Greek to Me

It is a fact of family history that my brother Donnie would constantly and without any guilt lie to my brother Stephen.

There are many instances of this. Enough that I could make several blog posts out of the lies. He did this for personal gain as well as for personal mirth.

Today's episode of "Lies My Brother Told Me" comes from a moment of personal mirth, including the embarrassment of the younger brother.

In our town, there opened a Greek restaurant. The restaurant, playing off of the pithy phrase, was named "Greek to Me."

Simple, correct?

No so.

Donnie somehow managed to convince Stephen that the restaurant was actually named "Greek Tome" (Pronounced toe-may').

That seems ridiculous. I understand that it seems ridiculous.

But Donnie, as a liar, was not content to have Stephen believe that the store name itself something nonsensical.

No, Donnie is much more crafty than that.

So he created a simple explanation.

"Tome," Donnie told Stephen, "is the Greek word for 'food.'"

Brilliant!

Now, something interesting happened when Donnie would lie to Stephen. Stephen would BELIEVE him. Hook, line, and sinker, defending the lie to everyone who challenged it.

"It is not Greek Tome," my father tried to tell him. "It's Greek to Me!"

"No, it's not," Stephen would retort. "Tome is the Greek word for food!"

Finally, after trying endlessly to convince Stephen that the store was not, in fact, called Greek Tome, Dad resorted to desperate measures.

He marched Stephen into Greek To Me and made him ask the people behind the counter (who were bewildered) what the name of the restaurant was.

"Greek to Me," they replied.

"You mean to tell me," Dad said to them. "That it is not Greek Tome, with Tome being the Greek word for food?"

The people there cracked up. "No," they responded.

Donnie's lie busted, we returned to daily life.

And still call Greek to Me, Greek Tome.

Fr. Ah and the Fig

We called him Father Ah.

Not "Ah" as in, "Ah, that's a beautiful sunset." Not a sighing, happy "Ahhhhh."

This Ah was a loud, operatic, trilling Ah.

Fr. Ah would sing with an enormous voice full of vibrato and zest for hymns.

I was a wee one, and I thought it was hilarious. So my dad and I named him Fr. Ah, the Ah of which we would voraciously sing into the air with joy and giggly happiness.

Fr. Ah, who ministered at my parish during my childhood, would not have approved of our silliness. He was serious, an academic.

It is only apropos that this academic taught a lesson that has stuck with me for many, many years.

I remember this as happening in the 2nd grade. It could have been before, but I know it wasn't after second grade. Regardless, Fr. Ah ministered, booming voice and all, and peered out at us from his pulpit, exasperated.

It was almost Lent, a Sunday, and Fr. Ah was in rare form.

He boomed from the pulpit, his voice punctuating each word with the grace of a protestant minister (the likes of which we heard every Thanksgiving as my great grandfather, a preacher, delivered the Thanksgiving prayer, blessing the hands of everyone involved with the food from my grandmother to the workers who lovingly sowed the seeds).

Fr. Ah said something that would change my life.

"Do. You. Think. God. Gives. A. Fig. If. You Give. Up. Candy. For. Lent!?"

He said it.

A FIG.

This was obviously serious. The youngster in me sat, confused, wondering what in the world I was supposed to do now that Fr. Ah had told me that the Lenten giving up standby was totally useless in God's eyes.

In the pew, we suppressed laughter at the unusual turn the homily had taken. It was truly a moment of lore, a quote that would enter into the recitation of jokes and stories.

I suppose any priest should be so lucky to have his homily message so well remembered. Unfortunately, the rest, undoubtedly a story about meaningful sacrifice (and undoubtedly made for the adults in the audiences, not the 2nd graders), is lost to us now. And every year, the murmurings start, questioning what objects I would go without, what I would sacrifice for Lent. And each time, Fr. Ah's booming words came back, echoing in my mind. I assuredly did not give up giving up at the moment of the fig — I remember, for example, a particularly horrible Lent with no ice cream and a similar inconvenience when I decided to give up cursing. I spent a time trying to make a positive Lenten promise, focusing on good works or other such improvements.

But forgoing candy? Perish the thought!

And every year, the fig returns, a reminder of sacrifice and scorn (and laughter).

I will think of Fr. Ah today, the beginning of the Lenten season. I will think of him as I abstain from meat on Fridays and fast when it is required. I may even say a prayer for him, for the good he has done in this world, for the intended message that got lost the day I lost the will to give up candy.

After all, it is because of Fr. Ah that I will be able to munch on delicious peanut butter eggs before Easter.

Not that God would give a fig if I didn't.

Uncle Bob

One of my most faithful readers is my Uncle Bob. He always mentions something he has read on the blog when I see him.

Uncle Bob had open heart surgery recently. Dad and I took him some lunch on Saturday. When it's below 40 degrees outside, he isn't allowed out of the house because of the stress the cold places on his heart. He's in great spirits and as well as some pain, and we were able to tease him about his "Perkies" (his Percocets he was prescribed for the pain). After eating, Dad and Bob (who are brothers) sat around reminiscing.

It's always a gift to sit around and listen to stories of the past. Not so long ago, I was listening, rapt, as my grandfather would tell his stories in the same kitchen. I love learning about the strange neighbors and goofy moments growing up. I found out, among other things, that Bob used to hide in a playhouse in the backyard of a family who loathed children (despite the fact they had their own). They hated whenever anyone stepped on their yard, and always made a big deal, screaming and yelling, to chase children out of their yard. It was precisely because of this that Bob would often hide there -- he did it because they were so rude about it; he did it to get their goat. (I didn't know that Bob was so mischievous!)

So, Uncle Bob, thanks for reading and FEEL BETTER SOON!

Cardinals are a Gift

I have always looked for cardinals. Red birds. When I see them, I smile, remembering.

Recently there were two, a male and a female, on the tree outside my back yard. They regarded me, hoping around on the branches a bit, as I let the dog out. I stood and watched them for a couple of minutes, and said quietly, "Hello."

Cardinals remind my of my grandparents. My father's parents, my grandmother and grandfather, have passed now, but so many things remind me of them. The redbirds are one of the best things because they come so randomly.

There is a family story about my dad's maternal grandparents that goes something like this:

When my great grandfather Kennedy was dying (in 1965), there was often a cardinal sitting on his bedroom window. When he died, the cardinal looked in, and then flew away.

Later, when his wife was sick and on her deathbed (in 1970), there were two cardinals sitting on the windowsill. When she died, they flew away.

Perhaps it's old Irish superstition -- they were Kennedys after all. Perhaps it's the urge to look for signs -- we're Catholic. In any regard, the story has become one of family lore. We see cardinals as a gift. Because we see them that way, a gift they are.

I didn't know my great grandparents. But I did know my grandparents. The story, passed down, has come to symbolize them as well. At least for me.

They always remind me to say hello to Grandma and Grandpa when I see them..

Tales from my father: Christmas tradition

My grandfather always told my father that dads were supposed to make memories and traditions for their children.

My grandfather was an amazing man who did just that for all of his children, and, furthermore, his grandchildren. My grandfather passed away on Dec. 22, 2002, and still every time Bing Crosby croons "White Christmas" on the radio, I think of Grandpa. But I don't remember if he really sounded like Bing. What I do remember is an open-mouthed laugh while sitting in his chair at his kitchen table, spinning stories about his youth and years gone by. I loved those stories.

The first thing that hit me when I found out that he died was remorse for not doing what I told him I was going to do. I never made it down to his house with a tape recorder. I have no guilt over not visiting him or spending time with him -- I did that quite often. But I always told him I wanted to record his stories, his voice. And now I don't remember what that voice sounded like. And I wanted to write those stories down for him, for his children who loved him, who still speak of him (as well as their mother) with admiration and love.

He died before I could record him. I do feel guilty for that, although I'm sure he doesn't hold it against me. I miss him. I miss his wit, humor, and those wonderful stories of stubborn ponies, and baseball, and going to watch movies. I miss my Grandma cutting into those stories with an aside or laughter. And while she passed away not long after he did, I'm glad I got to have them for so long.

So one of the things I want to do is record some of those stories as they come up in a timely manner. I have a thought of binding them together in a book to give to my father. Hopefully it will give way to that some day.

But since it is almost Christmas, I'd like to talk about one fabulous story that speaks highly of my grandfather's character. Christmas is a great time to think about my grandpa. Of course, it is near the anniversary of his death, but Christmas meant so much to my grandpa. He would sit in his basement on Christmas Eve with his children and grandchildren (and great-grandchildren) surrounding him, a huge smile on his face as he unwrapped presents. On Christmas, my grandpa was like a king.

My dad's family got their Christmas tree as well as presents from Santa. So the kids (7 of them!) would find the presents and tree in the morning. I can imagine how magical that would be -- go to bed one night and wake up the next morning to Christmas! Although it would make for a very tired mom and dad the next day, I'm sure.

Well, one Christmas, my grandfather went out Christmas Eve to find the tree (it was always a live tree) and was disgruntled at the choices he had left. For, since it was Christmas Eve, many of the good trees had already found their way home to be strung with lights and ornaments. Grandpa found himself looking at the misfit trees -- those trees that were a little bare, a little puny. Grandpa couldn't bear to present his children with a puny Christmas tree, so he did what a man with an extensive tool collection could do.

He bought two -- and fused them together into one.

Imagine that -- bringing home two trees and working to cut branches off one to drill into the other. Grandpa apparently really loved a full tree. Christmas Eve and it's cold, and he's putting together a live tree so his children will have a happy Christmas.

Now, THAT, is making memories.