Actually, her birthday is tomorrow, the feast of Elias the prophet. (Almost every member of my family was born on a Carmelite feast day. It is uncanny.) It is hard to believe that my feisty and beautiful mother is one year short of seventy. The descendant of Spanish conquistadors, Chinese pirates, and Alabama Confederates is more energetic than ever, still driving like a bat out of hell. I will never forget clutching my rosary while riding with her on the Baltimore beltway during a driving rain storm, as the "Love-Death" from Tristan and Isolde resounded from the stereo. The Four Last Things flashed before me as she speedily but deftly wove in and out of traffic.
The above picture is forty years old; she always read aloud to us. It is definitely from my mother that I received a love of books, poetry, opera, painting and traditional liturgy. Share