A repost from a couple of years ago -
This is a real American story about a true American idol. It's also a story about home-town America, which is, sadly, a disappearing way of true community life.
I met with an 83 year-old fellow the other day for a consultation. He was recovering from a heart attack from which he almost died ("I thought it was just a bad stomach ache but my wife didn't like the way I was sweating.") and a stent.
His cardiologist felt he was depressed, as often happens after serious cardiac events, especially with men.
He told me a little story, but first, a bit about him: Irish, retired policeman, living with his frail wife (a retired book-keeper) in the Boston suburb where he was born - same neighborhood and across the street from the house he grew up in (remembers horse-drawn fire engines down the block); daily Mass; in the church choir ("We sang at the Vatican in 1972 and we are proud of that."); plays trombone ("poorly") in his firehouse marching band; five attentive, devoted kids and 14 grandkids within twenty miles; does every charity thing he can find including Meals on Wheels (even though "I think I am older than most of the people I deliver to"); belongs to his local Vets organization; a WW2 Vet - a gunner in a B-26 Martin Marauder with the 320th Bomber Group of the 12th (Army) Air Force, in Italy: "When flak hit the airplane, it sounded like somebody shaking a bucket of gravel."
Says "We weren't scared. We already knew we would die in this war to save Europe, and we were sort of OK with that, but we were damn well gonna get all of the bad guys we could, first. Heck, we were just kids, looking back now, and full of beans and bacon."
His story: "I was at a wake of a friend a few weeks, ago, drinking and partying of course, and up comes somebody I knew from second grade at St. Anthony's. He says "You need to join our lunch group. We meet once a month at .... restaurant in the back room." I felt flattered to be invited, so I went. My God, I met folks I hadn't seen in years, all from the same home neighborhood - the --th Ward. About 25 guys, retired doctors, teachers, lawyers, mailmen, firemen, mostly moved out of my home parish but all still in town. Somehow lost track of them. A great joy, since so many friends still in my neighborhood have died. We took about 15 minutes to eat, and talked for two hours and had a few beers. I almost said we should meet once a week, but it wasn't my place as a newcomer. I need to stay active, Doctor, because my wife needs me. Doc, life is good, and I'd like to make a few more of these lunches before the good Lord takes me."
God Bless America. And God bless him. No, he did not need me as a shrink: I need some more of what he's got: the true American spirit. One secret: we psychiatrists are more blessed by what we get from our patients than by what we have to give.
Details altered just barely enough for confidentiality (not that he would mind, but he would be embarassed by admiration and attention) - but not the 320th BG - that is accurate.