Instead, if he wanted to remark on Catholic dogma, he should have completed an anatomically - correct photorealistic sculpture of a drooling, liver -
spotted old priest struggling frantically to work his dried up half - rigid erect1on into the 4ss of a confused, frightened child.
I recall quiet Saturday mornings, walking with my father block to block, as he pointed out the landmarks no one else knew: the
spot where the Third Avenue El of
old stopped (he pointed out the supports hidden beneath the black asphalt); the apartment house where another close - knit family lived in cramped quarters, the three boys studying in dim lights under their mother's watchful eye to become a lawyer, a doctor, and a
priest (and later a bishop); and the double spires of St. Patrick's Cathedral, the place of my parents» wedding and the baptisms of their three boys.