"How Did I Get Here?"

In the car, driving on Tyson Avenue, coming back from the doctor.

 "How did I get here?" Dad asked.

 "Where? Tyson Avenue? I didn't want to take Bustleton the whole way," I said.

"No, to this place I'm at," Dad said.

 Ah, a more existential "How did I get here," coupled with memory loss. He meant how did he wind up in an assisted living home.

 "Well, you were having trouble with the steps in your house. You kept winding up in the hospital for your tube and bag (catheter). You fell down the steps. You weren't eating right. And you didn't like being alone," I answered.

 I left out the part about him being robbed in the middle of the night.

"Oh, I see," he said.

 "You were very stubborn," I told him. "You didn't want to leave your house. You told me 'They are gonna have to carry me out of here!'"

 "I did?" he asked.

 "Oh yes," I said. "You did. But you like where you are. You like your room and TV and the meals and the nurses."

 "That's true," he said.

 "It was just hard getting you there," I said.

 "I am sorry about all that," Dad said. "I'll remember you in heaven," he joked.

"That's good, Dad, but while you are up there, send me some winning lottery numbers, too," I said. "That would be a bigger help."

"I'll see what I can do," Dad said.

My Ash Wednesday Burger Protest

I wrote this in 2011 and it still applies in 2012. This morning, I ate turkey sausage.
     KQ       2/22/12
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I ate meat yesterday. I was raised Catholic and knew it was Ash Wednesday but I willingly and defiantly pulled up to the Wendy's drive-thru and ordered a Junior Bacon Cheeseburger. It was delicious and according to the Church, it was a sin.

I knew that and didn't care. Here was my reasoning: If dozens of priests in the Philadelphia Archdiocese can't keep their hands off the private parts of children and teens, and Church leaders protect priests over children, then I am going to eat a damn hamburger.

There I said a curse. Another sin. You know what else is a sin? Priests in a position of power taking sexual advantage of children. It is wrong and it is evil. I know that. The priests know that. Millions of Catholic all over the world know that.

The Archdiocese SHOULD know that. But if they do, why did it take so long for them to respond to these allegations? Why did it take years of abuse claims, investigations and two scathing Grand Jury reports before 21 additional priests were removed from public service this week.

On the TV news last night, I heard a nun say the discipline of the 21 priests "was a persecution of priests." HA! Persecution is what thousands of abused children went through for years, when no one heard their cries and no one stopped the abuse.

I realize my hamburger protest is small and silly. I definitely do NOT think I am going to hell for eating meat. But it is perhaps the first time in my life that I have willingly broken Lenten tradition, even if I haven't been devout in years. But it is my small protest, my personal rebellion against a screwed up Philadelphia patriarchy.

I was raised Catholic in Northeast Philadelphia and attended 16 years of Catholic school. Aside from the folksy "guitar Masses" in the 1970s, I never really experienced a deep sense of love or peace in my parish church or school. Instead, the priests (with the exception of one, who later left the Church) were stern and severe. Confession was intimidating. There were no Saturday night Masses in Philadelphia because it was "wrong." We didn't know why. Masturbation was wrong. Premarital sex was wrong. Heck, mostly everything was wrong.

In religion class, we learned that Hell was painful because we would be on fire for eternity. We were taught that our souls were like white paper dolls and when we sinned, God took a hole punch and left a black mark. Really, teachers? REALLY? Yes.

In my parish grade school, the slow learners were placed in "F" level - "F" for failure. Looking back, I am sure most of those students probably had learning disabilities. But I don't think they were ever helped.

But I kept my faith for two reasons. For one, the two priests in my family - my uncle, Father Jack Quigley of Kansas was a good and kind man. So is my cousin, Father Leon Hutton of California. My high school was St. Basil Academy of Fox Chase, Pa. run by an order of Ukrainian nuns who love their students with all their hearts and each day demonstrate the goodness of Jesus.

I went to Villanova University on as scholarship (not my first choice - I wanted to go to secular Swarthmore). At Villanova, I found a progressive and caring community where Mass was one of the highlights of the week and many students worked for peace and justice. But Villanova is run by Augustinian brother, not the Archdiocese and I bet that made all the difference.

During my years living as a reporter across the country, I found welcoming parishes such as St. Patrick's in Fayetteville, N.C. and St. Juliana's in West Palm Beach, Fl.

Now I live in South Jersey, where I went to a parish church that felt like home. Well, it did until the Bishop of Camden closed my parish. Now I struggle to reconcile my deep doubts about the Catholic Church with how I want to raise my son. I consider becoming an Episcopalian, where women can be priests and priests can marry. Or a Unitarian, since they seem to welcome everyone and judge no one.

How am I supposed to tell my young son that he needs to follow Church law when many of its priests - God's Representatives on Earth - can't keep their hands to themselves? And Church leaders cover it up.

I don't know the answer. But I do know I am eating meat all throughout Lent.

Rick Springfield and me in a riot

     Call me Jessie's Girl. My love for 1980s pop star Rick Springfield goes back to my grade school days growing up in the Tacony section of Northeast Philadelphia. In the early 1980s, Springfield appeared as Dr. Noah Drake on the wildly popular soap opera "General Hospital." I was hooked. To heck with Luke and Laura. My 14-year-old brain knew a hunk when I saw him.

     I also knew a riot when I saw one. Or as much of a riot as pre-teenage girls can cause. I got caught in one at the Roosevelt Mall on June 30, 1981 when Springfield was supposed to sign autographs and meet fans at the Sam Goody store as part of a promotion with WIFI-FM radio. Twenty-six years later, the memory is still vivid.

  Rick Springfield appearing at "our mall" was a huge deal for my friends Karen, Anne and Patty. We just graduated from St. Timothy's grade school and were spending our summer watching "General Hospital" and hanging out at the Roosevelt Mall. We browsed at John Wanamaker's department store, poked around Marlo Books and bought clothes at Famous Maid. The mall was our second home.

     The thought of Springfield - hunky Dr. Drake - in OUR MALL was almost too much for us to bear. Springfield was supposed to show up at the Sam Goody at 11 a.m. to promote his hit single, "Jessie's Girl." Anne and I met on Magee Avenue and walked to Brous Avenue to meet Patty and Karen. Onward to the mall.

     A massive crowd awaited us. Hundreds, no THOUSANDS of pre-teen girls like us, plus teenagers too. We wove our way over to the Sam Goody store and got in the line.

     Where was Rick Springfield? We started getting antsy, hot and tired. It was time for a Coke and a pretzel. But first, we would meet our beloved Rick. I believed I WOULD get to meet him. After all, I had met the guy who played Bo Duke from the "Dukes of Hazzard" at the car show a couple months before and had the photos to prove it.

     Suddenly, the crowd starting swaying and moving towards the record store. CRASH!! The entire plate glass window in the front of the store shattered into a million pieces. We screamed.

     I don't remember if we ran from the store or just figured, "Heck, now we are closer to Rick Springfield!" But they didn't let us in the record store. Picture a crowd of teenage girls denied their idol. We were not happy. I don't remember anyone throwing anything or hitting each other, but there was pushing, whining and yelling.

     The next thing I remember is standing in the parking lot and watching a police car speed by. Inside was Springfield, his hands covering his head, which was down in his lap. They had to take him out in a police car because the cops were afraid we would maul him. And we might have, if I had known what "maul" meant when I was 12. We ran after the car for a bit, but no luck. It kept going.

     All these years later, my love for Springfield continues. In 2001, I saw him perform at the MGM Grand Hotel in Las Vegas. For one brief moment, our eyes locked as he walked by me, carrying his guitar. I wanted to yell, "Rick! I helped shove in a plate glass window for you!" But I thought his memories of that incident may not be as fond as mine.

     Not long ago, I got to see him perform at the Keswick Theater in Glenside. He is in his 50s now but still has that penetrating stare and cute butt. He is still a hunk.

     Best of all, he is now back on "General Hosptial." I started watching the show again in 2005, when the character of Dr. Noah Drake returned as a way to introduce his equally-hunky son, Dr. Patrick Drake. This month, Springield is playing TWO characters on the show - Dr. Drake and rocker Eli Love. How is this possible? Who cares. It is a soap opera.

     And 26 years later, I am still a fan and would still chase Springfield through a mall parking lot. But I would probably have to stop and rest along the way.