A heritage worth holding fast to

Published September 1, 2005

My mother, a native of Nebraska, loves to tell stories about the old aunts who tucked her into bed in the house on Toluca Street with the bed warmers and the big front porch. She was the youngest of five children so she essentially grew up after her older brothers and sister had already either moved out, went into the military or married. I guess it’s safe to say that even though she came from a rather large family by today’s standards, she also knew what it meant to be an only child. Her mother’s sisters were the old spinsters from the Walton’s. They were born and died in the same house. My mom loved them both.

The family of my mother’s mother (Grandma Margaret) are a long line of Irish from the family “Barry” in County Cork, Ireland. They came here and pioneered Iowa and Nebraska. Great-Great Grandma Bridget came into Ellis Island and headed west to Iowa and pioneer living. Her daughter, Great Grandma Rosa made her home in Box Butte Nebraska. My kids’ only point of reference for pioneer living is the “Little House on the Prairie” books. I really need to dust off my Willa Cather books. The Barry’s must have been strong women. I’ve been to Nebraska and unless you’re in town, there isn’t much more than long grass, bluffs and corn. Your only friend is the wind. One thing I learned over the last two weeks about the Barry clan, is that they come from goodness and faith.

It wasn’t until Grandma Margaret was married and grown, that my family made its journey to California when my mother was around 4 years old. They settled into Sonora and Oakdale. You can still see my Uncle Bill’s mural in the Horseshoe Bar, something he painted 20 years before I was born. It takes up the back wall of the entire bar. If you know old timers in Sonora, they’ll tell you all the people depicted in the mural were locals in the 40’s, people my Uncle knew.

After Grandma Margaret and Grandpa Chet settled in Sacramento, our roots took hold in California. My mother lost touch with her Barry cousins after her 8th grade graduation and hadn’t seen any of them since then. That is, until two weeks ago.

My mother took up interest in genealogy several years ago and was able to hook up with her cousin Kay on a road trip to Kansas City. This prompted continued communication with her by letter and phone. My sister Terry took the “bull by the horns” and really climbed into the family tree. She turned up mounds of information by sending away for records, using the internet and following up on leads. We would get the updates at each family gathering as to who she had found, how far back, and their names. Only by cross reference was she able to confirm their link to the family.

When Mom heard that the Barry’s were having their family reunion in Oregon last week at Newport, she asked us all to go with her. We headed up I-5 wondering if the California cousins would be welcome. They opened up their hearts and home to us in a reunion weekend I am sure my mother will not likely forget for a long time. I saw my Uncle Chet in cousin, Danny. Barb, Peggy and Geri were reminders of my grandmother in little ways I can only now comprehend. Cousin Tim was born when my Mom last saw them. He was the baby and you could tell that his sisters still care for him like mothers. In getting to know these people over the weekend, I thought of the aunts on Toluca street who tucked my mother into bed when she was little.

All the cousins sat in the same pew for Mass on Sunday. I couldn’t help but think that the faith of the Catholic Irish, born long ago in the time of Saint Patrick, has survived long into 2005. Even though these cousins were separated by 50 years, some things never change. It’s a heritage worth holding fast to.


Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Ciao Cugini!

Published August 22, 2005

JD’s mom is a pure blooded Italian. Mama Rose brought her into the world the same day that Gladys Presley gave the world a baby named Elvis. Rose Martorella and Giuseppi Luzzi had two children and raised them to be the wonderful adults I call MoMaher and Uncle A. My mother in law grew up in Santa Cruz amongst a very loving Italian family, one that passed along wonderful traditions to her so that those traditions could become a part of our family. Our family has grown so much since 1990. I know her parents are smiling down from heaven because of it. The bridge that was built to Italy from America had sorrow, courage and a letter attached to it.

When Mama Rose passed away in 1990, I thought my mother in law would never recover from the loss of her mother. Since Nono had died in the 60’s, she was truly the link MoMaher had to her Italian roots.

With constant encouragement and prompting from a few of us kids, we implored MoMaher to try to find her relatives in Italy. Her father came from a large family in the Northern Italian Alps from a village called Talamona. Although her father and one of his brothers immigrated to the United States in the early 20’s, there were cousins still there in the village and other parts of Italy that she had heard about but never knew. If ever there was a time to build a bridge to the family, we knew that this was the time. Death has a way of reminding us all how precious time is.

One letter led to another and within a year, MoMaher was off to meet her Italian family. The welcome reception she received was something one would see in one of those sappy reunion movies. Relatives came out of the woodwork to meet her. Over the coming years since that first visit, she has made return trips to Italy with JD, his brother and me in tow to experience a la familia usually because of a huge family wedding. These cousins are jewels in the family crown. The heart of my mother in law is transfused with new life every time she encounters them. It warms my heart to know that they are there for her and she for them after all these years of separation. Her father never returned home after he left, probably because of the depression and the high cost of passage. He was a hard worker and a family man. His daughter would the build the bridge that he was unable to cross.

Over the last three weeks, four of the cousins (cugini) came to the USA for their first transatlantic visit. They saw California and Nevada through the eyes of their American cousins. Their trip consisted of a rather large family reunion of JD’s immediate family, as well as the American Italians and Italy cousins. Everyone in JD’s family is referred to by their Italian names (Tomasso, Patrizio, Giovanni, Giacomo, Adriano, Leonardo, Eduardo). We ate so much food! Pasta, amaro, limoncello, roasted vegetables, tiramisu and so much more filled our stomachs day and night. Our cousin Lenny from Seattle brought his accordion down and played for us all those great Italian café hits that get the whole family celebrating in song. Parlor games, late nights and bocci ball filled our days. Not a whole lot of conversation was lost in translation. The language we spoke was singularly the language of long lost family. Most Italians speak with their hands, but my husband’s family speaks with their heart.

MoMaher, JD and I took the cousins to the airport Sunday. We spent two hours saying our hearfelt goodbyes “Ciao Cugini – kiss kiss”. For three weeks our MoMaher had her family from two continents surrounding her. It’s been a few days since we’ve all been able to stop our Italian responses to each other (si, grazie, prego, etc). MoMaher has plans to return next year in April for Pasquetta (Eastertide). This time she will bring Tomasso, my brother in law, to meet his Italian cugini in Lake Como and Talamona. No doubt, Nono Giuseppi is smiling somewhere from heaven.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Father, friend and brother

August 4, 2005

With a legacy that will last long after he is gone, our pastor, Father John Berg, gave one of his last sermons to our church community at St. Stephen the First Martyr Catholic Church. We know it’s getting close to his August departure so he’s getting in his final words to us – they are the words that most parents would say to their children if they were leaving for a long time, such as when your loved ones leave for college, the military or moving out of state. He’s careful, thoughtful and serious because he can be that way when he knows it’s important, because he recognizes that he is the shepherd of souls. What is important, truly important, usually are those last parting words. Worried that your children have what they need, the necessary tools to stay safe, common sense to see them through their journey, these are the things all good parents are concerned with when they are separated from their children. His words are spiritual because he is a priest who has invested himself into the lives of his parishioners. His words are of caution and admonition. He’s concerned like a father, a friend and a brother.

His comportment is always energized and friendly, yet I know he has sacrificed himself like most good parents. He’s been at the bedside of the sick and dying, attending to the deceased and their grieving loved ones. He’s on sick calls and sacrament calls to those who are within and outside our church. He runs an altar guild of approximately 100 boys, a week long summer camp, a youth group, a girls society of 70, a bustling parish of large Catholic families who have baptisms, weddings and many things that need blessing, such as people, homes, cars, and businesses. He’s blessed our home, shared our meals, holy days and prayed with us. He’s taken our calls late at night, answered our emails, comforted us in our sorrows and instructed us in the faith. He’s present in our sorrows and joys and always seemingly untiring in his zeal, especially with the youth.

How does one possibly thank someone such as this, who has poured himself out thusly? When we first joined the community 7 years ago, St. Stephens was not in existence. It was a community of families who had an attachment to the classical liturgy of the Catholic Church and the traditional devotions. We were leasing space from another church and had no real space of our own to come together and worship. Since Father Berg arrived, we’ve managed to purchase, completely renovate and dedicate our own church. The magnitude of what he has built can only be comprehended in light of the short time he was amongst us. His dedication to the faithful, his constant attention to his duty as a priest, making sure he was steadfast in his duty to his office and to a strong prayer life. There were nights when he’d be late at someone’s home, praying his breviary, making sure that while he was spending time with your family in fun and fellowship, his focus was always on his primary relationship with God and his duty to his prayer life.



His example to the children, his contribution to their faith formation, his zeal for God, fortunately, are all legacies he will leave behind to us, like a good parent who has raised his children well. He remarked recently that it will be difficult to leave because he likens his transfer to that of handing over his child, but you would never know that from his exterior, because he is humble.

There is a side to him that is completely a boy at heart. You see it when he is out on the field with the boys playing dodge ball or the girls playing volleyball. You see it when he sits down with a group of toddlers to play ‘duck-duck-goose.’ You see it when he meets the men for basketball, the kids for street hockey and the ladies for coffee. He makes himself completely and totally available, that’s if you can get into his appointment book on time because he’s always ‘booked’. He’s a phone call or email away…and not far from your hearts, like a parent, a brother or a good friend. It’s been said he rarely sleeps well or long.

There is no way to adequately express our gratitude to such a fine man of God. I hope someday God will show him how much he meant to us. He is off to teach at the seminary from whence he came. No doubt the young seminarians there will greatly benefit from his experience and wisdom. Word has it that he will be elected someday to be the Superior General of his order. This would not surprise me, but he will always and eternally be ‘our father, friend and brother.’

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

There & Back Again...

Published May 29, 2005 Memorial Day

I’d like to share a letter I received a few weeks ago. This Memorial Day, I am thankful for the sacrifices made by so many families of those lost while serving in the military. Letters like these make me believe that we live in a small world with few strangers, just nice folks we haven’t met yet.

Dear Tammy Maher,

I felt I needed to write you after reading the wonderful tribute you wrote about your father, 1st Lt. Thomas Joseph Hallgarth who perished in the Cold War.

It moved me a great deal when I read it on April 4th of this year and even more so when I re-read it this evening. Your love for this dear man and his fellow crew-men who laid down there lives for our country on February 20th, 1963 rings clear to me, as I'm sure to all who read it and undoubtedly many more who know you.


(I found the piece you wrote), while I was searching on the Internet on April 4, 2005 for information about the men who piloted and served us so bravely aboard that B-47 jet on that day in February 1963.

My wife and I were traveling by plane up from northern Iowa to Comfrey Minnesota on April 4th, my birthday, the day when my mother gave me life exactly 50 years in that little town’s hospital. I wanted to see this small town again and talk to some of the people who I'd known growing up there from April 4th, 1955 - July, 1966. Most I’d never seen since nearly 40 years, since we moved away.

My parents, an older brother, a younger sister and I lived in Comfrey for those years of the 50’s – 60’s. There were many things that looked back upon that I treasure now… living in a place where I felt safe and secure. Playing ball and spend many hours outside with no worries of great significance.

In later years I learned that a great price by millions of men and women, including your father, paid the great price that allowed innocent kids like us grow up and live full lives in safety in this great country. And for that, I’ll forever be grateful.

But there was also at least this one thing that I vividly remember, the day in February 1963. If I recall, our 3rd grade class of 25 or so kids was up in the 2nd story library of Comfrey Public School at the minute when your father’s and his crew’s B-47 crashed about 2 miles directly North of our school.

It was a very windy day and yet we heard what sounded like a great clap of thunder and the old brick building shook briefly. But of course we knew there was no thunderstorm in February in Minnesota. So we didn’t know what had happened.

It was only later that day after coming home that we heard our parents tell us that an Air Force crew had perish when their jet went down so near our little farm town. It was sad to hear such news and especially to hear that they must have passed nearly directly over our town and school coming from the South. I remember them telling that the crew must have stayed with the plane to direct it away from any town or farm. Though I was only about 8 years old, I understood that this was a very great act of courage and sacrifice that these men made that spared us and our town. Now thanks to your tribute, I know these brave men’s names: 1st Lt. Thomas Joseph Hallgarth, Capt. Donald Livingston, Lt. Col. Lamar Ledbetter and Lt. Michael Rebmann.

I remember that later that spring after this accident and the Air Force had cleared the site, the snow was gone and the grass was starting to green, I went with other cub scouts and boy scouts, with adults from Comfrey to pick up thousands of small pieces of the plane to be sent back for the Air Force investigation. We did it also to help the farmer whose field it was and to make it safe for a public memorial service at that site where all of Comfrey’s churches and hundreds of people from the area came to pay tribute to and pray for the brave men who perished there and for their loved ones.

I remembered for that memorial we stopped about a ¼ mile away on a gravel country road, crossing a thick, green grassy field and walking up a gradual incline to the top, where the service was held.

The tribute written by then Mayor Arthur J. Lilla was a sincere _expression of our town’s people that Art put in such heartfelt letter to your mother.

My younger sister Louise, now a nurse Administrator, in northern Minnesota was best friends with Art Lilla’s daughter Renee. In fact, on April 4th, of this year on my pilgrimage back to Comfrey, I saw Mr. Lilla outside his home raking leaves off of some blue crocus flowers, which were poking up, seemingly too early for the weather in Minnesota, but yet at just the right time. He is quite elderly now, so I only spent a few moments talking with him. But his is a fine man of great character and wisdom. From what you’ve written about your father, they would have had much in common.

The reason I searched the Internet for the story about the men who manned that B-47 on that fateful day was that on my way out of Comfrey on April 4th my thoughts not only remembered the many good friends and childhood memories with them, but they also drew me to try and find the field where we walked up that grassy hill 42 years ago this spring. I wanted to once again say a short pray and give thanks to God for those men who sacrificed all to protect us back then.

I drove about 2 miles North of Comfrey, then turned down a gravel road that I thought might be it, though I couldn’t be sure, since it had been nearly 40 years since my family moved away from Comfrey. My wife and I and our big Yellow Labrador dog Molly drove down a mile to the West and there was a gentle sloping pasture that I thought looked familiar. When we came to the “T” in the road I knew this was the place. There on the old wooden fence posts were 4 evergreen wreaths… one on 4 different posts. I didn’t know if it was one of the families of these men or local residents who place them there. But to me and my wife these green wreaths were both a sign of eternal life we know in our Lord and a sign that these men, your fathers’ lives and sacrifices have not been forgotten.

May God continue to bless you Tammy and your families and the memories of your loved ones who have gone on before us.

For indeed, “Greater Love Hath no Man than this, than he lay down his life for his friends…”

Sincerely,
J C. Kunnari
Minnesota


Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Passion of Terri Schiavo

Published April 20, 2005

I wanted to write about Holy Week, but as we go to print, Terri Schiavo will be in day three of her court ordered death by starvation unless legislation to protect her life was passed last Friday. Most Christians recognize this to be the week before Easter when the Passion, Death and Resurrection of Christ is observed around the world by all of Christendom. However, I am saddened and sickened beyond reason. My sadness is for a stranger who in any other circumstance could be my sister or my daughter. Maybe in some mystical way, she is. It seems she is walking her own Calvary in a legal dispute.
I’ve received numerous requests for prayers for Terri Schiavo, the young disabled woman in Florida, who will die at the hands of a Florida court, by means of starvation and dehydration, commencing Friday March 18 at 1:00 PM. Handed a death sentence, yet innocent of any crime, Terri is guilty of being a disabled person. If she were a dog she’d get more consideration.
Terri Schiavo sustained a brain injury which has disabled her to the degree of those people who suffer from cerebral palsy. She is a warm person, fully aware of her surroundings, affections and dislikes. Somehow by a twist of fate and a team of lawyers working for her estranged husband, she has no voice and no protection in a land where protections are guaranteed by the Constitution and Bill of Rights. Mr. Schiavo has refused to allow Terri’s exposure to the outdoors, physical therapies to aid her speech and eating, and has even refused her dental care since 1995. As a result she has lost 5 teeth due to decay.
One judge ..one court… ruled that she must die by starvation March 18 because her estranged husband wants her to die. This estranged man has a new common law wife and a couple of children with her, plus one emotionally estranged judge and a plethora of lawyers pitted against a grieving family who are begging the court’s mercy and protection over the life of their daughter. This is happening in the United States and in countries around the world. Without any further protective legislation being passed to protect the rights of the disabled, I am afraid it’s coming to a state near you.
Terri’s parents, Mr. & Mrs. Schindler went before the Florida judge last week again, something they’ve been doing since Terri’s mysterious 1991 injury over disputes as to the nature and quality of her care. In what has become a rubber stamp denial of the Schindlers and their requests, one wonders if Judge Greer even reads the pleadings on behalf of Terri Schiavo. Judge Greer said that they could not give their daughter water or food when the feeding tube is removed at 1 PM. They could not bring her home to die. They could not assist or comfort her in any way. This judge has neither viewed video recordings of Terri nor allowed her presence in his court. He does not want to hear any more testimony from physicians who have petitioned the court on Terri’s behalf who claim that given the latest therapies, she will most likely be able to be rehabilitated to speak and eat on her own. The experts in the field testify in pleadings, that she will gain improvement in motor function if treatment is carried out as recommended. Her husband’s neglect is criminal in that regard. Terri’s room at the rehab facility is watched by an armed guard 24 hours a day at the expense of her husband so that no one interferes with the neglect of his wife.
In addition to her husband’s denial of reasonable medical care for her ongoing rehabilitation, the court has denied her religious freedoms by denying her reception of Holy Communion for the last 15 years, but as she dies, they will finally grant her reception of the final Sacraments. This was the only concession made to the Schindlers last week.
It will most likely take 10 days to two weeks for Terri Schiavo to die. The body shuts down painfully as it is starved and dehydrated. The lining of the stomach dries up, the mucous linings in the nasal passage becoming painfully dry and blood vessels burst due to lack of hydration. The internal organs wither away painfully and then finally after a long and agonizing process the heart and brain will cease to function.
This is not Nazi Germany or the Sudan, this is going to happen in Florida. No one wants to talk about it. You will not turn on the evening news to hear about it. In a politically correct world, you will not hear about Terri Schiavo because this sort of thing is happening across our land and has been happening with increasing steadiness in recent years. Hollywood glorified it gushingly in the movie “Million Dollar Baby”. Ironically, last week a very wealthy individual in Los Angeles offered Michael Schiavo one million dollars to back away from Terri’s death order and allow her family custodial care. Rejecting the offer, his stance is clear, he wants her dead, cremated and gone.
One should question whether Michael Schiavo is still a husband when he denies her family visitation, when he denies treatment her physicians recommend for her, when he denies her access to the outdoors and fresh air, when he will not allow his wife’s teeth to be cleaned. One would think it ceased when he took a common law wife and started another family.

This is murder of a handicapped person. The slope of euthanasia in this country is getting more slippery and the court is run amok. The precedent in this case is tragic. Disabled persons are losing their place, voice and personhood in this society. Terri Schiavo is a victim of the callousness of an estranged husband who wants her dead, an apathetic Judge and medical personnel who are willing to cooperate with whatever the court tells them to do.

Terri is that woman or man you see in a wheelchair or at school who has cerebral palsy. She could be your sister or your mother. Shame on Michael Schiavo & Judge Greer and anyone who believes this is sympathetic and compassionate.
Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Farewell Papa!

Published April 18, 2005

As Catholics, watching the Pope hover near death and finally succumb was a painful experience. He was a member of our family. One tends to hold fast to those they love as they near the end of their journey on earth. My parish offered a solemn High Requiem Mass for the pontiff. Three local television stations covered it. It might as well have been my father in the catafalque. He was special. He was our “papa”. I’ve written extensively on my own experience and chance meeting with the Holy Father in 2001, one that I look back now as being miraculous due to the nature and circumstance of his schedule, my own insignificance and his declining health. The conclave commences today. I feel like an expectant child waiting for the Church to give birth to a new parent.
Vigorous in duty, diligent in suffering, faithful to the end, John Paul II left the earth on the eve of a Feast Day in the Church which was near and dear to his own heart, Divine Mercy Sunday. I watched the Poles in Krakow mourn their beloved father and I wished I could have been there with them. I saw in the faces of the faithful in St. Peter’s Square a gathering of sorrow and silent jubilation as they kept vigil through the night. I found it hard to sleep myself. I felt united to him in a spiritual way, unwilling to let go, “stay a little longer Holy Father and don’t leave us just yet”…he changed my life.
As a ‘cafeteria Catholic’ for many years, I sought to pick and choose what I wanted from my Faith and barely practiced what I had selectively believed to be true. John Paul II came on the scene as almost a dove in a tumultuous time of Church History and shook us out of our collective sleep. He challenged Catholics to armor themselves with the doctrine handed down from Christ and his Apostles and he made us look our Tradition in the face and embrace it. I suddenly fell in love with my Faith, returning to all the sacraments and devotions with greater fervor than before and finding myself in a position to defend my faith like never before. It was because of this strong and frail Shepherd, this beacon who lived the Gospel and took it around the earth 29 times, that I found myself proud to be a Roman Catholic.
When the scandal of clerical sexual abuse hit the Church recently, I remember many people, my friends including non-Catholics, say to me “see, how can you believe now?” It was simple. I believed in my Faith more than ever. I saw this as God cleaning house in His Church, and I supported it. The Church is filled with many sinners and many saints. It was time for the sinners to ante up. No secrets there. It was a relief. Perhaps opening the windows and letting in some fresh air would be just what the Church needed and how. He proved to us that no matter how hard the line would be there was no defectability in that which the Church held as inherently true, even if it meant his own pain and suffering. His life was a complete oblation of self. He shook up a confused and sleeping Church and rocked the geopolitical landscape like no other figure in the 20th century. Slowacki, the polish poet of the late 19th century prophesied his papacy 100 years before he was elected. Karol Wojtyla, a scholar, athlete, poet, actor, theologian, laborer, priest, bishop, cardinal and pontiff had one of the most impressive resumes in all of human history.
He was popular because he loved greatly and magnificently those whom the world deemed unlovable. He opened up the doors of Vatican City in a way no previous Pontiff had done in history. He wrote and wrote. He prayed and prayed. He suffered. In the end he left the world, dignified in his final agony and completely united to us. It’s hard to let him go. As the conclave begins today, speculations about the next pope are left to everyone outside the Sistine Chapel. Bells will toll when the new pope is elected and white smoke will rise through the streets of Vatican City. Like a dove, the new pontiff, unknown to us now, will step onto the world stage as the new Papa. How humble it will be to serve the Servants of God.
Farewell Karol, our papa. You showed us a higher way to live.
Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

The Grandpa

Published April 4, 2005

The kids and J.D. took Grandpa Pat for his 75th birthday to Pac Bell Park last Thursday to watch the A’s and Giants duke it out before baseball’s official season opener on Sunday. The traditional Bay rivalry is a sign that the season is upon us and Spring has sprung. Baseball is more than a sport, it’s a tradition that brings generations together where Grandpa, Dad and the kids can take their sides, cheer for their favorite players, enjoy junk food and the sounds of the park on a cool San Francisco evening. My kids went up to the attic to retrieve all their ballpark gear in case they catch a fly, and they cleaned out the car for Grandpa. They would do anything for ‘the Grandpa’. Grandpa Pat always sends them home with some little book, trinket or gift. ‘The Grandpa’ by his very nature is a generous soul.
I remember my Grandpa Chet taking us to a Giants game at Candlestick Park when I was little. He also enjoyed taking us to the San Francisco Zoo. They are the best memories I have with him. Just being in the car with him was a privilege. He made simple little excursions into adventures. He told us things that we thought were special secrets. He also gave us birthday spankings that sounded terrible but made us laugh ourselves silly. There wasn’t a single thing about Grandpa Chet that I can remember that doesn’t bring a smile to my face. He always had a treat in his pocket for us. He spoke to us an octave higher than he spoke to anyone else. It’s funny how grandparents worldwide in any language will take it up a whole octave when speaking to their grandchildren. He lived with us the last two years of his life as he battled cancer. He was small in stature but large in spirit. I would have done anything for him. He died when I was nine years old and 33 years later I still miss him terribly. The impression ‘the Grandpa’ makes on the life of his grandchildren is indelible.


My father’s metamorphosis into ‘the Grandpa’ was sudden and inexplicable. He has six grandkids and he treats them all like they are the only grandchild he has. He baby-sits my nephews for my sister & brother in law when they are both working and he plans his whole retirement around when “he gets to baby-sit” because he loves it and looks forward to it. He picks the kids up from school, makes sure they do their chores and homework and he talks to them about life. My daughter Birdy was visiting last week when ‘Pop-Pop’ babysat and she had a lot of ‘Pop’ stories when she came home from her visit. “Pop made us a great breakfast Mom! We had eggs and toast and Easter cake!” “You had what?” I said. “Yeah, he asked us what we wanted and we told him we wanted cake, ice cream, eggs and toast. He said it was no problem at all and we could have whatever we wanted”. How nice. She said it was the best breakfast she’d ever had. She couldn’t say enough about how great the eggs were that Pop made for her and her cousins. “They were the best eggs I ever had Mom.” I know they were the best because it was ‘The Grandpa’ that made them. Pop-Pop is ‘the bomb’ no matter where he is or what he does. He makes watering the lawn fun. He is more interesting than any teacher, including myself, that my kids ever had.
Next Pop-Pop took the kids to Aunt Tricia’s house and he had them pull all the weeds in her backyard while he worked on replacing her floors. The child who pitches a fit when she is asked to clean her own room had a ball pulling hundreds of weeds, picking lemons to make lemonade and helping out Pop-Pop. It was because ‘the Grandpa’ asked her to do it. There is no way that same child would happily pull any weeds at home. She’d do anything for ‘the Grandpa’. I understand why.
The pedestal that ‘the Grandpa’ stands on is very high. It’s so high no one can surmount it. The Grandpa speaks an octave higher to his grandchildren because the language that they speak is their own secret language and the parents have no ability to comprehend it. He is more tender to his grandchildren than he was to his own children because ‘the Grandpa’ is that mystery to grandchildren that stays alive in their hearts long into their adulthood. Everything ‘the Grandpa’ does is monumental and memorable. Like Peter Pan, ‘the Grandpa’, can mold the hearts and minds of the grandchild like no other by the compliments they give, the affirmations they impart and the love they bestow on their grandchildren. When he talks, they listen and everything he says is the most important thing in the world. I know because I get a full report of it when they return to tell me all about it. ‘The Grandpa’ beats out all the majors, like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny by virtue of his being ‘the Grandpa’. It’s no more a mystery than a fact of life.
I look forward to the day when J.D. gets to be ‘the Grandpa’. I’ll be sure to send food and water up the pedestal. I’m sure I’ll need a 30 foot ladder.
Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Holy Week-a Time for Family

Published March 30, 2005


This time of the year is truly joyful and penitential in our family. We’ve been immersed in the season of Lent for the last 33 days commencing on Ash Wednesday which will culminate with the Easter Sunday Mass this week. J.D., the kids and I have tried to make good on our Lenten resolutions. We do this in our Catholic tradition because it disposes us more fully to the joys of Easter Sunday. It also is a great time to clean the house. Holy week is filled with chores, lists of things to do and times to be in church. It is a time to also reflect and look into our interior lives.
The girls and I have been enjoying our choir rehearsals, and saying our extra prayers. Some of our Lenten resolutions were fulfilled to give up one thing or another, but more importantly it was a time to give back. We had the honor of taking into our home a friend, who was temporarily homeless while in a job transition. He stayed with us for about three weeks and in that time we were able to foster a deeper friendship in sharing our home and meals with him. Two people came home from the hospital, one recovering from a horrible auto accident 10 months ago and another with a new baby. Delivering meals and gifts was a tremendous joy. Through this time, the children learn about works of mercy both corporal and spiritual, in both the doing and in the praying for others.
As we ready ourselves for our Easter celebration, we enter into the passion and death of Christ through fasting and praying. We observe holy hours and a time of mourning. Each year’s participation in these traditions strengthens our faith. Sunday is reserved for a fabulous Easter Morning Solemn High Mass, an Easter egg hunt and travel to my sister’s house for a fabulous Easter feast.
Whether it’s coloring eggs, buying new Easter clothes or visiting the sick, one has a sense of hope this time of year. The trees deadened and dried by the winter chill are now blooming again. The weather is warmer and the mud swallows return again for the annual assaults on my front porch and driveway. My kids are gearing up for Spring fever. I know summer is not too far around the bend. Even though Easter came early this year, the time spent so soon after Christmas preparing for it was a good time for our family to pause and prepare.
My kids are growing up fast and I wish time would just slow down a bit because for some strange reason the days go by slow, but the years seem to fly fast. Birdy was pulling out pictures the other day of when she and her brother and sisters were small in their brand new Easter outfits. I’ve never seen joy more expressed than in the faces of the little ones all dressed up for Easter.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

School of Suffering

Published March 7, 2005

Largely ignored by Hollywood and the Oscars this last month, The Passion of the Christ will be re-released March 11, 2005 in a new recut version of the highly acclaimed film. We are looking forward to seeing this on Good Friday as part of a new Lenten tradition which our family started last year. After seeing it in the theaters four times, with different family members, I took away something different with each viewing. I’ve never seen a film in the theaters more than once before. This work of art was the only exception. It was a school of suffering and redemption.

Suffering in any situation is hard to witness, especially with those we love and care about. Grieving the loss of a loved one, losing one’s health, freedom or prosperity can cause anyone to suffer, but what is it in a suffering person that brings out virtue? Perhaps virtues of hope, compassion and perseverance are only born through suffering. Perhaps one can only learn mercy when mercy is shown them in suffering. Some of my life’s most important lessons were in my own suffering. I cannot believe that suffering is devoid of value or purpose.
Suffering brings out virtue in those who endure it and witness it. No one in life can avoid suffering. However we are living in a culture that seeks to deny it and suppress it. Whether through euthanasia, partial birth infanticide or the cloning of human beings, this search and destroy mentality seeks to deny life at the expense of another life or for mere convenience. Are we going to put down people like animals or do people have intrinsically greater value by virtue of their souls?

Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta saw God in all the suffering she sought to relieve in those whom society had cast aside and asunder. She claimed it was her work. She taught a worldwide order of nuns to carry it on and assist those who bitterly suffer. The goal of the missionaries of charity is the nourishment of dying bodies and souls. Would it have ever occurred to Mother Teresa to euthanize the people she picked up off India’s streets? Her school taught that love can be given to the suffering through aid and comfort.

In Florida, Terri Schiavo, a young woman with a brain injury, has become the center of national attention. Her life literally hangs in the balance because her husband is demanding that the courts allow for the immediate removal of her nutritional support. This action will cause her to starve to death. In addition to seeking the death of his wife, the husband has denied all therapies the physicians have prescribed and has prevented Terri’s parents from taking over her care which they have desperately sought the court’s permission to do. She is not in a persistent vegetative state as commonly misrepresented by the media. She interacts with her parents and friends, smiles and gestures when spoken to and shows understanding of what goes on around her. She cannot swallow food so she receives her food through a GI tube. She sits in her chair and watches television. She is not on a ventilator nor is she comatose.

Yet a court in Florida says she will die on March 18, unless somehow a higher court of appeal can intervene. How far down this slippery slope will we go? California will soon see legislation that Oregon and other assisted suicide states and countries have passed to their detriment. One need only look at countries that kill their handicapped to see how slippery this slope is. Voters in California are now faced with a grave moral dilemma. Who and how will someone be able to kill themselves or their loved ones in order to relieve “suffering”. Do we want a state mandate that gives this amount of power to anyone? How far will it extend and to whom? Will our slope go as deep and as far as Holland’s where people are killed without their consent? Since when do we as a society, condone the intentional starvation and dehydration of a fellow human being in the name of relieving “suffering”. There is no greater suffering than to die by starvation.

Does Terri’s life have value? Her family and friends seem to think so. Why Terri’s husband has persisted in this remains a mystery since he now has two children with his live in girlfriend, whom he is free to marry if he divorced Terri. What’s his interest in Terri’s death? One wonders.

Can life have value at all stages? Does someone’s life have value only when they are healthy and vibrant? Or rather, do the sick and disabled still have something of value to leave us? How else do we learn what they have to impart to us. When my children have gone to the hospital to visit the sick and dying of our friends and family they usually bring them gifts and they say prayers at their bedside. It has been a school where they have learned mercy, compassion, perseverance and humility. They are not afraid of death or illness. They have learned far more in this school of suffering, mostly courage to face their own illness and death. Caring for aging parents, sick spouses and children, while a hardship, can impart blessings which may not be realized for many years but who can regret such a sacrifice.

Suffering allows us time to prepare, especially when it’s near the end of life. It gives us time to say those things we need to say, mend those fences, build those bridges and make our peace. When someone says “God doesn’t understand my pain or my suffering”, show them the cross, for certainly God knows what it means. He wrote the book on it.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Small world

Published February 21, 2005

I wrote an article a couple years ago that made it's way into this newspaper for Memorial Day and also made it's way around the country via the internet. It was a tribute I wrote in honor of my father who died 42 years ago on February 20 while serving in the United States Air Force. A piece of that tribute included a condolence letter that was sent to my mother by the mayor of Comfrey Minnesota where my father's plane crashed. The reason I included the letter in the tribute was because it said personal and heartfelt things that touched me in ways the form letters of the military and the White House did not. It was hand written instead of typed. It had a smudge where words were carefully contemplated and it quoted scripture from the New Testament. It said everything one needed to hear when all that's left after sudden death is words of comfort. It was written by a stranger yet the person always seemed familiar to me.

Not too long after this tribute made its way through the internet, the condolence letter made it's way back to it's writer. It was republished in his local newspaper. I know this because his neighbors wrote me emails telling me that he was still alive. They told me what a fine man the mayor of Comfrey was, a good neighbor, a good citizen, a family man. I already knew this long before. I knew it from reading his letter from 40 years ago.

When I found out that he was still alive after all these years and was in his 90's, I decided to telephone him and thank him personally for his special letter. I wanted him to know how much it meant to me in different times of my life. I was a little nervous when the phone rang on his end and a younger man picked up the phone. "Is this the residence of "? I asked. "Yes, this is his son. May I ask who is calling?" I told him my name and he paused. "I know you. I live in Carmichael, California". As soon as he said that, a light clicked on. The last name was a name I knew well. It turns out this his son is a physician I used to hire to consult on medical cases I had need for evaluations on. His son is a surgeon in Sacramento, one I greatly respected, as we had a 12 year business relationship when I was handling claims. He was there visiting his Dad and told me that they had all marvelled how the letter had come back to him after 41 years. His mom had recently passed away and his dad was having a hard time. When his father got on the phone to speak with me, we both cried. I cried for his loss not because I knew him well, it was because I knew him without having met him.

He described February 20, 1963 like it was yesterday. It was cold and snowing and the wind was blowing hard. Comfrey was in the middle of blizzard conditions. He and his beloved wife Donni, while sitting in the kitchen, heard a terrible sound overhead, a large plane whirling out of control They heard it spinning overhead and then the crash that rattled the village like a huge earthquake. He immediately ran to the phone to call for help. He said the crash left such devastation that the whole town came together for the search and rescue. His letter was written on March 5, 1963. He told me that his wife helped him write the letter because they were a good team. His wife passed away February 17, 2003 around the time his letter made it's way home. I couldn't have written a sympathy note to him any better than the one he wrote to me before I was born.

I keep up with him on the internet. I read that he has recently retired after a combined service to his country and community which spanned over 50 years. When asked about his many years of service to his fellow citizens, he humbly stated " I thought I could help". What an understatement.


Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Saint Valentine, a man for our time

Published February 7. 2005

Hearts, flowers, candy, sexy lingerie...these are the things that have come to symbolize the meaning of the Hallmark holiday of "Valentines Day." Couples get engaged on February 14th, some run off to places like "Cupid's Chapel of Love" to tie the knot and others steal away for the weekend in hope of finding romance or recapturing the passions that brought them together in the first place. Teens anonymously send each other cute cards, toys and candy at school while small children exchange their favorite sentimental valentine greeting cards in cute bags artfully adorned with their names.

But what is the origin of this day and who was Saint Valentine? Much more than a Hallmark invention, Saint Valentine was a man who lived many centuries ago but is definitely a man for our time.

For many years, my children thought he was a fat cherub-like angel that flew around shooting love arrows into the bodies of lonely hearts. This is sweet, but hardly the truth about a man who was simply a man of God and a Roman.

Valentine was a holy Catholic priest in second century Rome, who with St. Maurius, assisted the Christian martyrs while they suffered under the persecution of Emperor Claudius II. Once under arrest for crimes against the Empire (never defined), it was demanded that he renounce his Christian faith. Refusing to do so, he was beaten with clubs and beheaded on February 14. He was known for his virtues of charity, hospitality and compassion.
About the year 270, after Father Valentine's death. Pope Julius I built a church near Ponte Mole in his memory which for a long time gave name to the gate nowcalled Porta del Popolo, formerly, Porta Valetini or the Port of Valentine.
Like many holidays (or Holy Days) Christian Feasts were substituted where pagan practices abounded. On February 15, boys would typically draw tickets with names of girls they would rape in honor of their goddess Februata Juno. Christian priests, in an effort to abolish this practice, substituted the name of the saints on the tickets given on this day. Whether that protected the virtue of many Roman girls is unknown but is nevertheless a courageous attempt nonetheless. This practice ended when Constantine came to power.
It is traditionally thought that the reason St. Valentine was murdered so quickly while other martyrs were held prisoner for many years before their actual execution was due to the fact that he continued to marry young couples even though Emperor Claudius forbade it. The Emperor didn't believe in sacramental marriage and thought it was an impediment to the soldiers in the military.
Saint Valentine was a man of courage and conviction. He certainly loved others, was hospitable and lived a life of sacrifice. His example can best be imitated in charity towards other and fraternal love of those in need. When the kids and I talked about his life, they understood why hearts and candy would come to represent a life that was sweet and filled with the heart of God. Was he a romantic? I'd like to think so. Celebrate St. Valentines day with those you love by doing something special for someone who is not so lovable. The man for our times would approve. Have a very happy St. Valentines Day.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Farewell Betty Boop

Published January 2005


I met Betty Boop twice when I was a child. The first time when I was two years old and sick with the measles and then on my tenth birthday. She came to California from New Jersey on those two occasions to check me out and see how I was growing up. I think for those two visits I regarded her with caution. When she returned for my high school graduation in 1981, I drove her around town in my bright green VW bus and we got to know each other a lot better. It was easy to love her because she loved me so much. Betty Boop wasn’t a cupie doll cartoon, she was my grandmother.

Born Elizabeth Mary Shaw, she passed away last week at the age of 87. She gave birth to four children and lost four children before they were born and one in the military when he was 23 years old. After JD and I were married, Betty Boop made annual trips to see us for several years in a row. She was there for the birth of her namesake, our firstborn daughter, Shannon “Elizabeth”. My Gram knew much heart ache and loss in her life, but that never stopped her generosity or compassion for others. She was the life of the party and a stinker pot when she wanted to be one – but her smile and sense of humor were contagious. She was my grandmother one minute and my friend always. She was the one who told me a lot about my father who died before I was born. She answered the questions I had and told me frequently that I was “just like her Tommy”.

I lost contact with her several years ago for reasons I recently only understood to be early dementia. I thought I had said or done something to offend her. She simply started to slip away. When JD, the kids and I took a trip East last year to see her, I remembered seeing how small she looked but when she embraced me – we both started to cry which for me was her recognition of our relationship. We did puzzles and played “I Spy with my Little Eye” and she held onto my hand like she did before she fell ill. My Aunt Carol, my hero, took care of her for as long as I could remember and she was faithful to her to the end this last week. I hope I can be the best of my Aunt Carol. I hope I can be as funny and silly as Betty Boop when I am in my 80’s. I hope I can take all the good from that side of the family and carry on with it. I hate the farewells. She hated them too.

My grandmother had raised her kids in a small Jersey shore town. She single-handedly ran a luncheonette on Main street where the high school kids hung out. She worked all her life. Her last job was as “Coffee Lady” at 7-11. She listened to people and she enjoyed meeting new people. I had a few adventures with Betty Boop in San Francisco and Las Vegas. She and I had some laughs in Atlantic City too. She loved to travel when she could and she frequently flew south every winter to be with my Aunts Mary and Peggy. I love to tease her Jersey accent and she loved to tease me right back. There were simple things she loved. She loved the tabloids and made us drive her to the store every Wednesday to pick up her “papers”. She loved her animals and her “stories” (soap operas). Her papers and her stories were fodder for her fun imagination.
I have wonderful memories of her. I have few regrets. I wish I had been a better cook when she was still healthy enough to visit us. She never got to see how savvy I became in the kitchen. I wish I told her how much she meant to my life. I know she knew it. I hope I can be the kind of grandmother she was. It would be the perfect tribute to her.

My last memory of her face is at the window of her retirement home. She was watching us walk to the parking lot. I ran around and blew her kisses and looked at her long and hard. She smiled. We didn’t want it to end. She hated the goodbyes. I hated them too. We made spectacles of ourselves at the airport gates all those years before. She kept waving even when I finally turned around and grabbed my kids for support.

I hate to say farewell to my Betty Boop, but I must. My plane leaves in the morning. I’ll be there to tuck you in at your viewing. Goodbye my dear sweet Gram. Thank you for being my grandma. I love you. Say hello to “your Tommy” for me and know that I am praying for you both.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Second Sunday after Christmas

Published Christmas 2004

Late one night JD and I were getting ready for bed when something hit the window of our sliding glass door with a loud thump. I turned on the light outside, opened the blinds and saw a baby brown bird on the ground near the door. It was the dead of winter on one of the coldest nights of the year. So cold in fact, that JD had mentioned on the news earlier that evening that it would be one of those nights to wrap your outdoor pipes and cover your plants.

It seemed odd that a baby bird would be born at this time of the year much less be knocking outside our bedroom door. My first thought was that it would freeze if left out exposed. I went outside and watched it flap around haplessly in fear and it was shivering. I tried to coax it near enough so that I could bring it indoors until the cold front passed. It wouldn’t let me near it. I looked for any sign of his mama and there was no sign. I looked for any nests nearby and there were none. For the next two nights, this ritual repeated itself and my concern for the little brown bird grew into sheer panic due to the intense chill which was worse than the previous nights. I took a shoe box and filled it with tissue and put it near the door, up on the eaves, and in near places he was hopping just outside my reach. The coaxing went on for an hour or so before we reluctantly retired for the night to sleep. It was hard to sleep those three nights. I worried about my little brown feathered friend. I wish I could have gained his trust. Silly creature I thought. If only I could convince him to let me save him.

JD didn’t have any more suggestions and the kids were asleep when a thought occurred to me. I needed to call my father. When we were growing up, my father had a sweet affinity for the birds in our backyard. He knew where the nests were, and often left feed for them. Even though it was late at night I knew if anyone would know what to do, my father might have an idea how to save our baby brown bird.

The phone rang several times and was answered by my father whom I’m sure was wondering if the news on the other end was bad news due to the lateness of the hour. I started to explain the situation to him and he made me explain it to him again because he couldn’t believe I was calling him about a bird out in the cold. He paused and put the phone aside and said in a voice choked by emotion, “Tammy, your mom and I were at a retreat at Church and the story told by the missionary is the story of your bird”. He told me the following story and we both started to cry. I reflected back on the previous month’s stresses and Dad related that he too, had been somewhat maudlin over the Christmas season.
Homily for the Second Sunday after Christmas by Fr Tommy Lane, Ireland
“Once upon a time there was a man who looked upon Christmas as a lot of humbug. He wasn’t a Scrooge. He was a kind and decent person, generous to his family, upright in all his dealings with other men. But he didn’t believe all that stuff about Incarnation which churches proclaim at Christmas. And he was too honest to pretend that he did. “I am truly sorry to distress you,” he told his wife, who was a faithful churchgoer. “But I simply cannot understand this claim that God becomes man. It doesn’t make any sense to me.”
On Christmas Eve his wife and children went to church for the midnight Mass. He declined to accompany them. “I’d feel like a hypocrite,” he explained. “I’d rather stay at home. But I’ll wait up for you.”
Shortly after his family drove away in the car, snow began to fall. He went to the window and watched the flurries getting heavier and heavier. “If we must have Christmas,” he thought, “it’s nice to have a white one.” He went back to his chair by the fireside and began to read his newspaper. A few minutes later he was startled by a thudding sound. It was quickly followed by another, then another.
He thought that someone must be throwing snowballs at his living room window. When he went to the front door to investigate, he found a flock of birds huddled miserably in the storm. They had been caught in the storm and in a desperate search for shelter had tried to fly through his window. “I can’t let these poor creatures lie there and freeze,” he thought. “But how can I help them?” Then he remembered the barn where the children’s pony was stabled. It would provide a warm shelter.
He put on his coat and galoshes and tramped through the deepening snow to the barn. He opened the door wide and turned on a light. But the birds didn’t come in. “Food will lure them in,” he thought. So he hurried back to the house for bread crumbs, which he sprinkled on the snow to make a trail into the barn. To his dismay, the birds ignored the bread crumbs and continued to flop around helplessly in the snow. He tried shooing them into the barn by walking around and waving his arms. They scattered in every direction - except into the warm lighted barn.
“They find me a strange and terrifying creature,” he said to himself, “and I can’t seem to think of any way to let them know they can trust me. If only I could be a bird myself for a few minutes, perhaps I could lead them to safety. . . .”
Just at that moment the church bells began to ring. He stood silent for a while, listening to the bells pealing the glad tidings of Christmas. Then he sank to his knees in the snow. “Now I do understand,” he whispered. “Now I see why You had to do it.”
After gaining some composure on the phone with my father and realizing that we both had been deeply touched by the bond of his story and my bird, I hung up the phone and went back to check on my little brown bird. He wasn’t there. He disappeared into thin air and I never saw him again.
Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

And it came to pass...

Published December 23, 2004

And it came to pass…

That in those days a decree from Caesar Augustus, that the whole world should be enrolled. This enrolling was first made by Cyrinus, the governor of Syria. And all went to be enrolled, every one into his own city. (I was pressed for time, I barely got my lists made, house cleaned and tree decorated by Christmas Eve. All of us worked so hard and Christmas was almost here. Would we run out of time? 22 people for a formal sit down dinner. Did I make sure the kids were prepared in their hearts for Christmas)?

And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth into Judea, to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem: because he was of the house and family of David- to be enrolled with Mary his espoused wife, who was with child. (JD has worked so hard to make this Christmas extra special for us. He works two jobs, helps out around the house whenever I need it and seems to know what I need before I think of it. He makes many sacrifices for us. I need to remember to tell him how much I appreciate him as a husband and father).

And it came to pass, that when they were there, her days were accomplished, that she should be delivered. (Shannon and I made every single one of our choir practices and her physical therapy appointments. There doesn’t seem to be a whole lot wrapped under the tree, but the kids don’t seem to mind. They want everything to be nicely decorated and haven’t asked for much this year. I am so tired. I wonder if Joseph and Mary were exhausted. I can believe it).

And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped Him up in swaddling clothes, and laid Him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the Inn. (Birdy always wants to hold back the Infant Jesus statue from our yard creche’ until Christmas Eve after Midnight Mass. She wraps Him in her baby blanket and brings Him to Mass. Oh to be young again and full of expectation. It brings back memories of my own childhood and the drive home from church, looking up at the sky which seemed quite different only on this one special and holy night).

And there were in the same country shepherds watching, and keeping the night watches over their flock. And behold an angel of the Lord stood by them, and the brightness of God shone round about them; and they feared with a great fear. And the angel said to them: Fear not; for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, that shall be all the people: For this day, is born to you a Savior who is Christ the Lord, in the city of David. And this shall be a sign unto you. You shall find the infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in a manger.

(Why do I cry at this Mass every year. I sing in the choir. Every piece we sing seems to touch my soul in places I forgot about all year long. I remember those dear to me who have passed away, I remember those who are suffering. I remember Grandpa Chet so sick on Christmas Day when I was 9 that he went to the hospital and never returned back to our house. I remember the Santa years, the carols and visiting nursing homes when I was younger. I think of Mom’s cooking, Dad’s fudge and the Ray Coniff Christmas Album my parents played over and over on their turn table.

I remember being engaged at Christmas time and staring at the ring JD paid a month’s salary to buy for me. I think of waiting for Conor and Birdy to be born in the month of December and how much joy they bring to us this time of the year as we celebrate their birthdays. I remember Shannon’s first Christmas 13 years ago, her rosy red cheeks and awe at seeing Christmas lights for the first time. The Gift of Christmas makes it all worthwhile, the joys and the sorrows. That’s why I cry every year. Plus older people cry a lot.

And suddenly, there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly army, praising God and saying: Glory to God in the highest; and on earth peace to men of good will.

On behalf of my family, I wish you all joy and peace in the coming New Year.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

My buddy Jordan

Published December 4, 2004

My heroes these days are all younger than me. Whether they are the young ones serving in the military or those here at home, it seems they are engaged in various battles. One particularly courageous hero is 12 years old and is battling Leukemia. I fell in love with this wonderful boy several years ago when he was a participant in a Christmas pageant I put together for the kids at our church. Jordan had a major role in the production. He was playing the part of a saint. I think that art does more than imitate life, in this case. He seems to embody patient and sustained suffering without a single thought of himself, ever. Even through a face mask, his smiles come through the twinkle in his sweet eyes.

To say that my buddy Jordan is special is an understatement. I can’t think of a time where I ever heard a single word of disrespect or unkind word from him. He is a bright, thoughtful and deeply faithful child, the oldest of 4 other siblings who adore and love him very much. I’ve seen how his suffering has refined the rough edges of all of his family and friends who know him and care about him. In particular it’s astonishing to me when I find myself in self pitying and selfish moments, that Jordan’s illness and his resignation to it, immediately humbles me and gives me perspective about my own trivial problems or inconveniences.

My buddy Jordan is a sensitive, passionate child. He plays the piano, is an exceptional artist and sings in a Gregorian chant youth choir. He is a voracious reader and good student. The simple things in life bring him joy. Going to church, being amongst his friends and going on field trips are the highlights of his week. He is a faithful helper to his Mom and Dad and likes to cook.

He was admitted to the hospital last week critically ill from a sustained whooping cough infection and another virus that was zapping his white cell count. Naturally we were all worried that the leukemia was back and that is still a real concern to his physicians. I stopped by the hospital, afraid and worried. Through his mask, his eyes smiled, though I knew he was in a world of pain. It brought back memories.

Four years ago, we were practicing every week for this hour long pageant. Jordan had been on crutches for several months and symptomatic for many months beyond that with undiagnosed leukemia. He insisted on performing in the pageant which required him to be on his knees in an excruciating posture. Not once did he mention a word to me of the discomfort he was enduring. He was at the 5 hour dress rehearsal the day previous and I know he went home completely spent and exhausted. When word came after Christmas that he had leukemia, I remember the world stopping as we absorbed the news in disbelief and sorrow for him and his family. I remember desperate prayers and urgent plea bargaining with God to spare his life. To be back in this position again is numbing. However, grace abounds where sorrow treads and we got word a couple days before Thanksgiving that his white cell count is starting to rise again after being dangerously low for the last two weeks. If he pulls through this trial, I’d put on a parade for our little hero.
If you have a moment today, say a little prayer for our buddy Jordan. Our heroes need our prayers too.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

An open letter to my family

Published Thanksgiving 2004

Don’t laugh. You are all wonderful people. Do I tell you enough how I feel about you? We have had so many good times together. Births, weddings and funerals are the milestones by which we gauge time together. Sacraments, graduations, anniversaries and tragedies. All these we have shared and more. Life’s recipe has been to put us all in a big mixer on high mode. We’ve baked up big celebrations and big misunderstandings. Do you know there is no other family I would choose to be a member of in the whole wide world except our crazy mixed up family? I’ve been thinking about the past a lot lately and it seems that this tapestry that we are all a part of is a unique creation of people, places, memories, triumphs and defeats.

How we came to be, circumstances and providence putting together two people every couple of decades, mixing cultures, traditions and habits. I am thinking of the ancestors who were English, Irish and German coming to the continent with less change in their pockets than I can scrape up in my laundry room in a given week. Their dreams were their passport and hope was their visa. They moved across country and mixed up the pot even more, some educated and some not so. One fought in the civil war and another ran a saloon. Everyone tried to stay married in those days. These days are different. We have convenience in our world, when you had suffering, illness and death at your doorstep. One thing you preserved for us though was faith. Thank you for keeping that safe when all seemed lost – during wars and the Great Depression, you still knew what it meant to be in the pew on Sunday.

Some of you died when you were young and others are still living, great grandparents to my children. My children have the legacy of the collective sides of my parents and those of my husband; Irish and Italian immigrants who had never celebrated a Thanksgiving Day until they arrived in the States in the first part of the last century.

We are all different; as unique and diverse as the designer Who created us. Our bond is our family, forgiving in our weaknesses and celebrating our strengths. No one takes the place of those whom are our parents, sisters, brothers, sons and daughters. Even when we are apart by time, distance and circumstance, there is always room for your return to our hearts which has always left a place for you there.

I love you family and this Thanksgiving, I give thanks for you.
Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Johnny is my nephew...sort of

Published November 2004

JD & I have 15 nieces and nephews. All are terrific kids – let’s face it they are the children of our siblings, who have done a terrific job raising their children. I admit I have my favorites, only because I might know them a little better than the others but for the most part, each of them are absolutely fabulous and I am grateful to be their aunt.

Through the years as these children have grown into young adults, I see less of them than when they were babies. I miss hanging with my nieces and nephews, but those little ‘auntie pangs’ don’t last for long. Most of the people we go to church with are like family to us and many of the families’ home school, so when we are together it’s usually for many social and educational outlets. One family in particular has nine children. We see each other frequently because our kids are involved in many of the same activities. I love their kids. We’ve traveled with them across country and I still like them. Half her kids were in my car and mine were in hers on our first vacation together when one of them jokingly said, “Mrs. Maher, can I call you mom?” “No, buddy, you only have one special mom…but you can call me Aunt Tam”. Some names just stick like peanut butter and that is a name I can live with.

I’ve been Aunt Tam for the last couple years and to be an adopted aunt has its advantages. First of all, each Sunday I get at least one hug if not two, and if I am fortunate to remember these kids birthdays, it gives me the opportunity to dote on them with their favorite things. Their favorite things are as unique as each of their personalities. Case in point:

Johnny is my son’s age and if you were to see my son Conor with his “cousin” Johnny, you’d think they were biological cousins. They are approximately the same size and they serve Mass together like identical chess pieces. They enjoy the same interests (dodge ball and books) in particular they enjoy history. Johnny prefers the Civil War and Conor likes WW II history, specifically Pearl Harbor. Both are history trivia buffs and exchange stories from their various wars and heroes. That Jeopardy whiz guy, Ken whathisface, wouldn’t stand a chance if the category was Famous Wars or Songs of the South for $1000.00. Conor has already met Alex Trebek and if I could get my son and his ‘cousin’ Johnny on that show, JD and I could retire rich…ah but, I digress.

A while back we were all at Borders in Folsom when Johnny ran up to his mother and asked her if she would buy him something. It was a CD. She is really good about not spoiling her children or indulging every whim. However, Johnny has a smile and charm that could melt butter and bankrupt a weak willed woman, so I asked him what CD he wanted. I figured it was the latest pop sensation, as it usually is with my teenage daughter. He handed me a CD of the “Essential Gene Autry”. I had to restrain myself from laughing out loud and pinching his cheeks. How sweet. What kid asks for Gene Autry? I remembered he had a birthday coming up so I told him to be patient, knowing full well that it would be the perfect birthday gift for him. He was born on Veterans Day 12 years ago. Believe me if you knew this kid, you would say that it was highly appropriate that this old civil war loving soul was born on Veterans Day.

November 11 rolled around and the kids and I presented him with the Essential Gene Autry” and the Civil War Songs of Tennessee Ernie Ford. I can just hear Johnny singing overdoses of the Yellow Rose of Texas and You are my Sunshine which are only done well by Gene, Bing & Johnny. I did it for three completely selfish reasons; the four hugs I received after giving it to him, being a sucker for old world charm and after all, Johnny is my nephew….sort of.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Italian adventures Part Two

Published October 28, 2004

We were invited to attend the private Mass of the Holy Father in his private residence. I recalled the various times in history that saints, sinners and famous people made this same pilgrimage. MoMaher and I talked the night before about what we would wear. Luckily, cousin Simona’s wedding gave us the necessary formal clothing we would need to be received by the pontiff. We both decided that we would veil our heads in the tradition of the church and in honor of St. Paul’s admonition to do so in the sacred places where God dwelt. I noticed that when President and Mrs. Bush recently were received by John Paul II, Laura Bush had followed protocol, even though she is not Catholic. We would do no less.

Saturday morning MoMaher and I woke extra early. The nun at the Vatican had said that we were to report to the “big bronze doors by 7:30 AM”. We knew where the doors were because we had been all around Saint Peter’s during the week and these large doors are hard to miss. They grace the left side of the Vatican as you face the front of Saint Peter’s Basilica. During the day one will notice two or more of the Swiss Guard in front of these huge doors which serve as the primary entrance between the pilgrims and the pontiff’s residence.
That morning we hardly spoke to each other…I know my mind was racing. We didn’t eat much for breakfast as we had to observe a one hour fast before receiving Holy Communion from the Pope. Receiving Holy Communion from the Pope? I kept thinking how did we find ourselves in this position? Why did we get the call when so many have not? These are questions that I know I’ll ask myself for the rest of my life. The solemnity of the day was monumental for us. We entered our cab and told of our destination as the big bronze doors of the Vatican (no address was needed) and off he sped through the winding streets of Rome.
We walked hurriedly up the stairs and approached the famous big bronze doors. A couple others were headed in the same direction so I figured they, too, were going to be present for the private Mass. We gave our names to the Swiss guard whose long spear crossed our entrance. He was expecting us. We still couldn’t believe it. I don’t think any of us who gathered in the wooden foyer for our escort could find a deep breath inside of us. We all looked at each other. There were 28 people. No one spoke. We all sat and folded our hands in our laps, not knowing what would happen next.
We heard footsteps and then the papal secretary arrived and told us in English to follow him. We ascended several marble stair cases. The beauty inside the stairwells astounded me. Saints Paul and Peter towered above us in resplendent color.
We cooperated with our tight schedule by following our escort as fast as we could; with Swiss guard dutifully watching our every move to be sure we moved along with the pace of the group. We crossed a cobblestone courtyard that dates back to the Middle Ages and then entered a building I never noticed from ground level before. We entered a series to two elevators and then walked across the top of the Sistine Chapel in a hallway running parallel to the roofline of the chapel. We were told that the path we were taking was the walkway the Cardinals take when coming into Conclave. I felt immersed in history and eternity. We entered another series of rooms which went deeper into the papal residence. At one point we were asked to leave all our personal belongings behind. I clutched my prayer books and the 3-page letter I wrote to John Paul II the night before. I was determined to give it to him. I also carried into this Mass the intentions of everyone I knew. The Lord was going to hear from me today in this Mass like He never heard from me before. I figured I was dialed in pretty tight with the successor of Peter officiating.
Several priests were taken into the adjoining room to be vested for Mass as they would be assisting the Holy Father. Suddenly, like clockwork, the secretary summoned each of us to walk down an even narrower hallway, taking us two by two, like the animals into Noah’s Ark. MoMaher and I were last. We were escorted inside individually. The chapel has a roof made entirely of stained glass, with statues of the four evangelists cornered around the chapel. The tabernacle was front and center. The stained glass roof gloriously depicted the victory of Christ’s Ascension into heaven. My eyes stayed up while my escort seated me down. I don’t think I had taken in any oxygen since the first staircase ascent. I had to tell myself to breathe.
I was sitting in the second row next to a couple nuns and seminarians, wondering when the pope would make his appearance when all of a sudden, I looked forward and noticed he was simply two feet away from me, kneeling down in prayer. I could have reached over and tapped him on the shoulder. My eyes filled with tears immediately. When all were seated, we rose for the opening hymn and the pontiff was vested by the priests in front of us while saying his vesting prayers which priests say when they dress for Mass. He faced east toward the tabernacle, Jerusalem and Calvary and offered the most beautiful private Mass I’ve ever seen. The canon was in Latin, the official language of the Church.
When the final prayers at the foot of the altar were said, we all stayed kneeling for our thanksgiving prayers. Individually we were escorted out of the chapel and into the big room which had vesting closets, a large conference table and a big chair which obviously was used by the pope. We were lined up in a receiving line. I thought we were going to be escorted back out of the building when another group arrived and lined up next to us. Suddenly, the door creaked back open and making his way toward his chair was the Holy Father with his cane. We now all knew that we were going to be individually received. MoMaher bit her lip and I clutched my letter. I watched as those before me went up, kneeled to receive his blessing and form another line on the other side of him. When it was our turn, I walked up and my mind went completely blank. I stammered my thanks to him and as I handed him my letter he gave me a rosary. He made the sign of the cross on my forehead while imparting his apostolic blessing, and I in turn, held his hand in both of mine and kissed it respectfully, leaving plenty of lipstick on his knuckles. His eyes were peaceful and lovely on a face ravaged by Parkinson’s disease and a slight palsy. This Godly man could see right through me and I was thankful and honored to be in his presence. As I watched MoMaher receive her papal blessing and rosary, tears filled my eyes again. Before he stood up to go back into his residence, we all bid him farewell with respectful applause.
I hardly remember how we found ourselves outside the big bronze doors again. I remember calling home to JD, the kids and my parents trying to describe what happened to us through the international telephone line and sobs. We laughed because every time we both talked about our experience, we both would start crying. We arrived back in Milano for our final days in Italy with the family. We shared our story and I could tell they were happy for their American cousins. I came home a different person after my adventures in Italy with MoMaher and the pope. My faith renewed, I knew I would be a better person for having met him.

Italian adventures with MoMaher

Published October 14, 2004

John Paul II was elected to the highest position in Christendom when I was a freshman in high school. As much as he appeals to the Catholic youth of today, he made quite an impression on me almost 25 years ago. I remember his visit to San Francisco 17 ago because it was right before JD and I were married. I have pictures my parents took from Candlestick Park where the Pontifical Mass was offered by the Holy Father. I wasn’t able to go for some reason or other, probably because of work. I remember being a little jealous that I missed the opportunity. The pictures my parents shot look like typical pictures from the 80’s – where you see a throng of people and this little white man somewhere in the distance. It seemed impossible to get close to the most popular, most published and traveled pontiff in recent history.

JD’s mother, whom I affectionately call MoMaher and I went to Italy for a favorite cousin’s wedding. We were to spend three weeks visiting family with one week in Rome. I had my mother in law on her heels for that week, dragging her around to every church I wanted to visit and making sure we saw as much as we could in the short span of time we had there. We talked about this trip for several months before we left and all the fun we would have with the cugini (cousins).

Before we left the states, I asked my priest who had studied for several years in Rome whether he had met ‘the big guy’. He said no, but his brother had. I asked him how it all happened and he told me about this process whereby one is recommended by their pastor, and their bishop and then once the Vatican receives these written communiqués, then it’s the luck or the blessings of getting “the call” when you are in Rome. Literally, those who go to Rome, hoping to see the Pope in private, don’t know ahead of time, until the day before whether they will be selected to attend the private Mass of the Holy Father. Shortly, before leaving for Italy, I was able to obtain the necessary recommendations and off we went on our Italian adventure. I was told by Bishop Weigand’s secretary not to get my hopes up as people rarely get “the call” as many requests are received worldwide for this privilege of attending the Pope’s private Mass in his papal apartment. I left it up to the even bigger Guy upstairs and was looking forward to seeing the family and taking in Italia.

Gloria and I had a splendid time with all the family, who are Northern Italians, fun loving, generous in spirit and hospitality. I infused the food and cooking into my soul and vowed to never cook from a box ever again. There is simply something other-worldly about the Italians and when you are with ala familia, well, there is nothing else like it. It was better than Frances Mayes. Better than ‘Moonstruck’, we were treated like queens.

We arrived in Rome for our side trip and after a week of pilgrimage to every hot spot that Catholics would find edifying, we failed to get “the call” at our hotel after five days. We were in a café drinking wine on our second to last day, eating this incredible risotto, when I said to MoMaher “just you watch, we’ll get back to the hotel and there will be a message from the Vatican”. We laughed it off as absolutely impossible and were grateful we saw as much as we had seen.

True to my intuition, as soon as we walked through the door, the concierge with a serious tone to his voice told us in Italian that we had a very important message from the Vatican. My heart started to pound in my chest like a time bomb and my palms began to sweat. The hotel manager, who had hardly regarded us for the last four days, soon became attentive and very accommodating. I’m sure he wondered who we were. At that point we didn’t know ourselves.

We spoke to a nun at the Vatican residence who spoke English. She gave us the important news that we were invited the very next day to come to the papal apartments and attend the private Mass of the Vicar. We were pretty stunned. For me it was very emotional to contemplate the prospect, because even better than meeting the President of the United States, this was for a faithful Catholic, an even bigger lifelong dream come true.
I spent all night at Church and could hardly eat. I remember praying all fifteen decades of the rosary because I couldn’t fall asleep. For some reason, there was so much I wanted to say if given the chance but the words I know would fail me as soon the opportunity came, so I decided to write a letter to him and afterwards, feeling much better, I feel into a very peaceful sleep. Like getting the golden ticket from Willy Wonka, I could hardly believe what awaited us the next day.

Next column I will finish the story of our adventures with the Pope. It was an incredible time with my MoMaher that I will never forget. Stay tuned.

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Be good and don't say bad words

Published September 2004

Be good and don’t say bad words

My son came home from school the other day and I asked him how his day was since he is now in his father’s fifth grade class. “Great, mom, but the kids at school cuss a lot!” I asked him how he dealt with it and he said he had spent the morning on the playground telling first graders to be good and don’t say bad words”. I had to laugh because it brought back memories.

When JD and I were young parents we thought it’d be nice to raise our kids to be self-reliant, trustworthy and good-natured. Part of our parenting philosophy was that words and the ability to choose them charitably would ensure success in life, plus gain respect for our children.

When the kids were toddlers, we taught them right from wrong and one of the words their friends liked to say was “stupid”. ‘That’s stupid’ or ‘you’re stupid’ were commonly heard and every time we heard this we told the children, “don’t say stupid”, it’s a bad word. Well, it’s not necessarily a bad word but the kids hadn’t heard real profanity yet and stupid wasn’t the best abstract noun for a toddler to use when he is looking for a word of disagreement. My son couldn’t even say the word properly because he had a pronounced lisp.

We lived with hearing my son correct everyone who used the “bad word” until I was eight months pregnant with my daughter, Birdy. J.D. was working storm coverage one rainy winter Saturday. Rather than face the day with my list of things to do, I should have just stayed in bed. But my six year old daughter had a soccer awards pizza party and my mother’s birthday celebration was awaiting us in the Bay Area. I had managed to get her a puppy for her birthday and so he joined us on the trip to the pizzeria. Conor was three at the time and occupied the rear car seat which was loaded down with all kinds of gear. Can you visualize this already as a recipe for disaster? Take one energetic toddler, add eight months pregnant and a whining puppy, plus a soccer party for a six year old and well you can see what a glutton for punishment I was.

We were full of pizza and headed out to my car which was packed up tight for the weekend getaway to mom and dad’s house. I was opening the doors of my old Mazda van (whose doors open out like regular cars) in the parking lot, trying to adjust a wide girth, a soccer trophy, a soaked toddler and a crying cockapoo, when I heard a little impatient honk. Obviously, the honk coming from the youthful looking woman in her car filled with young studs couldn’t be for me because no one in their right mind would honk at me in my condition.

I was in the middle of cleaning up pizza faces, changing a diaper and feeling faint, when the honk sounded louder and more persistent. I looked up this time and stared right at her. There were fifty available parking spaces all around me, but for some reason the one next to me was the object of her desire. I looked at them, threw up my hands as if to say “sorry” and pointed them all around to other spots. They honked again repeatedly, this time louder and longer as if I cut them off on the freeway.

In a huff, I finished my business and slammed my doors shut. They whipped into the space next to me like NASCAR and jumped out of their car, laughing at me. I couldn’t restrain myself any longer and muttered, “Thanks a lot you stupid little b&$ch”!

All at once and without the slightest hesitation, I heard a voice pipe up from the car seat in the rear along with the snap of the plastic cup coming out of the mouth and thrown down on the floor. With admonishment and all seriousness, catching me being really bad, he smartly said like a little siren, “Ahhhhh mom! You can’t thay thtupid, that’s a bad word!!!!!”

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her at familyfare@sbcglobal.net