The Heelers Diaries

the fantasy world of ireland's greatest living poet

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Location: Kilcullen (Phone 087 7790766), County Kildare, Ireland

Saturday, June 15, 2013

heelers conquers the masons

It was the dulcet Summer of 1997.
The noble Heelers had moved to the Irish country town of Mullingar.
The people of the town were slightly in awe of me.

To them, I was the quintessential city slicker arriving to take up a deejay's job at Midlands Radio Three.
That old gag.
Michael J Fox played me in the film version.
The show I presented was a mix of current events and music.
It went out every evening at six o'clock.
One afternoon, Noel O'Farrell the station chief stuck his head around the door of my studio.
"Have you room for another guest on your show tonight?" quoth he.
I said yes.
In fact there was room for any number of guests because as usual with four hours to air time, I had no one lined up.
"It's Doctor Fortescue," said Noel. "He's promoting a Freemasons choir from Wales. They'll be performing in the town at Christmas."
"Oh," said I.
My face was a study.
The boss left.
I sat there quietly.
A Freemason coming on my show.
And he thinks he's going to be talking about music.
Ha, ha, ha.
That evening Doctor Fortescue arrived in the studio, grey haired, dapper, professional, confident and urbane.
A typical Anglo Irish gentleman.
I showed him around and led him to the studio chair where he'd be sitting for the programme.
I told him something of what I'd planned.
"We'll talk," sez I, "and in between times I'll play songs by the choir you're promoting."
"Excellent," proclaimed Doctor Fortescue warmly.
He had a pleasant smile which didn't quite reach his eyes.
His voice was measured and avuncular.
I wondered to myself what he'd make of the interview.
Would he think I was mad?
My show was a half hour current events programme.
It began with a blast of diddly diddly traditional Irish music.
As the introductory music ended, I launched into a list of news items.
Then it was straight to the special guest.
I introduced Doctor Fortescue and told the listeners that he was promoting a forthcoming visit by a Welsh male voice Freemasonic choir.
Doctor Fortescue talked a little bit about the tradition of singing in Wales.
I let him talk.
I said.
"There has been a whiff of scandal around the Freemasons at times."
Doctor Fortescue looked up.
There was mild surprise writ large on his face.
Like his smile, it didn't quite reach his eyes.
I hastened to elaborate on my opening gambit.
"Some people believe Freemasons are part of a secret society."
Doctor Fortescue chuckled.
"Oh come now," he murmured gently. "We're not that secret. We welcome people to be a part of our organisation. We play a leading role in our communities and are very active in charitable and cultural activities. I hardly think a secret organisation would be promoting choir singing at Christmas."
I nodded.
"So no truth in the suggestion that Freemasons in the police and the judiciary act corruptly to protect Freemasons who have broken the law?" wondered I.
Doctor Fortescue didn't hesitate.
"None at all," he replied.
"So no truth in the suggestion by certain senior police officers in Britain that it's impossible to advance in the police force without being a Freemason?" pressed I.
I heard his intake of breath.
Now he had begun to suspect he was in an ambush.
"These sort of allegations have been around for a long time," he answered cautiously. "There are many thousands of Freemasons. We are an open organisation. Any organisation with thousands of members may occasionally attract a few bad apples."
"So you can confirm for me that Freemasonry itself is not a conspiracy against democracy, or against Christianity, or simply against everyone who isn't a Freemason."
"Yes James, I can confirm that."
It was time to play some music.
I introduced the choir and its song.
The music played.
While the song was playing we could have talked. The mikes were no longer broadcasting.
Normally people do talk in these circumstances.
We sat in the studio in silence.
No enmity.
Measured silence.
Assessing each other.
Some part of him was still hoping I was just a country boy with no real knowledge of the dark forces I faced.
The music finished.
"My guest today is Doctor Reginald Fortescue," I reminded the listeners brightly. "He's promoting the visit of the Abervale Male Voice Welsh Freemasonic Choir who will be in town over the Christmas period. Doctor Fortescue we've been talking a little about the Freemasons. Can you tell what happened with the P2 scandal in Italy?"
Doctor Fortescue didn't turn a hair.
He allowed himself the ghost of a sigh.
One wary look and then he focussed on his microphone.
His voice was perfectly modulated when he spoke.
"Ah yes," he said. "That was a scandal."
"Mmmm. The Freemasons in Italy were working for Soviet Russia weren't they? Or were they up to something worse? All those upper class fellows, and bankers and politicians and policemen and Mafiosi, turning the rest of Italian society into their farm animals?"
"I have to tell you James. As soon the international body of Freemasons found out about the P2 we took immediate action to disbar them."
"But it's true that the P2 Free Masonic Lodge in Italy was attempting to subvert Italian democracy," I pressed.
"We expelled the P2 Lodge as soon as we became aware of its activities," shot back Doctor Fortescue.
"Were they trying to subvert Italian democracy for the Russians or for Freemasonry itself?" I challenged.
The interviewee sat back in his chair.
"The P2 was corrupt," he said. "They were caught and brought to account."
"Not too many of them went to jail though."
"They were disbarred from Freemasonry."
"Do you think that bothered them over much?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
We broke for another song.
Silence in the studio when the mikes were off.
But the very air crackled with energy.
His earlier suspicions had crystallised.
He knew full well he was in a ball game.
The song ended.
I didn't pause.
No cutesy reminders for the audience either.
Just straight in.
"Were Freemasons involved in the murder of the banker Roberto Calvi under Grey Friars bridge in London?"
"An investigation found that he hanged himself."
"Do you believe that's the truth?"
"There seems to be no real reason to disbelieve it."
"Some police officers and investigators have claimed that it is extremely unlikely Roberto Calvi could have hanged himself."
"Oh there are always conspiracy theorists James. They provide newspaper headlines, that's all. Mostly they are not to be taken seriously. An official enquiry found that Roberto Calvi committed suicide. Why would we disbelieve that and respect the opinions of people trying to sell a story to the newspapers?"
"Did the Freemasons kill him?"
"Oh come now. That's preposterous."
Time to play some more choir music.
Again we didn't speak to each other during the period our microphones were no longer connected to the broadcast system.
As before we sat in silence waiting for the song to end.
Not a rancorous silence either.
But I could hear the gears turning in his mind.
His intellect was wholly engaged.
He was in a battle he had never dreamed or expected.
And I think in a way he was revelling in it.
The song ended.
"And we're back," I announced lightly.
I glanced at the clock.
In a few minutes the computer would kick in and automatically switch the broadcast system over to the main network for the evening news programme.
I'd be off air, like it or not.
Just two minutes left.
"My guest tonight has been Doctor Reginald Fortescue," I said. "We've been talking about Freemasonry. Doctor Fortescue some people consider Freemasonry to be a secret society intent on undermining our culture, faith and freedoms. Is there any truth in this perception?"
"None at all James. It's a myth."
"So you don't believe any of the allegations in Stephen Knight's book?"
A sharp intake of breath.
The first breath that was clearly audible to the listeners.
"Virtually everything in Stephen Knight's book has been refuted," said Doctor Fortescue evenly. "The thing was a mass of sensationalism from beginning to end. A tissue of lies. Thought quite entertaining in places, I'll admit."
I glanced at the clock again.
Thirty seconds.
Too late for my coup de grace.
Gotta try.
"And Jahbulon?" I enquired.
Doctor Fortescue looked shocked.
His jaw dropped.
Something very like fear came into his eyes.
The first emotion I'd seen there.
He had turned white as a sheet.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand," he croaked.
I nodded grimly.
"Jahbulon," I said again. "The secret name which Freemasons use as part of their rituals. Some say Jahbulon is a name for Satan."
"I don't want to talk about the name," rasped Doctor Fortescue.
Five seconds on the clock.
"Thank you to my guest Doctor Reginald Fortescue," I enunciated. "Thanks for listening folks. Now the news."
The computer blinked a few lights to tell me we were off air.
My guest stood up.
We shook hands.
It was amazing.
He had regained control.
No sign of the haunted phantom figure he had briefly become a moment before.
"That was fascinating," he said pumping my hand like an avuncular uncle. "Really fascinating. I'm sorry I didn't want to talk about the name. It's just quite complicated really."
I told him there was no problem at all.
He left the studio.


Postscript: A few days later as I walked through the shopping centre in Mullingar, I felt my spider senses tingling.
I turned.
A man with a large camera and telephoto lens had lined up for a picture of me.
I looked at him plainly.
He took his picture.
Then he turned and walked briskly away through the crowd.
I followed his progress.
He walked down the long corridor and out the back door of the shopping centre.
Who was he?
Four possibilities.
(1). The police in Mullingar might have been watching me. They're a small town unit. The new fancy pants deejay might have been put under surveillance in case he'd steal their women or something. It's not impossible.
(2) I'd made some rather droll remarks on air about Tony O'Reilly's Independent Newspapers group. Tony might have decided he'd like to get a good look at this countrified Don Quixote who had dared to tilt at his liberal atheistic wind mill.
(3). It was just a random photographer taking a random photograph and nothing to do with me.
(4). Everything I'd said about the Free Masons was true.

Friday, June 14, 2013

the impressario in repose

A night of strange and perturbed dreams.
You know what folks.
Eerie portents gild my every reverie.
I kid you not.
What can be the cause?
I'll tell you.
My play Poets In Paradise has already had a few outings in aid of charity this season.
The story of the play features a meeting in a pub in heaven of Ireland's greatest dearly departed writers.
I'm happy enough that each time the play is performed, it has created a certain magic.
All has not been plain sailing though.
For one thing, my talent for falling out with people is coming to the fore yet again.
The great film producer Sam Goldwyn is supposed to have once said: "Actors are cattle."
He was wrong.
Cattle are nice things.
Not quite plain sailing.
The devil woman diva known to fans of my work as The Brezzer is completely out of control.
In the most recent performance of the play she was walking around heaven with a handheld microphone trailing electric wires in her wake.
By the way, she made the executive decision herself to use the microphone along with lengthy backing tracks for all her songs.
Surprisingly in the past ten years, she's never actually pulled that stunt before.
All you other soprano singing sensations out there, who've been wondering if there are handheld microphones in heaven, take heart.
Apparently there are.
But this is the least of my worries.
All my humble attempts to stop this cast of Bolshevicks from including a completely out of place Italian operatic aria at the close of my play which is intended as an homage to the music, poetry and literature of Ireland, all my most earnest entreaties, all my appeals to their better nature, even my most desperately romantic sallies directed at their intellects, Gawd 'elp us, all of them I tells ee, have once more came to nought.
The Brezzer can sing it, their reasoning goes, so the aria stays in the show.
It's stayed in for ten years.
During which time the curvilinear laughter lines which enoble my exquisite preraphaelite visage, have turned a tad jagged.
An Italian aria in an homage to Irish culture.
I ask you.
Presumably if we had someone who could do a good impression of Mussolini, we could at the very least give him a walk on, instead of wasting our audiences time by ethereally and sublimely evoking the humdrum shades of such losers as Patrick Kavanagh, Percy French, Brendan Behan and WB Yeats.
O tempera, o morons.
The other cast members Uncle Scutch, Vivian Clarke and Maurice O'Mahoney will do precisely what I tell them only if the wind is blowing from the north northeast and I first throw a dead cat over my shoulder in a graveyard at midnight, crying out as I do so: "Warts go away."
Otherwise, if I so much as ask them to smile at a particular moment, they will first weigh the merits of smiling, and the ontological meaning of smiling, and the numerous possible reasons not to smile; then they will consider whether a smile might not offend foreign nationals, whether a smile might not be a bit vulgar, or whether a smile might not more efficaciously be expressed in the present context as a snarl; finally they will discuss in portentous tones amongst themselves how much James Healy really knows about smiling since he does so little of it himself and since, when he does smile, his buck teeth show and he looks a bit like one of his own hamsters, the hairy one, Fur Ham; and having exhausted this avenue of amusement, they will come to me in a veritable phalanx and utterly refuse to smile in this play or any other play, now or at any time in the foreseeable future, forever and ever, Amen.
Gawd 'elp us indeed.
You know what.
I still occasionally try to reach them.
In a magnificently heartfelt nay poignant plea I told them yesterday: "It is a serious drawback to this production if all decisions are made by committee when there's only one person on the committee who has a clue what he's talking about."
I spoke with all the calm dignity of a young Mini Mouse.
Of course, modesty prevented me from naming the person on the committee who actually knows what he's talking about.
Arf, arf.
I'll use that one again in a few months.
Pretend you're hearing it for the first time, gentle readers.
But let's get back to where we were when I started this diary entry.
I wanted to tell you about my night of strange dreams.
I have become distracted.
Last night I dreamed the strangest dream I ever did dream.
I dreamed we were in the theatre at Kilcullen for the next showing of my play which is due to take place there on December ninth in aid of my favourite charity, The Buy James Healy A New Car Foundation. (It's a noble cause. Y'all come.)
A bunch of Al Qaeda terrorists burst into the theatre.
About thirty of them.
For a moment all is chaos.
The traditional theatre style chaos to establish mood and character, featuring the Jihadis spraying the ceiling with their machine guns, a couple of them self detonating over by the video man, the audience cowering in their seats, terrorists shouting Allah U Akbar into their hand held microphones, a goonish terrorist slitting his own throat by mistake, etc etc.
Particularly etc etc.
By the way, the classic theatrical stage direction for such improvised chaos is: Business with the terrorists.
Eventually the business concludes.
Mood and credibility have been established.
Then the lead Jihadi faces the little group of performers on stage.
"Which one of you is James Healy?" he snarls smilingly.
Silence descends.
The cast look at one another with a wild surmise. (Like the Brezzer on  a peak in Darien when her microphone breaks down.)
Then, as a man, and essaying all the ancient valour of the Irish nation, Uncle Scutch, Maurice O'Mahoney, Vivian Clarke, and even the ephin miked up Brezzer herself, step forward forming a human wall at the front of the stage, a veritable phalanx of actors, and announce proudly:
"There he is. Yeah him cowering over there. Him in the white suit playing WB Yeats. Do you want us to hold him down for you?"

Thursday, June 13, 2013

ten best anti war songs of all time

1) Sleep Now In The Fire, by Rage Against The Machine. It's really an anti western society song rather than anti war. We include it here because it's never been bettered. The video, featuring television celebrity Regis Philbin presenting the American version of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, is the best piece of communist agit prop I've ever seen. The song is all the more powerful for focussing on the real dysfunctions, genuine hypocrasies, and blatent corporate banking criminalities which have infiltrated and currently hide behind our freedoms. I've been told Michael Moore directed the video. The world is in a terrible state when I'm recommending anything Michael Moore did.

2) Empty Walls by Serge Tankian. An anti Iraq war thing. Serge is an immigrant to America who did his level best to make it impossible for America to defend the world against the Muslim terror army which currently seeks to enslave us. The video is a strikingly manipulative example of back stabbing pious defeatism. We encounter a series of set pieces featuring children in a play school with Serge singing among them. Slowly you realise the children are acting out scenes from the Iraq war. The whole montage amounts to a quisling work of art. Serge should go live in a Muslim country and make a few anti Jihad songs, and see how he gets on. But wrong minded, false and crass as the song is, it's also an exceptional work of art. The video too is near perfect agit prop. Not surprising that Serge's known associates include one of the blokes from Rage Against The Machine.

3) Broken Boy Soldier, by the White Stripes. Another one Intended to break the will of the West to fight Jihadis in Iraq. A sublime piece of defeatist treachery released by Jack Black when he wished to run Pass Defence for Saddam Hussein. Still it's poetry.

4) Goodnight Saigon by Billy Joel. The classic anti Vietnam war anthem with nifty helicopter sounds crafted into the melody. The best lines are intoned in almost a whisper: "We held the day, In the palm, Of our hands. They ruled the night, And the night, Seemed to last, As long as Six Weeks..." In truth the Viet Cong never ruled the night. The Americans ruled both night and day in Vietnam. But the Viet Cong ruled CBS television. And the American CBS television traitor Walter Cronkite delivered them their victory and delivered Vietnam into a communist slavery from which it has yet to escape, with his treacherous statement: "I am convinced we cannot win this war." Every Soviet, every Chinese Communist and every Viet Cong on earth pricked up their ears at that one and began to realise this war could be stolen on the home front through Quislings like Cronkite. The Jihadis today have been similarly emboldened by Michael Moore, Serge Tankian, Noam Chomsky, Robert Fisk, CNN, the New York Times, the Washington Compost, Newsweek, Time Magazine et al. Particularly Al. I hate him. Billy Joel was typical of many of those musicians who sang about Vietnam in the 1980's. They'd never been there and yet they benefited directly (and financially) from the freedoms upheld by those who had been.

5) War, What Is It Good For, version by Bruce Springsteen. A general 1980's indictment of war. Not clear what Springsteen advocates when Hitlers tanks appear on the horizon. Singing maybe. Springsteen was also responsible for a most poignant anti Vietnam verse in Born In The USA. It would draw tears from a stone. To wit: "I had a brother at Khe Sanh, Fighting off the Viet Cong, They're still there, But he's all gone." Springsteen is another passionate peacenik in the Billy Joel mould. Opposed to Vietnam. Never been within an asses roar of the place.

6) Paul Hardcastle's 19. The multi million selling rap song about Vietnam. Hardcore cornography. This was unbelievably popular in the Summer of 1985 among the brain dead set on both sides of the Atlantic. A techno beat with a chorus line perpetually reiterating the average age of the American soldiers who fought in Vietnam. (Hint: It was over eighteen and less than twenty.) The song spawned a comic parody by impressionist comedian Rory Bremner. This was in the days when Rory Bremner was actually funny, ie before he became a poe faced Channel Four lefty. His parody was about the English cricket team. It began with exactly the same techno beat as Paul Hardcastle's and the words: "They fought they most disastrous series in Test History..."

7) Two Tribes by Frankie Goes To Hollywood. "This is the souund of the air attack siren... The air attack siren sounds like... Ahhh, ahhh ahhh, When two tribes go to war, One is all you can scorrrrre, Score to score, Score to war. More responsible than any other creative work for the ongoing knee jerk anti Americanism of a certain generation of pseuds in Great Britain. The stunningly executed video featured lookalikes of then United States President Ronald Reagan and Communist Russian President Constantin Chernienko in a wrestling match fight to the death surrounded by a baying blood thirsty, audience.

8) Stop The Cavalry (Wish I Was At Home For Christmas) by Jonah Lewie. A classic. Touching, tender, witty and saccharine sweet corny. The song and video are equally independently qualitative. Tends to get played interminably by radio stations over the Christmas period. Released in 1980, the song still captivates as does ye aforementioned video. It is poetry. This Lewie fellow is something of a genius. His other hit song about being always in kitchens at parties is just as distinctive, evocative, poetic and humorous in summing up the comparatively trivial dilemma of those of us who are always in the kitchen at parties. Seriously though.  These are the only two Jonah Lewie songs I know and they're both brilliant.

9) Army Dreamers by Kate Bush. Another Brit turning her nose up at the freedoms won by her soldiers. Video not great. Song contains moments of unfathomably poignant melodious lyric splendour.

10) War Baby by Tom Robinson. Oddly brilliant. Is he singing about war or about a love affair? "I can't stand another ten years of this fighting. All this stabbing and wounding. Only getting our own back. And later that same evening, I saw you in the car talking. And I wondered who the hell it was we were trying to fool."

11) Waltzing Mathilda. The version by Irish traditional musicians Makem And Clancy. Tears from a stone, etc etc.

12) Out In The Fields by Phil Lynott and Gary Moore. An all Irish effort. Phil Lynott was drugging and would soon be dead. Gary Moore was a rocker metamorphosing into a bluesman. Between them they came up with a piece of pure hokum which in spite of all the wall to wall cliches is a great song, at times verging on the ballsy magnificent. "It doesn't matter if you're left or to the right. Don't try to hide behind the cause for which you fight. There'll be no prisoners taken till victory is won. No flag, no uniform ever stopped a bullet from a gun. Out in the fields. The fighting has begun. Out in the fields. They are falling one by one. And today. Death is just a heart beat away... There's no communication. No one. To take the blame. The flags of every nation. They're falling one by one again."

13) Pipes Of Peace by Paul McCartney. McCartney hamming it up. The video is art too. The melody would break your heart. In a good way.

14) We'll Meet Again, by Vera Lynn. I call it anti war because the song is so beautiful and human and true. Serj Tankian, Michael Moore et Al (particularly Al, I hate him), take note. You don't have to betray your country, put your President and Prime Minister on trial, and surrender to Muslim Nazis in order to be anti war.

15) Lily Marlene, version by Marlene Dietrich. A song taken to heart by the soldiers of both sides in World War One. Marlene Dietrich's recording is the one people know. It has endured. A rarity among anti war songs. Something honest, beautiful and true.

Monday, June 10, 2013

considerations of claims of healing at medugorje

----- Forwarded Message -----
From: James Healy
To: Jeanne Marchetti USA 
Sent: Wednesday, 5 June 2013, 0:38:01
Subject: Re: from James Healy in Ireland

Good morning Mrs Marchetti.
I wrote to you a little while ago about Medjugorje.
I was inclined to publish one of your emails on my website without comment. It's the one below. I've been printing testimonies about Medjugorje this week.
Irish blessings and fond regards to you and yours.

From: Jeanne Marchetti
To: 'James Healy'  
Sent: Sunday, 17 February 2013, 13:58:44
Subject: RE: from James Healy

Hello James,
I believe with all my heart that the Blessed Mother appeared and is appearing in Medjugorje.
Though I never saw a miracle, I was given the privilege to take Margaret in the apparition room, an event that I will never forget.
It was on the 2nd day of our pilgrammage, just before the time when the children were to come and have the apparition. A priest stood on the landing of the steps leading to the library where the parish priest lived so that he could select people to be in the apparition room. He asked in broken English if anyone sick was in the crowd below. I raised my hand and all of our friends answered, "their baby is sick!" He pointed to Margaret and me and we walked up the steps. I realized my husband wasn't with me and I cried saying my husband is in the crowd and he needs to come with us because he is carrying the diaper bag. Gino was then allowed to join us and we walked in the room where there were maybe 20 people-some sick, and some clergy. We sat for a few minutes and the visionaries walked into the room saying prayers. I think they were saying the "Our Father."  They said a few "Hail Mary's" in Croation and then in the middle of the prayers, they looked up to the bookcase in front of them at about 8 feet and continued to talk or pray but they were silent. We could see that they were talking or praying because their throats and mouths were in motion as it is when one talks. Jakov and Ivanka kept their eyes fixed on the same spot for what seemed like a long time-maybe 10 minutes.
Before the visionaries entered the room, we looked down and Margaret had soiled her diaper so it needed to be changed. After changing the diaper we realized there were no clean pants in her diaper bag and she had no pants in a room which was cold. The temperature seemed to be in the high 40's or low 50's and Margaret was crying hard, so hard that some of the clergy seemed annoyed that she was disturbing their experience. I thought that Mary had invited us to come to Medjugorje so we stayed in the apparition room. Margaret kept crying even after the visionaries entered the room but after a few minutes I forget that Margaret was crying because I was so focused on Mary. Then  I began the prayer which I had prepared. It went something like this, "Mary, I am a sinner and I don't deserve a miracle for my Margaret. But we are both mothers and you understand the pain which comes with watching your child suffer. Please ask your son to heal Margaret. Please ask your son to heal Margaret."
Then I looked down at Margaret who had stopped crying. Her little legs looked like they were warming up and were now pink again instead of the whitish bluish color that you get in the cold. I looked at Gino and his cheeks were flushed like there was a heater in the room but the room was very cold. I felt heat as though there was a heater in front of us though there was only a bookcase which two children were kneeling in front of.  This heat is still unexplained but it was real.
We thought Margaret may have been cured but she wasn't cured. It was disappointing but we had a powerful experience in Medjugorje which is just a memorable 26 years later.
Please allow me to approve anything you write about me if you decide to write anything. Wayne wrote things which were not true and we were very saddened by this.
I forgot to mention that we met Rita Klaus, a school teacher from Pennsylvania, who was cured of MS. This cure is documented. I don't have her contact information but we met her and she is very humble and genuine.
I hope this helps.
God Bless you.
Jeanne Marchetti
From: James Healy 
Sent: Sunday, February 17, 2013 12:15 AM
To: Jeanne Marchetti
Subject: from James Healy
Dear Mrs Marchetti.
Thank you from my heart for your answer to my email.
If in the future I am writing about Medjugorje, would you mind if I published what you have told me?
I have written about Medugorje on my website The Heelers Diaries ( a few times but I've always refused to come to any conclusions.
I will certainly include your intentions in my prayers from now on.
I feel privileged that you shared so much of your story with me and I was delighted to hear that the Blessed Mother has become an inspiration to you, and that your daughter is about to be married.
God has truly blessed you.
You also seem to have some faith in the reality of the Medjugorje apparitions. Am I right in this? I find the apparitions fascinating, and was very soothed in the spirit by Mr Weible's book. But I have not discerned if the Blessed Mother is really appearing to the visionaries.
Your answer to my email made me wonder.
Has your attitude to Wayne Weible been altered by what has happened? I mean is he a dependable witness when he talks about miracles at Medjugorje?
Is his claim in The Message untrue that you rang him as he was preparing for an air trip and said: "Mary Margaret is well."
In the later editions of the book does he retain the same description of the events involving you and your family?
Tell me Mrs Marchetti, do you personally believe that Mary has appeared to the visionaries? Have you visited Medjugorje?
Lots of questions. Forgive me.
Thank you again for answering my email.
God's blessing with you and yours.

FOOTNOTE by James Healy: Protestant convert to Catholicism, Wayne Weible published a book in the early 1990's endorsing the genuineness of claims of apparitions at Medjugorje. Mr Weible seems to me to be likeable and honorable in his intentions. One item in the book implied that the Marchetti child had been healed of cystic fibrosis. Mr Weible's representatives have chosen not to correspond with me on these matters.