Abbey-Roads2

Just some memories. (I think I’m being way too schmaltzie today. SEE! See what this time of year does to grown men!)

Later that day (the day he died, the anniversary of which is today.) I was alone at home. I played McCartney. Specifically “Monk-berry Moon Delight” over and over. Not for the lyrics, but for the nostalgia of the melody. I was angry with my brother dying like that, yet so sad that he died.

I was furious with my dad - whom I blamed for his death, and who would die one year later. (I must hasten to add, I no longer blame him though.)

Then I drove and drove, listening to the same song, hitting rewind and replay every time. I was so empty - feeling so alone. I had no one to prove myself to any longer. (See how selfish I am - it’s always about me. Although - when someone dies - it is just you - you’re left behind…)

I reacted in the same fashion when my friend Jim died - the first of our friends to die - he was Donna’s boyfriend for a while; I drove and drove, replaying Abbey Road, over and over. Angry that Jim moved away and thought I was nuts for returning to the Catholic Church - yet suddenly he was dead. I later painted a Frida style ‘Pieta’ of him - it was the only way I could deal with his death. It’s ugly - it hangs in my basement now - I’ll probably burn it one day. (Actually I put myself in the Madonna’s place, and it’s just that I’m ugly.)

I digress - nevertheless, somehow I connected the two deaths.

When my dad died, of the same alcoholic causes as Skip, nearly a year later, I did the same thing - I played the same song over and over - in memorial to Skip, and not so much my Dad. I mourned him much later, when I realized he did the best he could. (Kids eventually have to understand that about their parents.)

The world should stop for a moment when someone you love dies - yet that would be the end of the world wouldn’t it - because someone is dying all the time.

‘Monk-berry-moon-delight’ means absolutely nothing - I never got the lyrics, except these made an impression:

It was really the music, that plaintiff tone I listened to.

After they died, I had to grow up on my own. A son and a younger brother always tries to measure up somehow, and after they were gone, I had to find my own measure. I still get kind of p-ssed about that however.

Today is the feast of Our Lady of Loreto.

(Pictured, the Translation of the Holy House. It can happen! )

Commemorating the miraculous translation - by angels - of the Holy Family’s house in Nazareth, this feast honors the transfer, first to Croatia and then to the hilltop of what is now known as Loreto, Italy.

Since a little boy, I have never had the least problem with this story. In fact, I went to live as a pilgrim in Italy, in imitation of St. Benedict Joseph Labre, with the intent of visiting Loreto, where I stayed for a while.

I stood praying within the Holy House, which is enclosed within the basilica, ornamented by marble architecture, as a sort of tabernacle or aedicule. I stood at the back of the interior, in a corner, so as not to be disturbed by pilgrims. I would only step out to pray Our Lady’s office from time to time, seated on a bench outside the House, since the light was easier to read by. My experience there, convinced me the Holy House is authentic. (I also thought it would be a beautiful place for newlyweds to honeymoon - not the House, but the beautiful hill town of Loreto.)

My friends, Alberto Marvelli (pictured), and Pina Suriano were beatified there by John Paul II shortly before he died.

It was there I prayed most especially for my family. Years later, my brother Skip died on this day, a personal tragedy far worse than the loss of my parents.

It was the year when the feast of the Immaculate Conception was observed on the 9th of December. I stayed by his bedside, hoping Our Lady would come for him on the 8th. On the 9th, the observance of the solemnity, I asked Skip, who was in a coma, “When is Our Lady coming?”

He lifted his head from his pillow and opening his eyes, looking directly at me, responded clearly like a little boy, “I don’t know?” Then he fell back into his coma.

The next day, on my way to see him, I was at the first Mass of the day. After communion, I understood he had just died. When I got to his house, his nurse told me he had died about 20 minutes earlier, and I said “I know.” When I got to him he was still warm.

Skip had had a vision of Our Lady several years before his death. She just suddenly appeared as Our Lady of Grace - for a few seconds - it was just a glimpse. He began to pray again, wondering what it meant. I always believed it was Our Lady, that was why I asked him when she was coming for him as he lay in that coma.

Towards the end, he struggled with alcoholism and depression. His marriage had failed in divorce, and he was haunted by his own sense of failure - something our parents predicted for us, as a sort of curse. Skip had already been in and out of treatment. Being the little brother, I tried to help him, but couldn’t. He got mad at me when I would send black-humor greeting cards, or serious notes - intervention style - to try and coerce him into going back into treatment. He finally asked me to stay out of his life.

When I finally backed off, some “holy people”, those I like to call “Job’s friends” had much advice for me. One piece was their fraternal correction that I was comitting a grave sin and risking my salvation by not doing more for my brother…”How can you just let him die like this?!” (Gee! I don’t know - maybe because he won’t answer the phone or his door and when you get the police to go over to his house he tells them I am a trouble maker and he doesn’t want me near his house? Or that, after his doctor told me his prognosis and that I should encourage him to get some help, my brother told everyone else that I made it up and I was lying? Maybe that is why I let him die. Watch out for those “holy people”.)

Thanksgiving the year he died I went to be with him in the hospital - waiting at first while the nurse asked his permisson for me to enter. He had already made his confession and we talked. He expressed his fear of purgatory - I promised him I’d take care of that with prayer and many Masses for him. I told him it wasn’t as bad as everyone believes - because the soul knows for certain one is saved and the soul accepts whatever comes with peace. Then I told him all about St. Catherine of Genoa’s treatise on purgatory - careful not to be like Job’s friends. (Not long after his death, his daughter Gioia had a dream wherein she opened a door and Skip was standing within a blast furnace, all aflame. She worried it was hell, and I said it was more likely purgatory. But then I began to worry - what if I fooled him? However, Our Lady consoled me a few years later by letting me know he was saved. Although I don’t know if he is in heaven yet. Skip was very fond of money.)

So that’s my Loreto story - Our Lady finally came to get my brother on this feast. It’s pretty sappy, but “Wind Beneath My Wings” always makes me think of him, especially the lines, “Did you ever know that you were my hero? You’re everything I wished I could be?” He never knew that. Sometimes brothers compete, and fight, and hide their true feelings. If he was still alive, I doubt I’d let him know how I truly felt - now that he is dead, it’s okay - he can’t turn on me any longer.

Here is a brief history on the Holy House.

“According to Catholic tradition, the Holy House came under threat during the turmoil of the Crusades, so in 1291, angels miraculously translated the house from its original location to a site in modern-day Croatia. An empty space was left in Nazareth, while a small house suddenly appeared in a field. The bewildered parish priest, brought to the scene by shepherds who discovered it, had a vision in which the Virgin Mary revealed it was her former house.

On December 10, 1294, the house was again moved by angels because of the Muslim invasion of Albania. It landed first in Recanti, Italy, but was shortly thereafter moved for a third time to its present location in Loreto.

The Holy House of Loreto, or Santa Casa di Loreto in Italian, has been venerated by pilgrims great and small, including many popes and saints, and numerous miracles and healings have been reported. Scientists are said to have confirmed the materials to be the same as those found in Nazareth and the house lacks any foundations.”