I learned recently that my Dad belonged to “The 22 Club” at the Atlas Plywood Mill in Greenville, Maine in the 40’s and 50’s.  He would be 101 years old if still with us here on earth, so that would have made him in his late 20’s to his early 40’s.   Anyway, in those days (as so many of my stories are starting to begin with) this club was formed as a solution to the lack of money coming in for a family when the breadwinner was ill or injured.  No disability pay, no sick leave, no worker’s compensation “in those days”.   This quiet, unassuming group of men with callouses on their hands, sawdust and glue on their pants (and more than a few scars here and there) contributed weekly to a fund that was then saved until one of them needed something.   When the situation warranted, money from this fund was delivered to one of them in need, with no questions asked except,  “How is he?”  This story makes me so stinkin’ proud of my Dad!

My parents often told the story of when my Dad had rheumatic fever.  My middlest brother was very small, so that meant 3 kids, unable to work and no money coming in.  The doctor had prepared him for not recovering, describing significant disability even if he did survive.  It was before antibiotics were commonly available, and rheumatic fever is a nasty strep infection.  It affected his heart, and then became widespread in his body, threatening his life with no cure in sight.  In walks the local priest.  (Even if you aren’t Catholic you know the priest coming to your sick bed is not always met with a high level of optimism for time left on earth, right?)  Picture this:  my Dad is bedridden, his hands propped on a pillow …….(my Mum always piped in at this point in the story and said, “None of us could even touch his hands they were all swollen up and they hurt him so bad.”)  Well, maybe you guessed it right if you thought it wasn’t for last rites that the local priest showed up that day.  Instead, the priest reached out and laid his hands on my Dad’s hands.  And yes, he was cured.   We grew up hearing this story and we never doubted it happened just as it was told.  We knew it was true as my Dad’s hands were strong and unfailing to the end of his life many years later.  His residual heart murmur didn’t keep him from going back to work, and he continued to contribute to the 22 Club.  He was always fixing broke stuff around the neighborhood too…………so………………

What does that have to do with Baggy Pants? Well, I am so glad you asked!  🙂

Father Anthony was the priest in Greenville in later years, and he was a great friend of my brother and his family.   My brother shared with me last year one of Father Anthony’s favorite sayings: “Angels Wear Baggy Pants”.   I adore that saying!!   The people who come into our lives willing to help might wear a priest’s collar, or they might wear beat up jeans.  Maybe clean shaven and freshly bathed, maybe scruffy and worn around the edges.  Maybe seasoned and wizened, maybe a young whipper snapper. Maybe they are even a bit of a a fuddy duddy!  Now that I have taken some time to think about it, I am sure quite a few angels have stepped up for me over the years even if I didn’t recognize them.

I was relaying this story to my son, and he remembered Father Anthony fondly, as he was the priest that was always at my brother’s for Thanksgiving dinner, and he looked like Santa Claus.  Oh, and that son has a couple priests showing up to his feast this year in Colorado.  How is that for a sweet circle?

Mum liked to remind me that “We can’t judge a book by its cover”.  I know she didn’t make that one up, but I am glad she felt free to remind me of it often.  I am quite sure she never cracked open a geode, but I would love to know what she would have said the first time she did.

Good morning Mum.  Have a listen to this sweet song.