I had an epiphany yesterday, and right in a Catholic church, too.
It wasn't the beautiful sunlight that struck me as I left St. Gabe's of Glendale, Ohio, after the service;
It wasn't the suprise of brushing against Greg Gumbel, there in person for his friend Larry Skowronek, and then of course giving a flawless remembrance: hilarious, focused, perfect timing, on Larry and his antics on the running track above the gymnasium of Loras College, Dubuque, Iowa, and Larry's first comment to Greg on the football field after the Sophomores had clobbered the Freshmen: "You're the only damn player worth a xxx on your team!"
It wasn't seeing my beloved friends from all around Cincinnati, Hyde Park, and Hamilton;
It wasn't "Amazing Grace," #342, or "Make Me a Channel of Your Peace," #392, or "Shall We Gather at the River, #410, (Larry was big in crew organizations) or even the Recessional, "On Eagle's Wings, #336;
It wasn't the direct, lengthy service: simple beautiful selections and communion, so uplifting, pointing out Larry's now direct seat at the right hand of the Right Hand Up There, as well as his remaining presence here too;
It wasn't the clear Homily by Father David Fay, who really did not know the family but spoke directly to Jody with clarity and meaning;
It wasn't the beautiful writing of the First Reading, Responsorial, Second Reading;
It wasn't the reception at the Glendale Lyceum, so glorious on the sun porch, with all the usual suspects (i.e. the people Larry loved and many of the people I love);
It was the realization, through the baseball references at the funeral, that although I like to think I came to work in Cincinnati after Harvard Law School because of the Reds and their big-city glamour, in my heart I must have been a White Sox fan!
A White Sox fan? Whaa?
Mom's stories of life in Chicago upon arriving from England; the Lakefront. The train from Dayton, Ohio to Camp Miniwanca (at Muskeegon, Michigan) going right by the South Side and Commisky Park and my anticipation of the bulletin board at Camp with the Chicago Tribune sports page showing what the Sox had done, on crisp newspaper with the beautiful logo, facing the mid-day sun, wind scuttling off Stoney Lake.
Larry and Jody are "Iowa" and "Chicago" to me. What do I mean? Let me cornball my way through it, at least a start.
First, Iowa, and Dubuque, is a part of "Chicagoland." Chicago to me is liberation and toleration, hope and the future ("Larry never uttered a judgmental thought against another person in my memory," Larry-John, I think, said in his eulogy).
It wasn't the beautiful sunlight that struck me as I left St. Gabe's of Glendale, Ohio, after the service;
It wasn't the suprise of brushing against Greg Gumbel, there in person for his friend Larry Skowronek, and then of course giving a flawless remembrance: hilarious, focused, perfect timing, on Larry and his antics on the running track above the gymnasium of Loras College, Dubuque, Iowa, and Larry's first comment to Greg on the football field after the Sophomores had clobbered the Freshmen: "You're the only damn player worth a xxx on your team!"
It wasn't seeing my beloved friends from all around Cincinnati, Hyde Park, and Hamilton;
It wasn't "Amazing Grace," #342, or "Make Me a Channel of Your Peace," #392, or "Shall We Gather at the River, #410, (Larry was big in crew organizations) or even the Recessional, "On Eagle's Wings, #336;
It wasn't the direct, lengthy service: simple beautiful selections and communion, so uplifting, pointing out Larry's now direct seat at the right hand of the Right Hand Up There, as well as his remaining presence here too;
It wasn't the clear Homily by Father David Fay, who really did not know the family but spoke directly to Jody with clarity and meaning;
It wasn't the beautiful writing of the First Reading, Responsorial, Second Reading;
It wasn't the reception at the Glendale Lyceum, so glorious on the sun porch, with all the usual suspects (i.e. the people Larry loved and many of the people I love);
It was the realization, through the baseball references at the funeral, that although I like to think I came to work in Cincinnati after Harvard Law School because of the Reds and their big-city glamour, in my heart I must have been a White Sox fan!
A White Sox fan? Whaa?
Mom's stories of life in Chicago upon arriving from England; the Lakefront. The train from Dayton, Ohio to Camp Miniwanca (at Muskeegon, Michigan) going right by the South Side and Commisky Park and my anticipation of the bulletin board at Camp with the Chicago Tribune sports page showing what the Sox had done, on crisp newspaper with the beautiful logo, facing the mid-day sun, wind scuttling off Stoney Lake.
Larry and Jody are "Iowa" and "Chicago" to me. What do I mean? Let me cornball my way through it, at least a start.
First, Iowa, and Dubuque, is a part of "Chicagoland." Chicago to me is liberation and toleration, hope and the future ("Larry never uttered a judgmental thought against another person in my memory," Larry-John, I think, said in his eulogy).
