my e e cummings moment

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did.

women and men were (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain

children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that no one loved him more by more

when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her

someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then) they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)

one day anyone died i guess
(and no one stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was

all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
no one and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.

women and men (both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

e e cummings (1894-1962)

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(With acknowledgements to Lisa Maguire.)
 

A Tale of Two Weddings

The wedding of my parents was a relatively simple affair.

My father's Air National Guard unit had been activated, and he was heading off to join the occupation forces in Germany. But about a week before he shipped out, he married Mom. When I was a boy, I would ask him where they went on their honeymoon. He said he was still on it. Only years later did I learn, that it too was rather scaled-down as well.

IMAGE: The wedding of Dorothy Rosselot to Paul Alexander, with their attendants, Margery Rosselot and Raymond Alexander, St Patrick Church, Fayetteville, Ohio, June 1952.

That was sixty-five years ago this past summer.

Closer to the present, it was just thirty-five years ago today, that I was treated to the most fun I have ever had at a wedding -- believe it or not, my own.

The day was picked out well in advance using The Old Farmer's Almanac, and we got the sunny and mild weather that was predicted. It was meticulously planned to the last detail, with invitations personally silk-screened by the groom, and addressed by hand in calligraphy. As it was a daytime wedding, the groom and his attendants wore morning coats. God forbid they appear in black tie before six in the evening. There were little more than a hundred people in attendance, making the little church just over half full. The choir from the parish in Georgetown where I sang was present, singing Mozart's Ave Verum Corpus and Duruflé's Ubi Caritas in Latin, as the Divine Liturgy was chanted throughout in English and Slavonic. We exchanged custom-designed rings, each bearing a simulation of the wreathed crowns that we wore as the Gospel was proclaimed.

IMAGE: A scene from the author's first marriage, Epiphany Byzantine Catholic Church, Annandale, Virginia, September 1982.

The reception was held at the old Evans Farm Inn in McLean, Virginia. (A luxury townhouse neighborhood now stands in its place, for reasons that defy all good sense.) Papa was a rough-edged steel mill foreman from Cleveland, who dropped out of school in the ninth grade when his father died, leaving him to support the family. By this time retired, he would accept nothing less than a show of his generosity. And so, the bridal couple's choice of chicken cordon bleu for dinner was abandoned in favor of prime rib, and the event is, to this day, the only wedding I have ever attended, with an open bar.

You read that right. Open, as in, all you can drink without falling down.

We had an old-fashioned square dance. Obviously the amplification did not blow the doors off the place, so people of all ages could relax and hear themselves think. Indeed, it was a central tenet of the couple's plans, that everyone of all ages and stations in life would feel comfortable at the event. Even the priest stayed for dinner. (They don't always, usually for reasons stated above.) As for the then-happy couple, they were last seen at ten o'clock in the evening, dancing with "Doc" Botzer on the piano, doing the Salty Dog Rag.

VIDEO: Dancing to Red Foley's 1952 hit song, "The Salty Dog Rag" has been a Dartmouth College tradition since 1972, where it is taught to freshman during orientation. Don't ask me why.

The total cost of the 1982 event was roughly four thousand dollars, an expense shared between the bride's parents, the groom's parents, and the couple themselves (with descending percentages of the share in that order). Using the consumer price index, this amount would translate in 2017 to just over ten thousand dollars. The average cost of a wedding in the United States is presently estimated at just over twenty-seven thousand dollars.

The bride's sister later said that the wedding was not only excruciatingly correct, but was one where everyone was made to feel at home. The marriage was a complete disaster, but the event that started it, in this writer's estimation, is a model for all the world to follow.

The marriage lasted just under ten years. After twenty-five years, if I tell a devout Catholic that I've been divorced all this time, they'll go "Awww" and tell me how sorry they are. I state here for the record that, first, she left me, and second, after a quarter of a century I'm not sorry anymore.

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It is the observation of this writer, generally speaking, that there are only six kinds of people for whom a Catholic wedding in this day and age, especially in North America, is suited in terms of feeling at home.

1) The bride and groom (we can only hope),

2) The bridal party, as the event revolves around them, if to a lesser degree than the couple,

3) The families of the bride and groom,

4) Single young men and women of marriageable age, as such events tend to inspire them to follow suit,

5) Other married couples, for whom this occasion is to welcome the newlyweds to their mutual state in life, and finally

6) Two or more women in a group, if only to talk about what everyone else is wearing.

IMAGE: The author plays his great-uncle's 1916 Stewart banjo with the band. Fiddler-pianist Dennis "Doc" Botzer is to his left. Opposite is the renowned dance caller Louis Shapiro.

Now that may appear to cover a lot, but you may notice the absence of two categories.

One of them is celibate clergy. Priests who officiate at weddings are often invited to the reception, but they usually leave as the party is getting started. Such events as these are not the most comfortable for those who choose the celibate life, and after some years of taking the cloth, they develop an aversion to very loud music, (I'm a musician by avocation, and even I don't get the idea of cranking up the volume.)

The other is divorced or unmarried people of middle age, especially men, especially when unaccompanied. The best dancer among them will be turned down, either by many a married woman for whom this is not her husband or close friend, or an unmarried and eligible woman who does not see her unborn children in his eyes. (See item 4.) Of course, it is ill-mannnered to presume to bring a guest who is not invited by the bridal couple. It is certainly not for relationships that are less than serious, and publicly so. The guest must receive a separate invitation, or the invitation may be addressed to the invitee "and Guest."

IMAGE: In an old Eastern European custom, the bride relinquishes her veil for the babushka, signifying her entry into womanhood. Note the bridesmaids' dresses (from Garfinkles), in a style which they would be most likely to wear again.

A few years ago, one of the best friends I ever made in this God-forsaken city after more than three decades, married a young woman who is just right for him. I had occasion to meet her and her mother for brunch after Mass. The groom has also met Sal, and we have both been to his house. Our association was no secret, and he had no cause for that association as a source of scandal. So when I received the invitation, I was taken aback that it was addressed to me alone. Now, Sal is a woman of a rather high degree of breeding, born and raised in the Philippines to be well-versed in old world Spanish manners. If she was insulted by the exclusion (and she was), then she had a reason.

Nevertheless, it was the prerogative of the happy couple to decide that which was in their interest, and one should take pains here to lay stress. Mine was to decline the invitation, send them a very nice gift, and wish for them nothing but the best. He and I are still friends, but it's not the same.

Harry Truman was right about this town. If I had a much bigger place, I'd get a dog.
 

Birthday 61 Revisited

IMAGE: A signpost honoring US Highway 61, a north-south route in the Midwest that generally follows the Mississippi River, and is thus a perennial theme in the American blues tradition.

Yesterday I turned sixty-one years old. It was a day I share with actor Denzel Washington, professional wrestler Lanny Poffo, and magazine editor and morning news anchor Gayle King. Granted, it was not the banner year that was the previous birthday, and “Sal” was overseas on a family matter (more on that later). On the other hand, I received a record number of over one hundred birthday greetings on Facebook, more than twice as many as the previous year, including a record number of ex-girlfriends. I also got to see the new Star Wars movie (not too shabby, in spite of what they say), and I had the best steak dinner ever at my usual just-down-the-street Irish pub.

Aside from all that, it was just another day.

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They will probably come more quickly now, and an awareness of the inevitable is setting in. I remember things that I think only happened last year, but upon closer examination, happened two or three years ago. I meet former altar servers whom I supervised at my parish, who are now married and having children. And more often than not, when I walk into a room at the agency where I work, I am the oldest person there.

IMAGE: The Nine Ages of Man by Jörg Breu the Younger (circa 1510-47).

Most men at this point realize that there are things on the "bucket list" they made up at twenty-five, that they realize they are never going to get to do. I don't believe I suffer from that as much as others. I'll probably play guitar more often than I have in the last ten years, but the chances of being in a working band do get smaller. But never say never.

I am often told that I don't look as old as I am, maybe five or even ten years younger (especially by women, which is even better). True, I don't have wrinkles, and I still only have one chin. Maybe that's the ticket. Or maybe it's because the men in my lineage tend to live a long time, well into their eighties, even after a life of smoking like a chimney and drinking like a fish (not that I'm about to mention any names). My brother has the same good fortune, further evidence of it running in the family. Even my father spent half his life stricken with multiple sclerosis, and he lived to be eighty-six-and-a-half.

VIDEO: Pete Singer performs "Get Up And Go," a tribute to growing older, in a 1967 broadcast on “The Smothers Brothers Comedy Hour” (CBS).

But others are not so fortunate. I tend to look more at the obituaries than before, to see if there's anyone I know, or just how close in age I am to those who have passed on. Just a couple of months ago I read of a woman who died, who had worked at my agency for years. She hadn't been retired for one year when she was found to have cancer, and died soon after. She was only a couple of years older than myself. Could that just as easily happen to me, the odds notwithstanding? Now, if I were diagnosed with, say, pancreatic cancer, I'd be in a lot of pain, but I know I'd have a timetable, about six to eight months.

But I'm not waiting for that. For the following year of Our Lord 2016, I will begin the process of putting my affairs in order; the composition of a Last Will and Testament, detailed instructions on my funeral and burial arrangements, and what to do with my library of books, divided by subject matter, and where they will go. The hard part is with my musical instrument collection, which includes a banjo that's one hundred years old and belonged to my great-uncle, Otto. Who in what little there is of my line wants an old banjo?

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IMAGE: A daughter pays final respects to her mother.

Sal learned the news earlier this month. Her mother passed away during the early morning hours, falling asleep and leaving this world peacefully at the age of ninety-one. She and her brothers were soon on a plane to the Philippines. “Nanay” (pronounced NAH-nye, roughly translated as "Mommy" or "Mama") grew up in the province of Bataan (which is not pronounced buh-TAN, but bah-tah-AHN) located west of Manila along the Manila Bay. During the Japanese occupation in the 1940s, she spent much of the time in hiding, to avoid being captured by the Japanese, who used the native girls as "comfort women." After the war, she married a man from Pampanga (a province north of Manila), and they made their home in Navotas City (within Metro Manila, northwest of the capital city itself), raising five daughters, one of them adopted, and four sons. Together the couple operated a grocery store in neighboring Malabon City. After her husband had passed, she lived alone in a house in Malabon, not far from Sal and her own family, accompanied by a live-in caregiver.

IMAGE: A butterfly, said in Chinese and Pinoy folklore to represent the spirit of the deceased, pays a visit while her granddaughter is baking cookies.

The Funeral Mass was held on the evening of the vigil itself, and burial was the next morning. Nanay was laid to rest as a Bride going forth to meet her Bridegroom, in the gown from her golden wedding anniversary, a traditional Filipino formal dress known as a “terno” (from the Spanish for "matching"), characterized by pointed "butterfly sleeves" at the shoulders. Indeed, butterflies appear to be a characteristic in Filipino folklore. As the family was sitting down to the traditional dinner for the ninth day after their mother's passing, they were visited in the house by a swarm of butterflies. The Chinese say -- Sal is one-fourth Chinese, and most Filipinos are at least partially so -- that the winged creatures represent the deceased loved ones who return to comfort those left behind, and to celebrate the welcome of their new sojourner.

IMAGE: Sal greets a band of carolers in front of her house on the eve of Christmas.

There have been the usual matters of the disposition of the mother's affairs. We talk about every other day by videophone, usually briefly. She is never left alone long enough when she's home, always inundated with a steady stream of visitors, family members taking her one place or another. One thing is for sure, and the family has been warned; next time she goes, I'm going with her. Maybe it's just me, but I think three Christmases away in a row, whatever the reason, is about enough. They only have two seasons, a wet one and a dry one. At least I'll get to pack light.

With any luck, I'll get to see Christmas on the other side of the planet. Maybe I'll get to see a parade of parols, as well as a unique brand of carolers, up close and personal.

And so it goes.
 

My “Almost An Emcee For The Pope” Moment

[NOTICE: The following essay contains a plethora of minutiae associated with the details of official Catholic worship, which the reader might find to be too arcane for their taste, unless one is into that sort of thing. You have been warned.]

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As (both of) my regular viewers know, I am the Senior Master of Ceremonies for the Traditional Latin Mass, at the parish of Saint John the Beloved in McLean, Virginia. While a most rewarding experience in itself these past nearly-seven years, it occasionally leads to other opportunities. They do not always involve the traditional form of the Roman Mass, and I do not always mind that.

His Eminence Luis Antonio Cardinal Tagle is the Archbishop of Manila, and de facto Primate of the Philippine Islands, a position he has held since December of 2011. He was given the "red hat" (that is, elevated to the Sacred College of Cardinals) nearly a year later, making him the second youngest of the honorary clergy of Rome at the time, having then just turned fifty-five. He enjoys a reputation for a commitment to social justice, and solidarity with the poor in the Philippines, while opposing the Culture of Death, in particular the recently passed Reproductive Health Bill. Popularly known as the "Pope Francis of Asia," Cardinal Tagle was considered by many Vaticanologists to be "papabile" (Italian for "likely to be pope") during the most recent conclave in 2013.

PHOTO: Sal does her part to make Cardinal Tagle feel right at home for his birthday celebration the evening before the Mass. Photographer unknown.

Late last month, on the 28th of June, His Eminence was principal celebrant for the Annual Filipino Pilgrimage to the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception. The following day, on the Feast of Saints Peter and Paul, he celebrated a Pontifical Mass at St Columba's Church in Oxen Hill, Maryland, a parish whose members are predominantly of Filipino origin, and is the only one in the area with a regular Sunday Mass in the Tagalog language. I had offered my services to their pastor, Father Gary Villanueva, upon learning of the event two months earlier. In the middle of the week prior to the event, I was told that I would be co-emcee with one Jeff Bedia, a lay brother with the Oratory-in-Formation in Washington DC. We met on Saturday morning before the event, and went over the details.

Caeremoniale

Many devout Catholics who have a fondness for the Traditional Mass, would be surprised to learn that there is much in the way of codified or otherwise established ceremonial detail in the celebration of the reformed liturgy -- the "Novus Ordo Missae," that which was promulgated in 1969 by Pope Paul VI. The main instructional text for a Pontifical Mass in the "ordinary form" is the Caeremoniale Episcoporum (Ceremonial of Bishops), the English-language of which was most recently published in 1989 by Liturgical Press. It is also helpful to have on hand, the post-conciliar equivalent of Adrian Fortescue's classic work, namely Msgr Peter Elliot's Ceremonies of the Modern Roman Rite, 2nd Edition. In the final days before the main event, I read the relevant sections of both works several times over.

PHOTO: The author assists His Eminence with donning the vestments for offering sacrifice.

While not quite as elaborate or detailed as its Traditional equivalent, there is nevertheless much tradition behind the details of ceremony, the main challenge being that liturgical formation for priests and deacons has only become truly comprehensive (and more consistent with official norms, with an emphasis on the sacred) in the last twenty years or so, simply due to the still-ongoing nature of the post-conciliar liturgical reform. There are also the limitations that come from being a regular parish, as opposed to a cathedral, basilica, or monastery. As a result, a few details are often laid aside as a matter of expediency.

For example, the ideal is to have four deacons in a Pontifical Mass; a Deacon of the Word who reads the Gospel and the General Intercessions, and a Deacon of the Eucharist who assists the Celebrant at the altar. In addition, there can be two Assistant Deacons, who attend to the Bishop-Celebrant at the Chair. The First Assistant (to his right) assists with imposing of incense in the thurible, while the Second Assistant (to his left) assists with the miter and (where applicable) the crosier, or pastoral staff. In our case, there were only two deacons to perform their separate functions for the Mass itself, as would be the norm for a parish setting. This left the two Masters of Ceremonies to attend to His Eminence at the Chair, which is also acceptable.

And of course, you could forget about the celebrant processing in before Mass wearing the cappa magna.

The First MC has the primary responsibility of overseeing the choreography of the Mass, anticipating what is to happen next, and ensuring that the proper functionaries are ready to attend. At larger celebrations, a Second MC (yours truly, in this case) has the task of concentrating on those who wait on the Celebrant, whether bringing the thurible to the Chair for imposing incense, or the Acolytes bringing the water and wine to the altar. This allows the First MC to more easily attend to the Principal Celebrant, and the Concelebrants as need be. Upon looking into his bonafides, I learned that Jeff had more experience with pontifical events than I, and is well acquainted with His Eminence, so I was all too happy to take Second position.

Whichever form of the Roman Mass is celebrated, there can always be differences between what it says in "the book" and what happens in real life. It just happens to be more the case with the post-conciliar form, and here is where the experience of a Master of Ceremonies comes into play, one who understands the general principles of the celebration of Mass.

Ecce Sacerdos Magnus!

PHOTO: From the Heritage Mass by Owen Alstott: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to people of goodwill ...”

By the time His Eminence arrived in the sacristy, we had already briefed the young men who would serve; a Thurifer, a Crucifer, and two Acolytes bearing candles in procession. In addition, there would ordinarily be a mitre-bearer and a crosier-bearer. Walking behind the bishop in procession, each wears what resembles a white humeral veil around his shoulders, bearing the coat of arms of the prelate at its center, and which is known as a "vimpa." These servers will hold the accoutrement of the episcopal office when not being carried or worn.

For whatever reason, His Eminence chose not to wear his pallium, a yoke worn by a metropolitan archbishop over his vestments. And although as a cardinal, he enjoyed the universal privilege of carrying the crosier (pastoral staff) outside of his immediate jurisdiction, he eschewed that as well. So we only used one server as the mitre-bearer (or "vimp," some generic term I had never heard before) for the occasion. We found a white humeral veil to use as a vimpa, with the image of Christ the King embroidered upon it. Personally, I found this fitting, as it was mindful of a traditional processional hymn for a bishop, "Behold The Great High Priest."

The church was packed to the point of standing-room-only, with dozens of phone cameras, and even iPads (which can be rather conspicuous being raised above a crowd), to capture a grand moment for the local Filipino community. There were three priest-concelebrants and two deacons to attend to the liturgy, all processing in following a cloud of incense. As the Second Master of Ceremonies, I took up the rear. The choir led hymns in English, Latin, and Tagalog, including a polyphonic arrangement of Ubi Caritas that was reminiscent of Duruflé. (Note to self: Find out the composer of that motet.)

What’s In A Name?

The homily for the Mass was quite entertaining, and was about the call of Simone bar-Jona by Our Lord to discipleship. Would not a rough and unlettered fisherman be a rather poor choice with which to start a movement? It would seem unlikely for Simon, who then became Peter and at one point was called Satan, all this in a very short period of time, if not for drawing attention to how Christ did not come for the holy, but for the sinner. His Eminence said that if he were God, he would not appoint Peter as representative of the Church, but more likely Paul, the intelligent scholarly one who lived a life of humility. He said that if he were God, he will not place Luis Antonio Tagle in his position, nor the deacons or priests who were in attendance. He would more likely choose "a Chinese businessman who sells insurance," a quip that earned him his biggest ovation. (It's a Filipino thing.) And yet, their presence and their appointments were through God’s grace, every bit as much as Peter was "the Rock" upon which the Church was built.

Although he enjoys considerable religious and political influence as occupant of his nation's primatial see, he is also a mild-mannered, unassuming and personable man, who enjoys his connection to the faithful. This was most evident immediately after Mass, as everyone with a camera phone wanted his picture, and all at the same time. The vestibule was quite a madhouse for more than half an hour, before we finally had to repair to the sacristy, to put things away and join the reception.

Fiesta!

It seems that I was "important" enough to sit at the head table with His Eminence and the rest of the clergy in attendance. The Filipino cuisine was very well prepared, and the good sisters brought their board of fare directly to those at the head table, instead of having them wait in line (which doesn't happen to yours truly every day). There was also a performance of traditional Filipino folk dancing by a troupe of four young ladies. Their first selection was a "Muslim dance" that was native to the southern region of Mindanao. The second was more common to the northern region of Luzon, a Spanish-inspired dance, featuring colorful "Maria Clara" gowns, and the holding of fans as if to communicate the language of courtship -- "fan language," as it is known.

Black Hat Meets Red Hat

As he was leaving, I had one chance to say something to him, up close and personal; either that or make a total fool of myself, or both. And so I did, while referring to his homily ...

"Your Eminence, if by some chance they ever decide to name you Peter -- well, call it being in the wrong place at the wrong time, if you will -- I will have a story to tell my grandchildren. Until then, I can only tell anyone who asks, that this is the closest I will ever come to emceeing for the Pope."

He was sufficiently amused, if embarrassed by the prospect of yet another "promotion," and mentioned his impending meeting with the Holy Father, no doubt to discuss the latter's upcoming visit to Asia next year.

And so it goes, a memorable day in the life of an aging altar boy.

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(Our thanks go out to Father Gary Villanueva, with the other clergy, the staff, and volunteers of St Columba's Parish in Oxen Hill, Maryland, as well as Jun Mararac of Waldorf, Maryland, who made notes of the homily. Unless otherwise noted, photos are courtesy of Roland Escalante Jr, and are used here without permission or shame.)
 

Ole Slew Foot: Update

BLACK BEAR UPDATE

Here is the latest information from the Miami Township Police Department and the Ohio Division of Natural Resources:

• Young male most likely from Kentucky. 2-3 yrs. of age around 85 lbs. Not causing any damage or harm. Law enforcement is monitoring situation and we will only move the bear if a situation arises.

• Dispersal of sub adult male bears occurs annually, typically a result of being driven off by their mother as she prepares for the breeding season. Young females have smaller ranges and seldom venture as far as males to establish territories. We do often get dispersing bears from neighboring states, Kentucky, West Virginia and Pennsylvania where the bear population is very healthy.

• If a bear is sighted, individuals should contact the Division of Wildlife District Office (937-372-9261) to report the sighting, and then leave the bear alone. Enjoy this rare appearance at a safe distance. Do not approach or impede the bears movement.

• Some bear reports in Ohio are associated with nuisance situations. When people remove potential food sources, conflicts with bears often diminish. Moving bird feeders higher, removing uneaten pet food, keeping trash inside until pick up day, and cleaning up after grilling out all help to deter bears from frequenting an area and becoming nuisances.
 

Ole Slew Foot Comes to Town

Like many other parts of the United States, the eastern outskirts of Cincinnati have been subject to slow but steady suburban and exurban growth, from the end of the second World War to the present day, particularly since the completion of Interstate 275 in the 1970s (also known as the Cincinnati Bypass, formerly known as Circle Freeway). With such encroachment comes the reduction of untamed wooded acreage, and the subsequent conflict of man with nature, as deer are sighted invading people's backyard gardens, and the migration of coyotes from the northern and western regions makes its way to the east and the south.

But the people of Clermont County, just east of Cincinnati, and where this writer's hometown of Milford is located, were not ready for their latest visitor.

Miami Township Police are no longer searching for a male black bear Tuesday but a police presence still remains to stop the bear from going any further north.

The Ohio Division of Wildlife plans to let the bear go naturally. The wildlife division said they've had calls about black bear since Friday but Tuesday is the first time it has interacted with humans ...

Apparently, the two-year-old, 85-pound bear swam across the Ohio River from Kentucky in search of a mate. He would have a hard time finding one, as black bears are an endangered species in Ohio. Nonetheless, state wildlife officials were tracking him, especially once he had encountered humans at an outer suburb less than five miles east of the house where I grew up. The plan as of last night, was to wait until he emerged from whatever deep woods where he was hiding (probably more scared than anyone in the surrounding cul-de-sacs), capture him, and release him into a more remote area.

Who knows, maybe the Ohio Division of Wildlife will arrange a blind date for him.

And so, this bluegrass rendition by Jim and Jesse, of a country classic by Johnny Horton, is dedicated to our furry friend, who will hopefully find a more suitable venue for letting nature take its course.
 

This Is Ponderous

You've all been wanting to ask, I just know it:

“Yo, Mister Black-Hatted One, how come you haven't added to the cacophony of commentary of Catholic stuff lately; you know, heretics running loose, Pope Francis saying something he regrets by the end of the day, the next pretty face on the celebrity convert circuit -- we've been tired of having to choose between Mark Shea's massive cult following and Michael Voris' massive head of hair. What gives?”

Well, you asked for it, and I'm gonna tell ya.

It happens every year, the two events which, one on top of the other, account for April and May being the busiest time of the year for me. There has been little opportunity to write, until the holiday weekend which had just passed.

Holy Week

There is, of course, the week or so preceding Easter, which is by far and away the busiest time of year at any Catholic parish. When I began at St John the Beloved nearly seven years ago, I was Master of Ceremonies for all parish-wide events pertaining to Holy Week. Since then, as the parish's celebration of the Triduum (Holy Thursday, Good Friday, Easter Vigil) uses the "Novus Ordo Missae" in Latin and English, rather than the traditional form, the role of MC has been handed over to the older gentlemen in the server corps. My official title for those days (as if I really needed one) is now "Privy Chaplain to the Pastor Emeritus," which means I sit "in choir" with him and the other ordained guys, and fetch the good Father something if he needs it. I suspect it's more of an honorarium than anything else.

Washington Folk Festival

The other event takes place on the weekend following Memorial Day. I've been involved with the Festival since 1992, when I lived in Georgetown, and ran into a former partner from the Contra Dancing days. She told me they needed a designer and editor for their program guide. I've been at it ever since, and the first three weekends in May are pretty much taken up compiling the material and putting it altogether. The staff people are really a great bunch, and it amounts to what is probably the most angst-free volunteer endeavor I have done in my life, with very little in the way of politics and palace intrigue. In return, they get a product about whose delivery they never have to worry. Granted, it is one of the less important aspects of the Festival production -- unless it isn't there.

Some years I work the Festival. Some years I don't go at all. My son Paul used to do stage work, and was running a sound board by the time he was twelve. I've never actually performed for it, though, not even as a sideman. Washington isn't like Cincinnati, where I would have been in a working band a long time ago. I can't really explain it.

Well, anyway, Holy Week and the Festival are the two annual "big ticket" items. This year, there is more …

Housekeeping

My house needs attention this year. My townhouse neighborhood has a number of laundry rooms throughout the complex, but more and more people are putting in their own units. I had mine put in last year, but there is more to be done. Sal acquired some antique furniture when one of her home health care patients couldn't take it with them, so it has found a place here. She keeps things in the drawers for the off-season, to facilitate sharing a small apartment with her BFF, so she gets storage at room temperature, and I get a place that looks … well, more domesticated than I am (plus it breaks up the monotony of bookshelves). The acquisition also included a china cabinet, so now I can finally display my mother's Depression glass collection. In addition, I am building my new combination stereo cabinet and fireplace, over which will be mounted my (very first) big-@$$ flat screen television. I'm probably the last one in my family (or for that matter, my neighborhood) to use an old-style cathode-ray tube set. And so an era of technology draws to a close. But first …

I need to repaint the interior. Being a designer, I have to approach this using a disciplined method (which drives Sal crazy, and that's part of the fun), in the form of The Home Color Selector by David Willis. I was supposed to schedule the painters this week, but was delayed by one thing or another, so it will have to take place some time during the summer. I'm also thinking about what to do with the kitchen, which has not had anything done since these units were last renovated en masse in 1982 (which is how old my dishwasher is). I'm getting estimates anywhere from $10,000 to $25,000, depending on how much of a production I want to make of this.

Capping that all off, of course, is the need to refinance. I bought the house in September of 2005, about a year before the housing bubble burst. And even though my neighborhood is next to the most up-and-coming neighborhood in northern Virginia, my real estate assessment is only now beginning to rise, after years of steadily going down. That matters when it comes to how much you pay in real estate taxes, but as to refinancing, no matter what your credit rating or income (and I'm good on both counts), it all comes down to this: no financial institution will touch a mortgage with a balance higher than 95 percent of what the home is presently worth.

Things could be worse. I could be out in Fairfax or Loudoun County, living in a big-@$$ McMansion that really took a serious bath when the bottom fell out. But still, if I'm going to have more than a modest retirement, something's gotta happen in the next six to twelve months. But you know, I'm still in this ball game, and it ain't over until it's over.

Nine to Five

And, of course, there is still the day job. After more than thirty years as a graphic designer (a "visual information specialist" in government parlance), I have been a photographer and video producer for the last three or four years, and a year ago next month, was reclassified as an "audiovisual production specialist." My director asked me to complete a self-assessment for my midyear review. I put on it: “I am the least of your worries.” I didn't get an argument, not from him, and not from the deputy communications director, to whom he reports. I find myself becoming increasingly relied upon for certain events, and unlike my previous position, I deal directly with top officials, without being hovered over by a bunch of empty-suited nervous Nellies, as I often was in the past. So, even though I haven't gotten a promotion in a gazillion years, my influence is being felt, and I'm working with the grownups again. I haven't had the chance for this much access since the early Reagan years.

And so, even though I'm no closer to being a mega-pundit of Catholic new media than I was a year ago, it's only because there are not enough hours in the day to do what needs to be done. So if you're looking to keep up on all the bitching and moaning going on, keep watching for our regular Thursday feature, because that's where we give you the highlights and the low blows.

And speaking of time, I turn sixty years old this year, which is another subject for another day. “I think you see what I mean.”
 

Art-For-Art’s-Sake Theatre: Hail to Saint George!

Time once again for our usual midday Wednesday feature.

Today, the Church of both the East and the West remembers Saint George, a Roman soldier from Lydda, in Palestine. Legends tell of his fighting a dragon, but there is more truth to his receiving the crown of martyrdom on this day in the year 303.

He is the patron saint of over twenty countries, and more than two dozen cities. He is also the patron of Scouting, and many Christians in the movement from around the world, both old and young, will have “Saint George Banquets” on this feast.

Today is especially celebrated in England, one of those countries for which he is patron. This video clip shows the Ewell Saint Mary's Morris Dancers performing at the Leadenhall Market in London.

As you will see, a good time was had by all.
 

Holy Week: Waiting in the Wings

Ah, holy Jesus, how hast Thou offended, * That man to judge Thee hath in hate pretended? * By foes derided, by Thine own rejected, * O most afflicted.

Holy Week at the parish of Saint John the Beloved in McLean, Virginia, is an awesome thing, where the “reform of the reform” in liturgical life is the rule, not the exception. Even if the "ordinary form" is used, the altar is "versus orientem" for the three days. The priest, his attendants, and the faithful, all turn towards the Lord in the same direction, as the traditional Latin and English vernacular co-exist peacefully.

Who was the guilty? Who brought this upon Thee? * Alas, my treason, Jesus, hath undone Thee. * ’Twas I, Lord, Jesus, I it was denied Thee! * I crucified Thee.

The Sacred Triduum is preceded by the service of Tenebrae on Wednesday evening. Two hundred people join the clergy, seminarians, and altar servers in witnessing the dimming of the lights, to await the Light of the World in the three days that follow. Imagine the sight of dozens of altar servers processing in, two by two. It begins with the crucifer and candle-bearers, followed by the very young, appearing quite cherubic in their surplices and black cassocks.

Lo, the Good Shepherd for the sheep is offered; * The slave hath sinned, and the Son hath suffered; * For man’s atonement, while he nothing heedeth, * God intercedeth.

The older servers follow in their maroon cassocks and pleated surplices. Then come the seminarians and deacons of the parish. Finally, the master of ceremonies leads the parish priests, as the procession of nearly one hundred clerics and laics converge upon the Holy of Holies. It is from there that the time of darkness and lamentation begins, followed by the hearing of confessions.

For me, kind Jesus, was Thy incarnation, * Thy mortal sorrow, and Thy life’s oblation; * Thy death of anguish and Thy bitter passion, * For my salvation.

Tomorrow night is the “Cena Domini” or Mass of the Lord's Supper. The original meal shared by the disciples, the sacrificial offering that took place in the twenty-four hours that followed, all will be re-presented in the sight of Christ's faithful. The pastor will remove his outer priestly vestments, put on an apron, and wash the feet of twelve young altar servers. “The Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve.” For one night of the year, the priest will serve the least of those young lads who serve him at the altar of God.

Therefore, kind Jesus, since I cannot pay Thee, * I do adore Thee, and will ever pray Thee, * Think on Thy pity and Thy love unswerving, * Not my deserving.
 

My Y2K Moment

Lately I have become interested in emergency preparedness and survival techniques. The good thing about such a skill set, is being ready for anything. The bad thing about such a skill set, is attracting others who are ready for anything, including those who are a little too ready. You know who I'm talking about; the "doomsday preppers." If you've reached the age of majority by now, you are old enough to remember what didn't happen when 1999 became 2000. Of course, it was a great time for COBOL programmers -- people who knew the language of the old mainframes that still held much critical information, but were supposed to go dead the moment the clocks turned over -- but other than that ...

It was New Year's Eve in 1999. I was invited to a special black-tie dinner by our then-communications director. It was strictly a private affair, so your tax dollars didn't pay for it. This gal I was seeing at the time was all set to introduce Mr Wonderful (that would be me) to her friends in the coming weeks, but you wouldn't know it by the look on her when I came to the door. Something was up, but I tried not to notice. (I'll get back to that.) But it was hard not to notice the wonderful full-course dinner we had. This was my first such affair. I hadn't seen this many pieces of silverware in my life outside of where it's stored.

You have to remember that I come from people whose place settings only had one fork, even when the good china was brought out. It's one thing to have a separate soup spoon, because you need that big one to, you know, eat soup. But two forks? What would be the points? (Get it? Points?) Now, imagine seeing three of them, among other things. As for the night in question, what did all those pieces do? Well, someone just said to start from the outside and work your way in. That did the trick. For more details, I obtained this handy illustration from Fatima and Andrew Spoor. Keep this handy in the photo gallery of your smartphone, and you'll always know which implement to use next.

What happened to the one that got away? Well, once the clocks turned over and our computers didn't all die on us, she dumped me two days later. I found out about two weeks after that, that she was already making time with an old flame of hers for nearly two months. He was in a high position in a cabinet-level department right across the street, and the whole Y2K thing was the occasion for their meeting up again. And again. And again. What made it worse was that we both worked in the same agency, the same communications office. I wasn't just dumped; I was publicly humiliated. I remember sending her a long, heartfelt letter in the spring of that year, telling her of how these things tend to revisit you at your own expense. Two weeks after that, she discovered she was in the latter stages of cancer. She passed away by summer's end.

That wasn't what I wished for her, obviously, but I remember how bitter I was at the time, and how I considered it a form of poetic justice. Not only is that a rather cruel thing, but it presumes to know too much of what the Almighty has in store for us. We see so little of the big picture. We need to dust ourselves off, and move on. Somewhere in the greater scheme of things, there was then, and is now, a reason.

So eventually I did move on.

Most of the good things that have happened to me in my life, have been in the last ten years. For all my good fortune, I never forget how fragile the human condition can be, and how, as Old Blue Eyes used to say:

“Life is like the seasons. After winter comes the spring. So I'll say a little prayer, and see what tomorrow brings.”

Oh, and when the old homestead was sold last year, guess who got the good silverware.
 

Merry Christmas, Catholic Girl

... is the story of a devout Catholic woman, a mother of two children from a marriage now broken after a life of alcohol and abuse. Finding little solace in a local parish reeling from a history of dysfunction and public scandal, our anti-heroine seeks shelter from the storm at a convent where the Latin Mass is celebrated on Sunday. The story begins with a brief flashback, and continues as she moves on with her life, rediscovering the stirrings of the heart.

Little man big man what's inside?
It's all in the places
Where we find our pride.
If there was a soul lost by the road,
Who'd pass by,
Who'd take it home?

(from the song "Little Man Big Man"
music and lyrics by Glen Philips
for the 1997 album "Coil" by Toad the Wet Sprocket)

Catholic magazines don't handle stories like this. Catholic magazines don't handle the issue of divorce any better than many Catholic priests, never mind other Catholic media outlets. These stories are dirty, they are tawdry, wallowing in the seamy underbelly of life, in which many suffer, often through no fault of their own, and out of which many must climb. Stories like these tell us what we don't want to hear, that marriages are not made in heaven, that grace does not always succeed where nature is found wanting. The fighting, the betrayal, the abandonment, the court hearings, the custody battles, the supervised visits, the estrangement from children -- your Catholic cable channel won't admit to such a life out there, one that is all too real for so many, whether they "experience the healing" from the panacea of an annulment or not.

This is my fourth Christmas as a divorcee.

Four Christmases ago, my so-called husband left me with a broken-down house, a five year old Chevy van, a basement full of water and an utterly empty bank account. Plus a frightened seven year old, and a very angry teenaged girl.

When he threatened us, I made several trips to the police station to beg for help. Finally, one cop took pity on my terror. He solemnly advised me to change our locks and to keep the outside lights on.

Also, never, ever, to let my ex back in the house.

“If he, ah, does something you don’t like once he’s inside,” he told me, burly arms crossed in front of him. His warm brown eyes were sympathetic. “Then our hands are tied. Because you let him in. You understand my meaning?”

For any Catholic magazine to take this story on is daring. For the same magazine to handle it well is ... epic.

Regina Magazine began this past year as the brainchild of Beverly De Soto, a veteran writer-editor of the New York City financial world, at a time when numerous print periodicals, particularly in Catholic media, have either gone digital, or under. She has gathered other creatives of like mind, so that the beauty of truth, and the truth that is found in beauty, may reach new audiences, and revitalize old ones. There are many reasons for a Catholic woman to subscribe to Regina, and probably more than one reason for a Catholic man to at least give an issue the occasional perusal.

The result is a great Christmas gift, one that would carry the spirit of the season well into the next year.
 

Art-For-Art’s-Sake Theatre: Joffre the Giant “Feeling Blessed: New Neighbors”

Time once again for our usual midday Wednesday feature.

This writer stumbled upon this observer of the human condition while researching for something else, which happens from time to time. Jeffry “the Giant” is a husband and father of five children (home schooled, of course). “My particular areas of manly expertise include, but are not limited to, the drinking of beer, the smoking of pipes, the playing of rugby, the recitation of poetry, the raising of children, and the loving of women.”

He identifies himself as Presbyterian, but he has much to say to a Catholic, during a month when Catholics are admonished to consider the Last Things, as he muses on the passing of old neighbors, and the greeting of new ones, as one might the changing of the seasons.
 

Art-For-Art’s-Sake Theatre: Improv Everywhere “Conduct Us - An Orchestra in the Middle of New York”

Those madcap miscreants at Improv Everywhere were up to their old tricks again yesterday, as a Carnegie Hall orchestra (more like a chamber orchestra from what can be seen) was set up in the middle of New York City, with an empty podium place in front of the musicians with a sign that read, “Conduct Us.” Those who accepted the challenge were given the opportunity to conduct this world-class (chamber?) orchestra. The orchestra responded to the conductors, altering their tempo and performance accordingly.

Why don't these things ever happen to me?
 

The Worst Four Years of My Life (and Why I Celebrate Them)

Lisa Hendley asked for advice at the Patheos Catholic Channel (where all the kewl Catholic bloggers hang out, duh!) on whether to go to one's high school reunion. She didn't get much advice in the combox, but she's about to get some here.

The American experience of high school is an artificial construct of sorts, one where less than five percent of the class -- the captain of the football team, the homecoming queen, their circle of friends, you know the drill -- can say it was the best years of their lives, while the other ninety-five-plus percent settle in for mediocrity and awkward growth spurts, hoping to eek out a meaningful existence in joining the chess club or the debate team, until graduation finally puts them out of their misery. As my Very Close and Personal Friend Father Paul Scalia explains:

When I was in high school, the students fell into many different groups: preps, jocks, cheerleaders, punks, deadheads, druggies, geeks, and all the rest. Just about everyone received an unofficial but virtually unchangeable assignment to a particular group. When I work in high schools today, I discover little difference ...

And on that promising note, I rolled into Cincinnati a few days ago, for one reason only, and I've been waiting ten years for it.

Last night, I attended my 40-year high school reunion. I've gone to the 10-year, the 20-year, and the 30-year, with each one better than the last. It only stood to reason that the next one would be the best time I'd had in a long time. This is more than I could have said about the four years themselves way back when. But first ...

McNicholas High School is a co-educational Catholic institution in Mount Washington, a comfortable middle-class neighborhood on the east side of Cincinnati, about ten minutes from downtown. Originally a convent school operated by the Sisters of Saint Joseph of Medaille, the former Saint Joseph's Academy was transformed in 1951, into a daring new concept -- a Catholic high school where boys and girls would be learning in classrooms together, heedless of all manner of wickedness that would invariably follow. (Hey, we won the Big War, didn't we? Anything was possible.)

"McNick" is also what is known as an "interparochial" school, as nineteen parishes within its vicinity send students there for less than the full tuition, in return for providing subsidies thereto. All other things being equal, one's parish of origin was generally a factor in one's place on the social food chain. To those who went to the parish school across the street, Guardian Angels, it was merely an extension of the previous eight years. To those farther east on or near the main drag that was Beechmont Avenue (State Route 125), it was a more or less painless transition. To those farther out into the next county, or to areas to the northeast and southeast, "Rocket High" was another world.

Milford was ten miles to the northeast. It may as well have been ten thousand. Even as it was larger than some of the towns farther out, Milford was the proverbial "hick town" of choice. Even my nickname among some of the guys was "Milford" (although most of you good straight-up guys always called me "Alex"). Some who were bussed in from the hinterlands fit in very nicely, but only to the extent that they dissociated themselves from their origins, and built a new social realm around the more urbane, sophisticated among the huddled masses. I never realized that life itself could have endless possibilities, unrestrained by whether you were pretty enough or popular enough, until I got the hell out of there.

So why would I go to my high school reunion? Why celebrate someone else's Glory Days? What was it that changed?

We changed.

For pity's sake, we were all just kids forty years ago. None of us had any idea who we really were, the only difference being that nature had been kinder to some earlier on than to others, and so had the means at their disposal to hide their uncertainty so well. Those whom I know now, and have the privilege of calling my friends, are who they really were all along, but who no more realized it at the time than I did.

This was not realized all at once. At the 10-year reunion, most of us stuck to our predestined territories. In other words, the Milford kids had our own table for most of the evening. These divisions became less pronounced by the 20-year reunion, and were non-existent by the 30-year.

I didn't live along the main axis of that universe that was Beechmont Avenue. Mine was a world of Scout campouts on weekends, garage bands in the summer, and breaking out of a strict home where one was kept away from danger, and any of the fun that went with it. (In retrospect, I was also probably suffering from severe clinical depression.) I lived between the two worlds -- one, the hopelessly middle-class adventure where the world was at your feet and Daddy bought you a new car the minute you turned sixteen; the other, the insulated life of small town America. I crossed that line to go to school, and was ushered back to the other side before anything could happen that I would presumedly regret later.

But every ten years, I learn about that side of my world that I only thought I knew ...

• I met the husband of the Mardi Gras pageant queen (or whatever they called it), a man who wanted to meet me for years, after learning of how their little boy reminded her of me.

• I listened to a former basketball star, as he shared with me the tragedy of losing his son in a terrible accident as that son's wife was with child, only to experience the joy of seeing his son alive again in the eyes of the newborn babe.

• I met the guitar player for a rock-and-roll band at school dances, who never knew that I played as well, as we compared notes on our experiences, how easily responsibilities take us away from our inner muse, and to look for the chance to discover it again.

• I was astonished to learn that the genius behind the “Sore-Loserman” bumper sticker campaign, in the wake of the hotly contested 2000 presidential election, was one of my own, a successful entrepreneur who refused to sit back while the country he loved went into chaos, without speaking Truth to Power (not to mention CNN). To this day he maintains that he influenced history. He's probably right, which only proves what one man can do.

• I learned the truth behind the jokes about Milford, that the city kids envied us every time enough snow fell to keep us away from class, even as they were still in session. (Uh-huh. Sure.)

• Finally, at least two people have told me that I was "the smartest kid in the class." Obviously not smart enough to win a scholarship, though, probably because Ritalin wasn't invented yet, but that's another story.

When we left that twisted fairytale land that was high school, the thin veneer of adolescence was lifted, and we saw the world as it was all along. We shed our labels, we shed our baggage, and with that, any illusions that the fleeting and superficial could dictate our places in life. We went on to make our own places in life. We have seen ourselves through our children; for some of us, even our grandchildren.

We finally "get it." We have discovered an ultimate truth: high school is not real life.

So then, what can I say to those for whom high school was the worst years of their lives?

One word: Go.

That's right, go to that damn reunion! If you were the one who got beat up in the locker room and thrown in the shower with your clothes on, or taunted by the other girls for wearing last year's fashions bought at J C Penney's, and you got the hell out of Dodge City the day after you graduated and never looked back, walk into that rented hotel convention room with your head held high. You'll see the captain of that football team, and the rest of the once-totally-buffed varsity-lettered prodigies, looking twenty pounds heavier. You will see the perfect little princesses who married their teenage heartthrobs (if only the ones that didn't turn out to be jerks and dump them) talking about shuffling kids to soccer practice and complaining about their husbands.

They'll greet you like you were their long-lost buddy, and why shouldn't they? They'll have the same tales to tell as you, the same trials and tribulations. All the face time they got in the yearbooks, all the accolades from fawning faculty and athletic boosters, did not spare them from the pitfalls of the human condition. You all may have come from different directions, but you all arrived at the same place.

That's when you know that everything you learned in high school, everything portrayed in those bad after-school television specials, and those obnoxious Annette Funicello movies, was wrong. Those with whom you shared a locker, and most of your adolescence (if only despite themselves), were the best friends you never thought you had.

And so, here's a Tip of the Black Hat to mine. (Somebody cue the piano.)

“Cheer, cheer, for old Rocket High!
Banded together, that is our cry.
Never leave it just for one.
Banded together, we get things done.

“Green and white are our colors true.
We have no time to be sad or blue.
For our days at M-H-S are numbered among the best.
RAH! RAH! RAH!”
 

Patriots Without Permission

Here we feature a biker's view of America's 911 ride in 2011, from the site of the Flight 93 crash near Shanksville, Pennsylvania, to the Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia. The music is by James Horner (first piece) and Bear McCreary (second piece).

For this year's Two Million Bikers' Rally, the District of Columbia Metropolitan Police estimated that over one million motorcycle riders came through the Nation's capital today. Having been denied a permit by the United States Park Police (which has jurisdiction over national park territory, including the National Mall), the DC Police (many of whom were bikers themselves) were pleased to cooperate with the hundreds upon hundreds of riders who just happened to be passing through their city, all at the same time, observing all traffic regulations, and making a statement about themselves, and the republic for which they stand. On the way they passed through towns and hamlets that opened their hearts, and cleared the main drags, to welcome them.

Let them ride on this day every year. Let their numbers increase with every year. “We don’t need no stinkin’ permit!”

God bless America.
 

A Bedtime Story

A Mom visits her son for dinner who lives with a girl roommate.

During the course of the meal, his mother couldn't help but notice how pretty his roommate was. She had long been suspicious of a relationship between the two, and this had only made her more curious ...

Over the course of the evening, while watching the two interact, she started to wonder if there was more between him and his roommate than met the eye.

Reading his mom's thoughts, his son volunteered, "I know what you must be thinking, but I assure you, we are just roommates."

About a week later, his roommate came to him saying, "Ever since your mother came to dinner, I've been unable to find the silver plate. You don't suppose she took it, do you?"

He said, "Well, I doubt it, but I'll email her, just to be sure." He sat down and wrote:

Dear Mother:

I'm not saying that you 'did' take the silver plate from my house, I'm not saying that you 'did not' take the silver plate. But the fact remains that it has been missing ever since you were here for dinner.

Love, your son.

Several days later, he received an email from his Mother which read:

Dear Son:

I'm not saying that you 'do' sleep with your roommate, and I'm not saying that you 'do not' sleep with her. But the fact remains that if she was sleeping in her OWN bed, she would have found the silver plate by now, under her pillow.

Love, Mom.

The son could always explain that his roommate prefers the couch, don't you think?

Or don't you?

(H/T to Debbie Rosselot.)
 

Art-For-Art’s-Sake Theatre: Brad Paisley “Beat This Summer”

Time once again for our usual midday Wednesday feature.

You can tell we love Brad Paisley here at the old Black Hat Corral, yeah, you right? “Beat This Summer” is the name of the second single release from last March, from his latest album Wheelhouse, as well as that of his current tour. We sure wish he could have played for the BSA National Jamboree this year, instead of those other losers who ended up backing out, even after the BSA made a concession to the latter with ... well, more on that later.

Right now, let's hit the boardwalk.
 

Fatherhood

Today I distributed my Father's Day piece from two years ago entitled “Dad” to the usual suspects.

The best thing I can say about my Dad, is not only that he was a great father, but that he was a great father in spite of himself. I cannot ask more of a man than that …

One of them posted the link thereto, and I got over 500 visits today, which is about as much as I get in about four days -- weekdays, mind you. (H/T to New Advent.) C S Lewis once said he wrote the things that he wished others would write. I try to do likewise. Most writers will compose either a glowing encomium or a bitter screed. Neither would do justice to my father's story, so I simply wrote the truth. He was an imperfect man, who only reached perfection by Grace, in a life that just as easily could have turned out much differently, but for a decision made at an early age. A pedestal would have been too much even for him.

Since that time, he has passed into eternity, so here's what happened next.

Feb 20 2012: Paul Andrew Alexander (1925-2012)

Feb 29 2012: The Long and Reverent Farewell

Mar 05 2012: Random Thoughts on a Requiem

Mar 21 2012: A Month’s Mind

Feb 20 2013: Altare Privilegiatum

That's my Dad in the picture to the right, from his days in seminary. He would have been eighteen-and-a-half in the spring of 1944. By this time, he would have already received tonsure (the ritual cutting of a lock of the hair, symbolizing admission to candidacy), allowing him the privilege of wearing the cassock outside of ceremonial duties. He would leave the seminary two years later.

Closer to the present, today's homily was about fathers and fatherhood. As master of ceremonies for the Latin Mass today, my place was near the celebrant, which included being seated near the pulpit, so if I had a problem keeping my composure, it would have been hard to miss.

Meanwhile, my son decided to post his own tribute to his dad.

My dad's greatest gift to me in the past year was conceding, at last, that I'm smarter than he was at my age and am on track to lap him soon.

… which is not quite what happened. I should explain.

My son recently graduated from the über-prestigious Savannah College of Art and Design, with a BFA in Interactive Media and Game Development, and a GPA of 3.4. Thirty-five years earlier, I graduated from an equally-über-prestigious program at the University of Cincinnati, with a BS in Graphic Design, and a GPA of 3.0. I simply pointed out that he did better than I did, which is even more remarkable when you consider that his high school GPA was … well, not so remarkable. But somehow, possibly from the after effects of an alcohol-and-drug-induced adolescence (so it's not really his fault, you see), this observation was embellished to take its present form.

So, we'll be having another one of those little talks when he gets back to DC next month. You see, you never stop being a father, especially when some punk-ass kid never stops being a little twit. But he's my little twit, and I love him for it.
 

FAMW: Haste to the Wedding

Some of you -- okay, at least one of you -- may remember a story published here about three years ago, about a woman who was raising most of her eleven children on her own, with little or no support from the husband who abandoned them. Well, as with the rest of us, life goes on, children grow up, one thing leads to another, and then ... there's a wedding. This is what a wedding dance should look like, at least at some point in the proceedings, as one of the sons of our heroine starts a new life of his own. Perhaps he will fare better. We can always hope.

With the coming month being all about weddings (or so I'm told), this depiction appeared as suitable as any, for this week's Friday Afternoon Moment of Whimsy.