Christmas Eve 1978

In order for you to understand this next part there is something you need to understand.


I can and do see ghosts.

Family lore will tell you that I had acted strangely (meaning looking and at times laughing at things that were not there) since birth. It must be true because I do not remember a defining moment of seeing my first ghost. I do however, remember the first time I knew that something was amiss.

We were attending our first Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve as a family. With four kids in tow, the oldest, myself, being eight years old and the youngest being three, this was a godlike feat. Having just buried both of my father’s parents there was so much for our family to pray for. Praying at Midnight Mass was apparently the equivalent of betting on the Super Bowl. Along with the pomp and circumstance, the payout was expected to be big. Being eight, I believed that the little lord Jesus had the power to grant my wish on His two thousand and something-ith birthday. There were candles after all. We lit two. One candle was lit for my Meme and the other for Pepe. As the candles were lit, we children were told to pray.

I prayed for my grandparents to come back. I didn’t know how this could happen. Still, I believed that if my belief was strong enough that in good faith, God would answer my prayer. Somehow, I would see my grandparents on Christmas Eve. Filled with faith, joy and fervor, I knew it was true.

That Midnight Mass was enchanting. In the darkness of night the candles flickered and pulsed with my heartbeat. The pipe organ vibrated the ground beneath my knees. I stood up when the priest walked by our pew and the choir began to sing. I sang too for singing was considered praying twice. I felt the ringing in my lungs as I harmonized with the choir. My soul was uplifted in one voice, one sacred beautiful voice. When the priest arrived at the altar we all stopped singing at once. With the sound of our jubilation ringing in the air, the priest began his greeting. Silently, I knew my miracle was near.

Then there was this smell, a faint wisp of smoke in the air that made me choke. My mother leaned in and told me it was incense. Having attended my grandmother’s funeral the week before, the smell overwhelmed me. I began to wheeze.

Noticing our family’s shifting in the pew, Al, the usher, came to see what was the matter. It was decided that I would go and sit out the incense in the rectory. Being December in Massachusetts, it was far too cold and dangerous for a little girl to stand outside and catch her breath. Being Massachusetts in the 1970’s, Al told me that I was to run back to my parents if I were to hear or see anyone. The rectory is no place for little girls.

I was ushered through two swinging doors and a carved wooden door that needed to be unlocked. Al again reminded me to run and quietly closed the door. In the rectory I could hear the Mass as if it were through a radio. Catching my breath, I looked around for orientation. There was a speaker on the wall catching all sound from the microphone on the altar. So that was the noise. No need to run yet.


The rectory sitting room was the most beautiful living room I had ever seen. There were two beautiful chairs, a gold plated painting and a fireplace that was unlit. I saw smoke drift over my shoulder and turned to see a man, a priest sitting in a chair. We looked at each other for a moment. I felt no fear. I felt the same feeling that I tend to get when glancing at my own reflection in the mirror. It was familial. We definitely knew each other but I could not remember how. We smiled in quiet remembrance. His name was Thomas. We shook hands and his hand felt safe like my Dad's.

He knew that I was a great writer. I assumed my teachers at Our Lady of Hope school had told him. I asked him some questions about the room and being a priest. He answered serenely with a wry smile enjoying his cigarette. His legs were crossed and his foot bounced as thoughts would enter his mind like a dog wagging its tail. Then he asked me if I would write his story when I grew up. I was gob smacked. This was a very special assignment for a girl in the third grade. I said yes, of course. Thomas looked toward the kitchen, we heard a noise of other men coming in. He told me it was time to go back and sit with my parents. Thomas assured me he would be watching. A rectory was no place for little girls.

I ran back into the church running smack into Al throwing him off balance. Not stopping to talk, I sat back down next to my mother. She asked why I was running and I told her that I heard some men and Thomas the priest had told me to hurry back. She asked me which priest on the altar was Thomas. I looked and he was not there. I got a little swat for lying. There were only 3 priests in our parish and they were all in attendance for Midnight Mass.

college

I was four years old the day I first saw my grandfather cry. In my mind, it was a beautiful day. My mother had just put us all down for a nap when there was pounding at the front door. I heard my grandfather growl at my mother,"This doesn't concern you. Just back off!"

"Well, you got away with not taking your nap this time Sister. Tomorrow you are going back to your routine without a fight. Got it?" I got it all right. Today was going to be my big day. I was skipping my nap and getting a ride in Pepe's car. Two things that I was told I would never do in the same afternoon made for a memorable day.

I skipped all the way to the car holding Pepe's hand. As far as I was concerned, he was rescuing me. "Thanks for taking me away, Pepe.", I said in time with my skip. "Huh", he said a little more gruffly than he intended," I am not taking you away. We are going to work something out that has been a long time coming." My four year old brain did not understand what he was talking about. I continued smiling and got into Pepe's car.

As he buckled my seat belt I felt something wet hit my arm. I looked up to see where it came from and saw my grandfather's face. So many years later, I remember it clearly. His face was tan, wrinkled and roughened with time. The tears flowed through aqua-ducts made by the deep wrinkles of his face. I touched his face and traced the tracks of his tears with my tiny finger. His face felt different from my father's. His stubble was light and coarse. His skin was taut like leather. I sensed his mystery.

"Pepe, are you hurt?" The tears rolled from his eyes and nose. He gasped to get a breath. Then again trying to get a grip. He needed to refill his lungs before he could speak. He sniffed and turned away to mop his face with the sleeve of his jacket. Unable to form words, he walked around the front of the car to the driver's side. Taking his time, he got in.

I continued to ask questions. " Just stop talking. Just stop, okay? We are going to talk to some friends of mine. I need you to help me. No talking. Just do as I say."

The car ride seemed to take forever. With so many unknowns and a no talking rule, I really didn't know what to think. At last the car stopped. The trip from Merrimac, to Carew to Newberry to State took a whole eight minutes. I thought I would die. Once out of the car I asked if it would be okay to talk now. Pepe said,"Yes, but only until we get into the building." I exploded with four year old girl chatter. "Who is that statue of over there? Who is Mary? Do I know her? Why is her statue all white? That building is so big, right Pepe? I can skip really well. If Mary Statue could move her legs, I bet she could skip really well, right Pepe?" Shaking his head with a sigh of adoration, my grandfather told me to be quiet. He tried to flatten my matted hair with his hand and get me presentable. He did the once over, smiled bleakly and tied my shoes.

"Alright. It is time to go in. Remember, no talking. Whatever you hear, no talking." I nodded my head. It was serious business.

We walked up the steps and into the door with quiet church feet. It was not a church. The place was so beautiful, it might have been a palace. I wondered inside my head, remembering the no talking rule, could this be the house of a princess? Maybe I am special like Snow White. I decided to be quiet and act like a princess. I smiled and nodded at the adults who greeted me.

While I was keeping myself contained, my grandfather could not. His voice caused an echo which made the veiled lady pull him into a room made of tained glass wall. I tried to enter but was shooed away. Pepe sat in a chair in a frenzied state. People began to surround him trying to get him to hush. Pepe could not calm down. He got loud again. The veiled lady picked up a phone and called someone to help. Then she came to me and ordered me to go with the girls upstairs.

The girls were big like grown ups but they said they were only teenagers. The carpets were oriental and the walls were of lacquered wood. There were portraits on the walls with golden frames. Windows were draped with blood red velvet drapes. The girls told me not to touch anything. As Pepe's voice became smaller, I asked in a small princess voice if I could talk. They laughed and said they were just being quiet until they got upstairs. I laughed too, just to be like them.

Upstairs there was a long hallway with more beautiful rugs and lots of doors. I had never seen anything like it. We entered a room that was enormous. It was a dorm room with three beds and big girls with books. " Hi Gals! I like how you princesses live.", I said trying to fit in. The three looked at the girls who brought me in and asked,"Who is she? Where did she come from?" They could not answer. Their sister just told them to take me upstairs.

Upstairs I ran and played. My excitement could not be contained. The girls gave me candy, read me stories,played hide and seek and chased me in a tickle fight. As a grand finale we slid on our bums down the carpeted staircase. Mid laugh I paused looking up. "Why is there a painting of my Daddy up there?" The girls told me that I was mistaken, that man died a long time ago. He is the man that the building is named after. " He looks like a king. Is this place a castle?" No, they answered. They told me that this was a college campus and this building was where the girls sleep at night. Confused, I continued to slide down the stairs.

Scooped up by my grandfather at the bottom of the stairs, we left the castle. On our walk to the car I noticed a change in my grandfather. His stance was stronger, chest filled with air, his eyes filled with determination. He made a barely audible snuff like a dog that just left a fight. He held my hand with pride and told me," Well kid, it looks like you'll be going to college." I replied," What is college?"
"College is right here. This place is your college. It will be waiting for you when you grow up."

That night I went to bed without a fight. My heart was full, knowing that I was very special. When I grew up, I would become a princess. My castle was already waiting for me.

Puzzle Pieces

I knew my father’s adoptive parents for the first 8 years of my life. Limited by the understandings of a child, I could only know them on one level, Meme and Pep.
They were my grandparents. They adored me as their first grandchild. Hanging upon all of my firsts, my words and my little world,they knew me completely. There was so much I never knew about them.

A child may never know their grandparents or for that matter parents. Parents, having lived decades of life before seeing the face of their children, are a source of mystery. Curiosity and the adolescent belief, to know one is to know one’s ancestors, will draw out desires of knowing the past. Curiosity is what cements the relationship between grandchild and grandparent. Storytelling at the dinner table or around a camp fire is the age old link between generations. Grandparents hold the seat of honor because they hold all the keys. Their keys unlock a hidden past, an intimate knowledge, the mystery of the parent because grandparents knew your parents from their beginnings.

What happens to the child whose grandparents became ghosts before the stories could be told? Usually the story will die with the storyteller. But sometimes, a ghost will return from the past with momentum to tell their story. Because as in physics when you suppress a beach ball under water, the moment you let go the ball will surface. At some point a secret that is suppressed will be brought to light. It is only a matter of time before all is revealed.

This is my story of remembrances, research and ghosts. My mystery, my family history, has been given to me in puzzle pieces. Try as I might, I have not been able to piece them together. I would like to start at their beginning. Not knowing that piece, I can only begin with my own beginning, the first piece.