There’s a ritual in my family.  It’s pasta on Sundays.  We all do it, my six sisters and I.  We’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember and likely many generations before us.  We’re Italian. Finamore as in fin (the end or ultimate, depending on your interpretation) and amore (love). In truth, my sisters and I are only half Italian, but we never really identified as anything but Italian.  My mother is mixture of Scotch Irish and French.  Saying we were Italian was easier because my father is all Italian. We identified with the ancestry with the highest percent affiliation. Majority rules in bloodlines, I suppose.

There was plenty of food on Sunday, even if it meant eating popcorn for dinner other nights.  Feeding seven kids on my mother’s receptionist’s salary was no small feat, so we made do.  But every Sunday was the same -- always “sauce” which meant marinara sauce. It would be decades before I knew that term.  We just said sauce.  There was no other kind.  If we were speaking to non-family members, then we might say “spaghetti sauce” just to be clear, but for all of us, we knew what we meant by “sauce.”    

Mass was at 10:30 so mom was either up early to put the sauce on or we’d make it the day before.  When made ahead, my sister Gloria, just three years older than me and the closest in age, would fight with me over who got to squeeze the tomatoes. Somehow feeling the canned whole tomatoes erupt from the pressure of my squeeze was a thrill for me.  I’m guessing it was for Gloria as well because of the fierce battle that usually ensued to see who mom would choose for the job.  “You did it last time.” “No, I didn’t you did.” “Mom, he’s lying, can I do it this time, please?” Being the distributor of justice, Mom would usually split the task up so that she didn’t have to listen to any more griping.  “Frankie, you open the can and Gloria you can squeeze the tomatoes in.  Then, Frankie do you want to mix the meatballs?”  “OK!” I’d say enthusiastically. Squeezing the meat was the  best job -- even better than the tomatoes.  You get to feel the cold meat ooze between your fingers. 

Now a man, I wonder about the fascination with the squeezing.  Was it just that it felt good or that, for a moment, I had been given some preferred status by mom?  With seven, individual attention didn’t come easy or often so be the chosen one perhaps took on special significance. Looking back now I wish I’d hung back a bit more and seceded more attention to Gloria. Perhaps my wanting to be acknowledged led to her being less so. I’m not sure, but I imagine today that she doesn’t often see the beauty and love that is within her.  But my five year old self, could only gloat a bit in having been rewarded the more sought-after job of making the meatballs.   

After Mass, my father, Frank Sr., would come to visit. We didn’t know exactly when he’d arrive.  He didn’t call and we didn’t know how to reach him.  He would just show up, usually with soda, wine and beer in hand.  His contribution to our weekly family event.  We all looked forward to it, although I’m not sure how my mother felt.  It’s amazing to me now that she would cook and clean each week for her estranged husband.   But then again, love and rejection, I know, often leads one to doing what might seem puzzling to outsiders.

To me, my father represented a strange masculinity that I was unaccustomed to the other six days of the week.  He was scruffy and although I couldn’t wait for his kiss, like his love, it always hurt a bit.  His mustache was bristly against my smooth skin.  But we always kissed anyway.  It was probably the one way that my gender didn’t affect our relationship.  He dolled out hugs and kisses to his female children and me equally and always with a squeeze of the cheek to follow.  Perhaps it was being Italian that made it acceptable.  All of the men in my extended family kiss each other.  It shows our love and respect for one another. 

The meal was the centerpiece of the day and we made it stretch on for hours, with games and conversation between courses of pasta, eggplant, bragiole (thin strips of beef and garlic, rolled and cooked in the sauce), salad, casatiello (Italian Easter bread), and usually dessert.  We began eating and drinking almost as soon as Daddy arrived.  First a bit of sauce and bread.  “Just to tide you over” Mom would say.  With lots of ground pepper and parmesan on top. Is there a better food?  Looking back now I know at some deeper level that we were not only physically hungry, but also hungry for a sense of normalcy.  We were perhaps more accustomed to our physical hunger.  The late 60’s and 70’s wasn’t exactly the most comfortable or accepting time to be from a “broken” family of Italian Catholics. 

Today, I still cook sauce on Sundays.  I guess I am a creature of habit, a product of my ancestry, or both. Without pasta, the day feels somehow incomplete.  It grounds me in my heritage, but also in that sense of the importance of family, in whatever configuration, to feeling loved, secure, and happy.  I can only hope that my son feels that each day, but especially over shared meals.  Sacred meals that feed our souls as much as our stomachs. Knowing that my sisters are also likely having the same meal, although thousands of miles away, brings warmth to my heart.  The same warmth that I felt from them while growing up, trying to make sense of our our family in that idyllic suburban setting where every other house looked the same, except ours only had one parent on most days.

I have a confession to make.  I kind of relish that I shock people when they find out that I am both a Catholic and a “practicing” Catholic, meaning that I still got to Mass on a routine basis.  Just this week, one of my colleagues asked me why I didn’t go to a dinner and when I told him that it was Holy Thursday and that I went to Mass instead, I could see his unspoken questions on his face.  I thought Frank was gay?  He goes to Church?

So, there’s my confession.  I like to shock people a bit.  But more importantly, I want them to know that I will not be shut out.  In fact, I demand to be included, even if the hierarchy of my own church acts against me -- or people like me.  I believe that the hierarchy has gotten it wrong and by my presence I’m taking my seat in the pew just like Rosa Parks took hers on the bus.  Except, my road is made easier.  No one at my church, a small concrete block structure just outside of Washington, DC, would ever exclude me.  They too want me there.  

There’s power is their inclusion. I feel it in the depth of my being that I am one of the tribe. As such, I also bear the same heavy responsibilities as all tribe members to care for our sisters and brothers.  The real cost of inclusion is loving others, meeting their needs, reaching outside of ourselves.  For me, that’s the true meaning of Church.  

Happy Easter!

My friend Jim died thirteen years ago and yet he is somehow as present with me today as he was while still alive.  Perhaps more so.  Sometimes, I think he haunts me - but always in a good way.  Helping me to do my best, telling me to not be too hard on myself, but most importantly, to carry on his message of hope and love.  

Jim, or Fr. Healy, was my pastor.  He was a Catholic priest who died of AIDS.  Somewhat controversial in the mid-nineties.  I remember being totally surprised of his diagnosis.  Not because I ever really believed that priests were perfect, always celibate, or anything like that.  No, I was surprised because it was hard to believe that Jim had personal passions.  He drove an old station wagon and only seemed passionate about establishing a greater social justice in our world.  

A gifted and animated liturgist, I listened to him, filled with the fire of love for his sisters and brothers, nearly beg and plead for those of us in the pews of that humble, concrete block church to take action.  Write our congressperson, donate some of our treasure, make a meal for the homeless shelter.  Anything, but something.  His message is simple , hopeful, and tough.  It goes something like this:

It’s a message that is both uplifting and hugely challenging.  Perhaps it’s that message that haunts me because of its power in my life. And the power to change the world.  I want to believe that we can do that.  I want to raise my son in a way that he will grow up to believe this message.  That he will own his responsibility for being part of it. For doing his share.

I believe in Jim’s message so much that I’ve created a blog where his weekly homilies can be heard  as podcasts decades after he first delivered them.  Although this isn’t an advertisement for that site, those interested can check it out at  www.fatherhealy.com Listening to his messages again now, week after week, brings tears to my eyes once more.  It also brings a renewed sense of urgency to do more.

I guess what amazes me most about my being haunted by Jim and his words is that somehow he’s penetrated the core of my being.  Struck gold, as it were.  I know there’s no going back, only looking forward, always questioning my role and my responsibilities to others.  I wish I were as selfless as these words may make me appear, but I do wonder out loud here what our world might be like if we each did more for others. Like my mother’s handwritten reminder on her refrigerator says, “I live simply so that others may simply live.”  How can I live more simply is a great question.

But how we take action seems important too.  I remember from my sophomore year Basic Judaism class that there is a commandment in the old testament that says that farmers should leave one corner of their crop unharvested.  Doing so means that those needing food can retrieve what they need, but without the shame or embarrassment of having to go to the center of the field where they might be seen.  Just as Jim’s words of love, hope, and responsibility have stayed with me throughout the years, this biblical story has as well.

In today’s modern world, where few of us are farmers, but all of us with gifts, what field might we leave unharvested so that others may eat? 

The harder she squeezed, the more she loved you.  That is what we told ourselves.  Well, that is what I told myself to soothe my aching cheek.  Known as Gang Gang because my oldest sister, Susan, the oldest grandchild, couldn’t say grandma.  My cousins the Peakes called her Wawwy and the my other cousins, the other Finamores, called her Granny.  I never liked that.  She was only 59 when she died.  Too young to be called Granny.  I prefer Gang Gang.

I stood at the bottom step with my six sisters lined up the stairs in order by age.  We’d see that 1969 white Chevrolet Impala with a black vinyl top and a plastic orange flower taped to the antenna coming down Grayson Road.  What excitement that Gang Gang and Pop Pop were visiting.  I was in my green velvet suit and it wasn’t even Christmas, Easter, or a Feast Day.  The sauce and lasagna were ready. Meatballs made. Salad chilling in the refrigerator.  We were ready to act as if our Dad, their son, lived with us. It was Sunday, his day to visit us. But first we had to endure the squeezing of our cheeks.  The pain was somehow enjoyable. I was either a masochist or a sadist.  I didn’t know the difference then.  I still don’t know, but I know that I don’t like to cause pain.  I don’t like receive to pain either, but if given the choice between giving or receiving, I think I’d prefer to receive pain.

In any event, at six, I didn’t have a choice. I was the receiver. The door opened and we all screamed and yelled hello to Gang Gang, always the dominant figure among the two, despite the hugeness of Pop Pop.  A result of too much pasta and probably too much alcohol.  We loved them both, but Gang Gang’s personality made her stand out.  She stood out like a cherry flavored lolipop.  I love cherry flavored anything.  One time Peter, my partner of fifteen years, and I ate cherry pie every night for six weeks while our kitchen was being renovated. 

But on that Sunday morning, just after 10:30 am Mass at Our Lady of Angels at 1 Mary’s Way, after having lived through an unintelligible homily by Fr. Welch, we were finally ready in the receiving line for Gang Gang.  First there was her warm, wet kiss.  Being the first, there was a trace of her bright red lipstick that was in sharp contrast to her jet black Italian hair.  I loved her face, her hair, her roundish body, and brash mannerisms.  Sometimes I can’t wait to die, believing that there must be an afterlife, because I want to see her again.  I want to have a conversation with her.  I want to ask her so many questions, like why she seemed to favor her oldest son, my uncle John.  But I also want to ask her where she got the recipe for President Kennedy’s Seafood Casserole.  A few years ago, I found her old recipe book and recreated a booklet of my favorite ones for my family members, including that casserole.  

But there on that bottom step, after the kiss, I knew to expect her thumb and forefinger.  They would squeeze my cheek until it hurt, until I couldn’t feel it any longer.  I loved that pain.  I loved her more than I knew.  

I wasn’t allowed to go to her funeral because I was too young.  It was that same year that I remember standing on the steps.  She died suddenly in Rome.  Her dream was to go back to Italy, her homeland that she’d never seen as a second generation immigrant.  She wanted to go there and then onto Lourdes to finally be cured of the cancer that ate through her ovaries.  But she never made it.  She died a  day after my birthday.  Her limbs turned black and in two days she was dead.  Maybe a bad blood transfusion to make her feel good for her transatlantic flight or maybe a return of the cancer.  It didn’t matter any longer because she was gone.

No more squeezing, but after the initial shock and sadness and largeness of her absence, we went on.  We went on, loving our Pop Pop who became bigger in our minds and in his girth.  God I loved him.  And Gang Gang became a mythical figure with images of her forever woven into the folklore of our large Italian clan.  Taken too soon, but somehow always in our hearts and in our stories.

When she cooked she moved about her tiny kitchen of apartment 109 on Manchester Avenue as if she was the only one in it.  I was in between her and the aluminum foil in the third drawer. She reached and opened the door, pushing me out of the way, but not on purpose, but merely because I was there. It was her kitchen and she was in a hurry.  She needed the foil.  The next time, I’d move.  I’d get out of her way, but I wouldn’t leave that tiny kitchen where I could get all sorts of morsels of food and taste the pasta before it was done.  No, like most everyone, I wanted to be with her.  Near her.  In her way, even if it meant pain.  The pain of be squeezed harder than I thought possible.  The pain of being pushed aside.  It was all worth it.  Gang Gang exuded love, compassion, and caring for us, her grandchildren.  

Now she resides forever on Georgia Avenue in Gate of Heaven Cemetery in Silver Spring, Maryland.  Not Silver Springs, no there was just one spring.  And Gate of Heaven.  Only the gate.  I hope that she got in further than the gate.  If she didn’t then there’s no hope for any of us.  If there is no heaven, then I’ll never see her again and my six-year old memories of her will have to suffice.  For the time being, they do suffice.  I feel close to her, connected in some way that is impossible to explain. Like somehow she lives on in me.  Not only in my memories of her but in what I do.

I squeeze my son’s cheeks and he runs.  The dogs are more tolerant.  I love them all and I squeeze their cheeks with regularity.  My mother-in-law has the world’s best cheeks for squeezing.  I’d love to grab them and just squeeze all of the blood right out of them.  It would feel so good to do it.  Maybe I like giving pain more than I want to admit.  But the site of those bulbous mounds of flesh high on her protruding cheekbones are so tempting.  I wish I could muster up the guts to make that squeeze, but instead I try to put my son up to the task.  He loves her, although I’m sure that she wouldn’t love him if he actually squeezed her cheeks.  What else can I say, but her cheeks tempt me.

When does an action become one’s trademark?  The squeezing of cheeks was and somehow still is my Gang Gang’s and she has been dead since July 18, 1972.  The last picture was taken on July 15th  in St. Peter’s Square in front of a granite column.  That picture, now an 8 by 10 is on my dresser.  I look at it every day, sometimes many times a day.  She still stands out although her husband is there.  What is she saying to me?  What is she communicating with that smile, like the Mona Lisa?  I’ve had that picture in my bedroom for six years now and I still can’t tell. I want to ask her, but she just smiles.  Maybe she’s happy that I remember her squeezing, maybe she’s happy that President Kennedy’s Seafood Casserole lives on after her death, or maybe she’s just dead. Gone forever.  I don’t know, but I do know that I love her, not loved her, but presently love her for the excitement that she represented to me and the pain that somehow felt good and has stayed with me now into my forty-third year.

A bridge.  That’s how I often think of myself.  Connecting people. Not letting anyone go.    Never wanting anyone to feel left out. Not wanting to be left out myself.  I think it started when I was a kid. I can picture my mother and some of my sisters sitting around the kitchen table in our house on Grayson Road. The same house my mother still lives in, but alone now with 4 spare bedrooms.  

They sat around that table talking, telling stories, laughing and likely drinking and smoking.  It was the 70’s. My sisters and their friends were old enough to drink and my mother was more liberal then. Everybody smoked. There were more women in that house than I could count, but I loved it. Sometimes I wasn’t sure who of my sisters’ friends lived with us for a time and who was just visiting. 

Today, nearly forty years later I’m still in touch with many of those girls, now women.  I have to be careful on facebook not to compliment just one because then the others will chime in that I didn’t say anything about them. I should know better anyway, but sometimes something is so endearing, a smile, a comment, or a memory that I feel the need to reconnect with them and give a compliment.  Not ever meaning to exclude the others.

Relationships are like flowers in my garden. Always precious and surprising in their splendor.  I feel so grateful for the people that I’ve been lucky enough to have in my life.  Each one gives me something different and touches me in ways that last through the years.  Sometimes nourishment in times of a drought.  Always comforting, even in just reliving memories from around the table.

Whenever someone learns that I am the last of seven children and the only boy raised by a single mother,  I can anticipate their next question.  What was it like growing up in a house full of women? 

What I’d really like to say is that women take forever to get ready and hog bathrooms. I know it’s a stereotype and generally I am against stereotypes, especially the sexist ones, but growing up with my mother, six sisters, and their assorted girlfriends in the house, I think I have some street cred.  Sure, our house had three bathrooms, but in my experience, they were hard to get into.

“Wait.  I am putting on my makeup!” someone would yell as I slowly opened a bathroom door. It was soon slammed shut and locked for good measure. Why they didn’t lock it in the first place is another matter. One down two to go. To the master bath.  Unfortunately, to get into that one required entry into the master bedroom which was always a problem.  Someone was always in some stage of dressing or undressing in front of the largest mirror in the house.  Usually it was Patti, my second oldest sister.  More than once, I’d opened that door only to see a towel on Patti’s head and then hear the scream. “Ahh...Frankie, I’m getting dressed!” I saw her naked so many times, that I eventually I didn’t flinch, but just closed the door quickly. It seemed comical to me that she had a towel on her head but nothing on her body.  How was her hair going to get dry when she had it wrapped in a towel?  Why didn’t she use two towels -- one for her head and one for her body? These were questions that I thought but knew that I couldn’t actually ask.  

I’d try the downstairs bathroom, but I really didn’t want to because it was, well, downstairs.  Strange things lurked down there.   Most likely, Chrissy or Peggy would be in that bathroom anyway.  Probably Chrissy.  Peggy was more of a tomboy so she claimed less bathroom time than the others.  If I’d find one miraculously empty,  someone would usually yell “Put the seat up!”  I didn’t need the reminder.  I’d learned early on after potty training that I’d better do that. What could be worse than hearing the scream of a woman sitting down on a toilet without a seat?  And why did they wait until the very last moment to go which caused them to be in such a hurry that they didn’t notice that the seat was up?  Couldn’t we all take responsibility for moving the seat appropriately for what we were doing and leave the seat in the down and covered position for the next user?  More unspoken questions. I took the easy route and just put the damn seat up when I went and down when I was done, always with the lid closed.  They hardly ever closed the lid, not that I’m bitter or anything.  I’m just saying.

I speak to at least one of my sisters every day.  Today, I spoke to both Toni and Peggy.  Yesterday, I talked to Susan three times. I know their phone numbers by heart.  Chrissy actually quizzed me on her number once when I went a long stretch without calling. I love them.  Can’t imagine my life without them, but I sure am glad that I don’t have to share a bathroom with them any longer, or wait for them to get ready for church, or God forbid go clothes shopping with them.  Some things in life are best left as childhood memories. So, my standard answer to the recurring question of what is was like is usually “interesting and I wouldn’t change it for the world.” 

A 1972 Chevy Nova passed me by today.  Orange with two blue stripes down the hood no less. My mind went back to Mrs. Johnson in the cafeteria of Marumsco Hills Elementary School.  She drove a Nova.  Somehow I noticed that fact as she drove along Grayson Road and it has stayed with me for 38 years or so now.  

Kids made fun of her. "Eeeww, she just ate the old sandwich off that plate!" someone would say.  "So gross!" another would reply. She wore a drab greenish dress that resembled more of a hospital gown than a custodian’s uniform.  But we called her a janitor in those days.  My classmates weren't exactly kind to her.  I honestly cannot recall participating in the banter but I remember my heart aching for her, but not knowing exactly why. 

My response to gossip then is similar to what it mostly is now - silence.  Hoping that somehow my silence won’t offend the speaker and yet also won’t indicate passive agreement either.  It’s an in-between kind of place, a familiar place that’s not all that comfortable anymore, but old habits are hard to break. I pray it’s not collusion.

Sometimes I wonder if others’ hearts ache as mine does.  Yesterday, in the border line, waiting to cross back into the United States, the land of opprotunity, I again saw a severely disabled man selling his bag of candy.  He's there almost every day.  I didn’t want any of his candy, but I also didn’t want him to think that I thought he was begging if I gave him a few pesos without taking anything.  "He has pride" I thought, as he uttered what I think was “Gracias, senor.”  

The amazing thing about the Mexicans that I’ve encountered is that they work and have an entrepreneurial spirit that is extremely strong. It’s what I imagine the US was like in another age.  Even the most destitute mom with three kids on the corner of Avenida de las Ferias and Las Palmas offers chicklets for sale. Few beg.  Taco stands and impromptu bars, complete with music and beer, pop up everywhere in a matter of minutes. I respect their spirit and ingenuity.

I console myself by thinking that in 1976, driving a 1972 Nova must have meant that Mrs. Johnson wasn’t likely hungry.  Resourceful probably.  Kids leave a lot of food untouched on their plates. She was a precursor to the sustainability movement before it had a label.  Back when we just followed the common sense principle of trying to not waste so much.  For some reason now, I fantasize that she’s still kicking around collecting her Prince William County pension longer than they ever expected.  Beating the odds and actually getting to enjoy a long retirement after an even longer stint of mopping the floors in the gymnasium turned cafeteria, enduring the jeering and giggles of school kids. 

I guess this is my way of saying “Thank you, Mrs. Johnson. I hope I didn’t laugh at you.  You had a cool car.”  

She had a beautiful coat.  Reddish like the sun and soft.  The kind of soft that defines the word.  Touch her and you know exactly what I mean.  But shy. And tentative.  I reached out to pet her and she backed away a bit. I knelt down and got on her level and let her smell my outstretched hand.  “She is so beautiful.”  I gushed.  “Thanks” said the woman holding the purple leash attached to the jeweled collar.  “What’s her name?”  I asked. “Honey” She responded. “Oh that’s a perfect name for her.  She’s the color of honey.” “And as sweet as honey, too” she said.

Before I knew it, Honey had her head buried in my lap.  Frozen, almost afraid to move for fear that I’d stop stroking her, she stayed buried between my legs for more than a few minutes.  “I just lost my dear Maggie three weeks ago” I told this stranger, obviously a dog lover too, but for no apparent reason I just blurted it out the pain that lived within me.  Talking was a coping mechanism to deal with the grief. Maggie was a trusted, albeit bossy,  family member in the form of a Beagle.  “Oh, I’m sorry” the stranger said.  “Yeah, well my other beagle, Enzo, is here getting his ears cleaned so at least I still have one more.” “Mmmhmmm” she said in reply trying to be both cordial and understanding without really using words.  Sometimes just sounds suffice. As a dog lover, I’d learned that years earlier.

“So, how old is Miss Honey?”  I said trying to get back to safe, neutral ground.  “Actually, I don’t know.  I am just fostering her.  She was found wandering the streets of Fredericksburg and no one adopted her at the county shelter, so our organization took her so that she wasn’t euthanized.”   “Mmmm” I replied, stealing her cordial line.  “Are you interested in her?  she asked.  “I can’t.  I mean she’s beautiful, and so very sweet, but we’re still grieving Maggie and we are moving to Mexico in a few weeks.  My life is chaos right now, but she sure is beautiful and sweet.”  “Well, let me give you my number in the event that you change your mind.” 

And with Enzo safely in the front seat of my Accord, clean ears and all, I drove down Columbia Pike and dialed Peter.  “Hey, I think that I found the most beautiful dog for us.”  I said, without so much as even saying hello first.  “What?” he said.  “Yes, well, her name is Honey and she is a beautiful lab/hound mix.  You should see her though.  She’s reddish in color -- like Maggie, and oh so soft, but bigger and shyer. “  “You’re crazy.”  Peter said in reply.  “Yeah, I know we can’t adopt her but there was just something about her.  Anyway, I got the woman’s number that is fostering her, but I agree that it’s crazy.  We’ll be home soon.  Enzo’s sleeping after getting his mani/pedi and his ears cleaned.”

Next I called Hilary.  A fellow animal lover that was dealing with her Bichon “Dot” and chemotherapy.  “Hey, Hil you’ll never guess what just happened.”  I said all in one breath.  “Tell me, dumbass” she said. We have a tendency to use derogatory names with each other as a term of endearment.  Perhaps it’s odd, but somehow it feels loving, kind of how siblings or old married couples treat each other. I relate the whole love story of how I saw Honey from across the room and how she’d endeared herself to me the instant I felt that soft coat and looked into her big, brown eyes. Hil responded, “Oh, you have to rescue her.  She’s meant for you.”  But I held fast to my line, “Yes, but I’m not over Maggie, we’re moving in three weeks, and have you noticed that my life is in a bit of chaos?”  “Yeah, well, when isn’t it, you stupid shit.  Go get that dog” she practically screeched at me.  “OK, well, I’ve got to go.  Shouldn’t be talking on the phone while driving.  Just wanted to tell you about the girlie girl.  I’ll send you a picture from my phone.  Of course, I took a few of her.” 

Finally, home from Annandale, which when you live in the city center, feels more like Siberia.  Enzo, delighted to be king of his castle again, literally runs up the stairs to the back door, despite being fourteen.  Fumbling for my keys, I can hear the phone ringing but can’t open the door in time because Enzo has encircled me in his leash.  Hog tied might be a better description, but I twirl around hoping the neighbors aren’t looking from their upstairs sunroom.  Untied and free I manage to get finally get inside.  “Hey, I’m home."  I unhook Enzo’s leash as he’s happily lapping up water not caring that he’s splashing it all over the tile. I look up and see the message light blinking.

“HI, this is Honey.  I’m calling for Frank. Frank, please adopt me.  I need a home and I think you love me.”  Hilary’s Southern accent gives her away as I’m sure that despite being found in Fredericksburg, Honey is a northern girl given her shyness - not withstanding the fact that she had her head in my lap within thirty seconds.  “Oh my God, that woman is crazy” I tell myself as I laugh and think some more about how beautiful Honey actually is.

The next morning, Peter, Elias and I are off to Lowe’s to get a myriad of household items required to make the house suitable for the renters that will occupy our house in a few weeks.  “Hey, do you think that I should call that woman with the dog?” I casually say to Peter as we stroll through the garden section looking for a gardenia to match the one that died in our front yard under the Dogwood tree.  Why we thought a second one would do better is a rhetorical question, but in our rush to make everything perfect, it seemed that getting another one was the easiest thing to accomplish.  “Sure, give her a call, if you want” Peter replies somehow already resigning himself to the fact that we’re likely to have another dog soon.

Honey arrived at 6:03 pm on Saturday, April 7, 2007 weighing in at a mere 46 pounds.  She was just coming for an overnight visit -- to test things out.  Again, shy, she stepped lightly and cautiously across the threshold of our rowhouse and tried to immediately find a place to be inconspicuous.  Curled up on Enzo’s bed which was twice as small as she was, she looked more stressed than she had in the vet’s office.  “She’ll adjust, but just give me a call if you need anything” her foster mom said. “OK, I’m sure we’ll be fine, but I’ll call you in the morning and we can arrange a time for you to come pick her up.” I said.  So, as we discussed, I called in the morning. Odd that she wasn’t there I had to leave a message. “Hi, this is Frank.  I’m just calling to say that we had a great night with Honey.  She has some quirks, like not wanting to leave the house for any reason, but honestly I can’t imagine my life without her. So, you don’t need to come pick her up.  Just let me know where to send the donation to the organization for rescuing her.  She’s beautiful and already a part of the family.”  

Enzo was in denial.  He’d lived thirteen years under Maggie’s rule and was enjoying his new found freedom from female tyranny. I promised him that it would be different with Honey.  That he’d be the top dog. That we’d make it clear to Honey that he was to be respected. Always one of few grunts and fewer emotions, he turned away from me, jumped up on the couch, and promptly turned his rear end toward me.  “Naptime.  You’ll deal with the bitch.  She probably needs a walk.  Good luck getting her out the door.”  is what I imagine he wanted to say to me.

But I took it in stride and went over to my new girl. My new love.  I couldn’t help but pet her some more before coaxing her out of the door.  She wouldn’t budge.  She was home and knew it.  Why leave? I had to carry her over the threshold, as it were, but I didn’t mind.  She was my girl.

When I was fourteen, I remember wanting and getting a clock radio for Christmas.  It had the faux wood finish and numbers that flipped over.  The precursor to digital it seems in retrospect.  But it was cool at the time and I actually used it throughout college.  I can still picture it on my dresser at 61 Lucille Street.  As a kid, I also got pajamas every Christmas eve.  I opened them after Midnight Mass so I could sleep in them before waking just a few hours later to celebrate with my mom, six sisters, and later in the day, my father.

And while these memories are somehow heartwarming, especially during the holiday season, there’s really one gift that stands out as a memory in front of all others.  When I was eight, a family friend, Miss Davies, gave us all gift certificates to Kinney Shoes.  Jackpot.  New shoes and I got to pick them out.  Whatever I wanted.  My sisters and I all thought we’d gone to heaven.  We didn’t get a lot of new things and were generally limited to the sale or clearance items when we did.

Even at that young age, the gift itself seemed decadent. But more importantly, on some level then, and even more today, Miss Davies’ generosity is what truly moved me.  She was a patient at the doctor’s office where my mother worked.  For some reason, they became friends and Miss Davies became a fairly regular fixture at our house. She was a single woman, slightly younger than my mother, who intrigued me.  I was fascinated by her style, mannerisms, patience, and intelligence.  In earnest, I was initially fascinated by her 1968, yellow Mercury Cougar with the headlights that were covered when not in use and the full row of brake lights in the back.  What can I say other than my car fascination started early.

Other than driving what I thought was a cooler car than my mother’s Pinto, Miss Davies was a history teacher who had enormous amounts of patience and a true desire to challenge us to learn and be inquisitive about the world.  Not only did she teach me to play Pick Up Sticks but she later explained Watergate and origin of the phrase “red tape.”  It was always a treat when she came over because she played with us while managing to maintain the calm, cool demeanor that I’ve always associated with her.

But on that Christmas, she had an affect on me that’s lasted nearly four decades.  I think that I was most impressed that she ensured that every one of us received a gift certificate and that we could pick out what we wanted.  I don’t actually remember gift certificates being common then as they are today so that helped to magnify the importance for me.  On a teacher’s salary, even without kids of her own, I can’t imagine that she had a lot of extra cash, but what she had, she shared.  Perhaps she recognized that there were so many of us and we lived fairly meagerly on my mother’s salary.  Or perhaps she just thought that we’d enjoy getting new shoes.  Whatever the reason, she did something so altruistic that each Christmas since I have thought about it and been grateful for her presence in my life.

The irony is that my own son has a shoe fascination.  Cars not so much, but put him in a shoe store and he can hardly stand the excitement.  I know that he’ll appreciate the story when I do share it with him. When I do, I am glad that he’ll already know Miss Davies.  Luckily, this summer I had the great fortune of introducing them.  There we were back in my hometown having lunch with Miss Davies, who now prefers that I call her Pat, as difficult as that is.  We made a deal, I’ll try to call her Pat if she tries to call me Frank instead of the more familiar Frankie.

We had an Italian lunch and true to form she was engaging with my son. “What do you like to study? How do you like living in Mexico? What’s different in Mexico from Washington?” she asked him.  And then in an instant he was responding.  The kid’s got charisma but in this instance I believe that Pat knew exactly the right lever to pull to get him to talk.  Maybe it’s the schoolteacher’s gift to know how to connect with the student. For me, that connection will forever be there, inspiring me to try to be a good man, and bring some sense of joy to others.

So, in this season, I wonder how I can emulate Pat’s affection and love, if not generosity.  How could I touch someone’s heart in a way that might have them remember some gesture of kindness in the decades to come? 

By the way, over our fettucine alfredo and spaghetti bolognese, I asked Pat what she was driving these days.  “A 1989 Toyota Camry that just got a new paint job for its twentieth birthday” she replied.  She drives it into the city every Friday to serve as a docent at the Library of Congress.  A great thing for a former history teacher to do in retirement. Lucky tourists who get her as a docent. I can’t help but think that the Cougar was definitely sportier but the longevity, and likely dependability, of the Camry seem a perfect fit for her now.  The connection that she has with cars, like people, seems to last.