Carlo is Confirmed, Twice

CP Confirmation

My friends received their first holy confirmation before they were ten years old. I was fourteen. I vaguely remember when my older brother Frank, aged nine, brought the catechism home to study. I could read the words but it baffled me. I refused to be confirmed. Recently I borrowed a copy of the catechism from the public library, a fat book which must be the unabridged version of the booklet I saw as a boy.

Recall that you have received the spiritual seal, the Spirit of wisdom and understanding and courage and the spirit of right judgement and courage, the spirit of knowledge and reverence, the Spirit of holy fear in God’s presence. Guard what you have received.”

That’s a heavy load to lay upon a child. The sentence is full of abstract nouns – spirit, wisdom, understanding, courage, knowledge, reverence. And elsewhere there’s that menace: fear God, mortal sin, the devil, damnation. Yes, there is salvation. Through the gift of grace. Grace?

My father was an illiterate, anticlerical, naive anarchist. “Dominus Vobiscum! Mobuto! Massachusetts!” He’d say the words aloud. He loved the sound of mouth-filling vowels. He’d play his few scratchy LPs over and over: Verdi and Rossini overtures, a few arias, the marching band of the Italian Carabinieri. When congregants from St Thomas’s came to the house requesting donations, he’d tell them “Go to the Pope, he got plenty.” My mother always tried to head him off from the door.

Although devout, my mother stopped going to church, for good I thought, after she fainted in crowded Saint Thomas’s church during a long sermon one hot Sunday. Afterwards, unobtrusively, she occasionally attended Mass in the small, detached chapel of Saint Elizabeth’s, the the large, nearly defunct Episcopal Church that had been marooned by the influx of Catholic residents. It was quiet and sparsely attended. I remained adamantly unconfirmed. My mother was chastised for it, gently by Aunt Jennie and Pip, blatantly by that trouble-maker, Z’a Pina Graci.

My mother never grumbled about my state of sin, but to lighten her burden, I relented. I joined a group of nine year-olds, public school kids all, that met to study the catechism in a classroom at Saint Thomas’s elementary school. Sister Bridget, a young nun from Ireland was our teacher:  I liked to hear her speak – the beginning of my fascination with things foreign. Sister Bridget never reproved my ill-concealed disdain of the simple minded question-and-answer book:

Q.: Who made the world? A.: God made the world.”

She mollified me with adult asides. The class was ready to be confirmed in five or six weeks. I playfully, perversely, chose Aloysius as my confirmation name.

He was a wonderful Saint!” said Sister Bridget.

I had to choose a sponsor. To punish Z’a Pina, I chose her husband whom I hardly knew: I would never be an ornament to St. Thomas’s, nor to Catholicism. Z’u Gaspare became my padrino, my “little father’; in Sicilian he was my “parinu”; in direct address, “Pari”, accent on the i.)

The officiating priest that confirmation Sunday was, I thought, condescending. Of course I was prepared to dislike him. It was my first and last holy communion. I seldom entered a church again, except for christenings, weddings and funerals. Until I went to Italy.

In Rome I grew fond of churches, visiting scores of them. My favorites changed as I discovered new ones. If I were near the Piazza del Popolo, I’d slip into Santa Maria to see the Caravaggios. On the Corso I seldom passed up Gesu. Santa Sabina was wonderful. Saint Peter’s, across the river, left me cold although I dutifully took visiting relatives and friends to see it. I took my father! “Dominus Vobiscum!” Santa Maria Maggiore was my favorite of the four great cathedrals. I’ll never forget Christmas midnight Mass there. I went with Diana Beames, an Australian friend who taught English at the British Council school in Via Babuino.

We stood behind temporary wooden barriers that defined a wide central aisle from front to back – the big churches have no fixed pews. Hundreds of candles burnished the magnificent mosaics on the walls, on the great triumphal arch, in the apse. The coffered ceiling was gilt with gold brought from the New World. We heard chanting. The front doors opened and a current of cold air invaded the church. Then the procession.

First came the gorgeously dressed bishops – maybe a cardinal or two – six or eight abreast, followed by dozens and dozens of priests, then ranks of plainly robed monks, and finally, who knows how many altar boys carrying tall candelabras; a gaudy phalanx come to celebrate a babe in a manger. The costumes, the heaving, murmuring audience, the flash bulbs, the chanting, the galaxy of candles, the glowing mosaics, the incensing urn swinging across the width of the apse, represented an overwhelming spectacle. Diana and I pushed our way through the crowd and we slipped out into the cold night before the Mass began. We lost our way briefly in the crooked little streets surrounding the church, a frequent occurrence in old Rome. We broke out serendipitously, like an unexpected gift.

Margie Crispin Ridge was unbaptized and unconfirmed. (Were we made for each other?) Margie’s mother, who was born into Methodism, had been alienated by its strictures. On Sundays, as a child, she hadn’t been allowed even to play with her doll. Helen Headley married Roy Ridge in 1930. Margie was their only child. She had remained unbaptized because her mother could never find a church that pleased her.

They bought a little farm house in Chester County and they joined Saint Andrew’s, a small Episcopal country church. It was built in the 1830s, a pleasingly austere building made of native stone with whitewashed walls. It was eminently suitable for a baptism, but Margie, by then a teenager, had no desire to be baptized. Her father was buried in St. Andrew’s churchyard in 1956, in a four person plot, with places for Helen Headley Ridge, for Margie and for Margie’s future husband.

Reverend Ken Werner, the pastor of Saint Andrew’s, was pleased when Margie asked him to marry us. He didn’t bat an eyelash when she told him that she was unbaptized and that I was a lapsed Catholic. The Reverend said his duty was to accept, not to reject. He baptized Margie three weeks before the wedding, with me standing as her godfather. In time our children were baptized in Saint Andrew’s too, so that Margie’s mother, after all, got to attend a baptism in a pretty church, twice.

We were married on a bright, cold, December afternoon in 1960. The snow storm of the decade arrived the next day. It swept up from the south, stranding several of our guests who had dallied in Ludwig’s Corner after the ceremony. Margie and I avoided the snow by immediately driving north; an overnight stay in Greenwich, Connecticut, thence to Vermont where Annie Steinert had kindly offered us the family’s chalet in Peterborough.

We arrived in the late afternoon dusk. It was ominously dark. No snow yet. I flicked the light switch to reveal handsome furniture, stenciled wallpaper and a large fireplace with stacked kindling on the grate. A large sheepskin rug graced the hearth. The room was cold. Margie stroked the thermostat and the furnace came to life.

She opened the fridge: a bottle of champagne and two kinds of pate. A can of Dinty Moore’s beef stew and a box of crackers sat on the counter top next to the fridge.

We went to bed early. It was pitch dark, eerily quiet. We were not afraid.

The earth moved. Ripples of aftershock.

The day broke, stilly.

Margie, come.” Hand in hand, naked, we gazed upon the immaculate world we had created in the night: Eden regained. Communion, Confirmation, Grace. Joy!


Who’s New At Midden Lees


Isaac N. and Willa (nee Groundel) Astral are settling nicely into Apartment 13 of Courtyard 78.  Isaac – call me Zack – was, is, an astronomer whose career took him and Willa to observatories all over the world. This afternoon they are sitting in a corner of their retirement community’s sun filled lounge, with Liza Poulder, a reporter from the Midden Lees Newsletter. Lisa is interviewing them for her monthly column “Who’s New at Midden Lees”. Tall windows frame a vista of sweeping lawns studded with inviting pockets of trees and shrubbery.

“Ask him what his middle initial stands for.” says Willa impishly.

“Yes,” sighs Isaac. “It stands for Newton. My father was a high school physics teacher.”

The University of Arizona, with its 36-inch diameter Newtonian reflecting telescope and its cloudless skies, had granted Zack his first degree. Willa (she uses Willa Groundel professionally) was, is, a political activist. She was elected president, the first female ever, of the Trotsky Club in her senior year at Wayne State University in Detroit. Her father was a welder and shop steward at the General Motors plant in Flint, Michigan.

Zack and Willa met in New York City when they were twenty-one years old. He was attending the annual meeting of the American Astronomer’s Society. These meetings provide platforms for senior members to present scholarly papers, but for recent graduates like Zack, they served chiefly as a clearinghouse for jobs and graduate school openings. Willa was in New York City leading a group of young protesters who were picketing the Society’s meeting. She carried a placard which read “Observe people, not the stars”

As she approached the hotel’s marquee she had pivoted smartly, her sign almost striking Zack’s face as he exited the hotel. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she had said, apologizing profusely. “No harm done,” he had replied. Zack, whose head was usually in the stars, had had the wit to invite this cute little protester to join him for lunch in a hamburger joint across the street.

“Feed the starving misses!” he chuckled as he gazed at Willa nestled beside him on the love seat. Willa snorted fondly.

By the close of the weekend meeting, Zack had landed his first job, at Berkeley. A few months later he had a wife, and Willa, a husband. “I chose Berkeley, partly because of Willa’s interests,” Zack said. Those were heady times at Berkeley: Angela Davis, Herbert Marcuse, Mario Savio, student protests, campus take-overs. teargas, etc..

As a T.A. in the PhD program, Zack found himself overworked and discouraged; he realized he was not cut out for academia. But he was fascinated by the equipment, by the nuts and bolts aspect of observatories, how the telescopes glide so effortlessly into place like elegant giraffes, rising regally toward the overhead dome, with the soothing, rumbling emanations of large ruminants.

“However, the equipment is very delicate,” said Zack. “It requires a great deal of maintenance. I earned a reputation as a trouble shooter. I had the touch of a safecracker.”

“You certainly cracked my code in a hurry,” said Willa. “Oh, I’m sorry Lisa.” Their son Warren had been born five months after the wedding.

“No need to apologize,” Lisa replied. “At Midden Lees, only smoking is prohibited. And the jumbling of recyclables.”

Zack switched to the School of Engineering Technologies and by year’s end, he had landed a job at the W.M. Keck Observatory on Moana Kea, in Hawaii. “I wasn’t in charge but I had plenty to do: the telescope is eight stories tall. Sometimes I didn’t get down the mountain for two days at a time.” Willa didn’t mind at first. She had her hands full with the new baby, but once the care of the baby became less demanding, Willa was bored

“I was the only socialist on the mountain. Most people were happy as clams. After all, it was Hawaii.”

When Zack’s contract expired, he accepted an appointment at his alma mater, the University of Arizona. Willa found a house in a working class neighborhood in Tucson. She threw herself into political activism. “I organized literacy classes, job fairs, street parties. Our daughter Hillary was born.” She loved her life but their car was stolen three times. When they recovered it the last time, it had been repainted like a Christmas pinata. After their house was burglarized a second time, they realized it was time to go.

“How was it you chose Midden Lees? You have lived in such, uh, fascinating places?”

“For once we did our homework. We narrowed our choices down to two, and we chose the Lees because it was closer to our daughter.”

“Where does she live?

“She lives in Halifax.”

“Halifax, Newfoundland?”

“Yes,” Willa explained with a laugh. “Our son lives in the Amazonian rain forest of Brazil. He’s a cultural anthropologist.”

“Oh my. Yes. Oh well. What was the most interesting posting you ever had?”

“That’s easy,” said Zack. “The Ronald Reagan Satellite Tracking Site on Kwajalein Island in the South Pacific. We tracked the flight of anything put into orbit from anywhere in the world, by anybody, friend or foe. Fascinating work! That’s all I can say. You’ll understand why, I’m sure. Otherwise, Kwajalein is a fairly dull place, a flat, sun-beaten island with low lying, barracks-type buildings,”

“That must have tough on you wives, Willa.

“Yes, sometimes, but we had the beach and a great swimming pool. Then I organized a flying club. I found an old Piper Cub that had been thrown into the dump with the abandoned autos, broken down runway graders, fridges, microwave ovens, vacuum cleaners. I talked one of the Air Force pilots into giving us flying lessons. He didn’t have an instructor’s license, but hey, we were a long way from the FAA. It’s a great area for flying you know, no rain and plenty of sunshine. There was only one constraint.”

“What was that?”

“Kwajalein disappears on the horizon if you fly too far away from it, it’s so flat.. Our rule was to never to fly any farther than three miles away from the island, depending on your altitude, of course. Left turn, left turn, left turn, left turn. If you turned right, towards the ocean, you were lost forever.”

A flying club! What a wonderful legacy.”

“No, unfortunately, it’s gone. Betsy Hutch, a lovely woman, well, Betsy started to behave oddly. She stopped coming to the pool. We should have guessed something was wrong. One day Betsy took the plane up and she turned right.”

“I, aah, uh. I’m afraid you’ll think the Lees a dull place.”

“Not at all,” said Zack. “Last Tuesday I found a Geosafari Omega Reflector telescope in the thrift shop downstairs, just like the one I had as a kid. In great shape. Star-gazing will be fun again!”

“That’s wonderful, said Lisa. “Alice Logan, our Activities Coordinator, can help you set up a club.”

“Not yet,” said Willa. “First he’s got to put a dome through the ceiling of our apartment.”

“Goodness, have you spoken to Buildings and Maintenance about it?”

“That won’t be necessary. It’s only a four-foot hole and I’ve got a great idea. You know those transparent plastic food containers in the Coffee Shop? The ones shaped like a pie wedge, with a hinged lid that opens like a clam? With two hundred of those I’ll build a geodesic half dome that will be strong and light. Of course, I’ll leave a few lids unglued to poke the telescope through.”

“What’s on your radar screen, Willa?” asked Lisa, with some alarm.

“I’m still unpacking my books and political literature. Then I’ll look around.”

“There’s plenty here to keep you busy. The Great Decisions program, the AAUW meetings, the League of Women’s Voters.”

“The usual suspects,” Willa said wryly.

“Well now, Zack, Willa,” said Lisa. “This has been fun. Our little talk today will certainly liven up the next issue of ‘News and Newcomers.’  I’ll walk out with you. It’s such a nice day.” They rose and moved toward the french doors. “Why there’s Rebecca Spade! You must meet her!”

Rebecca was gaunt and elegant, stark white hair, crisp pageboy (Smith College? 1942, 43?). She wore a cashmere sweater; a string of pearls yellowed with age; a worsted woolen skirt with an adorable mini-pleated gusset placed artfully off center, which – when she had had hips – swayed open as she walked, like the undulating bellows of a hand-held concertina.

“Oh, that cunning little seamstress in the vicolo just off Via Tornabuoni! the one Gianfranco told me about. I should have ordered five of everything. Caro, amorevole Gianfranco! Beautiful, beautiful Gianfranco! How did I survive that senior year back amongst those chattering teenagers? Northampton, ugh. I should have gone to Radcliffe.” A six button, double-breasted camelhair coat with a belt in the back hangs in Rebecca’s closet. Rebecca loves to run her fingers over the plump cloth, avoiding the lower edge of the sleeves where the nap is worn down to stubble, down to the woof and warp,

“Rebecca dear, I’d like you to meet Isaac and Willa Astral.”

“So pleased to meet you” said Zack. “Isn’t it a lovely day, a great day to be alive .” The sun was streaming through the windows.

Rebecca looked down her long nose. She disdained his outstretched hand: “Wait until you’re ninety three!” She strode past them, toward a coffee table which was strewn with magazines. Was that an Orvis catalog glinting amongst them?

“Rebecca’s really fun once you get to know her,” said Lisa brightly.

They walked across the lounge which was furnished with antiques, many of the pieces donated by former residents. Willa noticed a pretty woman, exquisitely dressed – Lord and Taylor’s? – sitting at a large Jacobin table. She was staring blankly at the puzzle pieces scattered across the table’s top. Her aura of bluish grey hair was incandescent, caught in a shaft of afternoon sunlight.

“She looks so sad,” Willa whispered.

“Betsy Cosmer. She’s going to be ninety soon. She just can’t seem to deal with it.”

Lisa saw George Dallas by the door, sitting at one of the many computers that dot the campus. George, at 101 years of age, is the Lees’s oldest male resident, still hale enough to play three holes on the abbreviated golf course. He’s never without his putter. He leans upon it like a cane occasionally, and when animated, he slaps his thigh with it, like a testy cavalry man flaunting his quirt on Bond Street. Lisa puts herself between the Astrals and George’s back as they pass his seated figure. George’s eyes are glued to the computer screen. Lisa glances over his shoulder: hardcore porn.

As Lisa and the Astrals reach the corridor , an electric scooter stops abruptlyat the door to let them pass.

“Rootzy!” Lisa sang out gleefully. “Isaac, Willa, this is Ruzzica Altinerese.” Rootzy is slouched down in her bucket seat, the stems of her sun glasses stuck rakishly into her windblown hair. She is ninety-four. “Rootzy, this is Willa and Isaac Astral. They’re new to the campus.” Rootzy extends her gauntleted hand.

“So good to see you again,” Lisa said. “How have you been?”

“I’m fine,” said Rootzy, “except for this damned nose of mine. The cool weather makes it drip.” She swiped at it with a fistful of kleenex.

The devoted owner of a Schnauzer puppy, Lisa said reassuringly, “Rootzy, just remember, a dog with with a wet, cool nose is a healthy dog.” Lisa smiled, rather pleased with herself.

“I’d rather be a hot bitch!” said Rootzy, gunning her motor and whirring off.

“Rootzy, you are so-o-o cute,” Lisa shouted after her, through clenched teeth.

They step out into the sunlit plaza which, to Lisa’s relief, is free of residents.. Several walkways branch off toward the Courtyards. Across the plaza you could see the woods that surround the campus. Beyond the woods the campus is girdled by three intersecting superhighways. The highway traffic emits a muffled, menacing roar. “Do you know your way home from here?” Lisa asked.

“Just barely,” said Willa. “It’s so confusing. So many interconnected courtyards, so many arcades, paths, cul de sacs.”

“It’s really quite easy,” said Lisa. “The key to it all is the ring road. Except for one dogleg, it circles the campus. Get into the right hand lane and you can’t go wrong. Keep looking left and you’ll see the parking lots strung out like beads on a necklace, marked A B C D F G H. They lead to their respective interior courtyards. To your right are the surrounding woods. Just keep going left. Never, never turn right.”