Month: December 2015
A Christmas Song
Once in Royal David’s City stood a lonely cattle shed,
where a mother held her baby.
You’d do well to remember the things He later said.
When you’re stuffing yourselves at the Christmas parties,
you’ll just laugh when I tell you to take a running jump.
You’re missing the point I’m sure does not need making
that Christmas spirit is not what you drink.
So how can you laugh when your own mother’s hungry,
and how can you smile when the reasons for smiling are wrong?
And if I just messed up your thoughtless pleasures,
remember, if you wish, this is just a Christmas song.
(Hey! Santa! Pass us that bottle, will you?)
–Jethro Tull, from the “Living In The Past” album
Copyright 1972
What Is A Miracle?
Story by Lenny D., Spingfield, PA
Lyrics (in italic) to “Miracles Out of Nowhere” by Kansas from the album “Leftoverture”, 1976.
On a crystal morning I can see the dewdrops falling
Down from a gleaming heaven, I can hear the voices call
When you comin’ home now, son, the World is not for you
Tell me what’s your point of view
Late summer turns to early fall. God it’s beautiful, Paul thought to himself. The colors changing, the air nice and clean (even in Center City Philadelphia), 70s throughout the day, 50s throughout the night. Perfect.
He had just climbed the steps from the subway leading him down Walnut Street to his office. He loved the city. Loved everything about it. Cared about it. He was born in South Philly and still lived there. The city nurtured him and Paul wasn’t one to forget where he came from. He had a short trip from the subway to his office building. Passed the same people every day. The same smiling faces. The same guys on bikes. Same food truck. Routine. It was comforting.
He made his trek on this crystal morning expecting his usual routine. But not today. Today Paul saw a different face. Maybe, not so different.
“Hey pal,” the face called out. “Pal. Can you pray for me?” The face was smudged. The clothes were rumpled. The hair dirty, clumped in need of a good washing. The sneakers – why did he notice the sneakers –at one time white, now wore the buildup of months and months of city grime. “Can you pray for me?’ the face asked again.
Paul averted the eyes that were tracking him and kept walking. “I’ll pray for you” the face called out. Paul went to his office, fired up his computer and waited for it to come on. As it made its way through the sign-ons, passwords, beeps and grinds, Paul thought about the face. What was his story? How did he become “the face?” It bothered him on and off throughout the day.
That evening at dinner he mentioned the face to his family. “Saw a homeless guy today on the street. Never saw him before.”
“Did he approach you for a handout?” his wife Anna asked.
“Did he want money?” his 8-year-old son asked.
“Did you give him any food,” it was his 12 year old daughter.
“No. None of those things. He seemed different. He asked me to pray for him.”
“What did you say to him?” his wife asked.
“I didn’t say anything, I just kept walking. Then he said he would pray for me.”
“Daddy, did you say a prayer for him?’ his son asked.
“No. No I didn’t.” Paul held his fork, which had the last piece of chicken from his plate on it, close to his mouth ready to take a bite. He put the fork down without finishing his meal. He didn’t say much the rest of the evening except “good night” to the kids and his wife.
Anna, seven- months pregnant with their 3rd child whispered to him in bed so the other kids couldn’t hear, “What’s bothering you so much about that homeless guy?”
“I wish I knew. It was such a beautiful day, and then I came across that face.” She knew not to ask him anything else.
Paul turned away and tried to sleep.
Hey there Mister Madman, wat’cha know that I don’t know
Tell me some crazy stories, let me know who runs this show
Glassy-eyed and laughing, he turns and walks away
Tell me what made you that way
Next day. Paul made his trek on yet another crystal morning. Same familiar pattern. Same subway. Same walk.
Same face. “Hey buddy,” the face called out. “Buddy. Can you pray for me?”
Paul kept walking. “I’ll pray for you” the face called out. Paul went to his office. He thought more about the face. This time thinking about the clothes, the sneakers, the hair. Who was the face? Again, he sat at the dinner table that night.
“Saw that guy again – the homeless man.”
“What did he say today?’ his wife asked.
“Same as yesterday — pray for me.”
“And…” it was his son. Paul didn’t answer; he just cast his eyes down and took a sip of soda. He was sure he would see the face again the next day.
“Maybe he is just a mad man,” his daughter suggested. At 12 years old they were all mad men or crazies or goofs. It was a “tweens” way of putting people in perspective.
“I don’t know if he was a mad man… or someone who just fell on bad times,” Paul told his daughter. “It’s all your point of view how you see him.”
Looking to change the subject Anna said, “I spoke with the doctor today. She said she wants to start to monitor me more closely and wants me to come in next Tuesday. She may want to put me on bed rest.” This was a high risk pregnancy for Anna who was 40 years old and needed to be careful for her heath and the baby’s health.
“When is the appointment?” Paul asked. Anna could see Paul was focused elsewhere. She repeated “Next Tuesday.” He barely finished his meal.
Later in bed Anna said “You’re still pre-occupied, aren’t you.”
“About you and the baby – yes.”
“No, about the homeless guy.”
“Yes. Him, too.”
Paul tossed and turned that night.
Third day. This time even more perfect than any other days he ever seen. A perfect crystal morning.
Same subway. Same walk.
Same face. “Hey pal,” the face called out. “Pal. Can you pray for me?”
Paul walked by – a little slower this time. He slowed enough to hear something from the face that made him stop.
“I’ll pray for you – —– Thomas. I’ll pray for you — Mr. Paul Thomas Fortunato.”
He turned to the face, but the face had turned away and was walking the other way. What in the world…How did he know my name .. what did I just hear?! He called me Thomas! Nobody had called him Thomas in years! Paul hesitated – frozen – a tug-of-war between the wanting to go to his usual way and his usual routine and finally be done with face. Or leave behind the familiar and comfortable and follow the mad man and find out how he knew his name.
He followed the face.
Here I am just waiting for a sign
Asking questions, learning all the time
It’s always here, it’s always there
It’s just love, and miracles out of nowhere
Paul turned to where the face was – but he was gone. Drifted into the morning rush of bodies in Center City Philly.
Paul stretched his neck to see if he could spot him. It shouldn’t be hard – all the suits and business attire crowding the street. He should be able to pick out a shabby Aqualung-looking homeless guy. Paul pressed against the stream of hustling humans walking toward work. Going the opposite direction as the crowd moving aimlessly toward their work day, facing friction and bumping into people. “Excuse me. Excuse Me. Sorry. Sorry.” Always polite in his manner.
Heads bobbing, sun streaming, beautiful morning. He was hustling where he thought the face was heading. Sweat starting to break out on his graying head, not so much from the heat or sun but from his anxiety and inner angst. How could he miss him? How could he let him get away? Paul let out a long breath, tossed his head back and used his jacket to wipe away the sweat from his brow.
He lowered his head in semi-defeat when he noticed a pair of sneakers. Dirty, grimy sneakers. He slowly lifted his head to see the face,
“I’ll pray for you Thomas.,” it said.
This time Paul met his eyes. With his mouth open, a semi-recognition of the face crossed over him. “I’ll pray for you too,” Paul said.
The face gave a small grin revealing a mouth of rotting teeth behind the unkempt beard and smeared face.
“I’ll pray for you too…….” Paul repeated, leaving the ending open, trailing his words, hoping the face would fill in his name.
“I recognized you right away Thomas.”
Paul lowered his eyes. “I kind of recognize you, but I’m sorry. I just don’t remember your name.”
“Thanks for your prayers.” Dulled eyes stared at Paul. “I’m Nick. I’m Nick Santa Croce.”
Oh my God! “Nick!” once he said the name Paul’s brain clicked. “Nick, my God. Nick!”
“It’s been a long time since St. Monica,” Paul babbled, suddenly remembering Nick from his grade school days. Funny guy Nick. Smart guy Nick. It had to be someone from grade school. Paul wanted to say “What happened?” but caught himself not being able to say anything.
“You want to know what happened, right?” Nick took the pressure off Paul who stood there, his mouth still slightly open, showing almost perfect orthodontist-treated teeth.
“Nick, I .. I.. it’s good to see you.” Paul fumbled.
“Walk with me Paul — I think that’s what you want to be called now — Paul.”
“Well, I…I..”
“Walk with me.”
Paul began walking with Nick. Two old grade school friends. One in a suit. The other disheveled. Walking on a crystal morning.
Paul wasn’t sure where they were walking. He said to Nick, “I could go for a bagel. How about you?”
Nick shook his head “yes.”
Tell me now dear Mother, what’s it like to be so old
Children grown and leavin’, seems the world is growin’ cold
And though your body’s ailin’ you, your mind is just like new
Tell me where you’re goin’ to
They had walked in silence. Paul bought the bagels while Nick waited outside the bakery. Nick headed toward one of the skyscrapers and sat down on the pavement, leaning against a building. Paul sat down next to him.
Nick took the bag with the bagel from Paul. “So, when did you become Paul and drop the Thomas?”
“I dropped the Thomas after St. Monica’s. I guess I just felt more comfortable with Paul. — that and I didn’t have Paul Joseph Fortunato in my class anymore to confuse our names.”
“I forget which nun decided to use your middle names to tell you two apart. Two guys named Paul Fortunato in the same class. What are the odds?”
“I can still see them pointing their fingers and calling, ‘Mr. Paul Thomas Fortunato. Mr. Paul Joseph Fortunato. Come here to me!'”
“And then you knew you were in trouble,” Paul smiled.
Nick took another bite of his bagel.
“How is your beautiful mother doing? She worked at the bank, right?” It was a half question, half statement.
“She passed a few years ago. Thanks for asking. She worked at that bank for years.”
“My mother always talked about her. How nice she was and pleasant she was. They talked about us.”
Paul hesitatingly asked, “And your mother?
“Gone. Long. Long time ago.” Nick took a bite of the bagel. “I miss her.”
“I miss mine, too.”
“I remember your family named you Nicholas after St. Nick because you were born on Christmas.”
“Funny, things people remember.”
Paul finally blurted out. “Nick. What happened?”
“Things. Things happen.” He took a bite of bagel. “Fresh bagel. Thanks.”
Paul took a bite. “I kinda lost touch with you after grade school.”
“Yeah. Things changed in high school. Changed a lot. People, too.”
“I remember bumping into you now and again..”
“We ran in two different circles. Paul, you hung with the SMART guys. Me. I started hanging with the WISE guys.”
“Oh,” Paul wasn’t sure what to follow up with once that was out in the open.
“It’s the way things worked out.
“I lost my way. That’s what happens when you look outside your soul to find happiness and peace.
“It started with my mon. I saw my mom suffer and die with that cancer. It broke our family. It was like a crane picked me up and kept dropping me, smashing me to the ground.
“My dad couldn’t handle it. He just shut everyone and everything out. Railed and cursed at God, the doctors, at us. That cancer killed him as much as it killed her.
“He died a year or so after her. And I hated him ever since. I could never find it in my heart to forgive him. I carried that hate for a long, long time.”
“Nick, I’m so sorry. I had no idea…”
“Don’t give me your pity Paul. It could have happened to anybody.” As Nick talked he had a strange wheeze which morphed into a cough. A nasty sounding cough which caused him to start and stop sentences.
“How old were you when she died?’
“I was 16. Just when I could have used my mom .. or dad.. and I had neither. My sister was older and she was already in college building her life. So I wanted a life. Any life. To take away the pain. Fill the void. People promised me things Paul. Said they would take care of me. So I followed them. Followed them and listened to them.”
“What did they tell you?”
“Promises. They made me promises.
“I sold drugs. And took them. Beat up guys who didn’t pay their gambling debts. And bet anything I had. Sold my body. And paid for others bodies. Had a disregard for life. Most especially my own.” Nick had a fit of coughing followed by more wheezing and more coughing.
Paul reached to help him but Nick shooed him away. “I’ll be OK.”
“I had no idea..” Paul was stumbling for anything to interject.
“And I loved that life — I was invincible. I was a king. No one could touch me. But really -it was hollow. All a front. I know that now.
“But you know who knew it was a bad life? My mother. She died before I got into it, but it was like she could see into the future — my future. She was laying in her bed. Full of pain. Full of agony. But she knew and she tried to warn me. Tried to keep me on the straight and narrow.
“Funny, how life’s stories come full circle. Remember the story of Saint Monica — our school’s patron saint — she was in agony for her son —
“St. Augustine, right…,” Paul chimed in.
“Right. The nuns hammered that story into us, how St. Monica prayed for St. Augustine to turn his life around– and how she shed tears for him.. he became one of the greats.
“My mom wanted me to be one of the greats. She was dying but she was channeling St. Monica, crying for me. She said something profound — something I now remember — something I should have embraced. You know what Paul?– she said that people say Satan always comes when you are most vulnerable. But she warned me that he also comes to you when you are at your strongest.
“And I was both at the same time.”
Paul sat there, on the pavement, listening to this homeless mess of a man, speaking like he was a $25,000 a speech keynoter. He couldn’t eat his bagel.
“The worst part, Paul. You know the worst part?
“Nobody cared. No one wanted to see me or reach out a hand. I was garbage to everyone and treated that way by anyone. Paul, I am beyond saving physically. I am loaded with disease. My body is broken and there is no way that I will last much longer.
“That’s why I want you to pray for me. Maybe my soul can be saved. It’s what my mother told me. That no matter what happens – your soul can always be saved.
“That’s also what the good sisters taught us.”
“Nick, I don’t know what to say.”
“I have something for you to say — Say the ‘Our Father’ and a ‘Hail Mary’ with me.”
The two grade school friends, sitting on the pavement then said the two prayers together.
“You better go Paul – you have a job to get to.”
“But Nick, where will you go?”
“To the place I always go – Bethesda Project– off South Street.”
“I haven’t heard of it.”
“It’s home for me – when I want to be there. Days like today are good for the soul to get out. You probably think I couldn’t get lower than this – but I was –my mom came to me and guided me there.”
“Your mom?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me the story, Nick…”
“Not now — I want to go home — you need to go to work. Visit me sometimes — and pray for me old friend. We can talk some more then.” Nick got up — didn’t bother to dust himself off. Just turned and walked away. Turned toward his home.
Paul stood up, bagel in hand watching him walk away, wondering if he would ever see Nick again. Paul passed on going to work and headed home.
It’s so simple right before your eyes
If you’ll look through this disguise
It’s always here, it’s always there
It’s just love and miracles out of nowhere
“I’m heading to Bethesda,” Paul said to Anna grabbing a bag of Primo hoagies to bring with him. “Maybe I’ll see Nick again.”
“You’ve only seen him a few times since that day when you two first sat down.”
“When he called me ‘Thomas’ that just shook me.” This was conversation they had several times in the months that passed since Nick and Paul shared their bagel. Anna knew that something was driving her husband, something more than just a concern for an classmate that he really never knew that well.
Anna took a deep breath and gently felt her belly. Her first two pregnancies were fine, but this one was tough.
“Nick never opened up like he did that first day. I can’t just let him rot away.”
“Paul — I’m sure those men at the shelter appreciate you helping and volunteering and bring the food like you’ve been doing these past few months. But it’s December now and I am not feeling good. I need you.”
“Only for a short while — just to drop off the hoagies and try to talk to Nick.”
“You don’t even know if he’s there. The guys that run it don’t know when he’ll show up.”
“I’ve been praying for him. I can’t get it out of my head how he just disintegrated. The pain he was in, the hurt.”
“You have been there so much lately that you seem distant to the whole family and are focused on Nick and the shelter.”
“I don’t know — I can’t figure anything out. Everything in life was so good — running so smooth until that day I saw him. Now, I just don’t know who I am or what I should be doing.”
“What, things are not good anymore? All of a sudden you see an old classmate who has hits the skids and it’s our fault you couldn’t do enough for him?”
“No. No. That’s not it. I mean — what should I be doing? Am I doing enough in this world?”
“You’ve always been a good husband and father and person. You’re doing all you can.”
“But is it enough?”
“It needs to be enough to keep this family going and together. We are here — we are your family and we need to be your priority!”
“You are my priority..”
“Lately, I’m not so sure..” Suddenly Anna went pale. “Oh, Paul,” she held her belly and dropped to her knees. “I feel sick.”
Paul dropped the bag of hoagies. “I’ll call the doctor.”
Within minutes the ambulance arrived to bring Anna to the hospital. She still had about 5 weeks to go before the baby was due and now she was in the hospital, in pain and getting all the attention from the doctors and nurses.
Paul paced the ER. He left the kids at home and his brother Gabriel came over to watch them. He heard the call from the nurse. “You can go back now — room 12.”
Shaking, he pulled the curtain back and saw Anna resting. A bag hanging; intravenous in her arm, some oxygen being pumped through her nose. The doctor was sitting with her, holding her hand.
“Just some dehydration,” he said to Paul. “She’ll be fine. But we want to have her in the hospital until the baby is born. She can be fragile and we want to make sure your wife and baby are safe.”
Paul began to cry. Anna began to cry.
“I’m sorry,” Paul said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Hold my hand. Then go to the shelter.”
“I belong here with you.”
“Yes, you do. But there is someone at the shelter that needs you too.”
“He may not even be there.”
“You won’t know unless you go.”
Paul was tired. Very tired. “Not tonight. Tonight I am with you and will be with the kids when I go home.” He skipped going to the shelter. Exhausted he dropped into his bed after picking up the kids. He slept — a deep sleep, the first time he had slept that well since he met Nick Santa Croce and heard part of his story.
He didn’t wake up at his usual time. His daughter had to wake him up. “Dad. Dad. You’ll be late for work.”
“Huh? What?”
“Dad, you’ll be late for work?” she said.
“Oh, no work today. I’m going to see your mother.” He got up, got dressed, dragged himself to the hospital. Anna had been transferred to a regular room –a room she said she would be in until delivery.
“How you feeling today?” he asked Anna, stroking her head.
“Much better. But you know that I am going to have to stay here until I deliver.”
“I know. Me and the kids will be with you all the time.”
“There is nothing else you can do here Paul.”
“I belong here.”
“Yes. You also belong other places.” Something deep inside Anna told her to reassure her husband that going to the shelter was good and that she would be fine.
He smiled wearily, leaned over and kissed his wife. “I’m going to the shelter.”
Anna smiled — she knew he would go — she knew he had to go.
Paul walked through the doors with two bags of groceries. “Hey, Paul good to see you,” said Peter who ran the shelter. “Whatcha got there?”
“Oh, just some supplies.”
From behind he heard the wheezing voice and the cough. “Good to see you Paul.”
Nick! It was Nick! Paul turned to see Nick; physically he looked like a wreck, emaciated, beard unkempt — it was what you would expect. Something was different today, he seemed a mess — except for his eyes — his eyes were glowing. There was something going on with him.
“Good to see you too, Nick.”
“Can we talk?”
“Sure Nick. Sure, we can talk.”
They walked toward the room where Nick stayed when he was in the shelter. Paul noticed a tattered book that sat on Nick’s bed. Paul reached for it. “Is that what I think it is?”
“Yep. The Baltimore Catechism book!”
“Every Catholic school kid in America had to know everything in it. I have been reading and re-reading it.”
“Geez, they pounded that into our heads.”
“I find solace in it, Paul. Reminds me of our days in grade school and the happiest times of my life.”
Nick coughed a little and pointed to Paul and patted the bed.
“Sit Paul. Sit with me.”
“You look different today, Nick. Your eyes. What’s going on?”
“I’m going home soon Paul.”
“Home?”
“Yep.” A wheeze and a cough. “Home. The call is coming. I know it and I’m not afraid.”
Paul understood what Nick was saying. “Tell me Nick. Tell me how you got here. To this shelter. Tell me so that I can help others. Tell me.”
“OK. My mind doesn’t always remember. But today. — today I feel good and can remember. I can tell you.”
“It was summer. I was sweating. That’s what I remember most. Sweat. I was sitting right where we were sitting when we had that bagel. I had pretty much been living on the street. I had lost everything material that I had. I had just done some drug, I don’t even know which one. I was moaning, and sweating. Moaning and sweating. And sitting all alone. A pain shot through my eyes and I yelled and screamed — that my eyes were on fire.
“Sweat pouring into my eyes — I rubbed them, and rubbed them. All I could see was haze. They were burning and the sweat was pouring. Then pain in my head and my ears burning — my whole head was burning. Somebody has to help me — somebody has to help me. I don’t know if I was yelling it out loud or thinking about it.
“I needed help. And no one was there. No one Paul. No one. People walked by, stepping over me, ignoring me, afraid of me. Shaking their heads, and going on about their work. I remember reaching up. This was bad. The worst I had ever felt.
“Then I did shout out loud — not sure why these words came out but they did. I yelled out ‘I am sorry for my sins. I am sorry for my sins. Lord, forgive me.’ I started to cry and the tears washed away the burning in my eyes. The haze lifted, the blurring cleared up.
“And you know who I saw? I saw my mother. My mother and another beautiful woman — must have been a saint but I don’t know which one. They each took a hand and lifted me up. The held me up and walked me to this shelter. Each step they said, “We are here with you Nick. You will be saved. Your work here isn’t done. And God loves you.”
“My work? My work? What work did they mean? Me. Work? I plopped myself into this doorway. The guys here helped me. Cleaned me up as best they could. Got me food and gave me the bed. I’ve been here on and off since then. Living as best I can.”
Paul said nothing. Just looked at his old classmate. “I’ve got something for you.” Paul reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, plastic bag. In it was a scapular.
“I haven’t seen one of these in forever,” Nick said. He looked at the plastic bag. “Heh, it says ‘Made in China.’ Guess the Vatican needs to get stuff on the cheap as well.”
Nick took the scapular out of the bag and unwrapped it. Nick held the familiar strap connected by two cloth patches. He draped it over his head, the thin, brown strap resting on his scapular bones which allowed one of the scapular patches with images depicting Mary and infant Jesus, to rest over his heart. “Made in China; Blessed in Rome. This is probably the greatest export from China to Italy since Marco Polo brought back fireworks and spaghetti.”
“Wear it Nick. You’ll never be alone with it on. The Blessed Mother will be with you.”
“Paul, I also heard that if you die wearing this that you will go straight to Heaven.”
“That’s what they claim,” Paul said with a non-committal shrug. Nick kissed the picture and made the sign of the cross.
“You know Paul. We all are going to die — but not before our work is done.”
“I’m not sure what my work is or what it is supposed to be?” Paul said.
“We may never truly know. We just need to trust in Him. And remember the words of the creed ‘In what I have done and in what I have failed to do.’ Paul, it’s not just actions but inaction can be just as important.”
“I’m going to go now Nick. My wife is in the hospital. They are worried about her and the baby. She’ll be in there the rest of December. Right through the holidays.”
“Go to her and your family,” Nick said touching the scapular. “You can come back tomorrow.”
Paul left the shelter thinking that Nick was some type of modern-day prophet/philosopher. How could one so broken speak like one who has it so together?
I sang this song a hundred, maybe a thousand years ago
No one ever listens, I just play and then I go
Off into the sunset like the western heroes do
Tell me what you’re gonna do
“I’ll be home later tonight after I get the meals set up at Bethesda and visit your mother,” Paul told his kids. “You’ll enjoy Christmas Eve with your Uncle Gabriel, Aunt Elizabeth and cousins. There doing the 7 fishes dinner, just like Grandmom and Grandpop used to do.”
“But dad, we hate those fish!” it was a simultaneous objection from both his son and daughter. “Can’t we go with you to help and see Mom?”
“You’re going to Uncle Gabriel’s house. Besides, it’s nasty cold and the snow is piling up.”
Paul took the subway and got off a block from Bethesda. He slipped and slid as he walked through the Philly streets. The Christmas Eve weather had turned nasty. As nasty as one could imagine. The wind was whipping ice and snow all around.
He shook off the cold as he entered the shelter. Immediately he knew something was wrong. “What’s going on?” he asked Peter who was running the dinner that night.
“Bad news. The truck bringing the meals skidded on I-95 and hit a barrier. It’s not going to make it here.”
“Can we go get the food?”
“No, police have closed the road — too icy and dangerous.”
Paul looked at the faces of the men milling about. Sad faces, looking forward to a Christmas Eve meal, now another disappointment in their lives.
From among the faces Nick Santa Croce walked forward. “Paul. Remember the first time we talked to each after all those years?” Nick was wheezing and coughing. “We ate bagels. We talked. We prayed.
“A little prayer right now would be good for our souls, it will take away the hunger from our bodies.”
Paul knelt on one knee and made the sign of the cross. He held Nick’s hand and began the “Our Father” and followed it up with the “Hail Mary.”
When he finished with the “Amen” a knock came on the door of the shelter.
Peter answered the door. “Yes.”
“I’m John. I am the manager at Natalie’s Place — the restaurant around the corner.”
“Yes.”
“We had a lot of cancellations because of the weather. We have all the food but no customers. My staff is bringing over the food. I hope you can use it?’
“That’s wonderful. Oh, my that’s wonderful!” Peter smiled.
“C’mon in guys,” John told his staff. “Here it comes — we have shrimp, calamari, clams, mussels, baccala, smelts, flounder. All this wonderful fish. And tons of bread to dip in the juice.”
“Fish?” Peter said. “Bread?”
“Yeah, from the Feast of the 7 fishes. Christmas Eve tradition.”
“It’s like a miracle out of nowhere,” Peter said.
As John and Peter handed out the fish and bread, Nick smiled at Paul. “Can we talk in private?”
Nick grabbed Paul by the hand as they walked toward his room. Nick felt the scapular hanging around his neck that Paul had given him. “I want to give you something old friend,” Nick said. He reached under his flattened pillow and pulled out a small, tattered star. “This is for your Christmas tree. I hope you can find a place for it.” Nick was wheezing and coughing.
“It will be the first ornament we put on the tree and the last to come off.”
Paul’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me a minute Nick.”
“Uh huh. Yes. Yes. Sure, I can walk from here and will be right there.”
Paul looked at Nick. “It’s my wife — she is going into labor — I need to get there.”
“Before you go I want to tell you one thing. I didn’t know what my life’s work was. Now I know.”
“You know?”
“Yes. I know.”
“What is your life’s work?”
“You Thomas.” He used Paul’s middle name. “You were my life’s work. The unfinished business that I was kept here for. You have been here to support us. Help us. Show us love and compassion. It was your prayers that helped bring in those fish and bread. Because you are a good man.
“Think about this. As you look to find out what your life’s work is — remember that the lives you touch confirm your life’s work. In all you do and all you fail to do!”
Paul reached for the star in his pocket. “How can I be your life’s work?”
“It’s simple. I’m a homeless guy. A man with a dark past, a lifeless now and no future. I’m a madman. No one will listen to me. They say I’m crazy. But you — you —Paul — you have it all — you have believability. If I say ‘Love each other’ it gets ignored. If you say it, it gets attention because people trust you. Believe you. You are the good neighbor, the good father and husband.
“Maybe your life’s work is just to be you and tell people to love each other and to ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’ It’s really simple Paul. Be yourself, tell people to love each other. A good man like you can make a difference.”
“So, just be myself?”
“Be yourself, and continue to spread the good news and show mercy.”
“When the Pope was here he talked about mercy and taking care of those less fortunate.”
“When good people do that – when they show mercy – they are His living miracles.”
“People are wrong Nick,” Paul said wiping away a tear. “You’re not a madman. You’re Nick. A beautiful friend and person — and you are loved.”
“You’re loved too Paul. Your good works will live on long after you body gives up its soul. God bless you Paul. God bless you and your family.”
Paul hugged his friend. “God bless you too Nick.
“And Happy Birthday.”
Paul tucked the star back in his pocket and headed out the door as a 5 minute walk worked its way into a much longer adventure as he trudged and slipped and slid his way toward the hospital to be with Anna.
Nick Santa Croce decided to grab a taste of all the different fish, eating heartily and thanking God for what he had and for saving his life. Nick lay in his bed and prayed on this most holy of nights. He lovingly touched his scapular and as he did he heard a voice far off. “Nick,” it called. “Nick.
He didn’t recognize the voice. “My tears and prayers helped me bring back my son from spiritual death to life. I was with you when you were in school, watching over you. Your mother’s tears and prayers were your strength when you had nothing left. I was with your mother when you were at your lowest and I took your one hand as she took your other.”
“Saint Monica. Is that you?” The beautiful woman smiled. “Come home Nicholas so my son Augustine can greet you.”
Nick was wheezing, coughing and breather harder.
“Thank you Nick for wearing that scapular.” Another voice, this time a bright light, a flashing radiant light of blue. “You and all who are here are my children. I love you Nicholas Santa Croce.”
“Mary. Blessed Mother!” Nick called out grasping his scapular.
“Nicholas,” Mary said. “My son is waiting for you — He is always here,” she tapped her heart, “He is always there,” she opened her arms to represent the world. “He is love.”
Nick reached out and felt a hand grasp his. “Come home Nick. Time to come home. Your work is done here.”
“Mom! Mom is that you?!”
“Yes Nick. I never stopped loving you.”
“Mom, I love you.” Nick reached out to embrace his mother. She hugged him, then he felt the warmth of another hug — this one from someone he didn’t expect — it was the warmth of his father’s hug. “I always loved you, too Nick. I just didn’t do a good enough job of doing it. Forgive me Nick.”
“Dad, oh dad! I love you — I love you!” Nick was fully weeping.
He felt the embrace of his mother, father and countless souls, comforting him, wiping away years and years of pain.
As their embrace ended, Nick saw through the mist of his eyes a man glowing in a brilliant light, a sensational, brilliant light. He was smiling a warm smile. He tapped his heart and said in a gentle voice, “Your work is done Nicholas. Your heart is healed and your soul is pure. You are with us now. Welcome home, my son.”
“I’m home,” Nick exhaled as tears washed down his face for the last time.
Paul and Anna held hands – he had made it in time. The doctor and nurses were encouraging and prompting Anna as the baby was making its way into the world. Paul felt tightness in his whole body — he felt faint and lightheaded and briefly lost his breath.
He knew. He knew the fate of his old friend. He knew. Paul held Anna’s hand with one hand reached into his pocket with his free hand and felt the star. He started to cry ever so quietly. “Nick. Nick.”
He shook himself and refocused on his wife when he heard the doctor say “Keep strong Anna, keep strong.”
“How’s her signs?”
“Stable,” he heard one of the nurses say.
“You’re doing fine Anna. I’m not so sure about you Paul,” the doctor said.
“I’m fine,” Paul said.
“Here we go. Here we go.” It was the doctor giving a play-by-play. “Baby is coming. Here comes the baby.”
“It’s OK honey, it’s Ok. You’re doing great” Paul encouraged Anna.
“Here comes baby” the doctor said.
“It’s a ….. GIRL! It’s a GIRL” the doctor called out.
As Paul and Anna’s third child breathed her first breaths, Paul looked at the clock — 12:45 am. Christmas Day. A Christmas baby. The miracle of life. She was beautiful and healthy and all anyone could ask for.
Paul called his brother’s house to talk to the kids. “Hey guys. I know it’s late – but we wanted to get to you as soon as we could.” Anna held the baby up so Paul could use his phone to show the kids.
“We welcome into our family — our Christmas miracle.
“Say hello to your sister Nicole.”
Paul reached into his pocket to touch the star and at the same time he put his little finger in her tiny hand and she grasped it. “It’s like a miracle out of nowhere,” he thought to himself.
As the kids and mom were smiling and crying Paul looked to Heaven, thanking the Lord for his blessings and for loving him and his family. Always.
Here I am, I’m sure to see a sign
All my life I knew that it was mine
It’s always here, it’s always there
It’s just love and miracles out of nowhere.
Miracles Out of Nowhere copyright Kansas, 1976
Send you comments to info@myornamentstory.com.
According to its website, “Bethesda Project began in 1979 when Reverend Domenic Rossi and members of his prayer group from Daylesford Abbey in Paoli, Pennsylvania, reached out to a group of women experiencing homelessness in Center City, Philadelphia.” Now, more than three decades later, “Bethesda Project serves more than 2,500 homeless and formerly homeless men and women each year at 13 sites throughout Philadelphia.”
A Hessian’s Story
By William E, Horsham, PA
My brother Hans:
It has been a long time since we saw each other. I am once again far from our home this Christmas. It is cold here in the “colonies” as they call them. Maybe one of the coldest I have experienced.
I am standing outside and am putting a note on the tree outside our barracks. It is a simple prayer asking for a blessing. It sounds funny to some people. A man who makes his living as a mercenary – a hired killer — celebrating Christmas with a note asking for a blessing and remembering the most holy of nights.
Here I am along the river watching the waters. Waiting for…for who? … for what….?
I am not supposed to say where we are but who cares or who can stop me. We are stationed near a city called Trenton, close to Philadelphia. We had heard about Philadelphia and its importance to the English. I haven’t had the chance to see that city, but I can see why the English want to keep these colonies under their control. There is a lot here that will give the English a step up on the rest of us.
The English troops are weak and incompetent. That’s why they called for us. You know we are the best fighting people in the world. So when we finish helping the English, maybe we will just turn around and take the colonies for ourselves!
We hear the English ridicule us. “Hessian brutes.” “War Prostitutes” “All braun. No brain.”
As weak as the English are, the colonists are ready to collapse and cannot win this war. They have no real weapons. They have no real organization. They have rage and anger. But that is not enough. Especially when you pit them against us.
I have no love for the English or for these colonists. I only have an allegiance to my fellow fighters. The ones in our campground now. Trying to keep warm. Waiting for Christmas. They are the only ones we can count on out here. They and our families back home are the reason we go on.
After thinking it over I am now sure that this will be my last campaign. I am tired of the fighting. Tired of the constant movement. Tired of being away from our home. For too long I have missed many moments and grow weary. I miss you by my side. Fighting together.
This Christmas I am feeling the loneliness more than ever.
The rest of the troop is celebrating Christmas. Drinking. Laughing. Enjoying each other’s company. This is my last assignment. I will go and join them after I hang the note. We have nothing to worry about from the colonists. Or the English.
We will control Trenton and soon move to Philadelphia. Then it will be over and I will come home. This will be our last Christmas apart.
This will be a memorable Christmas that the history books will recount. Of that I am sure.
Your brother,
Claus
Somewhere near Trenton in the English Colonies, 1776
Send your comments to info@myornamentstory.com
A Football Story
By Robert R. , Philadelphia, PA
Impressionable. That’s what 12-year olds are — impressionable. Very impressionable. I think about that when I hang up my football ornament.
I think you’re even more impressionable when you are part of a kid’s football team. Now, we were only 120 pounds, playing in a playground league, but we were intense. There was an expectation to win. The program had won the last 4 years in a row without losing a game! That’s right. Undefeated for four straight years.
And it was all because of our coach — Maxie Burroughs. Maniac Maxie. Talk about making an impression. Maxie made an impression in everything he did.
Maxie Burroughs was a private detective — at least that’s what he told people. He was an ex-narcotics officer who had done two stints in Vietnam. He was from the area known as “the Pocket.” Tucked in the northwest corner of South Philly, just below Center City, hemmed in by the Schuylkill River, bordered by crime and drug infested, crumbling neighborhoods on each side. The Pocket produced survivors. Working class, hard drinking, family loyal, neighborhood do or die-ers.
So Maxie’s craziness was legit. So was his brush haircut, black with hints of grey and lathered with brill cream. So was his odor — stale Old Spice. Maxie had been married three times. No one was surprised. No woman could take him for very long. Maxie had five kids but no one knew much about them. We heard that they hadn’t spoken in years. Who knew why Maxie and his kids didn’t speak. We didn’t ask.
At 50 plus years old he looked more like 30 and as he said, he could “bench press your mother with one hand while knocking out your father with the other.” None of us wide-eyed, impressionable 12-year-olds doubted that he could. He whipped the 12-year olds into shape. His shape. A snarling, break your head and lamp you any chance you got group.
Our team was from 2nd street — close to the Delaware River — a pretty tough neighborhood as they go. Maxie lived near the Schuylkill River – about 3 city miles from us. That walk across South Philly from his house to our field took him through some of the meanest streets and neighborhoods anywhere. Maxie had colorful ways of describing his walk.
He boasted that the walk was his way of showing South Philly who was boss. More than once he flat-out stated, “I can walk 10 blocks and never leave the scene of a crime. When I pass through, Rottweilers genuflect.”
It was nothing to see Maxie running laps with the team. He would have us run 3 laps around the football field and give us a 1 lap head start. If he finished his three laps before you, then you had to do another lap. You could head him huffing and puffing –not because he was out of breath — but to intimidate you. He would pass us and say “One lap for Maxie. If I pass you again you will run and run and run more laps. You better pray to Saint Rita because I’m going to make your eyes bleed!” None of us wanted to face those extra laps and whatever else he had planned.
All football. All the time with Maxie. Neighbors would see him in his back yard lovingly spray painting the team’s helmets at the start of the season. He would use that spray paint that absolutely stunk up the place and blew into the air who knows what carcinogens. And you knew he was spray painting because the aerosol cans made a distinctive sound when he shook it up. It was like two balls were clanging around in that little can.
He painted the helmets gold. Just like the helmets of his beloved Notre Dame. All the while he listened to annoying jazz from Roland Kirk at incredible decibels. “If my neighbors don’t like it, they can croak. It’s their fault for living near me,” he would snarl to no one in particular and to everyone in general.
As the season wore on and scratches appeared on our helmets, he would take those scratches and place heavy black lines in magic marker across them so that they looked like stitches. I think he got the idea from Gerry Cheevers, the hockey goalie for the Boston Bruins who did that with his mask. He said it made us look like warriors.
The football team was Maxie’s to have and to hold. If everything else in his life was a mystery, or broken, or in limbo – the team was something he could point to with pride.
Four straight undefeated seasons. And we were working on the fifth. The pressure was there. Maxie made sure we knew the expectations.
We breezed through the regular season and smoked our first round playoff opponent. Then came the title game. Played in a cold November rain, with mist and wind. Miserable. Just miserable.
There are some days that you know things are not quite right – that something is just not hitting the way it should be. That was how this day felt. We were on the field but somehow, something was just not right.
We inexplicably faltered and were down 6-0 at halftime.
Maxie’s neck veins popped the whole half. He was scarlet red. We heard the familiar huffing and puffing. The other team was just as stunned as we were. We wobbled into the clubhouse for half time, Maxie first to the door. Clubhouse — that’s a nice way of saying a small shack on the public playground.
Maxie closed the door not saying a word. We formed a circle around him, as we did every halftime. This time he held a football. He placed it on the ground in the far corner of the clubhouse and spun the football. What happened next will always stick in our minds. Maniac Maxie Burroughs. Private Detective. War Veteran. Outstanding coach. Looking like a sheriff from the Old West. Quick drew a gun from his waistband and shot the spinning football!
The ball stopped spinning and immediately deflated spraying puffs of white powder around the room and onto many of us. The blast from the gun shook the clubhouse and shook the whole team. We were shocked. Impressionably shocked.
Calmly. Very calmly, Maxie put the gun back into his waistband, walked out of the clubhouse and took his place on the sideline. We got his not-so-subtle message.
We scored six unanswered touchdowns and won the game.
After the game Maxie didn’t come back to the clubhouse. He just left. Never coached again. Never saw him again. Who knows where he wound up. I still see some of my teammates from that championship team and we make up stories about Maxie and where he may be.
Is he with the secret service? Maybe he is in North Korea trying to overthrow that government? Maybe he got back with one, two or all three of his wives? Maybe he is a janitor at some community college?
Maxie may have disappeared but the memory of him and that spinning, deflating football and the sound of that gun reverberating remains. I think about it every time I put that football ornament on the tree.
Send you comments to info@myornamentstory.com
Don’t forget to send in your stories and recipes.
A Very Beatles Christmas
By Johnny Z., Philadelphia, PA
Can you pick out at least 40 Beatles songs in this ornament story? (there are more than 50)
Dear Prudence,
Thank you for the ornament shaped like a glass onion. It was so nice of you to think of me when you were back in the U.S.S.R. It is so beautiful. I love those classic, old Eastern European designs. And putting the Beatles — my favorites — in their Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band outfit was classic.
So this is Christmas, (no snow this year, only rain) and despite all the running around helter skelter, it is a good time to tell you what’s going on in my life and across the universe. Yesterday, the new guy at work gave out Christmas presents. He gave the office flake “Dizzy Miss Lizzy” a letter opener made of Norwegian Wood. I mean who gives out letter openers anymore!? I overheard one of the other guys at work say to him, “Hey Jude, you should make a play for her”, if not he was going to lose that girl.
Lizzy said she usually doesn’t date one guy exclusively instead she enjoyed being here, there and everywhere. But she said this boy, meaning Jude, is cute and really seems nice and Lizzy said she was interested in him. She said she didn’t care if he was only a junior accountant and would spend the rest of his career figuring out ways to understand the taxman, claiming that “money can’t buy me love.”
That night we go to the office Christmas party at this neat place called the Octopuses Garden, located right on Penny Lane. It was hooked up next to Revolution, that hot new dance club run by Maggie Mae, the famous signer from Philly. This year they did something nice as part of the money collected through chances and the like at the party was donated for the benefit of Mr. Kite, the old guy in the office who was diagnosed with kidney disease. He should be fine but that was nice to be all together now for a common cause. It was put together by Lady Madonna, I know that cheapo husband of hers, Dr. Robert wouldn’t have thought of that, all he gives to is the NRA, for him happiness is a warm gun.
As for Lizzie’s actions at the party, I saw her standing there before sidling up to Jude. She put on her best “Sexy Sadie” dress and tells him about her feelings and other things that only your mother should know. Now watching all this is our Human Resources manager, that nasty mean Mr. Mustard and his sycophant assistant Eleanor Rigby. Because he doesn’t want this to escalate into an office romance, he tells them “Hello. Goodbye” and pulls Jude away to chastise him telling him to stay away from Lizzie as it would lead him, nowhere, man. Jude says, “I should have known better” and apologizes.
Lizzy leaves. Jude leaves but sneaks back in. Eleanor was guarding the door like she was guarding Her Majesty so no one could get back in. Lizzy couldn’t be kept away. Lizzie had an idea but the girl needed help so she asked Long Tall Sally to give her a boost as she came in through the bathroom window, then motioned to Jude. They hooked up outside. Jude says, “Do you want to know a secret?” He whispers something in her ear; Lizzy screams out loud, “Baby, you’re a rich man!”
Yep, the truth is that Jude is loaded. They walked up the long and winding road to happiness thumbing their nose at Mr. Mustard who was left standing like the fool on the hill. It was enough to make you cry, baby, cry. So in the end she got her man.
You may say it’s only love. But it’s something else. It’s like fate. And just from me to you, maybe I’ll do the same with a guy I have had my eye on. Maybe I’ll go up and tell him that I’ve got to get you into my life. And he doesn’t need another girl. Or maybe it’s better to just let it be and act naturally.
Wow! Here comes the sun. Well, good day sunshine. I can’t believe I have been up all night wrapping gifts and eating a box of Savoy Truffles. Thanks again for the ornament. Let’s pick a time we can come together, our schedules aren’t so crazy that we should pick a date. I’m sure we can work it out. If I get a ticket to ride the train I will get back to see you soon.
Your best friend,
Michelle
And if I don’t say it enough — P.S. I love you.
Here are the Beatles songs highlighted:
Dear Prudence,
Thank you for the ornament shaped like a glass onion. It was so nice of you to think of me when you were back in the U.S.S.R. It is so beautiful. I love those classic, old Eastern European designs. And putting the Beatles — my favorites — in their Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band outfit was classic.
So this is Christmas, (no snow this year, only rain) and despite all the running around helter skelter, it is a good time to tell you what’s going on in my life and across the universe. Yesterday, the new guy at work gave out Christmas presents. He gave the office flake “Dizzy Miss Lizzy” a letter opener made of Norwegian Wood. I mean who gives out letter openers anymore!? I overheard one of the other guys at work say to him, “Hey Jude, you should make a play for her”, if not he was going to lose that girl.
Lizzy said she usually doesn’t date one guy exclusively instead she enjoyed being here, there and everywhere. But she said this boy, meaning Jude, is cute and really seems nice and Lizzy said she was interested in him. She said she didn’t care if he was only a junior accountant and would spend the rest of his career figuring out ways to understand the taxman, claiming that “money can’t buy me love.”
That night we go to the office Christmas party at this neat place called the Octopuses Garden, located right on Penny Lane. It was hooked up next to Revolution, that hot new dance club run by Maggie Mae, the famous signer from Philly. This year they did something nice as part of the money collected through chances and the like at the party was donated for the benefit of Mr. Kite, the old guy in the office who was diagnosed with kidney disease. He should be fine but that was nice to be all together now for a common cause. It was put together by Lady Madonna, I know that cheapo husband of hers, Dr. Robert wouldn’t have thought of that, all he gives to is the NRA, for him happiness is a warm gun.
As for Lizzie’s actions at the party, I saw her standing there before sidling up to Jude. She put on her best “Sexy Sadie” dress and tells him about her feelings and other things that only your mother should know. Now watching all this is our Human Resources manager, that nasty mean Mr. Mustard and his sycophant assistant Eleanor Rigby. Because he doesn’t want this to escalate into an office romance, he tells them “Hello. Goodbye” and pulls Jude away to chastise him telling him to stay away from Lizzie as it would lead him, nowhere, man. Jude says, “I should have known better” and apologizes.
Lizzy leaves. Jude leaves but sneaks back in. Eleanor was guarding the door like she was guarding Her Majesty so no one could get back in. Lizzie had an idea but the girl needed help so she asked Long Tall Sally to give her a boost as she came in through the bathroom window, then motioned to Jude. They hooked up outside. Jude says, “Do you want to know a secret?” He whispers something in her ear; Lizzy screams out loud, “Baby, you’re a rich man!”
Yep, the truth is that Jude is loaded. They walked up the long and winding road to happiness thumbing their nose at Mr. Mustard who was left standing like the fool on the hill. It was enough to make you cry, baby, cry. So in the end she got her man.
You may say it’s only love. But it’s something else. It’s like fate. And just from me to you, maybe I’ll do the same with a guy I have had my eye on. Maybe I’ll go up and tell him that I’ve got to get you into my life. And he doesn’t need another girl. Or maybe it’s better to just let it be and act naturally.
Wow! Here comes the sun. Well, good day sunshine. I can’t believe I have been up all night wrapping gifts and eating a box of Savoy Truffles. Thanks again for the ornament. Let’s pick a time we can come together, our schedules aren’t so crazy that we should pick a date. I’m sure we can work it out. If I get a ticket to ride the train I will get back to see you soon.
Your best friend,
Michelle
And if I don’t say it enough — P.S. I Love You
Send you comments to info@myornamentstory.com
Don’t forget to send in your story or recipe!
See you at Midnight Mass
By Larry G, South Philly
Let’s face it. For many people Midnight Mass is more a social event than a religious gathering. Oh, the priest sprinkles the water and lets fly the incense. The choir sings the carols. The people pack the church. You know the ones — the ones they call the CAPE Catholics — Christmas, Ash Wednesday, Palm Sunday and Easter.
So it was no surprise that it all went bad on a cold, blustery Christmas Eve for Jack Marrone. Jack and his wife Mary walked to Midnight Mass as they did every year. They would then come home to do the final wrapping of the presents for their children and grandchildren who were coming the next day for Christmas Dinner.
Jack had a special gift for Mary this year. Three identical Lennox ornaments of a child and on each was printed the name of one of their grandchildren. The fourth was of a woman – a grandmother — with her hands outward so when you put the children and the grandmother figure next to each other it looked like they were holding hands. He was going to give them to her after Midnight Mass was over.
Jack and Mary squeezed into the crowded church, getting there about 11:30. Just in time for the fashion show to begin. The young guys got there early to watch the young girls parade in with their new coats, new shoes, new outfits. Reeking of their new perfume. This year was no different as the 20-somethings paraded in and up the aisle making as much noise as possible for everyone to see them.
Jack and Mary were seated in the middle of the Church, right behind Mrs. Kowalski — a big woman with a big hat and a big mouth as she sang each carol as loud and as off-key as she could. They were also next to a group of young guys — late teens — who were ready to have fun — prayer was secondary.
The children’s choice began its pre-Mass concert. The young guys began singing loudly trying to one up Mrs. Kowalski. At the end of “Angels We Have Heard On High” one of the teens let out a tremendous fart that reverberated off the wooden pew echoing its joyous strain.
The young guys began to laugh hysterically, the pew shaking from their laughter. Jack had to laugh — c’mon, farting in Church is funny — while Mary shook her head holding back her laughter.
But Mrs. Kowalski, showing disapproval turned to the young guys and pursed her lips. “Well.” She said indignantly.
That caused the boys to laugh even louder. Jack also laughed louder. Mrs. Kowalski turned to Jack. “I would have thought better of you.”
Jack’s jaw dropped and the young guys next to him pointed and laughed. Now it was time for Mass to start. Everyone stood up and Mrs. Kowalski proudly bounced up, hymnal at the ready to begin her song. Well, her skirt had bunched up and was sticking in her butt.
One of the young guys pointed to it and whispered something to the other. “Really?” the one said. “Yeah, go ahead.” Just as the congregation was singing “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” one of the young guys reached out and began picking the dress material which had bunched up out of Mrs. Kowalski’s butt crack. She spun around and let out a long “hurrumph” sound right in Jack’s face accompanied with a long exhale. Of course her breath smelled like sour milk causing Jack to cringe.
“What do you think you’re doing,” Jack half yelled and half hushed his voice. “Hooligans” was all Mrs. Kowalski said.
Two of the boys began speaking again. “You think?” one asked. The other nodded. As the song continued, this time singing in Latin, “Adeste Fidelis” the one young boy attempted to tuck the material back into Mrs. Kowalski’s butt crack. She wheeled and let out the same sounds and the same stinking breath.
“Hey, what the…” this time Jack yelled out loud.
Now the rest of the church was looking at the action in the middle pew. And you guessed it. Once the crescendo of the song hit one of the young guys farted. Again.
People began looking at Jack as if he had let it fly. Jack couldn’t believe it. He was mortified.
Through it all Father Graham just kept on going reciting prayers and swinging the incense.
Jack settled into the pew ready to listen to the readings. All was quiet — for now.
It was during the homily and Father Graham was going on..and on..and on…as only Father Graham could. From the back of the Church, loud enough for everyone to hear was a voice that yelled “Amen. Amen already Father. Just say Amen.”
Jack’s ear perked up. He knew that voice.
Jack knew that Midnight Mass was about to take another turn.
Father Graham went on undeterred.
Again from the back. “Hey Father, Amen. Let’s go. Amen!”
Jack looked back. Oh, no! It was his brother Al who had obviously gotten into the holiday spirits before coming to Mass.
Of course Al saw Jack. “Hey Jack. Jackie boy. Merry Christmas,” Al yelled. “Hey Mary — Merry Christmas.”
Jack looked straight ahead — trying to be inconspicuous. But Al kept on going.
“Hey Father. Amen!
“Jack you were right,” Al continued to yell from the back of the Church like he was hollering over a fence to a neighbor on a summer afternoon. “You said Father Graham never knew when to shut up and he could bore a dead man. Amen already Father!”
Mortified. That was the only word that Jack could think of as his younger brother got up from his seat. “I’m leaving! Jack, you coming with me?”
Jack wouldn’t turn around, but he heard Al get up and leave as the Church door creaked open and then slammed shut.
Amazingly Father Graham finished his sermon as soon as Al left.
The Mass took on a more normal tone except right after the consecration of the bread and wine. As Father Graham was finishing the consecration and the congregation was rising to recite the “Our Father”, a stunning young woman dressed in a fur coat came clicking and clacking her way into Church.
The noise she made and the bombastic entrance got everyone’s attention. Her shiny, blazing, red high heels and her Clydsdale-like gate reverberated through the Church as she stomped her way to the front pews. No one knew her. No one recognized her. He blond hair was wild and her red lipstick was a little too heavy, but she was stacked — you could tell through the fur coat.
When she saw the front was filled she squeezed into the pew with the young guys stepping over them and wedging herself and her pungent perfume right next to Jack.
He tried to be respectful. He looked at Mary with a shrug of his shoulders. Father Graham asked everyone to give the “Sign of Peace” and as Jack turned toward the woman — that’s when Jack was stunned –the young woman let her fur coat fly open to reveal — well to reveal that there was nothing underneath except a sheer negligee. Almost naked! At Midnight Mass!
“She’s only wearing a negligee,” he whispered to Mary. “Excuse me?” his wife answered. “She’s almost naked!”
“What!”
The door swung open again. This time it was a young man, dressed in a brand new dark suit. He strutted up the aisle checking out each pew. He spied the blond with the fur coat and began stepping over people and grabbed her. “We gotta go.” He grabbed her by the arm and began pulling her out of the pew. As she was being dragged her coat fell open to reveal her unique Christmas attire to the congregation.
It was then that Jack recognized the guy — it was “Louie Utah” — one of the local mobsters. Louie glared right at Jack, “Whatta you lookin’ at? Got a problem?” Jack just stiffened and shook his head “no.” “Louie Utah” — no one understood how a guy who never left South Philly got a nickname of a state out West — hustled his mistress out of Church all the while glaring at everyone in the pews.
Jack knelt down and was waiting for communion to be distributed. It was the one part of the mass he enjoyed as he could really block everything else out and just focus on prayer. And gratefully, he received that peace and quiet. And for that he was thankful. He sat back after communion and held Mary’s hand.
The Mass was almost over. One last fart from the young guys to “Joy to the World” accompanied by the glare from Mrs. Kowalski and the longest and strangest of any Midnight Mass was now done.
Jack and Mary left the Church bracing against the cold wind. “Please, let’s just go straight home — I don’t think I can face anyone else,” he said.
Mary held onto Jack as they made the short walk back to their house.
Once inside the quiet of their house Jack poured himself and Mary a glass of wine to toast the holiday.
He handed her the package with the ornaments.
“Merry Christmas.”
Mary opened the package and gently unwrapped the Lenox figures. “Oh, Jack, this is the best gift.”
Together they hung the ornaments on the tree. They sat there gazing at the tree and Mary broke the silence. Mary said, “Every time I look at these ornaments I’ll think about our grandchildren — and tonight!
“You know. That Mrs. Kowalski really does have a big butt.”
“And my brother has a big mouth.”
“And that blond had – well, she had a lot.”
“Are we going to go to Midnight Mass next year?” Jack asked.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Mary answered as they clinked glasses, laughed and toasted the holiday.
Send your comments to info@myornamentstory.com
Don’t forget to submit Your Ornament Story or your favorite recipe!
A Tripe Story
As told by “The Mick”, Glendora, NJ
Pain-in-the-butt Aunt Tessie always plopped herself at my parent’s house on December 21 and stayed until January 6 — “the Epiphany ya know” as she would remind us. Aunt Tessie’s kids — our cousins Nick and Maria — were grown with families of their own and lived out of the area having moved from South Philly to Chicago and Atlanta. And poor Uncle Nick — well let’s just say that Aunt Tessie aggravated him into an early grave. Uncle Nick was lucky — the rest of us were stuck with Aunt Tessie every year.
Aunt Tessie was my grandfather’s sister so my Dad felt an obligation to host her and we became her surrogate family since her kids and grandkids were so far away and Aunt Tessie wouldn’t fly or travel. Each year Aunt Tessie would take her Christmas apron, put it on during Thanksgiving dinner and leave it on through the holidays.
She took over mom’s kitchen (Mom was never too happy about that) and insisted on baking god-awful cookies which she felt feel compelled to force feed to us. Flour, sugar, gingerbread man molds — all flying about the kitchen creating a mess.
Aunt Tessie also was driven to comment on me, my brother and sister. “Why is your hair so long?” “That dress makes you look frumpy.” “Oh, you’re getting heavy, but you look healthy, God Bless you.”
I think you get the picture of Aunt Tessie by now. A real pain-in-the-butt.
One thing Aunt Tessie really liked was tripe. Now you have to have a strong stomach to eat tripe. It is in essence — cow stomach. But if done right and you are able get past the rubbery texture and pungent smell, it is quite the delicacy. My Dad would stir the tripe in gravy and cook it for hours, slowly adding in spices to make it palatable.
One year I was really looking forward to having a tripe sandwich. I was home from college on break and had been working selling Christmas Trees to make a few extra bucks. It was cold and business was slow. The extra bucks would help, but now I was tired and a little frustrated. My girlfriend and I were on the rocks. My grades were just OK. That tripe sandwich would taste good going down.
The pot was on the stove, slowly cooking and I saw Aunt Tessie sitting at the kitchen table eating a sandwich. It was a tripe sandwich. Something told me to go to the pot and check. I didn’t even take off my coat. I opened the pot lid and saw a lonely, tiny piece of tripe floating in the gravy.
“Dad. Dad.” I yelled. “Is this it for the tripe?”
My dad looked at me and pointed to Aunt Tessie and held up four fingers. “Four. She had four sandwiches!” Aunt Tessie had cleaned out virtually all the tripe.
I glared at her. “You ate four tripe sandwiches!?”
She sat there with her mouth open, the last of her fourth sandwich resting in her hands. “What are you talking about Mickey?”
She raised the last of her sandwich to her mouth to shovel it in and I lost it. Spatula in hand, red gravy flying all around, splattering the kitchen walls, I leaped at her. “Give me that tripe sandwich. Give it to me you cow!”
She shoved it in her mouth half oblivious to what I was yelling and half teasing me. I tossed the spatula at her and as she ducked. I grabbed her and started to try to pry her mouth open with my bare hands so I could reach in a grab the last of the sandwich. If I couldn’t have it, she couldn’t either.
Aunt Tessie began chewing and running around away from me. My Dad was yelling, “Mickey, what are you doing?”
My brother and sister came running down the steps. Aunt Tessie never moved so fast in her life as she stared running around our tiny row home, “He’s crazy! PAZZO!”
“Give me that tripe!” I continued to yell as I chased her around the kitchen, into the living room, her stupid apron flittering while my dad chased both of us. Thank God my mother was out at the store getting the last of the Christmas Eve dinner — no telling what she would have done.
Suddenly Aunt Tessie stopped and began waving her arms and gasping at her throat and trying to cough.
“Oh my God, she’s choking! She’s choking!” My father yelled.
I could hear Aunt Tessie gasping for air, her face getting redder and all I could think of was the old Italian curse when you’re ticked at someone and you say “You should choke on it.”
Well Aunt Tessie was choking. “Do something!” It was my Dad.
I immediately grabbed Aunt Tessie and spun her around. I grabbed her from behind and linked my arms under her diaphragm — I had seen the Heimlich enough so I knew what to do. I pumped once. Nothing. I pumped again. Nothing. Finally I pumped hard the third time.
WHOOSH! The piece of tripe came flying out of Aunt Tessie’s mouth.
THWAP! It hit my dad in the forehead, ricocheted off him.
BAM! It hit my sister in the arm and then flew toward the tree where it landed squarely on a plain silver Christmas ball.
The combination of red gravy and brownish tripe contrasted against the silver ball to give it a certain modernistic design.
Aunt Tessie was fine. She staggered to the kitchen table, took a couple of deep breaths and got a glass of water. When the excitement settled down Dad made another pot of tripe — I got first taste.
Then I had an idea. I carefully took the silver ball and put glue on the piece of tripe that landed on it to preserve it forever. Just think — for that piece of tripe to travel from Aunt Tessie’s throat to Dad’s head to my sister’s arm to the ornament — well it was really bizarre. That was one magic piece of tripe. I now have a special ornament which commemorates what I call “the single tripe theory.”
Send your comments to info@myornamentstory.com
Don’t forget to submit Your Ornament Story or your favorite recipe!