Apparently it's unchristian to wish a scorching case of the clap on someone.

[Or: This Old Blog, Part III.]

No matter how much they deserve it.

I looked it up.

Alas.

Nothing major has blown up of late--in fact, Adventures in Quick-setting Concrete went remarkably well, considering I had two curious toddlers who insisted on examining it close up. And, no, I don't think I live above an old Indian burial ground (though, honestly, that thought ran through my fevered brain when Lucy found the cat skull, I swear).

Even if we did live above one, I think the irritated spirits would be feeling more pity than outrage by now. (There's another story aoout our house that I've shrugged off as apocryphal, but I'm not going to discuss that at the moment.) Why? Well, some new repair work around the house has revealed to us further perfidy from the Three Dollar Renovator!

Our house is cinderblock, clad with vinyl siding (which is why most people are amazed that it is, in fact, cinderblock). A lot of people don't like it, but as long as it doesn't look like cinderblock, I rather like it. It just feels more solid. Sure, I'd prefer brick, but I'd prefer a lot of things. Wishes are like excretory orifices, as the saying goes.

Speaking of excretory orifices: We experienced water damage in our bedroom--the product of a regular leak and an ice dam. People living in warmer climes: count yourself blessed that you don't have to deal with the ice dam phenomenon. Short version: heavy snowfall can melt on a roof even in subfreezing temperatures, even with the finest of insulation. The snow turns to ice and migrates toward the eaves, with sometimes hideous results. Take it from someone who spent the better part of two hours on a ladder in February with wind chills measurable in the single digits hammering away at ice nearly six inches thick--you don't want this.

Be that as it may, we hired someone to fix the leak--again, $3DR avoided minor expense, costing us more. But finally, we are able to afford to fix the damage to the inner bedroom wall (one of the benefits of being overtaxed throughout the year). The subcontractors (who arrived on time this morning, as promised--I revived with cold water) started working and discovered that this particular area had experienced a lot of leaks in the past (remember, it's cinderblock--no drywall-black-mold-making-me-homicidal-suicidal-Falling Down-style here).

And the king of all assh--er, the $3DR knew it. Instead of addressing the leak with concrete and plaster, HE COVERED UP THE AREA WITH WALLPAPER AND PAINTED OVER THE WHOLE THING.

Hide the problem, don't fix it. Well, we're getting it fixed right this time. Speaking of fixing...

"Kids, we're going to hide Daddy's guns, OK?"

If you are buying a house in the metro Detroit area that has been recently renovated, call me first. I may be able to spare you some trouble.

I haven't been able to find "red rum" at any party store in the area...

All work and no play makes Dale a dull boy
All work and no play makes Dale a dull boy
All work and no play makes Dale a dull boy
All work and no play makes Dale a dull boy
All work and no play makes Dale a dull boy
All work and no play makes Dale a dull boy
All work and no play makes Dale a dull boy
All work and no play makes Dale a dull boy
All work and no play makes Dale a dull boy
All work and no play makes Dale a dull boy

Get out...

At the decided risk of renaming the blog This Dysfunctional House, I am compelled to tell this true story.

Monday nights are the parish bible study, led (more or less) by yours truly. Pause for a moment to consider the condition of lay biblical literacy described by the last seven words of the previous sentence.

All set? Fine.

Anyway, it starts at 7:15pm. Last night, we had to leave early as a family because, in the hullabaloo caused by the Great Pipe Break of '05, Heather had left the Buick parked at her friend's father's home. As we were getting around to leave, I noticed Lucy, our mutt and the world's only living brain donor (canine category) was trundling out from under our deck with something in her mouth.

What does she have n---[whiplash double take]---!

That looks like a skull.

A half-mummified animal skull.

Lucy trotted out toward the corner of the backyard, past the oblivious children, looking a little furtive.

"Um, Heather..."

"Yes, hon?"

"I think the dog's got a cat skull in her mouth..."

"WHAT?!"

I ran after the dog, who had dropped the whatever in the corner of the yard.

Barking Dad arrived.

"Lucy--get away from there!"

Lucy was not thrilled, but since this was the Big Alpha Primate in He. Means. Business. mode, she complied.

Agog, I looked it over, and I walked back.

"It's a cat skull. With some hide still attached to it. Uh, where did you bury that dead kitten you found a couple years back?"

Lucy has a fascination with moon craters--she gets a yen to build them in the yard quite frequently. Maybe she dug the kitten's remains up.

Heather insisted on seeing it. "Oh, no that's too big to be the kitten. And there's still an eye in the socket!"

Yep. Sure was.

The mystery was where the dog found it. We walked back--and saw the crawlspace door still yawning wide open. In the confusion, I had forgotten to put it back in place. Lucy must have smelled it and went under there to get it.

Our best scenario is that it went in to die before we bought the house and mummified there because our crawl space is narrow and dry. In fact, that seems likely. Our cats and dog would have gone nuts if it had gotten in there any time while we owned it. Either way, it's getting a deep burial.

OK. Now what? He asks with trepidation.

How was your weekend?

Mine stunk, not to put to fine a point on it. Hence no blogging in the interim, nor response to comments. On Saturday evening, a water pipe coupling came loose in my house as I attempted to water a bare patch on The Most Ridiculously Uneven Lawn In North America.

You see, we bought our house from a fellow in the business of reclaiming houses in dubious condition. In too many particulars, the renovation itself was dubious, with the overriding principle apparently being "spend no more than $3 to solve a $10 problem." To whit: not anchoring the outdoor spigot to the house with a couple of bolts.

It was an almost idyllic Saturday evening. I'd grilled some burgers for dinner, and afterwards we all went back out into the backyard for a last dose of fresh air before putting the kids down. Rachel was happily playing on a blanket and Dale and Madeleine had established a non-aggression pact regarding wheeled toys with seats. Earlier that day I had purchased some insta-turf (the stuff that comes with the grass seed and fertilizer bundled together in green recycled paper) from the Depot to cover up some unsightly spots on the lawn. The directions (I know--have to turn in the Man Card for reading them) indicated to water twice daily. I met them halfway and decided to do it once. I uncoiled the hose with a couple yanks and marched to the far end of the lawn. I set the spray attachment and squeezed the handle.

Not much distance. Squeeze again. Less so.

Change from "Jet" to "Shower." Repeat.

Dying to a trickle.

What the--?

I went back to the spigot to see what was the matter and heard Niagara roaring inside our house. I tore open the cabinet just inside the door and took an unrelenting blast of water to the face (I later found my glasses with both lenses knocked out--I do not remember that happening). After desperately trying to couple the pipe to the pipe joint and failing miserably (it cannot be done--trust me), I called for help. Fortunately, our good friends and neighbors kitty-corner to our house came to my rescue immediately. According to Shelly (the wife of the pair), Brian (the husband) looked like he was about to vault the chain-link fence--which would not have been a good idea in her book. Apparently, they were afraid the fridge had fallen on me.

Most people put a shutoff valve right where you can find it and, you know, shut off the water. But no.

Remember, there would have been no problem if the spigot had been properly anchored by a couple of masonry bolts from the Depot. An investment of less than $5. But such is unworthy of The Three Dollar Renovator! Likewise a sensibly-mounted main shutoff.

Instead, I watched waves of water advance across the linoleum toward the hall. My eldest came to the window and asked what was going on. It would be nice to report that I sent her off with a gentle admonishment to go back into the yard to play.

It would be nice indeed. Instead she got Roaring Dad. No obscenities (though Brian reports that a 2 megaton F-bomb proceeded my call for help--I honestly don't remember that, but it's certainly true). I still apologized profusely later.

As to the shutoff valve--welcome to the scavenger hunt. Brian handed me one of my downspout extenders and we managed to divert the water outside. As we rigged this up, I noticed about half the neighborhood's children were in our backyard, and two of our three were still playing--even the barked-at Maddie. Joy, one of the neighbor girls, had picked up the now disconsolate Rachel, wailing to beat the band because of hunger. At thirteen, she tried her level best to soothe Boo, but nothing short of Mama was going to do that. She's a very good kid, though.

Did I mention that Heather had gone out to dinner with one of her close friends? And she wasn't due back for another 45 minutes at the earliest?

None of the neighbor kids so much as cracked a smile at my predicament--I must still have had my soaked rottweiler face on. No humor, just dumb questions. Which I was able to answer without a verbal guillotine by now. As I tried to rig up a better diversion, the next thing I saw was a polished pair of black shoes. They happened to be attached to one of [Old Suburb's] Finest. Shelly had flagged him down during a neighborhood patrol. He was a fully-decent guy, and tried to figure out where a shutoff might be, going around the house with Brian to do so. He also judiciously ignored my implied death threat against The Three Dollar Renovator! I went into the crawl space--no shutoff. But at least now I was muddy.

Is our water bill going to be grim next month, part of my mind gibbered as I watched the water drip through the floor.

Time to call a professional.

Please, if you are in the business, do not take this personally. This is not directed at you:

CONTRACTORS SUCK. WITH A CAPITAL "S."

After explaining that I had a water jetting out of a pipe, one lady politely informed me that she'd get the on-call guy to call me.

We're still waiting. That ad's getting blotted out of the yellow pages tout suite. Don't strain yourself there, pal.

I ONLY HAVE WATER JETTING OUT OF A WATER PIPE SOAKING EVERYTHING IN SIGHT! MY TWO YEAR OLD'S KAYAKING ON THE KITCHEN TABLE, AND MY HAIR LOOKS LIKE SYNDROME'S IN THE INCREDIBLES FROM THE ENDLESS DELUGE BLAST!

BUT MY HEAD'S STILL ON MY TORSO, SO TAKE YOUR FRICKING TIME!

Sorry--extreme frustration brings out my inner Kinison.

After much searching, the shutoff valve was finally found--up under the flooring. Right where you can't find it in a major break.

Next call--find Heather. Her friend's dad steered me to a restaurant, and she was still there. Yes, this is an emergency. They found her and she sped home. S helly had arrived to take charge of Rachel, and shoo the gawkers from the yard. Maddie and D3 marched across the street with her.

The clean-up process began. Brian brought over some towels, and I used some of ours, too.

I called another plumber--nobody before tomorrow, sorry. Since the main was off, that meant no water before Sunday. Ish. I thanked her for her candor, but said I'd have to look elsewhere. She understood. I won't blot those guys from the book.

Heather arrived. It wasn't as bad as she thought it would be. She was picturing the kayaking scenario. Soon enough, she went over to Brian and Shelly's--Rachel had awakened.

And she was most unhappy.

In the interim, I left multiple messages for my brother in law, Obi-wan Kenobi ("you are our only hope"). "Ben" does bathroom and tile work, and as a result has much experience with plumbing. He redid our bathroom two years ago (magnificently), and he said he owed me a large favor (I used some leave time in February to go and change my sister-in-law's flat tire. It was all of about 0 that day, with a stiff breeze. Rather unpleasant, as the British might say.)

Since plumbers were not an option, Brian decided to run over to the Depot to get a shutoff valve and solder. As we attempted to do what shouldn't be done at home by non-plumbers (think open flame, enclosed space, delicate timing, easily overheated parts), we noticed that a steady trickle continued from the pipe. The shutoff was, indeed, cranked off fully. Soldering was tried. And failed.

The phone rang: Obi-wan was finally able to return the call! "Ah, young padawan--there will always be a trickle. And that will prevent the pipe from being heated sufficiently to allow the solder to work. I shall be there shortly, with light saber and tubing. In the meantime, wad up some white bread and jam it into the pipe--that will stop the leak. Also, turn on the kitchen sink, as that will divert some of the remaining flow."

So encouraged, we listened and followed the instructions. He arrived with his two sons, who I herded into what had just become the busiest Saturday night daycare around. Brian and Shelly's middle son, Vincent, was ecstatic. "Sleepover?" he asked hopefully.

He's five.

I also got around to apologizing to Madeleine, who accepted my apology and said I shouldn't yell in the house. I agreed. No trauma, thankfully.

I made it back home to get a lesson in soldering--in two minutes, voila--new shutoff and new connection to the outdoor hose. He turned the main back on. No leaks--if the solder isn't all around, you can tell easily--it shoots out in a fan shape from the leak.

We left and picked up the kids. Many thanks and much rejoicing. There's some gift certificates for chain restaurants forthcoming, too. This was no minor inconvenience.

The floor fan was set to "Turbine" and ran all night, just to be safe. Clean up still continues.

And, if nothing else, we learned that we have good neighbors. Very good neighbors. That's a very valuable gift from a situation that could have been far more disastrous than it was.

I could tell you how I ripped up my hands trying to mix concrete on Sunday...

A useful coping method.

If you are like me (which, if you're really like me, would make you a 35 year old stocky orthodox Catholic male going through serious NHL withdrawal at the moment--but that's not important right now), you have a very low tolerance threshold for extended commentary by the usual suspects from the Catholic Dissentariat. However, I have developed a technique for surviving this situation with your spirits (and TV) intact. It's analogous to the old nervous speaker's trick of picturing your audience in its underwear.

What you do is this:

1. Clearly identify the dissenter as such (hint--do the initials "CNN" appear on your TV screen?);

2. Find the mute button on your remote control;

3. Completely activate the mute button (beware the "soft mute" setting); and

4. Pretend that the individual is lip-synching this song instead.

Try it--it really works!

This is just mean.

Which, of course, is why I heartily enjoy it. Per an anecdote (perhaps slightly garbled--I missed part of the speech) from George Weigel, Pope John XXIII polled the bishops as to which topics should be considered at the forthcoming Second Vatican Council. The bishops duly sent in their responses, one of the most thoughtful being a cogent essay about man's search for meaning in the modern world by the young bishop of Krakow, Poland.

Alas, not all were so thoughtful. Many were simply laundry lists of ideas, and one of them actually suggested discussing the search for intelligent life in the universe. One of the curial officials reviewing the submissions saw this one, noted the submitter (with an arched eyebrow, we can imagine) and said:

"Perhaps he should start by searching for intelligent life in his own diocese first."

Ouch....

The Afterimage.

I can hardly say what Pope John Paul II meant in the larger scheme of things. I suspect determining that will take the better part of a century of careful, dispassionate thought, far removed from the idiot canned analysis of right now. Hence the term "afterimage"--we are all going to be blinking and trying to focus on what he meant for a long, long time to come. Was he flawless? No. I agree with just about every syllable of this Rod Dreher column. There are other areas where honest faithful Catholics can find fault--but I'll save that for after the funeral.

Moreover, while I understand it, I'm not quite on board with the whole "the Great" phenomenon. Let's all take a deep breath first, and then take the time to truly study the man and his words first. I think eventually the tag will fit, but for now I'll stand with Treebeard and avoid being hasty.

What I can do is say what the Pope meant to me as someone who converted to Catholicism during his reign. For my entire adulthood, he was The Pope, a man bestride the world like a colossus. Like, love or hate him, the one thing that you could never do was ignore him.

A lot of this is a function of Western culture, which is many respects was and still is an increasingly-estranged child of the Catholic Church. I have a theory about Americans as a people: deep down, (1) we are all default Brits and equally so, (2) we are all default Catholics.

Here's the proof: if you hear the term "the Queen," who do you think of? If it's anyone other than Elizabeth II, you are lying. I don't care if you're a Southie from Boston or Cheech Marin--The Queen is that white haired lady on the cover of People, not the wife of Juan Carlos, or the titular head of the Netherlands, or any other female monarch. Pleasant though she may be. There's only one "the Queen" in America, and she's British.

Likewise "the Church." Lenny Bruce was right--there's only one "the Church," and that's Roman Catholicism. It even percolates into popular culture--as fellow papist Roger Ebert notes, every time you have to battle supernatural evil in the movies, it's always Catholicism that supplies the heavy artillery. Thus, when an American hears "the Church" in conversations, he doesn't think "Methodist." He thinks "Catholic."

Even as an adolescent lapsed Methodist, I knew that The Church With The Definite Article was qualititatively different. And so was its head bishop. All Americans know this instinctively. Even the press. Yes, even Christiane Amanpour. Try another comparison: when the Vatican is considering a statement about genetically modified foods, it's news. When the Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church, U.S.A. and other mainline Protestant leaders (Frank & Friends!) condemn the federal budget--cue the crickets. Sure, the evangelicals are something of an exception: MSM has a growing awareness (and disdain) for the evangelicals, and a recognition of counter-culturalism there, too. But there's no focus--no one person or institution that can presume to speak on behalf of what is admittedly a very diverse group. A middleweight with a wicked hook, but hard to pin down.

But for the once mighty-mainline, the unkindest cut of all: being ignored. For all its flaws, the media knows a lightweight when it sees one. The mainliners float like a butterfly and sting like one, too.

"Lose this number until you ordain a transsexual, buddy."

The Pope--this Pope especially--was a heavyweight. Even I could see that. He travelled constantly--to my humble home state, no less--and, even at a distance, seemed fearless.

Which brings me to this: I can define him using less than five words: "Be Not Afraid," and "Hope." I can comprehend his leadership by using each as a lens.

Be Not Afraid!

Christ has triumphed over death--what are you afraid of? The travel, the meetings with millions, the preaching, and even some of the things that did and do strike me as dubious, like Assisi--all can be better understood by realizing that he simply was not afraid.

Christ has triumphed over death--why should we be afraid of the prayers of animists? Christ has triumphed over death--I am not going to let the communists intimidate me. Christ has triumphed over death--the West needs to learn that it is killing its own soul. Whatever else can be said about him, it is clear that he never feared for himself or his reputation.

Hope.

As in the Christian variety, not the mindless secular kind (usually called "optimism"). The latter is the mindset that tells you to "turn that frown upside down," or says "It looks like someone has a case of the Mondays--cheer up!" Christian hope is not like that. Rarely noted is that there is a grim realism underlying even his most hopeful statements. Consider, for example, the projection of "a new springtime of evangelization." To even float such a statement requires a recognition that, for right now, we are in the middle of February. At the latest. The important thing is that hope compels us to recognize that spring will come. Hope tells us that no matter how long and difficult the haul, with Christ we, too, will triumph. Hope also does not deny the difficulties.

Before the Walls of Minas Tirith....

Finally, I am thankful for his call to arms. He woke us to the fact that we are in a serious battle for the soul of humanity itself. Everywhere, and from every direction, humans seem bent on effacing the Imago Dei from their persons, a massive act of self-mutilation unseen in history. By calling attention to it and giving it a name--the Culture of Death--he gave us a chance to confront it. Moreover, his unrelenting ecumenism also gave Catholics the prospect of having some surprising allies in the fight. Go here for Exhibit A--an impossibility fifty years ago. Also see Hentoff, Nat. By the way, Catholics--don't forget that the ecumenism of the trenches is your opportunity to witness to others. That being, of course, part of the idea. Don't botch it.

Things were such with this man that the papacy wasn't the huge stumbling block for my conversion that it is for others. Without going into detail about my own story (look for it in Surprised by Truth MXI: Yep--That's Pretty Well Everybody), I remember reacting to the anti-papal polemics I found with something on the order of "Antichrist? But this guy's Polish...." Beyond that, there was the obvious Christian witness of the man. If the Catholics can produce someone like this, there has to be something to it...

Finally, I have three concrete reasons to be thankful for John Paul II's unwavering, across-the-board witness to life: their names are Madeleine, Dale III and Rachel. I honestly doubt that I would have all three of my children but for that witness. The world of More Stuff Now! says having three children in three years is deeply stupid (it certainly can be very difficult, there's no sugarcoating that). However, their beatific faces--and the fearless, hopeful smile of John Paul II--object. The latter four are right.

Goodbye, Holy Father--you will be greatly missed.

[Update, 4/8/05: Slightly revised in response to a good point from Christopher Johnson, and tweaked here and there. It will stay here, though--I can't move it to the top.]

Fun stock answers for common Pope-related questions.

Feel free to use them yourself!

1. "So, who do you want for Pope?"

Not sure--I'll let you know when I see the ballot.

2. "What are you looking for in the next Pope?"

A guy who looks good in the hat and is comfortable riding in the Popemobile. In other words, a good sense of balance.

3. "Don't you think the next Pope should 'get with the times?'"

Interesting question--let me answer it with another one: Do you think Pius XII should have "gotten with the times" from 1939-1944?

Some first impressions.

Before the bigger essay later. This is a sick day, as both The Eldest™ and The Boy™ are ill.
Exorcist ill, complete with the projectile vomiting. Some of it hitting your humble blog host. The upshot is that Heather and I have had about five solid ours of sleep in the past 48. In other words, if what you are reading looks like Esperanto, apologies. By the time you read this, I may have started my own homage to Linda Blair's signature role.

1. Heather said the Holy Father's body looked unnerving. I agree, and that, too, is a tribute to him. Even in his weakness--his very weakest--he was fully alive. You only notice that witness now that he's gone.

2. The press coverage has been pretty solid: Foxnews and MSNBC mostly. Jesse Jackson had a very good week in my book, saying in a Fox interview late Saturday night "Thank God for this Pope." I wanted to watch Mark Brumley on Saturday, too, but they had him paired with the Rev. Drinan. We have only one TV, and I didn't want to end up changing the channel a la Elvis. Yesterday evening, Fox had Janet Smith and Christopher West, and Geraldo didn't talk over them. Wonder of wonders.

3. The music employed by the Church, and used in the bumpers for the coverage, which is much different from the Sunday Catholic worship norm. The reason? We are talking about death and resurrection right now. Whatever the virtues of most modern popular Catholic worship music, it is not generally about those subjects.

Which says a lot, when you think about it.

4. "The Holy Spirit Elects the Pope" meme needs to be retired, pronto. The Holy Spirit protects the Church. It's hard to imagine Him positively gifting us with the likes of Alexander VI, or one of the other bad popes. The difference may be subtle, but it's important.

Now he belongs to the ages.

Au revoir, Holy Father. May you receive your crown soon.

He witnessed to Christ to the end, as frequent commenter Terry noted:

I'll admit it. I've been struggling with my faith a bit about the last month or so. I don't know why, but I find it being strengthened by the passing of this man. I don't know if it's the peace he's said to be feeling despite his imminent path; the touching vigils; seeing people of every race, gender, and tongue there to pray for him. I don't know.

But I'm finding it tough too. Perhaps it's the uncertainty and my natural aversion to change. After all, he's the only Pope I've ever known. I also remember all the nasty things I said about him in my non-Catholic days, as well as some of the propaganda I bought into not long after I entered the Church.

And now I've come to realize what he means, who and what he stands for, and how much I'll miss him. And right now, his message really stands out: "Be not afraid..." A couple of more hours to Divine Mercy Sunday Papa. You've suffered in dignity for so long, it would be downright poetic to go home and experience Him Who Is and His divine mercy.

Thanks for this, Terry. And, if you think about it, we both got our wish--there are parts of the Church Universal where it is Mercy Sunday right now.

Other comments and remembrances are welcome here. I'm piecing together a few of my own, too. I simply ask that you remember my rule on this subject. Thanks.

For the great Servus Servorum Dei.

Almighty and everlasting God, the eternal salvation of those who believe, hear us on behalf of Your servant who is sick, for whom we humbly ask the help of your mercy, that, being restored to health, he may render thanks to You in Your Church. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Or, if this is his time:

Almighty and merciful God, You bestow on mankind both the remedies of health and the gifts of everlasting life. Look graciously on Your servant suffering from bodily infirmity, and strengthen the soul which You have made. At the hour of his death may he deserve to be offered without stain of sin to You his Creator by the hands of the holy angels. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

[--Both taken from the Catholic Prayer Book of Fr. John A. Hardon, S.J.]