Your eyes are not about to deceive you. What you're about to read you've read before. I make no apologies or excuses. My space in the ether, my rules.
Every year on this day I indulge myself. Some might argue as even casual readers of this drivel that I indulge myself every day, but this is not the time for that discussion (which you will lose, by the way). It's purely and simply my way to keep the memories of two of my most favorite people of all time, neither of whom I'd describe as 'friends,' alive because as long as I can remember them, they'll live on.
That was a disclaimer of sorts.
If you choose to move on, this would be a really good time to do that, otherwise...(when I first offered it over a decade ago) here is:
Scared that He'll Be Caught
This was a tough week for anyone who's ever picked up, owned, or been named for, anyone in Alban Butler's Lives of the Saints. The main event, of course, was Friday, Saint Patrick's Day. I'm not sure every place on earth paints the median strips on the main street green as part of the parade or adds food coloring to the beer but let's face it, Saint Patrick is the 800-pound gorilla in the room for the month of March.
As a grade-school child, I missed the subtlety that went into the talk-around as the Sisters of Charity explained 'the Annunciation' and when I got older and it smacked me right between the eyes, I admired, even more, the cool, collected response Joseph seemed to have had to all of that.
This is too bad because today is the Feast of Saint Joseph, husband of Mary (Mother of God) and (sort of) Jesus' stepdad. I've always envisioned an at-the-dinner-table exchange between the Son of Man (while still a small child) and Joseph that has Joe saying "then ask your 'real dad' for a new bike and let's see what happens." And then I imagine The Curia or the Legion of Decency showing up at my house and slapping on the cuffs.
The Feast of Saint Joseph is when traditionally the swallows come back to Capistrano. I wonder if the village fathers paint the center stripe on their main street a shade of bird droppings white and grey or if they even have a parade. The city fathers and mothers are holding the annual festival this coming Saturday, so if you're free... there's still time to take part.
As urbane and world-wise as I like to think of myself, I love the story as much now as I did hearing it as a child. I find it reassuring and, while my belief in a Divine Being fluctuates wildly, I hope (in a faint-hearted, wimpy sort of way) that Paley is right about the Great Watchmaker.
With apologies to Jackson Browne who once sang 'I don't know what happens when people die,' in keeping with that point, I have known two very dear people who shared the Feast of Saint Joseph as their birthday. They are both from long ago, at the time when I knew everything (and everything better) when I worked for American Forces (Europe) Network.
Bob was my first (and very best) boss in Radio Command Information (together with Sara, Marge, Norm, and Brian) while Gisela was the record librarian of the most amazing (and amazingly organized) collection of vinyl in the world and a fairy godmother and font of wisdom to generations of enlisted broadcasters, present company very much included.
Bob was married to 'local color' as I was to be as well (GIs who married citizens from the country in which they were stationed; usually guys marry women but NOT always). He and his wife, Erika, had no children but loved as if she were one, a stray dog they took in and kept all its life, Sandy.
Erika and Sandy passed away pretty close to one another, leaving a hole in Bob's heart that never healed, filled with a pain of which he never spoke. Bob himself passed a number of years ago and I see him at this very moment in my mind's eye in his beaten beige long coat with a beret he wore in every kind of weather driving a thoroughly broken-in (if not broken down) VW Beetle.
I've carried with me for decades the realization I could have learned so much more from him, and not just about radio production, had I listened harder both to what he said and what he didn't say.
Gisela was my translator when the letter of permission from the Standesamt of Offenbach am Main (where Sigrid and I hoped to marry) arrived and I raced frantically from office to office throughout the headquarters building trying to find someone to be my eyes (I was illiterate auf Deutsch and vowed at that moment to never be that guy again).
I remember both of them today, maybe more so than Saint Joseph, perhaps because I don't know how many others remember them and I'm sad when I think about what happens to you when the last person on earth to know you is no more.
So on this day every year, I tell a little of the story of their lives as I knew them, to remind me to celebrate them and to look forward to the day when we can laugh together about all of that and so much more.
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