It seems that almost everyone knew someone or somebody who knew someone who was killed on 9/11. In the past I have read and heard of so many terrible events and have been personally untouched by so much grief throughout my life. But I was not spared on 9/11.

Fr. Mychal Judge was a Franciscan priest who was one of the pastors of the church I went to while growing up in New Jersey. I remember that we all thought of him as a hero because he always embodied the Franciscan ideal of charity. He drove a beat up old station wagon and wore raggedly hemmed jeans under his friar's robes. He would come over for dinner and take a doggy bag away, only to give it to some homeless street person on the way home. You never got your tupperware back from him!

He was always busy, meeting people and he always had a smile and kind words to say to everyone. Everyone mattered to him, and even as a small child I noticed that he attracted so many people because of his kind nature. I recall how we kids always wanted to receive Holy Communion from him, and would try to go to his line during Mass- that was how much everyone wanted to be near him.

I was too young to remember this but the story about his rescuing a suicidal man was well known in our parish. This man had a gun and was holed up in his apartment with his wife and children, threatening to kill them all and then himself. Fr. Mychal climbed up on a ladder and sat outside the apartment window, and talked to him all night. Finally, the man relented and all turned out well.

One time, as a child, I was in the church by myself. I think I lit a votive and was praying (for what who knows, some sort of childish conceit perhaps!) and I remember Fr. Mychal coming out of the sacristy and approached a woman sitting in a pew across from me. I watched surreptitiously as he sat next to her and hugged her, and she wept with such sorrow, and I was astonished with my childish ignorance to witness such a private grief, and the comfort he gave her as he held her. I knew I was watching something I did not understand, yet I also knew that here was a person who lived only to give, to heal, and to comfort.

That image has always remained in my memory, and I always loved Fr. Mychal because I saw the tenderness and compassion of a man who lived only for others.

On September 11, 2001, I watched the Twin Towers and the Pentagon hit by murderers and wept for those who died, and for the families and loved ones in grief. But my sorrow was still an impersonal one. It wasn't till a few days later, when I learned of Fr. Mychal's death that my grief became personal. When I saw that photo of those firemen carrying his broken body from the debris and dust I too became one of those who lost someone they loved on that day.

Yes, when I saw his photo, I recognized him... the same smile and kind face. Gray hair, deeper wrinkles - he had grown old - but I saw that it was him. Fr. Mychal Judge - RIP.

Never Forget...

Summer's gone! I'm not ready for this change but I am doing some things I like to do and some that I hate to do.

For instance:
Canning. I just helped my neighbor with an overladen apple tree can quarts of applesauce. Tomorrow we will can apple pie filling. I love putting food by. It makes me feel very happy to look at the finished product, and to know that none of it went to waste. Also made some homemade blackberry sorbet which was delectable!

What I don't like is that I become a spider slayer. In the spring I am a lilac thief. In the summer I'm a blackberry picker. But in the fall I am a spider slayer. They all want to come into the house now that the weather is colder. So occasionally I find a largeish spider in the sink, or running across the floor, which drives me into a frenzy of "kill, kill, kill!". I have to kill it. I don't care what people say, about it being "bad luck" or that "spiders are good". They cross that threshold into my space, then they are dead meat! (No pun intended)

I usually use two wadded up paper towels to get them. If they are on the floor and try to escape, I stomp on them (with a pair of spider stomping sandals that I use regularly.) Then I have to pick up the squashed carcass with wadded up paper towels. I rarely use bug spray, but if I have to I will - especially if I see one high on a wall or ceiling.

These are usually what they call "wolf spiders" - large, brown, and bit hairy looking. Like tarantula wannabes. I know, it sounds horrific, but the upside is that we don't have flies or mosquitoes here where I live...

The other day I was chatting with a friend at AW and I went into the kitchen to get a glass of water and I saw a big one on the wall. I mean this one was the size of Montana. After the initial visceral reaction ("SHRIEK") I dutifully and ruthlessly killed it. In one swift movement with my trusty paper towels.

I brandish paper towels regularly in the fall, and I must. I am sure that Brawny Paper Towel stock rises every autumn because of this.

In a previous journal entry I wrote of how I love spring best... when the lilacs are in bloom and I turn into a lilac thief... but I failed to remember back then how well I love the sunny, dry days of August and September, when the blackberries are plentiful!

The blackberries here are so abundant that they grow like weeds everywhere! They must be continuously cut back by city maintenance workers else the brambles overrun most other plant life! Oh, but how wonderful they are! Big, glossy, juicy berries everywhere! I gather them to make blackberry jam, blackberry pie, blackberry sorbet, and my new thing is blackberry cordial.

And there are always plenty for the birds. Where I live, one knows that it's blackberry season when one sees that the birds are pooping purple!

I have learned to pick blackberries with nary a scratch on my hands and arms. There is an art to it that comes from years of experience. Always carry a stick to brush away cobwebs: watch out for the spiders! Pull gently and the ripe ones will practically fall into your hands. Use a bucket only if you plan on crushing your berries later. If you want whole berries (for ice cream topping or desserts) then place them gently in those plastic half pint strawberry baskets saved from the supermarkets. Be prepared for stains... they will wash off eventually!

Today I canned 17 half pints of blackberry jam. The Ball jars are sitting on my kitchen table cooling off, and I occasionally glance at them proudly, happy with the productive work I did today. They will make nice gifts for Christmas!