Two Saints and a Tractor!

I must admit I had no idea that he was still alive.

How could he be?

When that little girl in the pleated green skirt and white chapel veil pinned to her curly-top hair knelt in Mass every Friday morning and dared glance up at him; he seemed so very old.

And that was almost 50 years ago.

Perhaps it was his solemn countenance that Mom insisted was holiness and myself and all my childhood friends assumed was unhappiness. Perhaps it was hard for him to smile or laugh because he was pastor to a poor church and school, St. Patrick’s, instead of one of the parishes that had new stained glass windows and professionally sewn “Alleluia” banners on the altar. Perhaps he was still angry about the Crucifixion.

The nuns implored us to watch Father Scully closely, because his eyes were the eyes of Christ and his love of the Lord was one of perfection; it was saintly.

Every morning Sister Teresine, our principal, led us in prayer over the crackly old intercom system. We prayed for the sick of the parish. We prayed for our Pope and Bishop. We prayed for our loved ones. We prayed for Father Scully, the leader of our flock.

But secretly, silently, I always prayed for Uncle Bill…St. Patrick’s custodian. His real name, Mr. Yarawsky, was tricky to pronounce and for twenty-five years he would be ‘Uncle Bill’ to the thousands of children that attended our small, Catholic elementary school. From the moment we lined up on the pavement to raise the flag and recite the Pledge of Allegiance, to the sound of the final bell and the fast-walking, never running, dash to the parking lot, we knew Uncle Bill would take good care of us.

Forgotten milk money or a tumble on the sidewalk and bloody knee…Uncle Bill was there. A broken desk or kickball stuck in the tree…Uncle Bill was there. So many years later I can still see him atop the school tractor mowing the play yard grass or smoothing the baseball field sand. His sharp features softened by a broad smile and talkative eyebrows. He seemed to know when to peep his head in and reassure the chatty-child who was sitting, head on desk at recess, while the sounds of her classmates wafted in through the open windows. His key chain opened the maintenance closet where the good smelling dust was held to cover up the mess your upset tummy made.

And when your tears articulated the fear of an unbecoming nickname or hurt feelings, Uncle Bill would take your hand and calm your heart. It seemed that he was truly the shepherd of the flock.

Both these decent men died last week and their passing provided me a much needed lesson.

A lesson in judging.

As I read Monsignor Scully’s obituary and online guestbook I was struck, no…I was humbled by the words offered to describe this holy man. And though many memorials reflected the tall, brooding priest that seemed to speak for a harsh, halting Lord, the words of his current flock were adjectives that described great gentleness and kindness. Loving devotion and years of dedicated service to so many who learned to know God’s word from Monsignor’s soul.

Mr. Yarawsky’s eulogy included years of service at St. Patrick’s and as a Deacon in the community. Pages of fond, touching memories from the children that called him Uncle Bill filled the space beneath his smiling picture.

I guess the little girl in that hand-me-down uniform was mistaken about these two men. They weren’t so different after all. They had different mannerisms and gifts. Different styles and stances. Different ways to lead you to the same path. One wore starched work clothes and an easy grin, the other layers of anointed robes and the occasional nod. In reality, their jobs were to keep their flock safe here on earth and prepare them for eternity.

They did a really fine job and now these two loyal shepherds have been called home…I sure hope Uncle Bill takes Father Scully for a ride on a heavenly tractor!!!

http://www.tampabay.com/news/publicsafety/article1129733.ece

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/tbo/obituary.aspx?n=william-yarawsky-bill&pid=146115118

Lesson 1: Write about the reason you have delayed writing your story.

But Here I Sit

Husband always tells people that his wife is a comedian.

A storyteller.
A writer.
Without fail, they turn to me, and in a loud, sassy twang exclaim, “Really! How perfectly charming that is.
And what is it…What exactly do you write?”
“Checks! Lots and lots of checks!” I squeal, figuring if I can’t inspire respect,
I sure as hell can arouse jealousy.
You see, I wasn’t meant to be here.
No, not in the physical sense, silly goose, in the metaphysical sense.
My career plans written first with a chubby, red crayon.
“donna is a RiTer,”
as a faded, 1st grade self portrait still clarifies.
Middle school years spent uninterested in David Cassidy, Bobby Sherman, and the rest of the lunch box idols. The Monkeys or Partridge Family were musically inclined, but dull when compared to the band of critters in my immediate family. Have I got a sit-com for you?!
A Catholic high school with primarily a Latin population produced a notebook of material just waiting to be deciphered and chronicled. Maybe book two?
Baby sitting jobs turned away, choosing rather to work in a sun-scorched car wash or dreary, discount store, knowing they would provide earthier caricatures of humanity.
Never experienced the “Oooh” factor for infants; and found them even less inviting as toddlers.
Children for me? Never!
My future was carefully composed and consisted of a New York flat, an iron staircase, abject poverty, a frayed cord hoisting a single light bulb, my creative juices, and solitude.
That is where I would be.
Simple?
No so much.
Because in a stocky, 6”, green-eyed, twist of fate, I met my brother’s college roommate. We became pen pals, buddies, companions, steadies, and thirty-five years ago… husband and wife!
We have struggled, lived, laughed, had sons, and inherited more sons;
all as the years scampered past.
A brief offer to volunteer in a Domestic Violence Shelter morphed into years of managing their Children’s Programs.
All kids, all day!
All remembered, yet unwritten!
Aging grandparents and parents interrupted my Journalism degree field trip and somehow, in a moment of menopausal mental illness,
I bought a small coffeehouse that came with a leaking,
antique espresso machine and a menu of flavorful characters!
“May I have a mocha, marijuana, vodka latte’, please? Can you make it a double?”
“Certainly,” I cajole, “Hot or cold? Whole or skim milk? Whipped cream?
Oh, and by the way, I’m not meant to be here. "
But here I sit........
Wondering if fate’s benevolent hand has muffled my primal dream, because my lack talent would make it a nightmare, or, if I have finally run out of excuses…..except the fear of failing….
Or is it 'accept' the fear of failing?

I Don't Think Lazarus is the only one that's sick?

“Larry! Hurry come out here to the backyard, I think the dog just killed a baby squirrel,” I screamed.
I could see the annoyed look in his eyes, as he turned the corner, hopping on one foot, while slipping his yard shoe on the other. “Donna, that’s a full grown squirrel and it looks like it’s been here a few hours. Look at the red bugs on his nose.”
“Fine, whatever, but he’s still breathing. What are we going to do?”
After thirty-five years, we’ve seen this movie before. I’m totally unreasonable about the cycle of life in nature, and he’s totally trapped in my plan to save and protect God’s furry friends.
“Donna, my office is closed today, because the stock market’s closed. Remember, we were going to get up early, mow, rake, and spruce-up the backyard, get cleaned-up, go to Good Friday services, and then come home and take Zipporah for a walk. Remember?”
“Husband, look at this little face."

"NOT MINE!"

"Look, the squirrel’s eyes have a deep, dark gaze. His heart is pounding. He seems paralyzed in fear…have you ever seen anything like it?” I ask, now sitting in the grass, next to the sickly squirrel. “What do you really think happened to the little guy ?”
“Maybe he just read the Healthcare Bill?” Larry deadpans.
“Good God, “I shout, “are you gonna start?”
“Donna! Don’t say that today; this is Holy week after all. And no, I’m not gonna start, I was just making a suggestion. Listen sweetie,” he continues, now sitting by my side, looking at the still critter, clinging to life, “you and your family have such unnatural expectations of nature. This is a squirrel, not a relative and you can’t give it human emotions. I know it makes you sad, but things get sick and die all the time in the wild. It’s part of life. Right?”
“No Husband, no so much right!” I snap. “And just because your people think nothing of buying, naming, and raising little bunnies or lambs and the next thing you know, they’re serving Flopsy stew out of a camouflaged crock pot….”
“No Husband…just because Italians are civilized and don’t want to get emotionally attached to their meals, does not make us unrealistic.

It makes us normal!”
Slowly, Larry stood from our death watch on the lawn, lowering his sunglasses he looks into my determined eyes, and firmly pinches his lips together with his thumb and forefinger.
“And what’s that all about? “ I ask.
“I know how this ends, “ he grimaces, “I say something about your family, you get your feelings hurt, the damn tree rat dies, and before you know it….two innocent men are crucified today!’ The squirrel and I hold our ground.
“Come on, “he concedes, “I’ll go get some gloves and a soft towel and you go get that medicine dropper and some warm water. Let’s see what we can do.”
“Thanks Husband! But I’ll wait here until you get back,

so nothing gets to Little Lazarus while we’re both gone.”
“Little Lazarus? You’ve named that dying, tree rat Little Lazarus?”
“Uh, huh,” I answer proudly, my glare now piercing his UV protected shades.
“That’s just beautiful…Jeezzzus Christ!” he exclaims, walking toward the garage.
“HEY, hey, watch your mouth,” I parrot, “Remember it’s Holy Week!”
“Yes, it’s Holy Week,” he agrees, “and if this Lazarus doesn’t rise from the dead, you’re going to worry and sulk and make me nuts. DONNA! Where’s that medicine dropper?”
“I'm going. I'm going, " I respond,

"Maybe I ought to call the Squirrel Rescue place we took Simon and Garfunkel to? Ya think?”
“You mean the people we took those orphaned baby squirrels to in the middle of the night? The free healthcare clinic that required fifty bucks an animal as a mandatory donation? All so they could release them at a supposed free-range squirrel sanctuary? You’re really going to fall for that again?” he scowls.
Little Lazarus is getting weaker and though his extremities can move and he doesn’t seem frightened or uncomfortable, it’s obvious he’s not long for this earth.
“Husband, we have to do something! I’m not going to sit here and argue. I’m going to go Google search the squirrel rescue and see if anything else comes up. Do you think I ought to see if our Vet’s office is open? What should I do? You must have some ideas…you do watch the Animal Planet channel all the time?” I persist.
Larry is obviously irritated.
His eyes beginning to resemble Lazarus’ blank stare, “Donna…honey…I think this animal is dying, but you do whatever you need to do and I’ll support you. Call the squirrel shysters, check the Internet, call the dog’s vet, hell….call Oral Roberts! Just please let me get some yard work done before I have to be a paw-bearer and dispose of this poor creature. Please!”
“Ok, alright….I’m going to start calling, but suppose that rescue place only takes baby squirrels?
Suppose they won’t take Lazarus because he’s really sick?
Suppose they say no?” I processed aloud, “Or that he’s not eligible. What should I say then?”
“Donna,” he says, patting my face, with his yard work-gloved hand,” try telling them he had a pre-existing condition!”

And we loved him too...........

His father wanted us to know we made a difference.

He wanted to say, “thank you” for being his son’s friend.

That his son loved us.

He wanted to tell us that his son died last week.

Our words of condolence and promise of prayers seemed to comfort him, but much like his son he wasn’t much for talking and head bowed he walked out the coffeeshop door to his tiny, rattle-trap car. The same tired, old, orange Honda that brought Window Washer Man to and from Ashley’s for the past 10 years rain or shine. Good times and bad. His bucket and paper towels in hand.

We had all wondered aloud about his health the past few months and whispered worries about his absence these last three weeks. But in all these years he never once shared his name, so we had no where to look. No one to ask. We knew he must be ill or hoped that perhaps he had moved closer to the VA hospital. Maybe he wasn’t taking his medicine or maybe he had found a really good job and would one day walk thru our door, sit down at a table and order a muffin; instead of diligently washing and wiping each corner of the plate glass window, for his bagged salary of food and five bucks….our regular deal.

We knew it had to be serious because Window Washer man was prompt. Was polite. Was part of our coffeeshop family and wouldn’t just leave and not say goodbye.

I think we’re going to buy a brick at Freedom Playground in his honor. A small monument to his fight for freedom from the addictive hands that left his body ravaged and tossed away like marionette with broken strings. And though he beamed with pride on Monday’s when he boasted of another week of sobriety, hand tremors and disheveled hair often hinted at a different truth.

I hope his brick will be in the bright sun, close to a slide or swing, cemented into the earth with the carefree sounds of children laughing and playing.

It will say simply:

“Window Washer Man was a good man and a proud man. We will miss him. Love Sylvia’s Sister and his Ashley's family.”

His first story from my essay class...I'm so glad I have this today!

http://nosomuch.blogspot.com/2010/10/our-regular-deal.html