In that 2008 blog I spoke of my friend’s suggestion that I bury a statue of St. Joseph in the yard to ensure a quick and profitable sale of the house.
St. Joseph is considered the Patron Saint of housing as he taught Jesus the skills of carpentry and always provided his family with a roof over their heads.
He is revered by Sicilians who believe it was his spiritual intervention that saved the Sicilian nation from famine by allowing the Fava bean crop to flourish.
Wonder if Dr. Hannibal Lecter knows about that!
I was visiting Marie in her new condo. When desperation took over she buried a statue of Saint Joseph head down in her yard. The house sold within a week so of course she suggested that I do the same!
No way was I going to bury a statue, upside down no less. Who does such a thing? Tell me!
My initial argument in the 2008 blog was that I was not comfortable with subjecting good old St. Joe to such an indignity. Well, I no longer had any qualms!
Marie went into her bedroom returning with a tiny effigy of St. Joe. “I want it back.” she said with solemnity. “Certainly.” I responded, successfully containing the smirk that was about to emerge on my face.
I have known this woman for 30 years and have never seen such gravity on her face.
I took the plastic statue home. It was a mere four inches long with quite sharp edges. His robes flowed in the traditional earth colors of brown and green. He held a long stalk of lilies which is the symbol of virginity. The earthly father-albeit the biological father of Jesus-I will leave that argument to those who are steeped in the da Vince code, of course, also securely held the infant.
When I returned home I sat and watched TV for a while while I tossed the little figure from palm to palm. This is madness I thought-I have my share of crazy beliefs and practices but……..
Would I actually do this? Head down no less!
It was dark and pouring out. I certainly wouldn’t do it tonight. Yet, there was less likelihood that anyone would see me burying the body. I laughed out loud.
I peeked outside the front door, the soil was getting drenched. I could slide it into the ground by using a cork screw motion after soup spooning a tunnel-like hole. Looking around the kitchen I choose a large narrow spoon and headed for the door when I realized that I had to return the statue to Marie. It would certainly suffer some weather damage if buried au naturale. It was well defined and at least some dirt would settle into its minute crevices.
Food wrap! I would wrap it to prevent any harm. I knew I had a roll that had a tiny remaining bit. Peeling the edge of the food wrap was a pain in the neck. I placed the tiny figure in the middle of the wrap to provide for full coverage. As I rolled it I flapped the remaining wrap over the head and feet as I would wrap any package. Hysteria resulted when I realized that the tiny remaining wrap amounted to about four feet. Think about it four feet of wrap!
When I finished the statue was unrecognizable. It could have been just about anything one might find in the freezer.
I thought that I might as well take advantage of the rain and with spoon in hand I headed for the door.
I didn’t want to mess up my cloths so I changed into a pair three-quarter gardening pants, an ancient pair of boots, a sweat shirt which I use for painting, a Yankee cap and as is my evening ritual my face was slathered in cream to ward off the ravages of age that run in my family. Though I probably looked like a derelict the only thing that really bothered me was the fact that my lower legs were bare and I was in need of a shave.
When I got to the front door I realized that I had done such a great job of wrapping that it was impossible to discern St. Josephs head from his feet! He had to be buried head down! Another detour! Back to the kitchen. I unwrapped the little icon looking from side to side as though protecting myself from the ridicule of anyone observing my inanity. I wrapped him again and used a freezer pen to mark the saint’s head. I knew I was sabotaging this adventure because it was going against my gut.
Always follow your gut!
The rain was coming in spurts. I eschewed any rain gear because the intended burial plot was just a foot to the side of the front door under some massive oaks.
I closed the front light and began my dig. All I needed was a mere six inches. I hit roots at two and was already soaking wet. Venturing to another spot was not any more productive. As I began my third dig I was shocked to see a bright light shine on the outside wall as I was facing the house.
“Stop, wait, put your hands up.” I was so startled that I fell face first into the mud which antagonized the cops even more. “Hey, you, I said stop, put your hands up and turn around slowly.” So I did. The mixture of cream and dirt irritated my face and I instinctively went to wipe it off while holding the spoon. “ Drop it, drop it now!” he shouted as he approached me aiming the flashlight directly into my eyes.
So, finally something for my astronomical taxes!
