When you read that name you instantly know two things about her; she was Irish, and she was Catholic. I knew her when she was a young girl. She was my neighbor, and we spent hours and hours together growing up. Looking in, my perception was that she led a charmed life. So many things about her life were different than any of my other friends since I had no other friends that were so.....Catholic. I knew other kids that went to the Catholic church, but they seemed to be less into their religion than Mary was. It appeared to this outsider that in the Casey family everything was about their religion. And I was extremely envious of it.
I attended church on Sunday. I went to Vacation Bible School in the summers, and I went to all the special revival meetings and soup suppers. But there was nothing special about these things. The big stained glass window in the sanctuary of the First Christian Church was beautiful with Jesus carrying a lamb across His shoulders, but it wasn't the same as where Mary went to church. And, she went to school at the same place!
Mary and I rode our bikes those three blocks on many summer afternoons to the Catholic church. The building was elaborate and awesome. Memory of the outside produces a tall, dark steeple. It could have been brass, it could have been wood. But it is the main site in my mind along with the front doors in an archway. Mary and I at age ten would go in to pray after we lit candles. She knelt before she went into a row of pews. Interesting. As I sat quietly while Mary prayed I took in my surroundings. The sanctuary was dark with eyes staring at me from every angle. Amidst the carvings along the walls were statues of Jesus, Mary, and many others. In the front were all the votive candles, some lit, and more elaborate statues and tables. Before we left the building she stopped to pray to a huge statue of Virgin Mary, dipped her fingers in the holy water, and made the sign of the cross, which she did many times in all this process. I was in love with the Catholic church.
Then we went next door into the school to talk to all the nuns who were hanging out. It was summer. What on earth would they be doing in the school? I didn't ask, and I always enjoyed our visit. My teachers all stayed home in summer, and the school doors were locked.
I'll never forget the day Mary told me about her new name. She was being "confirmed", I think. I didn't have such a ritual in my church, and this was so exciting. At confirmation she selected a new middle name, Catherine. So now she would be Mary Elizabeth Catherine Casey. Romantic. And very Irish. I wanted a new middle name, but there was no point and no ritual. If I wanted to take communion on Sundays at my church, all I had to do was go to the front pew at the end of the preaching, and the next Sunday I would be baptized. Big deal. No new name.
Mary and I climbed trees, painted pictures in her basement on rainy days, played Annie Annie Over, roller skated around and around the block, played Parchisi and Monopoly, dressed our dolls, and played school on her front porch. We climbed the maple tree in her front yard and sat in it for hours reading library books. We raked the leaves and made whistles from the whirly-bird seeds that fell from the maple. We played our made-up game of King Tut, and we played Simon Says on the front walk of the church on our block. After a good rain, we scrambled in the mud in the yard between us to catch night crawlers for my dad's fishing hooks. We ran up and down our alley to scare all the wild neighborhood cats from the garbage cans and burners. We ate homemade popsicles and braided the hair of the little girls next door. Hours and hours of imagination and fun is my sweet recollection of Mary Elizabeth Catherine Casey.
I received a text last night from a mutual friend from our neighborhood. Mary had died. For years I had wanted to contact her, and finally, just last summer I had come across her brother and was able to write a letter and touch base with my old childhood friend. I got a letter and then a Christmas card from her, and now she's gone. So many words not shared, but I did tell her how special she still was to me. In her letter to me she said so little, no stories of her family, only a few words. She wasn't well. But she didn't really say why. Mary wasn't always so quiet, but I do remember how closely she held to her family, and perhaps she didn't feel as open to share with me as I did with her. I entrust my life stories to perfect strangers, so I must remember not everyone is like that.
My childhood friends and I are getting old. I am having to face death more often than I would like, and, if I stick around long enough, I will face it more and more. I hadn't seen Mary in over fifty years, but that doesn't change the feelings of a melancholy, sentimental, and terminally loyal friend. I ache in my heart for days if I've offended you. I will mourn a friendship for years after moving on to a new one. Maybe it's because I have no siblings to share life with, and my children, and what little family I have, all live hundreds of miles away. Whatever the cause, I cry many, many tears over the friends I have left behind. It's who I am, and I can't stop it.
Today I am remembering that old Brownie camera snapshot that I have misplaced of a short Irish Catholic girl with maple leaves piled on her head. I hope to find it some day and attach it to this story. I remember how fast she could run, and how seriously she memorized her catechism. My memories are haunted by the many years I tried to locate her, but couldn't. And today my memories are haunted by the knowledge that I won't write any more letters or get another Christmas card from my long lost Irish Catholic friend, Mary Elizabeth Catherine Casey.
