To the Heights: Creating a Domestic Church in Your Home

This is the second post in a row with a title that starts out "To the Heights," but it's not like I'm going to make that phrase a trademark of this blog.  I just thought that it absolutely fit last time, when talking about ordinary folks who keep their eyes trained upward, "verso l'alto," as St. Pier Giorgio Frassati put it, striving to reach the top, the pinnacle--which is of course eternal life in Heaven with God.  And I think it fits today, too, when I'm planning to talk about how the home is the family's domestic church, and everything that happens within its walls should point its members toward that same goal of becoming saints in Heaven.

They say that when you're in Rome, you should always remember to LOOK UP!  When I had the extraordinary privilege of taking three trips there (during the later years of my husband's career as an airline pilot, using the free stand-by tickets that were a perk of that job), I tried to always remember to do so.  And I was never, ever disappointed!  The Catholic churches over in bella Roma are just spilling over with so much glorious artwork (masterpiece-quality paintings, gold leaf embellishments, gorgeous statues, ornate metalwork, and intricately-carved woodwork, so much to see everywhere you look) that truly, every inch is a feast for the eyes and a proverbial glimpse of Heaven on earth.  But sometimes, the most beautiful artwork of all is on the ceilings. I have so many pictures of church ceilings taken while I was on those precious trips to the Eternal City.

So often, those breathtakingly beautiful painted church ceilings include areas that are deep blue and dotted with golden stars, like a splendid night sky framed in a skylight window.  It's funny, even long before I ever got to see those ceilings in Rome, I had a hankering to paint the dining room ceiling in our house in NH, where we lived for 26 years and raised our boys.  But I never had the guts.  (And also--Michelangelo I am NOT!)  It never happened, but the desire to have a painted ceiling in my own home was always in the back of my mind.

There's no reason one shouldn't have this sort of ceiling in one's own house, is there?  

Anyway, last May, all of my husband's siblings and many of their spouses met up in Savannah, GA, to celebrate the 60th birthday of one of the sisters.  While there, we attended Mass at the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist.  Oh my...have you ever seen it?  If you have, I don't need to tell you that it's simply magnificent.

And the ornate ceiling includes that element I love so in a church ceiling: areas that look like a star-studded night sky.  As you raise your eyes heavenward, you feel so close to Heaven!

Something about the starry sky thing just speaks to me.  You?

For some reason, looking up while we were in the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist got me thinking about how I'd always wanted to paint a ceiling like that.  As soon as we got back from that long weekend in Savannah, I looked at the dining room ceiling at our house here in VA and was like, Eureka!  It's a tray ceiling, and it had already been painted gray by the previous owners--so it hit me that one might hardly notice a change to blue. I realized that it was almost crying out to become my longed-for starry night sky!

Do you see what I mean?  That was how the room was painted when we bought the house back in 2017, and while I might not have chosen gray myself, I liked it enough to keep it as it was.  But now, in my mind's eye I could see the starry heavens up there in that framed middle section of the ceiling, and I could hardly wait to make my dream a reality.

I actually found a shade of blue called "Midnight Shadow," and I thought it was perfect.  I almost went with a more vibrant shade of royal blue, but ultimately decided that I wanted the change from gray to blue to be a tad more subtle.  Once I had the paint, I couldn't wait to get started!!

I toyed with the idea of stenciling the gold stars, but realized that hand-painting them would probably be way too difficult (and probably messy and disastrous!).  So I went online, and on Amazon I found some affordable self-stick gold stars meant for use on walls. 

 

Attaching the stars to the ceiling was a piece of cake.  But deciding on a pattern took a little more time and brain power.  And math!  I didn't want to just throw them up there randomly, even though that's what the real sky might look like.  I needed there to be some order to it.  I ended up using a yardstick to measure things out, and I made little chalk dots so I'd know where to place the stars.

This was early-on in the operation.

Eventually, it looked like this.

Sorry for all the pictures--I was trying to find the best one because none of them seem to quite do it justice.  It looks so much prettier in person...but you get the idea.

I am over the moon about this dining room ceiling.  I actually had a few pages of star stickers left over that I decided not to use, because I thought it looked "finished."  If I ever change my mind, I can always add more.  It's not exactly St. John the Baptist in Savannah...but this room is part of my very own domestic church (with stained glass in the chandelier, no less!  And a statue of Jesus in a niche in the corner!  And a Crucifix hanging over a picture of the Blessed Mother and Baby Jesus!).  And I love it.

When my husband and I moved here eight years ago, we left behind a large and well-built Colonial house in NH, situated on over an acre of land near the end of a quiet, wooded, cul-de-sac street.  It was a property which we tended lovingly and improved patiently,  DIY project by DIY project, over the years--a home where we happily raised our five boys.  But then all of those boys grew up and moved away, and it just so happened that three of the five providentially moved to the same area of VA.  So we did, too.  Our VA house is a good bit smaller than our NH house (but certainly big enough for two empty-nesters!) and located in a cookie cutter neighborhood, with a postage stamp-sized yard that's a breeze to take care of.  Some might say that we've taken a step down, going from the NH house to this one; but the funny thing is, I just adore this sweet little house.  It couldn't be more perfect for the phase of life we're in.  Obviously, it wouldn't have been an ideal place to raise our sons.  But it's so perfect for the two of us: small enough to keep clean and tidy, very cozy and comfortable, with a giant master bedroom suite that has a ridiculously oversized bathroom (I feel spoiled rotten!) and an upstairs bedroom that serves as an office, something we never really had in our old house.  And even though it's not the biggest house in the world, it somehow manages to hold all of our loved ones relatively comfortably for holiday parties, and we have three different guest bedrooms (one in the basement and two upstairs) set up at all times for our visiting out-of-town sons and their kids.  (Or for the occasional grandchild sleepover!)

I hope that when our our boys come here, they feel God's presence because of the way we have honored Him and His Son and the Blessed Mother in our decor.  I hope that they feel our profound love for them and their wives and children, too, as they walk from room to room, noting that aside from religious artwork, the walls are mostly plastered with framed family photos and meaningful mementos of our long and happy life.  I hope this sweet little cozy cottage of a house feels like a domestic church to them.  I know it does to me.  And as much as I loved--LOVED--those years when all five of our boys lived under our roof, I am feeling exceptionally blessed to have lived long enough to be enjoying these empty-nesting years with my husband now.  You start out just the two of you...then, God willing, you add the children...then they grow up and leave...and you end up with just the two of you again.  And if you not only love but really like your spouse, there's nothing at all depressing about it!  In fact, it’s a joy--a different kind of joy than when your babies were little, but a joy nonetheless.  Yes, the members of the family you created will come to spend time with you--often, hopefully; but it is your marriage that is the rock upon which that family has been built.  Cherish and nurture it.  And keep looking up to the heights! (If it helps, paint your ceiling to look like the starry night sky!)  Because the point of it is to help each other get to Heaven.

God bless you, dear readers!  Thanks for stopping by.

To the Heights: When Ordinary People Become Saints!

It's been weeks since I sat down at my laptop to write. As usual, I've been wondering whether I'm "done." I'm becoming like a broken record, repeating that sentiment here at the blog.  If you've stopped by much over the years, you've probably heard me say that more than once, and it's probably getting tiresome.  Yet I can't help but ponder the usefulness of keeping at it; blogging really is a thing of the past, mostly, and not that many people seem to be writing blogs or reading them anymore.  But this little site of mine has been part of my life for so long now, I feel like I'd be losing an old friend if I let it go to seed completely.  I don't even worry about how many people actually read it.  For goodness sake, when I started blogging more than 14 years ago (with the help of my daughter-in-law, Regina), I didn't even know how to check if anyone had read any of the posts. I didn't care about that one bit.  I certainly never planned to become an Internet "influencer"  (what a hilarious idea!).  When I opened up my dashboard to start today, I was shocked to see that my last post on August 28 had gotten more than 1,400 hits, which is about 1,200 more than a post normally gets.  I can't imagine why that happened...

Anyway--

I have been suffering from my typical recent aridity when it comes to writing anything to post here at the blog.   But it's not because there is nothing important to write about, nothing that I want to say.  The opposite it more like it.  There's just SO MUCH that I want to write about, SO MUCH that needs to be said (and is being said much better than I ever could by other communicators all over the Internet) that I am a bit overwhelmed.  Where to even begin?

There aren't enough words to describe the elation of the September 7 canonization of Carlo Acutis and Pier Giorgio Frassati, two holy young men who are the most excellent role models for modern youth (and for souls of any age, for that matter), followed so quickly afterward on September 10 by the horror of the brutal assassination of Charlie Kirk, a young man who was a strong and effective voice speaking out for the need to save the Christian identity of our country, and who was turning the hearts and minds of so many young people. It's been an emotional roller coaster, hasn't it?

Charlie Kirk was by all accounts a happy warrior, an exceedingly good, kind, generous, and humble man, a friend to all, a devoted husband and father of two young children; and if you ever watched one of his trademark debates with folks who disagreed with him, and saw how he could win every argument without anger--indeed, with a smile on his face--you know that he was an extraordinary person.  When asked once what he hoped to be remembered for, he didn't cite his successful political career as the creator of Turning Point USA, or the fact that he hobnobbed regularly with presidents and other famous movers and shakers; he said that he hoped to be remembered for his faith.  He was an evangelical Christian, married to a Catholic, and in recent months had spoken out about the need to honor and venerate Mary.  I get the feeling that he was going through a spiritual conversion (his good friend, podcaster Candace Owens, said as much on her show in a tribute to him after his death); I think perhaps that Charlie was on his way to converting to Catholicism?...Maybe not, but seeing him talk so reverently about our Blessed Mother was so touching that it moved my husband to tears when we watched it. I can't help but believe that if Charlie had been asked if he was willing to sacrifice his own life to uphold the teachings of Christ, he would have said, "Yes, absolutely."  I feel as if Our Lord welcomed him home with those words we all hope to hear: "Well done, good and faithful servant."  I don't mean to canonize Kirk. But in so many ways, his death feels to me almost like a martyrdom.  May he rest in peace.

About those canonized saints, though...oh my, it's just so exciting.  I don't know enough about Carlo Acutis yet, but as a mother of five sons who grew up loving video games in the 90's, I feel like he is the most perfect saint for young people to emulate.  We need more saints like this: "regular" guys who lead lives of extreme holiness, while living in the modern world and enjoying many of the things our own children enjoy.  It gives one hope that he or she needn't be a priest or a nun, living a life of extreme poverty and prayer in a monastery or convent. One can became a saint, even while living an "ordinary" life. What a great message for all of us!

The other young man who was canonized along with Carlo Acutis is someone whom I DID know a whole lot about before he was canonized: Pier Giorgio Frassati, whom Pope Saint John Paul II called "A Man of the Beatitudes."  The cause for his sainthood was opened in 1932; he was declared venerable in 1987 and then beatified by JPII in 1990.  

Sometime in the early 2000's, I ran across a chapter about him in a book about modern would-be saints called Faces of Holiness, and something about his story really spoke to me.  I immediately went online and ordered a book titled My Brother Pier Giorgio, His Last Days, written by his sister Lucianna, which recounts the last week of his life.  I read and re-read that inspiring book, before ordering others about him.

Books about Pier Giorgio have rested among my other books about the lives
of saints for years now.  I'm so happy that his sainthood is official!

I so loved his story that when I started writing my first novel Finding Grace in 2007, I knew right away that I wanted him to play a part in the story of a young girl who is inspired to become a saint and looks to heavenly intercessors to help her along the way.  But the novel was going to begin in the early 1970's and end in 1980, and Pier Giorgio was not even named Blessed until 1990.  He was not a saint that anyone would have heard much about back in the 70's.  In order to fit him in, I created a friend for Grace who was from an Italian-American family, with an elderly grandmother who'd known him back in the Old Country before emigrating to America.  She had lived in Turin, and her brothers had gone to school with him at the Polytechnic Institute there.  After Pier Giorgio's untimely death in 1925 at the age of 24, people there became aware of his extraordinary holiness and his heroic charitable work among the poor, and they felt that they'd had a saint living among them.  (Only 7 years after he died, the cause for his canonization was opened; it didn't take long!)  Thus was I able to fit this future saint into the book--and indeed, Grace Kelly half falls in love with him, as she gazes at a now-famous picture of him (which the Italian grandmother happens to have and passes on to Grace, conveniently enough!).

Here is an excerpt about him from a post I wrote back in 2014. (In that post, I talk about some other saints first; but this is the section that deals with Saint Pier Giorgio Frassati.)

One day about 12 or 13 years ago, I was flipping through Ann Ball's Faces of Holiness, Modern Saints in Photos and Words (one of the many Catholic works that crowd our shelves), stopping to read the sections that interested me.  This book is filled with short chapters that tell about the lives of different Saints, Blesseds, and Venerables--as well as some people who lived lives of extreme holiness, but whose causes for canonization have not yet begun.  I love to read about modern individuals--average Joes, lay people, married women--who have found the path to sainthood.  It gives me such hope.

It was by reading Faces of Holiness that I first became acquainted with Gianna Molla, who at the time was a Blessed but is now a canonized Saint.  Her story definitely resonated with me.  But I think the whole reason I was drawn to that particular book in the first place was so that I would find Blessed Pier Giorgio Frassati, whose name was completely foreign to me at the time.  I read pages 213-219 (a short synopsis of his heroic life and untimely death), and I was blown away by this handsome young man from Turin, Italy, who died in 1925 but whose body remains incorrupt.  He was for all intents and purposes a "normal" guy: good-looking, fun-loving, athletic; a practical joker who was always surrounded by friends; a student who struggled academically and was a bit of a disappointment to his parents.  He was extremely devout, however, a trait not shared by the rest of his family members, and he was especially devoted to Our Blessed Mother.  He also had a secret life: born into wealth, he gave almost all he had away to the poor (and his family did not even know the extent of his charity until after his death--when it was revealed that unbeknownst to them, there'd been a saint living among them).  I'm not even sure why the combination of photos and words in that book hit me the way they did, but I felt as if I knew him, as strange as that sounds--and I wanted to know more.

Before long I had ordered and read My Brother Pier Giorgio, His Last Days, a memoir written by his sister Luciana that chronicles his last week on earth--his "passion" and tragic death at 24.  It remains one of the most re-read tomes in my personal library, and if you're interested in reading a review I wrote for this wonderful book, click here.  After that, I got my hands on Luciana's other book, a biography titled A Man of the Beatitudes (which I had my youngest son read in 8th grade when we were homeschooling him; because--like JP II, who named him the Patron of World Youth Day in 2000--I can't think of a better role model for a young man to emulate).  It, too, is well-worth the time.  If you haven't heard of this extraordinary young man, or if you haven't read much about him, I highly recommend these two books.  His life story is utterly fascinating and inspiring, and if you do get to know Pier Giorgio better, I believe there's a very good chance that he will become a special friend of yours among the saints.

I admire this young man so much that I had to include him in my novel Finding Grace.  My shy little heroine, Grace Kelly, who is determined to achieve the goal of sainthood while living in the world, is "introduced" to Pier Giorgio (I won't tell you how--you'll have to read the book to find out!), and she becomes enchanted with him to the point of having a bit of a crush, even though he's been long dead.  I had to figure out a way to work some Italian immigrant characters into the novel so that there could be a personal connection between them and this saintly Italian boy, because the story is set in the 1970's and my research efforts failed to turn up the titles of any books that Grace could have read at that time to learn about him.  It took some finagling to figure out a way to have her "meet" him, but it was worth it to me.  I was determined that Pier Giorgio Frassati would be one the many saints whose life is an inspiration to Grace as she struggles to find and stay on the path to sainthood.

I can imagine that I, too, might have felt like Grace about him--if at 15 I hadn't yet met the true man of my dreams: the boy who would become my husband, the boy who made crushes on other males forever a thing of the past for me (and the boy who was my main inspiration for the character of Grace's love interest, Tom Buckley).  And I think if more young girls would ignore the Justin Beebers of the world and swoon instead over men like Pier Giorgio Frassati--men of exemplary character, moral fortitude, and deep faith--there would be a lot fewer heartaches.

I have yet to receive any special sign from this special friend of mine, and yet I feel a deep bond.  I urge you to learn more about this holy young man who will one day be numbered among the saints.  (This link is a good start, if you'd like to read about him.)

This photo of Pier Giorgio scaling a high mountain is representative of his earthly life, which was a constant striving to reach the goal, the summit: eternal life in Heaven.  The caption he wrote on it is quite apropos--"Verso l'alto" (Toward the top).  With the help of saints like him and so many others, may we also reach the summit.

Carlo Acutis' life ended at 15; Pier Giorgio Frassati's at 24; Charlie Kirk's at 31.  Their lives are a testament to how much good such ordinary--and yet extraordinary--people can do in this world, even if their time here is very short. 

God bless you, dear readers!  And don't ever lose hope, no matter how grim things seem.  Verso l'alto!  

Saints Carlo Acutis and Pier Giorgio Frassati, pray for us!

Okay...Maybe Not QUITE Paradise

In my last post, titled "Paradise," I regaled you with tales about our idyllic week-long lake vacation with our children and grandchildren at our Oyster Haven Vrbo rental house, and not one word that I wrote was a lie.  It was an amazing week, full of love and laughter, almost too good to be true.  Almost, but not quite.  I mean, as far as how things tend to go in the real world down here on planet earth (which can never truly be Paradise, but can in fact more adequately be described as the promised "Valley of Tears"), it was indeed a fairly magical and joy-filled week for the Pearl family. However, I did leave out a few details…

...there was one unfortunate freak accident that I didn't mention in that post, and it led to a two-night hospital stay for our #4 son.  I can imagine your wrinkled brow and the look of horror on your face, so please be assured that although it was quite scary there for a bit, our boy ended up being fine and his vacation week wasn't completely ruined.  (And throughout the ordeal, he kept saying that he was so glad that it happened to him and not one of the children.)

Okay, maybe I should go ahead and tell the whole story.

People started arriving for our Pearl-a-palooza on Saturday, July 19 and by Sunday, all the weary travelers had made it to the lake house.  All 35 of us were together, looking forward to a week of fun in the sun at our private sandy beach in our cozy private cove.  Then on Monday, while his kids were having a ball swimming and kayaking with their cousins, son #4 started wading out in waist-deep water to join them. As he was walking along, his thigh got poked by the razor-sharp branch of a log that must have drifted in from the nearby island during a windy spring storm or something (because we'd never seen this log before, during previous summers).  Right away, our son knew that he was going to need medical attention.  The puncture wound, while rather small, was extremely deep.  So deep that he could see the different layers of tissue inside.  He and his wife took off for the urgent care facility, where he was stitched up and told to watch for signs of infection.

Before long, the skin around the wound started to get pink and swollen and hot.  Our son and his wife contacted several nurse friends for advice, and one of them was surprised that the urgent care doc had opted to stitch it up. She told them to keep an eye on the reddened area, and to go back in if it started to grow.  They wisely drew a line all around the infected area with a black Sharpie marker, so that they could see if the redness was spreading.  By Tuesday, they knew there was a problem because the infection was creeping well past the circle they'd drawn, and they went back to urgent care.  The stitches were removed, and an antibiotic was prescribed. But by Wednesday, it was obvious that the medication wasn't knocking out the infection.  So they headed to the ER, and our son was admitted and put on IV antibiotics.  He ended up having to stay Wednesday and Thursday nights; and with the infection finally under control, he came home on Friday--which happened to be my birthday.  It was the best birthday present I've ever gotten, getting him back that day.

Through this whole ordeal, he never did run a fever.  He never got septic. He was well taken care of at the hospital.   But that dangerous-looking red area on his thigh haunted me until it finally began to fade and go away and he was back with us, safe and sound.

When I went to the hospital on Wednesday night to visit my boy, I had to take turns with his wife because they hadn't gotten a room for him yet and only one visitor at a time was allowed in the ER. After I got to see him and came out so that she could go in, I was just a blubbering mess, sitting there in the waiting room with tears streaming down my face. I let myself imagine all the what-ifs and was sick at the thought that this simple injury could become catastrophic.  Seeing how large the red area had grown, even after he’d received the first infusion of antibiotics, kind of terrified me, because I know that sometimes an uncontrolled infection can spell amputation and even in the worst cases, death.  I shed many tears (in private, so that our son's four kids and all of their cousins wouldn't see how worried Grammy was) and said a lot of prayers over those days that he was in the hospital.  But thanks be to God, the antibiotics worked and he came home to us in one piece.  

Our son had to keep his wound dry for the rest of the week in NY, so there was no more going in the lake for him, which was a bummer.  Even though his vacation was less than perfect, however, his boss gave him a few extra days off to make up for the ones he'd missed, and he did get to enjoy about four days post-hospital going for boat rides, watching his kids get tube rides behind the boat, and hanging out with the family and making us laugh, as always.  This son is an extremely funny person.  He has a knack for quietly delivering quick off-hand remarks worded in such a way that they totally hit the funny bone.  When he was in the hospital, his room was on a floor where most of the patients were geriatric.  One nurse came in to take his vitals and told him that they were just great, the best she'd seen in a long time (remember, she was dealing with mostly elderly people, not young bucks like him).  My son, without missing a beat, replied, "I'm known for my vitals."  (He might have added something like, "They're my best feature," but since I don't blog regularly now, it's been so long since it happened that some of the details have gotten fuzzy!) I wasn't there, but my sister--the one with whom my mom lived for seven years--was visiting him at the time and witnessed this humorous exchange, and she said the nurse just loved him.

But I say, who wouldn't?!

He knew his situation could turn serious, but he stayed calm throughout and never lost his sense of humor.  He even weighed in on a funny conversation he heard that his brothers and their wives had been having back at the lake house, about being a nighttime shower person versus a morning shower person.  (It was loud and heated and pretty hilarious.  We are a family of strong opinions!) He said, "If I don't make it, tell [the sister-in-law who insists that not showering before going to bed is unthinkable] that I say not showering in the morning is gross."  The fact that he could joke about not making it...I get a lump in my throat just thinking about it.

Not too long before our vacation week, that same sister who visited him had told me about a local girl up here who'd had a similar incident: she got a cut that caused some weird raging infection.  But hers ended up going septic, and this poor gal ended up losing her leg.  She was just a teen, a young athlete who had to deal with a devastating blow like that.  The fact that my son completely recovered from his injury seems practically miraculous to me, when I think of how many families have outcomes that are so very different.  God has been very good to the Pearls, and a day doesn't go by that I don't humbly thank Him for all the blessings He's bestowed on us.  I am so incredibly grateful, for son #4's health and for so many other things.

So good to have him back--it just wasn't the same without him!

A hug for Daddy.

I'd love to know what he's saying here.  I would probably be laughing.

Enjoying my birthday present!

At least he got to do some of this!

We look forward to a do-over for son #4 next summer. And before anyone even thinks about going swimming, we'll all be policing the beach area to make sure there are no hidden dangers lurking in the water--like that rassa-frassin' log!  (Excuse my language!)

Until next time...be safe out there, dear readers!

Paradise

I started this post on July 29…and here it is, a whole month later, and I'm finally finishing it.

Okay, full disclosure: all I'd written so far was the title! Because at that time, we were just coming off of our annual week-long Pearl summer vacation at our Vrbo lake house, Oyster Haven, with all five of our boys, all five of their lovely wives, and all of their offspring--our 23 darling grandchildren (the oldest of which are 14-year-old twins, and the youngest of which is a cherubic little six-month-old).  What a fabulous week it was!! Crowded and noisy and messy, but just perfect.  And I couldn't wait to blog about it.  But for some reason, I just couldn't write the post.  In recent months (years!), I've been having the hardest time making myself sit down to update this neglected old site of mine. Then the more days that pass without doing it, the more it seems that perhaps I'm not invested enough anymore and it might be time to close up shop.  

But then I'll read an old post, and I'll smile and think, "I had forgotten all about that..."  Or I'll want to share a certain old picture on our family text stream, and I can't find it; then I'll remember that I used it in a blog post once--and voila, there it is, right there in my blog archives.  If I stop blogging now, maybe I'll miss having all these memorable family moments archived here, where I can go back and re-live them whenever I'm in the mood.  Perhaps, then, I'm not ready to throw in the towel just yet.  

I don't know if you follow Jenny Uebbing (who used to write a blog called Mama Needs Coffee, which I loved so much, but can now be found writing at Jenny@MamaNeedsCoffee on Substack from time to time). She was one of those long-form "mommy bloggers" whose name was well-known in the Catholic blogging community and who like many of the other big influencers made the shift over to Instagram, but has mostly stayed off social media as of late.  I love when I see that she has a new post on Substack.  She is one of the online voices who occasionally wonders whether old-school blogs will rise out of the ashes once again.  I tend to doubt it, because I think everyone wants to scroll and digest quick tidbits before moving on to something else, rather than read one whole long essay. But I do hope blogs find a resurgence in popularity.

Not that I have any illusions that my little String o' Pearls would ever become popular or well-known, which is fine with me because I really do just blog for myself, as weird as that might sound. Because I like words.  I like playing with them, moving them around.  I like editing and re-writing.  Definitely weird.  Maybe all writers are a little weird (and it feels strange to even call myself a writer, but I kind of live for words and putting them down on paper--so I suppose that makes me one).

Anyway, I was going to finish up a post, right?  Before I got sidetracked.  A post about Paradise.  This is already longer than I wanted it to be, but that's okay.  I won't have to add too many more words, because the title tells the whole story, it does.  This place of ours on the shore of Lake Champlain is Paradise on earth, it truly is. Sometimes, I don't think it's worth the work and worry to manage a vacation property in NY when our primary residence is in VA...but then we have this week up here with our kids and grandkids, which they have come to look forward to all year long, and which is forming what we hope are lifelong happy memories of priceless family time shared with cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents...and I know it's most definitely worth it.

So here's the photo dump, which will give you an idea of just how idyllic our week was.  (I'm sharing pictures that don't show close-ups of the kids' faces, out of respect for some of our boys' wishes,)

So you get the idea!  It was the best week.  The kids had SO MUCH fun together!

We leave a guest book out for our renters to write in, in case they're moved to leave messages for us about their stay at Oyster Haven.  One family who stayed here in 2024 said that "this place now houses part of our story." Ours, too!  Another recent renter wrote, "We came here for our grandson's wedding, but instead found heaven on earth. Staying here was a dream come true..."  I know just how she feels!  Seeing our string of Pearls playing together on the beach is a complete and utter joy for me, a proverbial dream come true.  (As is watching them play Monopoly at the kitchen table.  Or  being amazed by the intricate "box village" they build out on the lawn, using the big cardboard boxes that our new Adirondack chairs came in--which thankfully, we didn't destroy before they got their hands on them!  It's all joy.  So. Much. Joy!)

[Sigh...] I feel so incredibly blessed to have all these people to love, and that my husband and I are able to give them this one heavenly week together every summer.

Phew!  I did it!  I wrote a post!  And maybe I'll be back again before too long.

God bless you, dear readers.

Still Alive Here!

Recently, an old high school friend of mine (who is a sweetheart) texted me to find out if I was OK, because she hadn’t seen a post here at the blog in such a long time. And at our age, she said, you just never know…

But rest assured, I’m still alive and well and about to celebrate my 67th birthday. My husband and I left Virginia a few weeks ago to come up north and manage our Oyster Haven rental property on Lake Champlain.  We had a little family party with our three Virginia sons and their 14 kids before we headed to New York, and this was the view in our kitchen with the grandkids that day, enjoying ice cream after a trip to our neighborhood pool...

Great view, to be sure.  ❤️

And this is the view out the back yard at my husband’s childhood home by the lake, where we’ve been staying since we got back up north.  

Not too shabby!

Today, our five boys and their gangs (23 grandchildren in all!) start arriving for our week-long Pearl-a-palooza at Oyster Haven, which we blocked off for our family’s use. We look forward to this gathering all year!  We’re in the process of moving in there now.

I’ll be sharing some pictures of the views from our lakeside paradise, if I can find breaks in the chaos to do so!  We'll have 35 people sleeping in a 4-bedroom, 2-and-1/2 bathroom house (with two extra basement "bedrooms" set up as well).  Six sleeping areas for 35 people.  It's always interesting!

Thanks for stopping by this deserted old ghost-town of a blog of mine, dear readers.  I’ll try to take better care of it moving forward!

Throwback Thursday: My Forever Boyfriend

I really should blog about Easter…and I will, soon.  But you see, I was scrolling through the pictures on my phone recently (all 15,000) of them, and I stopped dead in my tracks when I came across this one. Whoah. Be still my heart!  Pass the smelling salts!

Who is this handsome young devil, you ask?  It's my boyfriend, that's who.  That is, my husband of going-on-45 years.

This nostalgia-inducing photo was shared with us a few years ago by one of my husband's Naval aviator friends from the early days of our marriage (he is the one on the left, cropped out of the picture!).  I'm not even sure I'd ever seen it before that, and I don't remember exactly where it was taken, or when; but I do know that my husband was probably in his mid-to-late-20's here.  When he was 30, he got out of the Navy and began working for one of the major US airlines.  And the mustache (which so many of the Navy fighter pilots in our circle sported during the 1980's) had to go for his new job.  So he's definitely younger than 30 in this picture.

I fell in love with this face (minus the mustache) when he and I became boyfriend-and-girlfriend the summer after our freshman year in high school.  We were both just 15, a couple of babies.  But I knew pretty soon after we began going steady that this guy was the one for me.  

He was.  He is.  And he always will be.  He's my forever boyfriend.

P.S.  This was fun.  And you know what?  I think I'm going to start sharing my favorite oldie-but-goodie pictures every Thursday here at the blog.  :)

RIP, Sweet Carolyn

Today we buried my mom.

She died on March 1 and her funeral was on March 22, but in upstate NY the ground is too hard and frozen at that time of year for burials.  So today, all five of us siblings and our spouses gathered together to see her laid to rest next to our dad.  My two brothers live close enough to make a day trip if necessary, and my two sisters live right here in the area.  My husband and I live the farthest away; we made the 10-hour drive up yesterday, and we'll be heading back to VA tomorrow.

Mom's Catholic funeral Mass on March 22 was a glorious thing.  Her grandsons were pallbearers; two of her granddaughters and two great-granddaughters brought up the gifts; my husband and I did the readings (I am rather shocked that I was able to get through mine without breaking down, but I managed to hold it together pretty well); one of my sisters led the prayers of the faithful; and after the Mass, before everyone left the church, one of my brothers (the oldest of Mom's five children) and my other sister (the youngest) took turns reading parts of a touching eulogy that had been written by my oldest brother.  The hymns sung were reverent, holy, and perfect; the homily given by the deacon (a childhood friend of my oldest brother) was perfect.  It was all perfect.  I should have blogged about it sooner.

I also never did blog about the absolutely awesome celebration of life we had for my mom right after that beautiful funeral Mass.  She would have loved it (did love it, I'm sure, from where she was watching).  We decorated every windowsill in the event room of my sister-in-law's brewery/restaurant/inn with framed photos from Mom's life, and a photo montage also played on a loop on the big-screen TV mounted high on the wall.  My younger brother (a very talented singer/guitar player, who in retirement has regular gigs in the Albany, NY area and is "somewhat famous in parts of Cohoes," as he likes to joke) stepped up to the mic and put on a little performance for us.  Some of the songs he chose were ones that my mom used to sing when we were kids, 60's folk songs by Ian and Silvia or Peter, Paul, and Mary (and if you're not in your 50's or 60's yet and you're reading this, you probably don't know who in the world I'm talking about).  He also played Hallelujah, always a winner.  And Sweet Caroline, changing it to "Sweet Carolyn" (and now you know my mom's first name).  There was a buffet of delicious hot and cold hors d'oeuvres, an open bar, and numerous friends and loved ones gathered together to honor the life of an amazing woman.  It really was quite spectacular.  Four of our five boys were able to make it (the one who lives in Nashville flew into DC to meet up with his three VA brothers so they could all carpool up together).  In all, 13 of my mother's 17 grandchildren were there, along with a few of her great-grandkids.  There were other family members with us, too--including one of our cousins and her husband, some of my in-laws, some of my siblings' in-laws--and lots of friends of ours and our mom's.  It was an Irish wake (after the funeral instead of before), a fitting tribute for a woman whose maiden name was Kelly.

I will never forget the joyfulness with which we celebrated our mother.  Since the funeral, I have not had a single day where I haven't cried, at least once, usually while praying our daily Rosary aloud but at other random times, too.  I was talking to one of my sons the other day about how throughout the year leading up to her death, my mother had constant health issues and was in and out of the ER.  Everyone was trying to figure out what was going on, to get answers and solutions, so that she could get her health back to where it had been. I kept thinking, however, that the hard truth was that she was 89, and perhaps at that age she was never going to get it back. I felt that we needed to be realistic.  So as I told my boy, I thought I was prepared for the worst. Silly me.

Because nothing ever really prepares you for losing your mother.  Nothing. 

Anyway, I'm going to do a belated sharing of photos from the grand Irish wake we had for our mom.

The music begins!

My talented brother.

Toasting our Mom and Dad with my Dad's precious bottle of cognac,
which we'd been saving for a special occasion.

The grandkids.

My baby sister and me.

All five of Mom's babies.

Family!

Here is a link to a short YouTube video snippet of my brother playing Sweet Carolyn.  It was the highlight of the celebration.  (Pretty much guaranteed to make you smile.)

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/bPG_MDZ_zxc

After the burial today, we stopped by the old brick mansion that was owned by our paternal grandmother (and in which we lived for about 1 and 1/2 years, in an upstairs apartment, until I was 10).  It has been mostly sitting empty over the past few decades and is in a sad state of disrepair, but it looks like someone is in the process of renovating it.

I'm so happy that I have these four siblings, and that we all like each other and get along.  That we make each other laugh--a lot!  That we share so many memories that no one else in the world has but us. I wonder if our boys remember us telling them when they were young that we might not be rich in money, but they were rich in brothers, and that was even better. What has become plainer to me than ever, since the loss of my mom (nine years after my dad's passing), is how very true that is. The best gift parents can give their children is siblings. If at all possible, of course (I know there are couples who desperately want more children than they can have).

I'm so glad that my brothers and sisters and I had each other to go through this painful right of passage with, and that we were able to give our mother the send-off she deserved.  RIP, Mom.