This is a day I think about two people with whom I was once close. And if absence makes the heart grow fonder, their absence from my life for the better part of three decades should be a special measure of my affection; except I'm a cad, but they knew that and saw it as part of my charm. They shared more than just a place in my life but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Today in a month defined by Saint Patrick, this is the Feast of Saint Joseph, whom the new Testament tells us was the husband of Mary (Mother of God) and, in a way, Jesus' step-dad. That could NOT have been the easiest job in the world in terms of keeping the young lad on the path of righteousness when running for instance, with whatever the Old Testament had for scissors. "You'll put an eye out!" Joseph might have said. "So?" Jesus might retort, "I'll put it right back in." Actually I can very easily imagine a lake of fire and Old Scratch wandering over to poke me with a stick and going, 'you had to do the Joseph as a step dad joke, didn't you? How'd that work out, chuckle trousers?'
Today is when the swallows come back to Capistrano. I have no idea if their return is connected to St. Joseph but many feel it may be and if that gives you a sense of hope then good for you and your belief. I don't know how the birds know today is the day, but they do. In NYC they painted the white stripe on Fifth Avenue green for the St. Pat's parade so I wonder if the village fathers paint their center stripe on main street bird droppings white with grey for their St Joseph's parade, or if they even have a parade.
I knew two marvelous people who shared the Feast of Saint Joseph as their birthday. They are from a time when I was always in a hurry and knew the price of everything and the value of nothing (sort of like now, but much younger) when I worked for American Forces (Europe) Network in Germany.
Bob was my first boss in Radio Command Information (we produced public service announcements, the equivalent of radio commercials). He drove an absolutely beaten VW Beetle, had a neurotic dog named Sandy and a wife whom he worshiped, Erika. He was a former musician in the Army band and that's how he came to Germany in the post-World War II era.
Bob had wonderfully detailed stories filled with narrative intricacies that didn't end so much as they'd just stop and his voice would trail off because he'd just remembered the subject of the story had died or had some other sadness befall him or her and you'd look at his face and realize his eyes were glistening as he fought back tears from a long-ago memory.
Gisela was the record librarian of the most amazingly organized collection of vinyl in the world (not a lie; even the Library of Congress was jealous of her system). She had a story about coming of age in the ruins of her country after the war and choosing to work for the besatzungstruppen over someone else (who'd offered a little more money), because the former offered a hot meal at mid-day. And that was what sealed the deal and why Gisela had come to work for AFN.
Bob's wife, Erika, was 'local color' (a citizen of the country in which the GI was stationed; usually guys marrying women though I can recall Mimi being the opposite) and he lived in Erika's hometown, far from the exchange, commissary and all the GI Joe trappings and looked like he was having himself quite a time.
Gisela translated my permission letter from the Standesamt of Offenbach am Main (where I and Sigrid were to marry) because I couldn't read, write or speak a word of German. She'd read a line and then offer me the English translation. I still recall how brightly her eyes shone, how warm and broad her smile was as she translated the 'permission is granted' part and grasped me by both shoulders and gave me a congratulatory hug.
I remember both of them today on their birthdays as I have on previous years. I hope you'll forgive that I've told you a story you may have already heard. That's how us old people are. I hope Saint Joseph doesn't mind too much either since this is his day, but I knew them a lot better .What I don't know is how many others knew them or thought of them today. I worry about what happens when no one is left here who knows you ever even lived. I'm starting to feel the pressure, just a little bit. I told you a small piece of their story to help me remember to celebrate them and to remind you we are the sum of everyone we have ever known or, perhaps, known of. People change but memories of people stay the same.
-bill kenny
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