Francis Lightening Up

“Lighten up Francis.”

Sergeant Hulka (Warren Oates) Stripes

           

            When Bishop Franz-Peter Tebartz-van Elst of Germany okayed $600,000 worth of art and over a million bucks in landscaping to his $42 million living quarters in Limburg, the current Pope decided that something stank other than the region’s cheese.  So Bishop Tebartz-van Elst Gonzalez Alonzo McDuck Trust-Fund Maria O’Mally Thurston Howell III got called on the carpet.  He walked in a bishop and walked out off the every day roster.  He’s taking an “unspecified leave” according to a Vatican statement.  Kind of like when a TV show goes on hiatus, usually never coming back.  I’m still bitter about Keen Eddie…where was I?

            My first reaction was that a man living in something called the Apostolic Palace telling another man that living in a palace is wrong is like the pot calling the kettle…a pot.  But then I read that Mr. Pope Francis doesn’t live in the A&P, which I can only assume is the nickname for that building, but instead lives in a building called Domus Sanctae Marthae (Saint Martha’s House) which is a sort of apartment building for visiting clergy and the cardinals during a conclave.  Its total cost was $20 million, less than half of Elst's digs, but that’s probably because unlike the German Bishop’s abode, it doesn’t include much landscaping or a pig to warm your feet while you sit on your throne.

            In fact, Pope Francis has been humble in both his living quarters and daily activities for while.  I remember reading that even as a Cardinal he lived in a simple apartment and took the bus to work. 

            But that’s not the only place where Pope Frank’s progressiveness shows.  He has recently called upon The Church to shift its focus to the poor and the sick, and suggested that Christian Right here in the good old U.S.A dial back their anti-gay and anti-abortion obsession down from eleven.

            So I guess that even though I’ve likely long ago been excommunicated from The Church and really have no say in the matter, I like the new Pope.  He’s defiantly got a lighter attitude that his predecessor.  Maybe it’s all show.  Maybe it’s a distraction from the many “indiscretions” that have dogged its steps lately, but either way you gotta like the message.

Something Autumn This Way Comes

            “First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys.  Not that all months aren’t rare.  But there be bad and good, as the pirates say.  Take September, a bad month: school begins.  Consider August, a good month: school hasn’t begun yet.  July, well, July’s really fine: there’s no chance in the world for school.  June, no doubting it, June’s best of all, for the school doors spring wide and September’s a billion years away.

            But you take October, now.  School’s been on a month and you’re riding easier in the reins, jogging along.  You got time to think of the garbage you’ll dump on old man Prickett’s porch, or the hairy-ape costume you’ll wear to the YMCA the last night of the month.  And if it’s around October twentieth and everything smoky-smelling and the sky orange and ash gray at twilight, it seems Halloween will never come in a fall of broomsticks and a soft flap of bed sheets around corners.”

-Something Wicked This Way Comes, Ray Bradbury

            I know that’s a long quote.  I like it because it’s the very start of that book, one of my favorites, and I once used those two paragraphs, and a little bit more, to turn someone on to the Ray Bradbury.  I was in a used bookstore in Auburn, chatting with the owner, when the talk turned to Mr. Bradbury.  I mentioned that at the local branch of the library there were no Bradbury books when he said something like, “Never cared for him myself.”  I found a copy of the book in his stock and suggested he read the prolog, the above being well over half.  He read it, put the book down and said something else, this time along the lines of, “I didn’t know it was like this.”  You’re welcome.

            I also put that quote because I wanted to write about October and figured I could use Ray’s words for inspiration.  Here goes.

            With year-round schooling leaking into summer months and even “traditional” school starting in August now, June and August have lost their luster for boys, and of course girls.  So with June often filled with more school days, and zero holidays, and August suffering a similar fate, summer ain’t what it used to be.  Now July reigns supreme as the least school-y month, but July is tricky. Tricky and hot.  Always hot.  It’s not uncommon for triple-digits for every stinkin’ day of July in Fresno, and it’s a 31 day month followed by another 31’er.  The only such occurrence all year.  December and January don’t count; different years.  Here’s the tricky part: July has a holiday but unlike all those great Monday holidays, it can fall on a Saturday or Sunday making it null and void for children and adults alike.

            But while June and August have fallen from grace, and July makes up for no school with hot misery and a roulette wheel holiday, October has remained the rare and lovely month it was in Mr. Bradbury’s bucolic youth.

            October still has Halloween and the day it falls on makes no difference: dressing up and free candy don’t know a Sunday from Shinola.  October is the break out the soup recipes month, the wear a sweater month, the first fire in the fireplace month, the baseball playoffs and football just getting rolling month.  And October is that sweet spot of your utility bill where you’ve stopped running the air conditioner but haven’t cranked up the heater yet. 

            October is when the leaves turning and dropping really kicks into gear and even the brownish turn Fresno leaves take add certain elegance to gutters and a kind of grace to eddies and flutters of wind.  We’ve lost the smoky atmosphere of the burning leaves of our youth, but likely gained the clear view of the Sierras, where thunderheads pile up, blocked from invading Nevada.

            By the end of October a new baseball champion will be crowned, maybe in Boston, maybe in Oakland, maybe at the north end of Roberto Clemente Bridge.  Then we turn the page to November, where visions of turkey dance in our heads.