THANKS, UNCLE JOE!

  CHAPTER 10.

                     “UNCLE JOE’S LESSON.”

On Veterans Day Weekend 1973(for a time during the early ‘70s, it was one of the five Monday holidays), I learned that my Uncle Joe had been hit by a car down in Marshfield(my summer home).  He was seriously injured and wouldn’t recover; he’d be dead the next night.

It was very tough for me to digest it right away, because it came as a shock to me.  You see, Uncle Joe was born with what was referred to as “mental retardation.”  I never knew about that until years later.  Which meant that he had a really tough life.  But that didn’t stop him from working hard and making a living for himself and for the family.

He was employed at the City Incinerator in Boston and worked hard every day.  He and I bonded especially.  I saw in him a very special man who was able to live and be productive in the world despite his troubles.  His other brother Francis, who I know as Uncle Franny, worked for Boston Edison and was up at the crack of dawn jogging.  They were very friendly towards me in spirte of their hardships.

Did you know that my Mother’s Dad died when she was 9 years old?  Yes, that left Nana(as we liked to call her) with the difficult task of raising 5 children alone.  It affected them a lot, especially Franny, who ended up becoming an alcoholic and died as a result of it In the winter of 2005.  I know how that must have felt, being the object of Franny’s anger whenever I did something out of the ordinary, but never mind about that.

Yeah, Uncle Joe was a really tough guy, but he was very gentle with all the kids.  He’d always come down to the cottage on Marshfield with us on weekends during the summer and through the rest of the year.  And he’d find time to relax with us.  My brother Coleman was very close to him, too.  And indeed, we all were.

I guess my best memories of him were when he spent New Year’s Eve with the kids!  Yes, we’d watch the ball drop on TV while we were having a party.  Yes, we’d watch Guy Lombardo, and then Dick Clark, count down to a New Year while we had soft drinks and snacks.  It was a great experience.

A few days ago was his birthday(at the time I’m writing this), and I was talking with Uncle Jack, My Aunt Betty and Mary Theresa, one of my cousins.  And I heard Mary Theresa give a very tough observation.  She said, “If that car hadn’t hit him, he’d still be alive today.”  I know that very well; when I heard the morning after the accident, I couldn’t really grasp the meaning.

It was probably one of the first times in my life that I’d experienced death.  I think the first time was a year earlier, when my Aunt Dolly had fallen off of a porch in Dorchester and was in a coma for weeks.  When she finally got taken to Heaven, it was a shock.  But it wasn’t until Uncle Joe got hit by the car that I really learned what grief was.

I saw Uncle Joe later that week at the funeral home, but I didn’t bother going to the funeral Mass the next day.  I wasn’t really knowing how to deal with it, but I believe that the dam broke on Thanksgiving Day when I was watching the end of a CBS Thanksgiving program and hearing William Conrad sing a Christmas song at the end

And that’s when I burst into tears!  I was crying my eyes out for…well, I can’t remember how long.  But I finally realized that Uncle Joe was gone and wouldn’t come back.  However, I knew that his memories would stay in my heart and that his spirit would always guide me in everything I did.  The lesson that he taught me was to always have love in your heart and a childlike faith.  And most importantly, I would be willing to share what I had with those who didn’t have much of anything.

This lesson came home to me on Christmas Night of 2000.  It was a cold and windy night, and we were just winding down our day.  All of a sudden, a man knocked at our door and asked if he could call his wife.  His car had broken down and he needed to get a ride from her.  We let him in and allowed him to warm up.

We gave him some of our Christmas dinner and we talked a little about him and his family.  He had a daughter whose name was Noel.  Noel, the French word for Christmas!  And he told us about his struggles and everything; I don’t remember exactly what the conversation was all about.

Before he left, I gave him one of my winter coats so he wouldn’t freeze on the way home and we gave him and his daughter some food to take home with them.  And what an epiphany I had that night.  I learned a lesson about how to share what my family and I had with those who needed something that they didn’t.

Uncle Joe taught me that lesson and, on that cold millennium Christmas night, I seemed to put it into good use.  Every family like my own has their struggles, so it’s up to us to look out for each other.

Thanks, Uncle Joe.

HOW I REMEMBER CAMP FATIMA!

     CHAPTER 9.

       “WHAT A SHOCK!  FATIMA TORN APART!”

In the summer of 2003, the Boston Herald reported on a very shocking and upsetting story.  There’d been reports of allegations of sexual abuse by priests and counselors at Camp Fatima in Gilmanton Iron Works, New Hampshire.  The reports that some boys were assaulted at the camp by the camp director at the time, Father George Dowd, and a priest named Father John Martin.    I was horrified by this! 

I was particularly shocked by this, because Father John had been a friend of mine up at Camp Fatima.  He was a very jovial man who always like to make kids feel at home, especially kids with special needs.  It was during the regular camp sessions with the boys that he might have gone off his rocker.  Another priest I know, Fr. Jim Nyhan, was a very good friend and my counselor during 1974’s EC week.  He has denied any of those allegations of sexual abuse himself.

As you know, the Boston Archdiocese was rocked by the sexual abuse scandal in 2002, which had certain people accuse priests of sexually abusing them in the 1960s and 1970s.  This caused a falling out of people from the church and forced Bernard Cardinal Law to resign as Archbishop of Boston.  Well, this has become an international controversy, since women in Ireland were abused by priests and nuns in the 1960s whenever they were punished for their immorality.  Look, we all have immoralities to struggle with, but sometimes certain members of the clergy can take it too far.

I went there in 1974 and 1975 on the Last Week in August each of those 2 years.  And those weeks were dedicated to Exceptional Children’s Week: a time when those who have special physical and mental needs are welcome to enjoy camp.  Yes, there are all the trimmings there: arts and crafts, swimming, baseball, softball, games and horse riding.  And what a time those 2 weeks were.

During the 1974 week, the theme was Raggedy Ann and Andy.  And all of their friends, Marcella, Mimi the French Doll, the tin soldiers, and Fido the Dog….and so much.  They were spending the week “singing and dancing with counselors, campers and all.”  During that week, the kids were caught up in celebrations of Thanksgiving, Christmas and Valentine’s Day.  We had a re-enactment of the Pilgrims landing at Camp Fatima and a Thanksgiving Day turkey dinner.  We also had a Christmas in August celebration with Archbishop Medeiros visiting the camp and celebrating Mass for us.  And we had a Valentine’s Day carnival with kissing booth, games and all.  And each evening, we would have entertainments such as fireworks, talent shows, games and dances.

In 1975, we had Mother Goose and all her storybrook friends: Little Bo Peep(whom I had a crush with), Jack Be Nimble, Humpty Dumpty, Little Miss Muffett, and so many more!  We had a few story lines that really made the week big: Little Bo Beep’s sheep being stolen by the Frito Bandito who needed some winter coats for the winter.

“I get some from the sheep!” the Frito Bandito said.

“You can’t get them from the sheep,” said Fr. John(who was dressed as Old King Cole).  “They belong to Little Bo Peep.”

Yes, Little Bo Peep really lost her sheep that afternoon, but we went into the woods and found them that same evening.  In fact, in the Mass that was celebrated that afternoon, we heard about the lost sheep and how Jesus goes out to find them and bring them home.

I was acting a bit rambunctious that afternoon because I had a bad habit of crying every time that the priest sang “Through Him, With Him, In Him…” which is the Doxology of the Catholic Eucharistic Prayers.  And I sometimes put my fingers in my ears in order to keep from bursting into tears.  I won’t go into anymore details.  Still, I managed to get the message into my heart.

Later in the week, we met Old Mother Hubbard who invited her to her shoe where she lived.  And we saw Humpty Dumpty get himself broken after falling off a wall.  But Mother Goose’s magic feather was able to heal him after Old King Cole and the Wizard of Rhyme failed.  And we had a parade to celebrate the event.

The week ended with a “graduation” celebration for all of us receiving diplomas for “memorizing Mother Goose’s rhymes.”  And we had a farewell dance that evening, celebrating what Camp Fatima’s Exceptional Children’s Week symbolizes: Love In Action!

Yes, those 2 weeks up there were Heaven.  Still, I wonder if I want to return up there after what I heard about the abuse up there.  I felt shattered by what happened up there, but I have learned that those priests have been removed, as well as those who were responsible for what happened.  God willing, I will return one of these days to visit Fatima and re-accquaint myself-if only for the visitors day-of the joy of what Camp Fatima’s message to all truly is: Love In Action.

And…who knows?  Maybe I might see Little Bo Peep or Mimi The French Doll again.

SPEAR SCHOOL? TELLME ABOUT IT!

                             CHAPTER 8.

      “SPEAR SCHOOL?  TELL ME ABOUT IT!”

So I ended up leaving St. Coletta’s School in 1974 and started that summer at Spear Educational Center in Arlington.  It was a strange learning place because half the day would be devoted to reading, writing, math and other subjects, while the afternoon would be devoted to recreational classes such as typing, sports and games.

What was really shocking was the restrictive diet that it had: no dairy or meat products, bacon could not be sugar cured, and no sweets.  Everyone was given a small packet of vitamins that they took with their snack.  And God, taking all those vitamins made me gag!  No wonder it did a doozy on my stomach.

Anyway, some of the students I remember from my 3 years there include a young lady named Karen Caprizzio, who was having trouble with her math and sometimes got emotionally upset.  Then there was a kid named Jeff…something or another.  I forget his full name.  Anyway, he liked to sing songs like “Barney The Bashful Bullfrog” and “My Heart’s In The Highlands.”  He was from Fernald School, which was a learning institution for those with mental disabilities.  And there was a doozy named Mike Exellbert, who lived in Roslindale and would sing silly songs like “Allerettes And Cigarettes” and say stuff like “You Just Can’t Beat 12 Noon!  12 Noon for breakfast and 12 Noon when the sun gets down.”  Or how about a kid named Albert Tobin?  He was the bully of the school; he’d always say things to upset Karen and he used to tease me by calling me names like Richie.  (In fact, one afternoon when he started teasing me about being called Richie when I was younger, I started a fight with him.  They had to break it up, but for a week I ended up being on the outs with him.)

There was one kid named Carl Foley, who was a patient at the Massachusetts State Hospital.  When we picked him up each day, he’d be talking like a runaway locomotive.  He’d be swearing and saying this like “Carl, Get In The Car” and “Okay.”  Unbelievable.  Most of the children who attended the school lived at home, but some would come in from institutions like the ones I mentioned. 

I would be there all day from 9 a.m. until 4 or 5 p.m. in the afternoon, except Wednesday when we were let go at 12 Noon so the teachers there would have their weekly conference.  Mondays, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, we’d be taking classes from 9 a.m. until 2 p.m., with the last 3 hours given over to recrecation.  And sometimes, when one of my class mates make me laugh, I’d have to stand up and turn around.

Yeah, that was something.

However, it was while I attended Charles River Academy that I learned how to use a typewriter.  And it’s given me this long love of writing things.  In fact, in 1982 and 1983, I worked on a long epic novel called “A Natchez Wedding,” which was about two kids trying to get married in Natchez, Mississippi, a place I’ve never been to.

Another time, I started working on a book called “The Coronation Of Mother Goose,” which I modeled after the Mark Twain book “The Prince and the Pauper.”  But it never got anywhere, since I set the book out on the West Coast.  And I once tried to tackle the science fiction project called Xenon vs. Xepilon, which was the story of a space war.

Yeah, it’s good to dream and imagine.  But when you’re writing a book like this, you have to be practical.  You have write about things you know and experiences you’ve been through.  Nothing’s wrong with creating something fantastic, but you always want to get your facts straight.  At least when you’re writing your first book, like I’m doing with this one.

Still, I’m thinking of starting the 2 again as soon as this book’s finished.  Who knows?  May I’ll work on them as well.

When first I went to Spear School, we were renting out the classroom of an Armenian Apostolic Church in Belmont.  Our place was across the street from a Greek Orthodox Church where we’d hear the bells ring out every hour on the hour.  I remember the first year I was there because when it was hot, we’d have the windows open and at the top of the hour, the church bells across the street would ring the hour.

One time, while we were at class, a funeral was taking place across the street.  The bells tolled solemnly once for each year the decedent was on the Earth.   It did so twice: first, when the funeral was beginning, and second, when it was ending.  I always knew that everyone has a short time on this Earth, and we must make it a better place when we leave than when we first came.

In the fall of that year, we moved to a new location in Arlington, this time next to a Methodist Church or something.  I forget what kind of church that was.  Anyway, the structure continued with the same hours: 9 to 5 each day(except Wednesdays) and 9 or 10 to 4 during the summer.  This was a year round school, so kids went through the year, except for holidays and scheduled vacations.

Early in 1976, we moved to Framingham, where we were located in a former Catholic Monastery.  That’s where we stayed until I left the school in August of 1977.  They had a swimming pool(which we never used) and a tennis and basketball court, where we played during the spring and summer months.  Also, we’d do some running around the school for special points, because the teachers had started something called Reward Store.  We started carrying checkbooks in class that would record how many checks we had for good behavior.  If we had good behavior, we could earn checks for certain things we could play with later that afternoon like games, record players, skates and more.  Someone who screwed up would have their checks taken away from them.

I had that happen to me a few times, but a couple of the students would lose all their checks or their book.  Or, in the case of one of them whose name I’ll not mention, he had the words “No Reward Store Today” written on his book.

I will tell you that he had a bad habit of talking about his day and picking up on that “Allerettes And Cigarettes” song.