Saturday, June 28, 2014

Bridge Building in a Time of Great Divisions

Bridge Building

There’s a little German poem, “Die Menschen bauen /  zu viele Mauern / und zu wenig Bruecken.” Translated it means, “People build too many walls, and too few bridges.” These days people are bitterly divided by so many things: politics, race, religion, social class, place of residence, and so on. The divisions are heartbreaking and seem impossible to overcome. But you probably know a few people or institutions that bridge these walls. We need to follow their examples and look for every opportunity to find common ground with those who are different from us. Jesus himself demonstrated that approach many times in his life, once with the Samaritan woman at the well, and at the end of his life when he blessed the so-called “Good Thief.” A first step is to look for the goodness in all people and find programs and people that are bridging these walls.

One place many St. Mary’s [Painesville, Ohio] parishioners have found common ground is in our Karpos Ministry to the homeless and hungry. This ministry is now in its 5th year and feeds more than 100 people every Wednesday and Thursday evening. The volunteers are not all St. Mary parishioners. Some of the key volunteers are not Catholics. The entire political spectrum is represented, and there is ethnic and racial diversity among volunteers. Ages range from school children supervised by their parents to a man in his mid 70s, who comes from a neighboring parish. The Karpos volunteers have a common mission and their commonalities are much more compelling than their differences. In the end, the Karpos volunteers love one another and show the Love of the Lord to the homeless and hungry that they serve. Living out the Works of Mercy has helped Karpos build bridges, to each other, and to the poor among us. Examples like Karpos are all around and show us a way toward bridging the terrible and dangerous walls found in our world.

[From time to time I'll try to write about people and institutions bridging the great divides in our world.]

Thursday, June 19, 2014

One Church? Universal Church?

This short essay is from a Catholic perspective--but don't let that freak you out. My views might not be that different from yours:

When we recite the Creed at mass we assert our belief in “one Baptism for the forgiveness of sins.” And we say that we “believe in one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church.” But too often the reality is that we in the Christian community are splintered into groups that don’t talk to each other and don’t trust each other. The very word “Catholic” comes from a Greek word that means “universal.” So all throughout our Creed we are professing a church that is one, unified, and universal.

This oneness and universality of the Church has been aggressively promoted by Pope Francis. In fact, he takes his campaign for unity beyond the Christian churches, Orthodox and Protestant Christians, to Islamic and Jewish leaders. This is not a new movement in the Church. This was one of the great thrusts of the Ecumenical Vatican Council, Vatican II, convened in 1962 by St. Pope John XXIII.

We should pray for mutual respect and mutual understanding both within the Christian community and with non-Christian churches. That was a goal of our most recently consecrated saint, John XXIII, and our current Pope, Francis.

On the Feast of Corpus Christi, the Feast of the Body and Blood of Christ, we need to think about this issue of unity. When we receive the Eucharist we should remember that we as a community are the Body of Christ—let that body be one, united, universal!

*     *     *
After writing the above reflection, I was asked if somehow this issue connected to social justice concerns. It was then that I realized that I hadn't made my concerns explicit. They lurk between the lines--and maybe I was afraid to express them explicitly for fear of offending some people in the Church. The fact of the matter is that for my entire life (and most terribly in my youth) the Church has worked against unity, oneness, universality. In Catholic grade school I was told by some of my teachers that non-Catholics could not go to heaven. I once told that to my neighbor friend, Brian Cox. I hope Brian forgives me for that stupidity--I was echoing something I heard from an adult teacher. Also, we were forbidden from attending non-Catholic services as a kid. I bet I didn't attend a non-Catholic service until I was 23 years old. What were they afraid of? That my faith would be undermined or destroyed by going to a Methodist or Lutheran service? Well, maybe they were right. The stupid faith I had growing up would have been challenged indeed!

In more recent years I have been terribly offended and hurt by announcements in the church missal or from the pulpit that those who aren't Catholics cannot receive Communion, even when they believe almost the same things that we believe, even when they are Christians and people who live out the spirit of the Gospel. I have certain people in mind when I say this, people I work with in a church soup kitchen for the homeless--but I won't mention their names here. But in my mind, the Catholic church sins against the wishes of Jesus and the spirit of Christianity when it excludes my friends from Communion.

There are so many other examples of the Church sinning against unity/oneness/universality and not adhering to the guiding principle of "What would Jesus do?" I think especially of the discrimination against gay people, divorced people, and even former priests. A good friend of mine, a former priest of the Diocese of Erie, was excluded from Communion because he was not "laicized"--and he was not laicized because the Church put a hold on laicizing former priests, thinking (I imagine) that it would keep more priests from leaving. Ha ha!

So many sins of the church that I love! I want a welcoming Church!

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Judy Collins in Concert at Cain Park in Cleveland Heights

Last night, Judy Collins came out onto the stage at Cain Park in Cleveland Heights, one of our nation’s most beautiful and intimate venues for singers, and belted out a fabulous version of Joni Mitchell’s song “Chelsea Morning.” That put to rest once and for all any worry about the 75-year-old singer’s vocal power. Her voice is strong, pure, and in tune, with all the subtleties any singer could ever want.

Judy Collins on stage at Cain Park (phone camera)

Here are some of the songs she sang during her hour and a half set:

  • “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?”--a tribute to Pete Seeger.
  • “Born to the Breed” (for her late son Clark).
  • "Coal Tattoo," by Billy Edd Wheeler.
  • “Grandaddy,” one of my all-time favorite songs, and especially poignant to me now that I am a grandfather.
  • “My Father,” again, one of my favorites.
  • “John Riley,” an old song, from her earliest work.
  • “Where or When,” a Rogers and Hart song, beloved by her father.
  • Three Stephen Sondheim songs, including “Pretty Women” and “Send in the Clowns.”
  • “Norwegian Wood,” by Paul McCartney and John Lennon.
  • "Mountain Girl"--made us think about our daughter Carolan.
  • “New Moon Over the Hudson.”

Judy Collins ended the night with a sweet rendition of “Danny Boy.” In singing that song was she thinking of all the people she has been close to who have died? Most recently, Pete Seeger? And her son Clark? Was she thinking about herself? I hope this is not the last time I get to see her in concert. She is a national treasure (an international treasure, as they know in Ireland!).

Two themes that seemed to run through many of the songs: Fatherhood and parenthood; she seemed profoundly influenced by her own father and grandfather. And mortality--nothing lasts forever, where have all the flowers gone?

There are few singers and musicians who have brought meaning, passion, and beauty together like Judy Collins has--and she has done that over a 55-year career. Wow, what a treasure!

* * *

We started last evening by dining at Tommy's on Coventry Road in Cleveland Heights. This is one of my favorite restaurants, with very healthy food, lots of vegetarian options, and it's located in one of Cleveland's most interesting and vital neighborhoods. It is a relic of the Hippie Era, and I love it. After eating at Tommy's we went next door to Cleveland's best little bookstore, Mac's Backs--Books on Coventry, and chatted a bit with Suzanne DeGaetano, the long-time store manager, the person who knows books and Cleveland literary events as well as anyone in town.

Here is a Youtube version of Judy Collins singing "Danny Boy" in Ireland:

Wednesday, June 11, 2014

I'm a "Gray Panther" Now! Living My Life Like Maggie Kuhn

Yesterday I went into a Mentor-on-the-Lake Subway shop, ordered a sandwich, and as I took out my wallet to pay, I noticed the woman serving me gave me a 10% senior discount--without my asking. She winked at me and I said, "Thank You!" And lately if I run into a McDonald's and order a cup of coffee, I automatically am given the "senior discount." There's no getting around it--I look like a senior citizen, though I feel only 17 years old (sometimes!).

When Judy Bechtel Blackburn and I co-wrote the biography of Maurice McCrackin (Building the Beloved Community: Maurice McCrackin's Life for Peace and Civil Rights), we borrowed a quote by one of Mac's friends, Maggie Kuhn, one of the founders of the "Gray Panther" movement. Maggie said,

 "Old age is not a disaster or a disease. It is freedom to innovate. It is freedom to build upon your own past and to get a historical perspective on what you have seen and known and suffered and lived through. It is a marvelous state of being. Old age is the time to engage in a new life style of outrage and to go down swinging. And with that kind of agenda ahead of you, you know nothing 
will keep you in bed."

Well I won't yet admit to being "old-aged," but I will stand up, like Maggie Kuhn, Maurice McCrackin, Ernest Bromley, Marion Bromley, Wally Nelson, Juanita Nelson, Chuck Matthei, Kathy F., Pat D., Linda C., Bill Wahler, Tim Musser, and so many others that I have been blessed to know . . . I will stand up for peace and justice. My voice will be heard. My presence will be felt. I will not be silent!


Beloved Community--graphic for Maurice McCrackin

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

Part of My Family--May 1957, at Susie Brock's First Communion Party

Bobby Coughlin, age 8; Aunt Catherine Fitzpatrick; Dad, age 35
Maggie Brock just sent me this scan of an old photograph. It was taken at Susie Brock's First Communion party, in May of 1957 [my guess]. There's me, a little boy with the butch haircut I had until college. Dad just turned 35 years old. He's wearing a bow-tie. He was very dark complected, with almost black hair. Dad was drop-dead handsome in those days. He looks very happy here. To Dad's left is Aunt Catherine Fitzpatrick. She was a wonderful lady, who would later suffer two incredible tragedies--the death in Vietnam of her 21-year-old son, Tommy (1969), and the murder of her oldest child, Jack, in 1971--in Higbees in Downtown Cleveland.

Every year we had another First Communion party, sometimes more than one. We had lots of cousins. These parties were great fun.

There must have been some sort of rule that in every family picture someone had to be drinking a beer. Here Dad is drinking a Carling Black Label.

Monday, June 9, 2014

Community of St. Peter--Amazing Ecclesial Community in Cleveland

Yesterday, the Feast of Pentecost, I celebrated the coming of the Holy Spirit by attending mass with Kathleen O'Neill Webb and Rick Webb at the Community of St. Peter, which is now located in a historic old building at E. 71st Street and Euclid Ave. in Cleveland, Ohio. The community moved to this building when Bishop Richard Lennon closed the community's historic (and beautiful) old church a few years ago. Old St. Peter's was located at the corner of E.17th and Superior. My great grandfather, Cornelius Coughlin, an immigrant from Ireland, married my great grandmother, Lizzie Ierg, an immigrant from Germany, somewhere around 1885 in Old St. Peter's. So I took it personally when the bishop shuttered the historic old church.
A view of old St. Peter's Church

The community took the blow, which must have been a kind of death, and they have risen into a new facility. They have an absolutely thriving, dynamic community. Here is a photo of the outside of their new facility:

Well, from the outside it doesn't have the beauty of the old church. But they are beginning to make the inside their own. One of the first things you see as you enter the room is a beautiful holy water/baptismal font, carved from a solid piece of stone found by Lake Erie. The font is quietly powerful, solid, and beautiful. I heard the font as well as the altar were sculpted by the Koehn Sculptors from Green Road in South Euclid. Here is their website: Koehn Sculptors.

St. Pete's Holy Water Font

The simple, beautiful Altar
The mass was packed--possibly 250 people around the altar. There was a 15-person choir, with musicians playing grand piano, viola, and violin. The music was wonderful! And maybe most wonderful of all was an Alleluia called "Heleluyan: Traditional Muskogee Creek Indian Song." It was accompanied by powerful drumming and interesting and very different harmonies. I located a Youtube version of this Muskogee Creek Indian hymn:

Fr. Bob Marrone is a powerful figure. He is serious, focused, and charismatic. I think his fellow community members really love him. In his sermon he talked about failure of imagination as one of the central flaws of our time. I am sure he is right about this. He also discussed the beautiful image by Emil Nolde that was on the cover of the church bulletin. Nolde, one of the greatest of 20th Century artists, entitled this work "Pentecost." Here it is:

Emil Nolde's "Pfingsten" (Pentecost)
Fr. Bob pointed out how Peter is at the center of this painting. Peter was the fool, the failure, the apostle who denounced Jesus three times--and yet is the "rock" of the Church. That gives hope for fools and failures like us, like me!

After the mass there was coffee and some food. There I met some old friends, including Pat and Mike Coughlin (who are friends in spirit, but no close cousins, as far as I can tell), and Tim Musser. Tim is really an amazingly focused worker for peace and justice, and a friend of many of my friends, including Chris Cotter, my roommate for many years in Cincinnati.

Mike Coughlin and Tim Musser

As I left the building I met Cormac Somerville. He comes from Dublin, Ireland. I have met and played Irish music with his brother, Dermot Somerville, one of the finest Irish musicians in Greater Cleveland.

All in all, this was a wonderful, Spirit-filled experience at the Community of St. Peter. I plan to come back often.

Sunday, June 8, 2014

The Height of My Football Career--1957, St. William's

St. William's, Euclid, Ohio. Fall 1957. I'm in row 2, second from left.
I was a halfback and scored many touchdowns that 1957 season. I was so small no one could see me behind the linemen; and I was a very fast runner. The Coach is Mr. Rossa. I think I can name some of the kids in the photo: John Rossa in front row, second from left; to his right Frank Bowser; Dennis Pierce (?) or Tim Kraft (?) in second row on left; me to his right; the boy in row 2 on the right might be Bill Walsh.

Saturday, June 7, 2014

Happy Birthday, Denny! A Few Poems about Our Childhood

Today is my brother Denny's Birthday--Happy Birthday, Den! To honor his birthday, a few poems about our crazy childhood:

“Seventy-Seven Sunset Strip (Snap! Snap!)”

We’d all sit there on the davenport
A Friday night in my black-and-white childhood:
Mom, me, Denny, Mary Ellen, Kevin, Baby Jimmy.
Dad was gone, working the hated 2nd Trick.

“Bobby, go down to the Deli and buy us some cokes,” Mom said.
She hunted up a buck of change
Then Denny and I would jump on our bikes
And get the goods.

When we got home, Mary Ellen would say,
“Bobby, make us some fudge again!”
This was my calling, and I couldn’t refuse:
Cocoa, cups and cups of sugar,
Milk, a dash of salt, a teaspoon of vanilla . . . .

Seventy-Seven Sunset Strip graced the TV
(the one Dad found on a Farringdon treelawn on trash day
And fixed by replacing the plug).

We heard the song begin, Ed “Kookie” Byrnes and Connie Stevens,
Grabbed our belts to make the snap snap:
“Seventy-Seven Sunset Strip (Snap! Snap!)”—
We’d sing it over and over and over.

Then Denny would holler out, “Kookie, Kookie,
Lend me your comb.
Kookie, Kookie? (Snap! Snap!)”
Denny liked Kookie –reminded him of bad boys,
Like Elvis or Jerry Lee Lewis
Or himself!

The fudge mixture began to perk and boil
And I would stir and stir then
Drop a bit into a cup of cold water,
Waiting for it to form a soft ball.

It took forever, the watched pot, but finally it was ready,
And we started the stirring, each kid taking a turn.
We added the vanilla and a stick of butter
(This, the health food of our childhoods!)
Then beat that mixture mercilessly
With the wooden spoon till our arms ached
Until finally, voila!

It was suddenly fudge!
And we had to pour and scrape it in a hurry
Into the buttered pan.

What kind of mother lets her 5 kids spend Friday night
Drinking coke, eating fudge, and watching Kookie Byrnes?

My Mom, that beautiful 36-year-old lady.
Sometimes, as we watched our show,
She’d let us brush her long auburn hair,

And we, her brood of children,
All so in love with her,
Would sing as we brushed,
“Kookie, Kookie, lend me your comb,
Kookie, Kookie? (Snap! Snap!).”
 [ Robert M. Coughlin / March 4, 2004]

A Poem on the Drowning of Walter J. Zylowski (July 19, 1964)

Pray for Us Now and at the Hour

July 19th, 1964, a beautiful summer Sunday in Euclid, Ohio,
Clear skies, sun shining, mid 80s and humid,
A Lake Erie day if there ever was one!

I had a ballgame that day at Memorial Park—
Playing the Euclid Admirals (we expected to get creamed!).
Dad off to Eastlake to take care of Grandma.

The Indians in New York, facing the great Whitey Ford.
Our secret weapon Luis Tiant with his Vaseline ball,
His sandpaper ball, his hesitation pitch, his endless trickery.

Our neighbor Walter Zylowski was taking his son Buster swimming
Right down the street off East 267th. Frank Mondok and his kids
And Walter’s daughter Jackie were going too, aching for the cool lake.

Walter’s other son Kenny had a big day planned, an outing to Geauga Lake Park
With his cousins and Auntie Vicki. The little lake, the ancient wooden
Roller coasters—cotton candy heaven.

Lake Erie was calm and the water peaceful.
The Mondok kids and Jackie played on the beach, Buster skipping stones
On the flat Lake. Walter was diving off the old, half-sunken pier.

And then it was as if the music stopped, the world stopped.
Where was Walter? Where did he go?
Where did he go?

Maybe 10 frantic minutes later, Denny and Buster spotted him,
Floating in 7 feet of water, just 30 feet off the shore.
With Frank, they swam out and dragged him in.

Back on the beach, Walter, his red hair in a wild swirl,
His normally ruddy skin a shocking blue,
Did not move, did not breathe. No pulse, no nothing.

Buster and Frank started artificial respiration; someone ran up the hillside
To call the police. Denny and Jackie and the Mondok kids
Knelt on the beach and prayed the Hail Mary.

The words were automatic--we said the rosary every night of our lives--
But this time, the final lines,

“Pray for us sinners, now
And at the hour of our death”

This time the lines were real.

[Bob Coughlin / September 9, 2013]

Driving Home From Willoughby, 1959

After Thanksgiving Dinner at Gramma and Grampa’s,
Dad, Uncle Jack, and Grampa located a davenport or bed
For a half-hour’s nap, hypnotized by the turkey, the full belly, the beer.

Denny and Bobby went out to the field between the Sullivan’s and Coughlin’s,
Climbed the wild black cherry, while Mary Ellen and Kev
Played in the piles of silver and sugar maple leaves.
Mom carried Baby Jimmy on her hip, talked with Gramma,
Dried the dishes.

And then, around 7, we hopped into the old Ford,
Mom and Dad in front, 3 kids on the back seat, Kev on the hump,
And Jim stuffed up on the shelf by the rear window
(no seat belts, no rules in those days!).

We’d start the long drive home down Lakeshore Boulevard
Saying the rosary, Bobby leading the prayers,
The Joyful Mysteries, 5 decades of Hail Mary’s,
Sprinkled with Our Father’s, Glory Be’s, and the Apostles Creed.

And when we finished (and we were the fastest rosary sayers on the planet!),
We’d sing every song we knew, full-throated:
Anchors Away My Boys,” to “Row Row Row Your Boat,” in rounds,
To “She’s My Darling She’s My Daisy, She’s Cross-eyed, She’s Crazy.”

And then, after a bit of silent driving, we’d turn south down East 266 Street and home:
By now Jimmy, Kevin, Mary Ellen asleep,
Denny and Bobby groggy,

Mom and Dad spent and quietly happy.
 [Robert M. Coughlin / Thanksgiving 2008]

October in Willoughby, 1958

the two sugar maples
glisten in the crisp pure sunlight

efflorescence of yellow, orange, red
against the cloudless blue sky:
Hayes Avenue looks like heaven

Grampa rakes the leaves into a grand pile:
Denny, Mary Ellen, Bobby play king of the hill,
somersault, stuff leaves into flannel shirts

the radio is omnipresent
blaring out the Browns struggle against the Giants,
Jimmy Brown against Sam Huff

Grampa lights the pile of leaves,
a fragrance that will linger in memory
until death

Gramma calls out for dinner:
roast beef, mashed potatoes, green peas


(Bob Coughlin / October 18, 1991)

Friday, June 6, 2014

A Poem about Miracles

World of Miracles

This is a world of miracles and wonder!

Where in the face of death, exhaustion, sorrow,
Every day someone chooses love
Serves the poor, gives a shirt to the naked, water to the thirsty,
Shelter to the homeless, food to the hungry.

Where in spite of the vast ugliness,
And amid the ruins and the ashes, someone plants a garden,
Makes a small poem of beauty that few will ever see,

And like artists everywhere, works without acclaim.

I don’t want to hear about miracles-as-magic-tricks,
Changing water into wine, stones into loaves of bread.
Tell me about miracles of goodness, kindness, beauty, caring, sharing,
Undeserved love.

Those are the miracles I want to hear about!

                [Bob Coughlin / June 3, 2014]

The day after I wrote the poem above, a student called my attention to this brilliant poem written by Mary Oliver (who comes from nearby Maple Heights, Ohio). "Logos" is Greek for "Word."

I was stunned by the similarities of these two poems.


by Mary Oliver

Why worry about the loaves and fishes?
If you say the right words, the wine expands.
If you say them with love
and the felt ferocity of that love
and the felt necessity of that love,
the fish explode into many.
Imagine him, speaking,
and don’t worry about what is reality,
or what is plain, or what is mysterious.
If you were there, it was all those things.
If you can imagine it, it is all those things.
Eat, drink, be happy.
Accept the miracle.
Accept, too, each spoken word
spoken with love.

New Poem for the 70th Anniversary of D-Day

June 6, 1944 in Willoughby-on-the-Lake

Cora and Connie,
Their four boys overseas, fighting in the terrible war,
First got the news on the radio around noon that Tuesday.

They heard from the boys about once a month, in letters
Passed under a censor’s eyes, often weeks old.
Sometimes Cora wondered as she read the letters
If her boys were still alive or wounded in some hospital
Or prisoners of war. She couldn't stop the terrible scenarios
Unraveling in her mind.

Connie tried to keep up her spirits, joked and laughed a lot,
And cried himself in secret and drank himself unconscious
Some nights at the bar down the corner.

Bob was on a small ship somewhere in the South Pacific;
Bill also somewhere in the Philippines.
But Fran and Jack, the two most vulnerable spirits,
They were somewhere in Europe—
They might be part of this invasion.

Candles remained lit that day, four of them,
(As they did every day of almost four years);
Two of those candles flickered, went out briefly,
Before Cora could relight them.

It was weeks before Connie and Cora learned the truth--
Their boys were alive—and in late ’45 or ’46,
They came home to Willoughby.

Bob had shrapnel in his back, but was otherwise OK;
Bill’s happy spirit seemed intact—

But Fran and Jack were filled with anger and sorrow;
Souls twisted and damaged, they got into fights back home,
And sometimes drank until they blacked out.

They were haunted the next twenty years,
Until their early deaths, by the psychic wounds,
The spiritual wreckage of June 6, 1944 and
The brutal organized violence of the years before and the year after.

Connie and Cora’s boys came home—
But two of them wounded for life.

[Bob Coughlin / June 6, 2014]

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Bald Eagle Over Our Lady of Lourdes Shrine in Euclid. Wildwood Park on Lake Erie

Today we went to mass at Our Lady of Lourdes Shrine, a holy place off Chardon Road, right above Euclid Avenue in Euclid, Ohio. This is part of our beloved summer ritual. A couple hundred people came to the mass, which was presided over by a priest-professor from Borromeo/St. Mary's Seminary. Besides the normal crowd, there was a tourist bus from Toronto, Ontario there--this shrine is well-known in Ontario and Quebec.

The Grotto, where mass is celebrated

The grotto is modeled after the original grotto in Lourdes, France. It is built of Euclid Bluestone, from the nearby quarry along Euclid Creek (where my great grandfather, Fenton Fitzpatrick worked).

Marian statue at Lourdes Shrine in Euclid.

The weather was perfect this morning--sunny skies, about 70 degrees. During the mass, a bald eagle circled overhead--then took off to the north, toward Lake Erie two or three miles away. I took this as a sign--a rather muscular symbol of the Holy Spirit, blessing this place.

I have long thought that this shrine is a holy place. Holy places can be such because of unusual beauty. Or because they are sanctified by human beings in some way--places where people have shown great courage, sacrifice, or achievement. This place indeed has natural beauty, on a hill overlooking Euclid (where you can get a glimpse of the Lake). The Shrine has also been sanctified by people, bringing their prayers, sorrows, and joys for the past century.

After the mass, we went into the Grotto and lit three candles. This might seem to be a kind of Catholic superstition. But no matter. I do it anyway, lighting a candle for my three daughters and praying for my family and friends.

When we left the grounds of the shrine, we drove up  Nottingham Road to E. 185th Street, and stopped at Buettner's Bakery. We have done this for many many years. We picked up a loaf of bread, a couple of sweet rolls, and a cup of coffee, then headed to Wildwood Park, off Neff Road. Before we got there, we drove up Tarrymore Road, where my Mom grew up. We tried to find her old house, and I think this is it (17301 Tarrymore Rd.). says this was was built in 1928. Still looks nice!

From Tarrymore, we went a quarter mile north and west to Wildwood Park. I have gone to this park for more than 50 years, fishing there as a teenager. I love the place.

Wildwood's Marina

You can see Downtown Cleveland, about 8 miles to the west.

Sunday fishing cruise.

What a wonderful Sunday morning. We love our summer Sunday ritual!