Glendalough, Co. Wicklow Ireland

Glendalough, Co. Wicklow,  Ireland

This could have been a short story. When I was born, my parents lived in an apartment near Highland Park, a high plateau area between Queens and Brooklyn, near my grandparents’ home in East New York.  Legend has it that one day an aunt lost her grip on my carriage, and it began to roll down the sloping sidewalk toward a busy street — stopped in time by someone walking up. There was more to come.

As we all do in life, I’ve faced my share of “dangers, toils and snares” along the way, and am very grateful to have come this far — mostly intact, only slightly scarred. My rousing rendition of “Amazing Grace,” a hymn that’s become my anthem, sometimes startles those around me at Mass on Sundays.

Some years ago ago I began to think I may have earned a memoir —  even if just for family and friends. Therapy for me, maybe help someone else stay strong, not give up. Besides, picturing my plight in print diverted me in difficult times. I’ve learned that God’s bargain package deal for our journey covers both blessings and trials. There’s no free ride.

Among my gifts: Loving parents. Carefree early childhood in a happy home.  Courageous mom who raised my sister, brother and me after our dad died young.  Some true friends.  Tuition-free Queens College degree.  Before it was trendy: At 38, married a good man.  At almost 42, after prayers, tests and surgery, gave birth to our miracle baby boy.  At 52, decided what I wanted to be when I grew up, worked as a librarian till 73, lifetime pension and medical benefits.

Some of my challenges: Struggles with depression, two hospitalizations, shock treatments.   Breast cancer, mastectomy, a year of chemotherapy, poor prognosis 32 years ago.  My husband’s callous downsizing, then his sickness and death.  Our son’s life-threatening illness the next year.  Hurtful words and actions, especially from loved ones, more painful than bodily injury.

But I’ve been busy holding on for dear life — haven’t had time to do more than jot random notes.  My working title: “The Perils of Eileen:  Still Hanging in There.”  My role model:  The intrepid heroine of the silent movie serial, “The Perils of Pauline,” first filmed in 1914, before I appeared on the scene, but not long.

Born in Brooklyn in 1931, I’m 79 now — the same age as Grandma Moses when three of her colorful folk paintings were included in an exhibit, “Contemporary Unknown American Painters,” at New York’s Museum of Modern Art. You never know.  George Eliot’s  inspirational line is taped to my refrigerator:  “It is never too late to be what you might have been.” Though acrobat might be a stretch!

Played by the actress, Pearl White, Pauline cleverly foiled her evil guardian’s wicked plots to collect her inheritance by hastening her death — On a boat rigged with explosives. Held captive by sinister gypsies. Floating away in a runaway hot air balloon. Trapped in a burning building. Just a few of the villain’s dastardly schemes.  Brave, resourceful Pauline always survived at the end of each episode, sometimes with the aid of her heroic fiance, handsome Harry.  Not to worry — Pauline would be back, ready and able for a new adventure.

Later, what came to be called cliffhangers left the hero or heroine in a petrifying predicament: Hanging by fingertips from the edge of a cliff as the dirt crumbled away.  Tied down while a circular saw churned closer.  Bound to a railroad track as the train raced nearer. The audience kept in suspense till the next chapter next week.  I haven’t encountered any of these calamities so far — but in the mid 1960’s I fell through one of the infamous gaps between Long Island Railroad cars and platforms, after all other passengers had boarded, and the train was ready to leave Laurelton, Queens for New York City’s Penn Station.

That frigid winter morning, I ran to a still open, empty doorway, started to step over the space, slipped on a patch of ice, and dropped feet down to the gravel bed, head not visible above the platform. Then, in 2006, over 40 years after my horrendous experience, a young woman was killed by a train after falling through the gap in Woodside.  Long Island’s “Newsday” ran a series of articles exposing the many accidents and lawsuits not disclosed till then. How I survived in another post.  Hang in there.

A former friend, mocking my modelling Pauline, once sarcastically remarked:  “Eileen, you could never be in a silent movie!”   She was wrong.  My son, his chemotherapy and radiation treatments for Hodgkin’s Disease completed,  enrolled at Pittsburgh Filmmakers and starred me in an assignment — a silent movie. He got an A for his opus, “Lights Out for Grandma,” and told me his classmates went “Aww” when I died dramatically, and silently, at the end.

After his recovery from cancer, my son’s career goals were movie maker, stand-up comedian, or both.. In the meantime, he worked as a waiter, though he had degrees in Psychology and Communication. When he met and fell in love with his future wife, he went back to college for an M.S. in Occupational Therapy, and now cares for nursing home patients with compassion and humor. Who knows what he’ll decide to be when he grows up?

I loved being a librarian, but since childhood I wanted to be a writer — often reading treasured books past bedtime, under covers, by flashlight. Later, I sent several poems to magazines and a children’s story, “Kieran’s Climbing Tree,”  to Greentree Press — all rejected — and didn’t try again. But I know a little of the thrill of publication  —  The New York Times printed my letter about the Bush Iraq fiasco, and two appeared in Newsday —  one about breastfeeding’s protection against breast cancer, and another about the LIRR Woodside fatality and my earlier mishap.

Back in 1953, with my new B.A. in English, I toiled as a file clerk at TIME Magazine’s Letters to the Editor  —  an occasional tear falling  into the folders. The next year, typing and shorthand added to my resume, I transferred to Sports Illustrated Magazine as a secretary in the Advertising Department . (“Mad Men” got it right.)  After seven itchy years at TIME, inc., I  worked for Dr. Tom Dooley’s MEDICO Foundation.  After his death, at IBM Communications. Very briefly as an elementary school teacher in the South Bronx. Then seven sensible years as a legal secretary at Proskauer, Rose, Goetz & Mendelsohn, Esqs. Ten years later, I returned to Queens College for my M.L.S. — I’d seen the light.at last.

If you’ve read up to here, you’ve noticed I’m not at a loss for words. I’m obviously the latter of two basic Irish types: private and closemouthed, and outgoing and talkative. But on my first visit to Ireland in 1969 with my sister and a cousin, I couldn’t pass up the chance to kiss the famed Blarney Stone, a tradition said to bestow the ability to talk the the blarney — the talent to beguile and cajole. It’s possible that smooching that stone improved my powers of persuasion, resulting in traveling this time with Honey. The doting Aer Lingus attendants told me she was the first pet ever allowed in the cabin.

I’ve never had a problem showing my feelings either, and had honed the skill in an acting class at NYU.  When I called The Irish Department of Agriculture for permission to bring my dog to Ireland, I tearfully pleaded my cause — At my age, this may be the last time I came to the land of my ancestors. Honey was my emotional support animal,  certified by a psychologist as my comfort companion on previous Jet Blue and Southwest Airlines domestic flights.

Kissing the Blarney Stone is a sly way of “pulling the leg” — literally and figuratively. On my first visit, as I lay flat on my back on Blarney Castle’s floor, a jolly man  (he seemed to enjoy his job) grasped my ankles as I stretched my neck outside the wall opening to peck the designated block of rock. Uncomfortable, but not dangerous —  a grating under the head prevents plunging to the ground if the guide slips his grip.   My kin looked down on the silly procedure.. The custom was beneath their contempt. They’d never lower themselves to such an awkward position. (Puns intended.)   Their loss.  Could have loosened them up a bit.

Beautiful, legendary Ireland is the birthplace of my maternal grandparents, paternal great grandparents, and their forebears.  My husband’s antecedents were born there, too. And in 1970 we spent our honeymoon in that welcoming country — my beloved didn’t  need to ask if I’d mind going again, two years in a row.  This year Aer Lingus  made an offer I couldn’t refuse.  Neither could my son and daughter-in-law, who soon joined Honey and me in Dublin.

One gorgeous, sunny afternoon, wandering a long while by myself in lushly blooming Mount Usher Gardens, I saw a woman across a stream and called out: “How do I find my way out of here?”  She crossed over a small bridge, and we talked as she led me to a refreshment pavilion where we joined my son and his wife. We’d walked different ways. Barbara, a Dubliner, was delighted to meet Honey, who waited patiently in our car — windows wide open — no dogs permitted in the park. My  guide took a picture of my sweet friend, and said she’d write about our chance meeting on her blog, “Just Add Attitude.”

When I read her post, including Honey’s photo, I knew that’s how I could tell my story.  I’d chosen exactly the right path that day.  Barbara quoted Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken,” so I’ll return the favor and cite Herman Melville’s “Moby Dick,” as Ishmael says:  “I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right, that everybody is one way or other served in much the same way — either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is, and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each others’ shoulder-blades, and be content.”

These wise words didn’t make a deep impression in college, but I was struck by the insight when Peg Bracken repeated them in her “I Hate to Housekeep Book” — a title that caught my attention as a newlywed.  Ms. Bracken was cautioning us not to judge careless homemakers harshly — we don’t know what problems may be distracting them.  We’re all on this odyssey together —  should be there for one another — have our shipmates’ backs in stormy weather.

Now I know that endurance is rewarded. When one door closes, another does open. An oyster, disturbed by a grain of sand, covers it with a lustrous pearl that couldn’t form without irritation.Troubled waters have sometimes made me change course, navigate to a safe harbor, mend my sails, chart a new route, then set to sea again.  (Couldn’t resist.  Got carried away on the tide.)
 To be continued, God willing.

Comments (13)


I’m confused.  Not about my own orientation — starting with an unrequited crush on Jimmy Mannion in St. Mary Magdalene elementary school — a bigger crush on my ten-year-older, handsome first cousin, Jim Beatty, after my dad died — romances with Dick Cunningham, then Paul Glynn, in college — and casual dating for too many years before finally finding my husband. I’m baffled by the rapid redefinition of sexual identity.  Archie and Edith Bunker of “All in the Family” — admittedly, not the most enlightened people on the planet — would be in shock.  In their good old days, “girls were girls and men were men.”.

Laws vary in different states, but in 2014 the New York City Council passed an ordinance permitting transgender people to keep what used to be called their private parts, yet change the sex on their birth certificates. Corey Johnson, who introduced the bill, said: “Gender won’t be about your physicality.”  Mind boggling! And it’s not bigotry — it’s about anatomy. Removing external body parts doesn’t change what’s inside. And hormones may be harmful.

God created all men and women equal, deserving  the same dignity and protection of their human rights. Crimes against those perceived to be homosexual or otherwise sexually different should never be tolerated in any civilized society.  But we don’t live in an ideal world — some will always reject and react against what seems abnormal or immoral. It was a revelation to hear Pope Francis say:  “Who am I to judge?”  I believe God is more loving and tolerant than most religions portray Him to be.

I’ve come a long way from my clueless 20’s when I naively asked a friend:  “What do they do?” She laughed and enlightened me — to my amazement. But the media’s current increasing  focus on lesbian, gay, bisexual and especially transgender issues seems out of proportion.  This is an organized campaign now that the battle for same-sex marriage has been won, sanctioned by The Supreme Court.

On July 9th The Times printed an editorial:  “The Struggle for Fairness for Transgender Workers.”  Elaine Mendus, a 6-foot-3 transgender woman in the early stages of transitioning, has had a hard time finding a job in New York.  (In all fairness, her attached picture wouldn’t help her cause.) Though hiring by looks is prejudicial, it’s a fact that employers do consider appearance, especially if the employee deals with the public.

On Sunday, August 30th The New York Times featured a story on page one, with a large picture of a  statuesque “woman” in judicial robes: “Once a Pariah, Now a Transgender Judge.”  Front page news?  (As Seinfeld said: “Not that there’s anything wrong with that!”) The article continued for two full pages. Phyllis, formerly Phil, Frye married his college girlfriend, they had a son, he was forced to resign from the army for transvestism, and his wife divorced him when she discovered him cross-dressing. Phil fell in love again and is still married to his second wife — who agreed to accept his wearing women’s clothes as long as he didn’t have gender reassignment surgery.

The publicity and praise for the courage of transgender people like former Olympic athlete Bruce (now Caitlyn) Jenner and Laverne Cox of the Netflix series “Orange is the New Black,” has captured public attention. These celebrities lead so-called glamorous lives, while many trans people are poor, homeless and harassed.

On September 4th, The Times put “Who Gets to Play the Transgender Part?” on page one of the Arts section — part of an aggressive push against filmmakers who star non-trans actors in transgender roles. There’s been criticism of casting Elle Fanning in the coming film, “About Ray,” and Eddie Redmayne in the new movie “The Danish Girl.”  The studios are meekly apologetic, but explain they need well-known actors for the films to be profitable. But LBGT activists have hailed the Amazon series “Transparent,” starring straight actor Jeffrey Tambor as a retired professor transitioning to female.

On September 5th, The Times ran an op-ed piece:  “Why Is Science So Straight?” The author advocates sexual diversity in the workplace, and wants more LGBT people hired in the fields of science, technology, engineering and mathematics since they’re presently “underrepresented” in these fields. (Quotas by sexuality?)

On September 7th, The Times published an op-ed piece by Charles M. Blow, who identifies as bisexual: “Sexual Attraction and Fluidity,” recommending we rid ourselves of “superannuated notions of attraction” and freely enjoy both same and opposite sex relations.  He noted that more young men and women are “liberating themselves” from the “outmoded ideas” of older generations.  Rather than just expressing their honest selves, as Blow says, this sounds more like hedonism overdone.

Adolescence and early adulthood are confusing enough. Teenagers and young adults are being encouraged to experiment with their still maturing minds and bodies.  One of my daughter-in-law’s bridesmaids, a close friend since kindergarten, broke up with yet another boyfriend and began a relationship with a young lesbian, her guest at my son and his wife’s wedding — wearing pants, shirt and tie. She left her for another lesbian. Bethany’s friend is dating men again.

I was reminded of the 2001 movie, “Kissing Jessica Stein,” about a young woman, tired of dating losers, who answers a lesbian’s ad to meet, tries out the lifestyle, but finds true love with a man in the end.  A 2005 film, “Brokeback Mountain,” tells the story of an apparently heterosexual married cowboy initiated into a homosexual relationship by another cowboy — and mourning him the rest of his life when he’s killed hustling. In the 2010 film “The Kids Are All Right,” a “lesbian” character has a fling with the man who donated his sperm for her own and her partner’s child.  After some anguish all is forgiven, and the partners and teenage son and daughter are happily reunited.

The American Psychiatric Association no longer lists homosexuality in its Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, though many psychiatrists and psychologists protested this decision. But it seems a consensus has been reached by most in the mental health profession that sexual orientation is inborn and immutable, as advocated by LGBT activists. But no reliable studies to date have shown homosexuality to be biologically determined. The nature versus nurture conflict continues. Some homosexuals do seem to be “Born This Way,” as Lady Gaga sings. But some may have learned to like what tickles their “fancy.” (Forgive me.)

Mothers are often blamed for feminizing their sons, smothering rather than mothering, becoming too attached, preventing attraction to other women.  But indifferent or hostile fathers may be more at fault for rejecting them.  A dad should hug, play, even roughhouse with his sons from infancy.  No baby or toddler is gay.  And daughters need to bond with their moms.

My unscientific theory:  A little boy’s first love is his mother, and he wants to become a strong man like his dad. A little girl’s first love is her father, and she wants to grow up to be like her nurturing mom. When he was about three, my son paid me a sweet compliment: “Mommy, I’m going to marry you when I grow up,” he announced. But by thirteen he hardly wanted to be seen with me. It only hurt for a little while — and I knew this was healthy, normal behavior.

As I’ve written, I have a beloved gay nephew, and if he met a man he wanted to marry, I’d dance at their wedding, A civil union would cover their human and civil rights, but the LGBT community wanted the dignity and name of marriage, too. However, a homosexual partnership will never be the same as the union of a man and a woman. It/s always about anatomy. Taking the name of something else doesn’t change anything’s essential nature. Even the enigmatic lesbian writer, Gertrude Stein, wrote:  “A rose is a rose is a rose.”

By the way, Jimmy Mannion grew up and married Mary Deegan, another classmate —  who in first grade filched an unusual pencil box I brought to school the day after my Aunt Florence gave it to me —  in the shape of  a very large pencil that actually wrote — with space inside for other regular size pencils. The next morning it wasn’t in my desk, and Mary was showing it off, claiming her aunt had given her one just like mine. I was too dumbstruck to tell Sister, and when I complained to my mom, she said  “Let it go. The Deegans are having a hard time.”   I heard one of her sons became a priest. She must have reformed by then.


Leave a Comment


I just trashed “They Shall Be Nameless,” that snippet I published by mistake.  Was about to share some sour thoughts  best kept to myself. Was trying to get another post out before August ended, but thought better of inflicting that one on you. I’m writing this at the Southampton library on Monday, August 24th — came to my nephews’ house out here last Thursday to be with Tim, his darling girls, my son, his wife and their darling boys. Tim, Elizabeth, Caroline and Josephine left yesterday for home in Massachusetts and it was wonderful to be together.

We had at least $80 worth of fun on Saturday, a beautiful, sunny day at Cooper’s Beach.  The Hogans, here for only a week, didn’t buy a resident season pass, and we paid a $40 parking fee for each car — an outrageous price meant to discourage day-trippers and short term vacationers from enjoying God’s gorgeous ocean. The men and kids built a sand fort near the water, took turns holding the little ones in the waves, and rescued me after a strong one knocked me to my knees. My Grandma Beatty and her friends, wearing long black bathing suit dresses, were more cautious at Rockaway Beach — all in a row, holding onto a rope anchored at each end, dunking themselves sedately.

I’d planned to come the end of next week to join my family, but wanted to see everyone together, especially the children. And I’m glad I did, but confess it’s been an effort to be my cheerful self — am in the throes of another down time.  I’d decided to go home to Maryland today, feel like such poor company and didn’t want to spoil their vacation — but Bethany and Kieran talked me into staying longer.  I’m so blessed to have them in my life, and love them, little Nolan, and baby Jack with all my heart.

Bethany, Kieran and I talked this morning about my recurring depression, and my former psychology major son thinks I may be bipolar — I’ve been reluctant to admit that possibility.  Would rather believe I’m an outgoing, vivacious person with occasional lapses, but realize I probably talk too much and am overly optimistic when up.  Even had dreams of seeing my ramblings published in print someday.

I know these moods don’t last forever. But I’m anxious and frightened anyway. Petty annoyances bother me more — I panic when I can’t find my keys or glasses.  I’m shaky and unsure of myself, ashamed of my weakness. To belabor the ship of life metaphor in my Introduction, I’m adrift in my own little rowboat.  I’m lonely, but it’s difficult to be with others — hard to hide my confusion and sadness.

And I have another problem in my left eye — been coping since the end of March with what look like little reddish florets appearing often in the upper left corner. I’ve had a tiny dot of a floater in my right eye for years, but hardly notice it now.  A retinal ophthalmologist recently told me a gel-like substance called the vitreous contracts with aging, pulling away from the retina, and can’t be corrected. Worse could happen, but it’s very distracting.

Since my cousin Paul died, I’ve been shocked by the sudden death of my friend and sister-in-law Peggy Collins at age 75, with no previous sickness or warning.  Another cousin, Bob McSweeney, is very ill with prostate cancer.  Pat Davies, a college friend who lives in Australia, is postponing treatment, if any, for cervical cancer till October — she wants to enjoy the opera season now.  Tim’s wife Stacie couldn’t be with us at North Sea because her mom’s M.S. has worsened.

It helps to keep involved and moving, but I have to talk myself into getting going. Angel and I went to Agawam Park this morning and I sipped coffee while I worked The New York Times crossword, harder than a usual Monday, but I finished — proving I’m not completely brain-dead. Then we walked around the playground and immaculately kept grassy area. The Gallaghers had gone for a swim in the bay, back to the house for lunch, and Nolan and Jack are having their naps now.  I’ll finish this soon and leave the library. Might have a nap myself later. Nolan and I are sharing a queen bed, and as much as I delight in his snuggling next to me, he flings his arms and legs around in his sleep.

I’m  grateful for the happy days —  My cousin Patty Aubert visited and we went to a veggie cooking event at fabulous Rousedale Farm — outdoors on a lovely evening — delicious samples accompanied by wine. The Colony’s Fourth of July celebration — very sociable, with excellent pizza and wine. Baby Jack’s first birthday party on July 21st — downsized for family and a few close friends because of a emergency room visit for congestion and difficulty breathing a couple of days earlier.  A relaxing ride to and from Manhattan on Amtrak to meet my friend Therese for lunch and the play at The Irish Rep.

Had to edit this often  — tough to concentrate. I’m trying to be brave, relying on the promise of the titled hymn: “Blest are you that weep and mourn for one day you will laugh.” Please God, soon.

Comments (5)


I’ve been procrastinating posting —  recently only every other month.  Have been living my life, rather than writing about misadventures — fewer of late — less perils than pearls. Today’s the last day of June, so here’s what’s been happening.

Dr. Gail Schwartz, my expert new ophthalmologist, a petite dynamo, performed a trabeculectomy and cataract extraction on my right eye the end of April. This time all went well, unlike the glaucoma and cataract surgery on my left eye over two years ago when I lost some vision. And I still shudder when I remember how close my son and I came to colliding with a car running a red light straight at us on our way to the hospital.  (See “Fasten Your Seat Belts” March 2013) The idiot didn’t even slow down, sped away that dark March morning after missing us by a fraction. Both cancer survivors, we didn’t need a reminder of life’s fragility. However, an occasional nudge doesn’t hurt.

Fluid pressure in my right eye has been fluctuating from low to high and back again — Dr. Schwartz assures me this is normal, and will stabilize eventually. She’s examined me frequently post-op, and I’ll see her again in three weeks. My sight is clearer with both cataracts removed — and she’ll operate on my left eye in October to improve drainage, lessening  further visual field loss.  Concerned about my left eye, I’ve been practicing driving with it closed — just in case. As I’ve noted, Our Creator thoughtfully gave us two of most parts.

Last Thursday, Dr. Jennifer Cooper, my caring dermatologist, cut off a suspicious spot on my right forearm for biopsy — whatever the report, it’s unlikely I’ll lose that arm — and I’ve got another one on the left. Former dermatologists previously excised a melanoma and a squamous cell carcinoma. I’d spent many childhood days on the beach and in the ocean at Breezy Point in the Rockaways.  Burning, peeling and freckling were routine.  In adolescence, my friends and I basted ourselves with baby oil laced with iodine to deepen tanning at Edgemere Beach. Then there were the years basking in the Hamptons.  Who knew those with pale Celtic skin would someday pay the piper?

Other doings: At the end of May, Angel and I drove to my nephews’ house in Southampton, and I visited my cousin Paul Beatty and his wife Audrey next door. Paul had been on dialysis for ten years, had heart surgery last year, and several complications since. I was shocked to see how ill he looked since I’d seen him in September. We talked about our close family, especially our parents, and the good times we had at our grandparents’ house in Brooklyn and at Breezy. As I was leaving, he asked “When are you coming back?”   “On June 29th,” I said. For the past year, each time I saw him I wondered if it would be the last.

On the way home, I stopped to meet three friends, librarians at the East Meadow library, for lunch at our favorite Friendly’s. We’ve kept in touch since I retired, and enjoyed catching up with each other and what’s going on in Libraryland — not as dull a place nowadays as you may think.  Less colorful than Disneyland — but with its own unique characters ambling around.

Angel and I stayed overnight at Garden City’s LaQuinta, and the next morning visited our friend Eleanor at her assisted living home in Lynbrook. We’d bonded 18 years ago, both working part-time at the Peninsula Public Library, both treated badly by the cantankerous assistant director.  El’s a marvel at almost 92 — good, cheerful company — proudly showing pictures of her granddaughter’s and grandson’s weddings.  Since breaking her hip, she maneuvers deftly in a wheelchair, though she’s practicing using a walker. She loved Honey, and is as charmed with Angel — so were other residents, smiling and petting her as we passed by..

The next week, a delightful afternoon at The Baltimore Science Museum with my grandsons and their mom.  The toddler experimenting with a light bulb exhibit.  Gleefully trying to catch multi-colored scarves air-blown up and out a glass enclosure.  Making music play on a harp without strings, moving his hands through apparently empty space. The nearly one-year-old pulling himself up to maneuver a ship’s helm. Splashing his fingers in a water display. Playing with other babies in a room filled with foam blocks, board books, mirrors, and other fascinating toys. Memories I’ll treasure, but took photos of the little boys absorbed in their activities — and, for contrast, one of the imposing dinosaur skeletons in the lobby.  Deep thought alert: They once had their day. Tempus fugit.

My first grandson turned three on June 23rd, and we marked the milestone the following Sunday with a picnic in a nearby park — the reserved pavilion decorated with a Happy Birthday sign and festive balloons.  Pizza, watermelon, pineapple, fruit juices on the menu.  A shark piñata the children whacked enthusiastically with a bat.  Goody bags to take home.  Relatives, friends, other parents with their toddlers and babies.  The birthday boy’s mom and dad baked a shark-shaped birthday cake — my son’s talents are multiplying as he matures. More pictures of a memorable day.

I didn’t see Paul again.  He died peacefully at home on June 28th, at 81 years of age, his wife and five adult children at his bedside. He decided to end the debilitating dialysis a week before, after respiratory distress.  I’ll be going to Southampton again for his wake July 1st and funeral Mass July 2nd, to be celebrated by his friend since kindergarten, Msgr. John Martin, at The Basilica of The Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary. My cousin was an exceptional man — a wonderful husband, father, grandfather, and friend.  Wise and kind, with a wry, captivating sense of humor.  A devout Catholic and Eucharistic Minister.  Very successful in advertising and publishing, retired from McGraw-Hill.

My son and I are thankful his “Uncle” Paul  arranged a prompt appointment with top doctors at Memorial Sloan Kettering after my son’s Hodgkin’s Disease was finally diagnosed at Moses Taylor Hospital — near The University of Scranton, where he was a senior.  A grueling, then experimental regimen of  chemotherapy and radiation at Memorial cured my boy’s initially misdiagnosed, advanced disease.  Worried and frightened only a year after my husband’s death from pancreatic cancer, I had called Paul, knowing he’d do everything he could to help us, as he did so many in his time on earth. He’s reaping his well-earned reward — and will keep helping us from Heaven.

On Saturday, July 4th, The North Sea Beach Colony will celebrate its 100th anniversary at a party on the lawn above the bay, across from my nephews’ house. I’ll be there wearing red, white and blue. Beer, wine, pizza and salad will be served — hot slices guaranteed — baked on the premises in a traveling truck. Many good people of the Colony have died since I first came to this Eden almost 50 years ago, but their children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren are now enjoying the beach, the peaceful environment, and each other. I’ll clink a glass of wine or two toasting Paul, his sister Mary Denise, my sister Mary Beth, my mom, and the others who’ve gone ahead of us.

Pizza, salad, wine and beer probably won’t be served in the afterlife — though we can’t be sure.  But I know God will provide treats and wonders we can’t imagine with our finite minds. We’ll be surrounded by love, though —  and that’s what matters in the end.  It’s sad that some, busy with empty distractions. don’t notice the simple joys and pleasures all around them. They’re missing the big picture, too — don’t see the forest or the trees.  Here’s a good place to put: “There are none so blind as those that will not see.”

By the way, I’m not a fan of Sondheim’s music, but if you haven’t seen the movie “Into the Woods” take a look.  Johnny Depp’s sly cameo as The Big Bad Wolf was worth twice the price of admission.

Comments (4)


Spring arrived here on March 20th, but it’s still chilly, windy and rainy.  We’ve even had another snowstorm.  I’m longing for sunshine after a harsher than usual winter.  Sometimes I wonder if I may have a touch of S.A.D. (Seasonal Affective Disorder).  I keep forgetting that spring takes its sweet time to keep its promise. “April is the cruelest month,.” wrote T. S. Eliot in “The Wasteland.”  I thought he was bemoaning the fickle weather until I became an English major, then learned he was, of course, expressing existential angst.

When I was about nine years old my disappointment inspired a poem I titled  “Snow in Spring,” which began: “I certainly think it’s an awful shame to have it start to snow again, just when we thought Spring was here and Old Winter was leaving.”  I’ll spare you the rest for now.  But, stirred by the satisfying experience, I decided to be a famous writer when I grew up.

Since I began the above, the grass is now greening, flowers are blooming, trees are leafing, ducks and geese are pairing up on the pond, birds are singing and building nests.  A little sparrow I found lying feet up on my patio a couple of weeks ago won’t be with them.  I kept him in a plastic bag in a flower pot till the ground thawed and buried him near a budding bush. I hope he made the most of his springs while he was here.

Nature mirrors the mystery of Christ’s death and resurrection this season every year.  And Easter always moves me more profoundly ever since my husband died peacefully on a Holy Saturday evening after a long, cruel illness.  When our son and I went to Easter Mass the next morning I wore a bright yellow suit, celebrating the end of Kieran’s suffering and his new life in Heaven.

As a child, I remember listening to a Good Friday radio reenactment of the crucifixion, crying as I asked my mother:  “How could they do that to Jesus?”  But my Easters then were mostly about coloring  eggs, baskets with chocolate bunnies and jelly beans, and a new straw hat and shiny patent leather shoes to wear to church.  We’d wait in line with our class before mass, admiring (or envying) each others new outfits.  I never did get the navy blue cape I always wanted.

This Easter my son took me and his family to my sister-in-law Peggy’s,’s home in Delaware for dinner with her large, loving family.  A highlight:  The Easter egg hunt — my son and his cousins laughing as they tossed and flung colored eggs in the woods behind the house — the children squealing in delight as they found them .I hope you’ve filed your income tax returns by today.  I hope you’re getting a good refund. If not, I hope you don’t owe much.  And I hope this spring makes you feel more alive.

Comments (6)


Forget that very brief post. You knew I had more to say than that — was just getting started and clicked Publish instead of Save Draft. My last two posts were dispatched on October 31st and December 31st, and today is the last day of February. I want to send this out before March roars in, so this will be shorter than usual. As I said, I signed a new Last Will and Testament this week.  That really focused my attention! I know my son and daughter-in-law will follow my wishes beautifully after I’m gone . But whatever they do, it won’t bother me much where I am.

Absolutely no wake for me —  funeral homes are a cold, expensive modern innovation.  I remember the simple home wakes for my Beatty grandparents and my dad  — three years in a row back in the ’40’s.  Black wreaths on the front door.  Floral arrangements hanging from the crown molding all around the living room.  Open coffins in front of the fireplace.  Adults taking turns sitting up through the night, waking/keeping the deceased company.  Cousins sleeping upstairs, lots of giggling, lying across twin beds pushed together. In the daytime, smells of cooking from the kitchen.  Sounds of talking, crying, laughing.  Lots of remembering, hugging and kissing.

No fancy coffin for me either.  At my funeral Mass, what’s left of me in a closed plain, wooden box — it’s good enough for the Pope, so it’s fine with me.) Among the hymns: “Amazing Grace” and “On Eagle’s Wings.”  Recessional: “When the Saints Go Marching In” —  sing and dance if the spirit  moves you. Everyone invited for hearty food and drink at a good restaurant — on me. Cremation of my mortal remains.  Kieran can dig a little hole later in his dad’s grave in Holy Rood Cemetery on Long Island, and put me in there near him.

In the meantime, life goes on.  I’m taking the train to New York City Sunday, March 8th, have lunch with my friend Therese, then we’ll see Hugh Leonard’s wonderful play “Da” at our beloved Irish Repertory Theatre. I’m staying overnight in the city at a LaQuinta Inn, and have an appointment Monday morning with an ophthalmologist at OCLI in Lynbrook, where they monitored and treated my glaucoma for many years before I moved to Maryland. Had some hassle collecting  my records from several doctors here, finally got the last yesterday, and will bring them with me.

I’m worried about my sight, confused by differing advice on procedures  — Trabectame, Trabeculotomy, Trabeculectomy — and wanted another opinion. I’m ashamed to complain after all the gifts I’ve been given in my long life, and know many others bear heavier burdens. Catching up on Oscar nominees,  I recently saw “The Theory of Everything” — Stephen Hawking still brilliant and hopeful at 73, though physically immobilized, suffering over 50 years with A.L.S.. At one point, he even says:  “While there’s life there’s hope.”  But I can’t seem to lift my low spirits. I’m praying this dark mood will pass, as it has before. And I’d appreciate a kind word on my behalf if you can fit it in with your own petitions.

Comments (7)


DSC_0002It’s the last day of the year, and you haven’t heard from me since Halloween. I’ve been jotting and deleting various deep and shallow thoughts since then, but before the New Year begins, I want to wish you good health and good cheer in 2015 and beyond. And I hope your Christmas was full of blessings, even some joys, wherever you are on your journey.

I’ve been under the weather again for more than a month. Always wondered where that phrase came from, so Googled and learned it’s probably of nautical origin — stormy weather sends sick seamen and passengers below decks where the ship is more stable. (You’re welcome.) What first seemed like a mild cold morphed into misery, involving nose, throat, chest and sinuses. You know the feeling. Low on the scale of serious illness, but disabling for a time.

I was beginning to recover a week before Christmas when I accepted an offer I couldn’t refuse: — as a long-time modest donor to Public Television, I was invited to a preview of “Downton Abbey’s” fifth season on December 18th in Washington, DC. My lips are sealed. You’ll have to wait till January 4th along with the rest of the commoners to find out what happens upstairs and downstairs in the Crawley household. I’ll be watching it again next Sunday. It was worth my relapse. I think.

The afternoon of December 18th was bitter cold and windy, and I bundled up warmly head to foot and drove to Baltimore, planning to park at Penn Station where I’d take Amtrak to DC. No room at the parking garage, so made a right at the corner, drove into an unattended lot with a boarded up booth at the entrance, finally found a payment machine which only worked when I smacked the screen in frustration, rather than touching as instructed. Bracing against the freezing gusts, I walked two longish blocks to the station, grousing about our overly mechanized, dehumanized world. Don’t think I’m fooled by the perky voice of Amtrak’s robotic Julie!

Since I’d missed some of the Dowager Countess’s wry remarks last season (Dame Maggie Smith at her inimitable best) I’d requested an assisted hearing device, but none were left when I arrived at the hotel, so I was escorted to a center front section reserved for generous donors. A small ensemble of strings, winds and piano which entertained before the showing, and tea, coffee and pastries were graciously served. I was enthralled with all the heart, humor and drama — not to mention the gorgeous costumes, settings and wonderful acting. Came home in a glow, partly the start of a slight temperature.

I’m grateful to be as well and active as I am now — thankful to be here at all after breast cancer 35 years ago and a poor prognosis. In fact, on my 83rd birthday on December 3rd, I cheerfully kept a mammography appointment — still no problems, thank God. That evening I celebrated with Angel at home — she gobbled her dietetic kibble and mush, and I relished two lobster tails, baked potato, salad and Champagne. A few days before, my family had treated me to a festive dinner at Liberatore’s, a favorite restaurant. My toddler grandson, itchy in a highchair, strolled around a bit, but when he wandered into the bar got scooped up to help me blow out the candle on a gooey slice of chocolate cake. Helped eat some, too.

Christmas morning I went to Mass and drove for a visit to my son’s house in Baltimore, still sick, but wanting to give them my gifts. I had such a good time in stores picking out toys, hugging teddy bears. It wouldn’t be Christmas without seeing my grandsons — the adorable children sitting on Santa’s lap above. As Angel and I came up the front steps, the two-year-old parted the door curtain and shouted “Hi Gramma!” Then the baby greeted me with a wide, toothless smile. I tried to keep a germ-free distance, missing the hugging and kissing, drank some wine (for medicinal purposes), ate some cheese and crackers, and drove home happy.

The next Saturday I had two tickets for a musical of Capote’s “A Christmas Memory,” at the Irish Repertory Theatre in New York City, was going to meet my friend Therese for lunch before the matinee. And I’d booked a seat to and from Manhattan with Megabus, a reasonably priced three hour ride each way the same day. But I called Therese the day before saying I was ill, not up to a long outing, suggesting she go with someone else. She said she’d rather go another time with me, so I donated the tickets to volunteer ushers.

The same afternoon my sister-in-law and her husband, Peg and Ed, were hosting a family holiday party at their home in Delaware — I’d bought the tickets earlier than her invitation — and she thought I’d be able to come now with my son, but I too sick. A good time was had by all, I heard. Except, on his arrival, my two-year-old grandson, greeted at the door by a big barking dog, confided to his father: “I wait out here.” Carried inside, he lay on the floor for a while, then got up and mixed and mingled. His parents have told me they think he takes after me — he’s talkative, and you don’t have to guess how he’s feeling or what he’s thinking. An open book. Not sure they mean the likeness as a compliment, but I’m taking it as one.

These days are priceless, and I’m so grateful for the many gifts God has given me. And since the recent death of my cousin Mary and the serious illness of her brother, my cousin Paul, I’ve been reminded again that these are only on loan. But I’m hoping to live long enough to see my grandsons grow more, and that they’ll remember me. They would have loved their Grandpa Gallagher, but I believe my husband is beaming on them from Heaven.

Meanwhile, for the New Year, I’m registering for yoga and digital camera classes. And I’m planning to do more volunteer work. I enjoyed presenting storytimes a while back at daycare centers, except for the early schedules — have never been a morning person. Will probably renew my membership in the Harford Artists Association, though I haven’t sold any photographs in three years. Three are now displayed in a rotating exhibit at the Katzen Eye Group — and it’s fun to see them hanging there.

My new ophthalmologist, Dr. Joe, happens to be with Katzen, and confirmed the glaucoma in my left eye has worsened since cataract and glaucoma surgery two years ago at the Wilmer Institute in Baltimore. (See “Fasten Your Seat Belts.”) I sometimes have difficulty focusing when reading, and the disparate sight in both eyes feels disorienting. My left eye was the better one, and I now see more clearly with my right eye, even with a cataract.

Dissatisfied with post-op visits — Dr. Friedman kept reassuring me I’d be fine — a year later I transferred to Wilmer’s Bel Air Branch, where an ophthalmologist glibly said: “You have 20/20 vision. There’s been no change.” Then I moved on to Dr. Joe, formerly with Wilmer, and highly recommended by neighbors. He prescribed new drops to bring the pressure down, and added that I may need further surgery in the left eye, with a chance of more loss of vision. As brave as I try to be, I can’t help being frightened. I’ve been practicing closing my left eye now and then. Hope nobody thinks I’m winking.

And I’ve given in and gotten hearing aids, had been resisting for some time because of the price. One friend paid $5K and another $10K for a pair. Outrageous! “The New York Times” recently reported that the technology and materials don’t warrant the high cost. But I recently found that my medical plan as a retired New York State librarian covered the $2,800 cost completely — United Healthcare has an agreement with Epic Hearing. So I’ll be wearing them when I watch Downton Abbey again Sunday night at home.

At my mellow age, I’m allowed to be sentimental and dispense wisdom, especially on New Year’s Eve, so I’ll pass on some of what I’ve learned over the years. We’re weary of unending wars and the horrors of torture and terrorism. And we have our own troubles and disappointments. But we’ve been given the gift of life with its joys and sorrows — and we’re meant to make the most of it. We only go around once. So laugh, cry, show your love, and vent and argue if you need to — but make up soon. Treasure your loved ones. We’re here to comfort each other in hard times and rejoice together in good times.

As my mother said in a letter to me, my sister and brother “to be opened at my death”: “Try to get along together and help and love one another. As you get older you will find that life is very short really…If you have disagreements try to settle them and go on because when all is said and done we only have each other…Be happy, be good and enjoy life and God will bless you!”

Mom died suddenly in 1984 at 81 years of age, two days after receiving an encouraging medical report. Her heart was slightly enlarged, and she’d been wearing a heart monitor which showed no incidents. My brother had visited, took her to the doctor appointment, and when they returned to her apartment told her he and his wife were divorcing. I wish Bill had given me a hint — I may have been able to calm mom sooner.

She called the following day, asked me to bring Tylenol, and when I let myself in, I was shocked to see her on the sofa, looking pale and weak. “Oh, Eileen, come here,” she said. “I have bad news.” She was still upset that evening, so the next day I left my son with her while I went to work. That night she sounded more cheerful, said she felt much better after the hearty meal I’d cooked for their lunch. But when I came in the morning, she was lying across the bed, as though she’d been sitting on the side and fallen back when God called her.

Mom would have been sad to know that my sister, brother and I were estranged for a long while after she died. I’ve agonized over sharing the details, read that memoirs should tell it like it is, but will draw the curtain for now on the family drama that followed. I’ve since heard that sibling disagreements are not uncommon after a death, especially a parent’s — a time when we need each other more.

I was heartbroken, cried and prayed often, realized I should keep busy, thought of taking adult ed courses, then had an inspiration — I’d go back to my beloved Queens College and study to be a librarian. The perfect job for an English major who dreamed of being a writer, but learned to type and take shorthand to be employable. (I had a part-time job in an Oceanside school library in the ’70’s, and I fit right in.) As I’ve said, six months after my mother died I was working as a Librarian Trainee in the Rockville Centre Public Library — the building next to her apartment.

I’ve tried to live as mom advised, have had abundant blessings, and God has led me to paths I wouldn’t have found on my own. In the words of my favorite hymn: “Tis grace hath brought me safe this far, and grace will lead me home.”  (Not too soon, Lord!)

Comments (9)



I’ve been too happiimagely busy since August to write any posts.  Now it’s the last day of October, and I don’t want anyone to be concerned that I’ve  quit the blog or possibly “given up the ghost!”  So this will be briefer than usual since today looks to be a happy, busy one, too.

Angel and I are driving to Baltimore to join my wonderful daughter-in-law and her adorable sons trick or treating — I’ll be wearing a witch’s hat with straggly black hair and a black shawl, my toddler grandson will be dressed as a cowboy, his baby brother as a calf (no bull, at three months old). Am bringing a big bag of candy (opened just to sample the quality — excellent) to give out later.  Last year my older grandson, then a year old, won first prize in his age group at a costume contest at the Baltimore Zoo — the little darling dressed as Dracula, complete with blood stains on his innocent face.

I had the best time from the end of August to the end of September at my nephews’ cottage in North Sea, Southampton.  Just me and Angel for the first three weeks, then joined by my son and his family for the last week.  Sunny, mild weather almost every day.  Did lots of reading, visited ocean and bay beaches, enjoyed a boat ride to Greenport on the north fork, relished delicious meals and drinks, toured nearby Sag Harbor and East Hampton, strolled on Southampton’s Main Street and Job’s Lane, window and bargain shopped, relaxed at outside tables on Main Street or at Tate’s with coffee and a crossword puzzle, met lots of friendly people — Angel is as much a magnet as Honey ever was.

And it was so good to see my cousins again.  Paul, his wife Audrey, and sister Mary Denise live in their next door homes all year now.  Paul has been on kidney dialysis for over ten years and recently had heart surgery — but he’s doing better now, and his indomitable faith, courage and humor buoy him up — as do his loving wife, children and grandchildren.  Mary Denise, a couple of years older than I am, has always been very independent, involved in the community, and a regular golf player, but is now ill, too. I’m so thankful for my present good health and recent pleasures.

Among the most memorable:  My son’s 41st birthday celebration at Meschutt’s Beach Hut on the bay, with a lively band playing.  My toddler grandson and I rooming together for a week — he in a bottom bunk bed, me in a nearby twin bed.  His soft “Gramma?” about 7:30AM each morning waking me cheerfully (a mini-miracle) and enjoying a private breakfast  at the kitchen counter, looking out the window towards the bay.  Holding and cuddling my baby grandson as he smiled and gurgled his own special language to me.  His Christening last Saturday and the joyful family gathering afterwards. All surely a foretaste of Heaven on earth.

I’ve got to get ready to leave in about an hour and a half, so will close for now.   I wish you many treats and few tricks today.  And many blessings on All Souls’ and All Saints’ Days.

Comments (12)

Older Posts »

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 32 other followers