Reflections from Two Years Ago

Please don’t feel obligated to read my reflections but in case anyone is interested here goes….. Reflections regarding my anxiety surrounding my Nuclear Stress Test -so I after having some time to think about it, this is what I came up with: 1. During the last stress test, my blood pressure went so high that they kept taking it every two seconds and so I was concerned over having a similar reaction this time. Even though my blood pressure was a bit outrageous yesterday, the lady in charge of the treadmill and watching me seem to take it in stride. 2. I was also concerned that I might not be able to have an adequate test and then they would push me to have the medication that makes your heart race, and I wanted to avoid that at all cost! I have a sensitive heart(❤️ no pun intended) and something as simple as too much caffeine can give me tachycardia. 3. This particular time I was especially anxious about needing stents placed since I had been having significant chest pain recently. On my most recent visit to the cardiac office, I saw a Nurse Practitioner rather than the doctor and frankly I felt she was more interested in establishing her authority than in listening to what I was saying to her. I told her I was having frequent chest pain but I was also suffering from rather significant Gastrointestinal- Esophageal Reflux Disease. I told her that the pain improved during vigorous walking. She started to hand me a prescription for a new cardiac medication, Renexa. I told her I was already taking 5 cardiac drugs already (Atorvastatin Calcium, ie, Lipitor, Propranolol HCL ER Cap 60 mg, ie, Inderal, Hydochlorothiazide 12.5 mg, Norvasc 5 mg twice a day, Lisinopril 40 mg ) and I preferred to see if it was indeed my heart that was causing the chest pain before adding another medication. The NP said that the Renexa would help with the Nuclear Stress Test. She meant the medication induced stress test and I had already told her that I did not want that medication and I planned to walk the treadmill. But I must say that my Nursing School Buddy probably hit the nail on the head-I was really frightened that they might tell me I needed stents and frankly that scares the hell out of me because the damn stents basically killed my beloved older brother, Charlie. He was placed on the anticoagulant, Plavix, and one hot and humid July night a plastic molded chair tipped backwards and he hit his head on a decorative cement paver behind him. A week later he was dead after the neurosurgeon tried every medication in the hospital to stop the bleeding in his brain but nothing worked. So yes, Susan Smith Joseph, I believe the thought of needing a stent was probably the biggest reason for my anxiety. I’m thankful that no blockages were found!! And I don’t think I will have another Nuclear Stress Test but I’ll cross that bridge if and when I come to it. I guess the bottom line is I’m afraid of dying but more specifically having no control over the circumstances. One more very good reason to be anxious-I’m a retired RN and I’ve seen the consequences of a few medical/nursing mistakes. Sometime, I’ll tell you a story of my own miraculous miracle but not tonight because it’s after 11pm- pass my bedtime.

Charles A.Fries Sr locksmith and photographer

i stand corrected: My husband read this Blog entry and it appears there were two separate events regarding breaking open locks. Apparently the very old, heavy safe was in the sacristry behind the altar and Bob was the one who accompanied my Dad on this assignment. i brought my Dad to the rectory on another occasion and i followed closely behind him as he ascended the steep rectory stairs to the second floor. He had his toolbox with him and it was heavy withe the tools of his trades ( there were many types of jobs he was good at) i honestly don't remember if he let me carry it but probably he insisted he could carry it despite being in his golden years. It might have been a file cabinet or a personal safe he had been summoned unlock on that occasion but as usual he succeeded. My Dad didn't like any job to defeat him, any puzzle to go unsolved. My original post starts here: So anyone out there in Facebook Land know anything about this “Recording Wire”? I found it in a container with 8mm film and old VHS tapes. I remember my father using a rather large, old fashioned looking tape recorder machine when I was a kid. He had access to a lot of equipment when he worked for Queens College in Flushing NY ( he started there in 1940 and was with them for 40 years) and pretty much had complete access to anything connected with cameras and equipment and technological stuff. Among other many other talents, he was an excellent locksmith and had access to every room at the college. At one point after a bit of an uprising on campus he was assigned to change every lock in the entire campus. Later in life, as a rather old man, Father David Noone, the Pastor at Christ Our Light Church in Loudonville NY, asked my Dad to open the church safe via the combination lock since no one knew the code. I remember following behind my father - unsteady with age - on the steep stairs of the rectory on Exchange Street to get to the heavy, old safe that was located on the second floor. My father was able to listen to the combination lock clicks and could open the safe without breaking the lock. Afterwards he told my husband Bob, if he hadn’t gone the honest route, he would have made a great second story man. He learned his locksmithing skills as a kid when he hung around and helped his Uncle John at his shop in Williamsburg, Brooklyn ( the old German Town )

The Roaring Lion on the Movie Screen

A marvelous memory: I never hear the opening of a movie without thinking of the following: Going to the movie theater as a kid. It was at the RKO Bushwich or the Loew’s Gates on Broadway in the Bushwich section of Brooklyn. My Aunt Anne O’Donnell use to take Cousin Sharon O’Donnell and me and then we would go either to the Ice Cream Parlor for hamburgers and a chocolate malt ( in a large frosty metal container from which you could pour more and more delicious malted into your glass - it was like being in Heaven! )or up the stairs to a Chinese restaurant next to the elevated train on Broadway. We saw such movies as “ Dial M for Murder” with Grace Kelly, “Singing in the Rain. “ and “ The Seven Little Foys” as well as others. We would walk in at anytime during the movie and stay until we got back to the point at which we walked in. Sometimes it would be a double feature or at least a cartoon or a “short”.

Anne R. McCarthy-a adolescent’s memory

Another wonderful memory involving Anne Purtell occurred when I was 12 years old. My Dad drove my mother and me to Hoboken, New Jersey, where we boarded a train by the name of “ The Phoebe Snow” and headed to Binghamton, NY. We were on our way to attend Anne’s wedding to Mr. Eugene McCarthy. My mother absolutely loved her younger Coleman cousin, Anne, and on several occasions Anne shared with me the loving feelings she had towards my Mom, her older cousin, Rita Mary O’Donnell Fries whom she admired and viewed as a role model. A bit of family pride was the fact that the 8 Coleman children born to Hannah Byrne and G. Francis Coleman produced a whopping 46 first cousins. For me, Anne was a link between her generation and mine. We were 10 years apart in age - Anne was born in 1935 and I came into this world in 1945. As my mother taught me, I was Anne’s “first cousin, once removed “. As I got older Anne became a mentor, role model, non-judgmental sounding board, and a true spiritual soul mate. I am filled with gratitude for Anne Purtell McCarthy and I will carry her love in my heart eternally.

Anne Purtell McCarthy-my first memory

https://photos.app.goo.gl/jTjQvBRhJbnX5w1G7 My very first memory involving Anne McCarthy occurred during the summer of 1951 when I was 6 years old. My family and I were staying for a little vacation at my Great-Great Aunt Bridge’s farm ( Bridget Byrne O’Reilly was my Great Grandmother’s (Hannah Byrne Coleman)sister in St. Joseph, Pennsylvania. Coming from the hot city streets of Brooklyn, this time on a farm in the country seemed like heaven. Being 10 years older than me, Anne was a teenager and still “Anne Purtell “. At that time, she was living at the farm with her mother, my Great Aunt Norene Coleman Purtell. They had moved into the farm to help Norene’s Aunt Bridge who was quite elderly and incapacitated. When my mother brought me into a bedroom behind the staircase in the old farmhouse to meet my Great Great Aunt Bridge, I remember seeing a frail, ancient woman sitting in a bed, a big old cat lying on on the blanket beside her. At that time in her life, Anne appeared to me to be a popular and socially involved teenager. Even as a 6 year old I took notice of Anne “fancying herself up”, leaving the house, and jumping into the front seat next to a young man in a pickup truck. One rather clear memory from a truly magical vacation was this interaction: When my cousin, Anne, invited me into her room I noticed and admired a little canvas Indian teepee and canoe that she had recently acquired at a local county fair. When she saw my wide-eyed excitement, she picked up this treasure, handed it to me, saying “Here, you can keep it. “ The fact that she was willing to give it to me “for keeps” impressed me beyond words and I knew, then and there, that I would love her forever.

Mom remembering in 2025

March 25, 1917 - November 19, 1998 It is amazing how fast time passes.  Can it really be 27 years since my mother’s spirit left her body?  I know for certain that she left because I was lying in bed next to her at that very moment when she was no longer in the physical structure that had held her since March 25th 1917.  Believe me dead is dead.  Her body was vacant, empty; there was no question about it, she was not there anymore.   When the hospice nurse asked me to check for her pulse, I said “no”.  I knew without any doubt she was dead and more importantly I refused to feel my dearly beloved Mother without a heartbeat.   Since I was close beside her, I actually saw her take her very last breath.  I imagine if this could be viewed without any emotion, it could be an interesting phenomenon.   People breathe in and breathe out so many times over their lifetimes that we hardly notice this small physical activity. All of a sudden after slowing down and coming in spurts, there is a moment when a specific simple breath is the very last one.   My parents had shared a bed together since October 19, 1940 and on this particular day, my Dad stood at the foot of their bed anxiously willing his wife to continue breathing.  When he saw that she exhaled and did not inhale again, he basically screamed at me to shake her.   He had been stimulating her breaths like this for the last day or so and he felt if I shook her really hard, I could keep her alive.   I remember saying, “Daddy, I can’t do that.”  The cyanosis had already worked itself half way up her body and it seemed cruel to insist she keep breathing now.   So my mother died.  But honestly it is not her death, but her life that I want to remember today. I want people to know who Rita Mary Agnes O’Donnell Fries was and what she was like ( Agnes was the name she chose for her Confirmation although I am not sure why – I think she told me but I no longer remember). I especially want her great-grandchildren to know a little bit about their Great- Grandmother since this type of thing was always very important to my Mother.   So here are some things that I remember and want to share about my Mom: * she smiled a lot  * she cried a bit too.  * she made the best apple pie I ever ate. * she had a crush on Johnny Ryan and took him to her High School Prom where she met her husband, my father, Charles A. Fries. (Charlie escorted his sister, Rosemary Fries, to the Prom and Rosemary was my Mom’s good friend so they sat together at the same table). * my mother always let us kids build forts and other interesting things under the dining room table and in other places throughout the house.  There would be sheets and blankets and pillows and upside down chairs all over the place. It would make the house a really big mess but our imaginations could run wild. * she also allowed us to paint the windows with snow scenes at Christmas time.  Was that white shoe polish we used? * my mother didn’t care for housework, but she enjoyed cooking and entertaining.  * she always had room for one more at her table- always! * she researched family history better than anyone else I ever knew. * after High School my mother went to work at the Mohegan Company but once her firstborn son was born in 1943, she became a full time Stay-at -Home Mom.   * my Mother lost her fifth-born child, Joseph O’Donnell Fries, several hours after he was born ( December 11, 1956 ).  She carried her baby for a full nine months and was never given the chance to see her son or to hold him which only added to her horrendous heartbreak.  * she took some college courses later in life and I was amazed how brilliant she was when I read her research paper on Peyote. * the parish priest once told us that my mother was more Catholic than the Pope.   She held an office with the Christian Mother’s Association. * luckily, my mother sang the praises of conjugal love. Otherwise, after the negative perceptions of sexuality absorbed during my years in Catholic School, I might never have gotten married. Thanks Mom for explaining things in a positive light. * my Mother loved books and started a library at St. Michael the Archangel Church on Jerome Street in Brooklyn, NY. * she loved the fact that her husband had a college education and worked in the Physics Department at Queens College and that they were exposed to highly educated, stimulating people.   * my mother wanted to go to Ireland but sadly, never got there.  * she wanted to drive but never took lessons. * she loved being an O’Donnell and was disappointed that she had to give up her maiden name when she got married.  * She would get mad at my father but told me on several occasions that she looked at other women's husbands and quickly decided she liked the one she had the best.   She said she wouldn’t trade her husband for any of the others.   * my mother loved children.  * she loved to sleep * she loved ice cream and it was the last thing she ate before she died.   * she took art classes in her later years and wasn’t a bad artist. * she has wrote realms of journals and copybooks filled with her thoughts and feelings and what she ate for dinner. I can’t throw them out.  * she was always planning outings and activities rather than planning for her death.  * she left this earth 27 years ago but somehow she isn’t really gone.  * when I am out shopping and I hear a woman say, “Mom”, I get jealous.  I have the urge to go over to the younger woman and tell her how lucky she is, but I restrain myself. 

The 60th Reunion

60th Reunion On Friday, November 7th, 2025, I was the first person from the St. Vincent’s Hospital School of Nursing, Class of 1965 to walk into Jack Doyle’s Irish ☘️ Pub. My husband Bob and I had left our home in Latham NY early enough so as to make certain that we would get there in time for the 12 noon meetup time. After all, our 60 year reunion is a once in a lifetime event that I absolutely didn’t want to miss. We figured if we made excellent time and arrived early we could sit and chat in the car for a while before I went into the Pub. We made fabulous time until we were about a mile away from my destination. We hadn’t driven into Manhattan in many years so we were not prepared for the massive traffic we had to deal with once we reached midtown. We crept around the last couple of blocks but it turned out the streets were so crowded, there wasn’t a spot available to pull the car over to the curb, so when we got close to Jack Doyle’s I had to grab my pocketbook and Nursing Cape and jump out of the car. I opened the front door and stepped into a winter wonderland of Christmas greenery, sparkling white lights and shiny ornaments. Wow, how very magical I thought as I walked over to a young woman who was unstacking chairs in the relatively empty Pub. There was a handful of people sitting at the bar when I arrived but not one single sign of a reunion. I asked the young lady the whereabouts of the St. Vincent’s Reunion group and she looked at me rather confused before answering. For a moment, I thought maybe something had changed and I missed the email. Or maybe my 80 year old brain messed up and I was at the wrong Pub or worse yet, I travelled to New York City on the wrong day. In case you’re not there yet, when one turns 80, remembering details is no longer a strong point. But almost as soon as these fears entered my mind, I dismissed them. After all, I had reviewed the details over and over a million times as this was something I didn’t want to miss. Finally the young lady responded in her sweet Irish brogue “ Oh yeah, but we’re not quite ready yet” Thank God, I thought as I asked the location of the Ladies Room. Another consequence of turning 80, is the relief at knowing a bathroom is nearby. As I was exiting the stall and was washing my hands, I overheard a familiar Brooklyn accent and it made me happy. When the Ladies Room door opened, I fell into the embrace of a very dear classmate, Gail Dougherty Checkett. It was at that moment that I realized the depth and true emotional implications of this reunion. …….to be continued When I exited the restroom, I watched the staff preparing our alcove area on the first floor. I believe the initial plan was that we were to have a room on the second floor but because stairs would be problematic for some of us, the Pub made these necessary adjustments. As older women walked through the front door and started walking towards our area in the room, one by one these “elderly women” slipped away and my young classmates appeared in their places. I need a scotch and soda I said as I walked over to a darling young waitress by the bar. I took a couple of comforting sips and I remembered our welcoming party our first night at 158 West 12th Street. An upper classmate sang” Scotch and Soda, Mud in your eye, Baby do I feel high, Oh me, oh my, Do I feel high”. Yes, I certainly felt high but it wasn’t the alcohol. Rather I felt something so monumental, it almost took my breath away. All of a sudden I started to cry. I turned toward the back of our little alcove in an attempt to stop myself from letting go as I knew if I let it out then and there I would be sobbing hysterically. This was the type of emotion that would be difficult to contain even though, quite honestly I really didn’t understand the full meaning of my tears. Thank God, Missy and Pat had the reins of this event firmly under their control. I was a bit of a wet noodle. The time flew by but, honestly, we are older now and it was probably just about the right amount of time for one day. Nonetheless, it made me wish we were somewhere together where we could sleep overnight and regroup the next day.. Every second when we were together was magical for me. Since those magical hours ended, I’ve done a lot of reflecting and here is what I’ve come up as to why it was all so emotional and so monumental for me. In this group of 22 women, I could feel the presence of all our beloved classmates including all those who weren’t able to make the trip for one reason or another and even all those of us who have already died. We didn’t have an official Mass together on Friday, but in my humble opinion, we had a very real Communion with all the beautiful members of the SVH, Class of 1965 Communion of Saints. I also thought about the impact of all these “cream of the crop” nurses who graduated at 4pm on Tuesday, June 15, 1965 at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and I imagined the vast impact of all these loving, healing hands and hearts over these past 60 years. I thought of the rippling effects on every single person whose lives were touched by my classmates. Dear God, if that isn’t monumental!! I am so honored to have known you and to be numbered among you. I want to be remembered as a member of the St.Vincent’s Hospital School of Nursing, Class of 1965 throughout eternity. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of you.

Aunt Dorothy O’Donnell

My mother, Rita Mary O’Donnell Fries, who was Dorothy’s oldest sister told me that no one ever knew for sure what caused Dorothy’s seizure disorder. One possible cause was the fact that Dorothy suffered a ruptured appendix and became deathly ill. My mother prayed really hard that Dorothy would survive but always felt that she might have developed her seizures as a consequence of being so sick. The other scenario I heard was that she fell from a ladder or rope while in gym class. Aunt Anne told me that she would go out with Dorothy to the 5 and 10 Store and Dorothy would put things in her pockets and leave the store and the cops would be called. Anne was always explaining about Dorothy’s condition. One time Dorothy had a full blown seizure ( Grand Mal seizure) while they were walking on the sidewalk and a lot of people surrounded them and attempted to intervene and Anne had to take charge of the situation and tell them she was able to handle it correctly. Dorothy would sleep walk and leave the family’s Brooklyn apartment in the middle of the night. This was one of the reasons it was decided to place Dorothy in Craig Colony. Also my grandmother ( Margaret Coleman O’Donnell ) had a weak heart after suffering a heart attack at age 47 so it was becoming more and more of a challenge for her to keep Dorothy at home. I can only imagine what a difficult decision it was. Maybe this is the reason it was not discussed in much detail. Anne and Dorothy are buried in the Friendsville Cemetery either side of their parents, Margaret (Coleman) and T.J. O’Donnell Craig colony or Craig state school was for folks with seizure disorders. Located in Sonyea, Wyoming County. Can’t prove it not I believe Sonyea was an acronym for state of New York epileptic asylum Dorothy was born in December 1919 and Anne in December 1920 - just one year apart. Dorothy died in 1942

Charles A. Fries Sr. teaching Radio Communications

St. Patrick’s Church

Meg sitting in the spot where St. Patrick’s Church in Middletown Center sat until quite recently. (All that’s left is the cornerstone from 1848 and the graveyard that surrounded the church. Sadly it was torn down and I miss being able to walk up the isle where my grandma, Margaret Mary Coleman, married my grandfather, Thomas J. O’Donnell, on January 19, 1916. The reception followed at my great grandmother’s house but I’m not sure where exactly the house was. I like to fantasize that it was the house in this picture which is a very short distance from the church but my Great-Grandma, Hannah Byrne Coleman was widowed at a young age and left to run a farm and raise 8 children on her own therefore I doubt her house would be so big and elaborate.

Old Black Sailor

On the beautiful country road from the O’Donnell Homestead to Stanley Pond ( now called Stanley Lake ). There is a family story about an incident that occurred when the 3 O’Donnell brothers went to Stanley Pond with their dog, Old Black Sailor. They crafted a little raft out of some twigs and small logs and sent Old Black Sailor for a ride out into the pond. The raft went too far out into the middle of the pond and they couldn’t get it back closer to shore when the sun began to set. Finally, they knew they better get back home before the dinner hour so they reluctantly left Old Black Sailor floating on the raft, fearing that they might not see him again. Since the dog was allowed to wander around the farm, they didn’t say a word about their dilemma to their parents and later that night they went to bed wondering sadly if they would ever see their beloved dog again. When they awoke the next morning and went downstairs they heard some noise at the back door and when they opened it, there was Old Black Sailor in all his glory, a bit water-logged but wagging his tail joyfully!

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Nostalgic trip to the country

Broadening My Understanding of Human Sexuality

Right off the bat, I felt comfortable in Pediatrics and I’ve always attributed my relaxed attitude to the fact that my mother had complete confidence in my ability to care for my baby sister, Margaret Mary, even though I was only nine years old when she entered my life. I was overjoyed at her arrival and found all aspects of her care entertaining and fun. I also believe it is one of the main reasons I wanted to become a Pediatric Nurse. Although I took my studies and nurses’ training seriously it came as a rather shocking surprise, when in my first assignment as an RN on the Pediatric Unit at St. Vincent’s Hospital in NYC, I was assigned to care for a sweet little baby who had a condition that I didn’t remember learning about during my schooling. It seemed that most of the rest of the medical and nursing staff on our Unit didn’t know much about it either ( the year was 1966 ). Among other problems, this baby was born with both male and female sex organs. At the time, the terminology we used when referring to this child was “Hermaphrodite”. Even though we were a major Medical Center in Manhattan, I remember the commotion this baby’s diagnosis caused on our Pediatric Ward. Today, the term "hermaphrodite" is considered outdated and stigmatizing, and the condition is currently referred to as “Intersex”. This early experience broadened my understanding of human sexuality and the vast complexities and variations that can and do exist. The publication ,“Understanding Differences and Disorders of Sex Development (DSD)” is in constant flux as research and development in this area is complex and ongoing. Throughout the recent years there has been a shift of focus from individual bodily differences( whether at the level of genes, chromosomes,gonads or genitals,) to the social context in which such classifications are made, and the ramifications that inclusion or exclusion from normative social classifications can have on individuals. This early experience as a Pediatric Nurse helped me to discard negative, judgmental and erroneous teachings about human sexuality. Currently I know and love and support many individuals in the LGBQT+ community. I will continue to speak out against prejudicial behavior that harms the people I love. ❤️

A Young Child’s Misunderstanding

My Mother’s Story about a little incident involving her mother ( my grandmother, Margaret Mary Coleman O’Donnell) that happened in the late 1890’s. My Mother’s parents farm on Rt. 858, Middletown Township, Susquehanna, Pa was a mile or two from the homestead of her paternal grandparents, - Darius Coleman and Margaret Curley. She often visited there. On one of these visits she got her little legs caught in the rungs of a chair. Her grandma tried in vain to get her loose and called to her grandpa, saying “ I’m afraid you’ll have to use a saw, Darius.”Poor mother screamed in protest when she thought she was going to get her leg sawed off!

A Question Too Dangerous To Ask

I recently attended a “meet and great” session for a group of young seminarians at a local church in the Capital District. They were, of course, all male, and they were in different stages in their pursuit of the end goal of ordination to the priesthood in the Roman Catholic Church. All but one were already wearing the Roman Collar. The parishioners asking the questions were seated in an enormous circle around the large room of the parish center. The “priests in training” were directed to one area of the circle and were seated next to each other. I didn’t take an exact count but a rough estimate is that there were about 10 bright and smiling faces in this black, priestly garb. I believe three of the young men were from countries in Africa, and one earnest, young man -intent on mastering the English language -was from Vietnam. I believe only two of the young men were native born Americans. The pastor who was leading the conversation stood inside the circle, tightly guarding the mic 🎤. I understood the instructions that the Deacon and his wife were going to be invited to ask the first couple of questions and then the questioning would proceed from there. I didn’t know that this meant the questions were to be asked around the circle in a specific direction, which turned out to be my first mistake. In retrospect I realized that the questioning was also one-sided, meaning the parishioners asked the seminarians questions rather than visa versa. It didn’t take me long to start feeling a bit bored. The Deacon and his wife and a few others asked what I considered substantial, meaningful questions. One question about welcoming individuals from the LGBTQA+ community was answered in a rather general way, i.e., “ all are welcome “ . Maybe I had the wrong idea, but frankly I was expecting the discussion of meatier topics, and I was hoping to get a deeper understanding of these young men. Instead, rather superficial questions were being asked. It appears the group sponsoring the “Meet and Greet “ met ahead of time and were groomed as to the type of questions considered appropriate. Many of the parishioners read the question directly from a piece of paper they were holding. It seemed rather contrived and unnatural to me especially since the questions were so simple: “ What is your favorite food?”, “What was your favorite book?”, Who is one person you admire most?”, etc. I had a question that was near and dear to my heart ❤️ so I raised my hand. After several attempts at raising my hand, one of the facilitator ladies, came up behind my chair and put her hand on my shoulder so the Pastor would see that I had a question. It worked, but to my chagrin maybe it shouldn’t have. Before even asking my question, the Pastor announced that he was told the questioning was to proceed around the circle in an orderly fashion and I was on the other side of the circle insinuating quite clearly that it wasn’t yet my turn. In my defense I honestly missed this part of the initial directions. Nonetheless, I felt a bit embarrassed that I had “stepped out of line”. It was somewhat awkward to be called out publicly for my indiscretion. I’m an 80 year old “Cradle Catholic”, and I have a long history of being reprimanded for my honest and sincere questions. It seems that certain things are not to be addressed openly and honestly in the Catholic Church. But, since I was now in the position to speak, I asked the young seminarians, “ What do you envision the role of women to be in your church communities? “ I was quite surprised by the pastor’s response. He grabbed the microphone 🎤 from me and proceeded to say that he would handle this question himself. He proceeded to say very emphatically that everyone knows how much women do in his parish, emphasizing that he couldn’t do without them. But since this is a theological issue currently being addressed by highly educated theologians, it’s not going to be discussed here. ( Please note: I’m paraphrasing here as to what was said and how I heard it). Nonetheless, it was the only question during the entire hour and a half “Meet and Greet “that the seminarians were not allowed to answer. Near the end of the formal meeting I turned to my friend in the circle and whispered that I felt like crying 😢. As soon as the meeting was over the pastor came over to us and tried to smooth over what had happened. He said something to the effect that he had to be protective of the seminarians and asking them that question could have be damaging. His goal is to get them ordained.

A Change of Heart

I was a newly minted Registered Nurse, when I taught a young mother named Maria about the different methods of birth control.  Other Catholic Nurses refused the assignment saying it was against their religion. I was Catholic too, and at that time in my life, a rather rigid rule follower especially when it came to teachings about sexuality. I had swallowed the theory that artificial birth control was “ against the natural law “.  In case you never heard of this reasoning before, basically it’s the belief that preventing the sperm from reaching the ovum was interfering with nature and therefore evil. I went to an all girls Catholic Academy and an all girls Catholic Nursing School therefore I was well versed and thoroughly indoctrinated about “ the sins of the flesh”.  Nevertheless, I readily said “yes” when assigned this task.  I had a relationship with Maria and her young husband and their little toddler daughter.   They came to Clinic D at Downstate Medical Center every 3 - 4 weeks and sat with their baby girl in the Infusion room as she received the blood transfusion she needed to survive. She had a very serious medical condition known as Thalassemia Major. This is a generic condition (autosomal recessive inheritance) where if both parents are carriers of the recessive gene there is a one in four chance that the child born to them will have the disease.  Back in 1967, children affected with this disease typically died in their late teens or early twenties and their lives were severely impacted. I was the Infusion Room Nurse and I got to know these families quite personally.  Therefore when I was asked to instruct Maria in the different contraceptives that medical science had blessed us with, I knew what I had to do.  I didn’t hesitate, I had no doubt, I had not an ounce of guilt.   My thought process was clear and concise. Maria was 22 and her husband was not much older.  To ask them to risk another pregnancy and expose another child to this kind of disease and the suffering it involved was absolutely evil.  God is love ❤️ and he wouldn’t want that.  Moreover to ask a young married couple to spend the rest of their married life as brother and sister was truly against the “ laws of nature”.   I taught Maria with a clear conscience and a loving heart as I knew it was the right thing to do. 

Memorial Day Ceremony, Colonie, NY 2025

 The following was presented at the Town of Colonie’s Memorial Day Ceremony at Veterans Memorial at the Crossings Park on Wednesday. May 21, 2025.  

This is the story of my mother‘s younger brother, Joe O’Donnell. Although Joe O’Donnell was born and raised in Brooklyn, NY, his daughter Sharon and many of her family members reside in the Capital Region of Albany, NY . I’m grateful for this opportunity to share my Uncle Joe’s story with you at this Memorial Day ceremony this evening. 

The night before my Uncle Joe O'Donnell left for Korea, he and my Aunt Marie stayed up all night talking. They wanted to spend every possible moment together, as they knew there was a possibility that Joe might not return. The trip to La Guardia airport the next day was solemn and somber. We were all so terribly sad. I was only 6 & 1/2 years old at the time, but until this day, whenever I pass the airport, I still feel the blanket of sorrow that covered us, Joe's family, as we hugged and said our final good-byes.

When Joe arrived in Korea, he had no way of getting to his post. Since there was a desperate need for officers at the front, Joe arranged to share a jeep with an Army chaplain, the Rev. James Meeder. During their quiet ride together, Joe told Father many family stories about his wife and two little girls, 6 year old Sharon, and 2 and 1/2 year old Diane and he spoke unabashedly of his tremendous love for them. The next day, Joe shared in Mass and Holy Communion with Father Meeder and the rest of his platoon before leaving for the front. 

Even though he was a strong and brave young man, my Uncle Joe was not what I envisioned as a warrior. Although he had served his country for three and a half years during World War II as a member of the 325th Glider Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division, and had fought in and survived the Battle of the Bulge, when I think of Uncle Joe, I remember a kind, sensitive and unusually gentle man. 

I remember a man who drew pictures in letters home so his two little girls would get some idea of the people and places their Daddy was seeing. I think of a devoted son, a son who composed an original poem for his mother one Mother's Day, adding a note of apology at the end because he wasn't able to get to a store to buy a real Mother's Day card. I have no doubt this little poem meant more to my grandmother than all the most elaborate, expensive cards she ever received.

On Oct. 13, 1951, 1st Lt. Joseph T. O'Donnell was killed in action while leading his men, soldiers of the 38th Regiment, 2nd Infantry Division, up a hill called Heartbreak Ridge. On the day the news of Joe's death reached us at our home in Brooklyn, my Grandma, a reserved and ladylike woman, ran out in the street screaming, attempting in vain to run from the most horrendous news any mother could ever receive. Joe was her only son and just 29 years old. 

I remember the bitter cold day in January when we brought Joe's body to its final resting place. I hear the loud and frightening 21-gun salute and the final, mournful sound of a bugle playing taps. But most of all, I still feel the sadness on my Aunt Marie's face as she was handed the flag of a grateful nation. 

Now, all these many decades later, whenever I pass a war memorial, I slow my steps and purposely allow my eyes to fall reverently on the names of the young Americans who gave their lives in service to our country. There on these silent, cold monuments are names written in stone, too numerous to count. I offer a silent prayer for them and for their families. 

I learned at an early age the pain and sadness that lingers forever when one so young, one so beloved falls on a battlefield. And, it causes me to 

think these thoughts once again. May we continue to remember them. May we never look lightly on war and may we work feverishly, unrelentingly to maintain the freedom and peace they died to preserve.

80!

 80!

Reflecting on this monumental birthday: 

Today, March 9th 2025 at 1:20PM, I turned 80 years old. It’s difficult to get these words out, no less comprehend how that happened. I’m now in the “very elderly” category. Feelings are flooding over me- I’m experiencing an avalanche of thoughts and memories.  I’m driven to write them down in an attempt to come to terms with and understand this part of my life. 

This is all new to me as I was never here before.  As a matter of fact I probably never even envisioned what life would be like at this grand old age - the golden years ( who the hell are they kidding?! ) I’m not sure of the best way to document my feelings and I’ve hesitated to start, but the only way to start is “to actually start.”Therefore, I will let my mind brainstorm and see what surfaces.

Recently I have attended several 80th birthday celebrations - one for a High School friend, one for a longtime friend and one in honor of my cousin. 

I guess you could say we’re lucky to have made it to this ripe old age, and I acknowledge that. Nonetheless, there is pain and heartache attached to this age. I’ve said goodbye to so many of the previous generations-mother, father, aunts and uncles, brother, cousins, friends, nursing school comrades. In some ways, it’s as if I have no past. I miss the phone calls from my mother and my father and my aunts, I miss the ability to seek them for wise counsel, or just a willing ear to listen to the mundane activities of an ordinary day.  And, more and more  in the presence of the younger generations, I feel superfluous. Their eyes and actions and words mirror back to me my elderly status. I’m seen as someone who needs extra help, both physically and mentally.  I appreciate the help but it also reinforces a very vivid picture of “old lady “ that is being mirrored back to me. We live in an age of rapid technological advances, and what used to require the simple turning of a knob on a small screened, boxy TV set now requires multiple remotes and an unending array of different viewing sites. I feel like I need to seek out higher education in order to watch my favorite shows.  Luckily my husband of 53 years knows how to navigate the remotes better than I can. 

It seems that I spend a great chunk of my diminishing years visiting a vast array of specialists. I have a different doctor for every part of my body. 

A Gastroenterologist for GERD(Gastro Esophageal Reflux Disease) and IBS(Irritable Bowel Syndrome) a Cardiologist for high blood pressure, and high cholesterol, an Ear, Nose and Throat Specialist (ENT) for sinus issues, an Endocrinologist for Osteoporosis and Adult Onset Diabetes.  Add a Dermatologist, and an Orthodontist, Oral Surgeon, an Ophthalmologist and a Physical Therapist to the list and you can see how keeping body and soul together uses up a great deal of one’s time and energy. 

Turning 80 has a way of bringing this question to the forefront of my mind , “Will this be the last time I do this ? For example, when I’m repacking the Christmas Ornaments and placing them on their designated shelf in our basement. Or when we head off in our car for our annual trip to Florida for a month during the winter. The drive seems to get longer and longer every years even though the  actual mileage doesn’t change.  Our joints get stiffer, eyesight weaker, bathroom breaks more frequent. The amount of equipment I need simply to hold my body and soul together is becoming overwhelming- water pick, electric toothbrush, nasal wash bottles, distilled water and saline packets, heating pads, multiple medications, prescription creams and ointments, orthotics, back pillows, bed pillows for positioning myself to avoid back pain.

I guess I’ve reflected enough on turning 80 for one night and an old woman like me needs her sleep 😴 so I’ll say goodnight and reflect again another day.  Next time I’ll try to focus on the things an 80 year old can still do and enjoy 😊! 

Love ❤️ you all 

More Messages Left Behind

 

Messages Left Behind

 I found my mother’s elementary school autograph ✍️ book from June 1931 from Our Lady of Good Counsel School in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn. It was fascinating to see what people I know wrote for my Mom. I have all her siblings messages and I will include them in the next Blog Entry