A Memory of 9-11

A Recollection of 9-11, written many years ago.

September 11, 2001—A Memory

How I taught that 10 AM class I don’t know. I did mention the tragedy to the class, as if they didn’t know already, and we all prayed in class before the lesson started. Then amazingly, I proceeded with the lesson.

As the class progressed, I grew more and more anxious, until the end, when I practically busted out of the room and ran back to my office. “I have to see if Mom is all right!” I yelled to myself, racing down the hallways from T-Building. I was also worried about my wife Linda and my 3 daughters. Julia was away at college, Miami University. Carolan was at Chardon High School. Em was at St. Mary’s School, where Linda worked. But Mom was 77 years old, blind, and alone at home in Euclid--Dad four years in the grave. I had to go to her right away!

I ran to the faculty-staff lot and cranked up my car—it was almost empty of gas. A thought streaked across my mind: What if the gas pumps go out? What if gigantic lines form at the gas stations? Are the ATM machines working? As usual I had almost no cash in my wallet.

My first step was to get to the Bank One money machine. The machine worked and I withdrew a hundred dollars, a huge amount for me to carry around. Then I headed to Kirtland Road, the back way to Mom’s. I thought maybe the freeways would get jammed up with cars, people fleeing . . . to somewhere, anywhere. We had no idea what was going on yet. So far we knew that both towers of the World Trade Center had been hit; by this time one of the buildings had actually collapsed to the ground, something unheard of! There was a story about a jet crashing into a field southeast of Pittsburgh. The Pentagon had been hit. There were rumors galore flying around. One claimed that Dayton had been hit. My oldest daughter Julia was a freshman at Miami University, not far from Dayton. What was going on? Are we all in danger?

Down Kirtland Road I drove like a maniac, coming to Rt. 20 in Willoughby. West on 20 to Vine Street. Down Vine to Lakeshore Boulevard. There near the corner of Lakeshore and Vine was a gas station without big lines. I pulled in and filled my tank. Would this be my last chance to get gas?

I zipped out on Vine, then left on Lakeshore down to Lloyd. Down Lloyd to Forestview. Then to East 272, then Farringdon, then East 266 and into Mom’s driveway. I pushed open my car door, one knock on Mom's door, then inside.

There Mom calmly sat on the davenport, drinking a cup of coffee, smoking a cigarette, and watching the television’s grim news. Mom was OK; I was the one who was frantic, anxious, frightened to death. I hugged her. She comforted me like I was a scared 5-year-old again.

Robert M. Coughlin
September 11, 2008

Good Friday at the Euclid Lourdes Shrine

One of the most beautiful and holiest places in Euclid is the Shrine of Our Lady of Lourdes, off Chardon Road (U.S. Route 6), on a hill above Euclid Avenue. From the Shrine you can see all the way to Lake Erie, about 3-4 miles north. We attend mass at the Shrine in the summer and visit it periodically throughout the year, and always on Good Friday. The Grotto is made from Euclid Bluestone, quarried 2 miles away along Euclid Creek (my Great Grandfather Fenton Fitzpatrick worked there when he arrived from Ireland).

The replica Grotto of Lourdes in Euclid.

Statue of Mary at the Grotto, above the spring.

Entrance to the Stations of the Cross. Many people were there today, Good Friday.

A Visit to a Local Mosque--Trying to Build Bridges

A Visit to the MACE Islamic Center in Richmond Heights—“Just Thoughts”

“We pray for you every day” (Muslims brother and sisters at the Richmond Heights Mosque)

Humera, Salma, and Nafis told us that they pray briefly five times a day, and at each prayer, they pray for us and for all the “Children of Abraham.” All Jews, Christians, and Muslims are “Children of Abraham.” These gentle souls, whom we met at the MACE Islamic Center in Richmond Heights, prayed for us all the time. When they told us that, we responded, “And we promise to pray for you every day.”

Five St. Mary’s parishioners and five other people visited the MACE mosque on Saturday, January 9^th.  Some of us were a bit on edge, not sure of what to expect. When we entered the modern building on Chardon Road, we were warmly greeted by two women, Humera and Salma, and a man, Nafis. We were offered coffee and sweets and then began a tour of the facility and an introduction to Islam.

Our Muslim friends looked just like us—Humera and Salma do not wear the hijab head dress themselves (though we saw some people coming for prayers with head coverings, similar to the babushkas our own mothers wore to church in the 1950s). All were very hospitable and friendly, these three well-educated, kind people.

After a brief introduction to Islam, we removed our shoes and entered the prayer room. The mosque itself is very simple, with no statues or pictures. The only iconography consisted of three short writings in Arabic, done in beautiful calligraphy. Humera, Salma, and Nafis told us about how daily prayers and Friday prayer works (Friday is their Sabbath), let us look at prayer books (the Quran, in Arabic, with English translations). We opened the book at random, and our eyes immediately dropped on a passage that spoke to our deepest Christian and human values.

After the tour, Humera approached one of St. Mary’s parishioners, saying, “You look very familiar. Could our daughters have gone to the same pre-school in Euclid back in 1992? And indeed it was true. Humera had visited this parishioner’s home back then, and even took her daughter to school. Sometimes you wonder if such serendipity is really the the Grace of God in action.

We left deeply moved by the kindness and humanity of Humera, Salma, and Nasif. And we were struck by the beauty of Islam and its similarity to Christianity and Judaism.

These personal encounters between cultures can lead to understanding and peace. We were all so grateful for this opportunity.

A Nice Sunday Morning on the North Coast of the United States

First thing is to drive to the Lourdes Shrine in Euclid, Ohio--where Rt. 6 (Chardon Road) meets Rt. 20 (Euclid Avenue). We have done this for years in the summer, attending the outside mass by the Grotto. We regard it as a holy place. On a good Sunday morning, 200-300 people might come there for mass, which is usually presided over by a professor from Borromeo/St. Mary's Seminary.

The Grotto, where mass is held

Rosie Kohl's father was the architect for this chapel at the Lourdes Shrine

After mass, we drive north up Nottingham Road to East 185th Street--to Buettner's Bakery, for coffee and sweet rolls. This is an inexpensive, old-fashioned bakery--and we love it.

And then to Lake Erie, to Wildwood Park, near Neff Road. My mother grew up a block from the park, and I often fished there as a kid. The park had been a state park until recently and it was horribly mismanaged. Now it is part of the Cleveland MetroParks, and things are improving! They recently build a footbridge over Euclid Creek, connecting Wildwood to the old Villa Angela site and to Euclid Beach. Here are some photos from this park:

Linda on the new bridge.

Wildwood Park

Wildwood Marina

The bridge over Euclid Creek

Euclid as a Summer Lake Resort

In today's Plain Dealer there was a story about Euclid in the late 1890s as a kind of summer getaway resort for Clevelanders [also on cleveland.com at this address: http://www.cleveland.com/remembers/index.ssf/2011/12/caddying_at_westwood_and_vacat.html]. When the Shore inter-urban train came to Euclid around 1898, so did the summer tourists. Initially they would rent tent platforms in the Moss Point area of Euclid (that's near where E. 222 meets the Lake--the site of a sewage plant now as well as Euclid Park). A few years later people began to build summer cottages--many of which are still visible in Euclid. [more coming]

Shrine of Our Lady of Lourdes in Euclid, Ohio

On Chardon Road (US Route 6) hill, just south of Euclid Avenue (US Route 20), in the City of Euclid, Ohio, there is a most holy place--the Shrine of Our Lady of Lourdes. I attend mass there in the summer, and today was the opening mass of the season. The mass begins at 9:30 sharp (sometimes even a couple minutes early!) at the bluestone grotto, a replica of the grotto cave in Lourdes, France. The cave (or grotto) is made from Euclid bluestone, quarried about a mile from the shrine by Irish, Hungarian, Slovenian, and other immigrants--including my own great grandfather, Fenton Fitzpatrick. There is a similar replica grotto at the University of Notre Dame--another very holy place. A priest-professor from Borromeo Seminary said the mass as a couple hundred lay people joined in the celebration. The world's strangest choir led the singing, as usual. Today the temperature was in the mid 60's and the sky was overcast, windy, and threatened rain. I think these conditions hurried the celebrant along a bit. It was a typical yet beautiful mass in this holy place. Lake Erie can be seen a few miles to the north of the Shrine, and the street noise and sometimes sirens and train whistles of busy Euclid, Ohio can often be heard. But the beauty, sanctity, and absolute specialness of this place is clear to everyone in attendance.

After mass, Linda, Emily, and I lit some candles and especially remembered Ruth Hoffman Sanders, my mother-in-law who died 2 years ago yesterday. Ruth was a tremendous person, a force of nature. Intelligent, passionate, a great mother, housewife, cook, family manager, motivator. She lived intensely right up to her sudden passing. We still haven't quite gotten over it. May she rest in peace and be brought into Heaven. And may she pray for all of us! We also prayed for my father-in-law, Ruth's husband Art Sanders. A sweet and kind man, great father and provider. Art died in April of 1996. Like my own Dad, he spent 4 years in the US Navy in the South Pacific during World War II. Ruth and Art had 5 children--and I married their first child (and prettiest)--Linda Rose.

We also lit candles for my Mom and Dad. Dad (Robert P. Coughlin) would turn 87 years old this coming Tuesday if he were still alive. Dad was the discoverer of the Shrine, and he and I used to help out there many years ago (I remember when we helped cut down a gigantic tree on the Shrine property in the early 1960's). A funny memory: Dad truly believed that the Shrine's spring water was a healing force. He drank as much of it as he could. Mom would save some of this water to sprinkle around the house when storms threatened

We also said prayers and lit candles for our immediate family and for our extended family, especially for those who are ill, like Jack Pendergast.

The Good Lord will bring safety, peace, health, and protection to those we prayed for. Prayers do not go unanswered.

Great Resource for Learning Irish-Gaelic

I have another blog that I have neglected lately focused on learning Irish-Gaelic: http://learningirishgaelic.blogspot.com/. My latest entry mentions a tremendous resource for all learners of Irish called The Gaelminn Gazette, a digital magazine (or "e-zine") for learners. This magazine can be reached by going to the home page of Gaeltacht Minnesota, http://www.gaelminn.org/index.htm, and then clicking on the link "Latest Gaelminn Gazette."

Gaeltacht Minnesota is a tremendous resource and we are very grateful to them, Go raibh maith agut!

Irish needs intelligent, well-organized groups like them if the language is to be saved and if it is to thrive. It probably also needs ragtaggle groups like "Gaeltacht Cleveland," we who meet Wednesday nights, 7-9 PM, at the Irish-American Club East Side, in Euclid, Ohio (E. 228th Street and Lake Shore Boulevard--in the basement near the pub). Come and join us!

Love Poems for Valentine's Day

Probably we should ban the word love for the next little while and proceed like the biblical Jews, who would not write or utter the sacred name of the Lord. Love is too mysterious, too profaned, too important almost for speech. But then what else do we human beings have? So in our imperfect way, we talk about God and we talk about love.

Here is one of the greatest love poems, written by the Irish poet and patriot, William Butler Yeats:

WHEN YOU ARE OLD


WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

["When You Are Old" is reprinted from The Rose. W.B. Yeats. 1893.]


Here is a poem I wrote some years back about family love and family happiness:

Lucky Seven (Lucky Five)
(Euclid and Wickliffe, Ohio, circa 1992)

When the snow finally melted
We pulled the four old bikes
Out of our Beech Drive garage
To head out for our adventure.

Emily was strapped in the baby seat,
Carolan wobbled a bit on her two-wheeler,
Now without training wheels,
While Julia was already a master of hers.

I would lead the way, followed by the girls,
And Linda would guard the back,
Watching over all, urging me to slow down,
Walk the bikes across Lloyd,
Watch the uneven sidewalk,
Shouldn’t the girls be wearing helmets?
Forever the mother.

Across Lloyd Road we entered exotic Wickliffe!
Down the street named “Grand Boulevard,”
A nice street indeed, but not the Champs Elysees!

The first stop was Wickliffe’s Intihar Park,
The swings, the monkey bars, the slide,
Then back on the bikes, through the park to Worden Road.

A couple blocks down Worden, et voila!
The Promised Land—or at least the promised store, “Lucky Seven”!

Lucky Seven was lucky mostly in my children’s minds.
This old relic of the 1930’s was a mecca for those needing pop,
Beer, cigarettes, and lottery tickets.

My girls—they wanted Popsicles or Eskimo Pies.
And Linda and I needed a coke.

We’d lean against our bikes outside the store,
Or at times sit at the picnic table behind that ramshackle place,
And in the early spring chill, enjoy our little treats
And catch our breath from the long bike hike.

The ride home was more direct, straight down Grand,
Then left onto Walnut to Beech.

* * *

In memory, this is the happiest time—
We are the “Lucky Five”—
Linda, me, and the kids, Julia, Carolan, and Emily.

There are no photos, no movies of this,
The most precious moments are unrecorded,
Only indelible memory and deepest gratitude

For this gift of family life.

April 9, 2005

"We're Gonna Knock Those Teeth Down Your Throat!"

In the summer of 1960, I was chosen for the Euclid Midget League All Star Baseball Team as a second baseman. We were going to play the champion Euclid Boys' League team in what they called "The Little World Series." The Euclid baseball officials made a big deal out of this and they arranged for considerable practice, and even instruction, for the members of the Midget League All Stars. Our coach/instructors included Bill Lewin, who played minor league baseball, and possibly Paul Serra, who also had played minor league baseball and for years coached the Euclid High School baseball team. One thing they taught and drilled into us was how to slide into a base, a "figure-four" slide, with the spikes held high. If you had to, you were to kick the ball out of a baseball mitt. And we were to go into the base hard. We were not told to hurt anybody, but to slide hard and to jar the ball lose if it came to that. Well it came to that. I believe the Little World Series involved several ball games, and we, the vastly underdog Midget Leaguers, beat the celebrated Boys' League champs because I slid into second base and kicked the ball out of Brad Sikora's mitt.

After that game, a coach from the other team approached me. He was a tall, imposing figure, about 40 years old, and I was about 4 feet tall and 12 years old. He lifted up my upper lip and said, "Next year when you're in Pony League my boys are going to kick those pretty teeth down your throat." At least that's how I remember it.

Well, that never happened. No one ever tried to kick my teeth down my throat. I noticed this week that the man who said those words to me died. There was a fairly large obituary in the Plain Dealer, and this man was a much honored and praised person. He is in 3 sports halls of fame (Willoughby South High School; Euclid Shore; and Heidelberg College). He was a very successful baseball and football coach around town (quoted as being a "smash-mouth" kind of football coach).

I wonder if I got the story wrong. Did he really intimidate me like this? It's so easy for a kid to misunderstand things. Maybe he did it or maybe I remember it wrong. If it were to happen today, he would be in huge legal trouble. Back then we shrugged off things like that. Whatever the situation, if he needs forgiveness, I forgive him. It had no lasting effect on me--except that I remember being frightened for a while.

Lake Effect Snow in Chardon

A foot of lake-effect snow fell last night on Chardon, Ohio--and it didn't close the schools! Euclid, 25 miles to the west, got a dusting of snow, and even Mentor, near Lake Erie, only got a couple inches. The photo above shows the snow on my deck table.

What Makes Each One of Us Different? Why Was I So Successful in School?

We are a crazy, mixed-up bunch of people--all of us. So different that it's hard to believe we are the same species. I guess if you looked down from the moon, we humans might look pretty similar. But I am struck by the differences. These differences are all the more striking within families. I have 3 daughters who are stunningly different, in appearance, in temperament, in so many other ways. My three brothers and my sister are all so different. What follows are a few guesses on why I am different from them.

To begin, I am the first-born kid in the family. I was even the first grandchild on my father's side. I imagine that the first born gets more attention than those that follow. Sometimes the parents and grandparents have more energy and even better health to deal with the first child or grandchild. I wouldn't use the "s-word" (spoiled), but the first-born has some advantages (and a few disadvantages, I might add). The first-born lives under stricter rules (in 3rd grade I had to be in bed by 8 PM during the school year; Jimmy probably went to bed after the Johnny Carson Show!). Sometimes the first-born lives in a family with very little money because the parents are at an early stage in their careers. I had to eat slum-gullion; Jim and Kev were chowing down on steak, those SOB's! Well, maybe I exaggerate a bit.

I know that I possess my parents' DNA, but there is enough shuffling that mother nature does that we brothers and sisters are pretty different. How did Denny get so tall? Mary Ellen so pretty? Why did Jim and Denny keep their hair (in contrast to Kev and me)? Why was Kevin such a fast runner and great football player? And how did he become a Republican, for God's sake!

One big question for me has to do with my success in school. Why did I do so well at all levels of school, from St. William's Grade School to St. Joseph High School, and to three colleges, the University of Notre Dame, the University of Cincinnati, and The Ohio State University? My simple answer is that I am more intelligent than my brothers and sister. But I know them too well to make that claim! I'm not that dumb and I don't want them to beat the crap out of me! We are all intelligent in our own ways. Somehow, my intelligence took me successfully through the American school system up to a doctorate degree.

I think my Dad especially gave me a lot of attention in my early years of schooling. He drilled me all the time on spelling and arithmetic. He took me to various libraries, Euclid Public, St. William's, and Cuyahoga County. And he read the newspaper and books--he was a fairly good model of a reader. He even managed to get hold of a magnificent set of used Collier Encyclopedias, one of the joys of my youth and adolescence.

Also, I really wanted to please my Mom and Dad by getting good grades in school. Later, I wanted to get straight A's because that would allow me to receive 7 pair of free Indians' baseball tickets. That played a huge role in my academic success.

One other strange factor was my sense of self. In first or second or third grade I was put into reading Group 2 at the beginning of the year. I'm guessing placement in that group was based on some sort of test scores. I remember thinking to myself (at age 6, 7,or 8): "I'm not group 2 material. I should be in Group 1, the top reading group." And then I proceeded to work real hard to prove to the teacher that I belonged in the top group. Within a week or so, I was moved to that group. Why did I think I was top-group material? Isn't that strange?

Along with this sense of myself, I was very competitive. I'm guessing that was partly a gift from my Dad and from my Grampa Coughlin--both very competitive athletes. This competitiveness helped me get into the top groups and helped me achieve top grades. It has been a theme through much of my life (occasionally to my detriment).

A couple of events probably shaped my life. When I was 2 going on 3, I was accidentally run over by my mother. The accident happened on Windermere Avenue in Willoughby. I had walked away from home to visit my Gramma and Grampa, who lived a block away on Hayes Avenue. My Mom didn't know where I was, and proceeded to back out our car to go looking for me. Unfortunately, as she was backing out, I was running up behind the car. I was seriously injured and had to be removed from under the car. I was taken by car to Huron Road Hospital in East Cleveland (a good 20 miles away), where they discovered a fractured skull, a concussion, and a broken collarbone, among other minor injuries. I was in the hospital for many days, a week I think. I remember vividly many details of this entire event. And I remember being so lonely in the hospital, without the presence of my Mom and Dad (at least at night). I remember them putting me in a crib-like bed, something I resented, thinking, "Here I am, almost 3 years old, and I'm put in something like a baby crib!" I remember that when I got out of the hospital, my Mom and Dad told me that I had turned 3 years old and that we were moving to a new house in Euclid, Ohio. Somehow, that accident and those days in the hospital shaped me.

Another important event that shaped my personality happened when I was 5-years-old and in Kindergarten. It must have been late winter or early spring of 1954 when I got an illness (measles, chicken pox, or influenza) that developed into pneumonia--very serious pneumonia. I remember going deaf at one point, and having severe vertigo where the room spun around. I had a terrible fever and remember Mom running frantically into the kitchen and putting me under the cold water to cool down the fever. As she turned on the water, spiders and snakes came out of the tap and I screamed. Then she rushed me to the bathroom tub, and did the same thing. Again, spiders and snakes came out of the faucet. The fever must have been very high to trigger hallucinations like that.

A doctor came to our house--this must have been the end of the era of home doctor visits. He prescribed a sulfa drug to treat my pneumonia, but it backfired, causing some sort of damage to my kidneys, as I ended up urinating blood. During this sickness I was stationed in my Mom and Dad's bed. I was totally (and temporarily, it turned out) deaf, had trouble breathing, and constantly coughed up thick mucus. I spent my day's between sleeping, looking at children's books (I couldn't read yet), and playing games with myself ("pick-up sticks" was a favorite). Something changed in me during that month-long sickness, something shaped my life-to-come. I was more interior, more reliant on my self and my imagination. I suffered through tremendous loneliness and isolation, and had survived. One day in early spring I saw my friends Brian Cox, Allen Lane, and Chucky Lintern playing in the yard. I was so sick that I couldn't go out and play with them. I felt a profound loneliness and even a sense of being deprived of life and vitality. I was determined that that would change. And it did.

My Dad Dreams of an Ordinary Life--New Poem

Here's a draft of a new poem. I imagined my Dad, a signalman aboard his small wooden ship, a Subchaser, in the middle of the Battle of Leyte Gulf in late October of 1944, hoping for an ordinary life back in Northeastern Ohio. Here's the poem:

Dream of an Ordinary Life

In October of 1944, my Dad, 22 years old,
Stood on the signal tower of Subchaser 1154,
A little wooden ship,
Offshore from the island of Leyte in the Philippines.

Black smoke all around the wild seas,
Bombers and fighters in the heavens,
Big naval guns pounding both Japanese and American ships,
Mines, torpedoes, shrapnel, kamikazes
Death everywhere, everywhere,

My Dad, 12,000 miles from Willoughby-on-the-Lake
Thought of his Mother’s apple pies, the wild black cherry tree
Outside their Hayes Avenue cottage—a home he, his Dad, and brothers built themselves—
Thought of his Dad sitting at the tavern at the corner of Lost Nation and Lake Shore,
Drinking Leisy’s Light and telling baseball stories,
Thought of brothers Connie, Jack, and Bill, fighting
This war hither and yon--Would he ever see them and his sister Bernice again?

What do you want from life, he asked himself, in a rare moment of reverie.
If you ever get back home?

The answer was rather simple:

A wife, a job, a little house, some children,
Friends and family nearby.
He wanted what once seemed so ordinary,
What once seemed too predictable, too tame,
Too lacking in adventure.

To see his mother and father again,
His brothers and sister.

To play horseshoes by Hayes Avenue,
And drink beer around a campfire,
To swim in Lake Erie again.

Just an ordinary life would be fine for him.
And he prayed for that right then and there,

In the middle of the Pacific Ocean,
Death whirring over his head,
12,000 miles from Willoughby-on-the-Lake.

September 11, 2001--A Memory

September 11, 2001—A Memory

How I taught that 10 AM class I don’t know. I did mention the tragedy to the class, as if they didn’t know already, and we all prayed in class before the lesson started. Then amazingly, I proceeded with the lesson.

As the class progressed, I grew more and more anxious, until the end, when I practically busted out of the room and ran back to my office. “I have to see if Mom is all right!” I yelled to myself, racing down the hallways from T Building. I was also worried about my wife Linda and my 3 daughters. Julia was away at college, Miami University. Carolan was at Chardon High School. Em was at St. Mary’s School, where Linda worked. But Mom was 77 years old, blind, and alone at home in Euclid--Dad four years in the grave. I had to go to her right away!

I ran to the faculty-staff lot and cranked up my car—it was almost empty of gas. A thought streaked across my mind: What if the gas pumps go out? What if gigantic lines form at the gas stations? Are the ATM machines working? As usual I had almost no cash in my wallet.

My first step was to get to the Bank One money machine. The machine worked and I withdrew a hundred dollars, a huge amount for me to carry around. Then I headed to Kirtland Road, the back way to Mom’s. I thought maybe the freeways would get jammed up with cars, people fleeing . . . to somewhere, anywhere. We had no idea what was going on yet. So far we knew that both towers of the World Trade Center had been hit; by this time one of the buildings had actually collapsed to the ground, something unheard of! There was a story about a jet crashing into a field southeast of Pittsburgh. The Pentagon had been hit. There were rumors galore flying around. One claimed that Dayton had been hit. My oldest daughter Julia was a freshman at Miami University, not far from Dayton. What was going on? Are we all in danger?

Down Kirtland Road I drove like a maniac, coming to Rt. 20 in Willoughby. West on 20 to Vine Street. Down Vine to Lakeshore Boulevard. There near the corner of Lakeshore and Vine was a gas station without big lines. I pulled in and filled my tank. Would this be my last chance to get gas?

I zipped out on Vine, then left on Lakeshore down to Lloyd. Down Lloyd to Forestview. Then to E. 272, then Farringdon, then E.266 and into Mom’s driveway. I pushed open my car door, one knock on Mom's door, then inside.

There Mom calmly sat on the davenport, drinking a cup of coffee, smoking a cigarette, and watching the television’s grim news. Mom was OK; I was the one who was frantic, anxious, frightened to death. I hugged her. She comforted me like I was a scared 5-year-old again.

Robert M. Coughlin
September 11, 2008

Happy Birthday, Em-Babes!

On July 28th we'll celebrate the 20th birthday of our baby girl, Emily Anne. I'm thinking Em is one of the prettiest Coughlin girls in the history of Coughlin's. Luckily, she looks a lot like her Mom. The baby pictures of Em and of her Mom are uncanny in their similarity.

Em was born in Lexington, Kentucky--Central Baptist Hospital--just like her two sisters. By our third birth, you'd think that everything would be routine and totally relaxed. but that's not the way it was. Because when Em's head was birthed, her umbilical cord was wrapped twice around her neck, and her face was a very pale white. I thought she was dead--my heart was broken. But skilled doctors, the obstetrician and a pediatrician, cool as could be, grabbed that cord with some sort of gigantic tweezers (don't know the technical name of this instrument), and looped it twice over the baby's head--and voila, there she was, alive and breathing. Linda and I were overjoyed and thanked God that our baby was all right.

This baby was in for an adventure because when she was about 3 weeks old, we packed up all our household goods and moved about 400 miles north to Euclid, Ohio--where I grew up, about one mile from my Mom and Dad's house. We moved to Forestview Avenue near Lloyd Road, a house we rented from a shirttail cousin, Trish Dougherty Kennedy. An odd thing is that this house was on my paper-route back around 1961 to 1964. Em and her sisters would make this house our home for about 4 months--right around Christmas we moved less than a half mile away to 27391 Beech Drive, a home that we purchased. So in the first 4 months of Emily's life she had 3 addresses!

Em is definitely a Chardon girl now, but she is also a Salzburger Fraulein; she's been living in Salzburg, Austria for the past 3 weeks and attending classes where only German is spoken! Em is a great student and a great kid--a lover of country music, her Irish and German heritage, her family and friends. We all wish you a wonderful Happy Birthday! Froehlicher Geburtstag, Em!

[Photos shows Emily at Mentor Lagoons and at Lake Chautauqua, New York.]

Joy in Mudville (Willow Playground in Euclid, Ohio)

"There is no joy in Mudville, Might Casey has struck out." So goes the famous poem "Casey at the Bat." But I am here to tell you that there was plenty of joy in Mudville when I was a kid. "Mudville" is what we called our playground, a small undeveloped area, perhaps 15 acres, bounded on the west by E. 272nd Street, and on all other sides by the semi-circular Willow Drive. To the west was the ticky-tacky bungalow homes built by Marvin Helf (homes that cost $11,900 in 1951 when my family moved in); and to the east, north, and south, by brick ranches, the "F & S Homes." The only thing I can figure is that they couldn't decide out how to develop this little semi-circle of land, and thought they would be "magnanimous" and donate it to the city of Euclid. We never ever heard any official name for this piece of land, and so we (and everyone!) called it Mudville--for the astonishing quantities of mud that covered part of the area.

I would guess that from about 1955, when I was 7 years old, until my mid teens, I spent most of my life at Mudville playing baseball. Much of the time the baseball involved pick-up games, and for 3 years I played organized Midget League baseball. Later, I played softball with the Farringdon Avenue men's team--an incredible spirited kind of ball.

I played with some great players in Mudville and learned to play a very high quality, very competitive (and at times ferocious) brand of baseball. Some of the great athletes I remember include the following: Tony Severino (for 25 years the head football coach at Rockhurst High School, the Jesuit Prep School in Kansas City; Rockhurst was state champs in football last year). Tony was the best young hitter I had ever seen. As a 12 year old, he could hit the ball over the fence--sometimes hitting the roofs of homes on Willow Drive. Tony was a dark-skinned, tall Italian. I'm pretty sure that Italian was spoken at his home on Briardale Avenue. Tony went to Cathedral Latin High School from St. William's and starred in many sports. He eventually got a football scholarship to Kansas State University, and afterwards made a career as a high school teacher and coach. I remember Tony vividly, admired his athletic skill tremendously.
[more coming very soon]

May 20th, 1956: First Communion

On my wedding day, I told Linda, "This is the second happiest day of my life!" Linda was a bit startled by that remark, to say the least. "What was the happiest?" she asked.

The happiest day of my life was my First Holy Communion, which took place at St. William's Church, Euclid, Ohio, on May 20th, 1956. I was at the end of second grade. We had huge classes at St. William's, almost 60 kids per class. There were two second-grade classes at St. William's and probably another 100 kids from Upson School, the nearby public school, all making their First Communion that day. The boys and the girls were in line separately, and since I was one of the shorter boys, I was near the front, fourth in line. Randy Wohlgemuth was my partner that day. The boys were dressed very smartly, but nothing like the girls. They were dressed in beautiful white gowns, with white veils, and white gloves on their hands. They looked like little brides.

I think Sister Ruth Marie Behrend and probably my second grade teacher, Mrs. Bartrum, among others, helped prepare us for First Communion. And an entire convent of Ursuline nuns prayed that we would have a fine May day for the event. My cousin Tommy Fitzpatrick also made his First Communion that day at St. William's (Tommy would die in another springtime, thirteen years later and 12,000 miles away in Vietnam).

Father John Flemming celebrated the mass (the ancient and beautiful Tridentine Mass, almost totally in Latin). At the Preface, he sang out, in Gregorian Chant, the ancient prayers: "Per omnia saecula saeculorum . . . . Dominus vobiscum." And then proceeded with the Preface chanted in Fr. Flemming's beautiful Irish tenor. A little later, Fr. Flemming sang the Pater Noster and then moved on to the "Domine non sum dignus . . . ." and we would strike our breast as we said, "O Lord I am not worthy," three times, in Latin. And then it was time. Lines of boys on the rights side of the church and girls on the left proceeded to the communion rail. And Fr. Flemming proceeded to give us the transformed bread, the Body of Chirst, as we stuck out our tongues, the golden patent placed under our chins by the altar boy, and a sentence of Latin spoken very quickly by the priest.

I was in stark terror as I awaited the reception of the Creator of the Universe. My heartbeat was surely visible through my white shirt. My hands sweated. I was almost swooning from vertigo. And then the host was on my tongue. Following Sr. Ruth Marie's instructions, I silently said, "My Lord and My God," then proceeded back to my pew. I closed my eyes as I knelt down and wept for this wondrous gift.


My First Communion took place 10 days after the birth of my brother, Kevin Gerard. That middle name came from the patron saint of difficult births (and difficult kids!). Kev almost spoiled my First Communion party by being the star of the show! But we still had a great time. All the neighbors, aunts, uncles, and cousins were there. Denny and Mary Ellen were there (only Jimmy didn't show up! He was born a couple years later). My Gramma and Grampa Coughlin were there. The grownups drank beer, laughed, and told stories, and we kids drank "Little Toms" and played tag, keep-away, and baseball--a perfect party in Euclid in the halcyon days of being a kid!

And that was the happiest day of my life!

New Poem about Euclid in the Spring

Euclid in Late April

I walk down this humble street in Euclid,
“Sycamore Street,” not a sycamore in sight--
(Every tree cut down here in ‘51
Only to build a neighborhood of streets named after trees).

Dozens of crabapple trees
Planted by people long gone
Shade the sidewalk,
White, pink, and red blooms:

The wind blows a shower of petals down on me,

Perfectly gratuitous grace.

(Robert M. Coughlin
April 23, 2008)

Tommy Fitzpatrick, Died in Vietnam April 18, 1969

[Tommy is shirtless, on left, standing on the armored vehicle]

[In the photo at the top of the page, Tommy is standing in the center, flanked by 2 of his army buddies]

Thomas Michael Fitzpatrick, my cousin, was killed near Long Binh, Vietnam on April 18, 1969. He was only 21 years old. We still think of him often and still miss him. We thought of him last month at the funeral for his sister-in-law, Mary Finnegan Fitzpatrick (Mary was the widow of Tommy's oldest brother Jack).

Tommy was born on December 18, 1947, the youngest child of Albert and Catherine Fitzpatrick. Al and Catherine has three other children: Jack, Jerry, and Sheila. When we were growing up, Tommy lived on Shoreview in Euclid, Ohio, across from Upson School. When he was quite young, the family moved to Eastbrook Drive on the Euclid-Willowick border, about a block from Lake Erie. Tommy went to St. William's School. His dad, Al, was an engineer for the New York Central Railroad, and his mother, Catherine was at home. I believe Tommy started at St. Joesph High School and then transferred to Euclid High School, graduating in 1966 or '67. He was a bit of an Elvis, with his full lips, his intense eyes, and the wavy blond hair. Tom was also a fine football player and played at St. William's and at Euclid (and of course the playground tackle football that we all played).

Tommy was much beloved by his large extended Irish-American family--uncles, aunts, cousins, second-cousins, shirt-tail cousins, and by his many friends. It's odd that 39 years after his death he is still so missed. Maggie Brock, Ellen McHugh, and I have written poems about Tommy, and I'll post one or more of those below:

"Tommy"

(A poem for Tommy Fitzpatrick, killed in Vietnam April 1969)

I have run hard & straight
into the black break-
wall of memory. I have
crouched before it & once
when we were young, when we
were given the earth, handed
the world & now at this wall, Tommy,
I still remember you, fearless
in water, out in the deep, over
the waves, where I said
I couldn't swim, but you
believed otherwise —& you
were twenty-one in Vietnam’s
trash heap of beauty
when they killed you
on some river the day
after you arrived, when
you could have gone
on loving. You did
love & later
what was lost
that beautiful May
Monday in Ohio when
guardsmen, no older than
you, stood on the edge
of the green looking
up toward the sound
of helicopters whirring
low, over a field of dust
& flowers, everything
we would come to say
it was: a hell and not
spring—maybe it is
never spring. Yet
sometimes in summer
I dream of you
diving through
the break wall blue-
green Erie waves –-& now
I can swim, but
the waves are wild &
they carry me
away from you
toward shore, to safe
shallows & endless
sand.

(Ellen McHugh, based on Maggie Brock's writings)

"Tommy, we hardly knew ye." But we honor your life, your courage, your great sacrifice.

40 years Ago Today: April 4, 1968, MLK RIP

My roommate Brian Wilson and I got on a ferry boat at Piraeus, Greece, just outside of Athens the evening of April 4, 1968. We hadn't seen a newspaper in days and were far from any televisions or radios--blissfully cut off from the Vietnam slaughters and the American race wars. The ferry was heading overnight to Iraklion, a city on the northern coast of the island of Crete. It was a very crowded boat, not luxurious in any way (and that was fine with us). Overnight some of the Cretans were playing a wild music on some sort of folk instrument played with a bow. Brian Wilson met a girl on the boat from Eastlake, Ohio, a Cleveland suburb just miles from my home in Euclid. I actually knew some of her relatives and had shopped in her family's little clothing store in Euclid. A young mother in my quarters pulled out her breast in public and began nursing her baby. I was astonished beyond belief, never having seen anything like that back home. I slept a little that night in the crazy cacophony, in a setting where Zorba the Greek would have felt quite at home.

In the morning we arrived at port in Iraklion. We hitched a short ride up a hill on the back of a moped and then began walking. We had only a vague clue where we were headed. Somewhere we had heard a vague rumor about a place on the south central coast of the island where we could live free in caves. The place was called Matala, so we decided to head there. When we got out of Iraklion, we began hitchhiking. Unfortunately for us, there were hardly any cars at all on the roads. Finally a truck came by carrying a full load of gravel and stopped. I hopped in the cab, but there wasn't room for Brian and his guitar. The driver signalled for Brian to get up on the load of gravel, which he did. We began driving over the incredibly bad roads of Crete, occasionally passing by areas where the road had been utterly ruined by earthquakes. I passed the time trying to talk to the driver. I only knew a few words and phrases of Greek, but I discovered he spoke some German--apparently useful in Greece during the World War II era. And that's when he told me: that Martin Luther King had been murdered. His German was shaky enough that I wasn't sure exactly what he was telling me: that the king was dead, was shot. The driver was deadly serious about this and he certainly communicated to me that something very serious, very terrible, had happened.

We had a few more rides that day and walked a great deal. We walked right past one of the most historic archaeological sites in the world: "Phaistos," an ancient civilization, almost a birthplace of the world I lived in. The final 10 miles or so of our journey was on foot. There were no cars, no buses, and very primitive roads to Matala. I do remember one beautiful moment. A Greek man noticed Brian's guitar and invited us into his home. He spoke a little English and introduced us to his family, told us of relatives in America. He brought out his pride and joy, a magnificent bouzouki, one that must have cost him a year's wages, and played it for us. I took a photo of that scene, inside this Cretan house, the man holding his bouzouki, his wife and children by his side. About 4000 miles away in America, all hell had broken loose. The grim tide of blood and chaos that WB Yeats had spoken of had been unloosed. Evil and hatred had its day in America, while Brian and I were so blessed by this man and his family in Crete.

Mary Fitzpatrick, RIP

Yesterday I attended the funeral mass for Mary Fitzpatrick, nee Mary Finnegan. Mary suffered one of the worst blows imaginable on December 21, 1971, when her husband Jack was murdered in cold blood while standing in line at Higbees with three of his children as they waited to see Santa Claus. Mary, seven months pregnant with her fifth child, was shopping nearby with her oldest daughter Sharon when the tragedy happened. The real story of Mary's life was not the murder, as spectacular as it was. It was her triumph over tragedy as she recovered from this blow and went on to raise five wonderful children--bringing together her large extended family, friends, and the community of Euclid, Ohio. Mary died on March 19th in her Euclid home, surrounded by her family.

I will talk about the beautiful funeral at another time. But for now I want to share a poem I wrote about Mary about a week or so before her death:

No Whining: Mary Fitzpatrick

Who has been stronger than you, Mary,
Who has suffered more?

And through it all, there’s no whining, no self-pity—
A lesson learned from your Irish mother.

When your husband Jack was murdered
Right there in Higbees, waiting with three of the kids,
Waiting to see Santa Claus,

And you, pregnant with Tommy, shopping nearby
With Sharon, your oldest daughter—

The stunning viciousness that life can turn!
I remember the awful keening at the funeral at St. William’s,
The astonished family burying Jack at All Souls on Christmas Eve.

And then you healed,
helped by family and friends.
Al and Catherine practically gave you their house on Eastbrook.
And baby Tommy was born, named after his uncle, fallen in Vietnam.

You raise five children by yourself—with the help of a village,
Some heroes who will never be named, a loving family,
The Irish-American Club of Euclid.

You form the St. William’s Bereavement Ministry—
Who has known more about bereavement? Who has learned more about Grace?
You dance on Wednesday night with dear friends at the Irish-American Club—

You create a wonderful life from the terrible ashes.

Now, in your illness, you still smile, you still don’t whine,
You still witness to the Victory and Grace
and the Victory

Of love.