Dismissals

At St. Luke’s Episcopal Church on Cleveland’s West Side, there is a biweekly Mobile Pantry that gives fresh produce from the Greater Cleveland Food Bank to anyone in need. Two weeks ago, as the coronavirus dug in, Mobile Pantry was cancelled. This week, we reconfigured. People drove up in cars. With face masks and plenty of social distancing, and with help from the Ohio National Guard, we placed bags of food into car trunks or into the wheeled baskets of those who walked. Food for the hungry on a cold day, we were the Church at work in the world. 

I visited my cousin in the hospital. Cancer, and it didn’t look promising. There were a lot of tubes and blinking machines but it was quiet. We talked some but mostly she slept. A tray of food showed up. I put potatoes on a spoon but she turned away. She tried to say something but I couldn’t make it out. Finally, I understood. There was ice cream on the tray. I fed my cousin ice cream. I told her all I could recall about our time together as kids. Something there is about ice cream and the good old days.

During the Depression, he worked as a payroll clerk in the basement of City Hall. His pay was paltry but he was young and a willing worker. After a few lean years, he received a 25 cents-a-day raise. On what luxury might he fritter this windfall? He committed to buy the city’s newspaper and an out-of-town newspaper every day and to read both papers. He learned much about different cities and about the world. Years went by and he was elected to three terms as mayor with an office on the top floor of City Hall.

I was idling at my computer, wasting time. I typed my name, Joseph G. Butler, into Ancestry, hit the “go” button and sorted through. One remarkable document stood out: A 1962 immigration form, written in my father’s unmistakable hand … Pan American flight 220 from Antigua, West Indies to New York City. I was then 13 years old. Memories returned. I was seated next to my father on that airplane, and listened to his recollections. My father had been a Major in the Army Air Corps, stationed in the West Indies during the Second World War. Antigua was our second home.

How I met my Linda: Being too old to cruise Main Street in my hotrod, I joined a dating website. I paid the fee, loaded a few photos that made me look handsome, and filled in the bio. Then I perused the online photos of refined ladies but only one took my breath away. I wrote Linda the best letter I could. I received no reply. Despairing, I went about my lonely routine. One evening, returning home from the art museum, there came an email from Linda: “I saw you at the museum!” Linda and I married two years later.

I can’t recall quite where we met. I see him from time to time, here and there. I always like being in his company. He has an equable disposition and nothing much riles him. He has strong opinions yet expresses them evenhandedly. He’s OK with it when I don’t agree, though mostly I do. He’s always ready to help others and often does. Then, he takes time to be alone, to rest and pray. I try to be like him but I fall short. I read the gospel daily. Only on my very best days do I live the gospel. 

A letter is a tolerable substitute for a visit. If I can’t visit, I write. I have an old Royal typewriter to help me. I roll in a bit of paper, type with two fingers, sometimes 30 words a minute. If you look up the word “visit,” you’ll find there’s some heft to it: To visit is to go and see about someone, to go and comfort or help. A visit is no small matter. Neither is a letter. You can type or handwrite, just don’t worry what to write. Start with the word “Dear” and the words will come.

The lady is elegant, dressed to the nines. We are a ragtag bunch, cooking and serving a monthly Sunday meal in the parish hall for any hungry folks who might show up. She comes to every meal, but arrives as the meal is ending. We know her well and greet her warmly. As the other guests leave, she surveys the room to find a suitable table. She is gracious with a touch of hauteur. In her finery, she dines alone and we wait upon her. We do our best to meet her needs … entrée, coffee, desert … respect, fellowship and kindness. 

Standing in the checkout line at a chain pharmacy, two girls just ahead of me clutched donuts, peanuts, chips, candy bars, and a crumply five dollar bill. Their items scanned, they were 35 cents short. “You can put something back,” said the cashier. The line shuffled. The girls looked at each other. Then, good luck! The cashier found some change behind the counter and their transaction was completed. When I left, I saw the two girls getting into an old van where several more kids sat and mom was at the wheel. The license plate was from a distant place.

I had chores as a kid. I took out the trash and I cut the grass. Frequently, I was dispatched to my grandmother’s home, not far away, to adjust her TV. The same problem generally occurred at the start of Disney or Lawrence Welk. The “horizontal hold” or “vertical roll” on her black and white TV would get out of whack and off I would go. I complained some at the time, but I didn’t really mind. Nowadays, as I waylay a youngster to rejigger my recalcitrant iPhone, I recollect those long-ago days. R.I.P. Sarah Grace Heath.