The opposite of love

During my senior year at my all-white parochial high school, my social studies teacher arranged for a handful of us to meet with a handful of African American students from the local public school. We met in the cafeteria of my old elementary school and talked about our lives. It wasn't long before we realized we had a lot in common.

But we also came to realize that though we lived in the same city, we lived in different worlds.

The story that sticks in my memory, all these years later, was of an African American family moving into a predominantly white neighborhood and, within days, losing their dog to some fool who wanted to scare them away. The poor dog was doused with gasoline and, well, you can imagine what happened next.

I still remember the stoic look on the African American student's face as he told this story. Things got pretty quiet after that.

A few hours later we went our separate ways, changed -- if only a little -- because we'd made a connection with people who weren't like us and had, perhaps, begun to let go of fear.

The other thing I remember about that meeting in the spring of 1968 is that it took place just days before the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. was gunned down. It might have been the very same day, though I suspect that's just my memory playing tricks on me. The date doesn't matter. The lasting impression -- that we are all human beings meant to share this world -- does.

God rest the souls of those taken from this world out of fear, the opposite of love.

Triple Crown

The sky over Lake Erie was slate gray when I heard the first rumble of thunder. I knew then that I wouldn't be going to the 5 p.m. Mass that Saturday. I wasn't worried about the storm. I was worried about my dad.

A stroke had left Dad a semi-invalid, but it was more his lifelong fear of thunderstorms that made me decide I should stay home and ride out the storm with him. Besides, the Kentucky Derby would be on TV soon. We could watch it together.

And we did -- with the volume turned up a bit to drown out the distant thunder. Dad was more animated than he'd been all day as we cheered on whichever horse he'd had his eye on.

I don't recall who won the Derby that year. I do recall that the storm stayed out over the lake, so Dad didn't insist, as he usually did, that we turn off the TV until the storm had passed. He had good reason to fear storms.

When Dad was a boy, his father used to love to watch the storms that passed over their Long Island home and would coax Dad to join him on their front stoop. One day lightning struck their roof and started a small fire, which was quickly extinguished. But the fear of fire would haunt my father the rest of his days.

Dad's been gone more than 30 years now, but that day comes back to me every time one of the Triple Crown races is run, as the Belmont Stakes will be later today. I'll be watching, cheering on the horse many hope will make history and become the first Triple Crown winner since 1978.

Somehow, I suspect Dad will be, too.