The Big Send Off - day one, in which the girls have a little fun and the packing begins

Megan Colleen will be heading to college in North Carolina on Thursday of this week. Today is Tuesday. Yesterday I decided to take the rest of the week off from work to spend time with my youngest and help her with last minute shopping and packing. 

First, we decided a lunch out was in order and we asked Katie and Erin to join us. Of course, baby Isaac came, too! We went to TGI Fridays:

 

The food was delicious and we enjoyed our time together.

A photo op outside the restaurant before we headed home:

Aww!

Poor Megan!

That's better!

Sister and nephew love!

Later, we finished up some shopping and returned home so Megan could start packing:

I love Megan's little bedroom. It has so very much to say. In her absence it will continue to hold all these little pieces of her. When my heart misses her too much, I will find refuge here. 

I will lie on her bed and soak her in. 

A Farewell Song

She did not appreciate August's arrival. Not this August heralding to the world that she would indeed be 50 years old in less than two weeks. As though that did not inflict enough pain, "And your Megan is moving on; moving out!" August sneered. She knew she wasn't ready for this. This 'next chapter' as some refer to the span when mothering as you've always known it ends. When parenting assumes a new arrangement; when all of your children are no longer children and the challenge of parenting young adults begins, or in her case continues and has already seen an end. "There is nothing more I can teach them," she mourns. The molding and shaping has taken place and now it's up to them to do with it what they will. All she can do now is hope and pray.

She cannot for the life of her figure out why it is so damn hard and why it makes her feel so old. She wonders if those who welcome and celebrate 50 are only fooling themselves. And if it is so easy, why the barrage of magazine and newspaper articles constantly cajoling us to embrace our maturity (old is derogatory; profane), to laud the big 5-O and beyond? Why must we be convinced? Because in the end all the diets, exercise programs, vitamin supplements, surgeries, etc., will not stop the aging process. So, now after the onslaught of how to stop the effects of aging, we are told that it is actually okay. Don't fret, REJOICE! At 50, life is only beginning! At least according to AARP magazine. "Oh," she hums, "a senior's life is the life for me!" A senior's life, it is a merry life. He robs young girls of their hearts' delight, leaving them behind to weep and mourn ...

She hears her mother's voice telling her she has absolutely nothing to fret about. She considers her blessings; the gifts she has been given and knows beyond a doubt her mother is right. Nevertheless, she can't help but wonder how to accept the wiry chin hair erupting out of nowhere (they weren't there yesterday, I swear!), the hot flashes leaving her bedewed in a fine, torrid mist, and almost worse, the sense of foreboding and despair signaling the onset of each hellish wave, and finally, a dulling intellect. She's offered it in prayer, but has received nothing. How does one age gracefully?

She knows her mother is right as she considers each one of her four children, an endearing son-in-law and now a beautiful, precious grandson. He illuminates her world. She knows her relationship with her girls is enviable. Others have told her so. And she knows that even her son, whom she frets over, cries herself to sleep over and prays for constantly, is really a very good boy. Deep down.Yet, no longer a boy. A young man with ideas and hopes and dreams. At times she sees him vulnerable and so utterly exposed just as he once was and has always been. She thinks about the woman with the hemorrhage who desperately wanted to be healed and knew she could be, if she could only reach out and touch the hem of Jesus' cloak. "I know," she prays, "if You could just talk to him, my boy, I know he'll be okay - he'll be just fine!" He knows, too. But he must listen. Yes, she knows and continues reaching and hoping and praying. And never ceasing loving him, her boy.

Seeking joy she finds them, her daughters. Each one unique; each one so very lovely like bumble bees bumping along the breeze. Virtuous, intelligent women fiercely devoted to their God and their family. How wonderful to be their mother and friend. Having already sent all but one off to college, and two across the sea for a spell and one to married life, you would think she'd be used to it. The good-byes. But the one coming is harder than all of the others. Her heart wonders how she will manage it. Her baby is going ... your Megan is moving on; moving out. She remembers days when life with her young daughter was nerve wracking; difficult days that she much rather forget. Two rough stones tumbling and knocking about until all the jagged edges were at once worn smooth. Yes, of course there are the many treasured mellifluous moments, more than she can easily recall, but her heart knows them so very well. It's her tempest child, now grown a bit more tame, whom she will miss the most.

I woke up this morning, a funny taste in my head. Spackled some butter over my whole grain bread. Something tastes different, maybe it's my tongue. Something tastes different, suddenly I'm not so young.

And so she sings her farewell song.


(c) 2010 Darby C. Fitzpatrick

The Fruits of His Labor

This is my husband, the gardener. Sometimes, for fun and when I'm feeling especially affectionate, I call him Farmer Jim.

 This is his vegetable garden in our back yard. He's been keeping a garden for as long as I've known him.

I'm sorry I wasn't thinking about snapping a photo of the huge bushel of tomatoes he and Katie (who is a wannabe farmer herself) picked the other day. Goodness gracious, you should have seen them all! Now they're all in jars as Farmer Jim has been canning them all day. 

At any rate, here are some photos of the fruits of his labor.

Gorgeous!

I'm using these to make a sauce to go with some tortellini.

So exciting!

Such cute little guys, eh?

First, the Dills

And then the Bread & Butter

A few of what we have stored in the pantry.

YUM!

The Riviera

On the corner, a stone's throw from our cottage, lies the Riviera Resort with it's hodge-podge of buildings and an array of boats, jet skis and other lake toys that for the most part seem to have been in hibernation this week. Life at the Riviera seems eerily quiet. It is there, at their restaurant, Matthew's, that we ate dinner the other night.

The resort, despite it's name, has a Bavarian Alpine look to it. Once a hunting and fishing club, there are large depictions of forest animals painted on the sides of the buildings. Rabbits, deer, wolves and the like. On the porch outside the restaurant entombed in glass stands an old Bavarian wooden wine cask with elaborate carvings of faces and other symbols. Tacked to the side is an explanation of all the symbols typed in letters so small even with my reading glasses I could barely read it.

A slender man with a goofy smile nervously greeted us as we stepped inside the restaurant.

"Well, hello there! Table for six? Let's see now do you have a reservation? No, no I don't see a party of six reserved, but you know what? That's okay! We are so glad you are here! We don't have our liquor license yet, so I can't offer you any drinks, but look over there - I've got a beautiful big, keg ready to go, only I can't serve the beer just yet."

We all just blinked at him. He jabbered on about how ever since he's closed on Mondays, now the food truck doesn't come until Thursday and often times he doesn't get his deliveries on time. Ever since, "it's been a little confusing around here."  That explains it, I thought, why we are all struggling to figure out a point to his babbling like a pot of oatmeal boiling over. He seemed to think we knew he used to be open on Mondays and I guess he thought we were hoping for a beer or two.

We were seated in the dining area closest to the entrance. A handful of other diners, all of them seniors, were finishing their dinners. I sat in an odd, little wooden chair dwarfed by the other five chairs. The man self-consciously explains the mismatch and in the same breath asks us what we'd like to drink.

"No, the ice tea comes from a box" he explained to Pat. "But folks say it's very good!"

"What kind is it?" 

"Lipton."

"Hmm, well is it sweet?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any juice?"

"Yes, we do, but only grape," he said apologetically.

"Grape?? That's perfect."

He, too eagerly, took the rest of our drink orders and left. The restaurant had an odd sixties ambiance. Michael Row Your Boat Ashore flowed across the room from a radio behind the bar. Part of me was eight years old again. Perhaps I should have ordered a Shirley Temple with an extra cherry like I did in 1968 when my parents took me out to dinner for my birthday.

The waitress, a plump and boisterous woman named Renee, came over and asked if our drinks had been ordered. A short while later she appeared with a tray full of beverages. Water, ice tea (unsweetened), a diet Pepsi for Erin because they did not have diet Coke and Megan's Arnold Palmer.

"Wait a minute, we're short one. What did you order, sir?"

"Grape juice."

"Grape juice? We don't have grape juice. You sure?"

"I was told you have grape juice."

"Well, I've worked at Matthew's for fourteen years and we've never had grape juice. But that doesn't mean I'm right; I could be wrong." She scrambled off to check.

"We only have sparkling grape juice - like champagne. Sorry. I guess Matthew was mistaken."

"Well, do you have juice?"

"Yes, orange."

"No, thanks. I'll have water."

"Okay, sorry about that. I'll be right back with your water." A few minutes later a younger waitress with a wide smile walks over to our table and sets a big glass of grape juice on the table in front of Pat.

"Look what we found just for you! Sorry about the mix up. Seems we had it back there after all!"  she chirped to Pat like he was ten years old.

My brother, Fr. Jim, ordered stuffed mushroom caps as an appetizer to share with everyone. Cheerily, Renee informs us that she'll get the order in right away as they take a little time to bake and then come back to take our dinner orders. About ten minutes later she returns saying, "Your mushrooms are going to be real fresh 'cause Matthew's back there making them up as we speak." I briefly pictured Matthew in the kitchen freaking out because there were no mushroom caps made up ahead of time. I wondered if he did all the cooking himself or perhaps he had a chef who didn't show up because they used to be closed on Wednesdays and he forgot.

A couple arrives and Renee welcomes them warmly to Matthew's. She asks if they have a reservation. From my vantage point in my teeny-tiny chair, I could see that the pages in the reservation book were blank! The odd thing is, the place could easily seat about seventy-five people and there were only about a dozen eating there at the time.

"No reservation? Well, that's fine, come on in. Where would you like to sit?"

The woman, unsmiling and angular looks at her husband, who appears to care less, and says, "Right there is fine." She points a bony finger at the table next to ours. Later, the woman asked about the mushroom caps and Renee tells her they don't have any. "The hills are alive with the sound of music ..." drifts from the radio behind the bar.

Only one other couple came in while we were there and they were not asked if they had a reservation. It was about 7:00 and the restaurant closes at 8:00.

As we were finishing our meal, Renee returned to ask if anyone wanted dessert.

"What do you have?"

"Well, all we have is chocolate cake."

Pat asks," What kind of chocolate cake?"

"Not homemade. The people who make our desserts never showed up, so Matthew went out and bought a chocolate cake from a bakery or somewhere." 

"Most likely Wal-Mart." I don't say it out loud.

"It's too bad too, 'cause our homemade desserts are just so good!"

We pass on the chocolate cake and Fr. Jim pays for our meal. As we head for the door, Megan says barely audible,  "That's the weirdest restaurant I've ever been to."

(c) 2010 Darby C. Fitzpatrick

Houghton Musings

About the only thing reminding me of life's imperfection right now is the metallic bitterness assailing my taste buds, suddenly and unannounced. The effects of the extended release antibiotic wreaking havoc on my nasty sinus infection. Harboring some sort of irrational fear of "going to the doctor," I almost never go. My mother used to bribe me to get me there. I have faint memories of her buying me a baby doll from the Salvation Army thrift store, bringing her home and washing her up. My reward for bravely going to the pediatrician's office because of some ailment or another. I think it may have been the day following a night-long nosebleed. My mom, naturally, was worried. The best part about the new baby doll was later my mother bought a pattern from the fabric store and sewed her a whole new, wonderful wardrobe. I think I may still have one of the dresses. My mother was a super seamstress and she sewed a lot when I was growing up.

On Friday, with my throat feeling like Mount Rushmore and a nagging post-nasal drip lasting since Father's Day, I knew it was time to go have it checked out. I am so glad I did as I am feeling almost 100 percent better.

I grocery shopped yesterday at the local Houghton Lake Wal-Mart without a stitch of make-up on my cheeks, my hair a mess and I was wearing a funny, little blue tent-like dress that I think makes me look fat. I didn't care. I also stopped worrying about the sand and dirt being tracked in on the floor of the cottage, realizing it is easily cleaned up with broom and dust pan. Today, I did not make my bed. Finally, I am on vacation.

Along with the warm Michigan sun, I spent the morning soaking up the quiet. Solitude. Alone with only random strings of  words and thoughts, like smooth stones skipping around my head to keep me company. Others were reading, fishing or kayaking - enjoying their own thoughts, their own dreams.

And I am reading. Not like at home, in fits and starts because duty calls, distracts and robs. I am able to read several chapters at a time and stay up all night doing so if I like, although I haven't. I am reading Kathryn Stockett's The Help. It is the author's first book and I read in a magazine that after receiving something like,  45 publisher's rejections in response to her manuscript she stopped counting, yet persevered. An inspiration, certainly, to this wanna be writer. I love southern writers (she is from Mississippi) - for their purity and honesty, for the way they see the world. I am enjoying the book, knowing that I pay almost as much attention to the author's craft as I do her story.

A fierce gale soaring across the lake awakened me at 3:11 a.m. I listened hard for rain, but could not tell if it had started or not. I climbed out of bed ready to close any of the windows left open to give the cool of night permission to enter. At first glance I detected no rain, but I could smell it coming, carried along by the hefty breeze. Peering out into the dark, I could see that the wind was pushing the lake up higher and higher along the sandy shore. I feared our kayaks would float away.

"Jim?" Nothing.

"Honey?" a bit louder now.

"Hmm, what?" His voice peppered with alarm.

I explained my concern for our boats. He jumped up and was out the door, making his way through the pelting of the newly arrived rain to rescue the kayaks and adjust our canoe. He returned, damp and sandy, in time to help me shut the windows against the driving storm. A few we left open, merely a crack, to ward off any possible and likely stuffiness.

We retreated to bed, a bit bleary-eyed, but grateful for the rescue and I delighted by the power of the wind. I slept again, but restlessly until I finally got up at 8:19, my sinuses throbbing. "Why can't you just leave me alone?" I plead, as Colgate Total scrubs away the bitterness from my mouth. For a second or two I considered any bitterness residing in my heart and wondered if that's what I've been tasting.

I wonder now if this week away will provide an opportunity to purge away and cleanse my heart of past wounds, some so ancient - passed down through generations. I cling tightly to old injuries, like barnacles on the pier. Imperfections, bad habits, regrets (I've had a few), and all the things I detest most about myself are barring me, protecting me from what may happen if I simply let go - if I pry them away despite the inevitability of pain and let them just float away. Just like that. I long to be new again.

(c) 2010 Darby C. Fitzpatrick 

My Heart's Desire

"You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you." St. Augustine

The words of the visiting priest keep haunting me. A good examination of conscience at the end of each day is to ask yourself what have I desired? Generally speaking it is He, I desire most. My heart longs for Him, my soul aches for Him. Or so I say. But, and this is a painful admission, in the evening when I reflect on my day, what have I really desired? Do my actions reflect what my heart yearns for most?

If so, why then, do I make excuses for not attending daily Mass regularly? If so, why when my husband asks if I would like to go to Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament with him on Tuesday nights, do I always say, "No, I'm going tomorrow." (It is true that I go on Wednesdays, but why not more often? And why pass up an opportunity to go there to pray with my husband?) If so, why do I spend more time thinking about God than actually talking to Him or listening to Him?

What do I desire? Lots of things, among them a whole host of material wants, a new this and new that. I seem to always want what I don't or can't have. I don't think it's necessarily a bad thing, but when my desire for these things outweighs my gratitude for what I do have and I find myself pouting over my less than 'perfect' house with it's need for upgrades and repairs - that's when I need a reality check. I've fooled myself many a time into thinking my priorities were spot on, but upon closer inspection, no, they're really not. I know I'm in trouble when my desire for things eclipses my desire for Him.

And so, I pray ... Jesus, fill me with desire for You alone. As much as you thirst for me, for all souls, let me thirst for You.  Forgive my selfishness, my desire to satisfy my hunger with material possessions. Give me the grace to know that only You can fill me. Save me from myself.

This night, as I reflect on my day and ask myself what have I desired today, I hope and pray that I can truly and freely answer, "You alone, dear Jesus. You alone."

A Maine Morning

If my mother were here she would delightfully declare, "It's a Maine morning!" That's because this morning in northern Virginia the air is crisp and clean like fine linen. The sun is warm and the light breeze is refreshingly cool with temps hovering in the mid-sixties. The long stretch of record breaking heat and humidity is gone leaving a euphoric, cloudless, sapphire sky absent of any hint of haze.

My mother, a native New Yorker, spent her childhood summers in Maine visiting her mother's family. And it's where I, as a young child, spent at least a week or two each summer visiting my grandmother and great aunts and uncle in Bangor. I loved going there. I have fond memories of exploring my grandmother's house - fascinated by all its charm and peculiarities - including a tiny bathroom tucked away under the stairwell with just room enough for a toilet. A sink where my uncle shaved every morning and washed up for dinner each night was oddly located behind a door off the kitchen. The dining room with its massive, dark furniture seemed gloomy and a bit daunting, but behind it was my grandmother's bedroom. A charming room - immaculate and feminine - smelling sweetly of her perfume. Every once in a while she would invite me in for a friendly, little chat or to show me small trinkets - strings of pearls or lovely brooches.

After my grandfather had died, well before I was born, my grandmother moved back to Maine from New York to live the rest of her life with her two spinster sisters and a brother who had also never married. My Great Uncle Lester was the only one who knew how to drive. On days he wasn't working, we would all pile into his car and off we'd go. We'd head to the rocky coast for a picnic or sometimes just to visit a friend of theirs. I remember my grandmother and great aunts stretching hairnets over their carefully groomed coifs to safeguard them from the blowing wind. Sometimes my mother would drive and we would go to places like Bar Harbor or Booth Bay Harbor. Delightful little towns with quaint shops and cafes.

My favorite trips were the picnics along the shore. There are few places as beautiful as the coastal areas of Maine. One summer, I think I was eight or nine, my parents scooped up my grandmother and drove off to spend a week at a cottage on an inlet on Spruce Head Island. I don't recall many details about the cottage itself, except that it had no heat. My parents slept in the bedroom on the second floor and I vividly remember my father descending the staircase one morning sporting a sweatshirt over his pajamas. It was June and it was freezing at night. I had the luxury of sleeping under an electric blanket with my grandmother in one of the first floor bedrooms. We celebrated her birthday that week and I remember how the light of the full moon waltzed along the surface of the bay. A beautiful, plump birthday moon!

The water was frigid. My brothers and I played along the rocky shore for hours. Sunrise in Maine is very early, so there was no sleeping in. A chorus of sea birds beckoned, "Get up! Get up!" After a quick breakfast we were out the door. The pungent aroma of low tide (somehow both lovely and repugnant) didn't deter our exploring among the huge rocks and digging through the squishy, black mud for clams or any other creature waiting to be discovered.  Down a little way from our cottage was a tiny area of sandy beach. It's where you could actually wade in the water and perhaps stretch out for a swim as the tide was rolling in. You could, that is, if you dared! I dared my brother, Ed and he did! The water in that bay was painfully cold - he was in and out in a flash! We never did swim in the ocean in Maine. I don't think we ever really spent enough time there to build up a tolerance to the water temperature. I do, however, recall spotting a few native, "Mainiacs" (as my parents called them), swimming at the beaches every summer. Brave souls! The cool waters of the Long Island beaches where I was from would probably feel like bath water to them.

Knowing it won't last forever, the dog and I bask in the glory of this beautiful July morning in Virginia. I thank God for the gift of today, for its absolute "scrumptiousness" - and for those long ago days in Maine whose memory fill me with love and dulcitude.

Priscilla Ahn - Dream (Official Video)

Simply Isaac

Andrea Bocelli tells a "little story" about abortion.

Saint Pio, pray for us

Life the past six weeks has been chock full - beginning with the early surprise appearance of our dear, little Isaac Jogues Samuel, followed by graduations, anniversaries, birthdays and a funeral. I found myself spiritually and emotionally drained. I was in dire need of some soul food. The announcement in our parish bulletin about a healing Mass caught my eye. The more I read about it, the more I was determined to attend. It was taking place, after all, on Papa's 94th birthday - June 16th - but it was my recently deceased step-father's connection to Padre Pio that compelled me more.

I didn’t realize that June 16 was also the 8^th anniversary of the canonization of Saint Pio until the visiting priest mentioned it during the Mass last Wednesday night. The visitor, Fr. Pio Mandator, F.M.H.J. is a Franciscan priest living as a missionary hermit in the diocese of Scranton, PA. His parents came from the same town as Saint Pio – Pietrelcina in southern Italy. They knew Padre Pio well. Our pastor invited Fr. Pio to celebrate Mass at our parish and to deliver a homily focusing on Padre Pio as healer. After Mass the congregation was invited to receive individual and family blessings with one of Saint Pio’s gloves.

While he was ill and slowly journeying toward his eternal home, my mother prayed to Saint Pio for her life-long protestant husband’s conversion to Catholicism. And it happened. As I've mentioned in previous posts, my step-father entered into the fullness of Truth and Faith during Holy Week of this year. The event lifted all of us, providing joy where there had only been sorrow and uncertainty. It was an event that gloriously and beautifully propelled my step-dad through pain, suffering and death into the loving arms of His savior. My brother had given Ernest a medal of Padre Pio that had been touched to his tomb. During his illness, on good days and on bad, he asked for that medal and his new-found devotion to this beloved saint provided him comfort and hope throughout his prolonged ordeal.

And so, I was happy to be at that Mass and to pray once again for Saint Pio's intercession on behalf of my step-father's soul. I listened in awe to the stories Fr. Mandator recounted about this willing instrument of God's grace - his ability to read souls, his God-given gift of healing of not only physical ailments, but most importantly of the plague of doubt and unbelief. Always bringing souls to Christ, our Divine Physician.

The Mass was stunningly beautiful. Outwardly, it didn't seem much different from the countless Masses I've attended my entire life and in reality it wasn't. But my experience of it was different and I'm at a loss as to how to describe it accurately. All I can say is that I knew we were not only celebrating Mass in union with all of Heaven - we were indeed in Heaven! All of us - my friends who were suffering physically and emotionally, those who have kept their needs deep in their own hearts for only God to know, and others, strangers to me, but not to God - worshiped there among the angels, the saints, and those who have gone before us - the entire body of Christ. And the words Fr. Mandator had spoken moments earlier during his homily became vividly clear, and all that I had been telling my mom over the past year was affirmed during the Eucharistic prayer. We would all face illness, tragedy and even death, but Christ has conquered death through His own sacrifice on the Cross. Life is eternal and we were made to be in perfect union with our Father.

After Mass,  those present were invited to approach Fr. Mandato to be blessed with one of the saint's gloves. Not a magic wand, Father cautioned, but a relic; a glove Padre Pio wore to cover the wounds of the stigmata. During the blessing, Fr. Mandato explained, he would be asking Padre Pio to intercede on our behalf. Being a hermit, and in the tradition of the early desert monks, Fr. Mandato also provided each individual and family a few words (hopefully divinely inspired) that we could take with us to meditate upon and perhaps live by. Those with infirmities or with young children were given permission to 'cut in line'. I sat and watched throngs of people approach Fr. Pio, some in tears, some radiating joy. My own eyes filled with tears (as they had done many times throughout the evening) when I saw my dear friends, Kathy and Lyle, with all their progeny in tow, walk up to receive their blessing. Kathy has written a lovely piece about this on her blog, Faith on the High Wire. It's a beautiful testimony to why Padre Pio is important to their lives and what it meant for Kathy to be present at this Mass of healing and renewal.

As I waited my turn to be blessed, I listened to the organist play "Here, I am Lord" - one of the hymns we sang at Papa's funeral and I knew that the good Padre Pio had heard my prayers and was lifting them up with his own. I left that night blessed and rejuvenated and walking on air.

Saint Pio, pray for us.

(c) Darby C. Fitzpatrick 2010