My Goddaughter
Tomorrow is the baptism of my niece, Alexandra Paige King, and I am the Godfather. Lexi is not a blood relative, but our families are close so ‘Uncle Mark’ comes natural. I am so proud, but a little nervous. This is a Roman Catholic service and according to the rules, “A Godparent must lead a life in harmony with the faith and the role to be undertaken.” That is a high hurdle.
Born and raised Catholic, I considered being a priest with some pressure from our pastor and my mom. I took Latin in high school, hoping to be either a priest or a lawyer, but ended up somewhere in between. As a somewhat unruly student in parochial school, (putting it mildly), the punishment was daily mass as an altar boy. That was more a penalty for my Dad, who each morning took me to 6:00 AM mass. I once calculated that I attended enough masses that averaged one mass per week for 46 years. That average diminished during the last decade.
Recently, my Godfather passed away and we said the rosary at the funeral home. I asked my Mom, “When did they insert a long prayer at the end of each mystery, (or every ten Hail Mary’s?).” Mom rolled her eyes and said it was over thirty years ago. My mother can also count my trips to mass – when she visits me, when I visit her, marriages, and funerals.
Well, my sweet little Lexi, my catechism needs some polish and oil plus a translation from Latin to English. Not a problem. Your parents are wonderful, so watch them and follow their footsteps. I will be there to hold you. Together, we will celebrate, laugh, cry, and keep on a positive pathway. With all my Latin, I can help translate strange words, but you must depend on your Godmother for spelling. I want to be your mentor, and you mine. The Chinese say a teacher learns twice.
Lovely Lexi, in a world of spin I can meet the Church’s rules as your Godfather. From my heart we will fine harmony with the faith and the world, together.
Perils at Copacabana Beach
Imagine waking just before dawn. The tip of the reddish-orange sun is barely breaking the horizon. Across the street lies an absolutely gorgeous beach curving around a bay of emerald hills. People are gathering at water’s edge enamored with the kaleidoscope of colors lapping on the shores. You join them. Back home there is at least two-feet of snow and grey skies. It is a few minutes after six, but the temperature is approaching 70. The crowd is quiet, almost spiritual, as the warm waves caress our feet. About a half hour later the blazing sun clears the horizon, volley ball nets are going up and the assembly disperses. An hour later I am in a suit joining my hosts for breakfast. Upon hearing about my sunrise stroll, their jaws drop and a blend of surprise and fear creases their brows. They immediately inform me my walk was extremely dangerous. Too polite to call me an idiot, they leave no doubt I just survived a near-tragic experience.
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Worst Books of 2009
As a youth I was in the habit of borrowing more library books than I was able to read. My mom insisted that once I opened a book it must be completely read before I started another. This rule was not only a good habit, but it really reduced my library fines. The rule is torturous when you run into a novel that is disappointing and/or terrible. I segmented the worst ten books into: those with big expectations and huge disappointments; and those I chose, even though they were probably bad. On behalf of my mom and me: avoid these books and finish what you start.
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Snowfall Derby
For those worrying about the relevancy of newspapers the local Rochester Democrat & Chronicle offers its daily ‘Snowfall Derby.’ The cumulative snowfall, as of today, is 47.9 inches – a six-year high. Unfortunately, we are behind Buffalo and Syracuse, who respectively lead with 48.7 and 57.7 inches. We are not even at the midpoint. The average local snow fall season is 100.3 inches.
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A Bag of Books
A very welcomed present from a dear friend is a laptop backpack. There are at least three other briefcases, gathering dust somewhere, to protect my PC. This one is a bag for my textbooks. There are four, ranging from eight ounces to five pounds each. Add the computer, notebooks, chewing gum and other needs, and it’s like carrying rocks. Consider the pressure on a five-foot freshman where the carrying weight may be a third or more of their own mass. Painful!
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Romancing A Roll Top
I first became enamored with a roll top desk while browsing through a Norman Rockwell print book as a teen. In the artist’s sentimental style there was a couple applying for a marriage license, a golfer sneaking out of his office, and a doctor diagnosing a little girl’s doll. An oak roll top desk is the centerpiece for each image. While I possessed no desire to be a justice-of the-peace, a duffer or doc, the desk became my passion.
After a three-year search at auctions and antique stores a damaged oak beauty, blackened by a blaze, was purchased at a fire sale price. For months I bleached the burns, re-glued loose drawers, sanded cubby holes and stained the rippling roll cover – not that it ever closed. Upon completion, she gleamed. I posed next to her, gently stroking the curves, and imagined Rockwell setting up his easel. Within a few days I abandoned my beauty for over thirty-five years.
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Top 10 2009 Books
Armed with my Kindle, IPOD, and car CD player, I read or listened to over fifty books this year. Ironically, only one was printed on paper – but that is another blog. Here are my top ten books for 2009. In a few days I will post the worst ten.
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The Count – Part 2
It is Sunday and I am in my office stacking boxes full of three-plus decades of souvenirs and nick-nacks on to a push cart. Where did the last 20 working days go? 4 weeks and 160 or more hours in meetings, presentations, back-slapping and a few hugs flew by. Tomorrow I hand-in my pass, computer, Blackberry, secure ID, and well-worn American Express card.
I push the cart through the building lobby. It is a magnificent five story atrium of glass and black marble. It took a year and tens of millions to build the entire structure. The grand opening included an employee town meeting where I was on the agenda to speak. On the day of the big opening, my chair was empty. I was miles away in a hospital surrounded by cardiologists.
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The Missing Drummer
A pinch of mint and a whiff of baked ginger lingered in the room. Hanging in the doorway was mistletoe, ready to lure holiday lovers into its spell. The fat pine, still sticky with sap, seemed straighter at the tree lot. The lower branches vibrated with frantic activity. The Christmas Season always seemed to arrive too early and fly too quickly toward that magical morning.
After their long nap the figurines and ornaments were eager to greet each other and help decorate the holiday display. Among all the chatter, bells, and harps, the ornament parade faced difficulty forming. A troop of toy soldiers were unable to pick-up their cadence. There was no ‘rump-bump-bump’ to line-up their shiny boots. Ready or not, Rudolph leaped to the front. The procession lurched forward. Trumpets blared, but as the parade entered the porcelain village, something was wrong! Wise men bumped into elves. Carolers slipped on the waxy snow. Where was the familiar beat that always helped them find their way?
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Silent Offerings
Snowplows prowled the broad boulevards of Pulaski and Archer, converting pristine puffs of winter into grimy piles of ice and salt along the curbs of South Chicago. Barreling down a dark side street, a monstrous shovel dodged parked cars while furrowing through drifts. Bouncing headlights and worn wipers battled for visibility until a glittering beacon pierced through the storm. A stone church with simple lines and a square steeple glowed in floodlights at 48th Street. Three-stories of stained glass highlighted the bald, but blessed, St. Bruno. Gusts of flakes spun around the plow as it scrapped by the house of worship unaware of the tempest brewing inside.
Incense, lingering long after the end of Midnight Mass, swirled around the dark altar mixing with the fragrance of red and white poinsettias blanketing the steps above the communion rail. Down the center aisle near the front doors, a tall woman paced between the Pope’s portrait and a confessional that forgave sins in English and Polish. She wore a jogging suit and a ski jacket. The creak from the front door announced her companion’s arrival.
An elderly gentleman hobbled forward with a cane. After a perfunctory nod, he bumped by her and peered into a dimly lit room by the confessional.
“The candles were out when you left?”
“I extinguished them myself.” She replied. “Not more than an hour ago.”
Five candles blazed among dozens of silent wicks. Five candles licked the air, illuminating the Infant of Prague – the crowned Baby Jesus holding the world and wearing a jewelled robe embroidered by one of the parishioners. Five candles danced, bouncing the shadows of the two whispering observers against the sanctuary walls.
“What on earth brought you here at this hour, Sister Meredith?”
“Just a hunch. Our perpetrator favors the holidays.”
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