10 Years Ago

I offer two lightly edited posts here from five years ago. In some ways it's hard to believe a decade has passed already, and in other ways, it's all too easy.

Paul Wellstone
1944-2002
(Image: US Congress)

Sometimes, the only realists are the dreamers. Robert Kennedy once said,'The future will not belong to those who are content with the present.' I think the future also will not belong to those who are cynical or those who stand on the sidelines. The future will belong to those who have passion and are willing to work hard to make our country better. The future will belong to those, in Eleanor Roosevelt's words, 'who believe in the beauty of their dreams.'

This day, Senator Paul Wellstone and seven others died in a plane crash near Eveleth, Minnesota. I rarely agreed with his political views and supported his opponents, but it was easy to respect his honesty and appreciate his optimism, which has been all too rare in recent years.

I dare to imagine a country where every child I hold in my hands, are all God's children, regardless of the color of their skin, regardless of whether they're boy or girl, regardless of religion, regardless of rich or poor, that every child I hold in my hands, will have the same chance to reach her full potential or his full potential. That is the goodness of our country. That is the essence of the American dream.

May he rest in peace.

Slipping Time - Patriot Day at Plus 11 Years

As a nation, we turned the emotional corner last year following the 10th anniversary of the terrorist attacks of September 11th, and not just because "11" is not the round number that "10" is. It's quieter and amid more the usual bustle of American life.

As Dana Milbank notes, for example:

Washingtonians will have so much to do, in fact, that they may have little time to think about what else is happening Tuesday: the 11th anniversary of the killing of 3,000 people in the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon.

Nine-eleven just isn’t what it used to be. Residents of the capital will awaken to what is forecast to be another clear Tuesday morning, just like that one 11 years ago, and they will find that the day that changed the nation is becoming more and more ordinary.

Some decry this. Most do not. I saw something similar happen in Oklahoma City when we lived there in the years following the Murrah bombing. Time heals, although not always completely, nor without scars, but we do move on.

Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin' into the future. - Steve Miller Band

Should we pause? Yes. Freeze? No. But pause, yes. Forgive? Maybe, but... well, we should. Forget? No. Hell, no.

For the 5th anniversary of September 11th, as part of Project 2,996 hosted by D. Challenger Roe to give more than names, ages, and occupations to the pictures of the victims who died from the attacks of September 11, 2001, I wrote a memorial about one of the victims, Joe Leavey. A lightly edited version is below.

I am the same age today that he was that day 11 years ago. That can give a guy pause. One more thing to remember from that day, I guess, which turns out to be the same lesson as Oklahoma City: Don't take time for granted. So, in the spirit of pausing, please hold time for a moment to learn about and remember this one life and the others lost that day.

What Heaven is For


One of the stanzas of "Home on the Range" asks whether the glory of the stars in the heavens exceeds the glory of man. A conceit, to be sure, and one that many today would dismiss as that which is the worst about America. But it also reveals a sense of awe, rooted in humility, that often gets glossed in a self-absorbed culture of chatter and buzz. "Look what we can do" is not a phrase we hear much these days, four years after a financial crisis from which we haven't recovered, seven years after Katrina and a dozen years after invading Iraq, but, I suspect, it's a thought that Joe Leavey carried about him every day.

Lt. Joseph Leavey
FDNY Ladder 15

By all the accounts I have read, Mr. Leavey was intelligent, quick-witted, and personable, and it was not much of a surprise that he would rise in an engineering career to be a successful construction manager in the city. He loved buildings, or rather, he really loved to marvel at them, the World Trade Center and its huge dimensions in particular by taking countless pictures of the towers and taking his family with him to do it. And what better way to marvel at buildings than to create them? To know from the inside the necessary scientific and engineering knowledge, to see the teamwork and coordination of skills and material, to appreciate the host of individual efforts to bring the vision of a building into reality together brings a special kind of joy that comes when people are acting in the names of the best within them, where you can almost feel like you can hold the creation regardless its size. And while such feats could exist and could be appreciated for their own sake, here is where Mr. Leavey shows us how the notion held by the rugged individual on the prairie still exists, and if a conceit, it can be a healthy one.

He always wanted to be a firefighter and he gave up his high-paying position to became one, eventually rising to lieutenant. His wife Carole said that he was a people person who knew everyone in their town. People people love people. I can imagine the reasoning behind his becoming one of New York's Bravest being along the lines that after helping to create many buildings, recognizing that ultimately buildings are for people and concluding that buildings and people deserve to be protected and saved, the time had come to act on his love of buildings and his love of people.

Joseph Gerard Leavey, 45, stationed in the South St. Seaport with Ladder 15, was one of the first firefighters to arrive at the World Trade Center. Riding to defend his loves, he stepped into the breach of chaos to find that this time his reach exceeded his grasp. He grew up in Inwood, attended Good Shepherd School, Power Memorial High, and Manhattan College. He lived in Pelham with his wife, his son, and his daughter, with a stepdaughter who lived in Manhattan. May that he and all the heroes and innocents of that day have been greeted by the angels of heaven and led unto paradise. Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let the perpetual light shine upon him. May he rest in peace.

Neil Armstrong, RIP

In a way it is fitting that I learned about Neil Armstrong's death while dropping off one of the Troglotykes (#2) at college. In addition to my father, there was no greater influence and inspiration for my becoming an engineer than the Apollo program. Actually, it was probably as much how it influenced my father on that July night in 1969 as to how it influenced me.

My recollection of it was recorded first in Troglotyke #2's baby book. I wrote a poem about it nine years after that. A couple years after that, seven years ago, I published my memory of that night:

NASA image

A long day of mild amusement for a two-year old, filled by waiting for anyone I know, holding vigil on the back steps of the farm house, toy tractors in hand. Then lots of people my folks knew were looking for my little brother. The funeral for my aunt, my Dad's brother's wife, was over, but I didn't know that. He was looking at cows. They were big and interesting, and he didn't want to play with me on the big, scary steps.

It was getting dark when we got home. People our folks knew were there, too. Something was happening. They were quiet; kind of like before. It was big.

Dad was carrying my brother and told me to follow him outside. The night was warm. Above shined clear the moon. Men were there, but we couldn't see them. We waved anyway. (I think we did that for my brother's sake.) Barely I caught the look in Dad's eyes. Not a question, more a simple command, "See what we can do."

It was the anchor of that night, the vision of wanting to be able to make things like that happen. I didn't go into the aerospace field when I graduated because it was on the front edge of a major contraction as an industry, but I've enjoyed a high tech career where I've been able to make some pretty cool things happen, invent a few things, and learn a bit more about the world. And I've had a career successful enough (so far) for my being able to send my children to the kinds of schools they are attending to dream their own dreams and seek out their own paths to truth. I know my father would have seen that as a fitting thing. I think Mr. Armstrong was from a similar camp.


Link to video.

Godspeed, Mr. Armstrong, as you make this next small step and giant leap. May the angels lead you to paradise. Rest in peace.

Family Memorial of Nathan Malby

One of the really cool things about the Church is the communion of saints. The communion of saints is the spiritual solidarity which binds together the faithful on earth, the souls in purgatory, and the saints in heaven in the organic unity of the same mystical body under Christ its head. In other words, the extent to which we are united to Christ, and the extent of those who have gone before us are united to Christ, is the level we are still united together. It is more real than just memories of those loved ones who we've lost and must learn to live without, or notions of ghosts and spirits traipsing across the inter-dimensions to meddle in our affairs.

St. Patrick's Day Parade, Dublin

Another cool thing is the Church's calendar, which is primarily geared toward feasts about Christ (as it should be, of course). Throughout the year there are days dedicated to saints, often coinciding with the dates of their deaths (the dates that we would take to coincide with their entrances into heaven), which are, for lack of a better word, ornaments around the feasts of Christ. Days of remembering with stories, days of prayer, days to celebrate their examples (emphasis sometimes put on the celebrating). Similarly, our own memorials, within our families, for family and friends can in turn "decorate" the Church's celebrations of the lives of the saints.

For example, the anniversary of my father's death is in July. On that day, we pray for the repose of his soul and ask for his prayers on our behalf. We tell stories about him, thereby introducing him to the majority of our children who never met him face-to-face. We invariably eat ice cream, one of his favorite treats (actually, he often ate it for breakfast). And it is one of the few times we let manners go and let the kids lick their dishes, like he did; ice cream was such a good thing that none of it was to be wasted.

Not many of us have met someone whose holiness is so undeniable that the Church recognizes him, or her, as someone who has joined Christ in heaven without the intermediate state of purgatory. Yet, they walked the earth as we do; they sang, talked, wrote, quarrelled, as we do. They ate, they drank. St. Thomas Aquinas was what we used to call "a healthy eater." Did Aquinas lick his plate clean? A family memorial may give you some insight on that. And in doing so remind you of his example.

Which brings us to August 7th. It's been a year since my friend, Nate, died. Nate was one of the smartest guys I've ever known, and a gifted musician (piano), among other things. But one of the things that became clear as we met and talked in the days following, was that his real genius, his developed talent, may have been his ability to connect with others; in a way of being fully present with them... so not like having 500 Facebook friends, or 1700 Twitter followers, "connected."

In some respects, it was a rather eclectic group of friends he had. But what was common was the type of friendship and how diligently it was all maintained. Whether you saw him often, or not for months at a time, they were friendships that could be maintained with a few words between poker hands as your shuffling the cards, or a couple hours over pitchers, if that's what was needed. Across the table, or thousands of miles. And then picked back up right where you left off, even if a year went by.

I won't go into the details, because they're personal, but the challenging questions, the sly retorts, the frustrations, the simple laughs, the flashes of insight, they weren't unique in kind, but the bonds were genuine. We are born alone. We die alone. But we live together, and to do that we have to know one another. Modeling that was his gift to us.

So how to celebrate, this being his memorial day and all (in addition to the obvious answer of prayer--Catholics can be predictable this way--Mass, that would have been good, too)? Tonight we had our block party for Night to Unite (our local version of National Night Out). And some of our clan then went to an end-of-the-baseball-season party for one of the boys. Two parties, plenty of opportunities for those "connections" floating around to keep working on. That was probably a pretty good start...

Nate, may the angels take you into paradise: may the martyrs come to welcome you on your way and lead you to the holy city, Jerusalem. May the choir of angels welcome you with Lazarus who once was poor, may you have everlasting rest. RIP, buddy. Amen.

Friday Video - Chuck Colson - Like I Am

RIP



Link to video.

(HHT: PowerBlog)

Herb Carneal, RIP

Holy Thursday

Long-time readers will recognize this as an edited version of the obituary I wrote for long-time Twins PA announcer, Bob Casey, almost exactly two years ago.

Willie McGee hits a little bouncer down to Gaetti, there's the throw to Hrbek ... and the Twins are world champions! The Twins are world champions!

I didn't here that call live in 1987. My brother and I and a fraternity brother of ours drove from our fall break at home in the Twin Cities back to college in eastern Wisconsin that evening. We listened to the Twins flagship station, WCCO, until we passed Black River Falls before we had to switch to the national broadcast. We made it in time to see the end of the game on TV, so when the Twins sealed the deal and closed out the Cardinals to win the World Series for the first time since 1924 (as the Washington Senators), we had to settle for Jack Buck making the call. Even at the time, happy as I was, without my girlfriend and without Herb Carneal's voice, it didn't seem quite right. That summer was the third of my courtship with the Troglodytrix. We went to 20-something games that season, including Game 6 the day before. When we weren't at a game that summer, more often than not, we were taking a walk, or sitting in the back yard, with a radio tuned to the game and the Voice of the Twins.

It is something of a rite of passage that the sights and sounds of your formative years will disappear around you. I was no exception to a phenomenon that was no doubt replicated across the Upper Midwest as I stepped into the batter's box, or took the mound, in somebody's yard calling the play by play for myself as Rod Carew, Tony Oliva, Roy Smalley, Bombo Rivera, Dave Goltz, Bert Blyleven, etc. in a smooth, laid-back style that belongs to Herb Carneal, the radio voice of the Twins for all but the first year since they moved from Washington.

John Gordon, his broadcast partner for 20 seasons, said "He works very hard. He does all of his homework. He's never been a guy that's been real flashy. He just kind of slips into the seat and says, 'Hi, everybody.'" Even though he hailed from Virginia, his "the game is the show, not me" was an approach that fit hand-to-glove with Minnesotans. It earned him the Ford C. Frick Award in 1996 and a spot in the broadcaster's wing in Cooperstown and tied the entire region to the team.

Herb Carneal died the morning of Palm Sunday, Opening Day for the baseball season, at his home in Minnetonka, MN at the age of 83 from congestive heart failure, following a winter-long struggle with his health. A memorial service is scheduled for later today at Colonial Church in Edina, MN. He is preceded in death by his wife, Kathy, and survived by his daughter and grandson. He had been in semi-retirement for nearly a decade, progressively scaling back the number innings he called on the radio to just a few innings during less than half the home games. In that regard, his silence has been a long time coming. Even so, a Twins game on the radio will never be the same. May he rest in peace.

A New Way That's the Same as the Old Way

Easter
Happy Birthday Troglotyke #2
Happy Belated Birthday Troglotyke #1

We have journeyed through Lent. The anniversaries of Terri Schiavo and Pope John Paul the Great have passed. Now Passion Sunday and the Easter Triduum. And still I can't get my mind off Advent. The homilies from the different parishes where I attended Mass during Advent all pointed to the similar theme that as Christ's passion, death, and resurrection is all the single event of the Triduum, the Incarnation not just points to the act of Redemption, but is in fact part of it, and, accordingly, our mission to evangelize is established in our preparation for Christmas.

Week 1 - "We are on a mission of heart and dedication."
Week 2 - "As John the Baptist used the waters of baptism to lead others to Jesus, so to are we called to use our baptisms to lead others to Christ."
Week 3 - "We often define ourselves by who we are, but it is just as important to define ourselves as Who we are not."
Week 4 - "Like Mary, we are not alone."

The humility of an outcast's death is pre-figured by an outcast's birth, while He discloses the complete truth about humanity.

Pope Benedict noted in his message for the World Day of Peace that the truth of peace calls upon everyone to cultivate productive and sincere relationships. This was the genius of my friend, Don Cook, who passed away last December (during Advent). When we met in Oklahoma nine years ago, he would not have hesitated in saying his faith was not particularly mature, but he always had a way for drawing people together--we used to somewhat-jokingly refer to him as the homeowner association's social director. However, there was nothing earth-shattering to his methods, usually some kind of game, or something social: a game of washers, or "horse," a round of golf, a spur of the moment BBQ, a day on the lake, the occasional cigar in the backyard, a neighborhood-wide crawfish boil... Conversation ranged, but always included family and almost always was casual. In those times, the ties of many friendships were made, fulfilling a fundamental need for authentic relationship, a need that even Jesus Christ shared in his full humanity; "You are my friends, and there is no greater love than to lay down one's life for a friend."

At Don's funeral, his brother-in-law noted that this gift for friendship had become a gift for evangelization. Dozens of people visited Don, or were pulled to him, really, as he was losing his struggle with melanoma and many, if not most, came away at least mentioning his faith. It was always easy to talk to Don, and he made it a natural and easy thing for his friends to pass along to other people. The sincerity, maturity, and comfort of it made it easy to share. When I last visited him in November, Don told me that my friendship had helped him with his faith formation, and he thanked me for it. Stunned, I think I said something stupid in return. I can only believe my help was in a small way because his faith, not mine, was tested in fire and showed its mettle. However, to the extent that it was true, I am humbled and forever grateful. Whether we, his familty and friends, were aware of it at the time, in a world often lost in the shadows of the twin towers of expedience and solipsism, a beacon of genuine clarity and charity shined.

So now the dawn draws near, and the challenge before us of the dictatorship of relativism remains as it ever was. Yet, He is risen! Alleluia! And now we have another example on the pre-figured Way in Don. May he rest in the truth of peace, as we take up his mantle.

Washers, anyone?

Susan Anne Catherine Torres, RIP

Memorial of St. John Chrysostom

Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let the perpetual light shine upon her.
May her soul, and those of all the faithful departed, through the Grace of God's mercy, rest in peace.
Amen.

(cap tip: Holy Fool)

Arnold the Crime-fighting Pig, RIP

Memorial of St. Mary Magdalene

Homer: Are you saying you're never going to eat any animal again? What about bacon?

Lisa: No.

Homer: Ham?

Lisa: No.

Homer: Pork chops?

Lisa: Dad, those all come from the same animal.

Homer: Heh heh heh. Ooh, yeah, right, Lisa. A wonderful, magical animal.

AP is reporting that a south Minneapolis neighborhood hero, Arnold, died last month. He earned his moniker after biting the leg of one of two men trying to rob his owner, Becky Moyer, at gunpoint in February 2001.

Ms. Moyer had just returned home when the two men confronted her in her garage while Arnold was sitting patiently by the refrigerator waiting for his dinner. Moyer screamed once inside the house, and Arnold sprang into action. He attacked one of the burglars, drawing blood, and forcing both intruders to flee.

Given my taste for the other white meat, learning of Arnold's demise has made for a day of mixed feelings. Arnold, a mixed breed part-Yorkshire, part-Vietnamese potbellied pig was expected to grow to be about 60 pounds. He died at age six, apparently of heart failure, weighing about 450 pounds.

A magical animal indeed.

James Doohan, RIP

"Cap’n, I canna change the laws of physics!"

- Montgomery Scott, Chief Engineer, USS Enterprise

The engineer is rare who faced with a deadline and a difficult technical problem has not adopted the persona that typecast James Doohan. I would also wager that nearly every engineer has applied on occasion the multiplicative Scotty schedule factor of two when predicting how long any such task will take to complete in an attempt to secure a reputation as a "miracle worker." I, for one, am guilty on both counts. Unsurprisingly, the commanding on screen presence in a frantic situation was born of Mr. Doohan’s real heroism as a veteran of the Canadian army.

He was among the Canadian forces that landed on Juno Beach on D-Day and crossed a minefield, only to be wounded in six places by machine gun fire before the day was done. This is just one of the tales from his autobiography, Beam Me Up, Scotty, a phrase never actually uttered during the original Star Trek television series that ultimately became a $3B franchise.

James Montgomery Doohan was born March 3, 1920, in Vancouver, British Columbia. He died early Wednesday morning, the 36th anniversary of the moon landing, from complications of Alzheimer's disease. His remains will be transported into space according to his wishes. May he rest in peace beyond gravity's surly bonds.

James Doohan during a guest appearance on the Star Trek:The Next Generation TV series.

(AP Photo/files,Paramount Pictures)

Pope John Paul the Great, RIP

As the family goes, so goes the nation.

It was like an electric current that sticks to your ribs, and it shot through the entire congregation during the homily. Of course! I am a cradle Catholic and never wavered (well, except occasionally/temporarily regarding some teaching). I have two Polish grandmothers (both since passed) so it was a big deal when a Pole became pope. Particularly so for the Troglomatrix's mother, with whom we were close. We always paid attention to the pope. But this was something new. When I read Crossing the Threshold of Hope, the seeds were planted. That I was even in St. Louis seemed to be more than just a string of coincidences, and now I was beginning to see why.

I was living in Oklahoma at the time and I mentioned in passing to my mother, the Troglomatrix (living here in the Twin Cities), that I would like to see the pope during his visit to St. Louis in January 1999, where my brother just happened to be attending graduate school. A few days later she called me back and asked me if I was serious about going. She is the Admin. Asst. at a Catholic school and one of the teachers had come into the office with a prayer card from a student's mother that had a picture of Our Lady of Czestochowa hugging the Holy Father. Being half-Polish, my mother recognized Our Lady immediately, of course. During the conversation that followed, my mother mentioned that I wanted to see the pope, but didn't know how to get tickets because there was little mention of the visit in the Archdiocese of Oklahoma City, and he was coming in just a few days. The teacher relayed the story to her religion class, and the student mentioned it at dinner that night. It turned out that his mother was in a parish prayer group that was given tickets for the papal Mass, but she wouldn't be able to attend. She sent me the ticket (through my mother). I traveled to St. Louis, where my brother acted as host, put me up for the night, and got me where I needed to be.

Here is what I wrote (inadequately, I think) soon after the pope's visit to St. Louis:

The opportunity to see Pope John Paul II and to participate in the Solemn Eucharistic Celebration at America's Center during the papal visit to St. Louis last month was a blessing for which I am deeply grateful. My hopes were for a rewarding and inspiring experience. It was that and more.

One of my pictures of the pope's visit to St. Louis in 1999. Go here for more on the visit.

I was able to get within approximately 20 feet of the Holy Father when he toured Cervantes Convention Center, and I was able to see him well. That and the intense sense of communion with the nearly 110,000 people during the papal Mass were deeply moving, in addition to being surreal. Unlike other intensely emotional events, I think it was not so much a life-changing experience as a life-affirming one.

The righteousness of what we believe was made so obvious to me that my confidence in the Catholic Faith, which is determined by life's experiences, has been raised to a level I did not think I could achieve yet, i.e., in my early thirties. So too did the Apostolic Exhortation, based on the Synod for America, resonate with me, which His Holiness reemphasized on this pastoral visit. In particular, I have taken to heart the need to focus on the family and today's children in the New Evangelization.

While I disagree, as noted above, my family will say that I was changed by that trip. OK, maybe. I did actually begin studying the Catechism and the pope's encyclicals, and found out how little I knew, despite 12 years of Catholic school. I did actually begin praying every day. I did focus more on bridging my faith and my life. In short, I sensed I was preparing for a mission.

My first mission, however, was not to my children, as I expected, but to my father. In May 1999 he was diagnosed with brain cancer. The family came together, like families do in such times. When I arrived, everybody else had their roles worked out, centered on daily tasks. My father, in particular, seemed lost in minutiae. That left me to ask him the big question, "What do you believe, Dad?" He had been a faithful Catholic his whole life. He had made the First Friday and First Saturday devotions. It took just a few conversations, not many, for me to remind him who he had always been. Yes, he was worried about what was happening, but he knew how to prepare for whatever was meant to be. He began praying more openly (though nothing like a charismatic) and more often than I had ever seen him. I learned that while he was growing up, his father had seen to it that the family prayed, often together. Here is where he started. As his condition declined rapidly, it got so that he repeated the Hail Mary for hours, for days, in a rhythm as seductive as breathing.

A few days earlier my mother received a framed print of the picture on the prayer card from the teacher at school. During one of the conversations with my father he pointed at the pope, with his head on Our Lady's shoulder, and said, "That's what it's all about. That says it all." He was ready. To be honest, I am not sure how I could have gotten to this point without being re-armed in Faith. I consider my being able to help my father as a special Grace from the pope's trip, but it is decidedly not the only Grace.

There has been a lot of talk as to what is the legacy of the Holy Father: the collapse of communism, a steadying hand for the Barque of Peter, the theological time bomb of the Theology of the Body, the fruits of World Youth Day, his example of discipleship to the end, and so on. It is these and then some. Does this list capture his greatest accomplishment as pope? Perhaps. I do know this. In our family, without him, Troglotykes 5, 6, and 7 would not exist, nor the fountain of blessings they bring. And ours is not a unique experience. He inspired the creation of a lot of new people. "Be not afraid!" Indeed, we need not be afraid of having a large family in a society whose members look at you askance and murmer (if not comment directly). His revival of the domestic church may very well have created a legacy that will live literally into the 22nd century.

As he guided the Church from the end of one century to the beginning another, so to did he bring the Grace for me to be a guide at the end of one life and at the beginning of others. I am a better man because of him. Today's tears are bittersweet. May the angels lead him into paradise. May he rest in peace.

Pope John Paul the Great, pray for us.

Theresa Marie Schiavo (née Schindler), RIP

It would be tempting to say that another hurricane struck Florida last month, where in the center of the eye, the occupant of a room in a Pinellas Park hospice laid blissfully unaware. But it is not true. Hurricanes are indifferent, hurricanes are uncontrollable. No, this was a battle in a cold war. A battle that occurred every bit as much inside the hospice as it did in the halls of Congress, as it did in the Florida state house, as it did before any number of judicial benches, with a battlefield we ought to survey in the light of following days. What we see when we do so is revealing.

First is the abuse of a perfectly valid statement, “Cogito, ergo sum.” Or in the context of Descartes' original objective, it is more accurately stated, “I think, therefore I know that I am.” What we have seen here is the assertion, which does not follow logically, "If I do not think, then I am not." This is where those who allow, if not, in fact, insist on, taking the life of a person in the notorious persistent vegetative state. That was the point of many who called for a MRI or PET scan for Terri Schiavo, or the ubiquitous CAT scan displays of healthy and damaged brains, including Ms. Schiavo’s, to influence us that her disability was proof that she lacked personhood. Such acts betray a misunderstanding of human existence that presumes mind and body are separate.

Advances in neurology have served to demystify the mind by highlighting the electrochemistry of the brain and the discovery of neurons outside the skull. If ever there might have been a doubt, the brain is part of the body; a major organ, but not the determinant of life, or humanness. The more we learn, the more “mind and body” becomes “body and body.” In this context, brain function is more akin to other bodily functions than a special class properly reserved for the soul. This error of inflating the meaning of cognition, however, is a symptom of a more grave, more widespread problem.

Those who dismiss that there is any inherent value of life are included obviously, but so too are many who bemoan not knowing unambiguously her wishes, even if they are among those who want to “err on the side of life,” because, at least implicitly, they condone the self-absorbed act of suicide. A is A. Life is life. And as such, it is its own purpose. Yes, Ms. Schiavo the person, union of body and soul, possessed free will. If she were to have left explicit instructions to deny food and hydration, a true culture of life would not, in fact could not, support destroying the fundamental uniqueness of her person even though her capacities be diminished.

Every cell of our physical being, the body itself, impels us to life until its natural end. This can only be arrested by the soul’s captain by exchanging it for the affirmation of another’s. Deny this truth universally and society welcomes a peculiar tyranny of self-inflicted chaos--life becomes not life.

Still, we have granted Ms. Schiavo something short of a legacy with the fervent cultural desire to find a grand meaning, such as defense from a theocracy, reining the imperial judiciary, raising the awareness of eating disorders, etc. The moral challenge to us is to not confuse her life with her cause célèbre. To further reduce the meaning of her life to a cause is to objectify her and deny her life’s inherent value, for its own sake.

Terri Schiavo grew up in Pennsylvania and is described by her family as a shy woman who loved animals, music, and basketball. A funeral Mass for her was held earlier this evening in Gulfport, FL. Her cremated remains will be buried in the Philadelphia area. She breathed her last because of complications caused by dehydration. She died because the “inviolable mystery” of her human person was violated tragically by a philosophical error. May she rest in peace.

Bob Casey, RIP

The totals on the board are correct!

It is something of a rite of passage that the sights and sounds of your formative years will disappear around you. I was no exception to a phenomenon that was no doubt replicated across the Upper Midwest as I stepped into the batter's box in somebody's yard announcing myself as Rod Carew, Tony Oliva, Roy Smalley, Bombo Rivera, etc. in a syncopated style that belongs to Bob Casey, the only PA announcer the Twins have had since they moved from Washington. Mr. Casey gained notoriety for the way he announced Kirby Puckett and Kent Hrbek, reminded everyone that there is no smoking in the Metrodome, and butchered players' names, but his infectious love of baseball is what caused his distinctive voice and style to seep into the bones of Twins fans. Don't think it seeped in? Walk into a sports bar and ask "Who's up?" when Julio Franco is at the plate for the Braves this year. The answer, more likely than not, will be "OOOlio (pregnant pause) frangko." Sure a snickering fan in the know might say "ozzievirgil" if asked when Omar Vizquel is hitting, but it is decidedly TORii, and not a mimicking of kirBEEEEEEE, when Mr. Hunter takes the field because that's the way Bob said it.

Bob Casey died early Easter Sunday in Minneapolis at the age of 79 as a result of complications of liver cancer and pneumonia, surrounded by his family. A Mass of Christian Burial is scheduled for later today at St. Olaf Catholic Church in downtown Minneapolis. His wife of 55 years, Rosemary, wants him to be remembered for his love of family and love of the game. I doubt neither. And I know the ballpark won't be the same. May he rest in peace.

Hunter S. Thompson, RIP

Many of the obituaries for Hunter S. Thompson call him, whether with good will or ill, "the chronicler of the counter-culture," or as he prefered, "the chronicler of the death of the American dream." Perhaps. (RCP has had a good mushroom harvest on the sidebar for the last few days, including an insightful one from Reason.) I found his work to be a mix of the "colorful," the boring, and both. If nothing else, Mr. Thompson did advance the notion of the limitations of objective fact.

Understanding doesn't come with just the facts; it only comes with the story. Growth of scientific knowledge, for example, comes with adopting a better story. And, fundamentally, understanding is a problem of imagination. This was at the heart of the gonzo journalism he pioneered, albeit often through depraved means that also created a lot of noise and garbage. Facts anchor, but don't necessarily reveal the story. By contrast, many of today's journalistic troubles can be traced to a lack of imagination, think Jayson Blair, Dan Rather, Eason Jordan, et al. For all its faults and practiced shortcomings, there is a bit of a family resemblance revealed with Mr. Thompson's gonzo tactics acting the black sheep uncle to the new media. Granted this may be a case of a blind pig finding an acorn, but, nevertheless, may he rest in peace.

Lucia dos Santos, RIP

It is disappointing, but not surprising, to see so little notice given to Sr. Lucia's passing (cap tip: Michelle Malkin) last week, notably on the 13th. She an eye witness, with thousands of others, of miraculous events at Fatima, living into the 21st century, has been gently ignored by the masses, including many Catholics. Her participation in the the miracles of the First Saturdays Devotion by its propagation is another confirmation that God's pattern for bestowing blessings and working through the world is reflected in the Angelus. God asks, we answer, God delivers. And God calls anyone to holiness, including children. Her lifetime of humble devotion gives us another light on the path. May she rest in peace.

Johnny Carson, RIP

Memorial of St. Francis de Sales

"SIS-BOOM-BAH!"

[tears envelope and removes paper]

"What is the sound an exploding sheep makes?"

- Carnac the Magnificent

I am a member of that last generation to come of age before Johnny Carson left the scene with his retirement from the Tonight Show in 1992. Mr. Carson was a master of being mildly amusing. Don't get me wrong; his monologues, impressions, interviews, and skits had plenty of very funny moments. But it was the fact that he was consistently amusing and polite and charming that has many of us feeling a bit sad and nostalgic today.

Part of it is also that he made it look easy, something about which we were reminded after a week of a guest host. How often did we enjoy Bill Cosby on Monday, only to be completely fed up with him by Friday? Or Garry Shandling? Or Joan Rivers? Or David Letterman? Or Jay Leno, his mildly amusing successor? Without question, Johnny Carson set the standard. I think David Letterman nailed it when he said that the rest are just pretenders.

Mr. Carson does not leave a legacy that endures in great words or monuments. Just the occasional smile and soft chuckle of a fleeting memory. But we must consider whether it would have been as easy to crawl out of the late '70's without Johnny Carson. Could we have as easily embraced another affable fellow as he moved into the White House in 1981 if we didn't already trust one in our homes every night? I have also often thought that Dan Quayle's rejoinder to Lloyd Bentsen's crack about being "no Jack Kennedy" should have been Carnac-like:

"May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits."

That might have brought the house down and saved the then future Vice President a bit of grief. Finally, perhaps it is just me, but it seems a bit too coincidental that public discourse took a turn to the shrill when Mr. Carson retired. May he rest in peace.

Susan Sontag, RIP

Memorial of St. Raymond of Penafort

"I believe... that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated cr-p."

--- Kevin Costner as Crash Davis in Bull Durham

I somehow missed Ms. Sontag's passing in the tsunami's aftermath while I was visiting Lake Superior's North Shore on vacation after Christmas. I must admit that I am not terribly familiar with much of her work. In fact, my exposure to her fiction writing is limited to the quote above. On the other hand, I have read some of her essays, and while there are very few things on which we would have agreed, there were some things to admire in her work.

As is often the case, a great many, her fellow writers in particular, hyperbolize the virtues of an influential author. Ms. Sontag's case is no exception. There is no question that she was influential and provocative. Her response in the aftermath of September 11th is case and point as it shifted the context for how the left would stand in opposition to President Bush. That she was serious, dedicated, and probing, as described on NCRonline.org, is also not in doubt. It would not surprise me that her well-publicized quest for the truth was sincere. What puzzles me is similar to the question I face occasionally; the one that goes like "How can you seem intelligent and be (pick one: Catholic, conservative, Republican, etc.)?" or "How can you seem intelligent and yet be so blind to the truth?" In her case, how can someone as intelligent as Ms. Sontag, and as interested in the truth, not find The Truth?

Be that as it may, what I appreciated about her was not the content of her work, nor the way she lived her life, but her craftsmanship as a writer. Her blending of style and structure and content are models any aspiring writer would do well to study. She walked the fine line between being challenging and being merley self-indulgent to great effect. I hope, as I do for everyone, that she embraced enough Truth by the end of her wanderings to rest in peace.