145. Patron Saint

Guest Postulant Julio now insists on driving me around when I go out to do a chore. I let him, since I know it is difficult for the young man to settle into the contemplative mode and he needs a break from time to time. I don't know if he will continue in his vocation for very long, but more than just humoring him I hope we provide an example of a lifestyle from which he'll bring a bit of wisdom when he re-enters his old world. It is for similar reasons that I try to combine necessary trips to the villages with some time spent sitting on the one bench in Saugerties or one of many throughout Woodstock, a town of peacocks and spectators.  I enjoy speaking with anyone who approaches me. I am not a lighthouse, but I can speak for who I am.

If one sits on the green in Woodstock long enough … maybe five minutes, maybe less … you’re sure to meet one of the Crazies in town. People here do use that term affectionately. It’s part of the culture to be nice to anyone who is different, whether the person's particular challenge is neurologically induced, chemically induced, spiritually induced (more than you’d think) or even put on, the last two being virtually the same. In short, if you’re crazy … hey, pull up a chair and tell us about your home planet!

Wendell has often sought me out. I would first see him loping across the street through the traffic of passing cars and bicycles while he peered up in the air instead looking both ways. He was always interested in the sky and carried an umbrella in any kind of weather. When he spotted me, a big smile would light his face and he’d hurry to sit down next to me.

“He’s the patron saint of working men, you know,” said Wendell, as he shifted his large frame and got comfortable on the bench. We were going to have another one of Wendell’s goofy conversations.

“You mean St. Joseph?” I guessed.

“Oh, sure,” he said. “That’s why he traveled around looking for work all over the place.”

“With Mary on a donkey?” I asked?

“Well, sure.” said Wendell, “on that night, anyway. He probably heard there was work in Jerusalem.”

“You mean Bethlehem.”

“Right. He was a carpenter, don’t cha know. Might have heard the news about a palace or a sindagog going up somewhere. So he pops Mary up on old Donner and off they go again.”

“You mean Blitzen,” I said.

“Right.” says Wendell. “ There wasn’t any Union Hall to go to. No bulletin board with job postings back then. You had to keep your ears open and hang around down by the station for the camel drivers to come through and ask if they heard of any construction starting up.”

“And drink beer,” I interjected.

“Don’t be a smart ass,” said Wendell, “they drank wine.”

You could feel sorry for my dopey friend Wendell, but if you had spent any time watching him cross the road or ride his lawn mower to the store when no one could run fast enough to stop him, you’d realize he must have the hardest working Guardian Angel this side of the Pearly Gates. They say God protects drunks and fools. Ordinarily Wendell was neither, until the night thirty years ago when he went out drinking after his freshman biology exam. He lost control of the Chevy convertible as it spun wildly off the road and crashed into a sleepy fleabag hotel in the Catskills. Without a seatbelt, it’s a wonder Wendell stayed in the saddle, so to speak. The Chevy bounced off 6 parked cars and a US Mail truck, before plowing into Units Number 3 and 4. The latter was occupied by a young lady and an older man who would have a lot of explaining to do when he got out of the hospital.

Wendell’s head must have hit every two-by-four as he went flying through  the High Peak Motel. He hasn’t been the same since. He lives out Tinker Street with a sister, and each day walks down to the Green, oblivious to the cars that zoom by him on the busy road. When he gets to the center of town, after wandering on and off the pavement inspecting anything along the side of the road that catches his interest, Wendell looks around for someone to talk to.

“So, “ I asked Wendell, “Saint Joseph traveled all over 48 states looking for work?”

“Don’t be silly,” he said, “ there’s 50 states now.”

“Oh, I forgot,” I said, “we bought Mexico.”

“No-o-o! Alaska and Puerto Rica. You don’t know your geology. Hahahaha!”

Wendell loves it when I play the fool, though I’m pretty sure he suspects the ruse. His sister and her family have grown tired of his banter and his needs … unfortunate, but understandable … and he seldom has the opportunity to feel important, much less superior. So, I often ask his advice on little things.

“It’s clouding up, Wendell. Do you think rain is coming?” I asked that afternoon.

“Rain? Coming? Only one way to tell,” he said. And with that, he got up from the bench walked to the street. Proudly making a production of the joke he’d just thought up, he shuffled up to the road, puts his toes on the edge of the curb as if it was the end of a diving board, and then bowed way out over the road’s surface. I cringed, thinking he might lose his balance and fall into the path of an oncoming car. Leaning even further out, Wendell put his hand to his forehead, shading his eyes like some long ago Hiawatha. He looked east, then swooped the upper half of his body around and stared off to the west. Then he turned and ambled back to the bench.

“Any rain coming?” I asked as Wendell plopped himself back beside me. I’m a good straight man.

“Huh?” He looked truly confused.

I knew he’d forgotten what he had been about. His eyes screwed up in thought. In a moment he would realize he’d lost a conversational thread again and begin to feel bad.

“Did you see any rain coming up the road?” I reminded him. “Or anyone on a donkey?”

“No,” he said, now deflated. “This isn’t the road to Jerusalem.” He was silent for a few moments, while for the first time I wondered if this might be the Road to Emmaus. If you weren’t listening in Sunday School, that’s where Christ disguised himself as a mere mortal after

his resurrection to show people truth is often hidden.

“You want some coffee, Wendell?”

“I’ve had my two cups today,” he said.

I knew he wanted a cup. He always wants a cup. He was afraid to break one of the many rules his sister has made for him, this one to keep him from getting too jittery.

“You won’t tell anyone I had coffee, will you?” Wendell asked.

“Your caffeine secrets are safe with me,” I said with a chuckle. We walked to the small deli down the street. I settled him at a tiny table and started toward the counter to purchase the coffees with the five dollar bill I had taken from the jug in our kitchen.

He looked up suddenly and said, “Who is your patron saint?”

“Saint George,” I said, without a thought.

“You mean the guy with the dragons and the roundtable and all?” he asked.

“No, the guy with the piano, George Gershwin.”

“But he’s Jewish,” said Wendell.

“So is God,” I replied.

Well, you’d think I’d just made the funniest joke this side of Paradise. Wendell laughed and laughed, and was still giggling when I brought the mugs back.

Quiet for a moment, we sipped our coffee. Wendell takes his black, no sugar or cream, but stirs it anyway. While he was thinking about God-knows-what, I sat and thought of all the things in town I needed to do … get another beeswax ring for the toilet off the kitchen, buy a package of Lifesavers for Bouncer, check out the …..

“I have a patron saint,” said Wendell.

“Who’s that,” I asked.

“You,” he replied, without looking at me.

Ah, me. What could I say to that? It’s a heavy responsibility to be someone’s patron saint, I was thinking. Still, I’ve never received a nicer compliment.

“You could find a better one, Wendell,” I said.

He looked down at his coffee and continued to stir.

“Maybe,” he said. “But this one comes with a free cup of coffee.”


Let's Hear It For The Boy - The Stunners.  The Stunners?  Nice arrangement, anyway.