Fourth Sunday of Pentecost (Part 1)
This morning started out slowly then gathered quite a bit of momentum thanks moslty to the totally unexpected return of Crosby, the Muse of All Muses. I'd spent the day before preparing for a stint at Mommyland, making sure I'd packed my own meds for the trip (no use both of us getting sick at the same time), shopping for barbecue supplies (a guy's gotta eat) and most implausibly, purchasing a bouquet of white carnations from the Korean grocery.
The carnation was for Father's Day. Just as I had bought a bouquet of red ones for Mother's Day, I did the same thing for Father's Day, except that these were white, denoting that my Father was deceased. You see, in the Baptist tradition in which I was raised, that's how you honored your parents -- by wearing the appropriately colored carnation in the lapel of your jacket (there was never any question that you'd be wearing a jacket for the occasion.)
It's a little conceit that I have tried to keep up over the years, each year becoming all the more poignant as Mom declines in health.
So, I spent a little more time in front of the mirror this morning than usual with the result that I arrived late for ushering duties (luckily, Oliver covered for me) but, just in time to encounter Crosby on the Parish House steps. It would be our only chance to connect the entire morning, but, it was enough to send me into a paroxysm of ever-spiraling happiness.
His hair was longer than when last seen; there's enough for a kind of top-seeded pony-tail; it made me all the more glad I hadn't chopped all of mine off at the hair-stylist last Wednesday. I very nearly did; but as soon as I surrendered my dreds to Roger's magical fingers, we both knew they weren't going anywhere. Roger is quite proud of his handiwork which we estimate have probably passed the ten year mark since they were baby-dreds.
Crosby's old enough now that I can say outright that he's a good friend. I mean, he's got that whole college thing to get through, and all the self-discovery that entails -- none of which I would wish him to forego, not one bit. But, like a lot of my best friends, we don't need a lot of words in order to catch up.
In fact, as I quickly discovered, the more I try to talk, the more I make a mess of everything. For example, I thought for sure he and his folks would be at the Father's Day fundraiser during Coffee Hour. I hadn't committed the Parish e-mails to memory; all I knew was that it involved something concerning food. But, when I asked him about it, the word "barbecue" came out of my mouth before I'd given myself a chance to confirm whether it actually was a barbecue.
What made it more interesting was Crosby's reply. He said, "I wouldn't mind going", or something to that effect. It wasn't until I'd shelled out $20 for the Father's Day Brunch), that I realized the barbecue would not be for almost another two weeks. They were two different events. Did Crosby make the same mistake I did, or, did we just make a date for the first Family Barbecue of the summer?
I suppose there's only one way to find out.
In any event, the cost of the brunch was enough to create a bit of a rift between the usual Coffee Hour crew. I had a great time talking to Elizabeth and John and one of the other Choir members. Actually, everyone at my table was someone I'd been wanting to spend time with for some time. So, it was worth it even though the Crosbys were nowhere to be seen.
But, when I emerged into the hallway afterward, several regulars were still standing and talking. They had stood outside during the entire meal, sipping coffee, evidently miffed at the fundraiser's cover charge and the fact that the beneficiaries were -- quite frankly -- the nearly all-white, semi-professional Choir. Throw in the eventual object of all the cash (an all-expense paid trip to Oxford University) and you had all the ingredients for a typically American contretemps, involving that cross-roads where race and class come to see and be seen.
I didn't allow myself to get dragged into it. In fact, I went fromm there to one of The Rector's little talks, this one on, "The Book of Common Prayer". But, I could tell my loyalty to the African-American community was being tested in one of those ways that if not handled delicately could get ugly, or as one of them rang out as I departed for the Rector's talk, "Oogly".
The carnation was for Father's Day. Just as I had bought a bouquet of red ones for Mother's Day, I did the same thing for Father's Day, except that these were white, denoting that my Father was deceased. You see, in the Baptist tradition in which I was raised, that's how you honored your parents -- by wearing the appropriately colored carnation in the lapel of your jacket (there was never any question that you'd be wearing a jacket for the occasion.)
It's a little conceit that I have tried to keep up over the years, each year becoming all the more poignant as Mom declines in health.
So, I spent a little more time in front of the mirror this morning than usual with the result that I arrived late for ushering duties (luckily, Oliver covered for me) but, just in time to encounter Crosby on the Parish House steps. It would be our only chance to connect the entire morning, but, it was enough to send me into a paroxysm of ever-spiraling happiness.
His hair was longer than when last seen; there's enough for a kind of top-seeded pony-tail; it made me all the more glad I hadn't chopped all of mine off at the hair-stylist last Wednesday. I very nearly did; but as soon as I surrendered my dreds to Roger's magical fingers, we both knew they weren't going anywhere. Roger is quite proud of his handiwork which we estimate have probably passed the ten year mark since they were baby-dreds.
Crosby's old enough now that I can say outright that he's a good friend. I mean, he's got that whole college thing to get through, and all the self-discovery that entails -- none of which I would wish him to forego, not one bit. But, like a lot of my best friends, we don't need a lot of words in order to catch up.
In fact, as I quickly discovered, the more I try to talk, the more I make a mess of everything. For example, I thought for sure he and his folks would be at the Father's Day fundraiser during Coffee Hour. I hadn't committed the Parish e-mails to memory; all I knew was that it involved something concerning food. But, when I asked him about it, the word "barbecue" came out of my mouth before I'd given myself a chance to confirm whether it actually was a barbecue.
What made it more interesting was Crosby's reply. He said, "I wouldn't mind going", or something to that effect. It wasn't until I'd shelled out $20 for the Father's Day Brunch), that I realized the barbecue would not be for almost another two weeks. They were two different events. Did Crosby make the same mistake I did, or, did we just make a date for the first Family Barbecue of the summer?
I suppose there's only one way to find out.
In any event, the cost of the brunch was enough to create a bit of a rift between the usual Coffee Hour crew. I had a great time talking to Elizabeth and John and one of the other Choir members. Actually, everyone at my table was someone I'd been wanting to spend time with for some time. So, it was worth it even though the Crosbys were nowhere to be seen.
But, when I emerged into the hallway afterward, several regulars were still standing and talking. They had stood outside during the entire meal, sipping coffee, evidently miffed at the fundraiser's cover charge and the fact that the beneficiaries were -- quite frankly -- the nearly all-white, semi-professional Choir. Throw in the eventual object of all the cash (an all-expense paid trip to Oxford University) and you had all the ingredients for a typically American contretemps, involving that cross-roads where race and class come to see and be seen.
I didn't allow myself to get dragged into it. In fact, I went fromm there to one of The Rector's little talks, this one on, "The Book of Common Prayer". But, I could tell my loyalty to the African-American community was being tested in one of those ways that if not handled delicately could get ugly, or as one of them rang out as I departed for the Rector's talk, "Oogly".