Physically, Father Greer wasn't a giant, but spiritually he was

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I expected him to be larger, a Paul Bunyan in clericals, because a man of average height and build couldn't carry the burdens he carries.

I expected him to shimmer, like a glossy photo of a saint, because of the things I carry.

But there he was, a latter-day Pat O'Brien in a white golf sweater, strolling around the sprawling grounds of his church before Mass on a flawless September Sunday, looking remarkably calm and untroubled as he greeted each of his parishioners by name.

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Chill of `The Februaries' goes on and on and on and on

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My daughter calls these days "The Februaries," an apt word for the dead-of-winter mood that is heavy, like snow; that presses hard on hearts, that is like ice on a roof, an unnecessary burden.

The Februaries - a time of restlessness and melancholy and longing; a month to be to endured, not enjoyed. Unless you ski, or skate. Unless you vacation in Colorado, or New Hampshire, or Vermont. (It's beautiful up here, a friend says, calling from a ski lodge. It's been snowing for 24 hours.) Or unless you escape to somewhere warm, where February isn't. ("You should come to Florida, Mom," my son says.)

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AIDS cards: just another child's plaything?

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Cat made it sound quite aboveboard. Purely educational. AIDS Awareness Trading Cards, featuring people with AIDS, hotline numbers, plus a condom instead of bubble gum in each package, she explained long distance from Eclipse Comics in Forestville, Calif., were designed to educate people and to help stop AIDS.

Cat edited these cards, and she's proud of them. There are 110 in all and they sell for just 99 cents for a pack of 12. They don't just feature people who've died of AIDS. There are AIDS Facts cards, and AIDS Myths cards, and cards showing the Demographics of AIDS, the effect of AIDS on the world, descriptions of other sexually transmitted diseases such as syphilis and herpes, as well as the AIDS hotline numbers for 25 major U.S. cities.

They are not, as you can see, kid's play.

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Tonight two lovebirds will toast St. Valentine and hum `How Soon?'

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I always get the story wrong. No matter how many times I hear it I confuse the details. Was he wearing the sweater with the reindeer the night they met? Or was she? Was it September or October 1947 or 1948?

It was Sept. 5, 1947. He was wearing the reindeer sweater. She was wearing a red Sheltie Mist sweater, white bucks and a camel-hair skirt that swirled every time she swayed. I know because I can see her legs, long and shapely. Incredible, unforgettable legs. That's what Joe said the first time he told me the story and that's what he always says, every time he relates it.

"She had great legs" and "she was absolutely beautiful."

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1,001 small acts of kindness necessary for love to survive

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When it arrived in the mail, I dismissed it as another of those self-help books that promises more than it delivers. Nice cover, eye-grabbing title - "1001 Ways To Be Romantic" - but inevitably just a rehash of those tacky, smarmy suggestions that appear in Cosmo once a year.

My 21-year-old daughter set me straight.

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Family leave bill's a sham

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You would think it was this great, magnanimous thing. "Family leave" - it has the ring of a papal dispensation. It has the sound of charity.

But it is neither. The much-debated bill finally working its way through Congress is crumbs from the table. It's much ado about nothing. Workers, primarily women, if the great and glorious Senate approves and the president signs, will be entitled to take off 12 whole weeks from work without pay to stay home and care for their infants.

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Bigotry in uniform can't stand

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It doesn't do any good to scream at someone and tell him he's wrong. Yell, and a wall gets built. Deride, and it's the same thing. You have to be reasonable, understanding and incredibly patient if you ever intend to enlighten a person and lead him to change his mind.

It would, therefore, be stupid and counterproductive for me to make any blanket negative statement about heterosexual men.

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Anne Frank's Dutch protector fed hungry mouths and minds

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His obituary was short, just a few paragraphs in Thursday's paper: "AMSTERDAM, Netherlands - Jan Gies, who risked his life to smuggle food to Anne Frank and members of the Dutch underground during World War II, has died at age 87."

"Risked his life." The words are too pat. They imply a one-time thing: A man dashes into a burning building and risks his life to rescue a person trapped on the third floor. A woman races into the street and risks her life to save a child from being run down by a car. Adrenaline and instinct fuel these actions. There is no time to think of the consequences.

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Sweet 16 and growing up fast

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For years, I would tuck her in every night and sing a little song I made up: "Stay little. Stay little. Little, little stay. Little stay. Little stay little." Even before she understood, I sang these words to her.

But long after there was any need to tuck her in, when she was quite capable of getting into bed herself, I continued with the ritual and the song. It was dumb, I know, but it was a tradition and it was all ours.

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Majority in muddy middle on abortion

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There are zealots on both sides of the abortion issue: pro-choicers who believe a woman should be able to have an abortion at any stage in her pregnancy for any reason at all; pro-lifers who decry all abortions, no matter what the circumstances.

These are the people we continually read about or see on the news. But their views aren't our views. Their views don't represent where most Americans are on this issue.

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12-year-old in White House deserves a little understanding

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OK, all you professional communicators out there - television anchors and personalities, reporters, columnists, entertainers, satirists, humorists, big shots and little shots alike - raise your right hand and repeat after me:

"I will lay off Chelsea Clinton for the next four years. I will not say or write or even intimate anything negative about her. I will not undermine her, ridicule her or go for a laugh at her expense, either in print or on film.

"I will treat her as if she were my 12-year-old daughter, tenderly, aware that 12 is a tough age to be and that 13 isn't much better, and 14 and 15 are no prizes either, and even an unintentional comment, even a pair of seemingly harmless words such as `frizzy hair' can make a young girl sob and inflict a wound that hurts for a lifetime."

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Look what she found in a little shop of wonders

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NEW ORLEANS - This time I walk to Decatur Street to find it. It used to be on another street, in the middle of the French Quarter, just around the corner from the Place D'Armes, where we have stayed every other time we've been in New Orleans.

This time we are lodged at the Prince Conti and when I ask how to get to Beckham's Bookshop, I am told the small store I remember is closed, but that there is a bigger shop not too far away.

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In wedding book, half a story

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I probably looked at the book five years ago. That was the last real "occasion." Twenty years married then; a time for reflection.

Tomorrow it will be 25 years.

I unearth it now from among a pile of baby books and children's drawings and saved holiday cards and report cards and diplomas. It is, surprisingly, in good shape, discolored only around the edges. The square photographs, rimmed in white, the rust-colored pieces of scotch tape, the prices on the back of the congratulations cards - 15 and 25 cents - these are the things that date it. I carry it into the kitchen, thinking how strange it is that this book is a quarter of a century old.

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If Clinton is to succeed, we must work with him, not buck him

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This is what we want from Bill Clinton: We want him to turn the country around, to heal the wounds and bridge the divisions and make us all one nation under God again.

We want him to fix the economy, clean up our cities, put an end to crime, banish illegal drugs, reduce unemployment, repair our schools, invest in education, build affordable housing, find a cure for AIDS, create a universal health-care system, secure nuclear wastes, refurbish our highways, reduce pollution, be fair to Haitians, stand tough with Saddam Hussein, deal with Somalia and talk sense to the Serbs.

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Cooking `miracle' turns sour

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After The Miracle, I envisioned myself a cook. For days when I looked into the mirror, I saw Julia Child. I dreamed about scallions and leeks. I pored over the food section in the papers. I cut out recipes. I actually thought about subscribing to Gourmet magazine. I believed I was a changed woman.

The Miracle had convinced me. I'd had a dinner party, and it had been a success. The smoke alarm hadn't gone off. No one left the table with stomach cramps. I didn't have to serve Tums for after-dinner mints. I'd done the impossible: I'd cooked a meal people had actually swallowed and enjoyed.

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Education: The great divide

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It's the first capitulation. Totally understandable. Maybe even warranted. But it's a surrender, nonetheless, of ideals and perhaps even goals.

President-elect Bill Clinton has decided to send his only child, Chelsea, to private school. Who can blame him? Who, in his position, wouldn't do the same? He is the president. She is his daughter. Why shouldn't she have the best?

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Starting a new year demands a whole new beginning - I thought

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I used to be compulsive about New Year's Day. About all beginnings: beginnings of days, weeks, months. I figured if I could somehow make everything perfect on this one day, on this first day, then the rest of the days would obediently follow.

If I didn't get the light on the way to Dunkin' Donuts on a Sunday morning, and I did get a parking space, and the line was short and not long, and they had powdered lemon donuts honey-dipped sticks, then the week would be wonderful. If not, well…

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