’s getting better. The other day when we went outside for a little while, my friend looked at me and out of the blue said, “I am thankful.” And I am thankful to have had this experience with her. It allowed me to remember that sometimes things must get worse before they get better. It demonstrated how prayers can be answered in very unexpected ways.
God works in mysterious ways….
The mystery of God swirls around us constantly and we are blessed when we are given the sacred gift of feeling the immanent presence of the Holy Spirit. I have had several experiences of this, but one of them transformed my life. It occurred two days before my mother passed away. I was sitting with her and decided for the first time to pray the Lord’s Prayer aloud. I added, “You know, Mom, I pray all of the time.” My mother, who had not spoken intelligible words for two months, turned to me and said, “I know that you do.”
I am certain that God hears our prayers, that Jesus Christ suffers and rejoices with us, and that the Holy Spirit fills our lives. God is right here, right now, no matter where we are. God needs us to carry that message in many different ways. I feel particularly called to hospital and nursing home ministry; I feel comfortable in these places and with people, perhaps especially those who are somehow suffering and often wounded. Many of the people dearest to me, family members and friends, have experienced grave illness. I have spent many hours with them, learning how to be still and listen, learning when to speak. My own experiences with illness and the brokenness that we all share have blessed me with insights I would not otherwise have. I believe that all of it—all of the joys and sorrows that have graced my life and have made me “strong at the broken places”—will allow me to serve others with compassion and love.
“The place God calls you is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet” (Frederick Buechner). This is how I feel about my goal to attend seminary. I am as certain as I can be that my studies and all of the experiences I will have at United Theological Seminary will prepare me for the unique place to which God is calling me.
1 I am enclosing the essay I wrote entitled “Soul Sculpting” for the College of Saint Catherine. It tells the longer story that I have summarized here.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Aunt Harriett
"Love incarnate." That is what I said to the nurses at English Oaks about my Aunt Harriett, your mother. She was that, she is that and she and your father will forever remain the embodiment of Love for all of us.
My beloved aunt, my third mother--actually ex aequo with Aunt Lorraine if the truth be told.
"Hello, Sweetie." A greeting that I am still hearing as I write this. You are the only person in the world who ever called me "Babe" and you also sometimes addressed me as "Baby" even when I was in my 40s and you in your 80s. "Hello, Babe," you used to say and with those words you warmed my heart because they told me that you loved me and they reminded me always that you had known me since I was just that -- a babe. When my mother and then Aunt Lorraine died, you were the only one to hold my history and my stories of our and my family in your heart. You knew it all. My mother's story, her heart's joy and the heartbreaks from which she never recovered beginning with the death of her beloved husband, John McGowan, when she was only 26 and Beth only 2; Beth's story -- Mary Beth, who was born on your 20th birthday and was not only my mother's special girl but yours, too. Beth whom you and Uncle Jack loved and took care of and probably spoiled rotten when Mary had to work; Beth, the little girl with a cello. You knew the story of my parents and me, and so much more. The fun and funny parts; the heart-wrenching times we had in the Adams family. No one else in this world knew the full story except you. We did not have to dredge it all up and discuss it, only occasionally; you just knew and that was enough for me because with a smile you conveyed your compassion -- and truly you did suffer with and for us -- and your abiding and unconditional love for me, Christie, Chrissy, Chris. Like my mother and Aunt Lorraine, you understood all of the parts of my soul -- even the not-so-very-nice parts -- and you loved me anyway and for always. With your passing to the other side of the Veil to be, I truly believe, reunited with those you have loved who have preceded you, I am left to be the keeper of my own soul and of all of the stories I know. Including of course Little Women and Anne of Green Gables!
And now I hear you saying as you so often did, "Yeah, right." Well, Aunt Harriett, I am. I am writing for your children and your grandchildren and your great grandchildren all of the things I want to say to them about you and Uncle Jack and how you shaped my life and my heart; the lessons you taught me that even my own parents and Aunt Lorraine could not; the fun we had and the heartaches we shared.
I am going to write it all down -- or at least what I can --
I am going to write about your legacy. Your legacy that is Love.
And so I begin.
***
When Linda and I were holding your hands on Tuesday, I asked her if she knew about the picture you sent Beth and me in the 1990s -- or was it Sharon I asked? Whoever it was did not know of this framed quotation. You sent it only to Beth and me, I now know. Here is what I think. I think you thought your own children knew and lived this well -- ah, the Savage clan -- but that both Beth and I needed this message from you. It reads:
"Our family is a circle of strength and love. With every birth and every union, the circle grows. Every joy shared adds more love. Every challenge faced together, makes the circle stronger."
Oh, and Aunt Harriett. You are so right. So right.
Our family. That is what you wanted your nieces to know. That this is our family, too. I am so grateful, everlastingly grateful that you and Uncle Jack and your children and grandchildren and great grandchildren epitomized this circle and that you have always made sure that I have been a part -- and despite the miles and the years, never apart -- from our family.
***
"Sweet Harriett." That is what my mother, Mary, used to call you when she spoke of you. Your sister, four years older than you, who once ripped the roof of your mouth when you were a little girl with, if I recall correctly, one of grandma's crochet hooks. You went on loving her. My mother, that is. You were Aunt Lorraine's favorite sister, ten years her junior. Despite her actions as a little girl, my mother loved you, too. "Sweet Harriett." But in the family of four girls the pairing was really Lorraine and Harriett, Mary and Carol.
It can be said that your sisters were very loving women, but in their own ways. Aunt Lorraine loved beyond measure but was the least demonstrative of all of you; she was after all the Chairman of the Board. I knew Aunt Carol really only slightly but she had probably the best sense of humor of all of you (and that is saying something!) and she constantly wrote letters with funny stories for her sisters when her life was not so funny. My mother. Well, my mother -- how to describe my mother? She had a sweetness of her own but not like yours, Aunt Harriett. Not like yours. Because of her life and the ways in which her heart had broken, there were places in my mother's heart that could not be mended, that could never fully heal. Like the cup in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, once broken, it was never quite the same again. Your heart, Aunt Harriett, remained sweet and loving, always loving toward all you loved.
Harriett. Sweet Heart.
(My mother rarely used terms of endearment with me. She called me by my name most of the time and when she did use endearments it was "dear" or "dear heart." I have recently realized that your mother taught my sister, who calls her husband, her children, her grandchildren and me "sweetheart" or "sweetie" -- just like your mom did all of us -- this lovely form of endearment.
Aunt Harriett and I used to call each other "My dearie dear.")
I recalled the other day the photo that I have of you, my dearie dear, that I believe is your high school graduation picture. (And as I said the other day, when the Wagoner family had a little bit of money they either got their pictures taken or went on a trip!) In the bottom right hand corner, you wrote, "Love, Harriett." Just that simple. I always think of you this way with respect to each of your sisters. Love. Harriett.
***
Aunt Harriett was always the sister who came to visit and to care for her sisters. She kept in touch with all three of them and used to get a little annoyed with Lorraine who never or rarely called her. But she kept calling Lorraine and coming to the East coast to visit all of us.
"Harriett is coming!"
Sometimes Aunt Harriett stayed with us but most often with Aunt Lorraine. Uncle Jack stayed with Lorraine, too.
One time when she was visiting us, there was a Mary Cassatt exhibit at the National Gallery of Art. When I got home from school, there she was, Aunt Harriett, with a poster for me. She said, "This is you":
Indeed. That was me.***
Back now to 1968. Forty years ago this year. My parents were going to be traveling and they asked Aunt Harriett and Uncle Jack to welcome me in your home, dear cousins, for three months. We have all often wondered, I think, what the real reason for that was. My mother always said that she wanted me to have the experience of living with family where there were other children. In other words so that I would not always be an only child and behave like one! But now I think I understand another, perhaps much more important reason for my stay in Livermore. (Of which JoAnne and Larry and I all share memories! I WAS spoiled! I WAS an only child! (or at least growing up that way since Beth was gone); I WAS a pain! It was during this time, however, that I learned how good orange juice is when made in the blender and the distinct advantage of leaving butter out as opposed to putting it back in the refrigerator all the time. So much easier to butter toast in the morning. When I got home that was my special request. Henceforth the butter stayed on top of the refrigerator at our house, too.)
In my parents' will at that time -- and they both traveled a lot because of my father's position -- my mom and dad had named your parents as my legal guardians in case anything happened to them. Not my sister, not Aunt Lorraine and Uncle John, whom I knew much better and to whom at that time I was much closer. No. In the event of my parents' death, they would have entrusted their child to Harriett and Jack. There is no higher praise, no higher, greater trust than this. My father, by the way, who was known as "Iron John" loved your parents. Of my mother's sisters Harriett was his favorite. 'tis true. I have that on good authority. His own.
And speaking of "Iron John" I want to say something about your father. It is this. Your dad, Uncle Jack to me, is one of the kindest, dearest men I have ever known, although as you all know screaming during rides at Disneyland and tickling were verboten! He was like but very different from my own beloved father in many ways. Both men loved their children and their families. But your father expressed this love always with a sweetness that lightened my step and my heart. My father was -- maybe because he was from Pittsburgh! but not really -- it was because of his own life and his own father dying when he was just 14 -- "steely." Iron John. Uncle John was called "Hollywood John." Jack was Jack.
My father used to admonish me: Be kind, Chris. Neither he nor I have always been kind. Irish/German tempers and temperament combined with the Wagoner stubbornness, you know. But your father demonstrated the kind of kindness my dad wanted me to have and to show to others. Never an unkind word. Words said always with love. Dearest Uncle Jack, thank you for this.
But I digress -- in a way but not really. Back now to the story of why you, dear cousins, had to put up with me in 1968.
I now believe that it was true that they were traveling a lot that fall of 1968 but especially they wanted me to know the family where I would live and grow up if anything ever happened to them. Yes, my dears. My dearie dears. That was the real reason.
Then when my mother, Aunt Lorraine and my dad were "gone from my sight" it became reality. Some 32 years later, I knew that I had a place and people to "come home to." And this is what I did earlier this year. I came of course to see and be with your mother but I also came because I needed to be with my family, just to sit with your mom and to be reminded of who I am, from the beginning. To "get my head on straight," as my father used to say. Being with you and especially with her this spring allowed me to do that.
On Tuesday she gave me another gift of love. The first thing she said to me after the "hellos" was -- and who knows why although I think I have an idea...a fanciful Irish idea of the whys and wherefores...
"You can change if you want to."
I do not believe she was speaking of my clothes although this puts me in mind of another story some of you know. In the Wagoner family there was a saying:
First up, best dressed.
That is because my mom used to get up and wear Aunt Lorraine's clothing that she altered, I presume with pins, for the day. They all dressed so beautifully always. But in those days when there was not very much money for the luxury of new clothing, Lorraine was already working and she could afford to buy new clothes that my mom then appropriated! Ah, sisters.
***
Just as my own mother did two days before her death, your mother, Aunt Harriett, gave me a last and lasting gift.
You can change if you want to.
OK, Aunt Harriett. I got the message.
***
Forty years later, I say thank you to all of you because I feel like more than a cousin in this Savage family. More than a cousin and for this, I can never adequately or eloquently express my abiding gratitude to your mother and father and to you, my cousin/sibs! This is, among other things, what I said to your mother on Tuesday. That I can never, never thank her enough for loving me and taking care of me and that I hold her and Uncle Jack in my heart forever.
I thank you, my dear cousins, for honoring me by allowing me to be present with you by your mother's side during her last days. It has been my privilege and a gift from God to care for my own mother during her lifetime and during her last illness, to care for Aunt Lorraine and for your mother also at this time of their passing. My three "mothers" whom I love with all of my soul and heart. A gift from God but also from you. I cannot begin to express the feelings that lie in the depths of my soul.
But this I can express and share with you. Never in all of the leave-takings of my beloved friends and family have I been filled with the sense of peace I have now.
Never.
Thank you, again, Aunt Harriett, for leaving me and I hope all of us with this peace. "Be at Peace," said the prayer on your refrigerator. The prayer I kept praying when my mother was dying. You, dear Harriett, I believe, know the "peace that passeth all understanding" now and I feel peace enfolding me as never before has happened.
May it be so for you, dear cousins, your children and your children's children also.
I also want to say something I said about my own father at his remembrance service. I said he, like the rest of us, had imperfections. We are not -- not one of us -- perfect, not nearly perfect! But we all strive to be the best we can be. Because of our love for each other, we forgive one another for our failings and our frailties.
***
When Linda came home the other night after your mother's passing, I remembered being in Prairie Village when grandma died. I have memories of seeing her in her hospital bed. You remember that she lived with us in Pittsburgh, I think. But I was most particularly thinking about what the Wagoner sisters must have done after she died. They must have gathered around Aunt Carol's kitchen table and talked. They probably did not cry, although your mother may have; perhaps Aunt Carol did as well. Not Aunt Lorraine. Not my mother for sure. They did not cry.
I thought the other morning of them in mourning. It was, I believe, 1961. Lorraine was 51 (my age now), my mother 45 and your mother 41; Aunt Carol must have been 47.
And here we are. In California. The same rituals. The same family. The love that reaches down and flows through us from generation to generation.
***
There are many more stories that I could tell. But I think I will end this tribute to your mother here with two of my favorite poems especially for you.
First this by Christina Rossetti:
Remember
| Remember me when I am gone away, |
| Gone far away into the silent land; |
| When you can no more hold me by the hand, |
| Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay. |
| Remember me when no more day by day |
| You tell me of our future that you planned: |
| Only remember me; you understand |
| It will be late to counsel then or pray. |
| Yet if you should forget me for a while |
| And afterwards remember, do not grieve: |
| For if the darkness and corruption leave |
| A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, |
| Better by far you should forget and smile |
| Than that you should remember and be sad. |
| 5 |
| 10 |
And this from Diary of an Old Soul by George MacDonald:
Care thou for mine whom I must leave behind;
Care that they know who 'tis for them takes care;
Thy present patience help them still to bear;
Lord, keep them clearing, growing, heart and mind;
In one thy oneness us together bind;
Last earthly prayer with which to thee I cling--
Grant that, save love, we owe not anything.
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