Anna Mary Katherine

Anna Mary Katherine

Opening her eyes, she saw that she was ringed with as many concerned faces as could fill the close space surrounding her.  She was looking up; they were looking down.  But it was the closest face, that of the choir director, that wore the greatest look of concern.  In a panic, Anna scrambled to sit up, wildly grasping the lower edge of her dress and tugging it down in an effort to cover her long, slender legs.   Mr. Gildea gently urged her to stay where she was, so that’s what she did, a shy (yet embarrassed) smile beginning to form.

It wasn’t until the 70’s that I learned how my Nana May first met Papa Joe.  Nana was easy for me to be around, and when it was just the two of us, she opened up and was able to talk about herself, which both satisfied my curiosity and made me feel special to her.   When my family was around, all you could hear were their voices; they’re a vocal lot, and their deep and powerful voices tend to muffle all other sound. 

Nana was a sensitive and gentle soul with a cautious manner; I think that her sense of reserve arose from being talked into things that she in truth wanted no part of, of being taken advantage of too many times.  I remember one such occasion soon after I got my driver’s license, when I decided to pop over to her house at 1777 South Street, certain that she would be home. There was a woman waiting at the door when I arrived; she seemed pleasant enough, maybe a little too cheerful. I told her to wait while I entered the house.  I found Nana May in the “Winter Kitchen”, far enough away from the door not to be seen, but able to observe the woman at the door.  She signaled for me to follow her into the bathroom, where she told me that she was avoiding this particular unwanted guest, a Jehovah’s Witness who had been trying every which way for several months to “bring her into the fold”.  Nana's faith, strengthened by a Catholic education, was unshakeable; even so, the discomfort and disingenuousness that Nana felt during each visit failed to outweigh the distress that she knew she would feel by sending the woman away permanently.  I was no help in any real sense; I told the woman that my grandmother wasn’t home.  If I could go back in time, I would be a better advocate for Nana May, I would be stronger, and send away that determined Jehovah’s Witness and all other unwelcome interlopers.

I’ve always wanted to know how couples met.  (My brother, Tom, for example, met the love of his life, Marea, when she walked into the bicycle shop where he worked, I think in Cambridge, Massachusetts.  Upon seeing her for the first time, he commented to himself, with unbounded confidence, that he was going to marry that girl.  I love stories of boy-meets-girl or girl-meets-boy and it’s instant and everlasting love-love-love!)  Anna Mary Katherine was a teenager when Mr. Gildea first arrived at St. Mary’s High School in 1914 to assume various professional responsibilities.  It was at this time that the two at least became aware of each other’s existence.  

While it was true that Nana May only ever indulged her passions quietly, or at least privately, she loved to sing.  She sang as a member of her high school choir, even performing at her graduation. She sang for St. Mary’s Church in Lynn, and in churches in every city and town in which she lived.  And she sang as she did housework.  In her later years, her voice wavered, but the musical output never did.  To this day, I can never listen to an Ave Maria without automatically recalling Nana May’s impassioned rendition.

When I had reached the age where love and romance were consuming concepts, and every one of my friends seemed to be in a “relationship”, (or at least holding hands that broadcasted, hey, look here, we’re together,) I had to know how Nana May first met Papa Joe.  Adjusting her eyeglasses as if doing so would bring the past into better focus, a playful smile overtook her face as she re-examined those early days.  He presented as a freshly scrubbed college graduate of slight stature and serious mien when he first raised his conductor’s baton (professionally, for he had been leading groups musically since he was twelve years old,) and paused confidently before establishing the tempo, before shaping the sound.  And every time that his hands gave expression to the music, he was mildly aware of the earnest young singer who dutifully followed his lead.   That Anna’s heart had slowly begun to keep its own crazy-in-love beat remained a mystery to him.  Falling secretly in love with her choir director, she wondered for what seemed like years how she might personally draw his attention, yet her reserved nature prevented her from making any bold moves.  Passing out at rehearsal had never been part of the plan. . . but, clearly, history asserted itself that day.  Nana would say that it was all part of God’s plan.  And I would have to agree that at least He had her back!  There is always great comfort in that.