Dedicated to Ed Montini, Arizona Republic
and
My Uncle Louie, "The Greek"
I can't remember which came first, Andre House or the Casa. Going to church at the Casa and helping make chili for the homeless on Sundays had something to do with each other, but I don't remember which was first.
Anyway, the Casa became a problem when we got married and had our first child. The Casa didn't do baptisms. Who knew. It was technically a chapel and you had to go over to its "mother" church way over in Scottsdale for a baptism. That seemed like a lot of trouble since there was a perfectly good church just down the street from where we had set up housekeeping. We'll just join the parish down the street and do the baptism there. Silly us.
It wasn't hard to join the parish. Everyone welcomes dues paying members. The baptism was another thing. My wife goes to the deacon who's in charge of baptisms, a civilian not a priest, and the guy starts giving her the fifth degree. It started to really get out of hand when the guy notes we just joined the parish.
Where did you go to church before joining our parish?
The Casa.
They're not Catholics.
When I got home from work my Latin lover was not in a good mood. I told her to calm down and that I'd call the guy the next day. So I call the guy and it's peaches and cream. No problem, Mr. Mac, we'll get the baptism scheduled right away.
Round Two
My wife is a nurse. She started as a candy-stripe nurse assistant tending to demented veterans. She visited invalids in Boston's North End when it was still an Italian ghetto, before it became fashionable housing for yuppies and millennials near Quincy Market. After graduate school, she worked as a sole practitioner in the Bridgeport ghetto. In Arizona she joined a group of women who had broken the glass ceiling and ran one of the state's largest Medicaid health plans.
The health plan reported to a board dominated by Catholic nuns, the chairman was a Catholic priest, Ed Ryle, the bishop's right hand man and legislative liaison (and Janet Napolitano's longstanding opera date). Since my wife and father Ryle were chummy, she asked him to perform the baptism. He'd love to.
My wife goes back to meet with our friend the deacon.
I'd like to have a friend who's a priest do the baptism.
We don't let outsiders perform baptisms.
But he's a good friend.
All right, but you'll have to provide me with his credentials before we allow it.
When I got home from work my Latin lover was not in a good mood, again.
How can I ask Monsignor Ryle for his credentials?
Calm down, Dear. (time for a long overdue lesson in handling bureaucrats)
Just go over the guy's head. Talk to the priest who's the pastor.
This worked. The priest's reaction was OMG! Of course Ed Ryle can do the baptism. I was his alter boy. He built this church. He's always welcome here.
Round Three
We are ironing out the baptism details with the deacon. Among other things even though my wife and I had gone to years of Catholic school, we needed to attend "reeducation camp" for several weeks. Then the matter of the priest came up again. I tried to be conciliatory and say having a priest (instead of using the deacon) was important for my wife's parents who are very traditional Italian Catholics. The guy drops the bomb.
Oh, I understand completely. I've dealt with that before: real Mafia types.
It was at that moment that a homicide was almost committed inside a Phoenix church. I managed to keep control and remained composed. No sense spoiling the baptism over some old guy whose filter got turned off. The baptism went fine and we joined a parish run by the Jesuits a few blocks further down the street.
The Irony of It All
My wife's father was an electrical engineer who built nuclear power plants. His mother was Spanish. My wife's mother was a crackerjack legal secretary for a prestigious Waspy Boston law firm. Her mother was Portuguese. That plus the grandpas not being Sicilian meant they couldn't be Mafia even if they wanted to be. However, her last name was enough to let her rent an apartment in Boston's North End during her college days. "Just don't bring any of those long-hair MIT boys around again. Ever."
On the other hand... my grandmother lived in Long Beach, New York. You may remember Long Beach as the setting for Mario Puzo's The Godfather. Every Sunday on the way to grandma's house, we drove past the tollbooth where Sonny got rubbed out. Don Corleone's name and character were adapted from a real-life enemy of my family. I'd like to position us as the good guys; Tom Dewey was Aunt Margaret's protege. But the feud probably predates Dewey putting Luciano in jail. My Great-Uncle George, along with his friends the Maras and Rooneys now of NFL fame, was prominent in off-track betting. George had a run-in with Arnold Rothstein, Luciano's mentor, and Rothstein came off the worse for wear.
Never Threaten Strangers
Eg, tell a stranger over the phone that he wouldn't say something offensive to your face.
My neighbor, a sweet young thing who works at the Mayo Clinic, waved me over one day.
I read your letter in the newspaper. Aren't you afraid the friends of Russell Pearce will come to get you.
She was a taken aback when I replied,
They should be afraid of me... and if I don't frighten them, I'll introduce them to my "uncle",
Louie "The Greek."
Postscript
For awhile we received anonymous packages in the mail containing copies of the Arizona White Aryan Resistance newspaper along with vaguely threatening notes. But none of the cowards ever showed their faces.
