How's That Again?

I drove to the nearby town of Dustville today to write my sermon. I usually go out of town to do this, to escape distractions. I'd much rather visit and talk than write, so I get away from Smalltown and don't let myself come back until the sermon is done. I scribbled away in the Dustville local luncheonette, called Lurdy's. Sitting at a 1950s style curvy table and chairs, with Bill Haley and the Comets singing "Rock Around the Clock" in the background, I wrote. I ignored the brightly colored posters of Ford Mustangs, Ford Falcons, and Chevrolet Bel-Airs on the walls, along with black-and-white photos of retro motorcycles. Midway through the sermon I picked up the Dustville Daily Diddle and read the news and op-ed pages. The local Methodist church was hosting an ice cream social while the Baptists were having a churchwide yard sale. A color pullout ad urged me to stop in at the nearby Dairy Freeze for a 99 cent slush or a buck-and-a-quarter corn dog. Then I saw That Letter. In the column of Letters to the Editor, a woman had written in complaining about Daylight Savings Time. Why, she demanded, was Congress so determined to have it? I mean, we get enough sunlight as it is and with global warming we sure don't need any more. Think of all the extra heat it's creating. She mentioned that she was from Arkansas.

Two Encounters

While I was in the office today, Lola Flushpoole the church pianist came by. She sat down in my office to chat. In the course of our conversation she told me of a recent thunderstorm she'd experienced. Shaking back her gray hair, adjusting her glasses, and then nodding her head in reminiscence, she described how in that storm lightning had struck just outside her back door. "It made a blinding flash and then came the biggest bang of thunder I'd ever heard. I have three cats and three dogs. All six animals disappeared under six different pieces of furniture and pooped. I saw that and said to myself, 'This is life's darkest moment.'"

Billy-John, Myra MacDonald's husband, called me too. Billy-John is almost 70. He's completely bald and wears glasses, and usually has on a plaid shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. He'd rather be outdoors than inside, and I often see him on his riding mower outside the MacDonalds' house. Today he called to chat about church trustee business. Before discussing that, I asked him how he was doing. He grinned. "I'm doin' so good, I think I'll franchise myself."

Interlude

At the family reunion we remembered my brother Vic's first attempt at writing a book. He wrote it in sixth grade, in 1978, and it was a detective story called "The Wriley Children." Unfortunately the original has been lost but here are some excerpts.
"Tom Wriley, the oldest, gathered the other Wriley children together to look around the neighborhood to track down Russian spies. He told them, "Go and look around, and then report back to me any suspicious buildings you may find." (As if one of the kids would come back to Tom and say, "I found a suspicious building! It DEFINITELY wasn't there yesterday!")
In another scene, Mr. Wriley is talking to Mrs. Wriley one evening. He says to her, "Honey, I have great news!"
"Oh that is wonderful dear, " said Mrs. Wriley. "What is your news?"
"After 25 years, I have finally found myself a job!"
(Good news indeed. I'm sure Mrs. Wriley was pleased.)

Interlude

We took time during our family visit to talk about strange complaints some of us had received from customers while at work. One cousin, a travel agent, told of dealing with a difficult woman who was booking travel to Disney World in Orlando, Florida. She requested "a room with an ocean view." My cousin Sandy told her that it wasn't possible; Orlando is inland. The woman insisted, "You can't fool me. Get me the ocean view. I've seen maps of the U.S. and Florida is a very thin state."

Cousin Billie, who manages a restaurant in Indiana, had her own story about a dissatisfied customer. A middle-aged gentleman with gray hair announced to her, "I have a complaint about your coleslaw." Billie responded, "I'm sorry to hear that. What's the problem?" The man told her, "It tastes like raw cabbage!"

Interlude

My Great Grandma Coia was always up to something. One overcast Sunday morning she was walking to church in her hometown of Bloomington, Indiana. She had on a freshly ironed, red print dress, her best shoes, and a red hat. She was using an umbrella as a walking stick. As a devout Catholic, Grandma Coia rarely missed Mass. My parents were accompanying her as guests at her church that day so they walked with her and witnessed what happened.

The elastic broke on Grandma's bloomers and they fell down around her ankles. Grandma immediately kicked the bloomers high into the air, opened her umbrella, and caught the flying pants. She clicked the umbrella shut and kept right on walking.

Interlude

My mother's family had some characters too. The resident con man, cheat, and all-around horse's tush was my Uncle Leon. Leon was my great-uncle by marriage. Leon made a deal with my other great-uncle by marriage, Uncle Bill. Just before Uncle Bill went off to fight in Germany in World War II, Leon talked Bill into buying a flock of sheep together as an investment. When Bill returned from the war, Leon came to see him looking solemn. "Bill," he told his partner, "While you were gone, the sheep got sick. Half of them died.

"And," he added, "That was your half."

Interlude

More on Grandma Coia. She was a short, dark-haired, black-eyed Italian woman with a hooked Roman nose. I barely knew her as she died when I was five years old, but I recall that nose and her shrieking foreign voice calling to me, "Come-a to Grrrandma Coia!" I would run and hide. I thought she was a witch. Too bad I wasn't older and could have gotten truly to know her.

In 1951 she was living with her son Victor and his wife Myrtle, my grandparents. They decided they'd had enough of Grandma in the same house with them. I can't say I blame them. Who wants your mother/mother in law right there in the house all the time? In 1952 my grandparents remodeled their house, giving Grandma quarters next door to them in a newly created apartment. My folks visited Grandma just after she had been given her own place next door. You'd think they'd sent her to Siberia. Grandma was crying. "My son and Myrtle, they-a throw me out of their house," she sniffed. "They-a send me away over here." She wiped her eyes. Just then the upstairs toilet flushed next door. Grandma burst into a fresh flood of tears and wailed, "And they even shit on my head!"

Interlude

At Aunt Jean's memorial party, drinking Aunt Jean's memorial beer, we reminisced about our paternal grandfather. Grandpa, whose first name was Victor, used to love to jerk Grandma's chain. He was like a little boy in many ways. He loved to tease Grandma and she always rose to the bait. After someone had said a very reverent blessing over supper one night, Grandpa would chime in. "I've got a grace you can say over chicken. Here it is. Bless The Meat, To Heck With The Skin, Open Your Mouth, and Poke It In!" Grandma would say, "Oh, Victor." Later over dinner, the conversation turned to upcoming Fourth of July celebrations. Grandpa had a ditty for that too. To the tune of the 'Star Spangled Banner' he sang lustily, "Oh Say Can You See, Any Bed Bugs On Me? If You Can, Have a Few. Then We'll All Have Some Too!"

To this day, I can hear Grandma's voice echoing, "Oh, Victor."

Interlude

My brother Vic told a true story about my father, Vic Senior. He was there for Vic's wife Eileen's 40th birthday party. My father drank too much and as usual, he guzzled a massive amount of wine and then retired to bed early leaving everyone else to continue celebrating. About half an hour after my father disappeared, Eileen's ten-year-old niece Megan came to her. Megan had an urgent look in her eyes as she addressed Eileen. "We have an emergency." Eileen was alarmed. "What's going on?" Megan responded, "It's Vic Senior. He's asleep on top of the bed in the guest room in his boxer shorts. And that's not all. There's, uh, stuff hanging out."

There was. Vic Senior was snoring away in his boxers with the light on, the window shade up, and his boxers fully ventilated to reveal his 81-year-old family jewels. As the window looked out onto the street by the front door, everyone going in or out had a view. Six children aged five to thirteen were crowded around the window, whispering and pointing and giggling at Vic Senior's dangly bits. Eileen snapped off the light, pulled down the shade, and ended the free show. What memories they made for the children that night. Not the ones they planned, for sure.

Interlude

It's a shame that someone in the family has to die to get everyone else together but that's the way it goes. After my aunt's memorial service we all went over to my cousin John's house for a massive party. Aunt Jean would have loved it if she could have been there. It was just the kind of party she always hosted, full of stories and laughs. Cousin Shari, 57, told us about her grandson Michael's fourth birthday party. About fifteen people were present: grandparents and cousins, uncles and aunts, and all were sitting at the big dining table which was covered with gifts. Michael opened his first present and it was a robot dog, the cool toy of the year. Michael wasn't that crazy about robot dogs but still smiled and said thank you. Then he opened his second gift. It was a similar, bigger robot dog. Michael exclaimed, "Oh no! Not ANUDDER one!" His mother's eyebrows shot up in horror and she quickly escorted Michael out of the room for a brief talk. When they re-entered the dining room and sat down again at the table, Michael gave a pained smile to the gift giver. "Thank you vewwy much."

Interlude

Had a death in the family so was gone to Indiana this week then on to Austin to take care of personal business. I stayed over one night in Corpus Christi at the airport TraveLodge to work on my next sermon. It was a pleasant surprise. The reviews weren't great and it's true the place had seen better days in the 1950s and was somewhat dirty. But I expected that. The Corpus Christi International Airport is such a rockin' place that the TraveLodge Corpus Christi address is "Corn Products Road". Nearby streets are Wheatfield Way and Cow Pattie Cove. Not really but they should have been. I fished a Band Aid and birdfeathers out of the swimming pool before I jumped in but the pool was fine otherwise. And I had the most stunning view that I've ever had of an oil refinery.

It reminded me of my Italian Great Grandma Coia, 1870-1965, who used to make surprise visits to my newly married parents in Indiana years ago. Grandma didn't always tell them she was coming. She'd just show up. She did that once while they were out of town and they were off at their summer cottage on Lake Michigan. Being Josephine Coia, never embarrassed by anything and game for anything, she introduced herself to the neighbors next door. They liked her so much they invited her to stay with them until my parents got back. When my mother and father returned, there was Grandma emerging from the neighbors' home after a two-day visit. Grandma, who spoke little English, waved at them and said, "I thank-a you for having me stay." Then she went into my parents' home with them, made a face, and declared, "I never-a staying with those-a people again. House too dirty."

Surprises in a Cemetery

I attended a memorial graveside service for the mother of a church member yesterday. The deceased was a Catholic so a priest officiated. I was interested in how he sprinkled a crucifix with holy water and gave it to Marjorie, her daughter. I was more interested in a small blond puppy, a stray, who had decided to attend the service also. He came across the cemetery and wandered around the attendees, looking for someone to pet him, as if he'd come to offer consolation. Animals do that sometimes. I remember a difficult death in my own family where a kitten showed up from out of the blue. She stayed on the porch of our house the whole time the family was there. This blond puppy seemed to be doing the same thing. He looked like part Chihuahua, part fox terrier, and part Labrador retriever, from which he got his blond color. He lay down next to the casket before the service and several children patted and fussed over him. He was completely at ease with that. I decided that after the service I would take him home and adopt him. That's the story of how I got Luis. I named him that because he seems not to understand commands like Sit, Heel, Stay, and Hey Not On The Carpet. I have decided that the reason is because Luis is a recent Mexican immigrant and speaks no English. But by golly he's going to learn some! I have my work cut out for me.

When the service was over and Luis had run out of people to greet, he found a spot nearby and started to dig. One old man with a lazy drawl commented, "Maaaybe he's looookin' for a bone."

Dead Ugly Critters

Smalltown is dry again, and the insects are invading my house in search of water. Not a day goes by when I don't find a cricket or a cockroach that has croaked or a beetle that has gone belly-up. The occasional pill bug pops up too. If I were doing funerals for all these insects, I'd never get out of the cemetery.

From Irreverence to Reverence, Fourth of July

Now I'm going to get serious for a moment. On the Fourth of July, I was supposed to meet another Irreverent Reverend woman and her husband for fireworks in a nearby city by the sea. Unfortunately they cancelled at the last minute. By that time, I was sitting by the sea in my lawn chair with a bottle of water and a book and was quite comfortable. My friend invited me to come to where she was, but I declined. I was fine with watching fireworks solo as they exploded in brilliant colored flowers over the bay. However, I had been imbibing bottled water for quite some time and my bladder was backing up. I had been chatting with a friendly Hispanic family who had set up camp next to me. There was Grandpa, Grandma, their three daughters, and nine grandchildren. The grandparents didn't look old enough to be grandparents and their daughters didn't look old enough to be mothers. Anyway, the grandfather's name was Joe. I didn't get the grandmother's name. One of their daughters had three children and was pregnant with her fourth. The grandmother told me that her daughters tried to get her to watch all nine of the kids while the daughters were at work or at school. The grandmother described having the nine grandchildren as "very stressful." At that point, with my bladder insisting on quick relief, I asked Joe if he'd be so kind as to watch my lawn chair while I excused myself. Joe said he'd be happy to do it. I hastened across the street to use the facilities in the swanky hotel there. After doing so, I had a sudden inspiration, I stopped at the hotel coffee shop on the way out and bought their last two giant chocolate chip cookies. When I got back to my lawn chair, I gave the cookies in a bag to Joe. "Here. Thanks for watching my stuff. I'm grateful, and I brought you these cookies to share with your kids."

To say the least, this family didn't look like they ate fancy cookies often. Joe broke the cookies into fragments so that everybody got some. He did it with the reverence of a priest serving them Holy Communion. The expression of bliss on everyone's faces as they received and tasted those cookies was a wonder to behold. I was awed and humbled. We really do receive our greatest rewards when we serve the poor. I'm glad I asked them for a favor first, however. Nobody wants to be somebody else's charity project. This way it was a partnership. In my mind's eye, I can still see the grandparents, their grown daughters, and all those grandchildren with eyes closed and tongues running over their lips as they tasted those delicious cookies. I can still see the smeared chocolate on the babies' faces, and their smiles.

I'm going to remember this for a long time.

Free Standing Water

It rained yesterday in Smalltown and the streets are flooded. That's not unusual. The drainage system in this town is no system at all. After even a brief cloudburst, it's advisable for me to wear my waterproof sandals that I originally bought to wade in streams up in the Hill Country. Myra McDonald, the church secretary, told me to get used to it. "All someone has to do is spit in the street and there's a flood," she remarked. Myra, by her own admission, loves to talk and she's entertaining enough that I enjoy listening to her. Today she was complaining about her husband Billy-John. Apparently Billy-John had complained to her first, saying she talked all the time and never let him get a word in edgewise. Myra exclaimed to me, "I told him that if he'd just tell his story right the first time, I wouldn't have to tell it for him!"

This town is going to the dogs. Literally. Actually it has already gone to the dogs. I came out of the house after the rain yesterday and sniffed the air for the expected scent of freshness. I inhaled instead the soothing, refreshing essence of dog poop. Animal control is just as nonexistent here as drainage is, so the dogs rule. There are dogs in the yards, dogs on the sidewalks, dogs in the alleys, and dogs lying in the streets napping. Yesterday I saw a big, droopy Basset Hound/Dachshund mix standing in the street, staring at me. He was in no hurry to go anywhere. He had bloodshot red eyes, a dappled brown coat, big dangling ears, and his body was as long as a freight train.

Lesson in Great Literature

Lola Flushpoole and I talked today to get ready for tomorrow's Sunday service. After taking care of business, she informed me that her cousin had cancer. Her cousin had learned of a new experimental cancer drug from reading about it in a most dependable piece of literature, the National Enquirer. "Just think, if she hadn't had the Enquirer right at her bedside, she'd never have known about this new drug and it's working really well for her. I recommend you subscribe to the National Enquirer." After being thus enlightened by Mrs. Flushpoole, I went out to my backyard to see if George, the yard man, had cut the grass out back like he had promised he would. He hadn't, but it had rained so I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he'll return today. The church secretary, Myra McDonald, snorts when she mentions George and says he has a low IQ. Maybe, maybe not. I notice that every time he cuts the yard and I come out to inspect it, he's there waiting to get paid. He just appears. His timing is amazing. Does he cut the yard and then hide in the bushes to wait? Or is he up a tree somewhere?

I followed up with Lola Flushpoole about her suggestion that I subscribe to the National Enquirer. Did she recommend that I also subscribe to the Examiner? She looked shocked. "Heavens no. Don't subscribe to the Examiner. That's a piece of trash and it's full of lies."