Don’t know why; all I know is that we had to pack up the house and move to another parsonage. Dad had a change of parishes, starting his third of four years of seminary. Hello! Chemung, here we come. Nestled in New York’s southern tier, Chemung is a small village on a ridge overlooking the Chemung River, which flowed west to east towards the Susquehanna. Annual flooding lends to dikes and dams, in a futile attempt to tame its brown moving effluent.

This would be the third high school in three years. My new identity was a Waverly Wolverine. I wasn’t looking forward to the change. New friends are hard to come by. Good friends are rare. Lifelong friends, linked by youth-filled common experiences and shared values, are like finding diamonds in the rough; diamonds that God planted for me to discover.

First day of school. Assigned homeroom. Mr. Allen took roll call. Everyone looked when my name was called. New guy! I was all alone.

Except.

Except Gary and Chuck reached out to me. They didn’t have to. But they did. They worked at the local hospital and nursing home in the kitchen washing pots and pans. They got me a job, and I fit right in, earning $2.20 an hour. Gary’s aunt ran the local American Legion. We got paid five bucks every Friday night to clean up after Bingo and set up for Saturday’s wedding. I’ve cleaned up enough dirty ashtrays for a lifetime. Sometimes the Legion bartender would put a case of beer on the back steps for us when we finished up. Life was good.

Gary and Chuck had known each other since before Kindergarten. They weren’t jocks, nerds, or potheads. They were middle average, often overlooked, underappreciated, under the radar flying, clean cut type of ordinary nice guys who welcomed me into their inner circle of acceptance.

They were awkward around girls, uncomfortable in their adolescent acne scarred skin, and always looking for a reason to sneak into or out of school. I fit right in. Gary drove a Ford LTD that was herded down the road, and Chuck drove a Ford Pinto, a stick shift on which we all learned. I got my senior license and often sported my dad’s dark green Plymouth Satellite. Gas was under a buck a gallon.

Gary, Chuck, and I hung out together. Worked on completing homework and lab assignments together (usually at Pudgie’s Pizza across the border in Athens, PA). We went to rock-n-roll concerts together. We saw some great bands. The late 1970s were some very good years! We experimented with alcohol together, swapped car stereos into and out of each other’s cars, and talked about dream girls together. All three of us had a poster of Farrah Fawcett on our bedroom wall.

Chuck and Gary were God’s gift to me. It has only taken me a lifetime to recognize the enormous impact this grace has had upon my life. Thank you, Chuck. Thank you, Gary. You guys mean more to me than you know.

Thank you, God, for Chuck and Gary.

…

The pool yesterday morning limbered me up and wore my ass out. Crawl, breast, elementary back. Down and back five times each, for a total of 15 laps. Doesn’t sound like much, but it is just right for me. Discipline is everything. Don’t try to increase time or distance. Faster is a false idol. Further is asking for trouble. Repetition is where the sweet spot it. The nice thing about falling into a rut is that you always know where you are going.

Yesterday, sunlight penetrated the dark grey winter sky and illuminated the lane I was swimming in. What a blessing! To roll my head and breath with each stroke, to bathe my face in the sunlight of God’s grace. Humbling.

…

The day was much like today. It was December, the Christmas time of year. Chuck, Gary, and I would rotate work schedules. However, whenever a tray girl called in sick, which was often, we would call in one other to cover their afterschool shift. We also elbowed our way into cooking on the weekends. The net result was that all three of us were often working the kitchen at the same time.

Saturday inventory was always an opportunity for us to express our creativity. The daytime (older) pots and pans guy frequently stole food out of the walk in. Every evening after sweeping and mopping the whole place, we’d put on some rock and roll music, throw a few pounds of steak into a frying pan with butter, break out the medicinal beer (for patient’s use only) and party on. Completing the monthly inventory sheets was an exercise in creativity. If Frank, our boss, ever caught on to our Tom foolery, he never let on.

Being festive, I wore a red Santa hat in the kitchen and sung Christmas carols. It was great delivering and picking up trays from patients, especially those unfortunates on the psych ward and the nursing home residents. Thoughts and fears brought my imagination to life as I entered and exited the locked units. What happens if someone jumped me? The movies Halloween and the Exorcist had just come out. Cue the slasher music. What if I went into a patient’s room to deliver a food tray and I found them dead? You know; not alive? Singing Christmas carols brought smiles to staff and patients alike. I had a talent to make people happy. Life was good.

I learned one of the nursing home floors wasn’t going to have a staff Christmas party. The direct care staff was bummed. I knew they worked hard, cleaning up the nasty, not making a dime more than minimum wage. They were pretty. I was looking for acceptance. They needed a party and I knew how to make people happy.

Frank kept a few bottles of hard liquor in his desk drawer locked in his office. Undoubtedly, it was a violation of hospital policy and he could be fired if caught. Hey? He was the director of dietary services. Who were we to care?

Gary, Chuck, and I just had a way about learning everything there was to learn about the people and the hospital / nursing home. It didn’t matter if they worked in dietary or laundry or administration, we always got the skinny.

One evening (doesn’t every good tale start out this way?), the three of us were done for the day and locking up. A knock on the kitchen door caused us to stop, look, turn down the volume, and wonder what we were being caught doing this time. A young aide shared her tale of woe. The three of us looked at each other, knew what had to be done, and sprung into action.

We raided Franks desk drawers and liberated his liquor cabinet. We mixed in a splash of eggnog, just enough to color and season the punch. We carefully wheeled the bowl of spiked merriment to the unfortunate staff working a distant floor. “Merry Christmas” we proclaimed, and parked our gift in their lounge.

It didn’t take long before everyone was singing, dancing, and telling us how wonderful we were. A great time was had by all. Thankfully, no one was harmed and the only casualties were those who suffered the hangover consequences the next morning. Frank never said nothing. How could he?   

Life carried on. I had found my place. I had found my home.