From my forthcoming novel:

James McNaughton, Esquire, is how he introduces himself while he holds court on a grimy stool at the bend of the bar; his primary audience a speckled mirror, glazed in the omnipresent smoke of penny cigarettes and cheap tobacco wafting from cracked pipes. He taps his own— "‘twas my granddad’s this was—he’d puff great circles round his head as we bairns sat by the peat fire. He sang of Cathleen ni Houlihan and her four green fields and the lads and men who would rise to her defense when the bloody British violated her shores. He taught us our real history from the days of our great kings and the seanachies singing of the victories and tragedies as the men gathered ‘round turf fires after a hard day’s work. This here"—he lifts his dirty pipe like a priest lifts the sacred chalice—"is a legacy of your people and don’t forget your people, lad, or you will sore grieve it."

Esquire’s dark round glasses keep his ragged brows from his eyes and his black and gray beard, not silver as he claims, but iron gray, smoke gray, dirty gray at that, catches bits of spittle and brown bread. He thinks himself quite the figure in his sagging tweed patched and re-patched by his wife’s—God rest her soul—darning skills and little is left of the original woven in the Donegal mills of his grandfather’s day.

Esquire invented his grandfather since his own two were dead long before his birth. His first hearing of Cathleen ni Houlihan, the old woman and the young queen who is Ireland and her four green fields, was from a fellow passenger who believed his singing such a gift to the world that he bestowed it on every soul shivering across the Atlantic. The peat fire in a hearth in his lovely thatch burned only in Esquire’s florid imagination as he retched into a full bucket on his escape from the home he had to leave, wearing the tweed he took from his father’s back before he was lowered into the mud of one of Cathleen's fields. 

James McNaughton, before he was Esquire, sauntered down the gangplank in New York Harbor in 1864 to be snatched with the other scrawny lads by men in squashed felt caps with a great X of crossed rifles on their forehead. So, he was to be a soldier. Perhaps the High King Brian Boru would be re-born in New York Harbor that day.

The life of a Union soldier wasn’t too bad for the future Esquire. He got his first new set of clothes and food and rough bed. He managed to stay out of the way of any Rebel bullets in the only battle he was part of. Within six months of landing in America the Civil War was over and James had a handful of stories to tell around whatever hearth or bit of smoldering coal he could find.

Esquire thought himself an intellectual, therefore, unsuited to the work available to immigrants shuffling off boats in their tattered rags with tattered children in tow. They banded together in tenements in the Lower East Side of New York and in Brooklyn, and those not able to afford this much American luxury made homes of bits of wood and tin and ragged blankets left as trash that found new purpose as shantytowns. These groups of human refuse forced their lean-to’s on patches of ground that pigs and dogs and smaller creatures condescended to, but would not cede, as their natural turf.  

When he was released from the Union Army with a mouthful of stories ready to spill, young James had to find work. He managed to get a job as a street sweeper by chatting up the ward boss in his squat. He was a jolly fella with a mouth that never shut, which was acceptable as long as he kept the broom moving, but after too many corner stone conversations on what’s wrong with the world, the future esquire found himself at liberty with empty pockets.

More to come…

How Do You Like 'Dem Apples?

Man, having been wounded in his nature by original sin, is subject to error and inclined to evil in exercising his freedom. (Catechism of the Catholic Church section 1714)

My formal introduction to religious education began at the tender age of five in 1963 under the guidance of the Sisters of St. Joseph. Vatican II was still in session and Original Sin featured on the syllabus for the boys and girls in grey plaid wool and serge, sitting attentively (ahem!) in long rows of desks that doubled as shields against Russian atomic bombs. 

By the time high school and college rolled around to the Pepsi Generation Seventies, Original Sin was barely a whisper. In the Enlightened Eighties when I was busy turning out little Catholic babies, those in the know a) never spoke those two words together or b) if some anachronistic innocent hinted at such outdated Augustinian teaching, he or she was met with a sympathetic ‘oh, you poor dear, you don't really believe all that, do you? Who pays attention to what fruit some naked couple ate in the beginning of time?

Years ago, I was teaching Baptism Prep to a group of new parents, many of whom admitted that they hadn't been inside a church since their wedding. I was soft peddling Baptism to this group on the fringe of the church—emphasizing community and family history and the long generations united under this big bosomy umbrella of love and kumbaya. A grandmother called me out.

 "What about Original Sin?"  I fumbled momentarily but I had my answer: we are now emphasizing community and loveydoveyness. She walked out.

 Good for her.

We spent a few lost decades building up our self-esteem and choosing things ‘just for me’ and following our bliss and looking out for #1 and deciding we have syndromes so we cannot be responsible for our decisions and our actions. We couched all our faults and troubles and personality defects in terms of "it's all my parents fault" or the catch-all-basket of "society"—eternal cries of the adolescent mind—which is where more than one generation of baby boomers and Gen x, y 's and z's have been encouraged to wallow.

 At some point we have to grow up and face facts.

 We are sinners.

 We are sinners with a positive attitude, assertiveness training and seekers of our very own specialness and empowerment.

 Yay for us!


We are now in Lent, thank God. What a necessary antidote to the surfeit of self-indulgence that poisons the air we breathe, the anger and violence, sexual perversions and obsessions that mock the very breath of God that spoke us into being.

Lent is a correction on the dial, keening our ears, our hearts, and our souls to a higher frequency.

Lent is an invitation to quit rationalizing our bad habits, bad attitudes, bad decisions (aka ‘sins’) and wrestle.

Over the years (I am now the grandmother asking the pesky question) I have learned that wrestling is an essential part of Lent. Well, of course, it's an essential part of conscious life, Christian or otherwise, but we are called to take the time during these weeks when the seasons change from bare branches and dark to blossoms and light and exercise this ancient skill.

 But facing our sins is an exercise in morbidity if there is no hope of redemption and forgiveness. That's where prayer and grace, discipline and perseverance come in. That's where the Holy Spirit and the sacraments enter.  And a very inconvenient command to our spoiled self indulgence to ‘Repent and believe the Gospel’.  

May the God of peace make you perfect and holy; and may you all be kept safe and blameless, spirit, soul and body, for the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. 1 Thessalonians 5:23 

(This post first appeared in Catholic Stand




The Pebble

If you watch TV at all (and I watch it all too much) you cannot help but see the jewelry store ad with the penguins. Oh, it's so sweet when the cute boy penguin waddles over to a girl he's been working up the courage to talk to and drops a pebble at her feet. We anticipate a cozy cuddle and the two of them waddling off to happily ever after.

Alas, she waddles away. Poor guy. We were rooting for you.

In this world of penguin wooing, there is a clever fellow who dazzles his sweetie with gold and diamonds and she snuggles up with him. That's how you find true love, kiddos!

Wow and Merry Christmas to you too, you jaded cold hearted, well, you can fill in the adjective.

I know the jewelry store is trying to make a buck or two. I know that the 'Holiday Season' is their make or break time of year. I know that shiny jewelry at Christmas has become part of our mythos. Heck, I got a lovely shiny ring at Christmas many years ago from my honey and we've been happily ever after for several decades.

We in our house agree that the schlub with the pebble is cuter and more lovable than the slick haired piece of poultry who dazzles his honey with a rock that refracts sunlight and blinds the silly hen to his shallow heart.

Yes, I know I am super-imposing my own take on the birds in this thirty second romance. I do that sort of thing.

The humble full-hearted gift of love (see, I am granting the pebble penguin sincerity and not stinginess) resonates true considering the original Christmas presents were given to a boy tucked in to a bale of hay and kept warm by donkeys and sheep. 

Would the parum-pa-pa-pumming of The Little Drummer Boy be covered by crooners and rock stars all these years if it didn't resonate as true?

Merry! Merry!


It's been a while and I don't know if I still have readers.  but I thought I'd check in, share a few thoughts, and say Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas.

Speaking of Christmas and the yearly nonsense spouted about Nativity Scenes and the insipid Happy Holidays greeting we are assaulted with and how the entire national and thus, world, economy depends on buying lots of stuff for an event that no one is allowed to name, I shake my head. I wonder. Then I shake my head some more.

Now, I love Christmas. I love the lights and Santa and children touched by magic and mystery and hope and love. I believe that Santa and decorated trees in our living room, along with silly and sacred songs and big doses of imagination are a wonderful introduction to miracles and apprehending the Divine. Just as I am irritated by the nasty-no-fun-don't-put-Baby Jesus-in-the-town-square folks, I am almost equally annoyed at nasty-no-fun-don't-talk-about-Santa religious grumps.

But, mostly, I am irritated at the nasty grumps who bar the door to the Holy Family looking for a safe place to receive the Son of God. Talk about no room at the Inn.

When people state that the world is getting worse and worse, I would, in my reasonable let's not get carried away voice, say that we don't really know its worse, its just that we see the bad and the ugly all day long on our ubiquitous devices.

Lately, though, I have come to agree with the 'it's worse' folks.

There has always been sin and intolerance and greed and murder. There have always been crazed warriors who will try to make their argument with a sword and lopping off heads. There has always been killing of the innocents.

But. But. Public discourse in our country is downright nasty. I can hardly check in on Facebook without being assaulted by soapbox rantings and hate. The world seems darker. Life, more tenuous. Random acts of violence is the daily news.

But, again, but. Look at the face of a child, an innocent, beautiful child, and there it is. There it is. Hope and life and love. Divine power and Light. 

In our little cells of faith, of hope, of love, keep the light shining. The light that led the shepherds and the Magi to Jesus. The light that darkness cannot overcome. 

Merry Christmas.

St Clare and The Morning Offering

photo by Peter Damour, Sacristan, St. Clare Parish

photo by Peter Damour, Sacristan, St. Clare Parish

*O Jesus, through the Immaculate Heart of Mary, I offer you my prayers, works, joys, and sufferings of this day for all the intentions of your Sacred Heart, in union with the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass throughout the world, for the salvation of souls, the reparation of sins, the reunion of all Christians, and in particular for the intentions of the Holy Father this month. Amen.*

The halls were cool. Large pale ceramic tiles lined the walls, the floors polished by Mr. Jensen, every afternoon, so I thought. We knew to be quiet and respectful in these halls, except of course when it was nearly impossible at 3 o'clock and our capacity for stillness was wrung out and we needed to run and chatter and play and burst into the sunshine or the rain or snow. But we weren't released until the entire class could line up quietly and proceed in an orderly fashion.

Every morning began with the Morning Offering and the Pledge of Allegiance. A large crucifix over the speaker box, an American flag in its pole, Sr. Mary Norbert leading us.

Catholicism and patriotism twined. I entered St. Clare School in September, 1963, not yet six years old. My oldest brother was in the 8th grade, my sister in the 6th, the next brother in the 4th and there were two more at home who would be enrolled. My little piece of the world, Rosedale, New York, on the southeast edge of Queens, was a wonderful place for children. And boy, were there children. We were Baby Boomers: our fathers fought in World War II, victorious over the forces of darkness that threatened to destroy all goodness. We were born into a time of peace and prosperity. For all I knew in 1963, everyone was Catholic, everyone attended St. Clare's School and Church. And, we had a Catholic President. 

Life was good. Life made sense.

We were on the cusp of Vatican II changes; the nuns wore starched white crown and bib, black veil, with voluminous organdy skirts and around their waists a large rosary with a crucifix—the crucified Savior swinging past us as Sister paced the aisles checking to see that we were doing our work. We made First Communion in First Grade with the Latin Mass. We we introduced into the mysterious, powerful words and if we were paying attention, we were seized with the power of the presence of Christ. 

How could we not be? Our young souls were drenched in the mysteries, the discipline, the prayers and the oft repeated lives of the saints, our heroes and heroines, who gave everything, even their lives, to defend the truth of our faith.

And, importantly, there was St. Clare. She stood watch over us from the first floor hallway, across from the principal's office. She stood, head bowed in reverence at the monstrance housing the Blessed Sacrament. And at her feet was a sword and arrow, shattered. The message was clear to my child mind. It is, and always will be, the power of Christ that will conquer all adversaries, vanquish all evil.

(To those modern day liturgical  iconoclasts who dismiss the teaching power of stained glass windows, statues and icons, here is my witness.)

On the feast of St. Clare (I get an email for the saint of the day) I reread a bit of her bio. She was an early feminist—-rejecting her parents plans for her to marry and running away to meet with St. Francis and found an order of nuns, the Poor Clares.

She lived a rugged life and suffered from poor health. In the year 1240, her home of Assisi was overrun by Saracens bent on destroying Christianity and slaying all Christians. Though she was confined to bed because of illness, her frightened charges pled with her to protect them from the army at their convent door. She arose, removed the monstrance from their chapel and held it up against their would be murderers. The Saracens fled, unable to withstand the holy presence of the Body of Christ, enshrined in the monstrance. Thus, the sword and arrow, shattered, at her feet.

But, that was more than 700 years before. Things like that didn't happen anymore. Christian persecution was a thing of the past. History. Thank God that was all behind us. 

What did I know? I was six. I lived in a bubble, a happy child who loved school and church, loved the comfort of the holy colors and aromas and the beautiful, reassuring sacredness that I was privileged to be wrapped in.

Before Thanksgiving of First Grade, the world began to shatter. Caroline Kennedy and I were the same age, born in the same month. Our mothers even combed our thick blondish hair in the same fashion. Her father was killed and it changed the world. Could my father, every bit as much a hero, be killed?

An era was over. It was a short era, granted, and it was killed with gunshots in Dallas.

And then the Sixties really began to happen. Social unrest, riots, war, everything questioned and scoffed. Christianity laughed at as a pleasant delusion to keep the masses down. Nothing new there, just that now they had microphones and TV cameras and the subtleties of tossing everything up for grabs and not waiting to see what stuck. The idea of the Sacred and the everlasting was for fools. Only the now, man, that's the only thing that matters. Peace out and be groovy. Here, take a toke if you want to see mysteries.

Over the years I have learned that all those holy colors and aromas and rites were not a pleasant distraction, a magnificent pageant. No, they all were centered in Christ crucified and Christ Risen. And the cloud of witnesses, the saints and the holy ones, whose very core, stripped of all the world has to offer, is Jesus.

When the world crashes down around your ankles, and the Saracens are at the gate, what is it that will save us?

Ask St. Clare.