The Little Catholic Church

I guess you really don’t know who you’re connected to, or at least my brain doesn’t know who I’m really connected to.  Only my heart seems to really know.  

 

On the way down from Hartford in the Uber on the rainy night, I second-guessed myself several times. “Why am I doing this? I’m in the middle of nowhere. No one’s going to recognize me. I shouldn’t have made this trip. I shouldn’t have come this far.”  

 

And then I sat in the church, a little Catholic church on the main avenue of Greenwich, Connecticut, watching the people file in, not necessarily looking at me.  And then I saw her, two pews up, sitting next to her Persian husband, had been a family controversy. And I rose to my feet and in the church and the ceremony, which was not mine, I approached her and touched her softly, saying, “Sally.”  She turned with a look of surprise and I thought, “Oh, no, she doesn’t recognize me.” And then she spoke, “Doug McVadon, oh my God! Thank you so much for coming!  Did you come just for this?” And all my doubts were dispelled in that moment. 

 

I don’t know who I am for other people. I am, to myself, some small version, some reflection of my power, some shadow of my presence. But then if I really pay attention to the look in those eyes, 15 years had passed, and they said my first and last name without a thought, and it reminded me again of how little I know as I walk around thinking I know everything. 

 

I worked with Sally every week for years on the treasured family ranch in Utah.  She was the second chairperson of the RMC, the Ranch Management Committee.  I was part of this family. I stayed with them through some of their most heated conflicts, maintaining an objective presence, and both sides – though there were really about four of five sides in the family – but all the sides came to respect me, even though some liked me more than others.  

 

And then there was Joe Cason, whom I liked most of all and who I dare say liked me, even though I don’t usually think that way. I think I’m the one who’s going to move on and nobody’s going to really remember. But the truth is, they all remember, and they all remember in vivid detail, and it wasn’t that long ago, certainly not in a lifetime.  

 

There was Joe with his sometimes-fractured family, the youngest of six from two mothers, celebrating the life of their father. Joe was the most composed, with steady presence, the spokesperson for the family… kind of like me. So, we can relate. We both know we have to step up in a particular way in our families, but also that they will listen to us.  

 

I stayed over an extra night, just in case there was some kind of party that I could have gone to. I didn’t want to be the one excusing myself by saying, “Oh, I have to catch a flight.” And I didn’t have to catch a flight, but there was no party.  

 

Standing in the big glassed-in room overlooking the golf course at the historic Country Club sipping a second gin and tonic I said, “What’s going on later?” It was only 3:00 p.m. Joe said, “Well I’m going home with the family, it was an early morning,” and “We’re just going home now.” 

 

I leaned toward him and said offhandedly, “Well, Phil Lesh is in town tonight.”  Joe perked up immediately and said, “I’ve got tickets. If you want them, I’ll give them to you. Free, two tickets.” 

 

Flabbergasted and pleased, and not entirely surprised, I said, “Okay, great.” and began to make my plans in my head. I would be tired staying up late into the night, so I went back to my room and took a nap for an hour so I could stay up at the rock concert. 

 

That’s the older version of concert-going me. Then I took an Uber to the concert at Capitol Theatre in Port Chester, just across the New York State line, a classic spot renowned for sound quality and crowd savvy with a rich history of ground-breaking performances. 

 

I was preparing to have a nice time, by myself, talking to a few strangers, and probably leaving early. However, then I got the text. 

 

I’m going to ask Sandy if I can just drop in at the concert, since you’re there by yourself. Don’t sell the extra ticket. Joe.

 

Okay, then, it was on. A few minutes later came the next text: I’m in.

 

Joe got down there before the music started, we got a spot on the floor slightly left of center about ten people back, where the floor slants more and we could see over all those obnoxiously tall people down front.

 

Then the band started, and it might as well have been the Grateful Dead by the sound and the response, even with only one original member in this incarnation. But most significantly, we have now attended our first concert together and it’s his favorite kind of music, part of the Dead Family, Phil Lesh and Friends.  

 

Joe is quite the closet Deadhead, it turns out. Not into the drug part of it, just the music. His brother Rich, too, although Joe attends more shows. I first saw the Dead in 1974, and about eight times after that, andprobablyfifteen more of these various combinations of Dead spin-off groups. 

 

On this night Joe and I communed in a way that connected us more than those five years of meetings of the RMC, from 2004 to 2009. We did good work then and our calls with each other always went past the allotted time. 

 

This night we were not on a schedule, but the time was just right.

 

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