His name is Gerry and he was born the day after I was in 1921. For those counting, that will be 100 years ago this coming April. We entered St. Paul’s Grammar School together the same day and eight years later we proudly graduated together.

Like many of my fellow Americans, I have been stunned, shocked, perplexed, alarmed and angered by recent public demonstrations. What is happening to our law abiding, peaceful country?

When a man is ordained to the Priesthood of Jesus Christ he publicly renounces not only the married state but also the intimate behaviors which are exclusively reserved for those in the married state.

Each morning my alarm clock shocks me awake and springs me off my chaste couch. I sleepily go through my daily routine. I say “Good Morning” to the Lord. I shower. I make the bed. I stagger to the Chapel for the daily Mass trying desperately to concentrate on more than remembering my full name.

It is an utterly spectacular May day in New York. (4/22/19) Everything is perfect, with a clear blue sky, no humidity and a mildly pleasant sunshine…

1928. Saturday morning in May. Eight o’clock Mass at St. Paul’s. Sun streaming in through the stained glass windows. I kneel at the beautiful altar railing and receive my Lord and my God for the first time.

Two priests were hawking God on the streets of a Big City. With printed signs and jovial greetings they offered Sacramental Confession or blessings to the hustling harried looking passersby.

Our beloved Church is indeed in deep turmoil. Scandals of the worst sort seem to surface every day adding to our shame, anger, and perplexity. Our wagons circle.

He was a Paulist priest “star.” He could do almost everything spectacularly well. He impacted the lives of multitudes. So, a large white marble “icon” or plaque was constructed in his honour, listing his triumphs and priestly labours for all to see.

It was a very hot Saturday afternoon in the middle of August in 1940. I was walking down New York City’s Ninth Avenue, on the east side of the avenue, trying to become accustomed to an avenue now denuded of the elevated railway, the “el,” which had been a staple for me since I was a child. It all seemed so strange in a strange world.

I am 96 years old. I jocosely say that I can still stand up and relatively easily remember my name. They smile politely and amusedly or perhaps diplomatically and we play the game of mutually agreed pretence. But I am, in fact, very old.

Some Years ago a black comedian, Flip Wilson, made a relatively successful television career by creating a slippery, evasive hustler type who claimed that all his miscreant behaviour, all his lies, all his sleazy tricks were really not his fault. That bad old “debil” made him do it.

Whatever I learned about devotion to Mary, I received from my Irish Grandmother whose formal education ended with the Third grade.