REMEMBERING A REMARKABLE MAN!

REMEMBERING A REMARKABLE MAN!

James R. Fisher, Jr., Ph.D.
© January 2006

"Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye; and where care lodges sleep will never lie." Shakespeare

My sister, Pat Waddell, sent me the obituary of a quite remarkable Clintonian, the Most Reverend Richard "Dickie" Von Ah, who passed away on January 3, 2006. I remember Dickie with great affection because of two specific incidences. They have stayed with me these many years, and bring a smile to my lips.

In the first instance his Eminence, Ralph L. Hayes, Bishop of Davenport, was confirming us at St. Patrick's Catholic Church in Clinton, Iowa. That was a big moment for us in our preteen years.

Sister Mary Gertrude and Sister Mary Cecile had prepared us well to respond to the bishop's questions before he anointed us in the presence of our sponsors and families as "Soldiers of Jesus Christ."

To say we were nervous, as the handsome bishop looked down on us from the marble altar rail and lushly carpeted steps is to beg the question. Bishop Hayes was a striking figure, tall, with a thick mane of white hair, an imperial Irish face, and a powerful body draped in a red cassock and a long embroidered white surplice. One wondered if God could be any more regal.

Part of the ritual was for the bishop to quiz us on the tenets of our Catholic faith as our parents, relatives and friends looked on with anticipation. Words rolled off bishop Hayes's tongue in distinct melodious tones like quivering corn in a light summer breeze. The sound of his voice, alone, sent shivering chills up my spine.

He asked if anyone could recite "the Apostles Creed." Immediately, all eyes moved quickly to inspect their shoes, that is, except Dickie's. He not only looked the bishop in the eye, but also raised his hand to answer. The bishop with a beatific smile motioned with his hand for him to speak.

I was sitting next to Dickie, and his knees were knocking against each other so loud that it sounded as if the church were infested with crickets. It appeared I was the only one that noticed.

With his hand still in the air, out came the creed in a stuttering voice. It was clear he was nervous, and that this was a monumental display of courage as he tripped over phrases, and skipped over passages, coming to an abrupt, "Amen," with a sigh of relief.

The oratory resembled little of the Nicene Creed adopted at the Council of Nicaea in 325 A.D., but it obviously impressed the good bishop.

Bishop Hayes was ecstatic. He stretched his arms out as if to embrace the whole congregation, his eyes warmly fixed on Dickie, and then, after a painfully long pause, said something so remarkable that it has stayed with me all these years.

"I don't know you, son, but I see the making of a priest in you."

I looked at Dickie to see his reaction. His eyes were locked on the bishop, smiling warmly as if they were in collusion on some great secret.

And of course, a priest Dickie did become with an illustrious career, touching the lives of many Iowans, including those in his hometown, being pastor for a time at Clinton's own St. Irenaeus.

Many years earlier, however, he was a student at St. Ambrose College in Davenport, while I was a student at the University of Iowa in Iowa City.

Although both of us poor boys, we had the opportunity to work summers at Clinton Foods, a huge corn processing refinery, while going to college.

The company refined corn into starch, corn syrup, dextrose (corn sugar), dextrin (corn glue), lactic acid, livestock feed, and hops for breweries. What's more, the company paid us the same wage scale for the jobs we did as for the union workers. Consequently, a summer job here could go a long way toward paying the costs of room and board for college in the fall.

It was my second summer working at Clinton Foods, but it was Dickie's first. It would prove to be a fateful one for him. It was our first week on the job, and we were sitting on makeshift benches eating our lunch with other factory workers in the sugar refinery of plant one.

A worker was holding court complaining about the lunch his wife had packed for him that day. This grizzly old veteran, and not for the first time, was our lunchtime entertainment.

His comments went something like this, and I am paraphrasing from memory of a half century ago, but I think I retain the essence of his remarks:

"Can you f------ believe it! Look at this f----- lunch! Here my f------ wife has all day to make a decent f----- lunch, and what does she give me? She gives me this f----- lunch meat with this f----- cheese, and slops on this f----- mustard that now smells more rancid than rat's piss. Can you f----- believe it! She expects me to eat this f---- sandwich and work the f------ day without upchucking. If that isn't bad enough, she couldn't find more moldy bread if she f------- tried. If I threw it to the birds, one touch of their beaks and they'd give it a f------ pass. Now what the f--- does all this mean? I don't know. I'm just at a f------ loss for words. Do you think she doesn't give a f--- about her husband? Do you think she just throws the f------ thing together to get it f------ done? I don't know. She actually is a fine f------ old lady. But when it comes to f------ lunch making, she's f------ out to lunch. (Everyone laughs, except Dickie.)

It so happened that I was sitting next to Dickie once again, and his knees were knocking together as they had been those many years before during confirmation. Nobody seemed to notice because everybody was laughing at the lunchtime clown.

Dickie moved to the other side of the warehouse, and motioned for me to join him, which I did.

"That man is so disgusting," he said with venom in his voice. "He is so full of mortal sin that I pray providence will rescue him from his evil ways. He must change his life, or he's doomed for eternity."

Then he turned to me his face drenched in sorrow. "Jim, can you believe this awful man?" When I didn't answer, he nearly shouted. "I absolutely cannot take it! I can't work here! I'm quitting right now!"

I didn't know Dickie well. I knew him as our equipment manager on our basketball team. We were city and Catholic diocese's champs that year. I have a picture of that team on the wall of my study, which I wrote about in a recent memoir written as a novel.

At St. Patrick's, the seventh and eighth grade students were together in the same classroom, so I knew him as a student. When one class was studying, the other would be reciting, and so I remembered his supple mind.

There was no point in arguing with him. He was too upset. Instead, I asked him. "Dickie, what do you want to be?"

"A priest of course. You know that. I'm entering the seminary next fall after I graduate."

"Yes," I confessed, "I knew you were serious about the priesthood." Then feeling a bit coy, I added, "You'll make a good priest. I'm certain of it."

"Thank you," he replied shyly.

"But I have to tell you something." He looked at me curiously. "That man that so disgusts you is a member of St. Mary's parish." His look told me he didn't know. "Yes, he's a Catholic. His children go to school at St. Mary's. And, Dickie, he attends mass every Sunday.

"What I'm trying to say is that's the way he talks. I'll bet he has no idea how many times he says that f-word. I know him. He's not a bad guy. In fact, that's your parish, Dickie, guys like that."

He looked at me, didn't say anything, closed his lunch pail, and took off, never to be seen at Clinton Foods again. It was also the last time I saw him.

Reading his obituary, and seeing all the parishes he served over a long and successful pastoral career, I felt I was not the only one that never forgot that day. May his soul forever rest in peace now that he is home. He will be missed.

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