In Memoriam: Ernest Edward LaVaute, Jr.

To this day, if I tell a corny joke, my wife Jan will say one word that says so much: "Ernie."

My father, who died in 1991, enjoyed what most would describe as cornball jokes or sayings.

"You've got a face like a can of worms" was among his favorites. And for good measure, he would add the adjective "frozen."

Or the authors of books: "I.P. Freely," or "Hoo Flung Dung?"

My parents separated years before he passed, when I was still growing up. Every Saturday, he would come to the house, chat with my mother about this and that, often practical matters involving money, and he would help support us.

He used to love to take us out to fancy restaurants. I remember my wife Jan's first experience with this at the Springside Inn, in Auburn, N.Y. He fancied himself a bit of a gourmet, ordering exotic appetizers like escargots, or Dewar's Scotch with a twist.

In his day, he was quite a good athlete, and was handy with tools. Like many in our neighborhood, he built a recreation room in the basement, complete with a bar and a three-dimensional illuminated case of Utica Club beer, that rotated electrically from the ceiling.

He was a WW II veteran, a staff sergeant in Communications and fought at Saipan and Okinawa in the Pacific Theater. Years later, he would teach me Japanese words like "Banzai."

We played games of catch in the backyard quite often. He would back up to the back of the house, and I would be farther out in the backyard. More than once, I threw a wild pitch past him and broke yet another basement window.

When I became a father, I looked forward to playing the role that he did.

He began balding in his late 30's or early 40's. But I was never clear when, and being a little nervous about inheriting the trait, I would ask him when the hair loss began.

Without hesitation, he would pick the same age that I happened to be when I asked. Happy Father's Day, Dad. I miss you.

The invitation

Last Saturday, my son Matthew and my grandson Noah and I traveled to South Bend, Indiana for the 84th annual Notre Dame Blue-Gold game, the final football scrimmage game during spring training.

Yes, Noah was with us, for the first time in a rather long tradition among the LaVautes.

It's a fun trip - getting a glimpse of what the Irish may look like in the fall, often springlike weather (although on Saturday the temperature at game time was 34 degrees), walking around ND's beautiful campus as trees and flowers begin to bloom, visiting familiar sites like the Sacred Heart Basilica, the Grotto and the nearby lake.

The official name of the place, by the way, is : "Notre Dame du Lac."

The big excitement for Noah was seeing the Golden Dome, the famed gilded roof atop what is called the Main Building on campus. Still in the car, we pointed it out to him in the distance as we exited I-80/I-90, and he asked about it the rest of our stay. When he pronounced it, it sounded like "Dolden Dome." I'm not sure he knows what gold is.

At halftime, we three left the game and walked toward the main part of the campus. We directed Noah to the golden dome shining in the distance, slowly growing closer, larger and brighter.

The roof is gilded with gold, not painted. After a fire in the nineteenth century, ND founder Father Edward Sorin was encouraged to consider simply painting the famous dome. No soap, he said. It gets gilded.

When we arrived at the Main Building, before we entered, I pointed to the top of the dome and asked Noah, "Who's up there?" No response. I said "Mary's up there - Jesus' mother." Notre Dame = Our Lady.

Noah nodded, filed this away somewhere (if I asked him today, I bet he would remember), and three generations of LaVaute men clambered up about 20 steps to enter the building. Once inside, I headed toward the center of the interior. Its interior rises three or four stories, to where the dome is. I pointed up, and Noah looked. Such glorious paintings on the ceiling, well above us.

Down on the floor, a few tables and chairs, an ambo and a microphone (still live)  suggested there was earlier a small gathering to whom someone spoke. I noticed someone taking a photo of a friend behind the ambo, as if speaking to the public.

Ah, I said, there's an idea. When the others were done, I grabbed one of the folding chairs, moved it behind the podium, lifted Noah to stand atop the chair, and Matthew began snapping photos. The podium had the seal of the University of Notre Dame on the front, and it was an amusing scene.

Noah seemed to enjoy it, and grabbed the microphone, which we pulled away. Ya gotta stop somewhere, I thought.

When I put him back on the floor, there were a couple families who had joined us on the floor. He said to me, I swear, "I want to say hi to some people." And I said, sure.

He walked over to three of four strangers of varying ages, stood before them and looked at them. The mother noticed him, smiled and said hello. There was a young boy with them, probably eight years old, who was a bit shy and uncomfortable with Noah's approach.

After just a moment, however, the young  man relaxed and extended his hand to Noah to shake it. At this point, Noah turned shy guy and hesitated. Whereupon I reminded him that when a hand is extended, you reach out to grasp it, and shake it. Whereupon he did.

Later, we visited the small lake on campus, and watched ducks, geese and white swans hang out, waiting for food. And shortly after that, after visiting the basilica and Grotto, we left for home. But I won't soon forget Noah's enthusiasm about saying hello to people, about greeting them and making them feel welcome.

Because if you boil down the ND visit to one thing, that's it: making people feel welcome. And without fully realizing it, Noah had grasped the truth that we've known now for 25 years. "Welcome to Notre Dame," the ushers say as you enter the football stadium. It's of a piece with my own experience of a delightful place, and my grandson realized it immediately. Welcome to Notre Dame, Noah.

Valve replacement? I'm supposed to write a story about valve replacement?

Late yesterday afternoon, I looked at the Belleville City Council's meeting agenda for 7:30 p.m. that evening, and I saw a single item for general business: valve replacement.

Valve replacement? How am I supposed to write a story about valve replacement? I mean, it's pretty mundane. I wondered what my angle would be. How would valve replacement affect Belleville residents' lives?

I'm being a bit facetious - there is an angle, and I knew it would become clear during the meeting. But I had to laugh.

I began to imagine that I would call Belleville Clerk Lisa Long and harangue her for the paucity of the agenda. How, pray tell, does she expect me to make a living writing stories about valve replacement?

And I thought no, that kind of humor can unintentionally be hurtful or at least a little odd, and I like Lisa too much, and she takes her job seriously, to have a little joke at her expense. Although I still rather like the idea. Valve replacement?

And I thought about Lisa, and how helpful she's been over the last couple years, after the Belleville City Council became one of my reporting beats in since 2011. And Diana Kollmeyer.

And I decided to write this column in lieu of covering the meeting, step back, take stock and say thank you.

Sharing information is the journalist's stock-in-trade. And drafting stories may beg questions in the reader's mind that yearn to be answered. And newswriting has deadlines. So it's gotta work quickly in most cases.

So prompt, helpful responses to my questions are a must, a big factor in doing my job effectively. I can't do it without their prompt assistance - a response within 24 hours is normal, but the sooner the better.

And I have to say, that I am so pleased with the responsiveness of government officials to me throughout the tri-community, some for almost a decade now: Lisa Long and Diana Kollmeyer are just a start. Kerreen Conley, Carl McClanahan, Darwin Loyer, Dan Besson, Greg Laurain, Kathleen Cline, Linda Combs, Cindy King, Sharry Budd, Paul White, Leon Wright, Todd Knepper, Richard Smith, Debra Greene, MJ Dawson, Tom MacDonald, Dan Swallow, Bryce Kelley, Terry Carroll, Johnny Vawters, Mary Jo Suchy, Rick Dawson, Esther Hurst, Jim Glahn, Mike Van Tassel, Karen Moffitt, Kathy Kovach, Martha Toth, Angela Stroud.

And other journalists. We help each other from time to time, confirming what we thought we heard someone say during a meeting, snaring extra copies of documents for each other, chatting about stories, joking with each other: Richard Jenkins, Rosemary Otzman.

The best thing about this job is taking a story, writing it so that it's clear to the reader, and ensuring the reader grasps how the story may affect her or him. And maybe get them to think about that.

But the second-best thing is the people with whom you work to get that done, without whom it's impossible to do your job effectively. A brief list is above, and I apologize to anyone I may have missed mentioning. Thank you so much.

A moment of rapture

Except for a few penlights about 100 feet away, my world was dark. I could see in the shadows in the sanctuary a few people I recognized, barely: a cantor, another reader, the three celebrants, perhaps an altar server. It was hard to tell. The pews were filled with hundreds of worshippers, dressed to the nines.

And to the left of this scene, the choir. A fully-staffed choir this evening - bongo drums, guitars, including an electric bass guitar, a horn section, about 50 vocalists, well-prepared to celebrate the central fact of Christianity: the resurrection of Jesus Christ.

I stood alone in the darkness just inside the entrance to the church, next to the baptismal font which would get a workout later that evening: the full-immersion baptism and welcome into our church to several folk. Dressed in full-length robes, they looked happy yet a little cautious. I couldn't blame them.

I was portraying the voice of God as three readers told the story of God's love to the Israelites, as fickle a people as ever there was (they reminded me of how we sometimes behave), and His occasional impatience with them.

I had just finished a reading, and had stepped to the side of the microphone so as not to have my voice heard when I sang the responsorial psalm. Best to leave it to the professionals, I thought.

To my left was a microphone in a stand, two small reading lights attached on the shaft of the stand, and an ambo upon which sat my readings.

I stood before the baptismal font, and drank in the scene. Hundreds singing in semi-darkness, the magical night, the reaffirmation that, yes, there was no one in the tomb in which a dead Jesus had been laid just a few hours earlier, at 3 p.m. on Good Friday.

But this was the Easter Vigil. The rock had been rolled away from the tomb, and the women who had come were told that Jesus was gone. What to make of the mystery?

Like Father Tom asked later during his homily: what next? And that, he said, is up to us.

I stood next to the baptismal font, relaxed for a moment, and surveyed the scene. I leaned on the font just a bit because I had stood for a while, and my left thigh was burning.

I thought about how lucky I was: family, health, love, fun. And I thanked God for my great good fortune. I had earlier that day completed a 60-day marathon of decisions and to-do's: filing income taxes, physicals, financial decisions, making plans for this or that, and the attendant paperwork.

God, I thought, I'm lucky, in a brief moment of rapture. Happy Easter, everyone.

Where you go, I will follow

The first reading in Mass last night was about God's covenant with Abram. I read it to the congregation at Mass, having prepared it in the normal fashion.

Later during Mass, we sang something called "Covenant Hymn," copyrighted in 1993. Very pretty melody and lyrics, although I began to wonder as I sang the identity of the "you" and "I" in the song, thinking initially it was Christ and me. And as I struggled with this, I began to substitute people whom I love for the "you," or maybe even the "I" - my wife Jan at one point, my grandson Noah at another. Very affecting.

And though you should fall, you will find me
When no other friend can you claim
When foes beat you down or betray you
And others desert you in shame
When home and dreams aren't enough,
And you run away from my love,
I'll raise you from where you have fallen, 
Faithful to you is my name.

As I write this, I'm tearing up, ridiculous for a man my age. And as I sang in church last night, I had to stop reading selected passages because they spoke so loudly to me. Jan knows the drill: I mouth the words, but I'm not able to sing them. Eventually, I regain composure, and begin singing again.

Skeptical? Here's more:

Wherever you die, I will be there
To sing you to sleep with a psalm,
To soothe you with tales of our journey,
Your fears and your doubts I will calm.
We'll live when journeys are done
Forever in memory as one.
And we will be buried together,
And waken to greet a new dawn.

And there is hope, in a bright new world absent suffering:

Wherever you go, I will follow,
Behold! The horizon shines clear.
The possible gleams like a city:
Together we've nothing to fear.
So speak with words bold and true
The message my heart speaks to you.
You won't be alone, I have promised,
Wherever you go, I am here.

The magic of Notre Dame

The first day for high school players to commit to colleges and universities is over. And it appears that the Irish did very well.

As a college football fan, you can get geeked about the potential impact of new prospects, envisioning ND gridiron glory with the next Rocket Ismail or Joe Montana.

Over the years of following ND football, I became jaundiced about the ability of successful recruiting to predict successful game day performance. And I think it's because, for some years before Brian Kelly became the coach, players perhaps with oodles of potential weren't realizing their potential - weren't being developed by their college coaches.

It appears that's over, and that four and five-star prospects will help ND improve and ascend again to the highest tier of college football.

Last night, a five-star prospect named Eddie Vanderdoes, a defensive tackle from California, signed with ND. He waited until 8 PM EST, an unusual thing, and he selected ND.

I suppose players select teams for countless reasons - some good, some maybe not so good. But a quote from Vanderdoes published in Irish Illustrated last night resonated with me, having visited the ND campus several times in the last 25 years.

The post went: "Call the Mayor: Eddie Vanderdoes picks Notre Dame. He is profoundly relieved and ecstatic and says 'I love South Bend!'" (Bolding, italics mine).

Amen to that, brother. And as the ushers say in the football stadium as you make your way to your seat, filled with anticipation: "Welcome to Notre Dame!"

Things We Shared

Today, my mother would have been - ah, well - she never confessed her age to me in the many years we shared - so why start now?

When I hear about someone's parent dying, I feel a twinge and my heart goes out to them. It helps to write about it, I find, and several years ago I wrote a two-part column about her and me that was published in The View. I called it "Things We Shared."

Here is part II, in which I'm forced to admit she's dying, as a result of a simple, thoughtful thing she often did for me, in which we switched roles and I knew things had permanently changed.

Happy birthday, Mom. I miss you.

Toward the end, my visits with her were timed to coincide with major golf tournaments. I would arrive Thursday evening at the airport, greet her with a big hug around the tiny, increasingly fragile frame, and she would drive us in the tiny white Saturn to Applebee’s for a snack. I sometimes would succeed in picking up the tab, but more often she insisted I take the proferred cash for her share.

I believe our golf tournament viewing habit began when Tiger Woods first won the Masters in 1997. The timing of my visit then was a coincidence, but we were thrilled to see him win. He was one of her heroes.

At the same time, I began to realize our time together was growing shorter – she wouldn’t be here forever.

And so I began to visit more often, timing my visits with the Masters Golf Tornament (my personal favorite – I will never again view those beautiful vistas on TV without thinking of her), the British Open, the U.S. Open and the P.G.A. Championship.

 She had her dislikes among golfers, too. She detested Fred Couples, because she heard that he had cheated on his wife. Remember, there were rules to live by. I didn’t bother checking whether he had in fact cheated – she was sometimes wrong about these things – because even if the man was truly a saint, I couldn’t have convinced her.

She loathed Phil Mickelson, but that antipathy wasn’t based on his behavior or a bad reputation; in fact, it was quite unfair. She disliked Mickelson because he competed with Woods so effectively during that time. She admitted to me once that she would whisper “Miss It” as Mickelson attempted a key putt.

Of course, we didn’t spend all our time watching golf. She had home improvement projects planned, projects that required my help, living alone as she did. In fact, she would prepare a list before my arrival.

But she wasn’t a stern taskmaster. I have little talent or inclination for complex home improvement projects involving carpentry, plumbing or wiring, but I’ve a learned a few things over the years, and I can do the simple stuff.

I’ve also learned, however, that I have little patience when such projects go wrong, as they invariably will. The right tool isn’t available, the instructions aren’t clear, or you drop the screw below you on the floor and can’t find it.

 It was then that she shone. She encouraged me to postpone the project, relax, and maybe watch a little golf. There was no hurry – we could get back to it tomorrow. In fact, there were some visits that ended with my having completed very little, although we tried. What I viewed as failure didn’t bother her a bit – we’d get to it next time.

 Late in 2001 and into 2002, her health deteriorated. She had lung cancer and heart disease, and was hospitalized for a while. I visited a half-dozen times in 2002, at times hopeful, despairing at other times.

Ironically, the woman who did so much for me was toward the end reduced to asking me for help. I will never forget making a lunch of grilled cheese for her on my last visit – it was such a pathetic little offering for someone who had done so much for me. I felt puny and ineffectual. I wished I could have made her one of those rare roast beef sandwiches on thick, hand-cut Italian bread, generously layered with sweet salad dressing.

I believe with bedrock certainty that the measure of a good mother’s love is infinite. It’s an article of faith for me, one of the eternal verities.

It’s reaffirmed as I live my own life, by seeing my wife’s actions toward our children. I joked this week with my son about the embarrassing portions of food my wife jams into the storage container for his lunch – the effort to do this simple act is animated by love. My daughter received similar attention earlier this week. OK, I admit I get the same treatment.

This love is evidenced in acts, often small acts, not words, acts whose recompense for the giver is as simple as a little time together with the receiver. I was fortunate to have been the recipient of this love for so long, and have learned much from it, about others and myself.