Happy Birthday in Heaven to My Sicilian Mama Maria

“A mother is a son’s first love.

—Denzel Washington

“We are born of love; love is our mother.”

—Rumi

Life was not easy for my dear mother. She grew up in a poor village in Roccalumera, Messina (Sicily). She left her mama and papa, and and three siblings in 1947 to settle in Hoboken, NJ, in a strange country with a different culture, language and a society that often rejected her kind. She left her home for a better life, even though my grandfather, a fisherman had insisted she didn’t have to leave, they would make do. Like many immigrants who came to this country she was looking for the American Dream, and hoped to help the family she left behind.

My dad had to post a bond with the US government to assure officials that he and my mother would marry. I never realized it at the time but it was an arranged marriage of sorts. A friend served as a match maker and showed her a photo of my dad. Even though he was Italian he didn’t speak the language and my mother struggled to learn English. My dad worked at Jansens Dairy and she found work in the garment center, essentially a sweat shop. Later, she was able to work from home doing what was called piece work—sewing fur collars on coats. I was born in 1950, and three siblings, Josephine, my late middle brother Michael and brother Steven would follow. In 1957, mom and dad bought a five-unit apartment building in a nice neighborhood in Hoboken, leaving behind an apartment in a tenement building which would eventually burn to the ground. I was seven years old at the time and my sister was two.

My friends loved my parents. My mother had a sharp wit and a infectious laugh, and was a beautiful woman. She was my first love. I owe my career as a podiatrist to her. I was going to quit college and she encouraged me to consult a family friend that she grew up with in Sicily by the name of Carmine Sippo in Union City. He was a dean at Wagner College in Staten Island. He became my first and most consequential mentor who laid out a viable career path for me.

Our mother ran the roost. She took care of the bookkeeping and was instrumental in convincing our dad that they should become homeowners. I will always remember our trips to Sicily that began when I was a young boy and continued making those trips well into adulthood often taking my mom with us. We lost mom on Mother’s Day in 2013 at the age of 88. We were blessed to have her so long.

There are a lot of cactus plants in Sicily. When Cecile and I downsized to a townhome in a gated community in Los Gatos,

CA, there was a cactus garden with familiar oval cactus fruit right outside what would become my home office window. Every time I look down on it, I think of mom and all the sacrifices she made for me and my siblings. Buon Compleano, Mama. I love you.

Remembering My Late Brother Michael & The Amulet that Keeps us Spiritually Connected

My brother died unexpectedly on November 1, 2019, nine days before his 61st birthday. It was a shocking blow to all of us. There is an old wisdom saying that says “If you don’t remember somebody out loud, they die twice." People live on in the memories of those people around them, whose lives they influenced or affected. Speaking of good memories of a loved one, Michael is not just up there in the big sky, he’s right here in my heart and mind every hour I ride my bicycle which is about 60 to 80 hours a week when I’m in town.

This was made possible by my late brother’s oldest son, my nephew Michael Jr., who gifted me a silver amulet of an elephant on a silver chain with some of my brother’s ashes in them. My nephew thought I might enjoy taking the amulet with me on my bike rides. It was a brilliant idea and a way for me and my late brother to stay spiritually connected. I will forever be eternally grateful for this kind and loving gesture. In many ways the elephant amulet reminds me of the time Michael and I (along with my brother in law, Joe) went to Kenya on a camera Safari. He loved nature and wildlife, especially the majestic elephants as I do. The following poem is dedicated in Memory of our brother Michael.

The Train of Life:

At birth we board the train of life, and met our parents,

Believing they will always travel by our side.

However, at some station our parents would step down,

Leaving us on this life's journey alone.

At some point many significant people will board the train,

Siblings, children, friends, co-workers and our life’s partner.

Some of them eventually step down,

Leaving an empty seat no one else can fill.

This train ride will be full of joy, sorrow, fantasies,

Expectations, hellos, and farewells.

We don’t know at which station we ourselves will step down,

So we must live in the best way we can,

And offer the best of who we are, loving, giving and sharing.

When the time comes to leave our seat empty,

We must thank our Creator for the journey [we were given],

Praying [that] we too left behind beautiful memories,

For those who continue on the train of life.

Postscript: I adapted this poem from the author, Jean d’Ormesson, a famous French philosopher and write, who died in 2019

I Never Saw Your Wings: Ode to My Late Mother Marie on Mother's Day

[Mom saw me take my first breath on August 26, 1950, and I saw her take her last breath on Mother’s Day May 12, 2013]

There are Angels God puts on this Earth to care for us and guide us.

You can feel their love and gentleness

As they walk through life beside us.

They do great things for us each and every day

They whisper in our ears,

And hold us in their hearts

When we are filled with fear.

They are always there to give a hug

And try to make us smile.

They treat us with respect and love,

They treat us like their child.

God Blessed me with an Angel,

I’m proud to call my own.

She was with me throughout my life,

Until I was fully grown.

She guided me the best she could,

She taught me like no other,

And though she is no longer here

I am grateful she was my mother.

Postscript: The shrine at Lazise, Lake Garda is typical of many seen in Italy as a tribute to the Madonna. In 1957, 50 years after the institution of Mother’s Day in the United States, a priest in the hill town of Assisi decided that the day should be used to celebrate women and their contribution to family and community life. It was so popular that the following year, a petition was presented to Parliament and the second Sunday in May was declared officially “La Festa Della Mama [Mother’s Day].

Farewell to the Celebrated Vietnamese Zen Master Who Helped Pioneer the Mindfulness Movement in the West & My Encounter with Communist Rule

"One of the most influential spiritual leaders of our times.”

—Oprah Winfrey

Thich Nhat Hanh, whom I've ways considered one of my teachers, was a revered Zen master, peace activist, author, poet, and founder of the Plum Village Monastery in Southern France. "Thay," as he was often called which means teacher in Vietnamese, who helped pioneer the Mindfulness movement in the West passed away peacefully at his villa on the grounds of the 19th century Tu Hien Pagoda (temple) in Hue, Vietnam. Born Nguyen Xuan Bao, the ailing monk who was exiled in the 60s for opposing the Vietnam War had a stroke that in 2014, that left him speechless. At the time, it was believed he wouldn’t survive. But on October 28, 2018, he returned to Vietnam to live in a room with sparse essential furnishings in the very temple where he took his vows at the age of 16. Framed above his head in his own brushstroke were the words tro ve, meaning “returning.” In 1961, he went to the United States to study, and later taught comparative religion for a time at Princeton and Columbia universities. His reputation grew among the hippies of my generation who set his antiwar poetry to music. He was nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize by Martin Luther King, Jr., referring to him as “this gentle monk from Vietnam.”

Nhat Hanh taught a simple form of meditation and mindfulness that was approachable to those interested in peace and tranquility. He published over 70 books, many that have passed through my home library over the years. He told anyone who would listen that you didn’t have to spend years on a mountain top to benefit from meditation. He also taught his students and readers how to live mindfully, focusing on being in the present moment. This was appealing to Westerners who were seeking spirituality without the trappings of organized religion of their youth.

That being said, he had his detractors. His highly publicized visits enraged other Vietnamese exiles when he toured the country in 2005 and 2008, and held well-attended services, giving the impression that the ruling Communist Party permitted freedom of worship. I can tell you from personal experience following a tour of North and South Vietnam with my son Jason in 2004 that religious freedom is heavily curtailed in Vietnam, and the official Buddhist Church of Vietnam is controlled by the state (VBC). This surprise revelation occurred to me following my visit to the Venerable Thich Vien Dinh, who was under house arrest at his Pagoda outside Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon). His only crime was that he belonged to the United Buddhist Church of Vietnam (UBCV) and not the Vietnamese Buddhist Church (VBC) under control by the Communist Party. I discovered that there was a mole in the Pagoda reporting to the communists, and whatever photos I took and sent back were confiscated. The authorities also inquired how much money I donated to the pagoda. As of 2017, Dinh’s brother Truman Nhu, a real estate agent in

San Jose and friend who left Vietnam in 1984, informed me that through peaceful resistance and sheer political will, that his serene brother Vien Dihn who he hasn’t seen in 35 years is still a leader of the UBCV. While still under house arrest, he was living peacefully in a 800 year old countryside pagoda in Binh Dihn Province.

Postscript: Thich Nhat Hanh liked to use the lotus flower as a metaphor for life. It reminds us that like the lotus, in order to reach our potential, we have the power to rise above the murky, muddy water-which represents life’s challenges-to bloom into a thing of beauty ("No Mud, No Lotus)

Happy Birthday to My Late Dad Who Lived to Be a Hundred (1917-2017)

“Take one day at a time and go along with the tide.”—Gilbert Herrick

It is an amazing feat when I think about it. My dad, Frank Aloysius Augustine whose birthday falls on Wednesday, January 5, was not a vegetarian. He was somewhat overweight. He may have qualified for having been on a quasi-Mediterranean diet since he and my late mom Maria were good Italian cooks. But by God, he loved his sweets. Yet, in all those years he only was hospitalized once and his mind was sharp as a tack. Living to 100—in his case, just a tad shy of 101, remains a rare occurrence. Individuals who are blessed to reach that age are referred to as centenarians, and make up less than one percent of the US population. So as a family, my belief is we should celebrate his life rather than mourn him. He beat the odds, and as a family we benefited from it. Dad would have loved Gilbert Herrick, attributed to the quote cited above. Not only did he love to rhyme but he lived one day at time and didn’t take life too seriously, especially after retirement. He was, what the local newspaper referred to as an 'Urban Gardener.' He loved to make wine in our back yard shed, he was active in the Hoboken Elks lodge, Grand Knight of the nights of Columbus for two terms, and a Boy Scout Leader for 25 years. Back in his early years he was a lay brother in the Mary-knoll Seminary in upstate New York. Fortunately for me I wouldn’t be here to tell this story had he continued on to become a celibate priest

When it came to death, dad would say, “We all have to go sometime.” If my mother was around when he said this, she would say, "Frank, what’s the matter with you in her charming Sicilian accent?" In her mind any irreverent mention of dying was bad luck. But, when he knew the time was near, he said: “Your mother is calling me to join her.” Shortly after he uttered these words he left this world as we know it on December 18, 1917.

The following poem by English clergyman, and Professor of Divinity at University of Oxford, Henry Scott Holland (1847–1918), wrote this insightful, humble and beautiful poem about the ‘unbroken continuity of life’ after death. "Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?” In one verse father Holland affirmed why I write to remember and honor my father on the anniversary of his birthday and his passing as if he were still here.

Death is Nothing At All

Death is nothing at All

I am I, and you are you.

Whatever we were to each other,

That, we still are.

Call me by my old familiar name.

Speak to me in the easy way

Which you always used.

Put no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed

At the little jokes we enjoyed together.

Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.

Let my name be ever the household word

That it always was.

Let it be spoken without effect.

Without the trace of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant.

It is the same that it ever was.

There is absolute unbroken continuity.

Why should I be out of mind

Because I am out of sight?

I am but waiting for you.

For an interval.

Somewhere. Very near.

[Up a spiral staircase through the clouds]

All is well.

Note: Some photos of remebrance

Mourning the Loss of a Great and Dear Childhood Friend and 911 First Responder: John "Jack” Dempsey

“When a childhood friend unexpectedly leaves us, a piece of our heart is forever broken.” —Author Unknown

When someone suddenly disappears from our lives, as it always does in this impermanent life of ours—in this case the loss of my close and dear childhood friend from Hoboken, NJ, named John “Jack” Dempsey—we can see the precious value of that friend more clearly as it forces one to reflect upon that friendship. John passed away peacefully on Thursday morning, December 23, 2021 at the age of 72. He grew up on 9th and Bloomfield Street and I grew up on 5th Street between Garden and Bloomfield. We both went to the former Our Lady of Grace elementary school just across from Church Square Park near my family home. It was because of John, a very popular young man that I was introduced to new friends on 11th and Washington Street. It was our turf, if you will. We played a lot of street games such as stickball, stoop ball, slap ball, miniature football, whiffle ball, and basketball to name a few. We also played poker and Acey Deucey for money on the steps of the iconic Masonic Lodge when it was closed and other venues. No one made me laugh more than John. He had great sense of humor coupled with a sharp wit. We played electronic football and Monopoly at his parents’ home and vacation home in Budd Lake and we loved to go to Schnackenberg’s Luncheonette for cherry cokes, egg creams, tuna melts, milkshakes and cheeseburgers and meet up with mutual friends. This gem of a hangout operated since 1931 was officially closed on January 28, 2019, and replaced by a new owner under the name of Alfalfa. We also hung out in the abandoned warehouses and piers with our friends where the movie “On the Waterfront” starring Marlon Brando, Eva Marie Saint, Rod Steiger, Karl Malden, and Lee J. Cobb was filmed. Now the waterfront has been replaced with sparkling high-rise apartments, condos, restaurants, retail outlets, commerciall buildings, and the W. Hotel. The street is now known as Hoboken Waterfront Walkway. There is also a Frank Sinatra Park, named after Hoboken’s favorite son.

Even though we played other sports, in the end, our all time favorite game growing up became basketball at various municipal parks around town. John and I went to St. Michael’s High School in Union City for two years before transferring to Hoboken High School for our remaining two years and graduated with the class of 1968. We played basketball at both schools. He was a star forward and team player who had a jump-shot that was pure poetry. He also ran track and later in life took up golf . From the first time we met, John and I were inseparable. We wore the same black leather and beige Parker jackets. To make this point see the attached yearbook photo of our St. Michael’s Junior Varsity Team. In the top or second row, John wore a number 51 T-shirt and I was number 22. Someone, who I don’t recall, wrote at the top of the yearbook photo “What happened?" You’re not together!" We also began college at Northwestern State College in Alva, Oklahoma for two years, leaving for different personal reasons. In John’s case it was the unexpected passing of his dad. This is where our paths began to diverge. He decided to attend Rutgers University, and I entered pre-med at Wagner College in Staten Island, NY, after which I decided to attend the Illinois College of Podiatric Medicine in Chicago. After graduation in 1975 Cecile and I moved to California. John decided on a path of law enforcement, and enrolled in the Port Authority of NY/NJ Police Academy. Before he could graduate, he was drafted by the United States Army and was set to serve in Vietnam. Luckily, upon completing his military Police training, he was reassigned to serve in Stuttgart, Germany at the United States European Command in the Military Police Honor Guard. Upon being honorably discharged he began his career with the Port Authority and was assigned to the George Washington Bridge where he served for the next thirty years. He was also a Port Authority racquetball champion two years in a row. John was a first responder on the September 11th attack on our country. The loss of 37 fellow officers, and attending most of their funerals and memorial tributes had a profound impact on his life.

John married his St. Michael’s High school sweetheart, Sheila Ferry on November 16, 1974, while I married my beloved Cecile whom I met in Chicago on March 25, 1977. My parents Frank and Maria Augustine loved John and treated him like a member of the family, and he loved them. It was so comforting having him present at their wake and memorial mass as he was for my late brother Michael. John was a real mensch and much beloved. He adored and was devoted to his wife, children and grandchildren. Cecile and I offer our heartfelt condolences to his wife Sheila, their children, William, Sheila Cooper, and Deirdre Flores, grandchildren, Molly, Owen, and Kieran, and John’s surviving sisters, Maureen (his twin), Eileen, and Kathleen. We love you John and may your Rest in Peace dear friend.

Please check out the obituary of a real patriot who served his community and his country with honor and dignity. It has been visited over 1871 times and counting.

https://www.vandermay.com/obituarydetail.html#/20961

Postscript: The photos of John and Shiela were taken at my dad Frank’s 100 th birthday dinner Trattoria Il Cafone in Lyndurst, NJ, except for the last two of me with John holding my godson William with Sheila by his side and John with his arm around my late mother Maria and Sheila looking on, respectively.