Mother Remembered

Mother in my field of dreams

I had another dream in which my Mom, now gone seven years, and I were talking. This is the second dream now that I’ve experienced her presence so powerfully that I am moved to tears to think of it. Mothers Day and spring flowers are now infused with her memory because her diagnosis of Lymphoma and her death were bracketed in one year between Mothers Days.
In each dream she looked lovely, in the first dream a little bewildered like Shoeless Joe in the movie Field of Dreams.  In the second dream she had returned to her role as my chief nurturer and listener.  We had a good talk and then she left me to carry on with my task at hand.

She fought a valiant year long battle, taking chemo concurrently with King Hussein of Jordan. She had the best of medical care, taking twelve rounds of chemo in as many months with a hospitalization for each one, finally succumbing to a lurking lung infection.

She was an independent intellectual soul who needed very little as long as it included a good book.  She was reduced in her latter months to dependency on me, the one of her four children who lived close by. I am ever grateful I was the one to support her in her toughest battle because we formed a special bond. I shopped for her food, brought her books and looked in on her so often the other elders in her apartment complex knew me well. Before her illness she had struggled with overweight but that final May she had wasted away so much I could just support her weakened frame as we walked to the car on that final trip to the Emergency Room.

 
The hospital staff was impressed with her hopeful attitude but in the end when hope for a cure faded so did her eyes and her humor and wit ceased to bubble to the surface as her physical shell simply wore out from the damaging cure which kept the tumor in check. No food, book nor flowers could bring a twinkle to her eye.  One thing did - words of affection.

She had been, in her youth, beautiful and vivacious with a strong resemblance to a 40’s movie star.  As a child I believed my mom had been on the silver screen whenever I saw Ann Sheridan in a movie and would exclaim, “Mom, you’re on the TV again!” She was smart too and a self-educated stay-at-home mom who convinced us that she considered her role as mother her main act and her life’s crowning achievement, a “Greatest Generation” hallmark.  It has proven to be a tough act to follow but an inspiring one.

She was the only grandparent my children had ever known having lost the others to the silent stalker, cancer that had taken so many elders from both my husband’s and my family. My own children are too young to worry about their genetic heritage and will hopefully benefit from nutritional and medical progress as well as the spiritual weapons my mother only utilized in her final months.

 
Soon my middle son will enter his fourth year of Army medical training at USUHS Medical School. As an undergraduate at Grove City College some of his professors had worked on the Human Genome Project training new recruits to enter the battlefield of disease. At USUHS in Bethesda MD young officers train in the field of medicine to serve their country.

I wonder if he will he will play a part in finding a cure for the disease that took his Nana, who invested many hours in rocking him to sleep when this mom needed a break.  She taught him to form smooth balls, pies and creations of Playdoh.  She pitched baseballs to him in the backyard and faithfully sent him cards with money to show how much she loved him as he grew older.

Surely he will treat other people’s Nana’s with the love and compassion he received in his formative years. It is with those smooth stones of security, passed on from generation to generation that a young warrior can stand tall and take on the Goliath of the day.  She bequeathed talent, passion for learning, perseverance, courage and creativity which she received from her parents and described in a poem about a trellis she watched her father build. The rose trellis was a metaphor for our family structures, like interwoven latticework, what supports our DNA, without which we would be clones or automatons.

The Trellis

Slender white strips of wood were seen
To form a sturdy wooden frame,
That held up the tender shoots of green
‘Til their promised scarlet beauty came.

The strength of the vines, time tested
The rosy blooms in all their charms
And in the end the tired trellis rested
In the vine’s supporting arms.                       Doris I. Noonan (1922-99)

My children’s generation will take the tools passed on and come against “The big C” and other foes.  The blooms on the trellis will blossom nurtured by the roots. My “field of dreams” is not inhabited by baseball heroes but by my mom and other family members who’ve played the game of life valiantly and are now cheering us on.

Chris Noonan Funnell, Free-lance writer

First published in the Metro West Daily News 2006, updated version Aug 18, 2009

Updated again on what would have been Mom’s 89^th birthday, Aug 18, 2011

Green Lemonade

Green Lemonade and Tears

     I’ve always been proud of being Irish. I guess it came from my dad whose parents immigrated here as newlyweds.  My kids keep asking what nationality they have come from so I guess this is the ‘Last Hurrah’ before we turn into that diversity melange everybody seems to want.  I like a fruit salad myself where you can still tell an apple from an orange.  I’m kind of passionate about being Irish, though I’ve run into a few people who are not amused by my green nailpolish or fake brogue.  This is the time of year I play the sad songs of Ireland, bake scones and invite my siblings for corned beef and cabbage. I stop short of “Kiss Me I’m Irish” buttons, leprechauns, pots of gold at the end of the rainbow, or any sort of Irish supremacy slogans.  We have our strengths and weaknesses.  The truth be told, there’s a lot not to be proud of about being Irish.

Some believe “the curse of the Irish”, a fondness for drink, is in the genes.  I think that nurture rather than nature plays a much greater role in what we become. To accept that one is genetically predetermined to be an alcoholic is to divest oneself of ones greatest resource - our faith in ourselves.  Even if we were dealt a poor hand by nature, we still can choose to make lemonade with our lemons.  The Irish race has had more than its share of lemons.  Here in America the Irish have been pumping out lemonade to beat the band with Irish names dominating the political landscape in Massachusetts for a long time.

I wonder what St. Patrick, who died on March 17^th in the 5^th century and who has been credited with the Christianization of Ireland, would say if he were to walk about today or catch the six o’clock news.  The scandal in the church would baffle him, I bet.  Jesus said having a millstone around ones neck and being cast into the sea would be preferable to the punishment of someone who caused one of his little ones to stumble. Heaven help us if a Victoria’s Secret commercial or a Britney Speare promo aired during the ‘murder and mayhem report’ that is our usual dinnertime fare. What’s this, he would look on in disbelief- same sex marriage? Faith and begora!  Abortion - a woman’s right to choose and cloning to kill in the name of scientific advancement all during the watch of a severely compromised church and politically promoted by names like Kennedy, Kerry, Leahy and Shays - Meehan.

Thomas Cahill wrote “How the Irish Saved Civilization”, telling how we played a heroic role in the preservation of civilization during the period between the fall of Rome and the rise of medieval Europe. I hope a sequel doesn’t have to be written about how the Irish, particularly the Massachusetts diaspora, dismantled civilization.  Irish pols keep playin’ the tunes, and tellin’ the tales that the electorate likes to hear. And, bring’n home the pork to go with the mess of pottage; like with Esau who sold his birthright, deals have been cut - a great inheritance traded for a lentil stew, or job security.

Like the unattractive figure on the Celtics Logo, we’re full of pluck, blarney and bluff.  You won’t find me dressed up like a leprechaun and pinching anyone who isn’t wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day because they just might not be that proud of being Irish, and I wouldn’t blame them. I’m not sure but I think St. Patrick would cry.

Christine Noonan Funnell, guest columnist, Metro West Daily News

March 13, 2002

Getting my Irish up

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The Bitter Butter of 2011...

When I Die

Written by Nikki Giovanni

Buyers and Sellers of Bitter Butter 2011: A rewrite of Bitter Butter , a piece published in the MetroWest Daily News in 2000

This article was first written in 2000 when George W. Bush began his first term. There had been an extended battle for the presidency and ballots were being hand-counted in Florida as the nation looked on. It came down to a Supreme Court decision in favor of Bush who won the electoral vote. Al Gore won the popular vote though some have disputed those results as well. A few sore losers have never got over that court ruling and never gave Bush a chance. Instead, partisan and racial bitterness has continued to plague politics even though in 2008 America elected its first black President, Barak Obama. This month we celebrate the birthday of the late Dr. Martin Luther King for his inspiring words and work on behalf of civil rights and freedom.

Betty bought some bitter butter, but the bitter butter was too bitter for the better batter, so she bought some better butter for the bitter batter and made the bitter batter better!

Spoken quickly this tongue twister has been useful, over the years to impress small children with my verbal skills. Teaching art for nearly a decade gave me a front row seat on the state of the American child and family. I have seen the frustration of a child who cannot find a crayon to match her skin color. I made a point of ordering the multi-cultural art supplies that are now available. In January our art lessons included making posters about MLK. Children are more malleable and accepting of differences but they do pick up tensions and attitudes from adults like veritable sponges. The problems lie with the adults not the kids, initially.

I yearned for the kind of eloquence Dr. King was noted for to sooth and inspire those who had taken offense during the extended and contentious election season, so I took some time out to jot down some thoughts under the influence on my drug of choice, caffeine, at a bookstore coffee shop. While waiting for something profound to percolate up with consolation and healing for my irate, disconsolate African-American compatriots, my eyes fell on a poetry display. If only I could soothe angry, frayed emotions with a poem or an essay as persuasive as those of the late Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

I hungered for the right words…a soft answer to turn away wrath.

But what did I know sitting in suburbia without a person of color in sight except on the cover of a poetry book by Nikki Giovani, whose writings I remembered from college. I considered buying the book in hopes of broadening my understanding and cross-cultural bridge building. I began to read but after reading one, two, then a third poem, I suddenly felt I was in the wrong aisle. Ms. Giovanni was not into bridge building, but actually was calling for bitterness and reverse racism…bitter butter!

I put the book back on the shelf and the bridge collapsed into a sea of negativity. Instead of soothing words I got my Irish up.

How many Bettys are buying this bitter butter? How many spread it on their toast each morning and serve it up to their kids daily like they did during “the Troubles” in Ireland?

The recipe for peace and progress calls for better ingredients.

Unfortunately, a decade later, President Obama used his Tucson speech to lecture the nation about goodness. What he lacked in content he made up for in length. He took advantage of the tragedy to infer that the violence of a deranged anarchist is preventable if we all quiet down and live in harmony. He called for “public healing and civil discourse” while shamelessly or cluelessly, transferring guilt to those who speak out. “… let us use this occasion to expand our moral imaginations, to listen to each other more carefully,” This from the same person who said about his determination to foist the Health Care monstrosity on the nation…” if they bring a knife to this fight, we'll bring a gun."

He went, on and on and on and ended up souring what should have been a soothing speech from one leading by example.

Chris Noonan Funnell

 1.18.11

The Bitter Butter of 2011

Winter Light December 1, 2010

Winter Light January 2010

A couple of years ago the little bedside lamp that had accompanied my wanderings and illumined my readings for many years had taken to fits of dysfunction much like the age in which we live. Sometimes without provocation it went off leaving me in the dark and coming back on, if given time, just as mysteriously. Those who know simple electrical repair, like my husband who learned from his father, can easily fix the loose connection. But others without that training might throw the whole thing out as a lost cause. Such a disposition increasingly characterizes our society today. Many have thrown out the instructions on how to re-connect to the power.

While passing through the shortened days of winter we see more and more holiday lights displayed. Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) is a recognized condition for which artificial light is used to treat the soul whose inner light has seemed to flicker out. It is in these winters of the soul that we need to hold tight God's instructions "Fear not... I will never leave you." 

When shadows far larger than the object casting them, appear to loom over our situation, the danger is not the darkness itself but our fear response. As we resist fear we find God's path illuminated and darkness must flee. Perhaps that path winds through gang controlled streets or corrupt corridors. Nevertheless, God said He will never leave us, nor forsake us. Though that light may seem to flicker and die and we question our power source we must remember He is faithful.

Through the Parable of the Ten Virgins we are told to trim our lamps and fill them with oil for the times ahead. The message of Chanukah, the Festival of Lights, generally coincides with Christmas and the Winter Solstice in December. Chanukah celebrates and affirms the miraculous provision of light and victory over darkness. On the darkest day of the year we can confidently celebrate the Giver of all Light. 

I wrote this devotional during a dark season in my life. I can happily report the bedside lamp has been fixed by my faithful husband and I am joyfully resting in The Lord's resplendent light. I have learned to say "Return unto thy rest oh my soul, for the Lord has dealt bountifully with thee." Psalm 116:7

Lord, shine your Light upon us and through us that we might light the way for others in the coming year.

Chris Funnell

FURTHER STUDY:  Psalm 63:7-8, Hebrews 13:5, Matthew 25:1-13, Isaiah 51:4, Isaiah 60:3, Matthew 5:14, John 1:9, 8:12, 9:5, 11:9, 12:46, Revelation 21:24. Psalm 116:7.

Words of wisdom from my father

On a bright June day in 2007 I had plans to spend the night with relatives in town then rise early to shop at Filenes Basement’s annual Running of the Brides to find an outfit for my son’s wedding. Wearing sneakers and earphones, wired to praise music, I had planned to walk to Brookline from a hard day at the Statehouse knowing the exercise and music would help my greatly disappointed soul.

We wuz robbed again! were my angry thoughts at the time but having been trained by my gentlemanly father to hold your fire and coincidentally your ire. However, according to the laws of nature and Nature’s God, I had been genetically balanced with a mother who was an artful communicator in her expressions, body language and when necessary words. So I needed some time to let my conflicting feelings come to an understanding. I’ve bided my time as we watched the stock market plunge right after Obama took office. Republicans have been as rare as loons in the Legislature and it was all we could do to wait for 2010. Real estate and the automotive industry tanked and Massachusetts has chased people away with fees and taxes but the sky has not fallen... they keep saying.

I discovered that June day, tucked away, passing through a verdant but little used corner of the Boston Gardens, a statue I’d never seen before of an angel holding a basket. Inscribed beneath her outstretched wings and flowing robe were the words, “Cast your bread upon the waters and it will return to you after many days”. It could not have been more pointedly received if a boy had driven up on a bike, ringing his bell and handed me, with a flourish, a telegram addressed to me. God was saying, “I know you are disappointed but just keep on doing as I say.” Okay, Dad, you’re the boss. I sniffed and turned my thoughts to the coming wedding which would take place in the Land Down Under that Summer.

My earthly father died the same day Ronald Reagan was first inaugurated. He was a loyal Democrat and he could not understand my abandonment of the Party. He loved the Kennedy boys like his own sons and had tended all four of them as they each passed through Harvard Stadium and Dillon Field House where he worked for forty years. He’d taped up ankles of royalty and given whirlpool baths to future senators and congressmen, literary figures in training and future world leaders.

He had grown up in Somerville and attended Ringe Tech where he and his older brothers knew Tip O’Neil and Speaker McGee. My dad had aspired to be an osteopath and was mentored by team doctors who must have seen the gift of encouragement he so quietly radiated. He had sold popcorn in the stands as a boy and probably carried water for the team just to observe football and that grew into a career as an athletic trainer. When the war intervened he worked for the Navy keeping pilots in shape and after the war
returned to Harvard and under the direction of team doctors was grand-fathered in and became a Registered Physical Therapist.
He eventually opened an office in Harvard Square and for a while served as president of the Massachusetts Association of Registered Physical Therapists. He often joked he would write a memoir, Forty Years at Harvard Without a Degree.

He instilled a strong motivation for a college education in his four children as well as being a model for us generosity, kindness and love.
I remember the things he used to say like “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” This is really good advice especially now with the Internet holding your comments forever in cyberspace.
Dad would also say, “If you go somewhere and don’t have a good time, you have no one to blame but yourself.” These words float back into my mind as I walk through life’s rose gardens and cross dangerous intersections.  Dad also taught his children to take responsibility for themselves rather than blaming others.

Maybe that is why I have spoken out. I’ve spent hours on Beacon Hill, lobbying, praying, dropping off plea letters, petitions and once delivered Christmas stocking coal to the “bad legislators”.

I became involved in my party and was a delegate only to see the  Republican platform toss away its pro-life plank in 2006. I wore red duct tape at the convention unable to support the pro-choice candidate that year. My husband And I were demonstrating the fact that there was no one speaking up for the unborn.
 
On April 15’o9 I went to the TEA Party on Boston Common which was a gathering of a variety of folks who all felt we were Taxed Enough Already.
Although most could be described as conservatives they were angry with the fiscal recklessness of both parties for turning the American Dream into a nightmare for our children and grandchildren.

I’d like to see a party that prioritizes respect for life in the womb and defines marriage as between one man and one woman. Nothing radical just return to sanity.

On several occasions I’ve testified for those values before the Judiciary Committee listening to the public on various bills representing Commonwealth Covenant Keepers. I know I speak for many who have not known how to enter the political process.  They are out there and in huge numbers, like the moral majority these folks are not political, but their platform is older than dirt...hence the term Grass Roots.

Early in 2010 we saw the election of Senator Scott Brown and now with the mid-term elections around the corner we anticipate a lot of changes in the state and federal legislatures.

Let’s hope after November we see real changes in how things are done in the legislatures. I am looking for a whole boatload of  bread to return upon the proverbial waters.

Psalm 68:11, "The Lord gives the word (of power); the women who bear and publish (the news) are a great host."

Typing in the dark: The Democratic Convention...

The Democratic Convention in Worcester: typing in the dark

I wanted to cover the Democratic Convention June 4-5th so that I could compare it to the Republican Convention which was held April 16 and 17^th, both were held at the DCU Convention Center in Worcester. As a free-lance writer with about a decade of columns unencumbered by Political Correctness, I have carved out a niche as a Conservative local columnist. That does not mean I get in print, especially in the Boston Papers though I did blog in Boston.com during the debate before Gay Marriage was legalized in 2007. ( See my article…

http://www.metrowestdailynews.com/lifestyle/columnists/x826450040)

At the Republican Convention I logged about 4000 words describing what happened there but the set up was very different for the second convention. Because they had more delegates they needed more floor space, I was told, and moved the press to the Super Box on the second floor. There was also a boiler room with closed circuit screens which seemed to be preferred by the old guard.

The  Superbox seats were not wired for computers when I arrived and the electrician on duty was called to set up a few extension cords with power strips. I took my seat and began typing in the deluxe but dark area provided. When I powered up, my desktop lit up for everyone behind me with a picture of Obama with an aura. I was outed.

The room temperature started to drop at that point, come to think of it, and youthful aids and interns must have been shocked that an infiltrator had arrived.   

The paid professionals did not cover the speeches given on the opening night by Martha Coakley, Barney Frank, Jim McGovern and others, and a whole tableful of gourmet treats in the private press room went untouched. I was too busy rebooting my computer as I sat mostly alone. My laptop, with a spent battery, kept mysteriously losing power. The DCU was blamed for the power failures, but I had no such trouble at the Republican Convention and we could actually see our laptops.

The journalists who showed up Saturday had no trouble typing in the dark and nobody lost power either. My colleague and the founder and director of COMFLM, “Senior Papparazzi” and constant videographer, suspects a lack of respect for her equipment and free-lance status. But in the end we were grateful to be allowed to share the Superbox with the mainstream press. Thanks to those who made it possible.

We in alternative media may not be liberals like almost all our colleagues covering the news but we all believe in a Free Press, don’t we?

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Boston for Jerusalem, Brookline, MA May 23,2010

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