Christmas Caroling: a Bridge over language Barriers

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Singing is in my DNA; my mother said that when I was born I didn’t howl in the traditional, time-honored manner: she insists that my first breath came while singing a Renata Tebaldi-ish high ‘C’. From that moment on, music has always been an important part of my life, but never more so than at Christmas.

Christmas caroling became a family tradition the year I was in the third grade. We started out with my parents, my four siblings and me, each contributing to the best of our ability. The attempt had such a great success that the tradition continued through the years, the choir growing as we added family members and then school friends.

Christmas caroling continued even after I married, both in Bologna and Mistretta. Every year in Bologna, between 1979 and 1983, our group was invited to sing in front of the giant Christmas tree in Piazza Nettuno (Neptune Square), and although caroling is not a common happenstance in Italy, our efforts were enjoyed by our listeners as much as we enjoyed singing. Then, we would go listen to Midnight Mass concerts which included Handel’s Messiah, Gregorian Chants and various others.

However, one of my favorite memories of Italian Christmas caroling took place in Mistretta, a tiny town nestled in the Sicilian Nebrodi mountain chain. One year, shortly after our arrival in the town, the head priest asked our church choir if we wanted to sing during the Midnight Mass that year. After conferring with the other church members we decided to sing a beautiful little song called “Stars Were Gleaming” taken from the children’s hymnal.

Finally, 11:00 pm, December 24^th arrived. The children had napped and, after hours of practice, we were ready to face a public of over 3,000 people. After dressing ourselves in our warmest clothing, we set off toward the church. We had left a little early because it had started to snow earlier and we needed to proceed slowly– everything in Mistretta is downhill, even when it was uphill – in order to avoid a nasty fall on the slippery cobblestone road. We also wanted to get there before the rest of the city showed up: seats were at a premium and we wanted to sit close to the front so we could be ready to sing when called.

At 11:55, we looked around and found ourselves surrounded by a huge crowd. Anticipation was high as the head priest, Padre Michele walked in with another priest we had never seen before, and the excitement was tangible. The little children, dressed in their costumes for the Christmas story, stopped fidgeting and turned their eyes toward Padre Michele as he stepped toward the microphone. The tingling in our fingers was not entirely a product of the freezing cold…

The minutes ticked on as we sat waiting anxiously for our turn to sing. A new priest had just arrived that day; he led the children around the chapel from “inn to inn” and ending at the manger scene at the entrance of the building. Once “Mary and Joseph” were settled in their places in the manger, Padre Michele announced that “our Mormon brothers and sisters will now sing for us”. Our moment had arrived. We stood up, knees shaking, and turned to face the congregation.

Voices quavering (was it the cold?) we began “Stars were gleaming, shepherds dreaming; and the night was dark and chill…” Our voices gained strength as we continued, “Onward going, gleaming, glowing, leading still, our Christmas star!” As we turned back towards our seats, we were surprised to hear another voice singing the same song, in another language; turning back once again, we listened, mesmerized as the new priest sang our carol with gusto.

After the mass, our group went and spoke with the new priest. We learned that he had arrived in Italy only days before from Poland, and that the carol we had sung that night was a Polish carol. He thanked us for singing that particular hymn and making him feel at home in a foreign land. And from that time, thanks to Christmas caroling, Padre Tomasz was our friend.

 

© Mary Purpari December 25, 2014 All Rights reserved

Two Personal Stories of Love and Hope from the Other Side

The following two stories are not fictional. They really happened, and while some might call them coincidences, I tend to disagree with them. I have a hard time with coincidences in the first place, but these go way beyond the realm of coincidence, in my opinion. The first episode concerns something experienced by a number of my family members; JoAnne is my sister, Sunny is my mother and Edith is my grandmother. JoAnne used to tell me about what was going on with Grammy, and she told me about how she and Grammy used to joke about her ashes being fed to Flipper. I was living in Italy at the time, and this was her way of keeping me in the loop. I’m telling you this so that no one will have an excuse to think it was something invented afterwards to substantiate the experience.

JoAnne and Edith

The early morning hours of September 9, 1995, just two short months before Edith’s hundredth birthday, found JoAnne sitting next to her grandmother’s bed in the nursing home where she had resided since her hip replacement three years earlier. Although she wasn’t particularly spry physically, Edith’s mind was as sharp as it had always been. She hadn’t been feeling very well for the past week, and had been unable to eat or even drink because of a constricted throat.

The two of them were conversing, when Edith started trying to clasp her hands, but they wouldn’t stay together. When JoAnne asked her what she was doing, she explained that she wanted her hands clasped now so there would be no problems when it was time to place her in her casket. Struggling to keep the tears from forming in her eyes, JoAnne folded her grandmother’s hands together, knowing that her Grammy’s pain would soon be ending.

Suddenly, Edith stopped speaking mid-sentence and told JoAnne that she was thirsty; JoAnne jumped and immediately offered to go across the hall and get her a glass of water, but she said no, because she had to wait a few more minutes, until she was on the other side where she could see a fountain of cool water. Ten minutes later, she was drinking her water, on the other side.

The story is already beautiful as it is, but it actually goes further. JoAnne and Edith had spoken often about what would be done after Edith’s death; she was to be cremated and her ashes were to be spread over the waters just off Newport Beach, California, where she had spent the last 64 years of her life. JoAnne would always comment about how her Grammy would be food for Flipper, and the two of them would have a good laugh over it.

The day of Edith’s memorial service and ashes spreading dawned bright and warm. Fifteen family members were in attendance; Sunny, JoAnne’s mother, remembered to take her sea-sickness pills, as Edith had constantly reminded her… A large group of dolphins followed the boat as it chugged its way out of the canal into the open waters; the captain said this was normal, although the group was somewhat larger than usual, and that they would leave as soon as he turned off the motor.

The dolphins did NOT leave, however. They continued to swim around the boat, chattering loudly among themselves and then put on an impressive show of dolphin acrobatics that lasted for about fifteen minutes. They then silently swam off. Sunny was heard to mutter, “She’s already in complete control.” This simple phrase seemed to sum up the general consensus of the participants.

Hundreds of pictures were taken that day, but none with the dolphins turned out. Participants in the service said that the dolphins glittered like diamonds when the sun hit them, so perhaps the brightness and glare given off was the reason that the photos didn’t turn out. No one really knows why, but all those who were in attendance that day ARE convinced that their beloved Edith was there in attendance with them.*

The Ash Trees

As many of you who follow my blog know, I have been in a sort of funk for the last 11 months after the death of my dearest Russ. These months have been punctuated with my own physical problems, exacerbated by my grief and pain at losing the man who constituted my head cheerleader, counselor, companion, sounding board, part-time cook, singing companion, entertainment committee and best friend. He was one of those people who collect knowledge like others collect baseball cards or shoes, and rarely forgets what he has picked up, so the two of us could be found almost any evening carrying on an interesting conversation on a variety of subjects. I deeply miss those conversations.When Russ was younger (much younger) he was a pitcher for a minor league baseball team. This is an important detail in the story I am about to relate.

This has been a rather wet year here in Brooklyn, and the weather didn’t actually start turning warm until much later in the spring than it usually does, so I put off planting my vegetable “garden” until late April. When I finally began, I noticed that the cats had killed off every single one of my strawberry plants and in their place a series of small tree saplings were growing. I pulled several out—there really isn’t enough space for trees to grow on my covered porch, which is where I keep my garden, in a series of pots and planters—but for every tree I pulled out, four more grew in its place. As they grew taller, I recognized where they had come from originally; there is a very tall tree two backyards down that has “helicopter” seeds. The next point is another important part of the story: I have been planting a garden on my porch for the last 4 years; I have seen those helicopters floating onto or past my porch every year, but not once has a tree sprung from them. In addition, these are the only known saplings in the group of backyards.

Anyway, on July 15 I decided to see if anyone could tell me what type of tree I had growing on my porch—I was very curious, since there so many of them (I think I had about 30 at that point)—so I asked my friends on Facebook. It turned out that my little trees are ash trees. For those who don’t know, one of the main uses for wood from these trees is making baseball bats. Since I went in for surgery the following day, I didn’t really think about the baseball connection to the trees for several more days.

My brain is a tangled web and sometimes I’m better able to untangle thoughts and resolve puzzles because of this. Anyway, as I was trying to sit up after surgery, a number of tangled strands suddenly tied themselves together and straightened out into one logical thread: death of baseball pitcher, baseball bat trees and seeds that have never grown before… To many, this might add up to nothing more than a series of coincidences, but to me it added up to the comforting thought that my Russ is keeping an eye on me.

Have any of you had similar experiences?

 

* This story was first shared on Suite101.com along with another story.  

©Mary E. Purpari. All rights reserved.

“O” is for Old Ladies with Old Photographs

One of the things this old lady likes to do is look at old photographs of the way she (and her family) was. Sometimes the photos make her laugh when she looks at the expressions and remembers the occasions in which they were taken. Other times, she looks at them wistfully and wishes she still had the innocence portrayed in them. I like to share them with with my friends and family who sometimes have a problem believing that I was slim and young, about around 30-40 years ago. My favorite picture, the one of me standing next to one of the Buckingham Palace Guards (you know, the ones who aren’t supposed to smile when they’re on duty) and he has a grin going from one ear to the other, isn’t here—I think my daughter has it. 

I have decided to share some of them with you; I hope you like them.  

When Old Ladies (and their families) were young VIEW SLIDE SHOW DOWNLOAD ALL