Found in the library here at St. Ita’s convent inside a book on Mid Century Modernism dated 1959. We’re not sure how it got here. Very intriguing. Is it for real? Must investigate. – Sister Barbara
I nearly left my husband because he would not let me go to Ash Wednesday with the children.
This surprises even me, with my parents who rarely went to church and frequented the sacraments. I can only remember get ashes a few times as a child. And because it was so rare, remember them well. Three times I got ashes. Once when I was about 5, I went with my father, he was stinky drunk. Just came back from the tavern. I was loathe to go with him to church and get ashes, but I did because I was a good girl. I was terrified that the priests giving out ashes knew that he was drunk. He could barely stand straight while standing in line, he swayed to and fro. I was so embarrassed. I didn’t want to return to that church.
And that might well, be in part, why I didn’t want to go to church as a child. I associated it with my alcoholic father. I was certain parishioners would remember him each time they saw me.
But as I’ve gotten older, I can appreciate the power of ashes, how it makes you understand your mortality. You’re going to die one day. Soon. Whether when it’s you’re young or old.
Now that I’m a mother, i understand that even more than ever and I want to convey that to my children. As much as I cling to them and want them to never perish or least not die before me, I do understand that they too need to understand that they too will die one day. Even if don’t want it.
So just being a mom makes me appreciate my Catholic faith more, even if my upbringing in the faith was sparse. I see Jack’s family going to church, Sunday Mass and more, and I’m vaguely jealous. While Jack and I were dating, the whole family went to Ash Wednesday together. I remember how the brothers complained afterwards about fasting, especially not being able to drink. So Irish, so Catholic, those Kennedys.
So this Ash Wednesday? I tried to sneak the kids out of the White House. Jean, John’s sister, was my partner in crime. I knew Jack wouldn’t approve, so I just decided to do and deal with the consequences later.
Pat and I decided we would sneak away for a 12 noon service, Jack would be busy. The Secret Service could escort us to a local church there and back within the hour. Jean and I planned to head into church at the tail end of the service so we wouldn’t get as much attention.
But everything went wrong. Jack’s luncheon with a head of state was cancelled so he saw us as we were headed out to a car. Naturally, he was curious.
“Where are you ladies headed with John-John and Carolyn?” he said, noticing that Pat and I had our coats, hats, and gloves on.
I felt hot. I’m not a good liar to be honest. No child of an alcoholic is. We’re straight up, honest people.
“Oh, Pat and I?” I said uncomfortably. “We’re headed out….”
“Where to in a coat, hat and gloves with the children? It almost looks like you’re going to Sunday mass!”
“Oh, yes, we do look formal, don’t we?”
“You’re not going to Ash Wednesday services?”
All Purgatory broke lose with that news, Sister. Jack was furious, he didn’t like that I was sneaking out with his children to do something like this. He was certainly an old-fashioned Catholic and all, but to go to Ash Wednesday in Washington DC while he was President of the United States? While he was professing to be separation of Church and State even though he was a faithful Catholic? He didn’t like this at all.
“You’re what?” he sputtered, loosening his tie.
“We are going to the Basilica for ashes, all for of us. Actually six of us with the Secret Service.”
“Without my permission?
“We need your permission to go?”
“Why, yes, they are my children too.”
“I understand..but I just want the children to get ashes, just as we did when we were children. It was meaningful to me as a child, and this is something I want for John-John and Carolyn.”
“They’re so young! They will never remember. They’re too young, besides, it’s not helpful when I’m trying to show there’s a separation of church and state during my presidency.”
“It’s about you?”
“No….but appearances, count, Jackie. Reporters and photographers will see you. Take your picture. It will not be a private event at all. Why not just have a priest come here and give ashes?”
“You wouldn’t like that either. What would people think?”
And so it went, Sister. Dreadfully. Poor Pat had to listen to it all. She eventually just left.
And the day ended. No ashes. I felt so disappointed. I had wanted to share this experience with my children, my youth, the part of my childhood that I want to relive through them without the alcoholism. It was not to be. Sadly.
So Lent started with resentment and bitterness toward my husband. I’m not proud of that, Sister. If I could go to confession that would be my sin. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been too long since I last went to confession.
You know all things and you know that I love you when I’m not in love with myself.
Hopefully, Lent will improve in the next letter I sent to you, Sister. I trust your Lent is off to a good start. I envision you getting ashes and then heading to the local pub to secretly celebrate.
By Mary Beth Klatt
The opulent 680-room Caesars Palace began because builder and designer Jay Sarno had a vision: He wanted to construct a unique Las Vegas hotel—an homage to the famed Roman emperor.
Read more here.
Friends, it’s caption contest time with Sister Barbara, the Knitting Nun. Leave a caption in the comments below. Few caveats: keep it clean and family-oriented. Any comments not following these rules will be deleted. Thank you and have fun!
“The 17 iPads that were tossed in the pool and ruined? They can be replaced. It’s the chain smoking that’s a problem.”
George sat back in one of the vintage chairs out on the porch of his clients’ $26 million Los Angeles 1956 estate Mid Century Modern home two-story home, puffing on a Cuban cigar. He surveyed the glittering city of Angels, got up and started walking around the guitar-shaped pool created by a Hollywood star back in the day.
“The way I see it – the ghost themselves are an asset,” he said, tapping his ashes into the pool. “I’ve sold more than one property that was haunted. Just not a Mid Century Modern one. There are some people who seek them out. The idea that chairs mysteriously move or levitate intrigues them. My problem is the smoke.”
He continued talking to Sister Barbara, who came in on the red eye last night. A housekeeper in a crisp black and white uniform swung by the patio with a cup of hot coffee and cookies. George called Sister Barbara yesterday morning, pleading with her to come out and talk to the ghosts in this property now on the market. Apparently the iPads – mysteriously tossed into the pool – were the last straw.
“My team cannot sell a house that’s got the smell of smoke,” he said, pacing manically puffing on his cigar, and now sipping on a Starbucks latte. “I’m aware the smoke from these ghosts is vintage. It’s not real.
“But I just can’t risk them lighting up during the house walk through prior closing. They could screw up everything.”
Sister Barbara just nodded, saying “I see” every once in a while. What did this guy in a custom-sewn suit expect her to do? Wave a magic wand? Do a novena on the spot to get rid of these ghosts?
Sister Barbara herself got up, started walking around the pool, dipped her own sandals playfully into the heated pool. The warm water felt heavenly. She just wanted to don a swimsuit and dive in. Not talk about ghosts.
“Sir, could you please sit down for a minute?” she said, setting down her coffee on the patio table. “Your ghosts – who exist their own time warp, if you will – will not respond to anything I do. I’m not a ghost buster. I’m just a nun who accidentally got on NPR after helping out a young couple with spirits in their contemporary architecture home. The news about that got out. I don’t solicit business. I just answer calls at the convent.
“My intuition tells me these ghosts will only stop smoking when something else starts.”
“The sellers need to bury a St. Joseph statue? They’ve done that.”
“No, that’s fine. This couple need to baptize their two children immediately and start them in CCD at their local parish.”
George looked at her, stubbed out his cigar. “Lady, you are kidding me? I don’t proselytize to my clients. You will need to tell them this strange advice. They’re Buddhists. They’re in the middle of a divorce.”
Sister got up.
“Not my job,” she said, huffily. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take a dip in your client’s pool,” she said.
Fully clothed, she leaped into the water as a pelican landed on the pool ledge. “Good luck with your ghosts.”
By Mary Beth Klatt
It’s hard to believe that the Greenbrier, a destination resort opened in 1778 on 10,000 private acres in the foothills of West Virginia’s Allegheny Mountains, was briefly used as an army hospital during World War II. German, Japanese, and Italian diplomats were also housed there with their families for a time while awaiting return to their respective countries.
Read more here.
Hunca Munca hung by the hem of the wedding dress, caught on a nail on the dollhouse window ledge.
She swayed to and fro, yelping, wildly waving her paws in distress. She could hear a car (humans!) in the driveway outside.
“Tom Thumb! Help me! Help me!” she screamed.
Her husband, Tom Thumb, stared at her helplessly. He was carrying a miniature telephone, that he lifted from the dollhouse’s library. He dropped it immediately.
Tom Thumb, a mouse, didn’t quite know how to help his wife, also a mouse. The humans were outside. The door would creak open at any moment.
He flung himself onto the table where the dollhouse was set, missing Hunca Munca by a fraction of an inch.
The door creaked open. Heart pumping, Tom Thumb jumped again, this time grasping Hunca Munca’s paw. He yanked her down, ripping the wedding dress, which had once been worn by Barbie (the doll) and packed away in tissues in the dollhouse attic. Hunca Munca hadn’t been able to resist trying on the dress.
The two looked briefly at the shredded lace still on the nail. Hunca Munca winced looking at the ripped dress train.
“We need to run!”
The two ran as if a huskie were chasing them. They scampered as if a siamese cat were hot on their trail, a housewife with a broom was beating them down, eager to flush them down a toilet.
Tripping over the dress, Hunca Munca gripped Tom Thumb’s paw as if her life depended on it, well, because it kind of did.
The two raced to their hole underneath the kitchen cabinet. Just in the nick of time as they hear the commotion of humans returning from church.
“Mommy, look at what happened to Barbie’s dress!” could be heard above the din.
And, “Sally, it must have been a mouse. Remind me to buy a trap the next time I’m at the hardware store next week.”
….to be continued soon.
HOTEL FLASHBACK: A SCOTTSDALE MAINSTAY’S RETRO REVAMP
By Mary Beth Klatt