Joy, Lost and Found

Remember how I talked about having trouble finding my joy in my last post? 

I am happy to report that things are going much, much better in that department!

First of all, there's having this guy, our youngest son, home again, after not seeing him (other than on FaceTime) for more than a year!

Then yesterday, our oldest son's five kids were over for a little bit while their mom ran an errand.  And the four American Girl-crazy girls (aged 5-9) mentioned that they were going to use little socks as Christmas stockings for their dolls.  So I whipped up some miniature stockings for them, using velveteen fabric and pretty lace that I found in my late mother-in-law's attic.  When my husband, our youngest son, and I stopped by their house a few hours later to drop them off, you would have thought it was Christmas morning. They were so excited and so appreciative.  It is so easy to make those sweet granddaughters happy, and when they're happy, Grammy's happy.

Last night, we had relaxing, low-key visits with our third- and fourth-born sons and their families. Tonight, our youngest son’s wife flies in to join the fun. So! Life is good!  Even when it's hard, even in this strange era of Covid, life is very good indeed.  Deo gratias!  

Joy to the World! They Can't Take Away Christmas!

I've been struggling to find my joy lately.  Hard to say out loud, with Christmas coming...but it’s true.

I have been struck--out of the blue, without warning--with feelings of hopelessness that wash over me, even though I keep reminding myself that I have been so incredibly, undeservedly blessed in this earthly life, and that if anyone should feel joyful and hopeful, it is I.  I blame Covid for this--both the actual illness (which my husband and I recently contracted--together, because that's how we roll!--and have recovered from) and the way it has changed every aspect of life in these once freedom-loving United States. I disappoint myself when I allow those nagging dark clouds to hang over my head, but of course, such is the human condition: we are flawed and weak and just can't do it on our own. We need divine help.  Thankfully, God knew this and sent us His only Son to redeem and save us.  And if we believe in Him, in His boundless mercy and love and the promise of salvation, we will never fall into total despair.

Like everyone, I wonder if we will we ever go back to normal living in this country, in this crazy, unrecognizable world.  (And don't even tell me about the "new normal"; if ever there was a term that grates against my nerves, that's the one.)  It's a sad state of affairs when a simple friendly greeting on the street--instead of the more common nervous sidestepping/eye-averting reaction that coming into contact with fellow earthlings tends to illicit in many these days--surprises you, makes you feel elated, and renews your hope in humankind.  I miss smiling at strangers with more than just my eyes. I'm sorry that I took it for granted when such a thing was so normal none of us could imagine it ever being otherwise. I can't help but wonder: what is it doing to babies and small children, seeing all those covered-up faces all the time and not being able to read expressions?  How will it affect their development?

Yikes, it's a tough world out there.

And boy...if ever we needed Christmas (and don't we always?),  this is the year.

My baby, the youngest of my five boys, arrived last night and will be joined by his wife when she finishes up a work project in a few days.  So for a couple of weeks, we will have all of our kids and grandkids close by (five sons, five daughters-in-law, 17 grandchildren).   That is something to celebrate.  A Christmas miracle, as far as I'm concerned.

And of course, we have the most important Baby of all coming, in just a few days.  

I'm sorry for the negative tone of this post.  But I was struggling with difficult emotions for several weeks, not wanting to admit them to anyone; then recently, I became aware that some of my loved ones had been battling in a similar fashion.  The struggle is real, as they say.  And being able to talk about it made me feel less alone--so I thought if anyone reading this could relate, it might help to know that there are lots of us out there in the same boat.  We've got to stick together and pray for each other, and with God, all things will be possible.

If I don't get back here beforehand, I wish you all a very Merry Christmas!  If we remember the true "reason for the season," how can we feel anything but merry, right?

The Stockings Are Hung by the Chimney with Care

My husband and I are eagerly anticipating Christmas, and having our youngest son and his wife (whose blog handle is Babisiu) here with us in VA over the holiday. As of now, those plans are going forward...and I don't know what I'll do if they fall apart, because it's been MORE THAN A YEAR--incredibly!--since we saw those two cute kids in person.

Our "baby" and his lovely curly-headed bride, who got married in September of 2019, flew here to be with us last Thanksgiving.

Remember holidays like this?  What a difference a year makes!

They were also supposed to fly up for a Pearl family reunion in NY, celebrated at our "Oyster Haven" VRBO house on Lake Champlain, this past July.  But he's in the Army, and due to the Covid pandemic there were strict travel restrictions in place for all military personnel at his base.  So we didn't see them in the summer.

My husband and I were planning to fly out to be with them at their house this Thanksgiving, but alas, our boy came down with Covid and his last official day of quarantine was the Friday after Thanksgiving.  (He's fine now, by the way; he had flu-like symptoms but he has fully recovered.  And Babisiu never even caught it from him--so I guess it's a really contagious virus...but sometimes, inexplicably, it's not.)  Anyhoo, needless to say, that recent Thanksgiving trip was a no-go.

After hearing all of that, I'm sure you can understand how much I'm looking forward to this upcoming visit at Christmas.  The basement is all ready for them!

When we bought our "new" VA house in 2017, it was, as far as we were concerned, move-in ready.  It was not a fixer-upper, which we'd both decided we didn't want to deal with at our age (especially after coming from a home we'd worked so hard to make perfect for us over the two-and-a-half decades we lived there).  The one project we did hope to tackle was finishing off the basement, so that we would have a big family room/playroom for our grandkids and a guest retreat (mostly for our youngest son and his wife, the only ones in the family at this point in time who don't reside near us in VA).  We paid someone else to have the bathroom put in.  But during the turbulent year that was 2020, my amazing husband finished off the rest--electrical, insulation, lighting, walls and ceilings--he did it all, with me as his bumbling assistant.  And now we have what is almost a little apartment down there.  The only thing missing is a kitchen!

The bedroom is small, but really cozy.

After we finished the basement project, we got a discarded fireplace mantle from one of our sons and his wife, and we mounted it on the wall in the play area of the basement.  I decided to give it the trompe l'oeil treatment (which is something I've always enjoyed, because I love me some whimsy when it comes to home decor).  I'm so excited that it gives me a place to hang stockings for the two eagerly-awaited Christmas guests that will be staying down there.

The stockings are hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that my kiddos will soon be there!  Seeing them again is the only Christmas gift I need this year.  God willing, that's the gift I'll get!

An Open Book (Dec. 2020): Two Tales, One Tragic and One Magic

Hello, Open Bookers!  I can't wait to see what you've been reading.

Here's my first recommendation for this month: The Girl Who Came Home, a novel by Hazel Gaynor, a writer of historical fiction who is quickly becoming one of my favorites. (You might remember that I adored Gaynor's The Lighthouse Keeper's Daughter, which I mentioned here at the link-up back in the summer.)

This particular book drew me like a proverbial cat to cat-nip.  I have always been strangely fascinated by stories of the Titanic disaster, a tragedy as epic in proportion as the vessel itself.  But this one has an element that I truly could not resist: it features a group of would-be Irish immigrants traveling to America in steerage on the "unsinkable" giant's maiden voyage--and these fictional characters are based on the true story of 14 delightful young people who came from the same parish in Ireland.  (The Girl Who Came Home is dedicated to the memory of these real life “Addergoole Fourteen.”) How could I not read this book, I ask you?  You know how I love all things Emerald Isle, don't you?

Well, maybe you've never been to this blog before and you don't.  So before I go on telling you about the page-turner of a NYT bestseller I just read, here's a quick (and shameless!) plug for my own 2014 YA novel about some plucky Irish Catholic immigrants in 19th-century New England, Erin's Ring (a recipient of two Catholic Press Association awards that has most definitely not been a bestseller, but I think is worth a read nonetheless).

Okay, now let's get back to The Girl Who Came Home. In Gaynor's deft hands, the tale of these ill-fated 14 Irish souls from the fictional town of Ballysheen comes vibrantly alive for the reader.  I was sucked in right from the start, and also utterly thrilled that the Catholic Faith and practice thereof is mentioned frequently, without any preachiness (or any derision, which is unfortunately the way of most modern fiction, I find).

Being Catholic is a normal and vital part of these Irish characters’ lives, and it is treated as such. Seamus, the boy Maggie Murphy loves, gives her a silver hairbrush and some Rosary beads as parting gifts before she sails away from him, possibly forever. The last thing Maggie, her Aunt Kathleen, and the other dozen Titanic-bound travelers do before they leave Ballysheen to set out on their big adventure is to attend Sunday Mass at their parish church. Afterwards, the priest blesses their horse- and donkey-drawn carriages--bound for a train that will take them to Queenstown in County Cork, where they will board the ship--with holy water, and he says a prayer for protection. When the Ballysheen 14 get to Queenstown, they are pleased to find out that there is a cathedral not far from the Rooming House where they are staying for the night, and so they will be able to attend Mass in the morning before boarding Titanic.  I found these references to the deep faith of the characters so beautiful, and especially poignant knowing the horrors they were about to encounter at sea.  There are so many references to prayers offered during the voyage across the Atlantic, Rosaries said, and blessings bestowed by priests (and after the ship strikes the iceberg, many terrified passengers, understandably, turn to prayer).  The Ballysheen 14 even attend Mass on the ship.  Yet I believe that a reader of any faith could read this story and not feel uncomfortable or offended by these religious references, because historically, they are undoubtedly accurate.   

The story does go back and forth in time (a literary device that I particularly enjoy, if it is done well--and it is done to perfection here).  Readers are taken from those fateful days aboard Titanic in1912 to suburban Chicago in1982, where we meet Maggie's great-granddaughter, Grace.  Grace has decided to take a break from college, where she has been studying journalism, to help her mother cope with her father’s sudden and unexpected death. Before leaving school, Grace is offered the opportunity to write a feature article for the Chicago Tribune, but she can't decide what to write about. She's not sure the offer will even stand, if and when she ever goes back to finish her degree--but then fate steps in.  Maggie has never told her Titanic story to anyone, but after 70 years, she finally decides to tell it to Grace, giving her granddaughter the feature story of a lifetime to write about.

Grace’s published feature in the paper leads to the recovery of 14 long-lost letters from Seamus, the sweetheart Maggie left behind in Ireland when she sailed away on Titanic--the boy she never forgot and still loves.  It also puts Maggie in contact with the one other survivor from their Ballysheen group, after many years without contact.  Oh my goodness, dear readers!  It’s all so touching and romantic!

This is a thoroughly engrossing story, beautifully written, with such a poignant and satisfying conclusion.  And no way will I give even a hint of how it urned out!  Read this book yourself; it's a "must read" if I ever read one. The characters live and breathe and make you care about them deeply.  And feel free to share it with your favorite young adult reader, because there are none of those pesky scenes of physical intimacy to worry about.  The faith, perseverance, and sacrificial love displayed by the characters is truly inspiring. Is five stars the most you can give?  Okay then, five stars.  And two enthusiastic thumbs up.

My next recommendation is a different animal altogether, a sweet and thoroughly enchanting fairy tale of a novel called Comfort and Joy, by bestselling historical fiction author Kristin Hannah.

I picked up a paperback copy of this relatively short book on the spur of the moment, while on a Sam's run with my husband.  I noticed the Christmas-themed cover (who can resist a Christmas story?) and saw that it was written by the popular author of a couple of my all-time favorite works of historical fiction, The Nightengale and Winter Garden (I figured it had to be a good one if Hannah wrote it).

This is not historical fiction, but I struggle to categorize its genre.  The subtitle is a fable, and that describes the book pretty well.  It's not romance, although it is an extremely romantic story (it will make you fall in love with love); and it's not fantasy, although it does require the reader to suspend disbelief and go on a fantastical trip to an alternate world that could be a dream but might be reality.  (I know!  It sounds a little crazy--but it's crazy good, I assure you!)

I was touched to find that there are several references to attending Mass, saying prayers, and lighting candles for loved ones at church.  The story revolves around characters who are suffering unimaginable losses, who have gone through life-changing recent tragedies.  For Catholics, turning to God at such times is as natural as breathing, yet I don't often find positive references to religion and prayer in modern works of fiction in our secularized world, where God seems to be all but forgotten...but like a breath of literary fresh air, Hannah includes them in this tender, lovely, and strangely believable fable.   

As if this book wouldn't have been good enough already (I couldn't put it down and read it in two sittings), it's also got an added feature that makes it irresistible to me: an Irish character!  In the middle of the lush forests of the Pacific Northwest, Hannah's main character, Joy, meets Daniel, a handsome, dark-haired Irishman with a sad past and a hint of a brogue.  Is he real, though, or just a dream?  

Oh my goodness--read this book, I guarantee you won't be disappointed.  It will make you believe in love, in miracles, in the magic of Christmas.  And what a perfect time of year to read it!

That's it for me (but head on over to Carolyn's blog for more "must reads").  I'll be back here at the blog soon, I hope, or in what I hope will be a much brighter New Year.

An Open Book (Nov. 2020): Just a Few Quick Recommendations

I have recently read some novels that I would like to heartily recommend, but I don’t seem to have the time to write a decent review for each of them right now. Let’s chalk that up to the birth of a 17th grandchild in late October, a big family birthday party for a one-year-old granddaughter not long afterward, a big family get-together at Papa and Grammy’s house on Halloween followed by Trick-or-Treating—13 little cousins all together!—in our neighborhood afterwards, and well...the ELECTION and its aftermath.  (Note to self: don’t overuse the adjective “big”... although that’s getting harder and harder to do when describing events attended by our ever-growing family.)

So...I think for the An Open Book link-up this month, I'll just post a some lovely pictures of the covers of these books, and hopefully they will speak the 1,000 words that I don't have the time or energy to write at this time.  (But I'll try to at least write a few words.)

First up, The Night Portrait by Laura Morelli, a well-researched historical novel set in Germany during WWII (if you know me at all, are you surprised?).

This story goes back and forth in time, from Milan in 1492 to Germany in the 1940's.  A young German art conservator  named Edith Becker has been commandeered by high-ranking Nazis to catalog priceless works of art that they've stolen from all over Europe, but at the same time, she is smuggling information about these stolen treasures to the Resistance.  If you are at all familiar with the Monuments Men (did you see the movie?  It was wonderful!), you will eat this book up--because Edith ends up meeting them and helping them in their efforts to save these priceless works and get them back to their rightful owners (often Jews who have been sent to the camps and had their homes ransacked).  One of the paintings that Edith is particularly fond of is Da Vinci's Lady with an Ermine.  When the novel goes back in time to the 15th century, we get to meet the young girl who was the model for this painting and we learn some fascinating history about Italy in Da Vinci's day.  

This is a well-written book—informative and thoroughly engrossing.  The characters are real and likable.  As a Catholic, I enjoyed the descriptions of the great masterpieces that many brave people worked tirelessly to find and save.  So many of these works depicted sacred religious images such as the Madonna and Child surrounded by saints, or were paintings and sculptures that had graced the altars of spectacular Catholic churches.  If you are a sucker for good fiction, beautiful art, and history in general  (WWII history in particular!), I guarantee you'll love this book.  Five stars.

Second up: another WWII-era historical fiction winner, The Secret Messenger, by Mandy Robotham.  

I think the reason I gravitate towards WWII-era fiction is that it tells the most unbelievable stories about seemingly average individuals who exhibited heroic courage, risking their lives and against all odds finding ways to thwart the enemy.  And these stories are based on actual people and true events, which makes them even more moving and inspiring.

This one is set in Venice, which apparently was spared much of the devastation of the Allied bombings, but whose citizens nonetheless suffered greatly under Mussolini's Fascist oppression and then the Nazi occupation.  Young Venetian Stella Jilani is given a job as a typist at the Reich headquarters, because of her knowledge of the German language.  While working right under the nose of the most powerful Nazi in the city, she finds ways to sneak information gleaned at the office out to the Resistance.  She is one of the women known at the time as "Staffettas," secret messengers who played an integral part in the war effort.  Stella also writes for an underground Resistance newspaper--a crime that would be punishable by death if she gets caught.  

The Secret messenger goes back and forth in time, from WWII Venice to 21st century London, where Stella's granddaughter Luisa stumbles upon a trove of vintage treasures in her late mother’s attic—including an antique typewriter with a slightly damaged E key and a never-before-seen box of old photos and letters. (Who doesn’t love an attic filled with family history?!)    These clues to her grandmother’s mysterious past inspire Luisa to go on a journey to uncover her family’s secrets.    .  

This book has it all!  There's a satisfying love story.  There are twists and turns and edge-of-your-seat moments of near-discovery that could end in imprisonment or death for those who dare to resist the occupiers.  And that typewriter, with a tell-tale dropped E key, is the very thing that might spell disaster for Stella, because if the Nazis find its owner, they find the culprit who has been writing the forbidden stories that are giving the Venetians hope but filling their enemies with rage.  This is a riveting tale, one based on extraordinary women such as Stella who really did play a huge part in the Allied victory.  Highly recommend.  Five stars.

Up third, a suspense-filled whodunit by popular murder mystery writer Lisa Scottoline, titled Don't Go.  

I know what you must be thinking: what, not historical fiction?  Not WWII-themed?   Crazy, right?  This novel is set partly in a war zone, but in the recent Middle East conflict.   (See, sometimes I actually do go outside my normal comfort zone and try new things!)

Mike Scanlon, an orthopedic surgeon, is called to serve as an Army doctor in Afghanistan, leaving his wife Chloe and their infant daughter behind stateside. While deployed, Mike receives the devastating news that Chloe has died in what appears to be an unfortunate household accident. When he comes home to bury her, however, he discovers that she had some dark secrets.  While he’s been away, she has had an affair.  And it becomes more and more apparent, as he does his own investigative work, that her death might not have been accidental after all.

I found this book compulsively readable, and it kept me guessing until the end.  On the back cover, it is described as “gripping, thrilling, and profoundly emotional,” and I would agree with those adjectives.  The murder mystery is not my favorite book genre, but I would still give Don’t Go four stars. It would be an ideal choice to take along on a long flight or a beach vacation.

I've just started an historical novel called The Girl Who Came Home, by Hazel Gaynor, about a group of Irish people traveling to America on the Titanic, and it looks like it's going to be a winner.  (I've always been drawn to stories about the Titanic, whether non-fiction or fiction based on real life.)  But I'll have to tell you about that one next month!  If you're looking for more suggestions to put on your "must read" list, head on over to the November link-up to see what Carolyn et. al. are reading.

"Tears Become Pearls"

I have just finished an acrylic painting of Our Lord's Holy Face, which I'm going to call "Tears Become Pearls." This title is in reference to these moving words from "Prayer to the Holy Face," which is printed on the back of a St. Veronica holy card that I picked up in the back of Church one Sunday and which I try to read each day: "I am consumed with the desire of loving Thee and making Thee loved by all mankind.  The tears that streamed in such abundance from Thine eyes are to me as precious pearls which I delight to gather, that with their infinite worth I may ransom the souls of the poor sinners."

I recently wrote a blog post about this prayer, and the way it inspired me to create an image of Jesus' tears transforming into pearls as they fall from His eyes. I did a colored-pencil rendition of the picture that had formed in my head, and it just didn't do the glorious image I had envisioned justice. My attempts at art rarely live up to those mind's-eye images!  But with renewed purpose, on October 20, I picked up my paints and my paintbrushes and went to work on a blank canvas, starting with a rough pencil sketch.

As I began to paint, my early endeavors did not produce very good fruit.  I almost gave up, thinking that perhaps I was not meant to get this image down in the form of a painting.  But something kept me working on it, while singing or humming well-known church hymns almost constantly, down in my basement sewing and painting "room."  (It's not really a room; carved out of a corner of the storage area, it is a cozy little nook that is an introvert's dream and my happy place!)

Yikes!  What is with those eyes?! They make
Him look like an Anime character. (I literally
scraped the paint off and started over.)

Getting better...

As you can see, Our Lord's face kept changing--especially the eyes, which to me are the most important feature of all.

I worked quickly--much more quickly than usual--and within a few days I felt I was close.

A couple of times long the way, I compared my Holy Face to the one imprinted on the Shroud of Turin.  On a whim I even turned my mostly-finished painting around and looked at it from behind, with the ceiling light shining on it (trying, not too successfully, to achieve the effect of a negative).

And now here's a comparison from the front.  The left-hand image was one that I found on Wednesday night, on the front of a prayer booklet on the bedside table at my second son's house (when we were spending the night to care for his three older boys while he and his wife were in the hospital welcoming baby #4--another boy!).  I snapped a picture of it to put side-by-side with my finished version of Jesus' Holy Face when I got back home.

What has been strange about painting this image is that I've worked more quickly and confidently than I usually do.  I don't have the urge to go back and do all kinds of tweaking now, even though I am well aware that there are aspects of the background and the hastily rendered red robe--and the pearls!--that could probably use some work.  Jesus' hair is not great, but I hesitate to overwork it an end up with something that looks even worse. The white of the canvas shows through in spots, where my brushstrokes were very light, and I normally feel the need to cover every inch of a canvas completely.  But in spite of all the flaws, I find that I don't want to touch this painting anymore, and such as it is, it is finished.

Aside from looking at the Shroud initially, as a starting point to get an idea of the facial proportions I should be shooting for, I worked on this Holy Face of Jesus without any references whatsoever.  Usually, I like to study a number of images to help me decide how I want my faces to look, and I keep them handy throughout the project; for this painting, I just did what came to me out of the picture I had in my head.  And I found myself feeling a more intense closeness with Jesus than ever--not that I'm saying I think I know what He looks like and believe I have captured His image correctly.  But for whatever reason, I felt particularly close to Him every minute that I was working on this.  And even though I am always, always the harshest critic of my own work, I feel nothing but happy when I look at it, now that it's done.

I realized after I had completed work on this painting that there are ten pearl tears--which seems just right, as I think they should symbolize the ten Hail Mary's in each decade of the Rosary.  That way, Our Lord's beloved Mother is included in this picture. I think it's fitting that the tears He shed during His passion because of the sins we have committed should be transformed into the beads of a Rosary.

With Election Day approaching and so many things--our religious freedom, most importantly--at stake, depending on the outcome, images of Our Lord speak to me now more than ever.  But because of Him and the ultimate sacrifice He made for us, I know all will be well in the end.  And I trust that He will take care of all of the Pearls, my very own string of Pearls, whom I love more than my own life.

Jesus, I trust in You!

Jesus, remember me, when You come into Your Kingdom!

Jesus, mercy!

And to quote from the final words of the "Prayer to the Holy Face" on my St. Veronica card, may I one day "reach the vision of Thy glorious Face in heaven!  Amen."

"Laura's Project," a Poem by Nancy P. Gordon

One of the major life influences I had growing up was my late father's sister, Nancy (but she went by the childhood nickname "Toni," so she was always "Aunt Toni" to my brothers and sisters and me).  She was a constant presence, with a warm hand affectionately rubbing my back if she was nearby or a lovingly and eloquently written letter (in her instantly recognizable and inimitable cursive!) if she was not. She asked us kids probing questions and was unfailingly interested in the answers, no matter how unimportant they might have seemed to most grown-ups. But among all the ways she shaped my childhood, it was her deep love of literature and of reading that helped to inspire me to become a writer.

This beautiful octogenarian still plays golf and could
run circles around most people half her age.  She is
an inspiration to her aging nieces and nephews!

Aunt Toni was my Dad's only sibling.  Brilliant and accomplished, she was a high school English teacher for many years, and then she had a second career as a corporate lawyer.  For most of our formative years our aunt was single--so we were the lucky five children upon whom she doted. And how we benefitted from her love for us and her desire to give us culturally enriching experiences we never could have had otherwise!  She lived in NJ and we were in Upstate NY, but she planned once-in-a-lifetime special trips for us to come and visit her.  Each of her nieces of nephews, one or two at a time, would ride a Greyhound bus down to meet her (back in the days when parents thought this was a safe enough thing to do!).  She'd pick us up at the bus stop in NJ and we'd spend a few days at her apartment, being treated to trips into NYC to see Broadway plays and eat out at fancy restaurants (and not-so-fancy ones, too, like the iconic Automat).

When I was 11 and my older brother was 12, we rode the bus down together.  During our weekend stay, Aunt Toni took us to see "Fiddler on the Roof” on Broadway and then she bought me the show's soundtrack album as a souvenir.  I played it over and over on my little portable record player and had the lyrics "Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match, find me a find, catch me a catch!" in my head almost constantly for months afterward.  On that same visit, she loaned me a copy of Wuthering Heights to read; and although I might have been too young to truly "get" all of it, I can remember being enthralled.  "Someday," I thought to myself, "I want to write a book that a reader loves as much as I love this one!" 

In her late 30's, Aunt Toni married a kind and gentle man who was both a university professor of physics and a NASA researcher.  (They did not have children, so we have remained the lucky recipients of her maternal affection!)  Similarly interested in learning, traveling, and reading, they share a love of books and have an impressive personal library. I have given my aunt copies of my own two novels (not exactly on par with the likes of Wuthering Heights, to be sure, but a byproduct of my own lifelong love of the written word--a love she helped to inspire).  If they sit on the shelves of her library today, that is an honor beyond description.

Aunt Toni has been participating in a poetry workshop, and she recently shared this copy of a poem she wrote last month.  It was inspired by a memory from when she came to visit us at our home in 1960, when we were still living in NJ.  I am tickled to be the subject of this original work of hers!  And I thought I'd share it here at the blog.

LAURA’S PROJECT

My two-year-old niece is on a mission.

She is focused, doesn’t seem to notice

that I’m in the room.

She walks (more waddling than walking, still)

to a closet, which holds a bag

full of magical papers.

She picks it up for closer inspection,

but she has grabbed the bottom corner

and suddenly there’s a storm of papers,

covering the closet.

She looks, surveys the damage,

sits down on the floor.

She patiently picks up each piece,

puts each photo, each paper,

back in the bag.

She spends time on this task,

carefully replacing everything.

Looking satisfied with herself, she stands,

a balancing act for her two-year-old limbs,

plants her feet and reaches for her prize.

Again she picks it up by the bottom corner.

Photos and papers and envelopes tumble to the floor.

A pause.  No exclamation. 

She stands, looking, for a moment.

She shrugs.

She drops the bag on top of the mess.

Shrugs again, and exits the closet

heading for the kitchen, mom, and a snack.

 

npg  September 2020

There are some snapshots of two-year-old me playing in the closet--as a matter of fact, I think they were taken at the very time of the incident described in Aunt Toni’s poem.  (Apparently, along with the bag of papers and letters, I found a pair of my mom's high heels to try out.)

I had this post almost finished, sitting in my “drafts” folder and waiting for an ending, when my husband and I went to daily Mass this past week. During his homily, the priest said something about thanking God for the blessings we receive via the people He puts in our lives...and I thought “yes indeed, how very true!” I am no poet, like my aunt; but Father’s words were like poetry to my ears.