I Called His Name

The following is an excerpt from my book TRANSITIONS, available at the Artist Guild of Paducah's gallery at 115 Market Square in Paducah.

I looked,

I called His name, again and again, I called,

I talked to others

I read, I listened.

And I called His name, alone, and I called with others.

I called in darkness and in stillness

I called in celebration, with noise and music.

I read, I reasoned, I argued.

I was angry, I was lazy, I was frustrated.

I pleaded with Him, I derided Him.

I refused to give in,

and I called his name still.

I called from a small room.

a crowded church,

a personal retreat.

I called him through four seasons.

Once He answered.

MATERIALIZATION?

  

I don’t know what else to call it.

 

Why it has taken me this long – 74 years – to see myself so clearly is beyond comprehension.  While most of my “ah ha moments” occur in the proximity of my morning shower, I can’t recall when this one poked me in the head. It happened about a week ago.

I cannot let things simply be what they are.  I have this unrelenting need to act on things, to make them more than an experience or knowledge.

Ideas, thoughts, or feelings must be put into words, spoken, written, or both, and more often than not, they must be shared, quietly and personally through conversation, or publicly through writing (blogs, social media, etc.).

In my encounters with the world around me the same phenomenon occurs.  When a particular scene, natural or man made, inspires me, I am driven to re-create it on paper or canvas, directly or via a photograph.  Living with the experience and memory is not enough for me.  I have to make it into something tangible that I can see on demand, and, as is usually the case, share with others.

This is what has been driving me for the second half of my life.

PATIENCE MEETS MY PARENTS

Love can slap your head and knock you silly when you least expect it, and it does so at a time of its own choosing, regardless of your personal circumstances.  It certainly did so with me when I met a young nursing student named Patience during one of my shifts in the ER.  My life at that time was dark, and her radiance gave it light and hope.  After a very short courtship – phone calls, one day-long date, and a walk in the park – I knew we would be spending the rest of our lives together.  So it was only a matter of time that we would be driving the 30 miles from Wilmington Delaware to Landisville New Jersey for her to meet my parents.

When my father’s health prevented him from working, my parents decided to sell the farm and build a small home on a nearby wooded property they owned.  It was perfect for them. It had a large basement where my mother could cook and can (Italian-Americans often had a second kitchen in the basement.), and my father could make his wine, and with enough cleared land for a garden.  My father had two passions, wine making and gardening, both of which he pursued until one year before his death at age 82.

On the day of the big meet we pulled into their drive in my wild and wooly ’65 Mustang hardtop, stopping just short of the garage, which was always open.

Family and friends usually entered through the garage because it opened into the kitchen-dining area, where all the entertaining took place.  This day would be no exception.

Patience, whose 8^th great grandfather was Miles Standish, was a stranger to Italian-American culture and understandably was slightly apprehensive.  The first thing she noticed as we entered the garage were large, dark, moldy pieces of something…resembling hams… hanging from the garage beams.  I’m not sure she was reassured when I told her that was prosciutto my father was making.  It looked like nothing she had seen before, and certainly not something meant to be eaten. We did not have prosciutto that day, but we were having manicotti, one of my mom’s specialties, She asked Patience if she ever had “mana gought”, which is the way we pronounced manicotti.  Of course Patience said no, she had never had mana gought; when the food arrived at the table she immediately said, “oh, you mean manicotti” which sounded strange to our ears and brought polite smiles to our faces.

It did not take very long for the unfamiliar to become familiar, and Patience immediately became family.  Years later, when my parents died, mom in 1992 and dad in 1995, Patience was with me at the bedside holding their hands.  I cannot imagine getting through their respective illnesses without her and I thank God for her presence in our lives.

STANDING ON THEIR SHOULDERS

They had little to give but themselves, which they gave freely and abundantly.  Josephine, who never knew her father, at age eleven had to leave her home, quit school, and move into an apartment with three older brothers to assume all household duties.  Spartaco, known to all as Duke, lost his mother when he was eight years old. The youngest of four brothers, he left school after the eighth grade to work on the family farm, while his brothers and 3 older sisters completed high school and college or business school.  Life on the small farm for my parents was defined by unrelenting hard work, financial insecurity, and more than their share of  personal disappointments and illnesses.  Comfort and happiness were found in their large, extended family and friends.

It took forty years of living for me to fully appreciate all that these two remarkable people have given to me.

 Not a day goes by that I don’t think of my parents.  (My mother died in December, 1991, and my father in the autumn of 1995.)  I don’t know if this is unusual for someone my age, if it is because I was an only child, or if it’s because I am such a sentimental softy.  I suspect the real reason is because they were remarkable people, and that they gave me so much.  Ironically, in spite of all the writing I do, writing about them is very difficult for me.  Perhaps because I’m afraid I will not do them the justice they deserve.

I believe that I am the person I am because of my parents. Whatever I have accomplished of worth, and may yet accomplish, is the result of their gifts to me. 

The greatest of these gifts was a sense of self worth and self-esteem, which have allowed me to choose some of the difficult paths I have followed in my life.  I believe there is no greater gift parents can give to their children than a strong sense of their own self worth.

My parents taught me about love; they taught me about tolerance and forgiveness, and they taught me about humility.  They showed me that a person of worth treats everyone with the same respect and warmth, and that behavior toward others is determined by their humanity and not by their social position or importance.

They never spoke about these beliefs; they simply lived them because that is who they were.  Pretension was foreign to them.

I believe my life is a reflection of these two remarkable people, and I want it to be worthy of them.  My greatest responsibilities have been to live a life honoring their gifts and to pass these gifts on to my children and loved ones. 

After 78 years I’m still standing on their shoulders.