Lois did most of the legwork as far as the wedding was concerned. Puttin' one together in a couple of weeks was a challenge even back then. Mostly I helped with the legwork that she couldn't do 'cause, unlike me, she was still workin'.
'Course there was one big hurdle we had to jump if we wanted to make everyone happy. See, she was a Baptist and I was a Catholic. Same basic take on God but it was never really clear as to which side was goin' to hell. Depended on which you were talkin' to.
Luck for us this was the '60s. Free love, cheap weed and ecumenical weddings. Hip young priests with sideburns and guitar masses. Ministers in red suits with plaid collars. Everything was beautiful and the mass in English. Groovy, peace and love. So we figured, at least I did, that we could come up with something that combined both sides and wasn't too freaky. I could already see the headline in the Star and Tribune's Saturday Faith section:
Flower Child Baptist Weds Marginal Catholic Paddy Pounder -
everyone cheers, no one goes to hell.
A moment's thought mighta got me thinkin' otherwise. If everything was righteous and groovy, how come we still had our asses over in the Nam? Seemed like more was goin' on than met the eye. Ain't that always the way she goes. Some fools dyin' and others makin' a buck out of it. Most people just goin' about their business. Nixon, don't get me wrong, Nixon was never a favorite of mine, called them The Great Silent Majority. They ain't flashy, don't make the headlines but they're the ones who erode the channels and then build the bridges. So the headlines and lead articles said the ecumenical movement was hot but mostly the truth proved otherwise.
One way or the other I had me the job of findin' a priest and a minister out to buck the system. That meant a little face to face with the dude in black at my home parish. Square one.
I knew the parish priest well. I'd been his go to altar boy back when I was in high school. Yup, I'd been an altar boy. And a damned good one too. Father Minton liked me 'cause I could handle the job by myself. Saved him an extra phone call on Saturday. Back then I took my religion seriously and knew I had good cause to fear eternal damnation. The whole business of bein' that close to God up there on the other side of the fence in church made me nervous. But I never said no and did a great job fakin' I was a good Catholic.
Right off the bat at the rectory I ran smack into the unexpected. While I was off to the war, Father Minton had up and left for another parish. In his stead was a dour, middle aged man who didn't know me from Adam. Took one look in my eyes and immediately had me pegged as a marginal Catholic lookin' for favors from mother church. And he, by God, wasn't in the mood for bein' a nice guy.
I think it was the word ecumenical that slammed the door. No, he wasn't havin' nothin' to do with those shenanigans. And didn't have a clue as to any man of the cloth who might. Start doin' stuff like that and who knew where it might lead. Next thing ya knew perfectly fine, holy priests would be accused of shaggin' altar boys. At least he knew where the door was and suggested I not let it hit me on the way out.
Lois came to the rescue in a second hand fashion. She, unlike me, actually went to church. While I was in Vietnam she was a regular at Judson Baptist. There she'd pray fervently that living with her parents wouldn't drive her crazy.
Her minister before I went to the Nam was a Reverend Fowler. She liked him a lot. Even got me to write him. Don't remember exactly how it went but the gist no doubt went something like this:
Dear Rev. Fowler,
Gettings from the Nam. It's a real shit hole here. Even smells like one. Way too fertile for me. We spend our days lookin' for Gooks (that's what we call them alright) to kill. But mostly prayin' they won't find us first. You see, we really do pray here. All in all, a dull day is a good day.
Have been shot at, booby trapped, blood sucked in countless ways, ring wormed, paddy footed, been ball deep in mud, had my life threatened by a short guy with a complex, shit my brains out for weeks on end, told by a pissed off First Sergeant that I ain't paid to think and had an unidentified fungus circumnavigate my right arm. Flew in helicopters to places we didn't want to go. Same goes for the tin cans on the river. Mostly we walk. All in all it could be worse. So how's by you?
Sincerely,
Uncle's Fool
But kinda like Father Minton, Reverend Fowler had flown the coop. In his place was one of the new, hip breed of ministers whose idea of a good time would be standin' up tall at an ecumenical service. Bringin' the faiths together 'cause we were all children of the same righteous God. And he even knew of a priest who was also on the same page over on the other side of the tracks where the Indians lived (we still called them Indians back then. I've heard tell they call themselves that to this day but we white guys don't). I was up for that. So long as the man was a card carryin' priest and able to stand upright on the evening of October 4th, he was our man.
And he was. More or less. Yup, he'd be happy to do a multi-faith service so long as no animals were sacrificed or wine glasses stomped. It was all fun and giggles for a couple of minutes 'til he pulled out The Contract.
What the hell was that all about? Seemed the church had no problem with me marryin' a Baptist so long as we raised our children as Catholics. And signed a legal lookin' document to that effect. That was a little too Faustian for me. On the upside the pen would be filled with ink, not my blood. So I did what any Vietnam vet woulda done, blew my stack, stood right up and was headin' for the door when the man called me back.
Said, "Don't think so much as it be sayin' Catholic as it be meanin' Christian." And smiled a soft, nervous kinda smile.
Whether Catholic or Christian it was all the same to me. But havin' a few seconds to calm down and mull it over made me realize the contract had no meanin' whatsoever with God. No more than sellin' indulgences. On the other hand, maybe I shoulda read the fine print. Who knows what kinda weird crap mighta been there? Somethin' about what side of the fence I'm gotta be standin' on at the last Judgement. About a guy with a red beanie wavin' a piece of paper sayin' as how I got to get over with the teeth gnashers and hair pullers. Potential bummer.
So I signed on the dotted line. Here's the kicker. Not long afterwards the priest renounced his vows. Left the priesthood. Guess in his own way we thought a little bit alike. But none of that mattered at the moment. We had our men and would have smilin' people on both sides of the aisle.
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