In my father's house

Published November 17, 2005

I want to thank the readers who responded to the last column I wrote regarding my Dad’s major surgery, which took place November 3. Unfortunately, he is still in the ICU after two weeks and has had some serious complications including blood clots showered during surgery and renal failure after surgery. There have been some tense moments in the last two weeks where we thought we were losing him. I appreciate your thoughts and prayers and will respond to your emails when I return home. I haven’t left his side in two weeks. Mom and I walked a seemingly healthy man into the hospital and now we are fighting for the best possible treatment plan for a critically ill patient. I have to say this has been an unexpected turn of events.

In the midst of ICU burn out, I spend the nights in the house I grew up in, my father’s house. I sleep in my sister, Tricia’s old bedroom. I’m trying to watch over my mom, who has had one emotional trauma after the next while getting ready for my Dad’s surgery, during and after. We were jolted awake a week ago Monday, to a middle of the night phone call from the hospital saying that my Dad was back on life support because he was getting pneumonia on top of all the other complications he had. It was a sheer panic to hear the phone ring that early, one that shot me out of bed immediately and in doing so, I cracked open my hand on the dresser next to the bed. I could hear the sense of urgency in my mother’s voice and we immediately left for the hospital. My husband summoned our family priest and he came from Sacramento and administered the sacraments of the Church. It was a dark day; Dad was comatose and we weren’t sure if he was going to come out of it.

The day Dad woke up was four days ago. As suddenly as he slipped away from us, he woke up and within the hour was brushing his teeth. His neurological status seemed to improve in response to kidney dialysis which he desperately needed. As he continues to remain in grave condition, we stay at his bedside to advocate for him as shifts change, charts get larger and those taking care of him tend to write rather than read what’s been going on. One thing I have learned from all this, is that people in the hospital need someone to be there for them, to speak for them, to testify for them and protect them. There have been so many patently untrue statements made about my father in my presence from staff who think they have good history, but in fact, have had historically inaccurate information relayed from one shift change to the next, and like gossip, rumors start, even in the ICU. “Your dad was a diabetic”. “Your dad has been in and out of hospital”. “Your dad has been sick for a long time”. No. No. Again No. My dad is healthy, an avid golfer, softball and tennis enthusiast. He loves his football pool, his grandkids, his daughters and his garden. He likes to carve things, and take walks. I heard every preposterous thing coming from well meaning health professionals.

Listen people; get your powers of attorney done, so that people who know you and love you can direct your medical care. We had to call conferences with the team of doctors because a lot of communication gets lost between us and them. As of this writing, we’ve had to be either on the telephone making sure orders are followed up on, or in conference with “higher ups”.

This hospital is a top notch trauma center and I am glad my father is in a hospital with a good reputation. However, every day, is different. The doctors’ differing perspectives, nursing staff shortages and personality conflicts can all affect the continuity of a patient’s care. No one loves your family member as much as you do. One needs to be there for everything. I’ve waited two weeks for a list of drugs. I have power of attorney. I will probably have to call another family conference to get them.

Before we drove to the hospital November 3, I was showing my Dad a book I picked up at the library “In My Father’s House” by Boede Thoene. It’s a great work of historical fiction, well written and researched. As I read about the battles of WWI and WWII and the eternal bonds of family, I see the correlation of the battle we are waging to save my Dad’s life right now as he lies in the ICU. There is nothing more singularly important than family. Nothing more precious than love and the bonds between husband, wife, parent and child. I have spent a lot of time sleeping in my father’s house, waiting for him to come back to us. As I continue to hold vigil, I pray in my Father’s House, going to daily Mass and reciting the rosary with my family, knowing that my father is in His hands, and but for faith, there would be nothing.

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

Joe's Deli on Hiatus

Published November 3, 2005


I’ve written before about my Pop’s sense of humor and what he has meant to my life. A daughter needs her Dad’s assurances as much as she needs her husband’s love.

He adopted me after marrying my mother when I was three years old. He has been my father in every way imaginable and sometimes the biological is hard to decipher from the environmental. I think his influence has had a protracted infusion in my personality which some might mistake for biological, but I know it’s the product of his love.

The reason I am writing about him today, especially this particular Thursday, is because he is under anesthesia this morning in an operating room, undergoing a prolonged surgery to save his life from a life threatening aneurysm on his aorta which he has known about for the last two years, which has doubled in size over the last couple months. I am there with my mother in a waiting room, not too far from the coronary care unit, waiting for the surgeon to work a miracle, remove and rebuild a section of his life preserving artery, one deep in his abdomen. The incision will be long from sternum to thigh. He will be swollen and pale and unable to talk afterward. How will my mother cope with seeing him like this today? He will look frail, small and wounded. My father, our rock. Today, I will find out what it really means to put my own emotions aside. I am scared but I must not allow it to show. She needs me to be strong and he does too, because he is scared and instead of showing it, he buries it because he doesn’t want us to worry about him. He doesn’t want us to be scared. He is courageous when I know his mind must be racing. What I really want to do is cry. I am worried sick.

We saw each other last Sunday. I said, “You know, you’re going to be OK. It’s really great that this is going to be fixed and you don’t have to worry about it anymore”. He reassured me and himself. “I’ll be golfing next Wednesday,” he chortles. He was worried about how he was going to get out of bed once he got back home. (Good, I thought, he’s talking about getting home again…he’s looking ahead. He’s talking about his golf game, walking the dogs, rolling out of bed onto his knees so he can stand without hurting that long zipper of an incision). I talk about the food, which is what I know. “I’m going to make meals for you and freeze them so when you get home, you’ll have something better than hospital food to eat”. He tells me not to make them too fancy. “Just soup…Tam”. “Tell me if anything hurts Dad, I’ll get you drugs, I promise, whatever you need”. He keeps reassuring me. How can I reassure him?

“God, please help him. I pray…”Please get him through this. Guide the surgeon’s hand.” We don’t talk about death. My mom and dad give me two powers of attorney medical directive documents last Sunday. I read them over. How did I get to this place? How many of us get here and we are never ready for it. How many of us see our parents as completely and totally invincible in a moment, and the next, we are waiting for the surgeon to come out of the operating room with good news, any news. Why does it take so long? Where is she? What are they doing in there? Why is it taking so long? I can’t stop pacing. My mom will not say much today. We’ll say the rosary together. I remember the grandkids praying for him last Sunday. They asked me questions in the car coming home “Is Pop Pop going to be home soon. Can we come see him in the hospital? What’s an aneurysm?”

The parent who has raised you, disciplined you, congratulated you, celebrated with you, stayed up late talking to you, is now unconscious, on a breathing apparatus, in an intensive care unit, needing life support and one-to-one nursing. Helplessness and faith must take over because my heart is worried beyond explanation. “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want”…

He has been a wonderful provider, hard worker and instilled a sense of duty and responsibility into our character. I think of him when I am disciplining my children, not because of the manner in which he disciplined, but because I know it wasn’t easy for him growing up. I hear him when I am teaching my kids something, or showing them something new. My father has given us gifts beyond treasure and measure. I love my Dad. He is a life force in our family. I hold my vigil at the hospital because I can’t be anywhere else.

When I left home I couldn’t wait to get on with my life. It was during those times when I needed to hear my father’s voice because of the anchor it was for me as I was sailing away. I’d call home or his office, and he’d answer (knowing it was one of his daughters calling) and he’d answer jokingly “Joe’s Deli”. His name is Bob. He’s never owned a deli. His sense of humor has always made me laugh. Today, I wait. Today I will pray and try to be a rock for my mother. Today I will wait to get a glimpse of him just to know that he is alive and will be well. Joe’s deli is temporarily on hiatus. God willing, I can’t wait for it to reopen.

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

On the street where we live

Published October 20, 2005

Our home sits on a wide corner half way down a curvy hill. Believe it or not, the posted speed limit in our neighborhood is seventeen miles per hour. It’s tricky difficult to drive the posted speed limit. My odometer can never find the magic number seventeen, so I tend to drive on the side of caution and keep it at a cool fifteen when I enter the neighborhood. Other drivers either can’t read, or they must be on their way to a fire. Two times in the last seven years, my son has dodged speeding cars on our hill and has been injured on the bottom corner of our property, now called “Bucky’s Corner”.

Our son, Conor is an energetic and happy kid. We started calling him Bucky when he was a toddler. At that time he had a raspy little voice. He’s a happy kid and the life of the party all the time. When he was five years old we promised him a two-wheel ‘big boy’ bike. He worked hard to earn it and it arrived one day resplendent in all it’s majesty with cool black paint and training wheels. It took about two days before he was riding the bike on two wheels completely balanced. It took two months to convince him he didn’t need the training wheels anymore. For some reason, just like a favorite “blankie”, he wouldn’t let us take the training wheels off as they were extra security in his little mind.

I remember the day well. A car was flying down our hill at speeds well over forty miles per hour. Bucky was on his bike and coming around the corner ahead of it. In order to get away from the speeding car, he took the bottom corner faster than his training wheels would allow and he took a huge spill and broke his leg. I asked him why he was going so fast and he said “to get away from the car”. This accident occurred six years ago and he was in a long leg lime green cast for eight weeks and had a wheel chair for a week or so.

Believe it or not, we are now at the second anniversary of a second accident. Conor was on his skateboard heading toward Bucky’s corner. A car was wailing down the hill about 50 miles per hour. The choice was clear, hit the deck or collide with the car that didn’t have a clue that a ten-year old boy was on his skateboard. A full arm lime green cast was applied after a manual reduction under general anesthesia. The orthopedic practice at Sutter knows my son by both his names and this year he will probably get a Christmas card from them.

Bucky’s corner is a place I will memorialize as the place where my son dodged speeding cars and broke his bones. When you live in a neighborhood where the speed limit is a perplexing, but safe seventeen miles per hour, watch out for children, take it easy and slow down. It’s the most courteous thing one can do on the street where you 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

Hormones run amok

Published October 6, 2005

Generally, women are more emotional and for some reason we tend to get tired. I’ve heard it said this is because we are ‘hormonal’. Do yourself a favor and refuse to go down in a ball of flames on “it’s your hormones dear”. It could be something as simple as your thyroid gland.

Jump starting things may hinge on getting the thyroid checked. Do you know this little regulator gland basically controls your whole body and all its functions? I aced my anatomy class in school and college as it was one of my favorite classes. But there should have been a whole unit study on hormones and their functions because these little guys can make life a bleak living hell or a Sunday picnic. Unfortunately, my teachers didn’t talk much about the thyroid gland in anatomy class. They probably didn’t want to let us know that the homecoming queen of 1979 would be 300 pounds, tired, divorced, bald and depressed by the time she was thirty years old unless, of course, she had her thyroid checked. That would have been helpful for her to know. For something that wrecks so much havoc on your system, the pills to fix it look like little jewels. They are wonderful.

The thyroid gland is often overlooked for people suffering for symptoms that are seemingly psychosomatic or depressive in nature. A lot of hard working people are afraid to discuss symptoms with their doctors that they find embarrassing but it’s amazing that a little glad like the thyroid can be responsible for so much of what ails us. There are excellent resources at the library from endocrinologists that have studied the thyroid and I can recommend The Thyroid Solution for those wanting to investigate their own symptoms before seeing your physician. Keep in mind a few things I found helpful when I had my thyroid tested.

1. Normal levels of thyroid vary from person to person, so if you have symptoms, you should at least try supplements to see if your levels stay safe and your symptoms go away.
2. Sometimes, you may seemingly have enough thyroid hormone but there are different thyroid hormones and one may be low or too high and your blood tests won’t explain why your hair is falling out and you want to stay in bed for a year. By trying both hormone supplements for T3 and T4,, you will be able to see if ‘cold hands warm heart’ is a stupid saying, which it is. Body temperature for people with thyroid symptoms is basically lower than normal.
3. Thyroid medications have to be taken with discipline and on an empty stomach. The levels of hormone in your blood stream need to be monitored by your physician like anything else. So they won’t help you unless you follow the instructions. There is a difference between hypo and hyper so ask your physician.
4. Be good to yourself and be good to your thyroid. A happy thyroid is a happier you.

My thyroid and I know each other a lot better now after all these years and in case you’re wondering, I wasn’t the homecoming queen of 1979.

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 days are home days

Published September 22, 2005

My curriculum order from Seton arrived via U.P.S this week. We’ve been home-schooling our children for the last seven years. Every year, I re-examine the reasons we chose to educate our children at home. I guess we do it, because it’s a sacrifice that has reaped benefits for our family life. Our kids are close to each other, responsible, articulate and outgoing. They socialize well with all age groups including babies and adults. They do not seek all their self esteem from their peers (although as they get older, the natural bonding with their peers is healthier). That’s not to say they don’t have their conflicts. Certainly we are not perfect parents. While the argument is made that home-schooling might be the answer to a perceived crisis in education, I would suggest it might be a solution to a crisis in family life.. It seems odd to say that spending more time with your children might actually be good for them, rather than sending them out into the world to learn for themselves. It’s not so odd when you consider that what they bring home might not be what you bargained for.

Another benefit to directing your child’s education is the nurturing and fostering of their values and interests. I attribute their diverse knowledge of many subjects, including current events, to the flexibility home-study has offered them. When they are “socialized” they are with 60 or so of their closest friends from high school age down to babies; in girls club, youth group, altar guild, boy scouts, youth symphony and community service. They travel with us when we travel. They take more responsibility at home. I can say that this method of raising children has resulted in many kids I see who are less self-centered and selfish, both in their desires for “things” and in their ability to set themselves aside. Schooling is part of our family life. I can say that many moments are teachable, no matter what we are doing.

I remember the days when my kids were “in school” or daycare. It was hard. J.D. and I worked at our careers and the demands of the workplace, while coping with the madness of trying to raise a family on nights and weekends. By the time we got home at night, we’d collapse in a heap trying to feed, bathe and ‘homework’ the kids until an unreasonable bedtime hour. The nightly ritual resulted in overtired children and impatient parents. We repeated the ritual for 5 days until the weekend. Weekends were supposed to be for family time. We’d spend the weekend just preparing for the race of the following week. We decided we weren’t cut out for the pressures of trying to raise our kids in this way. Most of our disagreements were over juggling the demands of work and home. In changing the way our family worked, we both realized that we could support each other without working against our time with our children. They are now very much a part of our busy lives.

We’ve made adjustments to our lifestyle every year. Last year our son went to school because his father was his 5th grade teacher. His STAR scores were very high on all subjects. I’d like to think some of our son’s home-schooling had something to do with it. It’s not perfect, and it’s not without problems. It takes a daily commitment to say, “OK, let’s get to work”. It would be much easier for me to be at the office, meeting the demands of bosses and colleagues, than educating and preparing my children for college, making sure they have plenty of enrichment activities to round out a healthy childhood, like sports, music and extra-curricular activities. Do I like math and Latin….not really. Can I be a chemistry teacher? No way. I love exploring science with the kids and we tend to go outside our home to learn science. Our high school daughter will go to community college for her lab sciences. I recognize my limitations.

Home-study is not for every temperament or family. I know great kids who come from public schools and private schools. They are great kids because they come from strong families who sacrifice so much for their children, especially time. Not every great teacher has the resources to give what we’ve been able to give our kids, our time and attention. Some home-schooled children are accused of not having enough worldliness about them. I think it would be safe to say, that they have a practical maturity to take on most of the obstacles the world will present to them later in life, because they’ve had a good solid foundation of real life “living” and learning at home with teachers who love them.

As I look forward to the coming school year and all the challenges, I am grateful that I decided to plunge back into home-education. I hope in the process of giving our kids a solid home education, they will be strong in mind and character. I hope they love God and grow up to serve others. They’ve been given a strong sense of family life, so I hope they will build strong families of their own. One day they will go off to college and build their futures. I hope they will look back fondly to the days when school days were home days.

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

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