When God created Planet Earth, He placed upon it a rich bounty of food products designed to nourish mankind and enhance his health.  As man progressed, he began to understand the healthful properties of certain foods, many of which warded off disease.  In capitalizing upon this knowledge, medical science was born.

The more that man evolved, however, the farther away he moved from the simplicity and benefits of God’s natural gifts.  Huge pharmaceutical companies now produce mass quantities of medicine in manufacturing plants; they sell that medicine for very handsome profits to an economically burdened consumer base.  If you are one of those so burdened and/or if you prefer your drugs organic, read on.  You’re about to be educated with respect to one of God’s marvels: the onion.

A member of the lily family, the onion is a vegetable.  Unlike the tomato, the onion does not form from a flower; unlike many other vegetables, the main part of the onion — the bulb — grows beneath the ground.  This is why it is known as a “root vegetable.”  The things that make you cry when you slice into an onion, the things that render your breath pungent when you eat it are tip-offs to the onion’s powerhouse of remedies.

This vegetable contains a generous supply of a flavonoid known as quercetin.  When ingested, quercertin protects against cataracts, cancer, and cardiovascular disease.  The onion is packed with a variety of natural chemicals called organosulphur compounds, which studies have linked to lower levels of cholesterol and blood pressure.  As an added boon, the vegetable stimulates the human immune system. And, as they say in infomercials, “Wait, there’s more!”  In addition to its flesh, the oil of the onion is a virtual drugstore.  The oil is used as an expectorant, an antiseptic, an antifungal, and an anticoagulant with analgesic (pain-deadening) properties.

Herbalists employ the wondrous onion to relieve or cure infections that attack the bronchial and gastrointestinal parts of the body.  This Superman of veggies emerges the victor when battling colds, flu, congestion, and stomachaches.   Applied to the skin as a compress, the onion also helps to eradicate acne and ease arthritis.

A recent circulating email carried testimonials from people who had claimed to contain illness within their homes via the miraculous onion.  By staying behind closed doors with cut onions placed behind those doors, these folks were said to remain free of the infections suffered by other members of their families.  When I was a child, my mother would cut a raw onion and place it in the kitchen to absorb noxious odors.  Perhaps the onion works the same way in attracting and quarantining inimical germs.

Aside from its medicinal advantages, onions greatly enhance our food.  Burgers, steak, chicken, pork, lamb, soups, stews, sauces, quiche, frittatas, and all manner of salads, including tuna salad, benefit from the sweet-savory flavor of onions.  Diogenes, the ancient Greek philosopher, searched in vain for an honest man.  But having made onions the main component of his diet, he’d found no issue with the integrity of those edible bulbs.

When eaten, the sulfur in onions causes unpleasant breath … which may have contributed to Diogenes’ hopeless search!  If you’ve not taken advantage of the onion’s pluses for that reason, follow these simple guidelines.   Brush not only your teeth after eating the bulbs, but your tongue, gums, and the interior of your cheeks (gently, please!).  Afterward, gargle for two full minutes with a mouthwash.  Then place the bristle end of your toothbrush into a small amount of mouthwash, for a few minutes, to cleanse it.

If you don’t have your toothbrush and mouthwash handy, chew on raw parsley; it neutralizes the onion’s aroma.  Or, make sure that your loved one(s) eat onions the same time that you do.  When you all smell alike, you won’t offend anyone! 

How many times in your life have you heard and dismissed the proverb, “The Lord will provide.”  Well, have faith: provide, He did.  He gave us the plentiful, versatile, healthy, tasty onion!   Bon appetit!

The legend of the New Jersey Devil just won’t go away. Unlike other ancient legends the winged and devilish monster has persisted in the consciousness of the state from the 1700’s right up until the modern day, with clear sighting still being reported. As Halloween approaches we thought it would be good to provide a spooky Halloween story for the children of New Jersey, so that they can keep their eyes open when they visit the woods.

The Pine Barrens

The south of the State of New Jersey contains a large undeveloped area of pine woodland called the Pine Barrens, which covers in excess of 1.1 million acres, or 4,500 km². There is said to be an eerie, unsettling feel to the woods, with people reporting a strong sensation of ‘being watched’ when exploring there. This primitive biological mechanism should not be dismissed. The feeling of being watched is a surprisingly accurate survival tool, developed over millennia. So just who or what may be spying on visitors to the Pine Barrens?

The Legend

According to oral tradition the legend begins in 1735, with a woman named Mother Leeds, so named because the shack where she lived was situated in the Leeds Point area of the Pine Barrens. Photos of Shroud House, where she lived, show a ramshackle building, in which the old lady brought up twelve children. Struggling to cope with the labor pains of the thirteenth child the story goes that she cursed it, crying “Let it be the devil!” The thirteenth child was then born as a hideous devil-shaped creature, with horns and wings, which attacked the attending midwives and flew up the chimney and into the night. Other versions of the story contradict this, saying that Mother Leeds kept the deformed thirteenth child in the cellar of the house, throwing meat down to keep it alive. One day she stopped feeding it, whereupon it transformed into the monster, escaped and terrorized local farms in search of food. Thus the legend, and the Jersey Devil, was born.

Theories About The Devil

Jersey Devil historians at The Devil Hunters website offer a number of suggestions and explanations for the legend of the creature. Some theorize that the legend arose due to a deformed child, born to an older woman. In the 1700’s, this would potentially have been seen as evidence of witchcraft, and it is possible that the child was hidden away from prying eyes from fear. As for the sightings, opinion is split. Could it merely be a misidentification of the Sandhill Crane, which has a wing span similar to that of the winged fiend, at between five and six feet? Some adhere to this theory, although the Jersey Devil has been known to attack and steal animals, which an herbivorous crane would not do. The reported sightings of the Devil also describe an animal far taller than the crane, which stands at 40-48 inches. Or is the monster a supernatural creature, a true demon, or a real life throwback, which has survived un-captured for centuries? Who knows. It has characteristics that certainly defy rational explanation, such as the ability to survive gunshots, and an unnatural ability to escape from impossible confines. Other paranormal phenomena have been reported simultaneously with Jersey Devil sightings, such as ghost like apparitions, which lends weight to a supernatural origin, if you are minded to believe in such things.

Some Famous Sightings

Mr. and Mrs. Nelson Evans had one of the longest sightings of the Jersey Devil near Gloucester City NJ, in January 1909, in a week where sightings peaked, causing widespread terror. The encounter was at 2:30 am, on January 19^th, when Mr. Evans was woken by a strange, strangled sounding noise. He and his wife watched the Jersey Devil standing on the roof of their shed for ten minutes. Mr. Evans is quoted as follows “It was about three feet and a half high, with a head like a collie dog and a face like a horse. It had a long neck, wings about two feet long, and its back legs were like those of a crane, and it had horse’s hooves. It walked on its back legs and held up two short front legs with paws on them. It didn’t use the front legs at all while we were watching” Around the same time a Mrs. Mary Sorbinski was witness to an attack by the Jersey Devil on her dog. Hearing a commotion she discovered a ‘horrible monster’ which had a hold of her pet. She beat it with a broom until it dropped the dog and flew off, uttering a terrible high-pitched scream. Most sightings include mention of a terrible screech, a tail, wings, hooves and claws. There are literally hundreds of reported sightings of the Jersey Devil, many quite detailed and made by credible witnesses. It is one of the reasons why the legend still grips the popular imagination. The Devil Hunters website charts sightings up to as recently as 2009. Could yours be the next?

Devil Hunting For Halloween!

If you want to go in search of the Jersey Devil yourself this Halloween, scan online for Tripbase flights, but take care in the Pine Barrens. Make sure you find out about the area before you set off, as it is easy to get lost in the vast area. Remember The Blair Witch Project? It’s a little like that in the woods. Make sure you have a cell phone with you in case of emergencies, or just so there’s a friendly voice if the feeling of being watched gets a bit too scary. If you want to find Shroud’s House, where Mother Leeds is supposed to have given birth to the creature, you may be out of luck. Whilst many attempts are made to track down the source of the legend, the property is in private hands now. It may be better to just wander in the pine forests nearby and see who – or what – you can find. One rumor is that if you say the Jersey Devil’s name three times he will appear. Jersey Devil, Jersey Devil, Jersey Dev…

Pine Barrens area:

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/1/16/Mullica_River_3.jpg/800px-Mullica_River_3.jpg

Eyewitness Drawing of Jersey Devil from Philadelphia Evening Bulletin, January 1909:

http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/13/Jersey_Devil_Philadelphia_Post_1909.jpg

Shroud House Image:

http://www.whitesquirrel.com/house.jpg

Rat Island is a two-and-a-half acre rock formation situated in Hudson Bay, near Pelham, New York (The Bronx).  As per American history, its origin dates back to 1654, when Thomas Pell purchased the land from the Siwanoys, one of seven Native American tribes that inhabited the area.  Of course, as far as the Siwanoys were concerned, the island’s history preceded the white man’s purchase.  Little is known about this tribe, except they that were notorious for selling unlivable land to the stupid Pilgrims.  Hence, in English, Siwanoy translates to “robber land barons.”

How the isle became known as Rat Island is undocumented.  Some sources claim that it became associated with prisoners — a.k.a. “rats” — escaping from the jail on nearby Hart Island.

In the 1800′s, the island earned the nickname “Pelham Pesthouse” for the typhoid fever victims quarantined there: a moniker that did nothing to dispel the association with vermin.  The island did not become part of New York City until 1888, when the metropolis began acquiring land to create Pelham Bay Park.

Although Rat Island was not inhabited by anyone other than escaping prisoners, a lone cottage foundation sits at its highest point; storm tides sometimes submerged the entire island.  No doubt the building was abandoned during its nascent construction for that very reason.  Far from the maddening crowds of the mainland, the island’s only attractions seemed to be peace and tranquility.  For a time, during mild weather, it had become a haunt for artists and writers as well as some fisherman.

Including Thomas Pell, the island has had four private owners, none of whom has been happy with it.  The latest and current owner is a now-retired marine contractor named Edmund Brennen who saw the property as a diamond in the rough.  In 1972, he paid the tax lien of $5,000 on the property.   It took more time and money to foreclose on the property, but finally, Brennen became the owner.

Given his line of business, he used the island to store his equipment and retrieve barges that had capsized because of the cargo contained in their tanks.  He brought the capsized barges to the island and removed the tanks, allowing the barges to drift freely on the high tides.

When the Army Corps of Engineers caught wind of this, they decreed that the drifting barges created a hazard to shipping vessels.  They ordered Brennen to dispose of the tanks on an artificial reef in Smithtown Bay.

After many years, Mr. Brennen retired to Florida.  But the Siwanoy curse still lingers over Rat Island in the form of taxes due.  Since then, the property has been placed into the hands of Brennen’s agents, realtors attempting to help him retrieve something of worth in this gasping-for-breath market.

Although Brennen was asking $300,000 for the island in 2009, New York City had valued it at approximately $426,000.  In September of 2011, Brennen conceded to a public auction.  His realtors hope that this move will encourage entrepreneurs with both money and imagination to invest in the future.  Mr. Brennen describes the public auction as Russian roulette, in that it will be quick and decisive.

In addition to the tidal flooding, Rat Island has other faults.  Chief among them is the lack of infrastructure (no electricity, no plumbing, and no sewer system).  It doesn’t even have a dock.   But it does have a few good qualities.  It is within swimming distance of trendy City Island.  Those who eschew a dip in the Hudson can take a five-minute boat ride there, provided by Barron’s Marine Service.  In clement weather, Rat Island also offers excellent views of Orchard Beach, New Rochelle, Long Island as well as Executive Rocks Lighthouse.

I am no expert in real estate, but in my opinion, a change of name might be prudent.  Who wants to buy an island whose name brings to mind nasty vermin?  If the name change fails to result in a sale, Mr. Brennen would do well to locate a living ancestor of the Siwanoy tribe to manage his real estate endeavors.  After all, there are still plenty of stupid Pilgrims still out there!

Hail to the Chief is a march played during Presidential appearances at public events as well as Congressional visits.  It is the formal, musical announcement that precedes the President of the United States of America.  As directed by the Department of Defense since 1954, the U. S. Marine Band or some other military ensemble performs the air, which is preceded by four ruffles and flourishes.

The song’s history dates back to Sir Walter Scott’s poem, Lady of the Lake, which he’d penned in the early 1800s.  Composed of four verses, in the original text, the relevant words from that poem are:

Hail to the chief, who in triumph advances.

Honour’d and blest be the evergreen pine!

Long may the tree in his banner that glances,

Flourish the shelter and grace of our line.

Heaven, send it happy dew,

Earth, lend it sap anew.

Gaily to bourgeon and broadly to grow;

While every highland glen,

Sends our shout agen,

Roderigh Vich Alpine Dhu, ho!-i-e- roe!

Circa 1812, James Sanderson, a songwriter, violinist, and conductor at the Surrey Theatre in London, England was inspired to set Scott’s words to music.  Later, The Lady of the Lake was made into a romantic melodramatic play sponsored by Martins and Reynolds in London.

On May 8, 1812, a version of this play opened in New York City.  It featured Hail to the Chief as a march and a chorus.  About the same time, the song was published in Philadelphia, thus affording it more popularity.

The song’s association with the Presidency occurred in 1815, when it was played to honor George Washington and the War of 1812.  It was then known as Wreaths for the Chieftains.

Andrew Jackson was the first living President to be honored by the song, in 1829.  The next time it was played was in 1837, at the ceremonies marking the inauguration of Martin Van Buren.  On the Fourth of July 1828, the Marine Band played it during the opening of the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, an opening attended by John Quincy Adams.

Growing in popularity, the tune was requested at other Presidential inaugurations, including those of John Tyler and James Polk.  Under the Truman Administration, the Department of Defense made it the official tribute to the President.

The original lyrics were changed by Albert Gamse and set to music written by James Sanderson.  Although the lyrics follow, the song is rarely sung; it is simply played.

Hail to the Chief we have chosen for the nation

Hail to the Chief!

We salute him one and all.

Hail to the Chief,

As we pledge cooperation

In proud fulfillment of a great, noble call.

Yours is the aim to make this grand country grander.

This you will do, that’s our strong, firm belief.

Hail to the one we selected as Commander

Hail to the President!  Hail to the Chief!

As I type these lyrics by Albert Gamse, I smile when reading words like “cooperation” and “the one.”  As Reverend Wright would say, “The chickens are coming home to roost.” I wonder if Albert Gamse had a premonition of things to come in our nation’s capital?

Our founding fathers had envisioned a government of the people, by the people, and for the people, a government that would not sanction royalty to serve as its leaders.  But, a rose by any other name is still a rose!  Maybe the Presidential tribute should end with a Bronx cheer to remind the incumbent that his term in office is limited.

Imagine the next State of the Union address or other Presidential event when the song is played and sung.  Our lawmakers will probably need the assistance of paramedics for help, after choking on their words!  Only in America!

Photos Courtesy of Martin Griff / The Times

Hollywood launched Roots, a blockbuster mini-series that captured our hearts in illustrating the struggles of Negroes in pre-Civil War America.  With Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X at the helm of later struggles, history relates the diverse approaches used to achieve racial equality as promised by the Constitution of the United States of America.  But perhaps nothing tells more about a people than their artifacts: the things they leave behind them as roadmaps to and touchstones of the past.  Some of these artifacts can be found in a seemingly unlikely locale: the Geraldine Carter-Bethel Library within the Shiloh Baptist Church in Trenton, New Jersey, at 340 S. Howard Woodson Jr. Way.

Upon reflection, this landmark church is the perfect place to serve as a library/museum for literature, photographs, and items used in donors’ daily lives.  Down through history, African-Americans have embraced the Lord as a respite from their travails and a source of strength leading to empowerment.  So it stands to reason that a church should become the repository of the things that marked life’s experiences for the faithful of the Shiloh Baptist Church.

Established in 1972 with donations of little more than $3,000, the library/museum, housed within the late nineteenth century church, rests in the capable hands of Elizabeth Carter Lacy.  At the age of 77, this retiree is well motivated to source, catalog, preserve, and showcase the myriad historical items.  Ms. Lacy, you see, has been a member of the Shiloh Baptist Church since infancy; her uncle, Deacon Robert Carter and his wife, Esther, were the library/museum’s founders.  The library/museum continues to evolve with the memorabilia of family, friends, and the congregation, items that track African-American moments in history.

Ms. Lacy herself represents one such moment.   She watched her father, who was forced to abandon his education after the 5th Grade, strive to create a better life for his family.  Progressing by degrees from chauffeur to PSE&G’s first Black boiler-operator, Elizabeth’s dad realized his dreams.  His hard work and focus sent Elizabeth to Cheney State Teachers University (formerly, College) and financed her sister’s education, which culminated in a Master’s degree and a career as a nurse.

As curator of the library/museum, Ms. Lacy proudly explains the rich heritage of the objects entrusted to her care.   Among the treasures are:

- A letter dated 1913 from former Pastor, John A. White, requesting that the congregation confer in order to establish the Trenton chapter of the NAACP

- A photograph of Barack Obama commemorating his visit to the church prior to his Presidential campaign

- A World War I helmet bestowed by a church member, and a World War II bugle donated by Elizabeth’s husband, musician Bill Lacy: testimonies to African-Americans having served in every war in which our nation was engaged

Less sensational but no less indicative of life in this community are antique cookie jars and a Black baby doll, obituaries, and photographs, some of which Elizabeth Lacy herself has collected.  She displays a special fondness for a photo of a Miss Mae Rose, who once presented the young Ms. Lacy with a heavy glass water bottle.  Although the bottle was completely empty, it symbolized the meaningful adage about seeing the glass half empty or half full.  Miss Mae Rose had advised young Elizabeth that she could fill the bottle up with pennies to help “an average girl” foot her college tuition.

Elizabeth is now paying it forward with another large glass water bottle on display at the library/museum.  She is filling it up with pennies in the hope of helping fund the education of “an average woman.”

Tradition is kept alive in other ways: with the aid of the church’s historical society, Elizabeth’s children, Wanda Lacy McNeill and Susan Lacy, help to maintain the library/museum at Shiloh Baptist Church.

If you are interested in experiencing this slice of American history, please call the church at (609) 695-2448 to arrange for an enjoyable and unforgettable tour.

Perhaps nothing tells more about a culture than its art.  From paintings on cave walls carved by prehistoric tribes, representational art has evolved to chronicle historical events, fashion, religious and social mores, and political views.  When written language emerged, artists signed their work with pride.  They signed their paintings and chiseled their names onto sculptures to inform the world as to the originators of the creations.  How, then, do we explain a large, chillingly realistic work created in our own time and left unsigned?

The work in question resides in a haunted and otherwise abandoned schoolhouse sitting atop a hill in Lambertville, New Jersey.  Erected in 1854, The Lambertville School closed its doors in the 1950s.  Two decades later, a fire that destroyed part of the building was also rumored to have taken the lives of several children.  Considering that classes had not been held in this decrepit structure for approximately twenty years prior to the blaze, the rumors are unsettling.  And yet, they seem to have their basis in truth.

A number of people who have summoned the nerve to explore as well as spend the night in the ramshackle building have published their tales of the strange goings-on within the school’s crumbling walls.  These stories include hearing the horrific screams of children when no children were present, as well as heavy footsteps tromping up and down stairs and through corridors.  One visitor described hearing a demonic, disembodied growl.

These reports make me question the origin of the artwork found in a second floor classroom.   

On the blackboards ringing three-quarters of the room are the images of children.  Little ones are depicted giving the Pledge of Allegiance.  Others stare bored into space, and one child is positioned like a corpse in its coffin.  There is no joy in the children’s faces, none whatsoever.  But what is most striking about this artwork is that the images were not chalked onto the boards or even painted on them: they are, in fact, etched permanently into the dark gray slate.  Painstakingly crafted, they are also extremely realistic, making the blackboards genuine works of art.  And yet, they stand unsigned.

 A vast body of empirical evidence supports the theory that things and places hold the energies of former owners or occupants.  Could the blackboards in The Lambertville School not be art, after all?  Could the

images be modern-day bas-reliefs, seared into stone by the energies of the dead in the moment that they departed this earth?  And is this the reason the blackboards were never signed?

The legend of Santa Claus, the jolly fat man who visits good little children on Christmas Eve, has its basis in reality.  Saint Nicholas lived in the fourth century AD in the town of Myra in Asia Minor, now known as Turkey.  As a child, he grew up impoverished; later in life, he inherited wealth and spread it, with joy.

Nicholas was a bishop renowned for helping children and sailors as well the poor, the latter through anonymous gifts of money.  Many stories have been told about his generosity, but the most famous involved his placement of unexpected gifts in stockings hung by fireplaces to dry out in the cold, wet winter months.   This is a custom that we repeat today, so many centuries later, in Saint Nicholas’ honor.

The tale of the stockings revolved around a poverty-stricken man who had three daughters.  The man was so poor that he lacked the money for his daughters’ dowries; in those days, women could not hope to marry without their families’ bestowing gifts of money upon their future husbands.   One night, as the legend goes, Nicholas dropped a bag of gold coins down the chimney of this man.  The bag fell into a stocking that was hanging on mantel to dry.  When the gift was discovered, the eldest daughter laid plans for a happy marriage.  The magic coins were discovered once again when it came time for the second daughter to marry.

Determined to find the anonymous gift giver, the girls’ father hid every night near the fireplace, until he surprised Nicholas who had reappeared to help the last daughter.  The generous donor pleaded with the man not to reveal his identity, but word leaked to the community.   Afterwards, whenever someone in Myra received a gift anonymously, they knew that it had come from Nicholas.

Another story tells of Nicholas helping a group of sailors battling a violent storm off the coast of Turkey.  Terrified, the sailors prayed to Saint Nicholas to help them. Suddenly, he appeared in their midst.  Like Jesus before him, he ordered the storm to abate and the sea obeyed.

During the persecution of Christians, Nicholas was exiled from Myra and imprisoned by the Emperor Diocletian. He died on December 6^th sometime during the period between 345 and 352 AD.  In 1807, Italian merchant seamen unearthed his bones in Turkey.  Reverently, they ferried the remains to Bari, Italy where they are venerated in San Nicola, the cathedral named for him.

After his death, because of his acts of kindness, Nicholas was canonized and known the world over as the Patron Saint of Children and Sailors.  Every year on the Feast of Saint Nicholas (December 6^th), the sailors of Bari carry a statue of Saint Nicholas out to sea to bless the waters for safe passages throughout the coming year.  As part of The Cloisters Collection, a painting entitled Saint Nicholas Saving Seafarers can be found in New York City’s famed Metropolitan Museum of Art.

As truth is always stranger than fiction, Nicholas’ story was embroidered with each telling as it was passed down through the ages.  Eventually, his name became synonymous with the spirit of Christmas; in his honor, we hang stockings and exchange presents with friends and loved ones on Christ’s birthday.

Here in America, we altered his name to Santa Claus and removed him from dangerous straits.  We positioned him on frozen terra firma, at the North Pole, where he resides with his Mrs. and oversees a horde of industrious, toy-making elves, which have probably been unionized by now.  Once a year, Santa Claus commandeers a sleigh driven by eight reindeer, including one with a glowing red nose to navigate through snowy skies (thereby negating the sailors’ need for “a star to steer her by”).   In legend, Saint Nicholas may have ventured far from his native Turkey.  But every Christmas Eve, he is very close to the hearts of Christian children, young and old. 

A Great Trip to the Raptor Trust in Millington, New Jersey

It’s good for the soul to remember that there are beings greater than us. But with the emotional junk that humans cart around, it can be difficult to latch onto that perspective.  A trip to the wondrous Raptor Trust in Millington, New Jersey (http://theraptortrust.org/) is the antidote to this dilemma.  I discovered this firsthand when I journeyed there this past weekend, to one of the nation’s ground breaking avian rehabilitation and conservation centers.

Navigating previously unexplored back roads, it soon became clear that the sanctuary/avian hospital/ educational center was situated in a desolate area.  I define “desolate” as “untouched by the hands of men.”  Great stands of woods, brush, running brooks, and the creatures that inhabit these places have always calmed my soul.  In my own neck of the woods, closer to so-called civilization, the air was nippy with a few clouds in a deep blue sky; many maples still clung ferociously to their confetti-colored leaves.  But as I traveled north, the sky turned overcast, the temperature dropped quickly, and the trees rose dark and naked into the sky.  Through the meandering back roads I climbed, fog-shrouded blue-gray mountains rising in the distance.  On the last neck of the journey, I veered right at a small, whitewashed bridge.

Abutting the Great Swamp, the center’s parking lot and small educational facility gave way to a large field, fringed with bare trees and cattails: a late autumn landscape clothed in brown, taupe, and gray.

And then came a surprise.

I’d first learned of The Raptor Trust several years ago, via an educational/fundraising exhibition in Cape May, New Jersey.  Then, the many beautiful birds were all housed indoors, tethered to their perches for their safety and that of too-curious humans.  The sole raptor I’d seen outdoors that day was a gorgeous peregrine falcon, capable of flying only for short distances.  Behind the boardwalk replete with souvenir shops wheeled this magnificent raptor, lighting down after every circumnavigation upon the thick, leathered glove of a man who obviously loved him.  Again, every other bird was inside the exhibition hall that day.

Knowing that all of the birds at The Raptor Trust are rehabilitated after injuries sustained largely at the hands of man (or by osmosis, the spread of civilization that is rarely civil), I’d assumed that the birds would have been safe behind closed doors.  However, with the exception of those recently admitted to the on-site, state-of-the-art hospital, every bird was outdoors.

With no one taking an entrance fee (for there was no fee) and no caretaker visible, the place, at first, seemed deserted.  With my husband, I tramped over leaf-strewn trails, desiccated leaves crunching beneath my feet and the wind whistling mournfully through the trees.  The few others visitors we later encountered, children included, were quiet as they never would have been in a zoo.  It was as if we had agreed in silent community that respect was called for in this wild place.

In that peaceful landscape, outdoor enclosures stood large and double-netted … against uneducated humans, I suppose, who might not fully understand the power of a raptor’s talons. Two adult bald eagles were the first birds we saw: huge and magnificent.  They stood as reminders that humanity is but one species on this planet and that we must honor every species with which we share the Earth.

Walking on, we spied ospreys (fish eaters with wingspans of up to 6 feet), small, pretty kestrels, whose wings stretch for two feet, and a lovely peregrine falcon (by the early 1970s, America had all but annihilated the peregrines due to DDT poisoning).  Feathers ruffling in the chill wind, there were various other hawks and a few owls, including the tiny saw-whet.  Weighing a mere 4 ounces and standing 8 inches tall, this elfin owl’s wings span a foot and half across or greater.  The Great Horned Owl, with whose awesome relative I’d once communed at a PowWow, was not — to my disappointment — receiving company that day.  Hoping to see more owls, I’m half-glad that I didn’t; once a bird is rehabilitated, it is released into the wild, if feasible.  Those that cannot be returned are given a good, caring home at The Raptor Trust.  So, I hope that most of the owls are now living free and healthy.

The most surreal moment, however, came courtesy of the vultures … and not the ones in the enclosures.  In a large pen lounged three vultures: a pair of turkey vultures and one black vulture.  With a gulp, my husband whispered, “Look up.”  In the bare naked trees above us, against a gray sky, were perched a good two dozen, large, wild, silent vultures.  Directly over the enclosures, I sensed that they were keeping a vigil on their recuperating kin!

Most people have been conditioned, falsely, to fear vultures.  The fact is, these birds neither attack nor kill; I’m not sure why they are classified as raptors.  They are, like many people in government and Corporate America, opportunists.  But unlike our legislators and heads of business, vultures simply await other animals to leave sated from a kill so that they can enjoy the remains … including the marrow-rich bones.  Vultures help to keep our environment clean; they rid the landscape of things that breed disease.  They are good birds.

So is every other avian at The Raptor Trust.

Large and commanding or small and shy, there is beauty in their form, intelligence in their eyes, and dignity in their bearing.  Although raptors are carnivorous, they merely live the way that God has designed them, at the top of the winged food chain.  They are to be admired and respected.  And given the behavior of humans, they are to be protected.

If you journey to The Raptor Trust, you will understand this firsthand.  Gaze quietly at the magnificent birds and know that something greater than you created them, and that that Being has entrusted you with their care.  If you can, please leave a donation, for this rehabilitation and conservation center is a non-profit organization.  Outside the drop-off for injured birds is a rich, portable library.  From this, you are invited to take literature concerning the mission and history of the Trust and the birds themselves, including instructions for preventing injuries to, and methods of caring for, injured birds.

Go softly into The Raptor Trust.  Leave a small footprint, please.  Go forth with an enlightened mind and a lighter heart. 

As we ponder the origin of things, aside from “The Word,”* we sometimes wonder how the various States of the Union came by their names. When England decided to colonize America, noteworthy citizens received grants from the King, in order to develop what later came to be known as the United States of America. William Penn, who was a Quaker, was granted a tract of land in a heavily wooded area.  That land was named in his honor thusly: Penn = the man + Sylvania (in the Romance languages) = woods.  Hence, Penn’s woods became Pennsylvania.

As logical and contemporary for its time as the naming of Pennsylvania may have been, the origin of “New Jersey” may date back to the Roman Empire. One of the largest Channel Islands off the coast of Normandy, France was named “Jersey.”  In Latin, that translates to Caesarea.  By this reckoning, Caesarea Insula translates to Caesar’s Island.

One of the prominent native sons of the Jersey Islands was Sir George Carteret (1610-1680).  In 1664, George was granted the territory, in the New World, between the Hudson and Delaware Rivers.  This land was then christened “New Jersey” in his honor.  Interestingly, the city of Carteret in New Jersey also bears George’s surname.

To take this one step further, I suppose that anything that carries the famous Jersey logo can be translated from or back to its original Latin.  We can have the Caesar cow, the Caesar tomato, Caesar corn, and of course, the Caesar shore.  Sitting right there at the shore, in Atlantic City, is a casino that bears Caesar’s name as well as a commanding likeness, a statue of the celebrated Emperor, standing guard above the casino’s entrance … probably against those gifted enough to “read cards!”

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* "The Word", for those who require clarification, refers not only to The Word of God,
but to the Godhead Himself (i.e., "I am The Word."). 

On March 17th, Irish Catholics around the world will celebrate St. Patrick’s Day.  Liturgical or non-liturgical, Irish or hailing from another culture, this is a day that everyone is wearing the green and celebrating.  But who, exactly, was St. Patrick?

According to history, Patrick, whose Latin name was Patricus, entered the world as a Roman Briton in 387 A.D.  Born near Cambia, England, in Banna Venta, Berniae, his father Calpornius was a deacon and his grandfather Potitus, a priest.  With a lineage such as this, Patrick seemed destined to follow in his family’s spiritual footsteps.  At the age of sixteen, young Patrick was captured in a raid and carried off to Ireland.  On the Emerald Isle, he was enslaved as a herdsman for six years. During his trials, Patrick prayed fervently for respite, his faith growing deeper.

When he had turned twenty-two, he heard a disembodied, commanding, yet kindly voice telling him that he would be returning to his family, and that a ship awaited him to carry him home. Fleeing his master, Patrick discovered and boarded the ship.  Once safely home, he again heard voices (plural, this time).  They cried, “We appeal to you, holy servant boy; walk among us.”

Heeding the call, Patrick returned to Ireland. He became a bishop, ordaining priests and baptizing thousands, including kings, the sons of chiefs, and wealthy women.  From these noble parties, he accepted gifts, a happenstance that brought condemnation from his fellow Christians.  Patrick then began to refuse the gifts.  But as a foreigner rebuffing such generosity, he had insulted Ireland’s royalty.  Adding to his woes were pagan groups, such as the Druids, who were hostile to the Christians seeking to usurp their religions.

By the eighth century, Patrick had been elevated to status as the Patron Saint of Ireland. Venerated by the Roman Catholic Church, he was still not without controversy.  In 1942, a Church lecture entitled “The Two Patricks” signified a conscious effort to blend two saints, Patrick and Palladius, into one single entity.  This move brought up questions concerning the timeframe of Patrick’s life on earth.  After much research, many historians later concluded that Patrick was most active in the mid-to-late 5^th century.

Legend credits Saint Patrick with banishing the snakes from Ireland.  Interestingly, fossils collected from post-glacial Ireland show no evidence of snakes having lived there.  As the Church had selected the snake to symbol Satan, it was generally thought that the serpents in question were the animals used in Druid rituals, thus signifying Patrick’s establishment of Christianity over the island’s older faiths. Another legend tells us that St. Patrick used the three-leafed shamrock to illustrate to the Irish the Christian concept of The Trinity: three divine persons in the one Godhead.

St. Patrick died on March 17, 493 A.D.; his burial is reported to have taken place at Downpatrick in County Down, Ireland, where his remains became an object of veneration in early Christian Ireland. Downpatrick houses the Saint Patrick Visitors Centre, which promulgates the story and the glory of Saint Patrick.

Here in New York City, Saint Patrick’s Cathedral is a Neo-Gothic work of art open to both the faithful and the general public.  In addition to its imposing central altar, the cathedral houses numerous beautiful shrines to various saints as well as the white marbled Lady Chapel with its lovely colorful stained glass, which is devoted to Mother Mary.  This magnificent, towering structure in midtown Manhattan, across from Rockefeller Center, stands as the pride of the Irish-Americans who immigrated to the land of the free and the home of the brave.

So, as you dig in to your green-tinted mashed potatoes, your corned beef, or your colcannon come Wednesday, remember the Saint that we honor this day.  Erin Go Bragh!