A year in review... and pictures

On May 27th 2010 I arrived in Texas for what I like to call "permanent living."  That was a year ago and since a year is a long time I figure it would be a good time to reflect on what has transpired over this past year.  Now when I think "a year ago I was..." it will always involve Texas, or coming back to Texas. 

Let's see, I tried a few jobs that I hated (*cough cough* Walmart *cough cough*), and I tried a few jobs that I really liked but that broke my heart (the day care center).  You never realize how attached you are to small people until you have to walk away. 

I lost a few friends, some because we lost touch and others because they seemed a bit touched.  I gained some new ones and God so help me I am going to hold onto them like a vice grip.  There are some things in this life that are worth fighting for and they've fought for me.  I pulled the most awesome prank ever with a guy who has turned out to be one of my best friends.

I tried Internet dating and the best thing I can say about it is that it was an experience and there are many guys out there who are cowards.  For the most part I've been single, even though for most of the past year I had a few interests.  I gave up hope on someone that I should've let go of a long time ago. 

I tried out for the dream job that I spent a year trying to figure out if I still wanted and if so, why.  I rediscovered my love for children and teaching.  I have forgotten my love for staying up late.  I still have not gotten drunk and I still don't have a tattoo, and before anyone asks, I haven't added any more piercings either.  I've realized that there are some people who should never be trusted to act sanely.  Brides are high up on that list (I say with much affection.)  My best friend got married.  I got my second goddaughter and my first nephew (through my best friend).   I didn't go to the ER for anything, yet (*crosses fingers*).  I founded the CWC... accidentally of course. 

I got a second-best-friend and a whole new group of people to jam with. I did not get over my fear of horses, or that every guy in my life will be angry with me and stop speaking to me.  I have managed to get several jobs, not because of who I know but because of who I am.  I spent a year without my brother Danny physically watching over for me.

I mentioned earlier that I tried out for my dream job.  What I haven't mentioned is that I'm still waiting to hear back.  A year ago I'd be freaking out- and I guess I still am- but now I realize that it's only a job and there are more important things, like celebrating a year of Texan independence and continuing to be who God intended me to be.

Being a Good Example, part two: Forgiveness

It's the hardest thing we deal with as Christians.  It keeps us up at night.  It's the thing that we battle with years after we say we've done it.  Cause how could you ever forget little girl who in the first grade pushed you over and told you that you were stupid because you wrote your "C's backwards?  Or your best friend throughout all of Elementary School who one day told you that you weren't cool enough to be her friend?  Or that girl from high school who said she couldn't be friends with you because you weren't "Christian" enough?  Or the boy in college who would not dance with you because you weren't conservative enough.  I ask you- how does one forgive that?

Then again how does anyone ever forgive me?  How do you forgive me for saying what pops into my head?  How do you forgive me for the things I intentionally forget to do?  How do you forgive what I think?  How do you forgive?

When I started writing this I was in Roswell, far and away from my computer.  I learned my lesson.  Never leave home without it.  The second day of the Roswell trip was also the 30th anniversary of the first assassination attempt of Blessed John Paul II.  He was shot in the abdomen by Mehmet Ali Agca.  Agca was restrained by a nun and the Pope was rushed into the Vatican and then the hospital.  Months later, Pope John Paul visited his would be assassin in prison.  They spoke privately for some time and afterwards the Pope said,

"What we talked about will have to remain a secret between him and me. I spoke to him as a brother whom I have pardoned and who has my complete trust.″

When I think of this I am reminded of a poem I wrote in college, "You came to save.  You lived to die.  If You forgave, I guess so can I."  Maybe the whole point of forgiveness is that it isn't easy.  It's something we have to work at and sometimes it is a daily act of moving past the past.  So I ask everyone out there to just let it go.  Everyone has something that is holding them back, keeping them from living their life, and causing them physical pain.  I can't say that I am particularly good at forgiving and forgetting, but I know that if I don't try it will eat me up inside.  I can't speak for everyone else, but perhaps the act of trying will give us the grace to eventually succeed.  Give forgiveness a chance, if for no other reason, than to be a good example.

Being a Good Example: Part One

I love being Catholic.  It really is great.  Except when it's not.  I'm not saying that things would be easier if I were agnostic or an atheist, but particularly during Lent, Advent, Easter, Christmas, Holy Days of Obligation, and Days of Penance, lines to the confessional, lines to Communion, paperwork for sacraments, Church office secretaries and paper work, paper work, paper work, I sometimes wonder how much easier it would be to embrace individual expression of devotion over the "order" of the Church office.  And then I cringe and go back to being a good Catholic, shamed with the thought that I actually thought that again.  Cause really, is it so hard?  I mean you only have to...

* Obey the Ten Commandments
* Follow the Beattitudes
* Recieve the Sacraments regularly
* Pay attention during Mass
* Not ponder how funny a priest looks on a bicycle
* Tithe
* Read the Bible, on your own, in your spare time
* Be charitable to the old lady at the end of the aisle who never stops talking
* Remember the things you gave up for Lent
* Take the hand of the small child who just sneezed in his hand right before the kiss of peace
* Don't take the "I can't hear you- I can't see you" approach to the people who want to "volunteer" your time, treasure, and talent
* Avoid kicking the cat down the stairs (or up the stairs, or across the stairs, or anything involving the cat and the stairs) 

And if that is not enough to ask of a perfectly crazy human being, we are also supposed to emmulate the Life of Christ.  Whew!  It's a work out just to THINK about it.  Honestly, it's enough to make a person who is trying REALLY HARD go stark, raving mad!  And THEN- then they have to go and add another thing to the list of things to do. 

"Preach the Gospel at all times.  When necessary, use words." Saint Francis of Assisi


"They will know we are Christians by our love." John 13:35

"Go, therefore, and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age." Matthew 28:11-13

Being Catholic means not only being a good Christian (by following all those rules), but also (and perhaps more importantly) being a good example to others.  For instance, I try to go to Confession every couple months, but some days I go kicking and screaming, dragging my heels, praying that something will get in the way so that I won't feel guilty about not being there.  This is not because I feel self conscious about going or that I particularly mind recalling my sins and promising to do better or even that it takes all that much effort- I just feel that there are other things I'd rather do with my time. I know this is wrong because my time is really His time and therefore our time is all for the great glory of Him. And yet, I sometimes wonder why spending time in a cold, musty broom closet is really a glimpse into eternity?  This is a great example of being a bad example. 
 This brings to my point for the day.  I believe that most sin is not a result of direct defiance to God, but rather of extreme laziness.  

"Watch and pray, that ye enter not into temptation: the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak." Matthew 26:41

I am lazy so I shall not tell the truth.  I am lazy so I shall not rejoice in my suffering.  I am lazy so I shall not go to visit Jesus in Adoration.  I am lazy so I will be distracted during Mass.  I am lazy and so I will not read my Bible today.  I am lazy so I will not engage the old lady at the end of the aisle who probably has no one else to talk to today.  I am lazy so I will not attempt to remember the things that I know I should.  I am lazy so I will forget to volunteer my time, talent, and treasure.  (I won't say that my laziness is to blame for kicking the cat, because really, it takes a great deal of effort to get the cat to hold still anywhere near the stairs.)  I am lazy.  I don't like defining myself as such but I am.  And maybe I'm not the only one. 

My point is that perhaps we should battle our laziness?  During this great season of rejoicing we should temper our laziness and instead do what we are called to do as Christians.  Maybe then I will be reminded of what I'm supposed to be doing instead of wishing I was doing something else.  Maybe if we move towards Christ together, we can carry each other to greater things?  Maybe.  I'm willing to try; how bout you?

This is not a time to rejoice

If this post offends anyone or hurts anyone, please accept my heartfelt apologies. It was not my intention to cause anyone pain. I fully understand that for some people, the war on terror will never be over. We all lost something that September day.

Today is not a day to rejoice.  I realize this is not a popular sentiment right now.  After all, it is the day after Divine Mercy Sunday, Pope John Paul the Great is now Blessed Pope John Paul the Great, and hey, Lent is over, so why not be happy?  This brings me to the other news of the day.  Ten years ago our great nation was attacked by terrorists.  This week, their nefarious leader, Osama bin Mohammed bin Awad bin Laden, was killed.  Finally, there is some justice for all those lives that were lost on September 11, 2001.  Finally, there might be an end to the war on terror.  Finally, people can move on, or can they? 
There is a country song that claims that in order to "forget" one must forgive first, but doing either of those is reassuring that you must "relive and regret."  I believe that it is impossible to forget what happened.  I will never forget where I was when I heard, or remember where I was when it happened.  I will never forget the shock I felt when I realized how many souls had died in agony.  I will never forget the men and women who left for war in the Middle East and their children, my friends, who were left behind.  I will never forget.  


Among my sorrow for the innocent people who died that September day, and for those brave men and women who died fighting for me in that war, I also felt something else.  I felt guilt, for praying for those people that no one was mourning.  I felt guilty for mourning the terrorists.  I could not understand what they had done and I doubt I will ever be able to forgive as Christ would have me, but I felt the pain that a life had been, had lived, and had died, held in the clutches of darkness.  I was thirteen years old that day.  Hardly a child but no where near an adult, I prayed.  I prayed that God would forgive those men who had hurt us because I did not know if we could.  I prayed for anyone who had loved them, especially those who did not understand what had happened.  Surely someone had loved them in their life?  My Mother once said that peace would reign when the mothers of al-qaeda loved their sons more than they hated Americans.  Love can conquer hate.  Forgiveness can conquer pain and regret.   


I prayed when Sadam Hussein was executed and I pray again now.  I realize this is an unpopular sentiment but I hope everyone will forgive me.  There is little doubt in my mind that Osama bin Laden has done little in his life that is praiseworthy.  He was a wicked man who has done wicked things.  I fully agree that there is no painful, disgusting, horrible death that would be too evil for him; hung, drawn, and quartered comes to mind.  I believe in capital punishment and I firmly believe that there is no one else who deserved death more, but still I urge you to pray. 

Vatican spokesman, Fr. Federico Lombardi said, "Faced with the death of a man, a Christian never rejoices, but reflects on the serious responsibility of each and every one of us before God and before man, and hopes and commits himself so that no event be an opportunity for further growth of hatred, but for peace." 
Christ came to teach us to forgive, because forgiveness is not for bin Laden's benefit, but for our own.  That which we forgive we are forgiven and that which we hold onto stays with us forever.  I will never forget what he did but let the past become the past.  Pray for his immortal soul, and try not to get too giddy about the idea of his demise.  Why?  Because  bin Laden was made in the image of God, just like you and I, and God loves him just as much as you and I.  Perhaps this is an unpopular belief, but I feel it is important to say.  (And besides, think how much it would bug him if a bunch of CHRISTIANS prayed for him?) 

Hope and Fear

Hope may be the thing with feathers that perches in the soul and inspires you to do great things and moves you to soar as if you are but a spirit, but it is fear that keeps you from moving, that holds you in place, and reminds you that you are indeed human.  I claim to be no expert on either of these, but perhaps some day I will have the wisdom and age to be able to understand at least one of these.  Of late I have been racking up the experience hours in both of these departments. 

Recently one of my friends was in a horrible car accident and miraculously survived.  Unfortunately for a few hours I knew nothing and all anyone seemed to know was that she had gone to the hospital in an ambulance (University students knowledge of gossip is deplorably lacking).  Consequently I spent many hours in prayer, pacing, being moody, and making a general nuisance of myself to anyone who would listen.  Eventually I got enough of the story to find out she was alive and was recovering, but it took most of my resolve not to hop in Bennie and take off for Florida. 

While I was in California we got a call from my two little brothers' college saying there was a gun man on campus and that all students should barricade themselves in whatever room they could.  Naturally, a certain level of panic followed, which was only exacerbated by the fact that we could not get a hold of one of my brothers.  Before I go any further I would like to point out that they immediately sent out a retraction phone call to everyone who had been called because it was sent in error.  What had happened was that there was a threat against the school and everyone was supposed to keep their eyes open and report any suspicious activity.  Just the same, none of us could get a hold of him.  About an hour later he finally turned his phone back on and allayed our worst fears.  He was in the chapel, praying, and like a good little Catholic boy he had turned his phone off.  Part of me wishes more people could be like him but part of me wishes that he hadn't turned his phone off this particular day.  He was quick to point out that there are worse places to die than praying in the chapel.  I refuse to respond to his comment because that was one of the longest hours of my short life. 

I'd like to say that almost losing these people (in my mind) has given me a whole new perspective on life, and that I now treasure everything so much more, but it hasn't, and that scares me worst of all.  I still go on with my life dictated by fear.  I'm afraid to do something for fear that I will do it wrong.  I'm afraid to not try because maybe I'll do something right.  I still recall those hours with anger and sadness and I fully admit that I'm still a little afraid.  I'm afraid of what could've happened.  I'm afraid of what might happen.  I'm afraid of what will happen, that eventually everyone I love will have to say good-bye.  And yet, I still hope.  I spend much of my time hoping.  I hope that if someone I love goes I will be able to accept it and appreciate it for God's divine will.  I hope that if I am taken that I am ready to go and that I have lived as I should have.  I hope that if my life or the life of someone I love is ever endangered and there is something I could do about it, I have the courage to do what is necessary and not beat myself up about it afterwards.  I hope that I will do as God desires me to and that if I get to heaven I am not alone in there and that God forgives me for every single time I let fear hold me back. 

The Eldest

Those that have met my immediate family would say that we are close, and it is true, we are.  My parents were blessed with five biological children and fostered five more but what few people know is that my parents had another baby that no one has ever met.  As children in school we were frequently asked to draw family portraits.  I always enjoyed this activity because everyone else might have a brother or sister, dog or cat, mom and dad, maybe even a step mom and dad, but I was always the only one in the classroom with an angel.

On April 27th, 1985 my parents were joined in holy matrimony.  A few months later they became pregnant and on April 19th, 1986 they were blessed with their first born.  She weighed six pounds some odd ounces and was two months early.  When she was born my family went to the moon and back.  My parents (whose courtship was long and tedious for all parties) finally had a child of their own and my maternal grandparents had their first grandchild.  My paternal grandparents had other grandchildren but this was the first by their youngest son and they were very happy too.  Sadly the precious gift that God had given them was not theirs to keep. 

With a sorrowful face the doctor who helped bring her into this world sadly informed my parents that she was no long to be in it.  An early term illness that my mother had acquired visiting relatives had damaged the baby's heart and the decree was that she would not live long enough to take her home.  Pausing only long enough for the terrible news to sink in, my Father asked for her to be baptized.  The on hand nurse had already looked at the charts and had seen that my parents were Catholic.  Without pausing she did an emergency baptism then and there.  She was named for my parents favorite saint, Jean Marie Vianney.  My Father, unknowing what the nurse had done, did an emergency baptism as well.  My great uncle, Father Barnabas, arrived shortly after that and baptised her as well.  Now, I know that only the first baptism counts, but just in case one of them did not count, we are quite certain that at least one must have worked. 

A few short hours later Jeanne Marie, not meant for this world, passed from my parents arms into God's.  This concludes the tragically short, but very exciting life of my only big sister.  I have to add what happened next or my Mother will kill me for leaving out the happy ending.  The doctor who delivered Jeanne Marie told my parents that they would never give birth to a child who would live.  Not a year later he went on to deliver a healthy baby boy, my brother Danny.  A year and half later I was born with the same doctor.  After that he retired and my Mother went on to have John-Paul, Robert, and Elizabeth.  I have often wondered, and then wanted, to meet that doctor and ask how it feels to be to be so wrong?

My mother says that without sorrow one cannot experience true joy and that losing Jeanne Marie made her love all of us so much more.  So every April 19th my Father tries to do something nice for all of us.  As happy as he is with all of us, he still writes letters to my first sister.  When my younger sister was ten, he read us a letter he had written to Jeanne Marie a month after we found out my Mother was pregnant with Elizabeth.  He told her that he thinks of her often, especially in the Spring, and that even though he loves the rest of us, she will always be his first child, his first love.  He wrote that he knows she is in heaven and watching down on us and looking out for all of us from up there.  He asked her for another girl because he felt that his first child had been a little girl, so maybe his last should be as well.  I wrote a song about it once (my Dad hated it) but somehow I know that she likes it. 

You would think that my Mother would be sad too but she never shows it.  Every year on April 19th she does, well, she does what she does every day of the year.  She loves us unconditionally and tells us that she is proud of us.  Sometimes, when we get sad, she tells us about the sister that we never had the privilege of meeting, but to hear her tell it, the story is an adventure and it always end with the joy of God's plan.  She does not call it Jeanne Marie's birthday, but rather her feast day.  She tells us that this is the day we remember that one of children has already made it to heaven and that we have a patron saint who is watching out for us.  Some day I hope to meet my sister, but not for a very long time.  Maybe someday, if I ever have children, I will understand how difficult it was for my parents, but for now I raise a glass to her twenty-fifth feast and instead choose to celebrate life.

My life as an adult

There are few things in my life as an adult that I can really say that I am proud of.  Last night definately makes it in the top ten favorite things ever.  Some of my friends (okay, the CWC) have created what we have called "Punk the World" sessions.  What did we do?  Dressed up like Nintendo characters and went go karting.  Katrina was Toad, Lauren was Toadette, Cissy was Mario, Jacob was Luigi, Kevin was Donkey Kong, Sasha was Princess Peach, and I was Yoshi.  Bathe in our awesomeness. 

The Gabbielady Attempts to Cook

Now most of you who know me know that happiness for me is when someone else does the cooking.  I come from a long line of bad cooks on one side and a long line of amazing cooks who refuse to go into the kitchen on the other side.  I am going to say that I am very talented but I still haven't figured out which side I take after.  Due to the nature of my life now I am forced into the kitchen on a semi daily basis.  This works well and dandy when the only thing I'm cooking are quesadillas and hard boiled eggs, but God insists upon me taking the role of comic relief.  He does this by pushing me out of my comfort zone and into the kitchen. 

This week I made Zucchini bread, banana bread, sweet mustard beef, and my favorite, pesto.  I have managed to screw up all of them.  Being an Anne, of course I messed them up beautifully in different ways, so at least I'm learning and not making the same mistake twice.

I jokingly tell people that nothing could be worse than the time that I killed Mrs. Fleischman's yeast.  Mrs. Fleischman is the mother of one of my favorite college roommates and sometimes on long weekends we would go home with Abby because she was the only one of us who had family who lived in the state.  On one such weekend Mrs. Fleischman invited me to enter the sacred of her kitchen to help her make bagels.  I was in charge of adding the ingredients while she puttered around making dinner.  Did you know that salt comes out in a rush if you are not careful?  Well I didn't.  Poor Mrs. Fleischman could not for the life of her figure out why her perfect bagels were not rising and instead were doing their best impression of a sat upon pancake.  After some research and various repetitions of what I had added we discovered her mistake- namely, it was her fault for letting me help.  The bagels/pancakes were my fault because I added too much salt which killed the yeast which made it so the dough would not rise which resulted in me being flung from the kitchen while she fixed the dough.  Then she graciously allowed me to return and destroy her bagels further.  Did you know that bagels are supposed to be round?  And they're supposed to have holes in them?  Somehow I knew this but I think it didn't work so well because none of my bagels were round or had holes in them.  They looked more like scares with random pokey marks in the tops of them.  Her bagels were perfect.  In case I had not done enough damage she then had me put toppings on them- you know sesame seeds, poppy seeds, garlic, etc.  Well guess who managed to poor an entire case of sesame seeds into the pan, almost hiding the bagels.  For the record, this saintly woman did have a lapse of judgement again, and again, every time I came to visit.  She would let me "help" her (or desecrate her kitchen) and then would dutifully fix my mistakes while I stood shamefacedly as far away from it as I could manage while remaining in Florida. 

Anyways, like I said, nothing could be worse than that time, but believe me when I say that I've come close this week.  When I made zucchini bread (with directions set out in front of me) I misread "tsp" for "tbs".  Did you know that there is a significant difference between two teaspoons and two tablespoons?  Especially when it's salt?  Unfortunately no one caught this particular mistake until long after it was done cooking.  Consequently my zucchini bread which is supposed to be sweet, tastes like I used salt water instead of regular water.  My only thought is that most of it's been eaten (thankfully as it appears to get saltier with age) and that if you put enough jam on the bread you can't REALLY taste it. 

Then I made banana bread.  I cannot take full credit for this one as no one warned me that we do not have standard size bread pans.  Consequently they take longer to cook.  So I kept on adding ten minutes to the cook time, and then adding ten more and then ten more.  I did this for at least forty minutes and then I thought for SURE it must be done by NOW.  I was wrong.  Now we have to toast the banana bread to make sure it's not half cooked in the center.  As I said before, I am so very talented. 

This morning while making the sweet mustard beef, my tongs slipped and I now have a rather large blood blister on my ring finger that make me feel squeamish.  I am one of those people that as long as I don't see it, you can poke me, prod me, slice me and dice me.  Describe it to your heart's content, while I'm eating, and I will not care, but God help you if I see it.  Consequently this blood blister is running me through the ringer because it hurts, and me being the ADD person that I am I keep on thinking, why does my finger hurt?  Oh yes, because there's this giant red thing on my hand, pulsating blood just under the surface.  blech.  Have I mentioned I am still suffering the effects from a migraine I acquired late last night?  The rest of my recipe seems to be turning out reasonably well, other than the fact that it has a great deal of molasses in it (yuck) and I seem to have run out of it. Ah well, I'm hoping that this works. 

As to the pesto I am making, well, it's not quite done, so I'm praying that maybe, just maybe, this one might turn out alright.  Pesto is one of my favorite foods, along with anything with basil in it.  Just the same I have managed to ruin basil before and killed several plants in the process.  Some days I think my garden would be better off if I were not the one gardening it.  Just the same, at least once a week I go out and sit with my basil and croon to it, "Good basil plants.  You're so beautiful.  Someday you will grow big and strong and if you're really lucky you'll become pesto."  It was only after someone caught me at it that I realized that this might not be the best incentive to the basil to grow "big and strong."

Dear God, I know that this life you have given me is really just one big adventure and everything I have is a gift from You, but please, please let me not ruin the pesto.  I don't know if the basil plants will ever forgive me for letting them down.  Let me not desecrate another one of my favorite foods.  Amen.  Sincerely, The Gabbie Lady

Sir John

When my Mother was pregnant with my second brother she went to my grandfather and said, "Sir, they say it's a boy.  What shall I name him?"  At least according to the version of the story that she tells he replied with a smile and said, "Name him John."  Apparently a few of my aunts had the same idea.  Consequently I grew up in a family either blessed or plagued with "Johns".  I have a brother named John-Paul, cousins named Jonathan, Jonah, and Joseph, and they are all named after my Grandfather, John.  True, most of them aren't perfect "Johns" but that's because my aunts and mother are all trying to cleverly name their sons after Pop without actually taking "the name" we hope to reserve for my Uncle Johnny to someday use if he should ever have a son.  Either way, between all the boys named John and all the men named John and them all coming from Pop who can also be known as John, you might understand why many of us took to just calling him "Sir." 
Now that I've explained the name allow me to speak on the topic of the man and perhaps I may explain why his daughters think so very highly of him.  My Grandfather, fondly known as Pop, respectfully known as Sir, was born in New York (gratefully he does not speak with any accent) to Irish immigrants.  As a young man he attended the California Institute for Technology, the only real challenge to MIT, and then was a paratrooper in the Army.  He wrapped his motorcycle and himself around a tree and consequently has a great deal of metal in his leg.  At the age of 21 he stopped smoking (which he claims is the best thing he ever did for himself) and promised never to drink hard liquor again- beer and wine do not count.  He married his high school girlfriend and had four children.  After she died he married my grandmother (who had four children at the time) and together they had two more children, equating to the amazing number of ten children.  In his spare time he worked on the Apollo missions, building the rockets.  At every wedding he makes the same toast, "May all your problems be little ones." 
When his first grandchild was born he said he was too young to be "Grandpa" and declined the title.  Instead he adopted the name of "Pop."
He has battled cancer three times (and won all of them) and had numerous diseases where he was told that he would not make it.  Some of his less cautious female progeny question whether Oscar Wilde based The Picture of Dorian Gray upon him.  All of his stories are entertaining but most of them I have to question the reliability of the source.  HHe is an excelent cook and his taste is second to none.  Among his favorite songs are such titles as The Battle Hymn of the Republic, Oh Danny Boy, and The War Requiem.  When he walks into a room everyone turns and listens to him.  His presence demands respect.  He is one of the most demanding and generous men I have ever known and he always answers his wife with "Yes dear." 
Since he retired he likes to cook, spoil his children and grandchildren, embarass his granddaughters, and globe trot. 
I'm writing this largely because he just visited with my grandmother.  Perhaps this description will explain why  for the longest time I thought that my grandfather and John Wayne were one in the same.  It made perfect sense- they're both first generation Irish men.  They both can scare the living daylights out of you.  They both have a sort of classic cowboy image.  They both have really great one liners.  Everyone is drawn to their presence.  And most importantly in every shot they are always the hero.  He has been informed by three generations of his descendants that he is not allowed to die , but being the stubborn man that he is, he refuses. 
Pop says that of all his accomplishments (and he has a great many) he is most proud of his children and his grandchildren.  He says that Nana prays for a just God because she deserves heaven.  Pop says he prays for a merciful God because he knows what he's done wrong in this life.  He says that in this life we are all stewards and that all the gifts we have come from God.  At days end we will be asked what we did with our gifts.  I've never asked him but he doesn't appear to be worried.  Looking at the family that he created (32 grandchildren, 10 children, and nine children-in-law) I wouldn't be either. 

Alright so tell me if this is funny?

Tonight at the dinner table we discovered the joy of the oh so clever "Knock-knock" joke. Fortunately, half the people at the table were entirely unversed in the better known ones and therefore decided to come up with their own. This added to the joy because, well... I'm not sure if they were actually funny. Some of my favorites went as follows, Karina- "Knock knock!" Mama- "Who's there?" Karina- "Cantelope." (I'd like to point out that when she said this I could not discern what the word was.) Mama- "Cantelope who?" (I was very dutifully impressed at her ability to understand the child at this point) Karina points across the table at a bowl. "Cantelope!" Mama- "Oh, cantelope... actually darling, that's watermelon." Karina got a very contemplative look on her face and said with a grin, "Watermelon?" Grisha- "Knock knock." Papa- "Who's there?" Grisha- "Animal" Papa- "Animal who?" Grisha- "Papa!" Jonathan- "Knock knock" Gabbie- "Who's there?" Jonathan- "Interupting wampa!" Gabbie- "Interuptingwampawho! HA!" Jonathan- *gigglesnickergiggle* From this I have deduced that Karina is learning new words (and forgetting some old ones) all the time, Grisha thinks Papa is an animal, and Gabbie never grew up.