The feast in honor of Our Lady of Guadalupe goes back to the sixteenth century. Chronicles of that period tell us the story.
A poor Indian named Cuauhtlatohuac was baptized and given the name Juan Diego. He was a 57-year-old widower and lived in a small village near Mexico City. On Saturday morning, December 9, 1531, he was on his way to a nearby barrio to attend Mass in honor of Our Lady.

He was walking by a hill called Tepeyac when he heard beautiful music like the warbling of birds. A radiant cloud appeared and within it a young Native American maiden dressed like an Aztec princess. The lady spoke to him in his own language and sent him to the bishop of Mexico, a Franciscan named Juan de Zumarraga. The bishop was to build a chapel in the place where the lady appeared.

Eventually the bishop told Juan Diego to have the lady give him a sign. About this same time Juan Diego’s uncle became seriously ill. This led poor Diego to try to avoid the lady. The lady found Diego, nevertheless, assured him that his uncle would recover and provided roses for Juan to carry to the bishop in his cape or tilma.

When Juan Diego opened his tilma in the bishop’s presence, the roses fell to the ground and the bishop sank to his knees. On Juan Diego’s tilma appeared an image of Mary as she had appeared at the hill of Tepeyac. It was December 12, 1531.

Quote

Mary to Juan Diego: “My dearest son, I am the eternal Virgin Mary, Mother of the true God, Author of Life, Creator of all and Lord of the Heavens and of the Earth...and it is my desire that a church be built here in this place for me, where, as your most merciful Mother and that of all your people, I may show my loving clemency and the compassion that I bear to the Indians, and to those who love and seek me...” (from an ancient chronicle).

When I grew up in South Philly, my neighborhood was less integrated than it is now. We were mostly white Irish or Italian. There were many first generation Italian families around. Families where the parents barely spoke English and the kids sometimes started school as Italian speaking. I cannot imagine it. Most of those kids excelled in school even as they were teased. I guess it was sheer determination. My family was third generation Italian American. I only had one grandfather born in Italy, the rest of my grandparents were born in America. They only spoke Italian when they didn't want us to know what they were talking about. My parents only spoke English. We were Americanized. It seemed that was just the way my grandparents wanted it. Now, I can bop them in the head for not teaching me their language. Thank God, they couldn't help themselves in the kitchen. I learned what was good to eat by watching the time and effort that went into lunches and dinners and baking and holidays and by watching the joy and ecstasy while having dinner. We tried the T.V. dinners and boxed macaroni and cheese. We liked it to a certain extent, but what I remember loving the most is the gravy and the pasta and the meatballs and the braciole and the cookies and the crabs and the parmaggiano and the bread and the antipasto.

Concetta was a friend, a good friend, from grade school throughout high school. Her parents were directly from Calabria. They were kind and nice and soft spoken. Her father kissed her every morning with love and affection as she left for school. Her mother wore house dresses with rolled flesh colored stockings and chunky black shoes every single day. On windy days she wore a kerchief. We walked together every day for four years to our all girl's high school. Sometimes, after school, we did homework together. Connie was smart. Her homework was neat and professional looking. There were no scribbles on her books or drawings of hearts or stars or moons. Everything was underlined neatly with a ruler and a red pen. Her penmanship was exemplary. Her house was quiet and spotless with tile floors and white and gold furniture. The working kitchen was in the basement, as was the family room and the dining area. The kitchen on the first floor was "for show". Her mother made homemade pasta and bread and fried eggplant as crispy as potato chips. Stephana was her younger sister by 11 years.

Connie was not the type of girl that strolled around the playground to flirt with the boys. She did not hang on the corner. In fact, she never went to the prom or even a dance. After dark, she was expected to stay in with her family. I was wild compared to Connie...well, anyone would be..compared to her. I remember our conversations were mostly about school or things we had in common and the other stuff that went on was really not discussed too much. I actually felt funny to tell her about the great dance, or my new boyfriend, or the prom. I met my husband in my Junior year of high school and all the seconds of my day's thoughts were about him. I surmise this was when Connie and I started to grow apart. Not because I had a boyfriend but because I grew up and out and she stayed home. I always liked and cared about her, though.

After graduation, after many nights out at clubs dancing, kissing and shopping and excursions to the shore we all settled down to either school or work. Connie did none of those things but did start a job and was working full time as well as I. She dressed modestly and was happy and pleasant. Some nights we met at the corner on our way home after work.

One spring evening she told me she was getting married. I was dumb founded. What? Who? How? When? She proceeded to tell me she would meet the young man this summer on a trip to Calabria with her family. He was 24 years old. Connie was 18. She was married 6 months later to a man she met 2 times. He was a policeman. He had a good job and they would live near the beach. "Your moving away?" I said. I almost cried. I could not believe she would leave. My reaction was totally selfish, of course. I was going on about a life of fun and wonder and hope and she was working and waiting. Her family arranged this marriage many years ago. I have a feeling Connie was told about this possibility years ago, also. She did as she was told to do. I never even heard her talk back to her mother. Only, maybe a slightly loud "O.K." to indicate a strong feeling at the moment but never a cross word or a "No" or a "All my friends are going".

I saw her a couple years after she was married and she told me with tears in her eyes how she hated living in Calabria. The town was small and very much controlled...for example, the water was turned off every night at sundown. Her husband worked a lot. She was lonely. She missed the family she spent every day and night with her whole life.

A couple of years later, I saw her again. She was visiting her family with her new daughter who was swaddled in white linen and lace. Connie beamed in her skirt and stockings in the middle of summer and sensible black shoes. She looked so Italian to me. But she was happy and I was happy for her. She had another daughter, and then, as time went on, it seemed like her children's joy became her joy. The water runs 24 hours a day now. She lives at the beach where the air is clean and the kids have room to play. She has lots of friends and even works part time. I think she went back to school too. Her husband only speaks Italian. I do not think he was ever here for a visit.

Connie must wake up thinking in Italian now. It has become her first language once again. Her children are learning to speak English. Her parents do visit her every other year or so. Her sister is married and lives near Philadelphia. I wonder if Connie lets her kids have T.V. dinners or boxed macaroni and cheese just to remember something of her childhood, something about South Philly and trying to be American? I wonder if she will arrange her daughter's marriages? I do doubt it. I do not think it is as common now.

I wish I could arrange my kid's marriages! It doesn't seem so bad after all. Just think, they could live in Italy, at the beach. And we can visit. Or maybe the Italian wives I pick will come to live here. Maybe they will learn to not miss their families so much and love us a lot.

Maybe, in my dreams! They don't make girls like Connie anymore.

What a shame!

A Navajo grandfather was speaking to his young grandson:
"Two wolves live inside me. One is the bad wolf, full of greed and laziness, full of anger and jealousy and regret. The other is the good wolf, full of joy and compassion and willingness and a great love for the world. All the time, these wolves are fighting inside me." "But grandfather," the boy said, "Which wolf will win?" The grandfather answered, "The one I feed."

Catharine is an educated, young looking black lady. She was married to a man who was a professor at a college. He was supposedly a scholar. They lived in a manner of the upper middle class. Her home is decorated with silk covered sofas and chairs, custom made heavy satin draperies, and marble mantles dressed with heavy brass objects. They traveled the world as they drifted apart. They never had children.

Catharine said when her husband died it was no big loss. They rarely got along and grew to despise one another. He read and wrote and taught and she sewed and volunteered.

Now, she lives among his books and the same draperies and sofas she never uses. Whenever I visit, she is in her wheelchair. She is full of smiles and bright intelligent conversation. She is awake, alert and oriented. She does not have dementia. She can fool a fool but if you look and pay attention it is evident she is playing a game. She pretends she does lots of things she never does all day long. "Oh, I was just going upstairs", she said. Or, "I was so busy all day cooking and baking and straightening out the bills". When,in fact, the mail and papers and bills are piled high on an unused hospital bed. It is always in the same fashion and never is cleared or straightened, nor is the mail or papers ever even moved; the pile just gets more overwhelming.

A quick glance in her trash can revealed take out containers and cans of soup. Her house dress was the same one she had on my last visit which was over a week ago and her perfume was indicative of layering over days of perspiration and neglect. She was smiling and so convincing to herself that she was adamant when telling me she was fine and did not need any help. "In fact, they'd only be in the way", she said. Her voice was aggressive and confident.

I took her blood pressure: 220/118. After three days of this high blood pressure (I went back to retake it) I finally had enough. Why was she lying to me? How can she be taking her medications every day, as she swears she is, when her bottles are full of pills indicating she takes about 3 pills a month. She tells me she had extra lying around the house. I tell her how a stroke or heart attack is imminent, how she should go to the hospital, how she should take her medications as prescribed. She tells me she is worried about me! I worry too much. I called the doctor begging for help. The doctor agreed to visit her tomorrow.

I look at Catharine, whose wig is lopsided on her head and figuratively give her back her control. I tell her I'll check the blood pressure, only if she wants me to, about 1 x a week. She can take or not take the medication as she sees fit. She tells me she will continue to take it every day like she has been doing, but for now, she is going to get herself some dinner she was preparing all day. She continues to tell me of chicken and biscuits and black eyed peas and greens and a boxed marble cake she prepared. "Would you like to join me"? Thereafter, she will then get ready for bed. She tells me she will shower and climb into warm pajamas and get that bed ready for a good night's sleep. I ask her if I can help her with the bed or help her in the shower. "Oh, no. I will be just fine, but thank you for offering".

On my way out I meet the man from "Wings To Go" delivering something that smells like fried chicken to Catharine's house.

The next time I visit is two days later. Catharine has on the same house dress, another layer of powder and perfume and her wig is still lopsided in the same position. The bed is over run with papers. I feel my blood pressure rise a bit. "Oh come in, it is so nice to see you, I was hoping you'd visit me today", she says. I am astonished as I know she intentionally did not answer the phone when I tried to call earlier. "I am getting ready to go out to do some errands today", she says. I know for a fact she has not been out of that house in years.

"Oh, you look so much better today", I tell her.

and

She smiles and nods in agreement.

When I first started in home care I used to go out in the early morning to see patients. I'd always be nervous coming home because I knew my husband was waiting to go to work. He was always ready and waiting.

After dinner, if I had a patient or two to see, I'd happily leave those crazy kids with my husband to run out to do a couple of visits. I wish I could say I liked getting out of the house, but, in fact, I did not. I was always anxious to get back and always felt like it wasn't right for me to leave my children. I know that sounds old fashioned but that is how I felt at the time. I actually missed them for that short period of time. (Don't ask me now!) I also knew, in the back of my mind, the kids were very needy. There were bottles and snacks and baths to give, there were stories to read and bed time shows to watch, there was toys to pick up and balls to throw. The kids used to wrestle and fight and constantly ask for juice or milk or this or that.

I'd rush home. A very good sign was that my husband was on the porch or step with a cigar. That was the fine indication that all was O.K. I was relieved to see the world did not fall apart and there was relaxing going on behind my back.

My husband has been smoking cigars for years, since college. I never was an advocate of smoking, especially cigarettes. I am a nurse and watched my mother in law and father in law and many, many patients suffer because of smoking cigarettes, but, somehow cigars seem different.

I am like a Pavlov dog when I sniff that aroma. I automatically feel like everything is O.K. I think of long evenings and wine and deep thoughts and long conversations. I think of staying put for a while, not rushing, not tending to something, not worrying.

Because he always smokes outside, it became a time to sit and do nothing else but smoke and talk and take a small amount of time for just conversation or thinking. It wasn't possible to do much else while waiting for that fat, stuffed, and rolled leaf to dwindle away.

The other day I was doing my 5 mile walk. I was walking through the lakes (a large park) and at one point I inhaled a breath of cigar smoke. My husband's face appeared in my mind, but, of course he was not there at the time. I looked around. In the corner, under a tree, an older man sat in his car listening to the radio, a long pull on his cigar and a soft, lingering, puckered blow. I smiled and liked the thought that there are some smart people enjoying the small moments of the day.

I sometimes wish I smoked cigars!

Years later, my husband now frequents a small corner store that houses lots of cigars. A purchase becomes an aquaintance and an aquaintance becomes a friend. Socializing with neighbors, conversation with the guys (and girls) and hanging out relaxing in the neighborhood. This little place brings together people from many different backgrounds to the familiarity of cigar smoking. It is a nightly ritual, almost. And while my girlfriends and I have to pour over calendars too penciled in to find time to get together, each night a group of guys walk or drive on over for an hour or two for a cigar, a coffee, a glass of wine, and conversation; most importantly for relaxing and friends.

One of the guys around the store had a baby. We were invited to the one month old celebration in Chinatown. The experience of sharing this special time with these really nice people was nice. Most of the guys from the shop looked like they were dying for a cigar but also glad to forgo a night at the shop for their friend and his family. Some of them went out to smoke after the party.

I tease my husband that I am so grateful for this little "club" of friends; actual help with getting him out of my hair after dinner. I am really glad that he has a bit of time to relax and enjoy parts of each day in this way. I do that by writing or reading and am glad he knows the exceptional joy in a deterant from everyday stress and chores. He works and worries about his family and deserves a small respite each day. There really isn't anything better than time spent with family and friends (and pets). A shared indulgence, a common liking, good conversation and warm friendship, along with rewarding work and interests, life's small pleasures make grandeur out of the otherwise ordinary.