My mother was a complex person who loved her family. We were seven, four girls and three boys. Each one of us called her “My Mother.” All of her grandchildren called her “Ma”; she adored them.
Myra, Jo, Ma, Mike, Norma, Lynda and George
By the time I was eight years old, our parent’s marriage unraveled. Once our father was out of the picture, our Mom became our rock. She used everything in her being to make sure we grew up to be good honorable Christians. I can remember coming home from school to homemade flour tortillas, which we would load up with butter and eat as many as four in one sitting.
Rocky, Gina, Ma, Frank, Nick, (back roll) Leah, Torie, Mikos, Alex, Robert, Nick, Steven, Maggie and Sonja (some of my moms grandchildren)
She loved to read and she always kept up with politics. It was later in life that she received her GED, which was a huge accomplishment because she had only completed 7th grade. She was a die-hard Democrat and loved the Kennedys. I once took her to a rally for Robert Kennedy and I watched her as countenance change to that of great joy. I remembered a photographer capturing what I witnessed and could not stop taking pictures of her enamored expression. A picture of President Kennedy was showcased on the main shelf of our living room.
Our Mother was funny (I got my sence of humor from her). We always got the giggles at funerals, especially when going up to the casket. This still happens to my sister and me, I realize how morbidly wrong this is but we can’t help it.
Once when my Dad was in the hospital, my Mother asked me to take her to see him. My father was comatose when we walked in. Suddenly I heard my Mom say, “I want to hit him!” I could not believe my ears but then she said it again. ” I just want to hit him!” I told her, “Go ahead, Mom; no one will know.” We started laughing and of course she never did hit him. As a matter of fact, she taught us to love our father. She never spoke an unkind word about him, and would not allow us to say anything mean-spirited about him. This was a powerful lesson of love for us and I never had ill feeling for my Dad.
Our mother made sure we received our Sacraments as Catholics. She never learned to drive and we lived out in out in the sticks, so going to church on a regular basis was a challenge.We took taxis everywhere, to visit our cousins, to go grocery shopping, and to doctor’s appointment. We were the original Uber family.
Our mother taught us to become strong Christians and emphasized the importance of family. We still are all very close because she made sure we got over our differences by calling us out when we were in the wrong.
My mother never got over the fact that I became a Republican, and that caused a lot of heated debates. I remained steadfast as she stood her ground, using our heritage to try to persuade me. It did not work.
When our mother became dependent on others, my sister Norma took over the role of her caregiver, Norma cared for her lovingly. A few weeks before she went home to be with the Lord, she had a heart- to-heart talk with me. “I don’t want to die in the house.” “Ok,” I said, and then she added, “I don’t want to die in the hospital either.” I gave her a puzzled look and asked her, “Well where do you want to die?” She answered, “Not in those two places.” My mother died in an ambulance on the way to the hospital.
Our mother buried two of her children: our oldest brother Robert, who died at age 33, and our sister Myra who died five months before my mother. She is survived by son George, his wife Mary, son Mike, daughters Jo and Lynda and Mike Lynda’s husband, and daughter Norma. She has left a legacy of 17 grandchildren and 25 great-grandchildren.
John, Gary, Me, Dillian, Jane and Robert…The Team having lunch at Paul’s Kitchen
I have in the past mentioned our friend Carlos, who is a staple on Skid Row. Carlos has been and will always be our ally. As soon as I exited the vehicle there were signs that our friend had fallen hard off the wagon. Carlos was reaching two years of sobriety, but it was evident that he was not in good shape. As the friendly, loving Carlos was swallowed up by a negative alcoholic spirit, it was heartbreaking to witness his suffering. According to the statistics from the Centers of Disease Control, the probability of a relapse is 40 to 90%. I would image that the numbers on Skid Row are closer to the latter.
Our service to the homeless was powerful. As we arrived the rain was gently falling, thus creating a slippery, muddy, messy sidewalk. I never realized how poorly the streets on Skid Row are maintained. Part of the problem is that the permanent tents in the area impede any upkeep that the city can provide.
We have a positive rapport on Skid Row so many of the regulars recognize us and are receptive of our ministry. Some of the homeless keep their area tidy but others are not as considerate thus breeding an epidemic of flies. Once you get through all the obstacles and start praying for people, all these outside distractions and bad scents disappear.
We met Yolanda, an attractive young lady in her mid-twenties; she explained that she was just released from prison. She was honest, and received prayer in a humble and loving manner. Good looking women are always surrounded by men and she had three men bidding for her attention. I prayed for her to find her way out of this situation and for her to find housing.
We made our way to the Cuban section and the people were as usual, kind and receptive to prayer. The Cubans are homeless due to their excessive drinking and smoking pot, but they do not get into meth or other hardcore drugs. They seem to be less violent, and stick to each other for protection.
We came across about seven sweet teenage girls standing in a tight row and handing out water. Some of them seemed displaced, but the fact that they were there to minister was a testament to their bravery. As we passed the girls, we met and prayed for many, with one man very excited to announce the birth of two kittens. His face beamed with great joy as he held out a one week-old-kitten. This new life gave him a sense of purpose and responsibility.
Jane, Robert and John’s praying circleSkid Row tents and street debris
In front of the Midnight Mission I came across a young girl, whose beautiful black eyes spoke of deep hurt and pain. She did not want prayer, and could not even verbalize the response. She simply shook her head with a no. Whatever she was harboring was more than her spirit could bear. She broke my heart. As we walked ahead, part of the team stayed to pray for others. The Spirit of the Lord was moving so powerfully on Jane, Robert and John that from a distance I knew they were touching the hearts of many. Gary and I waited for the team at the corner while witnessing to our youngest volunteer, Dillian. Earlier Dillian had mentioned that he needed scientific proof of God’s existence. He got a view of both God and Satan in a few hours for good and evil manifested on Skid Row. Dillian has a special calling to the poor, and God will continue to tug at his heart until he is yielded to the call.
Whatever the homeless do not use it ends up on the street. It is a monumental task for the city to keep up with the debris of the homeless. The task force of volunteers work tirelessly cleaning up the mess.
We had lunch at Paul’s Kitchen, which our family has frequented it for over 35 years. This restaurant has the best Chinese food in L.A. and is located a stone’s away from Skid Row.
My Prayer:
Dear Heavenly Father, every person we encountered on Skid Row has a purpose in life. Lord, as we plant the small seed of love, I ask that you would cultivate and nurture your people. Let them hear your still, small voice in this chaos. Move mightily and speedily in their lives, give them dreams, and allow them to experience the presence of angels. Dear Lord, protect them from the elements, the cold, the rain, and the sun, and always provide food and water for them. Put it on the hearts of their loved ones to intercede on their behalf and offer them tangible help. Open the floodgates from heaven for those who are looking for housing. For those who have lost all hope, Dear God, I pray for restoration of their spirits. Please Lord, be with them, especially when they cry out to you. For Carlos, Lord, you know his heart’s intention; help him to dust himself off, and lead him to the road of recovery. Thank you for using us this day, Father, and allowing us to serve you. Amen
A cat was always around for as long as memory goes back. But of all the cats from those childhood days, one stands out above the rest — Psych. Short for Psycho. And he earned it.
Psych was wild. He attacked without warning, drew blood without remorse, and seemed to enjoy every second of it.
One afternoon we walked a few blocks to a nearby baseball field to play. Psych followed. An open field offers no refuge when a cat is hunting, and that’s exactly what he was doing. He chased us down, one by one, biting and scratching until he was satisfied. My sister Norma’s friend Jackie was with us that day, and she got the worst of it. That was Psych’s idea of playing — all fun and games until something darker took over.
Jackie ended up at the doctor’s office and never quite got over her fear of him. We, on the other hand, loved Psych anyway and kept taking the abuse.
One night he was crying outside the bedroom window, so we snuck him in — knowing full well it was forbidden. He repaid us immediately. Silently. All we could do was cover our faces and try not to make a sound. That night taught what it means to scream silently. Jo, Norma and I took turns peeking out from under the covers to track him, three kids held prisoner by a nine-pound beast. By morning, when Psych had finally worn himself out, the damage was done — arms scratched, dignity questionable, but somehow the love for that cat still intact.
Toby
Toby
Toby was my son Mikos’ cat. He moved with us from Santa Barbara to Whittier, to the Valley, and finally to Orange, where we call home today. Mikos loved that cat.
We were planning a short weekend getaway to San Diego. As I pulled into the driveway, Toby caught my eye. I figured he’d run out of the way — they always do. But for some reason he ran toward the car instead. I had no idea what happened until I noticed Toby in the bushes, shaking his head. When he turned, half of his face was gone.
I called Mike screaming — “I ran over Toby’s face!” Mike rushed home and we scrambled to find Toby before Mikos got home from school.
Mikos found him first. We rushed Toby to the vet and were told he needed reconstructive surgery and would be on pain medication for the rest of his life. The rest of his life ended that day.
Blanca
Blanca was our next cat, but she had a habit — urinating in shoes. Most unpleasant doesn’t quite cover it.
Once, Mike was getting ready for a trip and pulled out his suitcase. Blanca had gotten to it first. I remembered reading that baking soda would clean it up and kill the smell. What a mess that turned out to be. Mike’s black suitcase was now covered in white powder — and still smelled like cat urine.
Barney Bernard
Barney Bernard Ciriza was one of my favorite cats. Mike, however, had major issues with him — and for good reason. Barney Bernard sprayed everywhere and eventually lost his indoor privileges entirely.
One evening Mike and I were on our way to a party when I asked him to stop at the store so I could pick out a birthday card. When I got back to the car, Mike was shirtless. I didn’t know what to think, so I said nothing. Then he asked, “Do you know why I’m not wearing a shirt?” I answered, “No, not really.” He said, “Because the cat pissed on my shirt.” Needless to say, we were late for the party.
Then there was Halloween night. Some amateur Satanists failed at an attempted animal sacrifice. Barney Bernard came home with his chest torn open about four inches. The vet stitched him up and sent him home. Barney Bernard being Barney Bernard, he survived.
He didn’t survive what came next. Barney Bernard died on the same day Mikos graduated from college. Our friends from Colorado were in town and fed him tripas — Spanish for cow guts. He fell victim to a coyote not long after, and the thought still lingers that the smell of those tripas got my cat killed. I cried for days.
Mookie Mariano
Shortly after Barney Bernard’s death, Mike and I went to a pet store and came home with Mookie Mariano. Mookie loved us and showed it in his own way — birds, rats, and rabbits, delivered with great pride.
He was the smartest of all our cats and had one rule: entry through the upstairs bathroom window only. Late one night, half asleep, I heard him crying outside and let him in without thinking. He walked in carrying a rat the size of a small country. We cleared out of the room so Mike could set up traps. For three days that rodent ate carefully around every single one of them.
I finally posed the question to Mike — “What if the rat is pregnant?” That did it. Mike went upstairs to take matters into his own hands. For about fifteen minutes I heard slamming and banging. He finally came back downstairs, proud as a man could be, prize catch in hand.
After fourteen years, we had to put Mookie down. He had developed an abscess that made eating too painful. The vet prescribed medication, but Mookie refused to take it. The abscess won.
The day I took him in to be euthanized, I was in tears. I looked at him and said, “Mookie, you were a great cat.” He looked back at me, and I know — if that cat could talk — I would have heard, “Was?”
That day I made a decision. Every cat from that point on would be an indoor pet.
Maxine Mew
For years we shared our home with two cats, both belonging to our daughter Sonja. How they ended up permanently with us is no mystery to anyone who knows how these things go.
Maxine, the pesky one, was Sonja’s college cat. When Sonja moved back home for a season, Maxine simply stayed. She was nineteen years old and suffered from a peculiar contradiction — devouring her food only to lose it all moments later. She was not a spiritual creature, and when her time finally came, she would most likely spend the rest of eternity in purgatory.
Prudence, Prudie, Prudencia
Prudence
Prudence (Prudie for short) is the cool cat. Unlike Maxine, she requires no tender loving care and wants none offered.
The first meeting came while Sonja and Russ were on their honeymoon — someone had to feed their cats, and somehow that someone was me. Prudence introduced herself with a slap to the face. When picked up for a cuddle, she immediately lined up round two. This cat had been rescued from the alleys of Costa Mesa and came with the attitude to prove it. Having to fend for herself left marks — not just on her, but apparently on anyone who got too close too soon.
Since our yellow lab Shadrach’s passing, Prudence has had the run of the backyard. She loves to step outside for a few minutes, then comes running back in to use her litter box. Considerate, in her own way. Back at Sonja and Russ’s, Prudence had been making life miserable for their other cat, Cleo — daily, without apology. That is how Prudence came to live with us.
Mike is not a cat person. We have three litter boxes and share the cleaning between us, which says everything about the compromises love requires. Cats may appear well-groomed, but they leave fur and hairballs everywhere. They jump on the tables we eat from. They barf on clean bedding. And their most offensive act — leaving their business just inches from the litter box, as if the extra step was simply too much to ask.
Cats are not mentioned in the Bible, but they were created by God. And like most things God allows into our lives, they exist to teach us something. In this case, the lesson is clear: they are the boss.
Prudie’s Age
Prudie’s age is a mystery. She could be as old as twenty-three — in cat years, that is over 102. A few years ago, a prayer went up that Prudie would live another five years. For those who doubt the power of prayer, Prudie is making a strong case for the other side.
A Prayer for Prudie
Lord, thank You for Prudie. She is lovingly cared for. May all cat owners be loving and responsible caregivers to their pets. Amen.
