BLOWN TIRE, BLOWN MIND

All I can remember about the timing of this event is that it was prior to 1980 during a time when I was not attending church and frankly, not much of a believer. Betty, my dear friend from Catholic high school in Los Angeles, had been one of my bridesmaids and was a devout Roman Catholic still. She had an elderly friend, Sylvia, who kept house for the priests at St. Kilian’s Parish in Mission Viejo, California where my husband and I and our three kids lived only a few blocks from that very church.

Betty was in California for a few days and called to invite me to a luncheon and prayer meeting among several ladies that Sylvia was planning to hostess in her living quarters at the parish. I must admit that the meeting was definitely other-worldly! The women were ‘charismatic’ Catholics, and most of the prayer was unintelligible to me. The spoke in tongues and I was not at all familiar with this phenomenon!

Nevertheless, after lunch and prayer – several hours later – they decided to go out for ice cream. We all piled into a car that blew a tire within 100 feet of leaving the church parking lot! Did I mention that these ladies were ‘elderly’ gals? It was obvious that neither they nor Betty and I were up to changing the flat.

As we bemoaned our plight, including the fact that no priests were home to help us, Sylvia decided, “We’ve just got to pray that God sends us an angel!”

As we opened our eyes, what did we see? A tanned hunk of a guy in while dolphin short-shorts, a white tank top and white visor jogging our way!

“Hi, ladies. Need help with that flat?”

“Our angel,” whispered Sylvia. “Our angel,” we whispered to each other.

And so he was. We were on our way in 10 minutes. And I learned a lesson about prayer and God’s immediate help in time of trouble that remains with me to this day.

“And all things you ask in prayer, believing, you shall receive.” Matthew 21:22

When I was four years old my mommy had a new baby, my baby sister. Babies are very fragile and have to be touched carefully. Sometimes if I sat very still in a chair my mommy would put my baby sister in my lap and let me hold her. Once Mommy brought my baby sister to nursery school so I could show her off. Mommy had us all sit in chairs and she put the baby in each of my friend’s lap so everyone got to hold my baby sister. I felt very important.

One morning I woke up very early. The house was quiet because everyone was still sleeping. I tip toed into the room where my baby sister was sleeping in her bassinet. I was just tall enough to peak over the sides and see her. This was so nice, just the two of us with no one else around. I loved her so much and wanted to do something special.

I didn’t have much I could give my baby sister, but I could give her the band aid that was covering a scratch on my leg. This was a very prized possession.

I took the band aid off my leg and looked into the bassinet. I didn’t know where to put it because the baby was wrapped in a blanket and her arms and legs were covered. I didn’t want to move the blanket because she was still sleeping and I didn’t want to wake her. Her forehead was not covered and it was a big enough place for this for the band aid. Carefully I stood on the very tippy tip of my toes and stretched my arms and fingers as far as they would go. I could just barely reach her. I put the band aid on my baby sister’s forehead, very pleased with my secret gift. As I took my hands away I my arm hit the side of the bassinet and it started tipping towards me. I was scared.

That is all I remember. Years later Mom told me she heard a noise and ran to investigate. There she found her oldest daughter out cold, and her new baby on the floor unharmed and with a band aid on her forehead. They were quite worried about me because it was quite a while before I came around.

This is one of the few memories of my early years.

I was sitting in my car eating my lunch --again, when I saw it! The driver drove right past me and it was enough to make me momentarily stop eating my Arby's. Black, shiny, new, a Rolls Royce; it was the most magnificent car I think I have ever seen. You have to admit, you don't see one of those cars every day of the week.

Curiousity got the best of me and I watched the driver manuever Black Beauty into a spot. When she finally emerged, the driver was closer to 70 than 50 with perfectly coiffed hair and dressed in basic black.

She entered the shoe repair store and exited just a few minutes later carrying a large black bag; I imagine it was the final accessory needed for her total look. She climbed back into the car and disappeared into traffic.

I went back to eating my sandwich and decided that she probably couldn't eat in her car --poor thing. Then it dawned on me; she can probably eat anywhere she wants.

The first standing ovation I saw was in 1956, while I was a student at the University of Pittsburgh—at least that’s the one I still remember. That was the year that Eisenhower was running against Stevenson for president. This was a re-run of the 1952 election which Eisenhower had won easily. Eisenhower had a commanding lead in this contest, too, but the Democrats were trying to capture the senate seat in Pennsylvania, and were running Joe Clark, the former mayor of Philadelphia. (I remember Clark as having a patrician air–an unusual characteristic for a Democrat and one that probably did not endear him to the steel workers in the city.) In order to help Clark, Eleanor Roosevelt, who was probably in her mid-seventies at that point, came to western Pennsylvania to campaign with him. Eleanor Roosevelt was a mythical figure to many Americans and certainly to me. She was a living link to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who had died in office about ten years earlier. Although FDR had a strong, magnetic personality, the shy Eleanor was able to assert herself and was almost as well recognized. She roamed the world and was the social conscious of his administration.

There was an announcement in the student news paper that as part of their visit, Mrs. Roosevelt and Clark would speak one afternoon in the Carnegie Recital Hall, a small hall, generally used for chamber concerts, located next to the Carnegie Museum, near the university campus. A fellow student and I, having time, and anxious to see a living legend, decided to attend.

About fifty people showed up. Mr. Clark and Mrs. Roosevelt appeared at the appointed hour and as they walked from the wings to the front of the stage, an awareness that one of the key figures in American history over the last twenty-five years was in front of us swept the audience. Everyone stood up at once as if drawn by some powerful magnet and applauded. The applause was long and sustained, but not raucous. No one shouted or hooted. It was a quiet moment of tribute and thanks. Mrs. Roosevelt spoke in her high pitched, frail, voice. I can’t remember a word she said, but I can still feel her presence.
Years passed. I got my degree, and first job, moved to New Jersey, married and had two children. During the twenty–one years I lived in the Garden State I don’t recall hearing another standing ovation. Then I changed jobs and moved to St. Paul, Minnesota in 1983.

One of the first events I attended in that state was a sales meeting, in the St. Paul Hotel, of the division I was working for in the company I had just joined. Toward the end of the evening the head of the division announced the name of the winner of the award given annually to the person who had contributed the most. His name was Fred Jensen. At the sound of the name, everyone in the room arose, in what to me appeared to be a spontaneous gesture, and applauded vigorously. I was impressed. This was only the second standing ovation I had observed and I was convinced that this guy must have been at least the equal of Eleanor Roosevelt. After that dinner I got to know Mr. Jensen better. He was a hard worker, smart and made valuable contributions to the business, but he was no Eleanor Roosevelt
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I soon discovered that the standing o’ was not a unique form of recognition in Minnesota. I went on to witness hundreds maybe thousands of these tributes in that state: at plays, concerts, ballgames, talks and even super market openings. Not surprisingly, the situation is worse in California.

I, for one, refuse to stand up and clap and I refuse to let the audience pressure me into doing so. If everyone gets a standing ovation—just like having every student get an “A”—hasn’t it lost its significance? I prefer the sitting down ovation. It’s easier on the feet and, if we all do it, everyone in the audience has a better chance to see what’s going on. I find it suitable for most occasions, including Starbucks openings. As for the standing o’, I am holding it in reserve for people like Eleanor Roosevelt and for “once in a lifetime” performances, but I still haven’t practiced it since that sales meeting in 1983.

The second part of assignment # 1
By,
Reiss

Choosing godparents was a serious matter. Phenella could not refuse the request from her niece, Eline, to be the baby’s godmother. Eline had grown to be beautiful, gracious, polite and capable, the perfect godmother. It seemed the appropriate thing, Phenella thought, to ask her sister Marie's husband, Garçon, to be the godfather. How nice, she thought to have a father and daughter as godparents for her little boy she decided to name Ronald and, just to "cover all grounds," use Simeon as the Baptismal or middle name. The English pronounciation, Simmyyin, she said, was, “not bad, so why not?” Ronald Coleman was her favorite actor and she would love to have a son with his charm and speaking voice. She was keenly aware of the resistance she would get when she asked Garçon, as he had no use for such things, especially if it meant, "Dressing to go to the church and seeing those priests."

Garçon, who had not heard his given name, Gustave, in recent memory, was not one to dress for any occasion. The last time he was seen in other than hand-me-down, ill fitting khaki pants, tied with fraying pieces of rope and a well-worn plaid shirt, was at his daughter's wedding where he stunned the wedding guests gathered in the masive church. The oohs and ahhs resounded above the sound of Wagner's wedding march when he entered the church with the beautiful bride on his arm. His mane of salt and pepper hair was, for the first time in recent memory, combed away from his face that was cleanly shaved. The devilish blue eyes, that spoke a defiant language of their own, were twinkling with glee as he saw the brouhaha caused by his appearance. The natural perfection of his body line that belied his age, the proud posture worn by fathers of the bride the world over and his devil-may-care approach to the scene did great justice to the perfectly tailored wedding attire that he wore with the elegance of gentlemen who wore evening dress as a matter of course. Everyone was reminded that day, that this was, indeed, a phenomenally handsome man.

Garçon, however, was the undisputed clown prince of the Ward and he saw the world differently than any other human alive. His humor, which respected no bounds of propriety, religion or community, was a source of delight to everyone...well, not everyone. His wife spent a lifetime “mortified,” embarrassed and angered by the things he was willing to say to anyone within earshot. He spoke a language that was without benefit of approval from Webster or the King's linguists. There was, however, never a need to question meaning, often ribald , or intent. He had the wonderful ability to communicate with animals which led to notable success as a race horse trainer. He also had an acute sense of how to earn and keep money. His idea of banking money was to wrap it carefully in cloth, place it in a coffee can and bury in the back yard, or to hide it behind a picture of Saint Theresa, his favorite saint, which was hung on a wall in a back yard work-shed, or to store it behind the loose bricks of an unused fireplace in a back room of the house. To this day, some wonder if all the money was removed when he and Aunt Marie moved to the West Coast after retirement.

Everone was surprised when Garçon agreed with no discussion, argument or overly colorful language. He said this was to be a particularly lucky child and that he would be happy to be its parrain (2). " Kax!" he proclaimed, "I'll even let Mayart," the only name he ever called his wife, Marie, "wash and iron my pants!" With that, the baby had godparents.

* * *

All of the guests were awaiting the return of the baby and the godparents from church to celebrate the baptism. It was the kind of March afternoon when the city forgot its age and sparkled. The sky was a blue bulletin board, decorated with white, puffy, spun sugar clouds. One could almost taste the air that had the sweet aroma of carnival time cotton candy left over from Mardi Gras a few weeks earlier. It was unusually warm and sunny, so several of the guests were standing on the front porch when the godparents walked up to be met by people, who insisted on addressing the new Christian with assorted goos, ga gas and coochy coos.

Miss Lillia was first in line to kiss the baby, making sure to block Miss Raphael's access to the bundled infant. Miss Raphael, with a dramatically broad flourish of the right hand to the forehead, breast and shoulders, made the sign of the cross...."Au nom du pere, du fis...." (3) as Lillia crossed her path. Phenella, Ruth, Mi Mal and Ol Maman glanced at each other with sighs of relief when the sign of the cross was the only physical movement between the two, now and forevermore, mortal enemies.

All eyes were on the two women and their reactions. No one noticed the anxiety that clouded Eline's face as she silently walked passed the well-wishers, directly into the house after surrendering the baby to its mother and went immediately into the bathroom.

There were questions, exclamations, demands to see and hold the baby.

"Garçon, how did you like the ceremony, Did you get along with Father Casserly? Did you give him the Dollar to pay for the Christening?" Questions came to Garçon from all directions. He responded to none until Phenella, with a glint in her eye, asked, "Well, Garçon, after all of the mauvais sang (4) about my baby's name around here, how did Father Casserly like the name, Ronald Simeon?"

Garçon, with the look of a man who had conquered all of the countries in the western hemisphere, said, "Sister in Law, that child of yours will be one of the luckiest people in the world because he is named after the luckiest man in the city." He gave the baptismal certificate to the baffled mother. He stepped over the threshold to leave the house, turned and, with the twinkle in his eye, announced, "Your little red-head boy's name is Reiss!"

(2) parrain... godfather
(3) "Au nom du pere, du fis....In the namer of the father, the son...
(4) mauvais sang .. literally: bad blood... in that society: argument, discord, dissension