A Story Worth Telling: The Photo Albums

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Preface

Chapter I

The First Encounter

Chapter II The Couple

Chapter III

The Child

Chapter IV

The Memory Lingers On

Chapter V The Engine, The Caboose, And The Rest

Chapter VI

217 North Forest Avenue

Chapter VII

St. Anthony Parish

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Hamilton Place

Chapter X

A Decade Later And Another First Encounter

Chapter XI

The Link

Chapter XII

The Smell Of June

Chapter XIII

Two More Anecdotes And One Final Thought

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

A personal note of thanks to my parents, Norma and Eugene... To Mom and Dad,

I thank you for your story and for allowing me to share it with others. I thank you for everything you have always done for me, and for all your support in getting this book published. I know how difficult it was for you to share some of the intimate details of your experiences. I love you.

Your Baby, Lee Lee

To Stephen,

I want to say thank you for all of your support and for all the time that you spent in order to put this project of mine into action and into print. It was a huge commitment and an amazing labor of love for you to do this on my behalf and on the behalf of your grandparents. You made my dream a reality, and I am truly grateful!

To Nicholas,

Thank you so much for your constant words of encouragement as well as for all those hours you sat listening as I wrote when I first began this project; thank you for your creative input too.

To my son Michael, and my nieces: Jennifer and Christa, Thank you for all your words of encouragement.

To my siblings: Cindi, Gary and Denise, Thanks for your anecdotes. I cherish each and every one of them.

To my copy editor-Martin Boyne,

Thank you for your interest in this story and for accepting this project at the eleventh hour. It has been a privilege and my pleasure to work with you.

A STORY WORTH TELLING

(THE PHOTO ALBUMS)

by: Alisa Rose Vallera

I

ntroduction

On this earth, in this life, we must hold to the belief that everything happens for a reason. In this world of pseudo-reality lies what is truly real, hidden under the day-in-and-day-out mind-filling experiences that consume each individual.

Like the song Rainbow Connection says, I’ve heard it too many times to ignore it. It’s something that I’m supposed to be. I know this is something that I’m supposed to do. So I thank you for giving me the opportunity to tell this story, and I encourage everyone to dream and to seek out your purpose. The Rainbow Connection is possible.

This book is dedicated to my mother and father, Norma and Eugene; and to my sons, Michael, Stephen, and Nicholas.

P

reface

My name is Alisa. I was born on May 6, 1959, into a middle-class, blue-collar family in Steubenville, a small town located smack dab alongside the Ohio River. If you’ve done the math, you know that I am newly fifty years old. I am writing this on July 29, 2009, at 12:15 a.m. in an old T-shirt with a picture of my long-deceased dog on the front and a pair of sweatpants given to me by my father a few years ago.

I am working in my office at home by the soft glow of a small lamp on my computer desk. In front of me sits an empty glass of what had been some protein-powdered milk drink. Next to the telephone is a custard dish disguised as an ashtray with one cigarette butt in it, the embers still hot. Upstairs, the TV in my bedroom is playing at a low enough volume that the voices are indistinct but still loud enough to cut the silence. Mostly, I hear the motor of this outdated computer. I am surrounded by pictures of my family set in various frames on stands and on the walls. Any stranger would know who I am by being in this room for a total of three minutes. The special things that fill the space in this room have little monetary value, but they are priceless in sentiment.

Why am I sharing these personal details with a supposed stranger who might just happen by this hardback and pick it up to glance at it, like browsing through a shoe bin? Because this manifesto of mine, this utterance, this declaration of one Alisa whom some hypothetical reader knows nothing about, may actually be worth hearing. You see, I have a story to tell you. It is worth telling, and it is worth your time to hear it because it is unlike all the others. It is a tale that is simple and basic, yet boundless.

If you are inclined to put this account of mine back in the bin, I implore you to read a little further, just for a brief time longer. Forget any sale quotas. Buy it and return it next week. Or get a cup of coffee and find a place to read for a while, and then walk away. But please do read it. I know it will change you in some way, for the better.

This text will prove to be one about the human condition, one where conviction of character triumphs over flawed characteristics, family values triumph over wealth, love triumphs over dysfunction, and self-sacrifice is a conflict of the hyphenated word itself. I am confident that it will inspire and move you out of a world of technical merry-go-rounds with all of its misguided reasons to stress, and take you to a place where inner faith triumphs over doubt and disappointments.

Through the eyes of a journalist on an indeterminate journey more than fifty years ago, allow yourself to become engrossed in his story through his choice of words. Look at the pictures; study the faces of those in this true account. Permit me to share the photo albums with you in the hope of making a difference in even just one life, or even just one reader.

My talents as a novice writer fall short of the man who first told the tale. Still, I want to convey to you, along with him, the impact that a five-year-old boy had on a small town and its people and how his life linked them to other nations through prayer. Because for all people, hope floats eternal and the heart pleads for answers to what it cannot understand.

CHAPTER I

The First Encounter

In 1956, an unknown French journalist was given his assignment. The newspaper was called La France Dimanche, and the journalist’s name was Roger Bernard. La France Dimanche was the biggest French publication in Paris, and the story was one of hundreds that Mr. Bernard would cover throughout his career as a journalist. I cannot tell you if he volunteered for this particular job or not; nor can I tell you anything about his own personal religious beliefs or experiences. What I can tell you is that he did accept the proposed assignment and would report all accounts accordingly to his editor. What Mr. Bernard did not anticipate was that he would be sidetracked from his original assignment before even reaching his destination. Little did he know that a young boy would steal his heart, deterring him from the story he’d intended to cover. Along with his photographer, Serge, Roger Bernard embarked on a journey with three people he had never met to the Grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes.

The train ride from Paris to Lourdes was approximately ten hours long. Mr. Bernard and Serge had already settled in and went leisurely walking about the corridors. The train was filled with people hustling aboard and situating themselves for a long ride. The people on the train, some carrying small totes along with other paraphernalia, were all headed to someplace pertinent to them. The weather was very cold, reportedly the coldest winter in a hundred years. Competing with the sounds of the gusting winds and the many voices of the people scurrying about was the blast of a loud whistle as the train left the station.

In a separate wagon, three American visitors got settled in for what was going to be a very chilly ride. They were not tourists, but more like pilgrims, intensely focused on their destination. Bundled in his long tweed coat, a matching hat with fur-lined earflaps tied tightly under his chin, a scarf,

The First Encounterand his argyle-patterned gloves, was a young boy clinging to his new favorite toy, Pluto the dog. His parents were with him, also bundled up in similar fashion. The expression of excitement on the young couple’s faces simply could not camouflage the worry revealed in their eyes. It was too soon for them to try to get some rest on the trip, so they decided to take a walk down the glass-enclosed corridors, which provided a view of the countryside as the train moved along. In an attempt to find someone else who spoke English, they tried to converse with the other passengers as they walked along the passageway. It was in this passageway, this glass-enclosed corridor, where Roger Bernard had his first encounter with his unsuspecting subjects. He observed.

February 1956 - Lourdes, France (La France Dimanche)

None of the other passengers on the express train from Paris to Lourdes that Thursday evening would have believed that this little boy playing in the passageway was condemned to death. Craig ran from one end of the wagon to the other in an effort to keep himself warm, because it was very cold in the compartment.

Mr. Bernard introduced himself as not only someone who could speak English fairly well, but also as a journalist who was on his way to Lourdes to cover a story for La France Dimanche. When he discovered that the child he’d been observing in the corridor was also headed for the water of miracles, he was compelled to make him the subject of his story. He explained to the couple that he would be telling their story, following them, and recording a journal of their trip. And so the three American visitors became known to Roger and Serge as Eugene, Norma, and Craig.

February, 1956 - Lourdes, France (La France Dimanche)

Upon arriving in Lourdes, Craig would be even colder. The thermometer read 20 degrees. The snow-covered basilica seemed abandoned. The approach to the cathedral was transformed into an ice rink in the inclement weather, which discouraged visitors. In front of the Grotto the snow-covered benches awaited the return of the pilgrims. Icicles hungfrom the rock. Candlesflickered in the wind, accompanied only by two or three faithful worshipers before the Virgin. The livid mountain torrent raged between the glassy embankment.

C

HAPTER