Monday, November 18, 2019

Dear Ms. Yovanovitch

Institute for the Study of Diplomacy
Georgetown University
1316 36th St. NW
Washington, DC. 20007

Attention:  Marie Yovanovitch

Dear Ms. Yovanovitch,

I grew up in a rural area in southeast Massachusetts, always aware - and proud - that both my parents served in the U.S. Army with active assignments in Europe and the Pacific during WW2.  Their commissioned officer status - my mom was a first lieutenant and my dad was a major - kept me in awe, a feeling that to this day can still sweep over me. . . and remind me of the honor owed to those who both represent our national and security interests, and who put themselves out there. . . literally.

It wasn't until I was a teenager that my curiosity about the details of my parents' service "tenure" took real hold.  I asked questions, principally of my mother because she was more approachable and willing to reflect on that episode of her life.  Often using her war album as a reference point, I would study a single picture or series of related ones, and probe until I could imagine an entire scene.   My mother ultimately gifted me her album, and it remains one of my most treasured possessions, a fact made even more humbling when taking into account that I am one of seven children.  Some years ago, my sister and I collaborated on a project to contextualize the album.  Our objective was to synthesize our mom’s war experiences, impart the story (in pictorial fashion), so that all of us had a permanent record and understanding of Margaret Gildea’s ww2 service.  We scanned every photograph and provided details and back-stories to flesh out her experiences in places like Mindanao, Philippines (where she developed an abiding distaste for mangos!), and the reception hospital in Namur, Belgium, and as part of the occupation/reconstruction efforts in Japan post-war. 

Sitting one day on my mother’s living room sofa in the home she shared with her sister on Cape Cod, I once again was perusing her war album, when a loose photo slid into my lap.  I may have seen it before, but never paid close attention to it; after all, it didn’t fit with the time sequence.  It featured two brothers, one who appeared to be about eight years old, the other maybe about five or six.  They were, in fact, twins.  Her first comment was, “Look at those shorts – so French!”  Then the story’s origins spilled out.  My mother was a dietitian, so one of her assigned roles in the final days leading up to VE Day was to plan and organize meals for thousands upon thousands of severely under- and mal-nourished POW’s, who had been recently released from the Nazi camps.  One morning a Belgian woman arrived at the gates, holding her two small babies in her arms, and pleading – in French – for help.  Her distress readily made an impression on the guards, but they didn’t understand French; they sent her away.  She returned very shortly and again appealed to the guards.  My mother was immediately summoned, as she was fluent in French.  She succeeded (much against strict military protocol) in getting a doctor to examine the baby, who was extremely ill with some type of infectious disease.  As the baby was close to death, the doctor administered penicillin, which I’m sure you know was in short supply by this point in the war in Europe.  The baby survived, and photos of my mom holding a then happy baby serve as evidence.  So, what was this outlier photo, taken at a later date (perhaps in the early 1950’s) , doing in her album?  My mom explained that the Belgian mother communicated with her after the war; in one of her letters, she had included a photo of the twins, one boy much smaller and less robust than the other; in fact, he looked like a much younger brother.  Flawinne, nicknamed “Coco,” had survived his medical ordeal.  As you can imagine, the Belgian mother was deeply suffused with gratitude that one Allied soldier had opened her heart to another woman’s desperation and despair, and was willing to set aside protocol and rules.  It was a curious departure, for my mom always and strenuously maintained that she was a compliant follower of rules!  I can’t help but imagine that there is a Belgique man out there, in his mid-70’s, a slight man (perhaps accustomed to wearing tight, high-waisted shorts), who answers to the name Flawinne. . . or Coco!

As much as my parents viewed their wartime service as one of life’s distractions, nothing they could say – or not say – could undo the evident value that they placed on patriotism and service to one’s country, and the lifelong sense of caution that arises when authoritarianism threatens our very security.

I don’t wish to suggest that their experiences mirror your own.  One could say, different time, different place, different mitigating circumstances, different context.  Yet, when I consider your testimony of last week, it is not lost on me that you appreciate – more keenly than the average citizen, and evidently much more keenly than several of your questioners – the fragility of democracy.  You strike me as an extraordinarily honest foreign service careerist; that anyone would feel so emboldened as to characterize you as “bad news”, and remove you without cause must shake your faith.  I’m not expecting that you would feel it necessary to defend against such an odious and baseless accusation; you’re way better than that.  It troubles me greatly, however, that there appear to be no sensible measures that can effectively put a stop to this alarming trend.  I have scant confidence that this will resolve satisfactorily because I hear the confounding rationalizations and defenses of politicians who are most concerned with holding onto their seats.  We have a dangerous president in Donald Trump; his every action makes me want to kick and throw things.  How do you stay positive?  How do you, after being knocked down, pick yourself up and march forward with renewed conviction?  You must surely have a personal mantra that serves you in moments like these!

I am compelled to say how sorry I am that you’ve had to endure this nonsense, but I also sense how trite that must seem.  Please don’t give up the fight; we who have been following events closely believe in you and the righteous path you’re following.

I would be more than thrilled to hear back from you!  For that reason, I include a S.A.S.E. for your convenience.  (I am an inveterate writer of letters.  In fact, my first “serious” letter, at the age of seven, was to J.F.K.’s widow in December of 1963.)

With highest regard,




Joyce McKenna
November 18, 2019

P.S.  I retired from teaching in 2016, after teaching Spanish in public high schools for 27 years.  I now volunteer at a cat shelter, and serve as the secretary for our town’s Historical Commission.  I stop short of offering to volunteer to work with you, much as I hold you in high esteem, because I do love living near the ocean in my quiet corner of the country. 

Monday, October 21, 2019

I’ll get to it. . . or will I?

Most days my list of home maintenance and household tasks remains static.  Already being rather lengthy, it’s discouraging to even think of adding to it.  I just wish I were capable of crossing off more assignments than I find myself able to do these days.  Today I decided to take action.  Motivational wisdom maintains that you’re more apt to achieve your goals if you have a manageable daily list.  I like making lists.  I have lists on scraps of paper that are tucked everywhere in this house:  books to read, potential names of places to volunteer, inspirational quotes, people I want to write to or send things to, day trip ideas, and so on.  This morning I made a serious list, and it looked like this at 9:30am:

1)    Wash table on patio
2)    Cover outdoor furniture
3)    Move deck furniture down to patio under deck
4)    Plant garlic
5)    Cut down ornamental grasses in front garden
6)    Turn off outside water
7)    Put away air conditioners

Springing into action, I first switched into appropriate roll-up-your-sleeve wear, and headed to the back door.  Pleased to see that the sun was shining, I then noted that the two French doors really needed a good cleaning.  I thus veered off toward the pantry to gather window spray, paper towels and the squeegee.  Hmm, I was sure I had left the squeegee in there.  It wasn’t there.  It wasn’t in the broom closet, either, although the smell of stink bugs in there reminded me of the unwise move earlier in the week of vacuuming up all those primitive-looking, creepy bugs that somehow ultimately find their way into my baskets of clean clothes and into my bureau.*  The clutter within, in combination with the stink bug odor, caused me an involuntary shudder, so I closed the door.  (Note:  add “DIY closet project” to list.)

In short order, I found myself in my car with the objective of buying a replacement for an item that unquestionably was in my house but eluded discovery because someone (else) must have moved it.  I headed south on Route 1 to pick up another squeegee at the hardware store, where the broad array of choices was staggering, challenging me to be more contemplative in my choice; I say challenging, but a squeegee is a squeegee, after all.  I then dashed over to nearby Tendercrop Farm to buy eggs and milk.  I’m nothing if not efficient in time management.  In Tendercrop’s market I ran into Tiffany, and we caught up.  As I then hastened toward the counter my eye caught an intriguing machine, topped by a large container of peanuts.  Turns out you can make your own peanut butter at Tendercrop – I love peanut butter!  But I’m efficient in time management, y’see, so I stored that new piece of information and walked away.  I rushed, only to cool my heels in the line for the register, which is where I ran into Meghan from Triton, and we caught up.  

It occurs to me that standing in line is really a blessing.  I know it doesn’t seem that way for most of us; just the thought of waiting in line causes most of us to become anxious, all that time wasted.  We just don’t view “The Line” for all it offers us.  On occasion we find ourselves to be either directly in front of or behind someone whom we haven’t seen in ages.  (Funny how the moment tends to force our facial muscles into some distorted version of a smile, and causes us to engage in awkward banter, maybe because we realize that we’ve been negligent in tending friendships, but more likely because in those moments we only ever are dressed in the worst of our closet’s dregs, and with our hair looking very much like the before picture). Confession:  I regularly see people I know in other lines, and do my best to be invisible; I’m a horrible human being. Standing in line is like, but not too like, riding the subway; you have been presented with the opportunity to strike up a conversation with (most likely) a perfect stranger, and know that it will quickly end, and you will (most likely) never see this person again.  You can be whoever you want, and say whatever you want.  (In that way, it’s not too like meeting someone you know in a grocery or department store, but these days it’s even easier to lower the risk by ordering online and doing a curb-side pickup). 

I always feel - at the grocery store or market, that is, - that you should not waste the moment by talking about how frustrating it is to wait in line, and, excuse me, but why is that person just now beginning to dig into the deepest recesses of her satchel for her checkbook?  It is in moments like this where it’s okay to talk about the enduring appeal of PEZ candy dispensers, (they didn’t always come packaged in such a fun, child-centered way, you know; also, they were originally mint-flavored and came in an Altoids-type tin), and what a shame – and how bewildering – that NECCO, the other maker of candy of questionable value, abruptly sold the business; who really even likes those clove-flavored ones?  Oh, you do – Imagine that! (You have to hand it to NECCO; they stuck to their formula, and never changed in over 150 years.)

An hour and a half after having critically assessed the state of the glass in my French doors, I finally held all the necessary supplies to clean them.  I got down to work, and, equipped with the proper tools, quick work it was. The panes looked wonderful, or I should say that the tree line beyond looked wonderful.  So that is why I proceeded to the dining room, hoping to excite my brain’s pleasure center once more.  I was reminded, in so doing, that on one of the windows the pulley and sash cord had long parted ways.  (Note: add “Repair window sash” to list.)

I did, finally, get to one of the items on my list – the ornamental grasses in the front garden.  This time the right tool presented itself without taunting me into a game of hide-and-seek.  It was probably the most ambitious task on the list, but I was determined to get it off the list, if only for the reason that I’d like to ease the job of backing my car out of the driveway without having to inch by the overgrown grasses.  Now I barely have to tap my brakes, and I’m on my way up the street.  See, there’s my natural sense of efficiency on evidence again.

So, at the end of the day my list now reads (for use another day):

1)    Wash table on patio
2)    Find covers for outdoor furniture
3)    Cover outdoor furniture
4)    Move deck furniture down to patio under deck
5)    Weed raised bed
6)    Plant garlic
7)    Cut down ornamental grasses – front garden
8)    Turn off outside water.  Thank you, Megan
9)    Put away air conditioners
10) DIY closet project
11) Repair window sash
12) Wash windows on French doors
13) Wash dining room windows**

*Stink bugs, an invasive species from East Asia, are of particular concern to growers of corn and soybean.  It worries me that scientists have considered introducing another species from China as a natural predator; the wasp in question has no known predators.  Really?  Really?!!

**Admit it; you, too, add things to your list after the fact, just so that you can cross them off.

I think I need more motivational wisdom.  It should pull in some ideas about avoiding distractions, how to become organized and stay that way, perhaps some words on prioritizing, and, dear God, some strategies on time management.

Friday, October 11, 2019

Deterring a curious dog

Deterring a curious dog

As I typically do just before I head out the door to take Mona for a walk, I run through the mental list:  phone, treats, poop bags, and – lately – animal deterrent spray.  Our walks have been gradually lengthening (yay!), but it’s not lost on me that the risk likewise increases that we’ll have a less-than-friendly encounter.  I want to be prepared.

Pepper spray was the first option that entered my head a few weeks ago when I finally got serious, with the added bonus that if attacked by the human sort, I would be well-equipped with a defensive weapon.  My conscientious side, however, said, buy the gentler deterrent.  I don’t, after all, really want to hurt a charging dog; I just want to stop it in its tracks.

Mona and I banked around one of the curves in our road and settled into our comfortable stride.  I noticed ahead the boxer that typically bounds across his front yard but always – just when my heart is verging on arrest – stops short of the street.  He’s okay.  Just behind him an unfamiliar Australian shepherd mix careened toward us.  He didn’t stop at the street, but instead hurtled toward us.  Mona strained to engage, and I whipped out the animal deterrent spray and aimed.  A weak stream arced about five feet; I had aimed for the dog’s nose and it appeared to have just barely connected.  The dog slowed some, adopted a look of confusionbut took little notice of the spray or me; he turned at the last moment to trot back to his owner, who finally had done the responsible thing by calling him back.  “He won’t bite, you know,” was the grumpy and by-then-unhelpful comment I got. 

I did a quick body check:  heart racing a bit fast, knees and hands shaking, face flushed.  But both Mona and I were unscathed, so there was a sense of relief.  Hours later I was able to gain some perspective.  Here’s what I have:

  • People who fail to contain, restrain, or supervise their dogs are idiots
  • If I’m unfamiliar with someone else’s dog, I have to assume that it’s capable of harming my 13-lb dog. . . or me. . . or both of us.
  • A pet deterrent that is “pet friendly” is an oxymoron.
  • If it misspells a key word such as “deterrent” on the can, its credibility is shot.
  • If it claims that the product may fail to deter a very aggressive animal, that’s not very reassuring.
  • Pepper spray would be a more effective deterrent (or “deterent”, if you don’t know how to spell).
  • I dodged a bullet with this one, because the dog was only. . . rather curious.
  • I have to be better about reading charging beast cues, and pepper spray in my hands at that very moment might not have been the best thing.
  • But I’ll be buying some soon.

Saturday, September 21, 2019

Dear Mr. Browne

Jackson Browne
c/o Donald Miller
Donald Miller Management
12746 King Street
Studio City, CA. 91604

Dear Mr. Browne,

You may be unaware, but you and I are closing in on our 45thanniversary, that is, as musician and devoted fan.  Before we launch into fond reminiscences, we must temper our mood by quietly honoring two of your rock & roll contemporaries, Ric Ocasek and Eddie Money, who passed away last week.  As to the former, I owe a great debt of gratitude, for to hear any Cars’ tunes from the late 70’s is to instantly be transported back to my wedding reception in 1978.  If I remember correctly, it was my brother Chris who crafted a tape cassette playlist overwhelmingly favoring music by the Cars (“Just what I needed”, memorable melody but lyrics perhaps too imperfect to hail it as a wedding theme song), The Talking Heads (“Psycho Killer”, the lyrics of which also aren’t worth the exercise of interpretation, but as a wedding punch was an ambrosial antidote to the insane heat), Bruce, of course, and even more of course, YOU.  Your Pretender album was still causing us fans to weep with sorrow; in truth, it would become one of those albums that reflexively – and for all time – call to mind its sad circumstances.  And your “Running on Empty” album, of course, became everyone’s favorite.

I don’t know about you, but I could be running on empty, and I would still be proud of my nostalgic sensibilities.  Too bad I was wrapped up in final wedding preparations, otherwise I would have come to see you perform back then at the Seabrook Nuclear Power Plant.  One irony is that for nearly 35 years I have lived within five miles of that accursed scourge of our beautiful coastal landscape.  To me it represents a ticking time-bomb, but for a long time I comforted myself with the thought that it would be taken off-line, as feebly promised by company executives, upon reaching its life expectancy.  Earlier this year, however, the Nuclear Regulatory Commission extended the plant’s license, so it seems – short of a disaster – that the year 2050 is the next best hope of shuttering the plant.  Now we “Citizens within a 10-mile radius” (familiarly known as C-10) naturally worry about concrete degradation.  Anti-nukes these days can’t seem to muster the same degree of righteous indignation that drew 20,000 protesters to Seabrook that June day in 1978.  I can rely on you, my stalwart friend, to keep up the good fight, though; don’t let the bastards grind you down.  (I will not dignify the phony Latin expression by writing it here.)

The first time that I attended one of your concerts was in September of 1977 when you played at the Cumberland County Civic Center in Portland, Maine.  Admittedly, your later recording (in fact, immediately upon departing Portland) of “Nothing but Time” fails to thrill me to the extent that “The Load Out/Stay” blend did that night as an encore, but your references to “rolling down 295 out of Portland, Maine, Still high from the people up there” have always produced a happy sensation when I hear the song.    My boyfriend George and I had a well-thought out plan of weekend camping and concert-going. Somewhere in this house I still have the two-sided, exhaustive checklist of camping gear.  We headed up Route 1 and as we were crossing the Tobin Bridge, a spray of water hit the windshield of our ’67 Mustang.  George instantly knew that his radiator had sprung a leak. His calm reaction was to tap his engine temperature gauge on the dashboard and declare, “When the needle reaches this point, I have to turn off the engine.”  I can’t overstate my sense of panic.  Breaking-down cars is one way to trigger it; being lost – a carryover from childhood – also provokes it, as much as I try to convince myself to instead view it as “an unexpected adventure.”  So, at a bend in the road in Revere, George pulled his car into the breakdown lane, and turned it off.  He handed me a long screwdriver, commanded me to use it. . . if necessary, and struck out on foot for an auto parts store.   I stood for half an hour, fending off every offer of help, and, really, there seemed to be a steady stream of concerned travelers. . . or potential abductors.

Memory escapes me, but I have a hazy recollection of George returning without whatever it was he sought; either that, or he realized that replacing the radiator in the breakdown lane of Route 1 was an unrealistic objective.  Thus, for the entirety of the trip we had to have a sufficient store of water constantly at the ready to keep filling the radiator.  We made it to the concert. . . loved it (even from seats located behind a conspicuous post). I can’t say that the camping was a total success; I remember very little about it, but there are a couple of photos in my collections that capture a couple of downcast young people.

With all the touring that you’ve done over the decades, I wonder if you remember summer of 1978 when you performed at Tanglewood in Lenox, Mass.; I believe it was your third appearance there.  For you it would have been memorable in that it was in the same year that your live album “Running on Empty” was released.  For me, an uncultured country girl accustomed to all things small scale, the experience was transformative.  Even though your concert at Tanglewood the year before had drawn a record-setting crowd for that venue, your August, 1978 reappearance brought in over 21,000 fans.   Lenox neighbors were still– closing in on a decade now of Tanglewood’s Popular Artist Series - grasping at strategies to cope with decibel levels and unprecedented numbers of attendees, who tended toward pot-smoking and standing on their chairs and screeching along with the band.  With my limited concert-going experience, I had by then at least learned what that pleasant fragrance wafting about our heads was.  

I don’t imagine that you’ve ever been in a situation that demanded a high degree of car repair skills.  Your skill set being what it is, I now arrive at the purpose of my letter.  I’d like to provide you with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to stay at my house – just one night.  I can show you the wonders of a New England coastal town.  It’s at its best in the fall, and the tourists are largely absent (although in recent years the number of retired Nova Scotians lurching around in their over-sized RV’s has been sufficient to slow down local traffic to a maddening degree.) The contrast between New England and Southern California could not be more dramatic, both aesthetically and culturally.  (To begin, our street addresses don't use numbers that go up into the tens of thousands, like I notice your King Street address does.). Bringing things full circle, a visit to the Seabrook Nuclear Power Plant will allow you to re-kindle your sense of outrage.  

My daughter thinks I’m a little bit “touched in the head” for writing to someone so famous, but then she knows how fond I am of sending letters via the U.S.P.S.  My earliest correspondence with a famous person was when I was 7 years old; I sent a letter of condolence to Jackie Kennedy, soon after her husband was assassinated.  I treasure the boilerplate response that the White House sent to me.

Well, I should sign off now.  I’m planning to pen a letter to Stephen Colbert, to ask him to invite you back to the Late Show.  It’s been over ten years since he put you on the hotseat about suing John McCain for his unpermitted use of “Running on Empty” in his smear campaign against Barack Obama.  I figure you’ll have plenty to catch up on, and you can promote your “Lantern Tour II”. I stand solidly with you in your disapproval of how the current Administration is handling migrants and refugees.  But don’t get me started on that!  I’ll save my indignation for my next letter to you.  Stay well, and let me know if you want a quintessential New England experience.  (Just go to my blog, and leave a comment at the end of this post.  Please feel free to follow me – I only have 12 followers, and if you join my small group of admirers, my credibility just might soar.)


Fondly,
Joyce
Scoscheofclass.blogspot.com

Friday, May 10, 2019

Water

When our house (the McKennas’) on Niko Way was built in 1998, we had an artesian well installed.  Don't laugh, but we even used the services of a water diviner.  It was a little kooky watching him move slowly around the yard, intently watching his divining rod, but who am I to dismiss the method as bunk.  I don’t remember precisely how far down the well installers had to drill, but it was somewhere between 200 and 300 feet.  Now some of you may shrug at this claim, but nothing compares to well water; it is oh-so-delicious.  The Guatemalan mason who put in our stone patio ten years ago nodded approvingly, murmuring “agua de pozo” (well water), when I encouraged him to drink water right from the house spigot.  People in the know have a great appreciation for well water.  It goes without saying, however, that there’s a responsibility to test periodically for carcinogens, and we here on Niko Way are mindful of the trace quantities of arsenic that show up when we test our water.  The back of our property nestles against the former Boston & Maine railroad corridor, and railroad corridors have been notorious for emitting toxins into the ground.

As I look at the spot in our yard where the cap for our well sits, I’m reminded of my early introduction to artesian wells and the “sweet nectar” that they draw from the ground.  At our Titicut home, the well sat at the top of our driveway, to the right side, relatively close to the Library.  It had a little wood frame house, and we were instructed to stay clear of it.  Don’t open the door, don’t enter it, don’t touch the boards on the ground covering it, don’t throw things down it; in fact, just don’t go anywhere near it.  We, of course, took that as an invitation to do just that.  We removed the boards that covered the well, and peered straight down, hoping just once to be able to discern its depths.  We listened carefully, and then shouted into that space. Science was hard at work when you cast words or strings of words down that shaft.  You learned about the persistence of sound; the irregular rock siding assured a playful continuation of your notes.  “Helloooo” galloped joyfully down the cylindrical tract; on the other hand, “Chris is a stupid-head”, with its fricative sounds, fittingly ricocheted and smashed its way along the same path. A lot of stupid statements were dropped into that space. And I admit, I dropped rocks down there. They were little, so.

In the kitchen, next to the enormous double basin cast iron sink in one corner was an old cast iron "pitcher pump".  It operated as an offshoot of our artesian well; when primed with - you guessed it - water, the suction thus created allowed it to draw water from a cistern located behind the kitchen.  You pump-pump-pumped, and a rush of water then cascaded from its spout as if by magic.  Eventually, we were able to modernize our plumbing, and the pump, along with accompanying lead pipe, was removed.  It’s probable that the cistern itself still remains on the property, well hidden in the ground. Chris, perhaps as a hide-and-seek gambit, remembers lowering himself into its belly.  Which all brings to mind a common enough occurrence that I must ask: how many times did my older brothers (in a “joke’s on you” maneuver) simply vacate the premises in the middle of a hide-and-seek game?  Yuh, mm-hmm, I thought so.  To this day, there's a part of me that is still, reflexively, searching for them.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that the hand pump was “popular” in that day and age, but you were more apt to see them outside on farms.  These days, they have great retro appeal, and can be bought cheaply on Amazon.com.  I doubt, however, that the typical purchaser reflects on how useful they are in a power outage.  Despite their continued functionality, they’re more for decorative purposes, adding the “perfect touch” to any fountain, pond, or garden display.  At the very least, their presence shouldn't cause some mother to contemplate:  I wonder if my otherwise sensible son is sitting in the cistern.

Thursday, May 2, 2019

A Life Full of Promise

I've been piecing together our family's ancestral story, and thought I'd share what I've learned about a great-uncle whose exploits during WW1 earned him high esteem, but whose decades-long absence inspired much familial resentment.  For better or for worse, I will dispel the vibrant mystique that has swirled around him in our memory.  Thank you, Tom M., for your contributions to the story about Patrick.

Patrick J. Morrissey, bachelor
b.  1885 in Gracedieu, County Waterford, Ireland
d.  28 Apr 1954, Tucson, Arizona

As a youngster, Patrick attended Capen Primary School and Lincoln Grammar School, both in South Boston.  He then attended English High School* of South Boston, graduating in 1902 at the head of his class.  

(* It is worth noting that English H.S. was founded by the “shunned” families of Boston, generally newcomers who were not welcome at the City’s elite schools.  (Think “Boston Brahmins”). Throughout its history the School has always been acknowledged as a home for immigrants.)

Physically, Patrick was short (5’6 ½”) with a slight build, dark hair, and blue eyes.

The stories about Patrick abound.  On the surface, he was the “golden child”, and in many ways he responded well to the high expectations that his parents had for him. . . at least in the early years.  If it can be said that one of James’ and Anastasia’s sons would be capable of breaking their hearts, it would be Patrick.  Their pride in him was immeasurable.  

Described as “gifted” because of his outstanding academic record at Boston English High School (Class of 1902), as well as his unsurpassed performance on an entrance examination, he was recommended by Congressman William McNary to West Point Military Academy in 1903.  (Boston Globe, 19 April 1903).  Away from the guiding hand of his parents, Patrick began to stumble.  Ultimately, at West Point he graduated 82 out of a class of 111.  Right before graduation from the Academy he and a fellow cadet were charged with drunkenness; the two were suspended.  Originally, the suspension was for one year; inexplicably, the suspension was reduced so that it extended only one day past graduation, preventing him only from participation in graduation exercises with his class.  

Six months later, he was with his regiment at Parang, Mindanao, Philippine Islands, engaged in a topographical survey of the Philippine Islands; i.e., he conducted mapping strictly for military purposes.  In 1909 he returned stateside and did stints at Fort George Wright in Washington, as well as the School of Musketry at the Presidio of Monterey, California.  The fact that he was subsequently hired to teach French at the Academy (from 1912 to 1916) indicates that he had ostensibly regained a measure of grace in the eyes of his alma mater.  Patrick returned to the Philippines in 1916, having by
now attained the rank of first lieutenant.  He was stationed at Corregidor Island, 13thInfantry Division.  In January of 1917, a few months before the U.S. entered the War, he was awarded the rank of captain, stationed at Manila with the 27thInfantry.  Replacing General “Black Jack” Pershing (likewise a West Point graduate), who had been reassigned and would take command of AEF for the Western Front, Patrick was assigned to the Philippine Scout Division, and once again received a promotion; he was now a major, a rank that he would enjoy until the conclusion of the War, at which time he returned to the grade of captain.  

From August, 1918 to April, 1919, he commanded the 3rdBattalion of the 27thInfantry, serving as U.S. Liaison between Russia and Japan (amidst the Russian civil war).  Patrick distinguished himself as part of the American Expeditionary Forces – Siberia, tasked with the mission to safely evacuate the Japanese, crossing (at a remarkable pace) nearly the entire country, west to east.  For the mission’s success he was awarded the second highest medal conferred by the Japanese Emperor, the “Third Order of the Rising Sun”.  The medal, housed in a Japanese lacquered box with braided cord and tassel, was in Aunt Ginny’s possession for several years.  Accompanying the award itself were a letter from the War Department (dated 1921) and a handwritten commendation in Japanese from the Emperor.  We cannot help but wonder,by what set of circumstances did the medal end up in Aunt Ginny’s hands?  A recent comment by our second cousin Jim Morrissey (Martin Alphonsus’ son), suggests that it may now be in his possession (March, 2019).

Back to Patrick:  

Patrick returned to the U.S. in April, 1919, and remained at the Presidio in San Francisco until he resigned in June, 1920.  He must have found his internal demons indeed formidable when he finally separated from the Military, for he ultimately turned his back on those who had relied upon him: family, friends, fellow soldiers, leaving all bewildered, lost, and/or disappointed.  Among Patrick’s records collected and preserved by West Point is a postcard that he wrote in September, 1920 from Merced Falls, California, a mere three months after resigning.  It’s a short but profoundly personal note that invites great speculation; he begins by stating, “My dear Col. Robinson, I am sorry to cause you so much bother.”  While he appears to want to have direction, he’s now itinerant with vague ideas about destination (Argentine Republic?) and gainful employment (oil, mining, stock raising, ranching, and lumber).   One might detect a wish on Patrick’s part to not disappoint, but his ambiguity tragically exposes him to just that.  


Voter registration and federal census records show that Patrick lived in California, primarily in the San Francisco area, from the 1920’s to the 1950’s, sometimes listed as a carpenter, at other times as a patient in various veterans’ hospitals.   (At the very least, he was a patient at three VA hospitals:  Yountville, Alameda, and Los Angeles.). His WW2 draft registration record of 1942 indicates that he was living in a veterans’ home in Napa County, California.  

For so long I had surmised that it was Patrick’s indecisiveness or restlessness that contributed to (and perhaps explained) his nomadic behavior; evidence instead suggests that his sense of detachment arose because of physical limitations.  Patrick was not well, and he had not been well for a long time.  His final years were spent in a military hospital in Tucson, Arizona; he died of service-related tuberculosis.  In a letter to the U.S. Military Academy in 1952, Patrick reflected on earlier times with fellow cadets and happier experiences (such as boxing matches); he also expressed regret that he wasn’t well enough to attend an upcoming class reunion.  Following a comment in which he wished all “abundant good health and happy living”, he shared one of his favorite sayings:  dum spiro spero (“while I breathe, I hope”). 


The final chapter of Patrick’s life is worth the telling.  Towards the end of his life he wrote a letter to his younger brother John.  So many years had elapsed that Patrick was unsure of where his brother was living; thus, he addressed it to the DeAngelo Fruit Company, where he had known John to be employed.  In his letter he asked if this John was the son of Anastasia, along with other questions that would determine kinship.  John was ambivalent about responding at all; he was, still, nursing an enduring resentment. (An explanation, or a likely explanation, is provided within John’s biographical section.)  With strenuous encouragement by Aunt Ginny, her father did reply. Patrick responded immediately, and plans were made for the two brothers to reunite after a separation of over thirty years.  For the first and only time in his life, John – at the age of 54 - boarded a plane at Logan Airport, at the last instant turning around and waving to his “won’t take no for an answer” daughter.   Upon his return from Arizona he said very little about his reunion with his older brother; he did, nevertheless, thank Aunt Ginny for talking him into taking the trip to Arizona to see his brother. . . and to say goodbye.