Christopher Street

A funny thing happened at the wake: a story in 5 parts

Part 1: Godparents

I wanted to be a Jew, I wanted to be a Hari Krishna, I wanted to be Catholic.

When I was a teenager, I became fascinated by religion. For a time, I wanted to be Jewish. Then I wanted to be a Hari Krishna. (Really. You ever see a Hari Krishna up close and personal? They are the happiest people on the planet. They are beyond 'up with people' happy. They are beyond X happy. They are truly full of bliss. OK, so they are brainwashed...bliss is bliss. ) But I digress.

I wanted to be a Jew, I wanted to be a Hari Krishna, I wanted to be Catholic.

Catholicism was particularly interesting. Being a Catholic seemed to be more about doing than being, more about ceremony than belief. Catholicism seemed very task oriented: you know, there was the crossing and the communion, the rosary and the catechism, the Hail Mary and the confession. It seemed like being Catholic would leave very little time for religious introspection. By the time you finished, you know, just with the *being* Catholic, it would be time for bed.

So, I liked the idea of being Catholic. And I decided that I wanted Godparents. We Methodists don't get Godparents--there is no one but the family involved at the baptism. I thought that having Godparents was a right that I was being denied, in my stunning Protestantism. So I went a recruiting.

Part 2: Bud

'In my little town, I never meant nothing, I was just my father's son.'

I am from an impossibly small place. I am from a tiny little hamlet in the corner of a tiny rural county in the lower corner of Pennsylvania. if you are from where I am from, you know everyone--and the people you don't know, your parents know and the people your parents don't know are known by your grandparents. On the other side of the coin, everyone knows you. And if they don't , they know your family.

And, on the off-chance that you don't actually know someone, it is certain that you know someone that knows them. It's like six degrees of separation, only really, there aren't more than two or three degrees separating everyone in the county. Bud and I were originally separated by three degrees and then later by two. Bud was friends with Fred and Fred was friends with Wayne and Wayne was my friend. Later, I was friends with Fred, too, bringing me one degree closer to Bud. But Bud was always on the periphery--he came to my apartment once when we were all going to a concert, and he was always nice to me when I called to talk to Wayne (they were roommates for a long time) or if I was over, we would talk or joke. But he remained on the periphery for years and years--10 or more. And then one day, he wasn't anymore.

Part 3: 1960

In a 1974 Pinto stationwagon with no air conditioning. And vinyl seats. Talk about *Hell*.

My mother met her best friend, Jerry in their first semester at the Uniontown Hospital School of Nursing. They hit it off immediately--similar backgrounds, similar sensibilities. If possible, Jerry is the only person gentler than my Mother. She's also quieter and probably more devout. Which is not to say that my Mom is a slouch in the devout-ness. But I think that Jerry is a church-goer, where we never really did that, you know, much. My mother thinks that the worst sin of her life is that she raised heathens--which is an exaggeration. Well, my brother may be a heathen, but I'm not. We were just not much with the church, preferring to commune with God at the mall, or during the halftime report. I mean, it was Pittsburgh in the 70s--there was not a more popular religion than Football.

But I have digressed again.

Jerry and Mom have been best friends since that first day. When they graduated, they got married on successive weekends They had their kids at close to the same time. Mark is a year older than me, and Matt and Lee are about 6 months apart. We were all close enough that we were fast friends as kids. They picked the same silver pattern, and the same linoleum for the kitchen. They have the same throw pillows on their beds. And last week as Nanna passed away, Jerry was there keeping my Mom strong.

Growing up, we saw the Glotfelty's--Jerry and her husband David, Mark and Matt--at least twice a year. Once usually in the summer and always--always--at New Year's. From 1960 to today, I think that there have been three New Year's missed with the Glotfelty's. Once when I had pneumonia. Once when Jerry's mom was terribly ill. And once when they had moved to Missouri for David to attend Grad School. That year, we visited in the summer, me and my brother and my folks on a road trip to St. Louis, in July, in a 1974 Pinto stationwagon with no air conditioning. And vinyl seats. Talk about *Hell*.

The point that I'm making is that they were always around. They were there for graduations and important birthdays. They were there in the summer and in the winter. We were at their house, they were at ours. Till I was in college, that was the way it was.

Which is why I asked them to be my godparents. It was a bit of a lark, really--I've already established that we're not Catholic, so there was nothing binding about my asking. But I wanted strangers to recognize how special they were to me, and saying to someone, "These are my Godparents" conveys meaning, conveys that specialness.

It's sad, but I rarely see them at all anymore. Usually, I only see them at funerals--which is why I saw them last week, at my Grandmother's service.

Part 4: Serena

It's been 12 years and we have still not run out of things to say. :)

I met Serena in the fall of 1991, which seems impossible to me on so many levels. It seems impossible that it was 12 years ago, because the last 12 years have just flown by. And yet, it also seems impossible that it was only 12 years ago, because I feel like I have known her forever.

After I graduated from college, I moved to DC with a boy. It was a pretty big disaster, as those things go. I was young and he was insane and I was too dependent on my family, and he was too intent on breaking me of that dependence. I left him, and DC, and ran home in the summer of 1990.

For a year, I was a nomad. I worked various temp jobs. I slept various places. I lived part time with my brother, in the city, and part time with my folks, in the country. Sometimes, I had a bed to sleep in, sometimes, I got the couch, sometimes, I crashed with friends. I worked at three different jobs in the city, and did some filing for my Aunt at a nursing home. I had a little money and a lot of freedom. I felt like a kid, in a way that I hadn't felt even when I was a kid. I had no responsibilities, I answered to no one.

In the fall of 1991, I decided to apply to grad school and, after MUCH groveling, I got in. I moved in with my brother full-time, and we rented a house, and filled it up with overgrown kids like ourselves. I was living in that house when I met Serena.

I can't explain my relationship with Serena. It defies logic. Our connection was immediate and intense. We weren't friends immediately--I liked her well enough, and I think she liked me, but we didn't really connect in the very beginning. By Christmas, though everything had changed. I don't remember why I invited her over, and I don't know what we were supposed to be doing--probably studying or something, but we stayed up and talked for something like 9 or 12 hours--and never ran out of things to say.

It's been 12 years and we have still not run out of things to say. :)

Interestingly, most of our relationship has developed long-distance. As odd as it seems now, I was only in Pittsburgh for a total of three years, and Serena and I were only friends for about half that. We have spent about 88% of our friendship 250 miles apart. That isn't particularly relevant, I just think it's...weird.

After I left the 'burgh, Serena met and married a man that...well, let's just say that I was not the president of his fan club. Their story isn't mine to tell, but I will say that he was not Prince Charming and theirs was not a fairytale end.

After they split, and Serena started dating again, she called me one day to tell me that she had a date with...wait for it...

Bud.

"Wayne's Bud?" I asked?

The same. Now, I can't pretend that I wasn't...full of trepidation. I knew that one of two outcomes were possible--it would be good or it would be bad. If it were good, well, gosh...you know, yay! But if it were bad, I just feared what it would do to everyone's friendships. I was freaked.

But, in the end, it was good. They just closed on their first house together--and now, it seems odd that they weren't always together, that Bud was on the outside for so long when *obviously* he was always supposed to be part of the family.

Part 5: So, a funny thing happened at the wake...

"Bud? Bud!"

And so, they were all at my Nanna's funeral. Serena and Bud were there, as were Jerry and David. John and Wayne and Serena and Bud and I were all sitting at a table in the back, eating--fried chicken, rigatone, green beans--when, Jerry and David walked up. As I stood to hug them, it occured to me that no one sitting at the table, except for my husband, knew them. So I introduced them.

As they were walking away, Bud leaned over and asked me if they had a son named Mark. Yeah, I told him--and one named Matt.

"I was roomates with a Mark Glotfelty at Penn State."

I ran to David--"Was Mark at Penn State?"

Yes. Yes he was.

"Bud thinks that he may have roomed with him there."

"Bud? Bud!"

Turns out that not only was Bud Mark's roomate, but Jerry and David had taken him home one Thanksgiving, and had met his family.

Turns out that I was one degree away from Bud all along. :)

Posted by Lori at December 15, 2003 11:07 PM