Losing and Finding Faith

When my father came back from WWII, his family had grown.  His son was married with a baby of his own.  My sister was 20 years old and engaged.  He wanted a baby.  My mother was so happy that he made it home from the war, that she agreed.  It was a new beginning for them.  If I were a boy, my name would have been Jay, but I’m not a Jay.  My name is Faith, but the name has nothing whatsoever to do with religion.  My father said he chose the name so I would have great faith in myself.

The name, in the beginning, did the opposite.  In the 1950’s, the name, Faith was unusual.  Today, unusual names are in vogue, but that wasn’t the case when I was a child.  In fact, the name made me shy.  Yes, it was the name itself.  First off, the first word out of anyone’s mouth, upon hearing may name, was “What?”  In fact, there’s a good possibility that it was also the second and third words out of their mouths.

Then either you had to spell F-a-i-t-h, for them, or explain it further with, “i.e., faith, hope, and charity.”  Of course, that wasn’t the end of the discussion.  Exclamations of what a pretty name were offered. If it were so pretty then why don’t you name your next daughter, Faith?  End of discussion!

Selling Girl Scout cookies or raffles for school fundraisers was a torturous experience:

Ring…..Ring…  or Knock….Knock…. 
Who is it?
Faith
Who?
Faith
Who?
…opens door.  What did you say?  Who?
My name is Faith.
Who?
Faith
Who?
Faith
Who, oh never mind, what do you want?
I’m selling …
No, I’m not interested Fay.  Thanks, goodbye.

And so it went until I made a mistake on my college application.  When filling out the application I accidentally put my last name, middle name and then the first name.  The school enrolled me as Donna Faith.

I kept my mouth shut. And  I started signing my papers “F. Donna.”  Hey, if F. Scott Fitzgerald could do it, so could I.  At first, I reveled in my anonymous name.  I didn’t stick out.  I didn’t have to go around spelling my name, or listen to banal jokes, e.i., “Do you have two sisters named Hope and Charity?”

However, once in a while someone asked me what the “F.” stood for.  When I told them Faith, I had to listen to what a pretty name Faith was, why didn’t I use it?  In fact, after a year or so, I regretted not using “Faith.”

Why couldn’t I have a regular boring name that I didn’t have to explain or spell?

But life went on as Donna—college, marriage, and work until I started working as a real estate broker in Boston.  The day my business cards arrived, my manager saw my inscribed name and asked what the "F." in “F. Donna Flaherty,” was for.  When I told him, “Faith,” he looked at me incredulously.

You are selling real estate in Boston.  You know the name of the game is name recognition.  You know most of your clients are Boston Irish.  You realize you want them to remember your name to come back to you to sell and buy.

And you chose Donna over Faith?  Are you stupid?

From that moment on I’ve been going by my first name.

Walking With Sticks

In my hiking group, the Trail Hikers, there are two schools of thought regarding “walking sticks.”  Many feel that “walking sticks” are very useful.  They aid in walking.

Others feel that “walking sticks” are an affectation.  More than that, they can be a hindrance.  They are something that distracts one from concentrating on their footing.  I can attest to that, so I subscribe to this opinion.  One time going downhill on a rocky terrain and using a “walking stick”, it was the stick that caused me to trip up.  It was like I had too many legs and feet.  Somehow or other, the stick was caught between my legs, or in the way of my foot, or whatever!  I tumbled down the boulder.  And I almost speared myself with that “walking stick.”  I think it did blacken my eye. 

I swore, “never again!”  I climbed back up that huge boulder and flung that “walking stick” into the netherworld.

Well, that was quite a while ago.  Yesterday, on a hike around the Blackstone River and Canal, a stick on the ground, called me by name.  I picked it up.  I was perfect for my height.  The end I used for the bottom had some sort of configuration of three branch stumps.  It’s hard to explain but picture a “hurry cane.”  It was a “hurry cane” made by nature.  I thought I’d give the “walking stick” another chance.  After all, I believe in “second chances,” and “thirds,” and “fourths”…

The walk was pleasant.  There were fourteen of us that day, eight men and six ladies.  It was an easy hike.  As we chatted and walked along, the person in front of me stopped and shouted, “Be careful—scat*!”   I did almost put my foot in it.  I didn’t want that to happen to anyone, so I took my “natural hurry cane” and using it like a hockey stick, I took a slapshot** and sent that scat* into a dead zone somewhere.

                      Maybe “walking sticks” are beneficial, after all.

Eventually, another opportunity presented itself.  This time, my slapshot** hit the scat* even further into another world.  I was feeling pretty happy about myself, the world, “walking sticks,” and even scat*. 

The hikers took a break at Look Out Rock.  We also ate our trail mix and drank water.  This respite was good rejuvenation before the hike back down.climbed up the rock formation and looked out.  The sight was a panoramic view of the Blackstone River winding its way through the Blackstone Valley.  Spectacular!  I took out my iPhone and took pictures.

Somewhere, near the end of the trail, I realized something.  My “natural hurry cane” was gone.  I must have left it behind on Look Out rock.  “Oh well, I didn’t spend a money on it.  Maybe I’m just not meant to have a “walking stick.”  It’s not meant to be.”

But I have to admit; it was a damn good stick for slap-shooting** scat*.

* SCAT = Animal feces.

** Slapshot = A slapshot (also spelled as slap shot) is an ice hockey term for one of the hardest hits one can perform. It has four stages which are executed in one fluid motion to make the puck fly into the net:

1. The player winds up his hockey stick to shoulder height or higher.
2. Next the player violently "slaps" the ice slightly behind the puck and uses his weight to bend the stick, storing energy in it like a spring. This bending of the stick gives the slapshot its amazing speed. Just like a bow and arrow, the stick's tendency to return to being straight is transferred to the puck, giving it much more speed than just hitting it alone could.
3. When the face of the stick blade strikes the puck, the player rolls his wrists and shifts his weight so that the energy stored in the stick is released through the puck.
4. Finally, the player follows through, ending up with the stick pointed towards the desired target.

The slapshot is harder than other shots and, because of the violent motion involved.

They Think We're Crazy

More and more I can see how being Catholic is counter cultural.  Now I feel it. 

I am at the bank trying to open an account for my Lay Dominican chapter.  The banker asks:

When was your chapter founded?

Now how am I supposed to know that?  I don’t know when my chapter was founded, nor my region’s founding, nor my province’s.  I do know when the Order of Preachers was founded.  The date of the Dominican Laity is arguable.  So I gave the banker the date I know.
1216, I say affirmatively.

The banker’s eyes open wide.  “What?”

I explain that Dominicans have been around for 800 years.

OK.  He fills that line in and asks.  Who was your founder?

Saint Dominic.

How do you spell that first name?

This is where I realize that this person has no clue what I’m talking about.  But I explain that the first name is Dominic and the last name is Guzman.

The next question I’m asked is, “What is your purpose?”

Save souls.

What? 

I would have repeated my answer but I instinctively intuited that “save souls” would never be comprehended.  So I said, “fight heresy.”  The banker’s lips got thinner and the eyes beadier. I tried “evangelization” for an answer.  For a response, I received a cold, hard stare.  My final try was “preaching.”

This is where I heard a loud, long, sigh.

Is there someone else in your organization who can help you answer these questions?

The Last to Leave

This is my third attempt.  The first was Abandoned.  The second was Abandoned Again.  And this is my last attempt; I've rewritten this to death.

The Last to Leave

The caller ID on my phone read, “Jill Byron.”  I had just been to a meeting with Jill, a couple of hours ago.  I quickly picked up the phone.  “Hello.”

Shocked!  I heard crying.  “You left me alone!  I was alone.  It was dark.  I was scared—all alone!”

I-I-I didn’t know what to respond.  I thought back. 

Jill was traveling from Medfield to Holliston’s Community Center.  She didn’t know the way.  We made arrangements to meet at a shopping plaza on Rte. 109, in Medway.  The actual directions were simple.  I’m sure she could have found the Holliston Community Center on Rte. 126, herself.  All you do is take Rte. 109 until it intersects with Rte. 126.  Then you take Rte. 126 towards Holliston, until you come to your destination. 

And we did meet at the plaza and she followed me to the meeting, which wasn’t long.   It just ended a little while ago.

But here is Jill sobbing.

 “I’m sorry.  I thought you were following me.  Everyone left the meeting at the same time.  I thought you were behind me.”  I did remember thinking that I hoped she was in one of the cars behind me.  I was first, and everyone else poured out of the parking lot, one right after the other.  I don’t know how that happened.  So what did happen?

Jill seemed collected now as she told me her story.  First, she couldn’t believe that I, and everyone else, were gone.  She was hurt and bewildered to find herself so suddenly in this situation.  We were all together laughing and talking and then suddenly it was dark; it was quiet; she was alone.  She felt intense fear.

She bowed her head in prayer.  The limbs and leaves of the nearby trees also bowed, as the energy in the air condensed and collected itself into a whisper of a breeze that grew and grew into a powerful wind.  Wispy shadows reached and stretched towards her.  Jill sensed an evil engulfing the car in its shadows.

She looked around for a person?  An explanation?  Her only answer was the shaking of leaves and …and a murmuring.  A sound that grew louder.  A chanting that grew vulgar with throaty moans creeping out of the woods.

The wind gave a howl and suddenly Jill saw a group of people—weird people.  Some had arms and legs missing.  Their walk was a heavy stagger.  Their eyes were all wide, wide open, with blank stares.  Yikes, some had no lips.

She made sure the doors were locked. Jill was shaking as she dumped her pocketbook out looking for her keys.

Where were they?

She started to cry.  “Help.”  She couldn’t think.

They had reached her car and started to shake it.  They were trying to get in.  Jill was paralyzed. 

Her eyes mirrored terror.  Her screams were frozen in her mouth.  Her heart stopped.

"Are you OK, Miss?"  

Jill blinked.  Knocking on her window were some people.  They were carrying brooms, vacuum cleaners, and other assorted cleaning supplies.  A radio played in the background. The cleaners, they were the cleaning people, of course.

"Do you need help?"

"No, no, I'm fine," she said, as she inserted the key in the ignition and drove off like she was being chased by zombies.