The ruby years

Published June 29, 2006

Forty years ago this week, my parents were married at St. Anne’s Catholic Church in South Sacramento. Over the decades my parents built a foundation on which love, sacrifice, tears and joy were sculpted. Looking back 40 years I see a legacy set in stone, a ruby to be specific.

Dad was able to secure a job with a good insurance company and was trained to be an insurance claims specialist. He worked for the same employer for over 35 years. It was his one and only job and he managed to provide for everything my mom, my sisters and I would need. He worked hard at his career while my mom worked hard making a home to raise us. His hours were long and sometime his commute was perilous. He patiently endured his company’s changes in management, mission statement and budgets. There were days I am sure he didn’t want to go to work, but he hardly took a sick day in all those years he worked to provide for us. My mom never had a day off, not until we all moved out.

They took out one mortgage on their first home, and paid it off in 30 years, right on schedule. They also put all three of us girls through private schools and then encouraged us to go to college. We were encouraged to work when we were teenagers, so that we could learn that “nothing is free”. I attribute the success of these lessons to my mom’s management skills. She took his paycheck and made it work. They didn’t have any debt, other than their mortgage, and they didn’t buy a lot of “stuff” when we were young. The cars my parents drove were not purchased new. Dad knew how to do bodywork on vehicles so he could turn a “wreck” into a new car and then turn around and sell it. This supplemented their fixed income. I am sure they had months which were leaner than others, but they didn’t rely on multiple mortgages and credit cards to see them through. The whole idea of sacrifice was a tenant of their marriage.


Mom and Dad’s personalities are completely different, but as the years got on, they started to look like other, act like each other and assimilate into a single person who loved to do the same things. Whether it was tennis, golf, reading, crossword puzzles, travel, dancing, parties and projects, Mom and Dad’s interests intersected more than I thought they did, now that I look back over the decades, I see that they both are creative and analytical. It’s funny to see how even their political leanings became one and the same as they melted into their marriage. It’s really true when they say that the purifying effects of a long marriage are that the two become one flesh both figuratively and literally.


When I look back on the decades of my parents’ long marriage, I see peaks and valleys, but mostly, I see rubies. Like two rough, unpolished stones in 1966, my parents have worked at, suffered in and happily sustained their marriage in order to achieve perfect brilliancy forty years later, in 2006. No example is more perfect than to see how my mom has taken care of my father over these nine months, since his complicated surgery in November and it’s aftermath. Even though my Dad is not yet walking, my Mom has become his legs. Her heart has fed him, nurtured him and sustained him towards getting well again. Doctors, therapists and nurses were not able to do this, but the love of a wife of 40 years can make miracles.

The ruby starts out as the mineral “corundum”, and is a sapphire of red color. The color red has always symbolized sacrifice. Rubies are extremely hard and durable and the ones that exhibit the finest quality have a rich clarity to them. Top quality rubies are rare and highly prized (much like a marriage that has lasted 40 years!) and in some cases where they are in large sizes, they are frequently valued higher than diamonds. When heated, their color is greatly enhanced and their hue is a rich and deep red color.

The ruby was said to be the most precious of the twelve stones God created when He created all things and a Ruby was placed on Aaron's neck by God's command. If it was good enough for the Lord Himself, it is something rare and priceless. As my parents commemorate their ruby anniversary this weekend, I will reflect on how precious and priceless they are to the whole family.

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

Old ladies and summer school

Published June 15, 2006

I’m trying to lose weight. This would be the fourth decade of trying. I’m really serious this time. I’ve had it with the wake up calls.

First wake up call was about 10 years ago. I was in the hospital for a serious bout of Pancreatitis. I was really sick and I looked like an old lady. I know this because one of the nurses came into my room, saw the wedding picture of JD and I on the wall next to my bed and remarked, “So, when did your daughter get married?” Even though IV Demerol pulsed through my veins, the sting of her observation killed me. “That is me with my husband,” I said through my drug induced fog. I used to look fabulous. What the heck happened? “Oh, sorry ma’am…I didn’t realize that was you!”

Second wake up call- I was visiting the hospital NICU a couple weeks ago with my friend Barb and her sick infant. A fresh faced young nurse came in the room, pointed to Barb and said, “You must be Mom?” Then she said “You Grandma?” Ouch! Stupid girl must need glasses. I couldn’t believe it. I just had my highlights done too. I could have strangled her or sued my hairstylist.

Third wake up call – I am going back to school. Yep, I am going to try after all these years to fulfill a dream I had when I was 17 years old, youthful, full of promise and wanting to save the world. I want to become a nurse! Huh? Yes, a fabulously over-forty nurse; one of those really smart ones whose brains and beauty only get better with age.
Nurses with good eyesight and compassion are in demand these days. No really, once upon a time, when I graduated from high school, I wanted to become a nurse. I had a couple scholarships but I managed to blow off my chemistry class when I broke my arm in an auto accident. I ended up leaving the Junior College mid semester, transferring to a four year university and getting my BA in something else, completely unrelated. I left nursing back in 1981 and never looked back, until now. Twenty Five years later and I resume my studies this week at Folsom Lake College. I must be insane. I can’t wait.

The big test starts with summer school. Will I be able to finally pass chemistry? I went to FLC to see about getting my bearings straight before school started this week. I found the science department and went into the office to ask about finding the lab. The fresh faced young girl looked at me and said “you must be the new teacher?” “No, I’m an old lady student”. She laughed. I felt the old sting again…this time without the Demerol. “Well, let me show you where it is.” I must have looked like I was handicapped or something. She insisted. After she pointed me in the right direction, and after I bought my books, I took my youngest around the campus and told her what it was like to go to college. “How long ago did you go to college Mom?” Birdy made it sound like I was going to tell her a fairytale. “Well, Bird, it was a long time ago, a little over 25 years ago. But, I’d like to go back now and see if I can become a nurse.” OK Mom, are you the only old person coming here?” I hope not.

In the meantime, I am losing weight. I’ve lost about 20 pounds and I am giving myself a year to lose the rest. Someday, God willing, and for every patient I ever come into contact with, I make a solemn promise – I will never assume anything. You are all youthful, beautiful and skinny even if you have pancreatitis, or something else. I will never look at a woman and assume she is Grandma. Not ever. I pray to God I am not the only old lady in summer school, especially in Chemistry class where I need all the help I can get, or at least a grade of “C” or better. I plan to find a seat down front where I can see the whiteboard and hear the instructor. Time to wake up and let the games begin! An “about to be skinny” old lady is going to summer school.

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 little respect

Published June 1, 2006

My dog Skip was walking me last night around dusk. Usually, JD and Birdy tag along on their bikes resulting in a trio of Mahers taking a couple laps around the neighborhood. Our neighborhood has around 300+ homes situated within a little canyon and the walk is nice at that time of the day when the sun is low in the horizon and the breeze is starting to kick in. It’s the best way to get to know the neighbors and see the latest additions in landscaping and home improvements. We made our way across the top of the dam at Crystal Lake which is the centerpiece of our little community, when we noticed a neighbor on his deck that we hadn’t seen in a while. Our neighbor Sam offered us all a cool beverage. As JD and Bird made their way into his backyard, I decided to keep up the pace. As I monitored my pulse and Skip’s tongue which lollygagged off the side of his mouth in synch with my heart rate, I sent them to socialize with an old friend. “We’ll catch up to you later Hon” JD said, and I bid them to say hello to Sam for me.

I made my way around the usual circle we take, when I spotted a bunch of teens near the park. Shouts and indiscernible teasing made way to a couple of boys whipping their “girlfriends” with their shirts and one of the boys wrestling one of the girls to the pavement in a rough and careless manner. I knew the one on the ground was obviously female because her jeans were low and her shirt rode high on her midriff. The boys were loud, obnoxious and showed no respect at all in the manner they treated these girls and I wondered to myself at what point would I step in and say something. As I thought about it, I walked on and let the moment pass. “I should have said something”, I said aloud to Skipper who was already around the corner and tugging me along with him like a snow dog. These girls were younger than my Shannon, who is now 15 years old, and how would I feel if these girls were my own daughters? I would be furious. I knew underneath their nervous pleas and laughter, these girls just wanted a little respect from their friends. They were not enjoying it one bit. It was sad to see how little respect was shown to them from boys who should have known better.

My thoughts gave way to reflection. How would I want my son to treat a young lady? How would I want a young man to treat my daughters? Commanding respect is a two way street. It involves training from the very beginning. It goes as far back as saying please and thank you, dressing modestly and minding your manners. I guess one can only command enough respect in the manner that one gives it himself, but I wondered if those girls were really aware of their infinite worth and value? Did they need someone to tell them that they deserved better than that?

It reminded me of a time a year or so ago, while at a local juice bar in Folsom, passing a boy and two girls who were leaving as we entered. He was talking about another girl and used the most disgusting filth of a word to describe her to these other two girls that it stopped me in my tracks to hear these words come from such an innocent looking boy. Let’s just say it was rated XXX. I felt sorry for all of them. He thought nothing of his young friends, to say the least, to let this roll out of his mouth and yet, they didn’t think twice about listening to him talk in this way. Their youthfulness and beauty were completely marred by the ugliness of their vocabulary. What a shame to see youthful promise thrown down the toilet with really bad and disrespectful vocabulary.

JD visited Washington DC last weekend for Memorial Day with his friend Gus, a lobbyist for Veteran Affairs. While paying their respects at Arlington National Cemetery, they were fortunate to meet the Marines who guard the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. They were allowed to enter their dressing area and talk to them while they were preparing for a shift change. JD described this as an awesome experience and lesson in respect. Their whole job is to show respect, not only to each other as they take turns guarding the Tomb, but for those whose memory and names are known only by God.








Behind closed doors and out of the public eye, as the new Guard prepares to take his place, his fellow soldier inspects his uniform, straightens every pin, tie and button. He is beyond spit polished; he is completely and totally impeccable for his 30 minute shift which rotates around the clock 24 hours every day, 7 days per week, 365 days per year no matter the time of day, or weather. Their ritual of respect does not wane in rain, shine, hurricane or snow. The men are decorated war heroes themselves, who after their active duty is done, dedicate themselves to the ‘Unknown’ in a manner of respect that is more than awesome, but awe inspiring. Every step they take is purposeful, their mission clear, their oaths are true. They command as much respect as they give, which when one witnesses the dignity of the Guard at the Tomb of the Unknown, one can only marvel at their fierce sense of loyalty, duty and dedication.

One particular oath they take before taking on this special duty is that they will never use a curse or cuss word for the rest of their lives. There is something about that part of their ritual which I greatly admire. Now that’s more than a little respect!

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

Teflon premises & misrepresentations

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  Published May 18, 2006
  
  Fans of “The DaVinci Code” like the intrigue in the book because it’s so far fetched, it’s ridiculous. They’ll call me hysterical because I was so offended by it. As a practicing Catholic, I found the historical references poorly researched and the premises slippery and preposterous. It was hard not to take offence. Yes, I know it was purportedly a work of fiction, but the author’s book afforded him a pulpit for his protagonist to lecture the reader for approximately 80 pages, spewing out spurious deceits about real people, places and events. He really dislikes Catholics, hasn’t a clue about Leonardo’s Last Supper, Saint Mary Magdalene or Emperor Constantine and the Council at Niceae. I think if you buy his “facts”, you’re forgetting that it’s truly pulp fiction.
  
  His writing was ineffectual. I found it read more like a screenplay than a novel. I love reading mysteries and thrillers. This book read like a personal attack from its preface to its soft core ending. I suspect Dan Brown is a “New Age” author, not a “Christian”.

If Dan Brown had authentic belief in the tenants of Christianity, he wouldn’t take the God he worships and relegate him to a mere mortal with lots of secrets that a “ flamboyant homosexual” artisan, referred to as “DaVinci” was forced to hide in his art because of evil secret societies and the big bad Catholic Church.

What an insult to Master Leonardo. There was hardly a proper address of his name in the book. You would never call an artisan by the town he lived in (Vinci). Even my kids’ art history books are properly written. Brown fails here as well. That’s like saying El Dorado Hills has a biweekly column in the Mt. Democrat newspaper. Where was his editor?

Even the “art history” was poorly researched. He places the “Last Supper” painting in a church, when in fact; it’s not in a church at all. He calls it a fresco and it’s not, technically. It’s tempera on gesso, pitch and mastic. It is painted on the concrete wall of an old refectory of the convent on the grounds of the Church of Santa Maria della Grazie (Our Lady of Grace) in Milan, Italy. The Apostle John, positively identified by Leonardo and subsequent historians, was never the subject of dispute as to his position in the wall mural. The fact that Brown suggests Leonardo’s intent was to place Mary Magdalene at the Last Supper should be an affront for believers. There is no clear line of fact versus fiction and he crosses it so many times, it seems quite intentional, if not sloppy.

What if Dan Brown had written a conspiracy thriller attacking basic core Muslim beliefs? Do you think for one minute Muslims would settle for it and have to suck it up to “it’s just fiction”? There is no way they could accept that. Neither should right thinking Christians.

Is Dan Brown a Gnostic? Even if he doesn’t acknowledge it, his belief system as presented on his website certainly suggests that he is. His fascination with the Gnostics and presenting them in such a positive light would suggest that both he and his wife are fallen away Christians, not reformed Christians.

If he had not qualified his book as based upon fact, those of us who took offence at his Teflon premises and misrepresentations would not have hollered so loudly. Yet, he weaves enough of his “facts” to cause doubt and confusion for those who believe what he has written as empirical historical evidence, which even secular historians have already disproved.

The most egregious historical claims of the book, based on dubious sources in Chapter 55 are outlined as thus: Try not to laugh.

• Jesus and Mary Magdalene were married and had kids
• Jesus was considered just a mortal prophet by his followers
• Emperor Constantine in effect created Christian orthodoxy for political reasons in AD325
• The REAL truth about Jesus was fortunately preserved in the documents of Qumran and Nag Hammadi.
• The Church has sought to suppress this true portrait throughout history by means of persecution and slander.

Huh? If that doesn’t rock your boat, then I don’t know what does.

Saint Mary Magdalene was elevated to sainthood by the Church. She has a Feast Day in the liturgical calendar on July 22. She is one of my favorite saints. She was a woman of prayer, service and devotion. The historical facts of her life are so marred by this book; it would have caused her great offense as a Christian to be depicted in a higher light than the man she called “Teacher” and “Lord”. She was from the town of Magdala, thus, her name. If she was married to Jesus, she would have been known as Mary, wife of Jesus.

The Church’s devotion to Christ’s own Mother would exclude it from being criticized as being insensitive to women or “The Sacred Feminine” as Brown writes ad nauseum throughout the book. Christ is King to Christians, and making St. Mary Magdalene a Goddess over him, is at best, a pagan hypothesis and should be rejected, even if it is, in fact, a work of fiction, yet readers are swallowing this up as monumental and historical. It’s a rerun of Holy Blood Holy Grail. It’s a wonder the lawsuit of plagiarism against Dan Brown wasn’t sufficient; it seemed to be a re-write.

The Council of Nicaea was not called to ‘give’ Christ his ‘Divinity’; it was called in answer to the heresy of Arius, who was teaching at that time, against the Divinity of Christ. The early Church fathers in the first century had already wrote extensively about the Divinity of Christ, a belief all Christians espoused long before the Council. Councils are called to answer heresies and resolve disputes or define a Church teaching, already handed down by Christ. They are not called to create new doctrine. St. Peter called a Council at Jerusalem in 50 AD to resolve a dispute. Reading about the councils was obviously something that Dan Brown has never properly researched. He hangs out the Catholic lay order of Opus Dei as bad because they have a tall building in New York City. Opus Dei does not have monks, is not a monastic order, nor does it require its lay members to take vows, wear robes, sleep on straw mats, spend all their time in prayer and corporal mortification, or in any other way live like The Da Vinci Code’s depiction of its monk character.

Yeah, Ok, I hated this book. Enough already.

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

Blood boiling point

Published May 4, 2006

When the world famous book “The Da Vinci Code” was published in 2003, I had signed up for one of those book of the month clubs, seeking some free books as a distract from an already hectic schedule. When the box arrived, I had half a dozen free hardbacks. This was fun. All these books for a couple pennies, plus I only needed to buy two more hardbacks at their regular discount price. Not too shabby. These were top selling titles. There were books by Grisham, Trigiani, Follet, and an author I had never heard of, Brown.

A friend of mine saw the book and murmured, “I heard that one was good”. I shelved it again. I let it sit for three months and forgot about it. Around the same time, Pop came to visit (my Dad) and was perusing my crammed book shelves and asked if I had anything good to read, because unlike me, he was retired and had lots of time to read. Most of the books I selected from the book club were books he had already read, except one. I tossed him the Da Vinci Code and said, “Someone said this was good”, maybe you’ll like it. He took a stack of books home with him. I knew it wouldn’t be long before I had a running commentary from him on the ones he liked and why.

The next time I saw Dad, we had a fairly nice visit, until the subject of reading came up. He had a very serious look on his face and said he had something of mine he wanted to return (and it wasn’t soon enough I guess), because when Pop is unhappy about something, the whole room knows about it. He threw the book down in front of me and affixed on it was a post-it note scribbled in his hand with these exact words “TJ, that was some kind of book! At what point does your blood boil?” It was signed, “Dad”.

“Huh?” I asked. What do you mean? He then asked me if I had read it and sheepishly I admitted I hadn’t. He told me that the book wasn’t written particularly well, but he hung in until the end to see if the author would somehow redeem himself. Apparently that didn’t happen. .Pop was pretty upset. About reading a book? I was a little ruffled. He’s read lots of books he didn’t like, but never with this kind of reaction, especially over a piece of fiction. I suddenly felt like a kid put in the corner. “Dad it’s supposed to be fiction, why are you so upset?” He told me to read it and get back to him. I decided to put it back on the shelf and I let it sit for a really long time.

Not too long after Dad’s review came down on my head like a sledgehammer, my Catholic neighbor whom I will call Dave, dropped by the house and asked if we had read the “evidence” in the Da Vinci Code and “what did we think of it?” I could hear myself repeating “Isn’t it a work of fiction Dave?” His lingering response of “I dunno….” was followed by a dissertation on a documentary he watched on television which seemed to support the contentions in the Dan Brown book. I was more than a little troubled by what followed next. Mary Magdalene married to Jesus? A Goddess? They had a child? The Catholic Church suppressed it all – Bam! I now knew that based on this conversation, I was going to have to read this book because even some of my Catholic friends were buying the fiction as fact. My blood was beginning to warm big time. I was really angry. This was really some kind of book.

I pointed to a book on my book shelf which is a biography of St. Mary Magdalene and asked him if he wanted to read it. He wasn’t interested. I asked him if he knew what Gnosticism was and it’s origins. He still wouldn’t budge. I asked him if he believed that Jesus is God and had a Divine nature. “I’m not sure what that means.” I asked if he believed that Jesus was the Second Person of the Trinity. A blank stare and still no response from Dave to this basic tenant of Faith question. He was disappointed that we didn’t share his enthusiasm. In his mind he saw the fiction as historical fact. I pulled the book off the shelf, read the introduction about Opus Dei and thought to myself “Blessed Jose Marie Escriva must be flipping over in his grave”. My blood was starting to really churn.

Why are people so attracted to a book which reportedly misrepresents and misunderstands people, places and events? I decided to read it for myself and put it up against known historical and biblical history. I’m using Dad’s post-it as a book mark. The next column I write will be May 19, the same day the Sony film is set for release. I’ll let you know what I think. However, I am doing one more thing that day, besides writing another column on this subject. I am purchasing tickets for my family to see the DreamWorks Hedgehog movie because I now know at what point my blood boils.

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

Nanny's storybook dolls

Published April 20, 2006

Easter Sunday, my Mom, otherwise known as “Nanny” to all her grandchildren, sat my daughters down in the living room and presented them with a large bag wrapped as a present. I was cooking dinner for everyone and could see what the fuss was all about. Through the plastic bag, I saw the familiar pastel polka dotted boxes. Inside those boxes were memories spanning over five decades. My 37 year old sister, Trish whined with envy. Nanny was ready to part with her Storybook dolls. My daughters carefully opened each box which contained their grandmother’s treasured memories. We knew the value in this gift. It was a gift of love to her granddaughters.




Nancy Ann Storybook dolls are sweet little dolls which measure from three and a half inches to seven inches in height. They made their debut in the mid thirties and were manufactured well into the early 1960s. When I researched the history of the dolls my mother cherished as a child, I found a history of another remarkable woman, their creator.

Nancy Ann Abbott, the creator of the Storybook dolls, was born in San Francisco in 1901 as Rowena Haskin. As a child she had a fondness for dolls that lasted her entire life. Before becoming a doll maker, she worked in Hollywood as an actress and as a dress designer for various actresses. Later on, her doll dresses would take on the designs of the full-size costumes she made for Hollywood.

After her career in Hollywood, Miss Abbott returned to San Francisco in 1935, where she opened a bookshop. She later met Les Rowland who became her business partner for Nancy Ann Storybook dolls. Miss Abbott made and dressed her dolls to sell at the book store. The dolls sold well and in 1936, a new company was formed, otherwise known as the Nancy Ann Dressed Dolls Company. Mr. Rowland became a partner in the Nancy Ann Company in 1937. The company's name became the familiar Nancy Ann Storybook Dolls, Inc. in 1945. My mom was born the day after Pear Harbor was attacked and grew up during the era of the Storybook doll era, much as I grew up in the Barbie doll era. My mom took care of her dolls all her life…many still have the boxes and literature that came with each little doll.

Nanny’s dolls are lavishly costumed in the best fabrics and trims and follow a theme depending on the series they were released in. The fairytale series released dolls like “When She was Good, She was Very Good”, and “Roses are Red, Violets are Blue”. The Bridal series dolls had a bride, groom, ring-bearer and flowergirl dolls. My favorites were dolls for First Holy Communion and Christening. Dolls of the month are garmented in clothing representing the seasons. The dolls of the Day were typically given at birthdays. I like to imagine my Aunt Margaret Ann giving my mom one for her birthday and the happiness it must have brought her to see the joy on my mom’s face as she added yet another Nancy Ann doll to her collection. There was a nun doll too. She had a black habit and hanging crucifix around her waist.

The dolls were first produced in painted bisque and each had hand-painted rosebud lips and long eye lashes. Later, the eyes were made into sleepers (they could open and close when the dolls were reclined) and the limbs were positional. The hats and bonnets had real feathers and many of the props the dolls had attached to them were carefully detailed. Even though the dolls are plastic, they are made of a hard material which is unbreakable and mimics a porcelain finish.

While the doll bodies were manufactured in Japan in the early 30’s, the company became so successful in the bookstore sales, that it eventually set up it’s own manufacturing plant in Berkeley, California in the early 40’s during the second World War. The dolls sold extremely well. From Emporium Department store in San Francisco to Harrod’s of London, the Nancy Ann Storybook dolls enjoyed national and international success well into the late 1950’s as the highest volume doll manufacturer in the United States during that time.

After Barbie made her debut, the Storybook dolls faded away, giving way to longer, sleeker, more sophisticated looking dolls. In a sense, it was the end of an era not realized again. The innocence in doll making gave way to sexually charged dolls who had cars, boyfriends and skimpy bathing suits. As far as present day doll manufacturing, I shudder to think that little girls are given dolls called Bratz™. In some sense one wonders if the toys reflect the attitudes of the times. One exception to this would be the American Girl Dolls™ which have revitalized an interest in history and story telling.

Miss Nancy Ann (Haskins) was diagnosed with cancer not long after Barbie came onto the scene and Roland fell ill around the same time. Rowena Haskins succumbed to her illness in August 1964. Without her, the company failed and declared bankruptcy in 1965.

Nanny has spent a good deal of the last six months taking care of our Dad, Pop Pop and she, like Nancy Ann Abbott, saw her share of joys and sorrows in her life. Giving these dolls to her granddaughters was a gift of herself. As my daughters make plans as to how they will display Nanny’s precious dolls, I reflect once again on what must have been the joy my mother experienced in collecting these beautiful little treasures, which were the vision of a little San Francisco girl, who like my mom, loved the beauty of innocent sweet little dolls. I hope I live to see the day when they are passed on to Nanny’s Great Grand Daughters.

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

Andiamo Italia!

Published April 6, 2006

My mother in law just returned from Italy. She took J.D.’s brother Tom with her on this trip home to the land of her parents. Tomaso studied the Italian language of his ancestors for several months prior to their departure, and apparently spoke mostly Italian while he was with a la famiglia. Coming home after only 10 days seemed but a sip from the chianti that must have passed his lips at the table of Zia (Auntie) in Talamona, a village in the north Italian Alps where Nonno Giuseppi was born. I remember that my husband was sorry to leave in ’95 after an incredible Easter vacation and upon his return, would only respond to us if we called him by his Italian name, Giovanni.
I had my own adventure with mia suocera (my mother in law) several years ago which lasted three weeks and included a family wedding and a private audience with the late great John Paul II. Some memories seem like dreams. I wonder if Tom has woken up yet from his Italian dream. I expect that it won’t be long before he takes his wife and children to the land of his parenti (relatives). When you walk into Zia’s house, she’ll cook for you a meal which has been prepared over a wood stove which she stokes herself all day long. She has a girth which embraces the whole family and a smile that could melt ice. When she walks through Talamona, people stop on the street to greet her because everyone in Talamona knows who she is. When you are in your 90’s, you command that kind of respect.
Italians eat their meals together because it is at the table where the family comes close to each other. They are rarely distracted by the television, unless, there is a really important futbol (soccer) match. Otherwise, it’s a three hour pranzo (lunch) which is the high meal of the day and a short cena (supper) before a stroll outside to meet and greet your neighbors and friends. Let there not pass a day without a proper siesta after pranzo, because rest is as important as work, because night is for cafés and gelato. We buy everything from our supermarkets. Italians buy bread from il fornaio (the bakery) and prosciutto from il pizzicagnolo (the deli). They prefer to walk rather than drive, and most meals are served in courses, rather than buffet or family style. Vegetables are fresh and canned in the cantina, which is below the house and wine is drunk from a 6 ounce table glass. After dinner, some will sip their amaro to aid digestion and enjoy espresso. The only time Italians have milk in their coffee is in the morning (latte) in a bowl. I guard the Talamona family tiramisu recipe with my life, and because of my trip there, I make my béchamel sauce myself when I serve lasagna. My kids eat risotto rather than rice, and we like our pizza on really thin crust.
The flowers are brighter, the fruit is sweeter, and the gnocchi divine in Italia. The family will welcome you, love you and nurture you until the time that you most bid them all farewell. But not for long are the goodbyes, because like many good meals, as you enjoy them, you plan the next one. MoMaher is headed back in May for another wedding, and Piero will be here in October to visit. I love when the family comes from Italy. I have a dream that Giovanni (J.D.) and I will live there one day, not too far from Lago di Como (Lake Como) near Fulvio and Luciana (his cousins). Ah, but I digress. Until next time, Arrivederci.
Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a bi-weekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at familyfare@sbcglobal.net

Sweet Madeline

Published March 23, 2006

My precious little “adopted” Maddie Moo is back in the hospital again. She is going to be two years old this July. Maddie is extra special to me and she happens to have Downs Syndrome. This is only an aside, because I love her because of everything she is to those who love her. She is sticky sweet, absolutely adorable, with rosy cherubic “I want to kiss those cheeks”, wispy strawberry blond hair (which she always wears fashionably pulled back in a hair clip or in pig tails), and she is quite the little fashion queen. She has these little socks that look like Mary Jane shoes because they are colored black and white. I just love being around her. I wish she were mine (really, her mother knows this). She exudes joy all the time, I hardly know Maddie having a bad day. It kills me that she is back in the hospital again. They are going to do a bone marrow test today. I’d gladly take her place. Little girls who are almost two years old should be at home with their 7 sisters and brothers enjoying her new baby sister Ellie, and not worrying about things like sub-clavian IV lines and anesthesia. Mercy, here come those helpless feelings again.

People with Downs Syndrome are at a higher risk of developing certain types of cancers, especially those affecting the blood and bones. I didn’t know this but for the fact that I know Maddie and her Mom was trained as a nurse. I talk to her mom, my friend, Barb on the phone every day since Maddie was put back in the hospital and the roller coaster of tests and waiting for news is almost unbearable. The pediatric wing at Sutter has seen their share of sorrows and joys. My kids have spent their time there and we’ve had friends we’ve visited there. The hard part about being in the hospital when you are two years old is that it’s hard to understand why. Never mind the strangers who lurk in the room with every change of shift, but I’m sure in Maddie’s little mind, she is wondering why her Mom and Dad look so tired and worried and why Sissy is staying the night with her in a strange place, rather than at home where it’s all so familiar and comfortable. When you are so innocent, it’s hard to find security except in those who love you. They haven’t left her alone and are taking shifts. I know how tired they are.

Wild horses couldn’t keep me away from this child, but a nasty flu has the girls and I home sick, so we haven’t had a chance to run down to the hospital to stay with our favorite little Maddie. I have big hopes and dreams for her. I dream of her growing up and while she does, I get to know her better. Each and every time I see her, I will get a big hug and a huge smile. She’ll say my name a thousand times, and every time I’ll say her name a thousand times back. She won’t mind that I call her Maddie Moo and she laughs because when I do that, she thinks it’s so funny. In my dreams I play with her hair while she talks non-stop about what her Mom and Dad are doing. Then she’ll tell me about her brother Will, whom she adores…and the rest of her brothers and sisters…because they love her so much and keep her constantly entertained. What it must be for her to be that singular joy to many people every single day. I know I will never hear her say a harsh word to anyone as long as she lives because she is so kind and her heart is as big as the room she is standing in.

Maddie is one of those children that when she shows up anywhere, crowds will form around her. She is especially popular at church. When her family happens to be in front of us in the pews, and she is resting on someone’s shoulder, I watch her suck her little thumb, with her silver bracelet around her chubby wrist, and I can’t help but smile in her presence because she has the face and the soul of an angel.

Without knowing what she is facing as far as a diagnosis, I am compelled to ask God once again to be merciful for the sake of Maddie Moo. She is so precious to us. I’ve had this dream since she was born, that she’ll be working at Starbucks someday. She’ll be my favorite Barista. She’s a dear little girl that I want to see grow up into the wonderful loving soul God made her to be for all of us. Please say a little prayer for her family. Whatever the road that lies ahead, they are prepared to walk it with her. I want to be there too with everyone’s sweet Madeline.

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

In the throes of Lent

Published February 2006

We are in week two of the season of Lent, which for most Christians means a time of reflection, fasting and examination. I need Lent for two reasons. 1. To get off my high horse and clean up interiorly and exteriorly, and 2. Realize that the good Lord doesn’t want us to get too comfortable here on earth. After all, Adam and Eve had it really good, that is, until the apple incident. I suppose in small ways we are all paying for it in the sufferings we endure in our daily lives. . I really like Easter though, because we know the end of the story. Hope springs eternal…and to have a seasonal reminder of this is probably a good thing. We are creatures of habit and one of these days it’s going to sink in.

I write today to all of you who are going through a rough patch right now. Whether you are grieving the loss of a loved one or suffering some insurmountable loss of health or bad news about a loved one. You know who you are. You are the ones that suffer mostly in silence. You try your hardest at work and at home to put on a happy face. When people ask how you are doing, the only words you can find are “Everything’s just fine…thanks.” But when you get into the shower or collapse into bed at night, you let the tears fall. In secret you are suffering because you have a lot of things on your mind and you know you need to keep going. Maybe life has dealt you some hard blows and bad cards. Perhaps you are suffering the loss of a job or financial woes. I see those of you who are not sleeping at night, maybe because it’s tax season and you are wondering how bad it’s going to be, come April 15. Maybe your business isn’t doing as well as you expected, or that home renovation project is driving you crazy. Some of you are struggling with managing it all…school, work and home. Perhaps you are failing to meet expectations you and others have placed on you. It’s very difficult. Hard times happen and we don’t always understand the reasons why.

Some of you have loved ones who are far away from home. The worry is getting to you. Your teenager might be having emotional or scholastic problems. Maybe your marriage has fallen into a rut. Perhaps you are lonely or have suffered a betrayal in a close friendship. Without becoming absolutely too maudlin in outlining common problems many people suffer in days like these, I offer you a few thoughts, only because you’ve been on my mind.

You are not alone, even when it seems as if you are. This too, shall pass….and no problem is bigger than your own strength to bear it. Don’t give in to despair. Try and persevere. Sometimes, the highest thing we can do to beat problems like these, is to be absolutely dedicated to helping others with a kind word or deed. Maybe you can’t do much right now. Perhaps picking up the phone and calling someone you haven’t spoken to in a long time, mending a fence, delivering a meal to a neighbor, or writing a letter to a loved one would give you a brighter outlook. Finding a kind word, hugging someone who needs one, lending an ear and listening well, make our own problems seem less significant. Negativity breeds contempt and bitterness. Make time for family. Try to relax and slow down.

If you are ill, the very idea of usefulness escapes you. But your work is valuable and has meaning. Perhaps your primary job is that of using your own suffering as a means to sanctify those around you. Perhaps you are teaching patience to others by your own example of suffering. Your virtue is your patience. Pray for those who are caring for you. I know you both are tired.

After Good Friday, there is always Easter Sunday….be patient and unafraid. Sorrow is seasonal, like a rough and cold winter. If you are in the throes of a difficult Lent, Spring is around the corner. You are all in my prayers. Hang in there.

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

Idols & Olympians Beware

Published February 23, 2006

There aren’t too many shows on television I enjoy. I admit to a particular fondness for shows like 24 and CSI, partly because it’s these kinds of television shows that take incredible writing and research and turn them into entertainment that is gripping and leave you hanging on the edge of your seat. However, sheepishly, I must admit that I am now glued to American Idol. I guess it’s because I actually discovered it for the first time this season. I noticed a few contestants from Sacramento and started watching this month, partly to see what all the hype was about, and actually “got hooked”. There’s something about the underdog that always gets to me. I remember when the 49er’s were hardly a blip on the radar and when the Kings were that team from where? There is something hopeful in the unexpected win of an underdog contestant, a game show featuring someone like me who answered the million dollar question, a lottery win for the desperate and downtrodden, or a gold medal in the Olympics. I especially pay attention when the underdog sheds a tear in gratitude and humility, for an unexpected merit, or surprise performance. These things are what keep me glued to this pop culture show.

Our son competed in a district wide oral language competition last week and his verse choir recited an incredible oration about the history of the Pony Express. As I sat in the audience and watched Conor center stage with his team, I was particularly impressed that he didn’t allow the huge stage to swallow him up. He came down front, and smiled through the entire presentation, his gestures were in synch with his team and he kept his composure and poise throughout. It was essentially a flawless performance. As I listened to the competition, I just knew, this group was going to get awarded the gold medal. “Mom, I’m so happy to have made it this far. It doesn’t matter what medal we get, I’m just happy that we made it to the finals!” His words echoed in my mind as I watched his team exit the stage. I was so proud to be his mother. The little things have always meant so much to him and when the big things come have come along, he always manages to sponge every moment into his soul and then exhale it into his countenance as if it was the singularly best day of his life. It is the freshness of his youth that touches me.

As American Idol winds down the list of contestants from 24 hopefuls to 12, I have my favorites. They are the most humble of the group. I notice that they are the most expressive and emotional performers because I think they are just glad to have had the opportunity to be there for that one shining moment. So, I root for them because as they pulled themselves onto the national stage from virtual obscurity, they didn’t let the attention of the spotlight dim their personalities or their Yeah, I'm a huge Taylor Hicks fanuniqueness. Whether it’s the 16 year old soulfulness of Lisa Tucker or the little firecracker girl from Georgia, Paris Bennett, long after the season has ended, I’ll long remember how both of them jumped into the arms of their family members to share their happiness at having given their best to their inspiring performances.

I watched Conor waiting for the judges to tally their votes and I knew his team had won, but he wasn’t sure and the suspense was torturing him for those few minutes of waiting. When they finally announced the winning gold medal oral language team by the title of the speech they had delivered, I saw him fly five feet into the air and scream. As he walked up to receive his gold medal, I saw that he was crying from the sheer joy of being recognized for his hard work and dedication and from the experienced of having done his very best, and that was a red letter moment indeed. When Conor took the time to approach the judges to thank them personally for the opportunity to perform for them, I knew that JD and I, while we were very proud of the gold medal around his neck, we were more proud of the fact that he was our son. I realized that what I am saying is nothing new. Proud parents abound everywhere…whether you are the parent of an American Idol, or an Olympian, or just a twelve year old boy becoming a wonderful and delightful young man.

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

For the sake of family

Published February 9, 2006

Fifteen years ago, my sister and her husband were married in our hometown of Petaluma, California. I remember the wedding because I was eight months pregnant with our first born Shannon Elizabeth. As the matron of honor, I remember thinking that there was no way the seamstress could possibly find enough bolts of fabric to make the dress that would cover my body for the blessed event of my sister’s nuptials. I should have sat down. Like a float in the Rose Parade, I walked down the aisle with the baby almost here and a dress only Omar, the tent maker could appreciate. Everyone said how beautiful the bride was and “Look at Tammy…how cute”. Satin and velvet with turned under hair and a little too much make-up. I shudder to think about it. The things we do for the sake of the family.

Terry and Kevin met and starting dating right away. I could see why she fell in love with him. He is handsome and quiet in a way much like our Dad. For the last fifteen years, I’ve come to think of him more as a brother, especially as the years have gone by. Some people are always the in-laws. Not Kevin. He just fit in and put up with us, probably because he never had sisters, we became his. Kevin is one of those members of the family who is able to fix anything….take care of a problem and see through a crisis. These last several months when Dad was hospitalized, Kevin cleaned the pool, mowed the yards, put together home health care equipment, dismantled a bed, pruned a tree and basically did everything my father would have been doing for the last several months had he not been bed ridden. He showed a lot of concern and had many good questions to field to us for the doctors. Kevin does a lot behind the scenes without calling much attention to what he’s done for you. He’s modest in a dignified way. I admire that about him. I know he does these things for the sake of the family.

Terry is organized in a way I can never come close to imitating. She runs her house like a well oiled machine. She has been with the same employer for seventeen years, a part-time job which is really full-time because she works from home, plus she takes care of her three sons, my nephews, while balancing everything she does with eyes in the back of her head. She is fiercely loyal and generous. There isn’t anything that she wouldn’t do for the sake of the family. During one particularly tense moment in the hospital last November with Dad in ICU, I remember a poignant moment when Terry got down into Dad’s ear and shouted “Fight Dad, damnit, FIGHT!” She would will that he come back to us because she demanded it and Pop apparently listened to her because by the end of the week he was essentially out of his coma. I’ll never forget how we all came together for Dad as a family.

They are a great couple because they compliment each other’s strengths and make up whatever else is lacking in each other’s weaknesses. They pulled together last year, when Kevin’s father passed away after a long illness. I was so sad at the time because there wasn’t anything I could say to Kevin other than to tell him how sorry I was that he lost his Dad. I flashed back to their wedding day, his brother was serving in Iraq in the first Gulf War, and he couldn’t make it back for the wedding, so they erected an American flag on the stage at the reception and a friend of theirs sang the National Anthem in his honor. Kevin’s parents stood up and I saw how proud they were, especially his father. There wasn’t a dry eye at the wedding reception. Kevin and Dad are similar in many ways. They enjoy a good smoke, a good game of golf, and time out in the garage with the “guys”. Kevin and Terry made sure Dad had all his football picks in each week and he, in turn, would be their babysitter when they needed one. Their little guy, Mikey became Pop’s favorite, because they took their naps together. When I asked Dad one time if he minded babysitting in his retirement, he said he looked forward to it each day. Some things are just done for the sake of family.

Over the last fifteen years, I haven’t seen Kevin cry except when it came to the time Dad was in the hospital this winter. I knew we were family even in our grief, and I appreciated the fact that he was my brother, not just my brother in law.

They are celebrating fifteen years of marriage this week, as well as completing construction on their third home. We wish them happiness as they venture into the next decade before their silver wedding anniversary and a long life together; And for selfish reasons, I pray for them in all their needs for the sake of the whole family.


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

Mabuhay!

Published January 2006

Mabuhay, (ma-boo-hi) is a Philippine greeting which means to live well and thrive. J.D. and I have been good friends with a couple, Francis and Agnes for a long time. They were born and raised in the Philippines and they are two of the most lovable people in the world. Our kids are good friends and we love their five children as if they were our own. Every time J.D. walks into their home, he shouts "Mabuhay"! and they return the greeting. If ever there was a more perfect word for the days we live in, I think everyone should say "mabuhay" and mean it. The word simply is representative of the friendship we have forged with this family. Friendship formed in the joys and sorrows of life are the lasting ones. A treasure of immeasurable value.

Agnes was the one who initiated our friendship seven years ago. Her smile is infectious and she exudes joy to all who know her. She puts up with me playing with her hair which is long and feels like silk. I think of her like my sister. Francis seems like her twin brother instead of her spouse. They have a wonderful marriage and it shows in the demeanor and joy you see in their children. We love being with their family, sharing holidays and special occasions. Our daughters made their First Holy Communion together and we've shared sponsoring each others children for Confirmation. Some of our best memories have been the family times spent with them, praying together and laughing. I wish I could express what it has meant to us to have them for our dear old friends. I can't imagine what life would be like without them sharing the road with us.

When Shannon was in the hospital last year, their daughter Catherine spent long days at the hospital with me keeping Shannon company, and cheering her up. They homeschool their five children and hold down careers at the same time. I marvel at their ability to balance their work and home. Their kids range in age from 17 down to 7 and each of their children are wonderful in their own special way. Justin will go to college in the Fall and has been editor of our parish youth group newspaper and a real leader for the youth at St. Stephens. He's smart, mature and has many friends. John Paul is energetic, friendly and has been an altar boy mentor to our son Conor. Catherine is Shannon's best friend and confidant in all things teenage girl, and Jane Frances and Cecilia are Birdy's buddies. Every time I see these kids there is never a shortage of hugs and affection. They all have learned how to live well and thrive.

J.D. and Francis go to the Asian Seafood Market and shop for the things they love. The crab is not fresh unless they bring it home kicking and JD is learning new ways to prepare his seafare. Their home is always hospitable, something is always cooking and it's all delicious. When I am in their West Sacramento home, it feels like my own home. There is always a hot steaming cup of coffee or aromatic cup of tea, and if it's time to wind down with a good glass of wine, the corks a poppin'. We Irish, Italians love our friends from the Philippines and we've proudly become Filipino by contamination surely because of them. If lumpia was a food group, J.D. would be in hog heaven on the food pyramid.


What impresses me most is their devotion to their family, friends and faith. Our son Conor asked Francis to sponsor him for his Confirmation this Spring, and his reason is because "Mr. D will pray for me Mom". Yes he will and then some. Francis is tireless in everything he does. A hard worker, an exceptional cook and devoted friend. We talked a lot last weekend about the things he likes to cook and his secret is in the salt and vegetables he uses. He seems to know how to perfectly season every thing he makes. His specialty is a cold seafood and bell pepper salad, a top secret recipe no doubt because when I ask him how he does it, he responds "well it's a little of this and a little of that and voila...." No one could do what he does with this salad. It's all in the heart of the cook. I'm sure it's because Francis' was born with ten pounds of Mabuhay in him. I wish I had four ounces of it.

Agnes and I belong to this group of ladies from church who get together and celebrate each others birthdays. We started going to tea houses and it's become a little tradition. Put about four teapots and some scones in front of us and we seem to close down every tea house we enter. Agnes loves it when we all get together and I have to admit, since I've been away from home these last three months, I miss her companionship and company. There is something about the love of a dear friend that is more precious than gold. Agnes is one of those friends.

Agnes' birthday is this Sunday. Both she and my dad share the same birthday. Dad is coming home from the hospital the day before his birthday and we're planning a little welcome home birthday celebration for him. The only word that seems appropriate to say to him is the Tagalog word Agnes and Francis taught us "Mabuhay! Live well and thrive Dad" You've been through hell but you made it...and I know you will get better each day. As for my dear friend Agnes. I hope we grow old together. "Happy birthday. We love you. Thank you for your friendship and "Mabuhay!" Live well and thrive my friend.

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

We three kings of Orient are...

Published January 8, 2006


Epiphany is a feast day celebrated within the liturgical calendar of the Church wherein we remember the famously historical Three Kings, who traveled far and wide in order to pay homage to and worship the Christ Child. In honor of their visit, they offered Him gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh. These gifts were significant, not only in their symbolism, but in their value. Certainly one would wonder, why these things? I am sure Mary and Joseph could have used some other things to care for the Divine Child. After all, tradition says he was born in a stable or cave, humble surroundings no doubt. It wasn’t so much about the gifts and what was done with them afterwards, but the revelation of the Kings themselves. They knew who He was. The gifts were the symbols of their own epiphany. They knew their station was far below that of a greater King.

When the kids were born, especially with our first, we were showered with gifts. It was amazing how many onesies, booty socks, car seats, diaper pails, bath items, clothes, and layette items one can accumulate because of the love and generosity of friends. We didn’t want for anything when it came to the birth of the kids. How thankful we were. It made the road easier to face and it made us excited about the impending birth. There is something about being prepared that makes the task ahead less daunting.

When the Kings set out, they set out not knowing each other. They came from different parts of the world. Melchior was King of Nubia (also called Arabia), and it was he that bore the gift of gold. Because his kingdom was near the Red Sea, they said the gold had a red hue to it and was the finest in the world. The next king, Balthazar, came out of the land of Saba or Gondolia, and because of the spices that were grown there, the finest in the world, he carefully bore his best incense, or frankincense, which came from a tree and resembled the consistency of gum. The third king, Jaspar or Gaspar, came from Tharsis, and was Ethiopian. In the isles of Tharsis, myrrh grew more plentifully than on any place on earth. It grew like wheat and waxed thick. It was used as a preservative and they anointed the dead with myrrh. It was very expensive and in some part of the world, was worth more than gold per ounce.

Apparently they did not meet until Jerusalem. They had followed the same sign, a Star…something foretold long before they met. Isaiah had written many years before, “Jerusalem arise and take light for thy Light has is come and the joy of God is upon thee, and His glory shall be seen upon thee, and the Gentiles shall in walk in thy light, and kings in the brightness of thy rising”. Melchior arrived by way of Calvary. Balthazar arrived by way of Olivet or the town of Galilee. They say timing is everything, because it was at this point where they both hooked up with Gaspar. The Kings were told by their astronomers to follow the signs in the sky until they could not longer see the star. Apparently a cloud of darkness had covered the star and veiled their way at this juncture for the first time. You could call it a holy stop sign. It’s the only word I can come up with anyway.

All three met on highway beside of the hill of Calvary and greeted each other with joy. Figuring they all received the same signs and with the same intent, joined together to complete their journey. Although they spoke diverse languages, they were able to communicate. They rode into Jerusalem at the uprising of the sun. With a brief stop to confer with the highly suspicious and insecure King Herod, they would learn that Bethlehem was the place they needed to be. After conferring with Shepherds who had seen the same Star, the veil was lifted and it shone brightly over the place where He laid. It’s interesting to note that tradition tells us that before paying homage to the infant Jesus, the Kings bathed, put on their best robes and arrayed themselves to be worthy to be received by the family who dwelt in a cave. Rather than reveal their findings to Herod. They took their “epiphany” home with them. But they took the long way rather than return by way of Jerusalem again.

As to the symbolism behind the gifts, many books have been written. Gold was symbolic of the power of a king, for gold pertains to tribute and justice. Incense is symbolic of divine majesty and is likened unto sacrifice. There could not be any Old Testament sacrifices with the shedding of animal blood or the burning of incense at the altar. Myrrh is given to symbolize the mortality of one because it is used in burial. Perhaps it was a foreshadowing of the Child who was born to die.

What many do not know is that the three Kings were later baptized by Thomas the apostle in India, they were consecrated as archbishops and they ordained priests. They all died around the same time and a great star shone around the time of their death. When Helena, mother of Constantine, sailed to India to search for the bodies of the three, which she recovered and later returned to Constantinople in the church of St. Sophia, it seemed they had reached their final resting place. But nay! After the death of Helena, the bodies are given to Eustorgius in Milan, who then, in bargain for an alliance with Archbishop Rainauld, had the relics transferred to Cologne, Germany, wherein they lie in the church of St. Peter to this day.

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

A year to remember

Published December 28, 2005

At the end of every year, J.D. and I look back on the events of the previous year and we marvel at how much has happened in such a short amount of time. Some years are happier than others. Obviously, when we’ve celebrated the birth of our kids, took major trips or had huge family reunions, these were red letter years. This year was no exception, with it’s mixed bag of joys and sorrows.

Every New Year’s Eve, we celebrate the birthday of our son, Conor. Three days later his sister, Birdy (as we affectionately call her) celebrates her birthday. Noni shares her birthday in January with Elvis, and Pop Pop’s birthday is at the end of January. We seemed to sail through these dates and we had a lot of fun in the process. February started an early Lent and we made it to the end of March for a very nice Easter Sunday celebration.

The week after Easter, my oldest, Shannon had surgery on her knee and subsequently became very ill with a septic infection that required a second surgery and an extensive hospitalization and home recovery. While we were in the hospital, we met a very special little baby who was born three months premature, who had a host of medical problems that threatened her life every day. Her name was Maryjane. I wrote a column about her last year. She was a baby who lived, beyond any expectation of the team of physicians working with her. Shannon was discharged from the hospital after two weeks and we kept in touch with her parents. Her mother was especially valiant in caring for her at home and at the hospital over the last 8 months.

Pop had his surgery in November and I’ve been writing about his hospitalization over the last two months. I’m writing this column from the hospital as we continue to monitor his progress towards a complete recovery. This is my wish for 2006. That Pop will walk again. That he will be home at the end of the January, in time for his birthday, celebrating with us the victory he had over death which seemingly loomed over him in November.

Maryjane went to heaven on December 18. We kept vigil with her the night before her death. We sang “Silent Night” and prayed the rosary with her large extended family. Conor held her for 20 minutes after she passed away and when I asked him if he was OK, he said “Mom it’s a privilege to hold a saint”. We were able to have a huge formal burial Mass for her family. Fifteen altar boys processed up the aisle of the church, after Fr. Deprey crowned her little head with a wreath of white flowers. The full schola and choir sang the Mass of the 4th Sunday of Advent, the same Mass which was sung on the morning she died. It was one of the most bittersweet experiences we’ve ever had. Maryjane looked beautiful in her white baptismal gown, like a little queen who was ready to be in heaven for her first birthday which was December 26. Her procession to St. Mary’s cemetery was like unto the highest dignitary. She deserved it. I have made a new friend in her mother, Michelle. I am proud of her and admire her strength and courage.

One thing about the end of a particularly troubling year is that it has to come to an end on December 31. We promised Conor we would take him out to do something fun for his 12th birthday, and then out for steak dinner. There will always be a party somewhere on his birthday as long as he lives. It’s befitting that he was born on New Year’s Eve because he is fun loving and full of life.

I am proud of J.D. and our children. They held down the fort over the last two months when I was taking care of Pop Pop. My daughters picked up the pieces at home, decorating the house and putting up the tree, while I was at the hospital with my Dad. Shannon and Birdy took over the duties I had with cleaning and cooking - running the household like little mothers themselves.

At the end of a particularly trying year, I am thankful for a loving husband, who after eighteen years, is still my very best friend. I am thankful for friends who pray, and help you when you’re out of sorts with life. 2006 is going to be a New Year. Full of optimisim, I can’t wait for it to arrive. On behalf of my family, have a very happy, blessed and safe New Year! I'll be seeing you on the other side.

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

Christmas blessings are in giving

Published December 15, 2005

Advent is the time in our family when we prepare for Christmas by doing simple things. We clean the house, decorate the house for the holidays, bake and give gifts. Some gifts are not returnable…some are only received in the giving.
This advent we are waiting not only for the Feast of Christmas, but we are waiting for Pop Pop (my dad), to come home from the hospital. He’s been seriously ill over the last two months following surgery on his aorta and the subsequent complications from the procedure.
Pop Pop’s room at the rehabilitation hospital is lined with get well wishes from friends, a small altar and a poster from the grandkids that they made when he was in the intensive care unit. Every day we monitor his progress toward recovery. As we wait for signs of hope, we try to cheer him and those around him as it gets closer to Christmas.
Last week, we received unexpected good news. Specifically, his kidneys have fully recovered. This was a Christmas miracle, as we had been told that the renal failure he suffered was permanent and that Pop Pop would be on dialysis every other day for the rest of his life. So many people had prayed for him, we are left speechlessly thankful. As we enter the last two weeks before Christmas, we are eagerly anticipating bringing him home for Christmas Day. He still is unable to walk, but we are hopeful that with all of us there to assist him, he will be able to relax and enjoy the day with all the family.
When someone you loves is hurting, there are times of extreme stress and anxiety. It’s the prayers and well wishes of friends that has lifted us up and sustained us. Like footprints in the sand, these consolations and graces that have come from others are what carried us in the storm of this part of our lives, and we are hardly aware of it.

These are gifts that cannot be returned and they are priceless. Even strangers are blessings to us, as they wish you well when they pass us in the halls of the hospital. Some of the most beautiful conversations I’ve had over the last two months have been with people I hardly know.

This Christmas, be assured of my thanks to all the Mountain Democrat readers who wrote me to tell me your own stories and to wish me well as we help my father recover and come home to us. There are many people in the hospitals around our area that need our prayers and support. It means a lot when visitors stop by convalescent and retirement homes, or go by the hospital to see patients who don’ have regular visitors. Whether you make get well cards, sing carols, or bring a small pet into these "halls of respite" to cheer the elderly and the sick, the most important gift you bring is the gift of your time and yourself. Hospitals appreciate visitors who donate books, games, toys, movies and CD’s. You’ll want to contact your local hospital auxiliary or Child Life Coordinator to see how you can help.

On St. Nicholas Day, December 6, my son, Conor, delivered a flower to every patient in his Pop Pop’s hospital to let them know he was thinking of them and praying for them. Many of the people were touched to see a child care about them just by stopping in to say hello. This is a wonderful lesson for children at this time of the year when so much is about receiving. There is a school of suffering that can only be learned at the bedside of the weak, and the lonely. If you have the opportunity to share your time even if only briefly this holiday season, stop by your local hospital and say hello. You will be surprised at the blessing you will be this Christmas to someone who needs some Christmas cheer. "And a Child shall lead them".

From my family to yours, have a very Blessed and Merry Christmas!

Tammy Maher is a resident of El Dorado Hills and a biweekly columnist for the Mountain Democrat. You can reach her by email at family fare@sbcglobal.net

Switching into low gear

Published December 2005

Driving up the Bass Lake grade every day, I see trucks and trailers veering into the right lane and shifting down to make it up the hill. Admittedly, impatient as I am at times, I pass and get to where I need to be to make my exit. “Must be a bummer”, I mutter to myself, “to switch to low gear just to make it to the top of the hill…must make for a long haul and a boring ride”.

Such is Life, like the Bass Lake grade at rush hour. Some days you are safely in the fast lane, passing the cars on the side of the road who are disabled, shifting gears to make it up the hill, or simply taking it easy. Nothing gets in your way, and the cruising speed is comfortable. The fast lane will get you to your next appointment quicker, home in time for dinner without a care in the world. It’s especially great when my car has all the kids and I get the ‘carpool lane’. There is something victorious about the carpool lane. I try to make sure I have an extra passenger in the car every time just for the thrill of it.

Carpool lane days are carefree and busy. My life was swimming along in the carpool lane before November 3. As many of you know, my dad had surgery that day. I’ve been writing about how complicated it was, and the aftermath all month long in this newspaper. A physician took me aside a couple days ago and explained how Dad’s poor outcome fell into the less than 1% range of terrible outcomes for the kind of surgery he had. “It’s such a shame”, he said. Yeah. It sure is.

We had high expectations for Thanksgiving but seemingly, life dealt us a series of flat tires and disappointments as my Dad had one setback after another in the hospital. My sisters sent their husbands and children to their in-laws for Thanksgiving because we didn’t want the children to suffer the angst of what we were dealing with every day.

After spending the last month at the hospital, most of it in ICU with Daddy, I made reservations for my mom, sisters and I to go out to dinner for Thanksgiving at a fancy expensive restaurant. We had spent the last month in the hospital cafeteria where we knew the menu before it was posted. Mystery meat, soup surprise, and cottage cheese only go so far. The cafeteria people knew us by our first names and already had my chicken salad on rye with dill pickles made for me before I showed up at the counter. We were on a first name basis with the lift team – the only thing we couldn’t do was move in ourselves, although there were days when we could have used some medical attention.

The four of us sat down to a really lovely dinner after what has seemed like endless hours and days pacing hospital floors. “This is really nice” complimented my mother. We ordered our drinks and looked at each other. “I’d like to propose a toast”, I choked up immediately. “Here’s to Dad, and his recovery. But most of all here’s to you. I never knew what it meant to be a family, or how much I really loved you guys…but we are going to make it and Dad’s going to make it, one way or another because we all love each other”. We all started shedding tears. Then we had the most fantastic meal, along with perfect wine pairings…when I returned that night to the hospital, I spent the night with my Dad. He stayed up most of the night. He ate his dinner at 3:30 AM. I asked him if he was thankful on Thanksgiving. “Yes. I am happy to be alive”. Relieved to hear him talking through his ‘cloudiness’, I said, “I’m happy about that too, Daddy. It’s going to a long haul…but we’re shifting into low gear. OK?”

The fast lane takes you away from your relationships with your family because of the demands of every day life. When the days come, when tragedy strikes, illness hits unexpectedly and disappointments abound, sometimes you need to switch into low gear for the long haul up the hill. I’m not sure where this road I’m on is going to lead or how long it will take to get there. I pray we get to the top in the next few months, that there are few flat tires along the way, and that Faith will sustain us along the way.

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

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