My first memory of the mystery of Mary

I am about to turn 62 years old. I realize now that Mary has influenced my life since I was a little girl. And while I always felt she was a part of my life, I never really felt close to her, as some people do. Until recently.

Interestingly, it was both of my grandfathers (rather than my grandmothers) who introduced me to the mystery of Mary. My own mother shared with me how to pray the Hail Mary and how to pray the Rosary — things a good Catholic mother does. And she was my role model for prayer. But it was my grandfathers who got me thinking about Mary as a person, as a woman, and as our Mother in Heaven.

My Italian maternal grandfather was very devoted to the Blessed Mother. He prayed the Rosary regularly. I remember seeing him in our backyard when he vacationed with us in California, walking from one side of the yard to the other while holding his rosary beads and saying Hail Marys. A well-educated man who was a pharmacist, and who always dressed in nice shirts and slacks with polished shoes, I remember being intrigued that a man would have such a devotion to the Blessed Mother.

My paternal grandfather, also Italian, was the opposite. His formal education ended in Italy when he was in the sixth grade. He came to the U.S. at the age of 17, traveling by ship across the Atlantic Ocean, alone. I was very fond of him, I think because of all his grandchildren (there were 13 of us) I always felt as though I held a special place in his heart. He spoke very broken English and I was always in awe of him. Perhaps even a little scared of him. He was a laborer, working first in the coal mines and then in the steel mills and finally, when he moved his family to California, he worked in the city public works department – digging ditches and working as part of the city’s street crew. As a result, even though small in stature, he was very muscular. When I was a little girl and he was in his mid-60s, I used to ask him to flex his bicep (like a bodybuilder) because I could see they were still strong. With his pipe in his mouth and his glass of red wine on the table, he’d push up his shirt sleeve, clench his fist and flex his bicep muscle for me. I’d giggle and he’d laugh a proud laugh. I think that’s why he liked me. I think I was the only one who asked him to do that.

And it was this grandfather of mine that first shared the mystery of Mary with me, by recalling often an early encounter he had with her.

First let me tell you that I’ve heard this story over two decades — from the time I was a young girl to when I was in my 20s. During what must have been one of the last time he shared it, my own father later wrote that as Grandpa told the story, I took notes. My father also noted in his writing that during his entire life (my father’s life, during which he heard the story even more than I did), he testified to it that the story never, ever, changed. If my own father, known for embellishing things a bit, added any small detail to the tale, my grandfather would correct him and bring the story back to the truth again.

I have retyped below the story my father memorialized on now-yellowed paper. He had typed it on an old typewriter and then signed it, in the hope that the story would not be lost on future generations of our family. I have re-typed it below, exactly as he did.

This is the story:

The Happening

Although he was celebrating his 89th birthday, his eyes and mind were clear and quick, even though a wheelchair and walker were needed for mobility. He was answering questions from his married grandchildren and great grandchildren who were sitting around a table which held a birthday cake that was struggling to hold the many candles that almost obliterated the words “Happy Birthday Grandpa.” Questions were shot back and forth… How old were you when you first came to America? What was your first job? How did you meet Grandma? Did you ever want to return to Italy to see the place where you were born? etc. While the questions were being answered, my daughter was busy recording the details on a note pad. I felt a fleeting moment of sadness. I felt that the children were well aware that one must be thankful for this time and appreciate how precious these moments were.

As the evening drew to a close and the cake was reduced to crumbs and coffee was being sipped, I asked my father to tell my favorite story. Now I must say that my father never exaggerated or told a lie, as far as I can remember. As he grew older, he repeated many stories that he had forgotten he told, but we would all continue to listen as if we were hearing it for the first time. Even if he was telling us a story we had heard ten times before, it was always exactly the same – word for word, detail for detail. Sometimes I would try to throw him off track by trying to add to or change the story but I could never succeed. Even if the story could be made a little more exciting by adding or changing a few details, he would never do it. He would always stop me and say, “That’s not the way I remember it happening.” Then he would continue with, “I remember it this way,” — and the story would go on just as perfect in detail as it was the first time he ever told it. So it was with this story, my favorite.

My father was born in a small town in Italy. The town clung to the side of a mountain near the foothills. His house was, as the others, built out of stone and it was three stories high. The first level housed the mule, cow, goats, chickens and other assorted animals. His family lived on the second level. The third level was the storage area for the hay to feed the animals. The house was built so that it was near the edge of a steep ravine and when you walked down the steps from the living quarters on the second floor, you were facing the embankment. Once you reached the bottom of the steps, there was a small two-foot retaining wall where you would turn and then walk between the houses back out to the main street out front. 

My father was almost five years old as he remembers it. While running down the steps, he half tripped, causing him to fall, striking the wall and falling over it. Once over the wall, he tumbled quite rapidly down the steep embankment toward the point where it became a sheer drop-off that was about sixty feet straight down to the bottom. A few of the old ladies on the street who witnessed the accident screamed in horror for they knew certainly that he would be killed or severely injured. As a group of them ran toward the wall and looked over, they were surprised to see my father clinging to the smallest rocks and weeds, slowly and carefully making his way back up the incline toward the safety of the wall. Throwing their shawls to him they pulled him to safety and hugs of gratitude. Except for a few scratches and bumps, he was in good condition. However the main question he was asked was how he managed to stop and grab on to the side before he reached the sixty-foot fall. He told them exactly what happened, with the innocence of a five-year-old child. He said he was tumbling down the hill when a lady in a long robe standing on the side of the hill put her hands down and he rolled up on to them. She picked him up, turned him around pointing him toward the top, gave him a pat on the behind and he slowly started his upward climb.

All of the adults were certain of three things. First, there was no way that any adult would ever walk or be near this embankment. One could barely maintain his balance. Second, none of these people saw this lady in the few seconds it took them to reach the wall. Where could she have gone? There was no place to vanish or hide so quickly. And third, it would have been impossible for him to stop by his own means. Something had to have stopped him. Of course, he had the answer and couldn’t understand what the confusion was all about. The lady in the robe stopped his fall and that’s all there was to it — why the big fuss? Many of the people in the crowd that gathered made the sign of the cross and a few questioned whether this could have been a miracle — possibly the Virgin Mary? The Holy Mother, seeing a young child about to die, making her spirit-self present in the physical form to intercede. Of course, my father had no idea what they were talking about.

The subject was discussed for a few days around the village and then dropped. No more was to be said about the event and time slowly passed. When my dad reached his seventh birthday he was permitted to make the long walk up the mountain with his family to the huge central church, one of the largest in the area. Because of the distance, the families in the village made the pilgrimage once or twice a year on special occasions. Since he was old enough to hold his own, he was permitted for the first time in his life to go along. What a special time this was for a young boy! To leave the confines of his poor village and see some of the outside world. After hours of walking and resting and eating lunch, they saw the church in the distance. It was exciting because this was the first time my father had ever seen a building of this size with its tower and bells. He only knew of his little world of small houses and crumbling shacks, with narrow roads for the donkey carts and mules to pass. Now the mere sight of this magnificent structure was breathtaking.

As the family approached the entrance, they knelt down to say a prayer. As they entered the massive interior, my father was impressed, and a little frightened, by the statues that lined the walls. He had never before seen statues. He was frightened until he saw his friend. Taking his mother’s skirt, he yanked on it to get her attention. She bent down for him to whisper in her ear. Pointing to a statue, and with a smile on his face, as if he expected it to recognize him as a friend also, he said, “See that lady in the robe, Momma? She is the one who was on the hill when I fell over the wall. She was the one who put out her hands to stop me.” In the innocence of this child’s mind he had solved a simple mystery. She had been the lady on the hill. Tears welled up in his mother’s eyes and ran down her cheeks as she made the sign of the cross and knelt to say a prayer — a prayer of thanks before the statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

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