When my parents made me go to church in Lakewood, I headed out with a smile, and ended up on the edge of a nearby lake that was an easy walk to church . . . if one wanted to actually go to church. A number of times one of my classmates would join me. We just sat and talked and the subject of church never came up, although girls did. We had no interest in church, but sports and girls were a different thing.
Things changed over the years. I fell in love with a Catholic girl. Soon we were planning a church wedding at Holy Rosery, a few hundred feet from I-5. We gathered a few days before the event to make sure everything went smoothly. It did until Father Jeff looked at the details and said, “You’re officially a legal day short.” I looked at my wife to be and she looked at me. We didn’t have a large collection of friends coming to the wedding, but it was enough to break my wife-to-be’s heart, and that left me pretty much standing alone with my eyes looking down at the floor.
“Oh, well . . . what are we gonna do . . . ” said Father. “Oops” is what he said as he signed in the date with a shaking hand. Somehow you couldn’t really make out the signage day, but if you assumed the date was correct, everyone would believe it was true.
Over the years I enjoyed Father Jeff. During World War Two he had been a Corporal in the U.S. Army along with my Uncle Randy. They both fought their way north up from Palermo to Rome. In Rome they found a soccer ball and made their own hoops and played basketball with the soccer ball. They made friends with the youngsters and kept the equipment with them as they continued north. After the war and the killing, Jeff added “Father” to his name and enjoyed his next movement from New York to Tacoma as “Father Jeff”. It was an easier move. There was no gunfire, except perhaps in New York.
As you can probably tell, I have never been a dedicated, church going soul, but that never stopped me from enjoying action in the church’s gym where we played volleyball and basketball. In basketball Father Jeff returned to his play, “Italian style”. He was a mean player and his team always won . . . it was the team that wasn’t wearing Band-Aids.
When Father Jeff died, I asked that flowers not be put on his chest. Instead, I thought a signed basketball of church going people and people who often wore band aids would explain everything to God. We got no complaints.
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