Alcoholism - the Disease

We went to a funeral today.  My cousin’s daughter.  She was only 50 years old.  The specific, immediate cause of death not yet known, but the basic cause was alcoholism.  

 

I talked to her parents, to her sisters, to her husband and her children, to her friends and other family members.  So many of us who loved her – all grieving for a life cut short.  

 

And the saddest part is that she was such a good person!  Even as she struggled with the disease, she found ways to show her love and goodness.  But the disease of alcoholism took her life – just as the disease of cancer took her cousin Amy’s life.  

 

When someone dies of cancer, as Amy did, we talk about their “heroic battle against the disease”.   But what about the victims of alcoholism?  Do we recognize that people like Tracy, might have spent her whole life fighting the disease of alcoholism?  Do we recognize their struggle and their pain?

 

Those of us who knew Tracy recognized that it was the disease that had overcome her, and as we gathered for the wake and funeral, we praised her for the times when her goodness and love were so evident.  

 

But all too often, as a society, we see alcoholism as a human weakness instead of the dreadful disease that it really is.  Too often an alcoholic’s death is seen as a personal failure and we try to cover up the details.  Too often we ignore the reality – the awful reality – that their death was a casualty of a disease that is all too prevalent in our society.

 

For Amy’s funeral we wore pink, publicly acknowledging her personal battle against cancer and recognizing the foundations working to find cures for the disease.  But today we simply wore black.  

 

Where was the outward symbol of praise for Tracy’s struggle?  Where was the banner, the outward expression of rage and frustration that such a horrible disease overcame yet another young person?  Where is the symbol calling for public recognition of the disease of alcoholism and the tragic reality of it’s devastating effects?   

 

I don’t know the answers.  I don’t know how we can find a cure.  I don’t know how to help those affected.  All I can suggest is that when someone we know is suffering, we can offer these 4 things:   Non-Judgmental Love!  Patience!  Forgiveness!  And above all, Prayers!

 

May you rest in Peace, Tracy – and enjoy the reward for all of your goodness.  

Remembering My Mom

While the world remembered the heros of 9/11 last week, my brother and sister and I also remembered our mom who died in a car crash on 9/11/1969. I guess you could say she was our personal hero!

I am thinking about her even more this year, as we are staying at our lake, which was her favorite place in the whole world.

We have a little one-room cabin – and I do mean little 6’x9’ – on the side of a hill overlooking a beautiful spring-fed lake.  The bunk beds and pull-out sofa we had growing up have now been replaced by one adult bed and a small dresser, but the rest of the cabin is the same – suitcases on the floor and open shelves stacked with coffee cans, soup cans, cereal boxes, dishes, pots and pans and of course sun screen and bandaids.

 

Our "kitchen" is outside on the patio where there is a picnic table and cooking area with a Coleman stove and the stone fireplace that my dad built many years ago.  We have no electricity and no running water – though my dad used to joke that we had “walking water” as he carried a pail up from the lake.

 

It was here that my mom thrived, and we were always so proud of her!  She would get up early in the morning and make breakfast before my dad went to work.  Then while we were playing with friends – or later, off to our summer jobs – she would fold up the couch, make up the beds, sweep out the cabin, boil water and wash the dishes (using 2 rubber maid basins) and by 10:30 she would be ready to swim or take a canoe ride.   

My mom always seemed young to me – and I always admired how nice she looked – whether it was up here or at home.  No dowdy house dresses or baggy bathing suits for her.  She wore neat shorts or slacks and a nice blouse, and always had a fashionable well-fitting bathing suit that flattered her slim figure.  And while other mothers would just float on tubes in the water on those hot summer days, Mom would dive in and actually swim.  One of her favorite things to do was to paddle the canoe around the lake just as the sun was going down.

In the evening, Mom always had a nice dinner ready when my dad came home from work – no matter what the weather.  When it rained, we had a tarp that attached to the cabin and extended out to the edge of the picnic table -- but not as far as the fireplace. I will always remember watching her one evening when my dad had to work late.  We had already eaten dinner and some of the neighbor kids had gathered around our cabin.  It started to rain just as my dad arrived, and as he was washing up, Mom stood, holding an umbrella over the fireplace, cooking his hamburger, while we sat in the cabin singing "Sound-off" to the beat of the rain on the tin roof.  

Because of the limitations here, (and because, as my mom later told me, she and my dad wanted some “private time”) we would only stay at the lake for 5 or 6 days.  The pattern I remember was being here for the weekend and going home on Tuesday.  Mom would immediately send the sheets, my baby sister’s cloth diapers and our dirty clothes out to the laundry for a “wet wash”, then go to the grocery store.  On Wednesday the wet wash would come back and she’d hang them out on the line to dry, meanwhile making a pot roast or meat loaf, and maybe a ham or small turkey – enough meals for 5 or 6 days.  Then on Thursday she would pack up everything – including my sister’s playpen, and we would head back up to the lake.  

 

As Mom got older, she had various health problems, including what we now know as "afib".  But she always said that when she was up here at the lake she felt 10 years younger!  So it wasn't surprising that on a beautiful, sunny day, the eleventh of September 1976, she decided she would drive up to the lake for a day.  On the way home her heart gave out and her car crashed into a tree.

 

We will always be sad when we think about losing her so early.  But we will always be grateful for the time we had with her, for wonderful woman that she was, and grateful to know that her last day on earth was spent in her favorite place on earth -- here at our lake!

Ethel Mae McMahon - with Harold and Lucy, at the lake in 1946

A Very Special Day

It is a warm misty morning, May 9, 1947.  I have shimmied up the cherry tree in our backyard and am stretched out on one of the limbs.  I can see the prettiest blossoms just above me and I know they will look beautiful in my mother’s crystal vase on the white linen tablecloth.   I’m sure I can reach them … if … I can just … stretch … a little farther … “Caa-rra-ack!”  

 

Now I am lying on the ground crying and I remember my father’s warning that cherry tree branches are weak and break easily.  My arms are scratched and my knees are bleeding and I stumble into the house.  

 

“Dr. Dad will fix you up” my father says, coaxing a smile with his warm reassuring voice.  “Ouch, Ouch,” we both say together as he pours hydrogen peroxide over the cuts and we watch white foamy bubbles flushing out the dirt.

 

“Can I still go today?” I ask through my tears.  “You’ll be fine,” my father says gently.  “You’re lucky your bones don’t break as easily as the cherry tree branches,”

 

This was to be the most important day in all of my 7 years of life — the day I’d been preparing for all year.  It was the reason my mother had set a table with her beautiful white linen tablecloth; the reason all my aunts and uncles would be joining us for breakfast; and the reason I wanted the beautiful cherry blossoms.

 

Two hours later, with scratches on my arms and band-aids on my knees below my white organdy dress, I walk up the aisle in St. John’s Church to receive my First Holy Communion!

 

With simple faith I believed in God.  I knew that God made me and that he made this beautiful world.  I knew that even though I was but a tiny spec in the universe, God knew me personally and that He loved me and would always protect me.  And today I knew that I would be receiving the real body and blood of Jesus Christ.

 

Throughout all of my life God has protected me and lead me.  I admit that I wasn’t perfect and sometimes I didn’t do everything I should have.  Sometimes I got lost and questioned what I was taught and tried to find my own answers.  But when I turned to God, He was always there with comfort and wisdom and strength – especially when I needed it most.    

 

Now I am 80 years old, and I sit in the back of the church and watch as my granddaughters receiver their First Holy Communion. I thank God for the blessings of their love.  And I pray for each of them, and for all those boys and girls going up to receive the Body of Christ for the first time.  I pray that God will guide them and help them find the answers to their questions and lead them along the right path for their life.  And one day, like me, they will be able to watch their own children and grandchildren receive all the blessings of our loving God.

 

My Irish Eyes Are Smiling

It's St. Patrick's Day and my Irish Eyes Are Smiling  

Growing up Irish Catholic in New York, I believed in three things:  There is a God.  There is life after death.  And it never rains on the St. Patrick’s Day Parade.  

The latter belief was washed away one soggy March 17^th when torrents of rain beat down on bagpipes and tasseled boots sloshing down Fifth Avenue.  But the rain did not dampen the celebration.  There was no shortage of music, dancing and laughter – though they may have required a bit more “nourishment” with Irish whiskey and green beer.   

 

The spirit of Joy – with or without the libation – is one of the characteristics of the Irish people – one that I am proud to have inherited.  Laughter and music filled our home and accompanied us in the car.  “When Irish Eyes are Smiling” was a family anthem.  My father crooned the “Irish Lullaby” and sang “MacNamara’s Band” with gusto.  

 

When Uncle Ed sat down at the piano we would all gather around singing familiar songs, and laughing about family stories.  One day cousin Billy was visiting and sang “Shake hands with your uncle Mike …” I was mesmerized by the long list of Irish names chanted in the verse.  I have since learned every name and have great fun singing it with my grandchildren.  

 

Lest anyone think that the Irish spirit of joy reflects a happy-go-lucky attitude, I invite you to look deeper into the hearts and history of the Irish people.  Hardships suffered, both in Ireland and in America, are well documented – and my ancestors were no exception. 

 

However the heritage passed on to me included no self-pity.  A “woe-is-me” attitude was never tolerated in my family, no matter what the circumstances.  When it rained on our parade we were taught to accept reality, trust in God, and still take every opportunity to celebrate the blessings of life with a song and a smile on our lips. 

 

That rainy St. Patrick’s day many year ago may have washed away a myth, but it did not wash away my other important beliefs.  Faith in God and belief in life after death are the foundations of my life – and they foundations of our Irish heritage

 

This spirit of joy for the Irish is born of the deep, abiding faith in God and in life after death.  It springs from the unshakable conviction that the trials on this earth are only temporary and that our reward, including reunion with those we love, is assured by God through eternity.  It is this deep faith that carried the Irish people through generations of hardships and allowed them to celebrate life. 

 

Of course the Irish are not the only ones to appreciate and celebrate the joys of life.  But hey -- it’s St. Patrick’s Day -- and I’m celebrating my Irish heritage!  

And I invite each of you to lift a glass – whether it be Irish whiskey, French wine, German beer, Mexican Tequila, or simple, pure spring water – and join me in a toast to the blessing of life and the joy of Your own heritage. 

 

Mid-West Wind - a poem

 I grew up on the East coast but moved to Indiana after Jim and I were married.  One day, early in March, I was walking beside a small reservoir, feeling the wind in my face, thinking about the differences between both places - and I Now, back on the East coast, I remember that moment and thought you might enjoy my  thoughts.

                        THE MID-WEST WINDS

Oh mid-western winds, from where have you come?

You are not born of the ocean where I am from.

 

It is not from the sea that your currents blow,

Not as the winds I used to know.

 

You have not brushed the waves or ocean sand.

You are a mid-west wind, born of the land.

 

You blew over farms and brushed the fields

Spreading corn and wheat, the farmer’s yield.

 

You’ve swept through villages and city blocks

Pushing dust and paper o’re sidewalks and parking lots.

 

And now you chase the winter’s cold blast 

Bringing warmth and Spring to the land, at last.

 

And from my heart a grateful song escapes,

For the mid-west winds that God did create.

ADVENTURES IN CHARLEY

 

CHARLEY ROCKS

 

I had a big birthday this year – in the middle of the Covid-19 Pandemic - so no parties, no big celebrations, no family reunion.  

Our seven children, spouses and thirteen grandchildren are spread across the country from New York to California to Florida and states in between.  We can’t fly or drive and risk using public restrooms and staying in hotels.  And different time zones made it difficult to even have a Zoom get-together to celebrate.  

A few weeks after my birthday, our son Darin, who lives here in Maryland, called and said he was taking us somewhere on Saturday.  “I need you and Jim to be ready at 6:00 in the morning” he said. “I will pick you up – but you can’t ask any questions.”   We were a little hesitant.  We're not usually morning people, but he kept promising it would be worth it, so we were ready when he pulled in our driveway.  

We drove through Maryland and Delaware, then up the Jersey turnpike, still trying to guess where we might be going.   We turned off on an exit and he pulled into a gas station.  He got out, made some phone calls, then got back in the car and handed us blindfolds and instructed us to put them on.  

 

We drove for another few minutes before he stopped again.  He lead us out of the car, one-by-one telling us to just stand together.  By now I was beginning to hear the familiar voices of our other children on his speaker phone.  When he told us to take off our masks everybody on the phone yelled “Happy Birthday” and we were standing in front of an RV with our name on it! 

 

To say it was a surprise was an understatement!  They had all decided that with the camper we would be able to travel safely and have the opportunity to visit them.  So far we have visited our families in Georgia and Florida, and have enjoyed many short trips just for fun and often take it to nearby restaurants for "curbside" breakfasts and dinners.  

As I write this we are sitting in the camper in a small park in Paradise Pennsylvania.  We come here occasionally, just for the night, so we can enjoy a “to-go”dinner from our favorite Amish restaurant “Bird-In-Hand”.

We named our camper Charley – after the poodle in John Stienbeck’s book “Travels With Charley”  (If you’ve never read the book, it’s a fun read about his trip across America in a camper, back in 1960’s). 

 

Stay tuned for more stories about our Adventures in Charley