What a week!
It all started with our annual family retreat to Camp Maria. This year's theme was Being a Catholic in a non-Christian World!
Think about it... every day, even in the most innocuous situations, we are faced with non-Christian images. Don't think so? Pay attention to the commercials that air during prime time or better yet... during a major sporting event. Let's just say, nothing good comes from an ad for a product that warns of a side effect that "... if it lasts for more than six hours, you should contact your doctor."
I think you know what I'm saying.
The retreat began with the priest asking what we were hoping to gain from the weekend. I mentioned that the retreat's theme lends itself to gathering information that you can take with you and assist you in being a better Catholic and a better parent to our kids.
I was proud of my answer and thought that I led the retreat off with a solid single. Some people even nodded... either agreeing with my assessment, or perhaps just in awe of being in my presence. These are my peeps!
Then some smarty pants Old Timer... not naming names or anything Mike... ooh did I say Mike?... chimed in.
Isn't that what we do every retreat... no matter what the theme?
Whatever.
I thought people might just laugh the poor old guy right out of the retreat. But then I noticed that more people were nodding at his silly little rebuttal than were nodding for my insightful observations. These aren't my peeps at all... what happened to my peeps?
I thought about coming back with some clever little quip but thought better of it for two reasons. First, I did not have a clever little quip to come back with, and second, he had asked me to play golf with him next month and I did not want to jeopardize that!
I let it slide. It was the right thing to do. I am glad that I did because things got better from there. I think we all could agree that much of the retreat did focus on strategies that we, as parents, can use when raising our kids.
During almost every talk, I couldn't help but think about my mother and my father. I would just sit and think... my parents did that!
I commented that my dad used many of the methods that the priest discussed in raising his kids, but I was not so sure he did it for the same religious reasons that the priest raised. Instead, I believe that he acted out of a very strong sense of what was right and what was wrong. I suppose that the two are intertwined, though not exactly the same.
Good Ol' Mike had nothing to offer to this keen observation.
It was a great retreat, with, as I said, great ideas for walking upright through our earthly life.
If we weren't prepared before the retreat... we sure were better prepared to guide our kids after the retreat. I suppose that makes the weekend a big success.
The retreat was not the only time this past week I was left thinking about my parents.
My mother still owns my childhood family home, and she has been renting it out for a few years. New tenants are moving in this weekend, so my oldest brother put a shout-out to all brothers, sisters, and grandchildren to meet at the house to help finish getting it ready. At the same time, my mother is getting ready to move from my sister's home to our home, to live with us.
As a result of the changes, we met at my mom's current home on Wednesday to help pack up and throw away all unnecessary junk. I would call it something different if it were not for the fact it is... junk.
We were also advised to take whatever we wante
I sent Grace to my mother's jewelry box, but was advised that some stuff was off limits.
Anyway, I assigned myself the task of going through my father's dresser drawers. He passed away over three years ago so the only things still in the drawers were pictures and old papers. I was advised to just stack the photos in a pile so everyone could look at them at a later date to pick out the keepers and look through the papers and get rid of the ones we don't need. Don't just sit there reading stuff and looking at old photos.
Sure... right... don't read stuff and don't look at old photos. Got it!
There were pictures of my dad in the army, my mom in her twenties (as an aside...he was a stud and she was not hard to look at), my brothers, sisters, and all the grandchildren at various ages. There were love notes my dad had sent to my mom when he was in the army, tax documents from the 1950's, medical records from one of my mother's pregnancies, a cryptic note from my uncle Vito (all Italian families have an Uncle Vito) with a key to a safety deposit box with very specific directions, my grandfather's will, a crucifix, and articles from newspapers... mostly about my brother Jeff.
My dad must have kept articles about me in a separate drawer that I haven't gotten to yet. I am sure they are there somewhere. Have to be... I was his favorite!
In short, it was an entire history of our family in a dresser.
I will say, as the youngest kid in the family, there was very little documented evidence that I ever existed... with the possible exception of one photo and a beer cozy from my office.
I had a great time ignoring my siblings' instructions and explaining as best I could to my kids who the people were in the photographs. My boys are convinced there is a great story located in some safety deposit box in New Jersey. There probably is because I had great stories about a lot of the other stuff we found.
At the end of the night, my boys took home new pocket knives, Grace got the small crucifix that she can hang in her new dorm room, I took home my grandfather's rosary beads, and my mom gave Cheryl some pretty dishes... lots and lots of dishes. Quite a haul.
The following night we all went back to the home we grew up in... the one my mom is renting out... to help get it ready for the new tenant.
Having not been there for several years, I was was anxious to see the place. As we turned onto Kennison Lane, I commented on how narrow it seemed. The whole neighborhood seemed so much bigger when we were running around as kids playing football, hide and seek, kick the can, release, freeze tag, kick ball, hill dill, SPUD (by the way, you don't get a period after spelling SPUD, it is a word, not a sentence) and wiffle ball.
I remember that we came home from school, went outside and played until it was time to ride our bikes or walk to the local field for practice. No facebook... no instagram, snap chat or any other social media. No travel teams and no specialization in one sport. We just played whatever happened to be in season.
My goodness what a deprived childhood... MY KIDS HAVE!!!!!!
We went through every room of that now-empty house... and each room had a story.
My parents had raised six kids in that house with the small yard... with the corner of the garden being first base, the dead pear tree as second base (dead because it was second base for several wiffle ball seasons) and the small stone... not the bigger stone next to it... was third. I want to make that clear because the confusion as to which stone was third always led to several arguments... and the general area where you stood and swung was home. You would have thought we could have thrown a shirt down or something for home plate, but we rarely did.
I explained to my kids that over the course of time, I was moved into every bedroom except my parents' master bedroom... which only got the title of master bedroom because it had its own bathroom.
I laughed at the memories of sharing my room with my two nephews when my brother and his family moved back to live with my parents for a period of time. Not surprisingly, my nephews had their own great stories about every room from the time that they lived there.
The thought occurred to me that I did not need a retreat to help me raise my kids. I got all the instruction that I needed on Kennison Lane.
After most of the work was done, we all lingered on the living room floor and exchanged our own great memories of growing up in this house. It was one of the few times that I wished that I were not the youngest sibling. So much happened without me... I mean it's true that nobody's life was complete until I came around... but they did manage to do stuff before I was born... or was adopted by the Indians as my sister often informed me.
As we drove off, I once again commented about having the house all to myself and then having to share a room with a ten-year old and a twelve-year old. Cheryl asked if I would change anything.
The answer was easy... absolutely not.
Life was always good on Kennison Lane!
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| ~ Joe, Michel, Mom, Jeff, and Funny Guy. Paul and Sheree not pictured ~ |
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| ~ Get down from there Michel! Dad wouldn't like that! ~ |
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| ~ Mom... aka "Grandma" ~ |
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| ~ The "P" in the patio ~ |
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