The Death of Baby Florence: Resolution (Part III)

A few months later, while driving in my car, a message opened within me: Florence needs to be returned to her parents. But how? I couldn’t determine the precise location of her grave at Mount Olivet, so disinterment was not possible. I drove to my grandparents’ grave at St. John’s cemetery in Queens and looked at the headstone. Florence’s name could be etched into the stone, just beneath her parents’ names.

Obstacles surfaced. My grandmother Florence was listed as the owner of the burial plot. With her death the rights to the plot belong to her daughters. Thus, before the cemetery would allow an inscription to be etched into the gravestone, I had to prove that a familial relationship existed between my mother and grandmother. This wasn’t difficult; I needed a copy of my mother’s birth certificate, which I obtained. And yet, an additional obstacle surfaced: Since the grave was registered in the name of Florence Eaton, my grandmother’s maiden name, I was asked to provide proof that her name had changed to Gorman. I needed a copy of her marriage certificate.

My mother provided the date of their marriage, and I returned to the Municipal Archives and searched for the marriage license. I couldn’t locate it. I called my mother and she assured me that was the date. Frustrated but determined, I asked my mother where her parents were married. I could request the marital information from the church. She said they were married at St. Mary Star of the Sea, located in the Carroll Gardens section of Brooklyn. I called and requested information on their wedding. Two weeks later I received a copy of their marriage certificate. Another surprise: My grandparents were indeed married on November 12, but they were married in 1920, not 1919. “Don’t tell that to your aunt Ella,” my mother said of her older sister, who was born five months later. “She’d be quite upset.” The shame never ends.

Finally I had the materials I needed. I returned to St. John’s and provided the cemetery with the documentation they required. I visited a monument company located across the street from the cemetery’s entrance and arranged for Florence’s name to be etched on my grandparents’ gravestone. The work would be completed in a month.

Five weeks after I met with the stonecutters I received a call. Florence’s name had been carved into the stone. I returned to Mount Olivet. A veil of mist covered the cemetery on this April morning. I made my way to the site where Florence was buried. Crouching, I scooped up some moist dirt and poured it into a plastic bag.

I left Mount Olivet. During the ten-minute drive to St. John’s Cemetery, I pondered the lessons gleaned from Florence’s life and the consequences of the Church’s response to her death. I thought of the Catholic tenet, largely written and developed in the fourth and fifth centuries, by Augustine of Hippo, a Catholic saint, renowned scholar, and theologian “…even if there were men in nothing but original sin, it would be sufficient for their condemnation…” which proscribed Florence’s fate.

By the time I reached St. John’s, the mist had turned to rain. I strode purposefully to the spot where my grandparents were buried. I stood on the earth that pressed down upon their souls. I leaned over and touched Florence’s name, now etched in stone beneath her parents’ names. As I sprinkled the dirt over the grave I thought, “Grandma and Grandpa, I’ve returned Florence to you. She’s home where she should be. I tried my best to honor your pain. I love you both.”

Readers’ Comments and “The Death of Baby Florence”

Dropped into McSorley’s for lunch yesterday.  Following me through the swinging doors were a couple of fellows bent on having a good time.

“Hey, hey, what time does the fun begin here?” one called out.

“When you leave,” Pepe responded from behind the bar.  “Be good or be gone.”

Sat next to the stove, ordered a couple of lights, took a pencil and notepad out of my backpack, and jotted down some notes.  “Need to thank my readers for their many thoughtful comments about “Grandpa Allie” and particularly the segment about Ebbets Field.  Grandfathers and baseball hits a chord.”

Here are a few of the comments:

“I have to tell you that it was extremely difficult for me to get through all three parts of this story, given all my tears.  I could not stop thinking of my grandfather in St.Louis….We used to sit in front of the radio on hot, muggy July days, he in his armless undershirt, chewing on a stogie, telling me that Red Schoendienst was a bum, and Harry Carey was a jerk, all the while winking at me throw the haze of stogie smoke.

We went to games at Sportsmen Park and the original Busch Stadium, too.  Thanks for bringing back some priceless memories, Charlie.

”I close my eyes and it’s as if he’s still with me.”

Steve Wechsler, California

“Hey, Charlie.  Great story. My father and I loved da bums. When they won the World Series in 1955, my father took out an empty whiskey bottle and taped a piece of paper to it which simply said, “Brooklyn Dodgers World Champions.”  He then went out on the front stoop and sat with his “trophy” and drank a cold beer.  Neighbors walked by with congrats and we sat there enjoying the moment.  Keep the stories coming.”

John Hopf, Florida

“I too remember going to Ebbetts Field with my Grandfather in 1955. We sat in the Right field Bleachers. Joe Black threw a ball to the kids behind me, who had yelled his name. Duke hit one over the fence for another Dodger victory. We went to two games that summer. Unfortunately, Grandpa Lou passed away a few weeks before the Dodgers won their first World Series. I too will never forget those games even 55 years later. Thanks for reminding me and keep ‘em coming.”

Lawrence Rosen, Hawaii

“(My) Grandpa was the finest man I have ever known; he worked as a teenager in the first decade of the twentieth century helping to build the New York City Subway System…. He was a man of wisdom, integrity and a warm, loving personality….

I LOVED Ebbets Field …my Grandfather took me to my first of many Brooklyn Dodger games at Ebbets.  We always sat on third base side, even with the bag; I was heartbroken when they left.  He taught me an appreciation for the game, something I cherished, and like many dads, tried to instill in my son.”

Jack Sponcia, Wisconsin

—————

How much can one say or write about a baby who lived only seven hours?  Not much, I thought, until one unanswered question led me on a journey of discovery.  Tomorrow I’ll post the first segment of a three part story entitled  “The Death of Baby Florence.”

Once, The Tender Bar, and Jazz

In the last few days I’ve had the good fortune to read an outstanding memoir, view a fine film I’d first seen three years ago, and become acquainted with an excellent video explaining the musical form, jazz.

A few friends of mine will be traveling to Ireland this summer.   They asked for suggestions regarding reading material to help them prepare for their journey.  I came up with a number of suggestions: Novelists, John Banville and Roddy Doyle, poet Seamus Heaney as well as past greats James Joyce, William Butler Yeats and Samuel Becket.  But I also suggested a film, Once.

Once, a low budget, Irish indie, gained popularity and acclaim through word-of-mouth three years ago.  You may remember that one of the film’s songs, “Falling Slowly,” sung by a street husker (Glen Hansard) and an aspiring songwriter (Marketa Irglova) won an academy award.

Once is nicely filmed on the streets of Dublin and is  filled with good songs and a pleasing cast.  If you missed Once, and you’re looking for a feel good, unpretentious flick, which includes a winning sound track, smoothly integrated into the film, this is one to check out.

My ski-critiquing-friend, Joy suggested I read JR Moehringer’s, The Tender Bar.   Where was I when this book was published?   The glories of corner bars, pubs and “locals” have been written about often, but none, in my opinion, with the enormous wit and wisdom of JR Moehringer’s The Tender Bar

Moehringer, a Pulitzer Prize reporter for the Los Angeles Times, incorporates a marvelous group of characters including, Bob the Cop, Cager, Wheelchair Eddie, Uncle Charlie and Fuckembabe–yes,that’s his nickname–in a heartfelt, hilarious memoir that has as it’s centerpiece a bar, Publican’s, in Manhasset, NY.  Fuckembabe’s jabbering is worth the price of the book.  Laugh out loud material.

A number of years ago I had the good fortune to live near Gregory’s, a jazz bar on NYC’s Upper East Side. Two of Duke Ellington’s musicians, saxophonist Rusell Procope and drummer Sonny Greer, appeared there regularly. One night stands out as magical. A group of friends and I were enjoying a jazz trio, including Procope and Greer. Midway through their set they started playing Johnny Mercer’s “Autumn Leaves.” One of our friends began singing. We just stared, our jaws dropped. No one knew or could have predicted the ethereal quality of her voice. Instantly, I recognized the moment as one that would be with me forever. The song ended and Greer, a cigarette dangling from his lips with an ash as long as his drum stick, croaked, “Ah, one more time, Lady.” The band played on and the “Lady” sang Autumn Leaves “one more time.”

It was just one of those nights, just one of those fabulous flights.

My love of jazz may not have begun at that moment, but that moment surely sealed the deal.  A few weeks ago I was researching one of Leonard Bernstein’s classical performances when I noticed that he’d done a forty-five minute television show on jazz in the mid-fifties.  I had seen Bernstein’s program on Beethoven, which was done around the same time, but never his jazz piece. Each show demonstrates, at least in my opinion, that Bernstein was not only a master conductor, performer and songwriter, but a brilliant musicologist, as well.

If you’re one of those folks who thinks you might enjoy jazz, but you “have no idea what’s going on” you might enjoy Bernstein’s piece.  I’ve posted the link to the first part of the series.   There are five all together, each about nine minutes long.  Give it a look if you’d like to gain a better understanding of this marvelous form of musical expression or if you’d just like to admire Bernstein’s genius.

And I must add a thanks for the kind comments about my father–some of you knew him–and the photos I posted over the weekend.   I received a number of  touching emails regarding fathers and their WWII experiences.  But this one, from my friend Jack Sponcia, was particularly stirring and went to my point that many of these WWII guys rarely spoke about their war experiences.  Here’s what Jack wrote:

“My Dad will be 91 this August.   He was a Corporal in the Army, serving in WWII in Europe and North Africa for 5 years.  My Dad was pretty closed-mouthed, especially about the war, but one day, my three brothers, my father, and I were watching “Saving Private Ryan” and my father started talking about the war.  We were shocked when he told us he was part of the landing on Omaha Beach.  That’s how little I knew of his wartime experiences.  My dad was involved in one of the transformative moments in an epic conflict and we knew nothing of his involvement.  These guys are genuine heroes.”

Thanks, Jack.  And many thanks to your dad.

WWII, My Father, and Old Photos

Recently, a fellow high school alum, Marcia Leivent Reed, shared with me photographs of her father, Daniel Leivent.  The photos of Daniel, an airman in the United States Army, were taken during WWII.   Marcia’s photos stirred up memories of my father, who served his country as a member of the United States Navy.  This morning, a dreary, rainy day in the Northeast, I sat in front of a fire, looked at old photos of my father, and wished he were still here.

My dad served aboard the aircraft carrier the USS Antietam during WWII and the ensuing occupation of Japan. He saved a number of photos from his experience in the navy.  One is startling.

A fighter plane, known as a Hellcat, is attempting a landing but instead is cartwheeling across the carrier’s landing deck.  The photo captures the moment when the plane is perpendicular to the deck, as if it is balanced on one of its wings, its propeller still turning.   What I knew, or at least I thought I knew, was that my father had taken that photo.

A year ago, while speaking with my mother, I mentioned the photo my father had taken.  ”What do you mean?” she said.  ”That’s your father running from harm’s way.”

I was stunned, but my dad and I, like many war veterans and their children, didn’t talk about the war unless asked, and even if I’d asked him, he might not have said much.

Landing a plane on the deck of an aircraft carrier was fraught with risk.  In his role as a pharmacist’s mate, similar to what would be a corpsman today, my father was involved in caring for the ship’s sick and injured.  I imagine he had been summoned to the deck to help a pilot in distress or, as part of standard procedure, was stationed on the deck as planes attempted to land.

There are a number of other photos. One shows my father with his hand on a young boy’s head, standing with a shipmate.  Another show’s him standing on the deck of his ship wearing his medic’s cap.  His smile reminds me of myself at a similar age, and now my son Chris.

Now, sixty-five years after my father’s return from the war, I am left with little more than the photos.

I have a letter:  The Secretary of the Navy, James Forrestal, wrote, “…The Nation which you served at a time of crisis will remember you with gratitude…”  I have my father’s discharge papers, which notes his training, his qualifications and medals, and his desire to study medicine.   The words he penned on the back of the photos are now my only link to that time and place.

I imagine him, an impressionable eighteen-year-old brought up amid the vibrant streets of New York, passing through a similarly vibrant, but to him, mysterious culture.   What was he thinking when he walked “On Main Street in Hong Kong,” photographing its inhabitants.

What must it have been like, what was he experiencing when he was “Overlooking Hong Kong from the top of a mountain with the Antietam in the harbor”?

What prepared him for the sight of the war’s displaced:  ”A picture of the natives moving their homes.”

How was he impacted by the discovery of native burial grounds in the hills of Okinawa?  ”This is the picture of the tombs on Okinawa.   Inside, the natives bury their dead for two weeks then go in and scrape the skin off the bones and save them in small crocks or bowls,” he wrote on the back of the photo.

And I wonder why he photographed a sea of white crosses on Okinawa when he stood viewing the “3rd Division Marine Cemetery.”

Many books have been written and stories told about the impact and effect WWII had on those who served.  My father, a sailor, and Marcia’s, father, Daniel Leivent, an airman, and thousands like them were proud of their experience, and for many it was the adventure of a lifetime.  And how many men like my father put their dreams on hold to fight a war and upon their return, realized that their dreams needed to be altered or worse, forgotten?  I never spoke to my father about his dream of becoming a doctor.  Maybe I heard that when I was young, but I can’t remember.

My dad and I didn’t talk much; I wish we had.  I am embarrassed not knowing more about his naval experiences.  I feel I have ignored an obligation to him and his descendants.   Now all that is left are his discharge papers, some funny stories of beer parties on Okinawa, and a few photos with notes on the back. They preserve a personal voyage, one that I am left to interpret.   My dad died fourteen years ago.  More and more I wish he were still here with me, sitting by a fire, telling me stories.

Last Night in Vail

Final night in Vail.  The skiing’s been superb, but Karen and I will be glad when we’re home.  Our son, Chris, will be returning from school tomorrow for Spring break and we’re eager to see him.  He will, however, be leaving for Rome on Saturday night to visit his friend Alex who is studying in Italy this semester.

I’m reminded that Chris and I have had similar college experiences:  We both enjoyed skiing during our breaks; Chris skied in Vail, CO and Park City, UT; I skied at Silvermine in Harriman, NY.  And while I didn’t study abroad in Barcelona, Spain, nor did I intern at Waterford Crystal in Ireland, as Chris did, I did spend some time in Rome during one of my Spring breaks.

One of my college buddies, Charlie DePalma, lived outside of Rome, NY.  I remember driving up there one spring for two days.  Each night was spent in some local dive, sucking suds, and listening to Eric Burton droning on that “Me, an overfed, long-haired leaping gnome should be the star of a Hollywood movie.”  And damn, if we didn’t think it was great fun.

As we get ready to leave I’m also thankful that my friend Joy contacted me to let me know that I’d won a ski award.  Here’s what she wrote:

Hey, Charles.

By the way, I contacted the “Crackerjack Skiers of America” to add your name to their list of runaway skiers.  Forty-two years ago you were given the non-stop, freight train award for skiing.  Did you ever receive this illustrious trophy?  Hope you don’t mind that I emailed them.  They declared you the skiing maven of the year, 1968.  Now that’s noteworthy.

Joy

Oh, you’re one witty lady, Joy.