Guy Foxx,Father T and The Holy Water
Ivan R. Bosanko
September 30, 2008
GUY FOXX, FATHER T AND THE HOLY WATER
What's in a name? Through out most of my life, I've hardly ever given it much thought, yet there are those who put considerable stock and credence in it. To me, what a person stands for, has done, could be or do, carries a lot more weight in the real world. However, now that I do think about it, there is one person whose name says a lot a more about the man then I'd care to admit. His name was Guy Foxx. In his case, his surname certainly spoke volumes about the man.
Guy Foxx first came onto the local scene during the time Leola, South Dakota decided to take the big technology plunge. Guy started with the telephone construction crews and stayed on as a central office switchboard and line repairman. He had an Irish sense of humor complete with a sharp tongue when needed. He also had an enduring way about about him, especially when females were present. He was the living epitome of that overworked term "confirmed bachelor." He earned that distinction with relentless pursuit of the many things and nuances associated with bachlorhood! Blessed or cursed, as one sees it, Guy had a boatload of Irish wit and charm that shook this small wheat-farming community to its very core. He never ran out of good or bad jokes and had the uncanny ability to slant any joke to fit the person listening. No matter if it was a farmer, preacher, housewife, local merchant, or the town drunk, Guy always left 'em laughing.
Guy never let his status interfere with his pursuit of female companionship.His romantic escapades were the talk of the town, which made him a living legend in his own time.If you were a lonely widow, Guy could be counted upon to fulfill your every wishful fantasy. If you were a neglected farmer´s wife, starving for a little affection, all you had do was contact Guy with a roving eye. And if you were one of several old maids, you were either taken or terrified by the twinkle in his eye, the prelude to a line of blarney that had only one outcome: a seduction dripping with honey-spun words and action that usually lead to one place: your bedroom or his. Yet there was another side of Guy that only a few ever knew about. During the years that followed "The Great Depression, " a number of local families continued thru hardtimes. Come the morning, many would roll out of bed to discover a box or two of groceries, clothes, coal or whatever else the family needed most-from some unknown giver. My dad used to tell our family that Guy would take note of the kitchen pantry, coalbox or closet when he made his telephone service or repair calls.
Almost all Irish people are staunch Catholics; at least the ones I've ever known are. Not so with Guy! But there's a story there, too! Depending on which version you believed, I choose my dad's over several others that made the rounds. Leola had a new Catholic priest, a Polish man with a name that defied all logical spelling or pronunciation. The best I can do is compare it to the famous head basketball coach at Duke University, Mike Krzyzewski. He had no problem with being called "Coach K." Leola´s version agreed to be called "Father T."
The bad blood between Father T and Guy Foxx just didn´t happen by accident, it was deliberate according to the good priest. Apparently Saturday night´s little problem with Guy´s drinking, carried on over into early mass one Sunday morning. Now Guy was known to "cozy up" to a bottle or two of wine whenever the spirit moved him. He slipped into mass unnoticed until Father T spied a very tipsy man who´d became unruly among some of his flock. Father T walked down the aisle to put a stop to all the disruptive commotion going on in the back of his church. Heated words were exchanged, then a brawl broke out and Guy Foxx was tossed out "on his ear" and told never to come back. If he dared to set foot in church again, Father T assured Guy, he´d tear him from limb to limb.
Time passed. The brawl between the two continued to be the hot topic around town, especially among those with wagging tongues and willing ears. About this time, Rollo, my father, decided to supplement his mail carrier salary by doing some painting.During World War I, he´d been taught a very valuable craft or trade: painting. He spent most of his time at Camp Hoboken, New Jersey, painting many of the officers´ cars there. After being discharged from The Army, Rollo returned to Leola where he did two things: "bunk in" with Guy and court a country school teacher, who later became my mother.
Both Guy and Rollo´s reputation continued to grow: One with his prowness with the ladies; the other with a paintbrush. In a short time, Rollo had repainted many of the buildings along mainstreet and all of the churches in town except one: the Catholic church. Imagine his great delight, when Father T asked him to redo his church inside and out. Just doing all the fine statuary inside would more than triple his customary fee.
The long summer days and weekends fit Rollo´s schedule perfectly.Soon all the church´s outside was finished. With fall fast approaching, Rollo concentrated on the fine, detail work inside. Father T complemented him several times on doing such a good job with the statues. Only one job remained, that of putting a muresco coating on the church´s high ceiling, some thirty feet above.
Once the scaffolding was in place, Rollo diligently applied the thin, water-like white coating with a big, thick brush.Progress was slow-too slow for Father T´s liking. Each day he would climb the extension ladders and gingerly walk on the scaffold planking to check on progress and urge Rollo to use faster strokes. After three straight days of this, Rollo rebelled. Father T countered by pointing to all the scaffolding that Rollo had set in place each morning for that day´s work. He complained long and loud that the scaffolding took up too much room on the main floor.Many of his flock had come to him saying that they felt uneasy kneeling and praying under all the wooden network above them. Get some extra help said the priest, I´ll agree to pay for their time! This is all taking too long! Alright, said Rollo, but the only one I can use is Guy Foxx. He´s helped me on a couple of jobs downtown. He knows what to do. NEVER! Came the aggitated reply! NEVER! Anybody but him!
The impasse between Rollo and Father T lasted until the next weekend. Early Saturday morning, Father T called up to Rollo. Alright hire him! But you are warned that if I see him even wobble, or I smell liquor on him, or I see a bottle near him, I´m going to beat the living tar out of him. He´s going to wish he was dead before I get thru! Notice that Father T would only refer to Guy as "him." That was the only acknowledgement that Guy was still part of the human race as far as Father T was concerned.
Guy proved to be good help, despite the threat to life and limb. It was an uneasy peace at best with Rollo always positioning himself between the two who hated the very sight of each other. One more weekend of painting remained. My mother and my dad heaved a great sigh of relief. She turned to Rollo. Well, was it worth it? I´ve been on pins and needles for two solid weeks since you hired Guy! Yes, you´ll get three times more than any job you´ve ever done, but believe me, Rollo, you´ve more than earned it! I´ve only tolerated that nasty man because he´s your friend! Half the town wishes he would leave! That part of their conversation I overheard. I´m sure there was more, much more that I missed!
A near overflow crowd attended early mass on Rollo´s last weekend of painting.Father T welcomed them with his assurance that by that night, what was left of the remaining scaffolding would be down. He pointed to several statues and said that they looked new again.No, make that better than new, because a true craftsman had applied his masterful touch. Rollo´s intricate painting had saved a considerable amount of the money originally set aside for statuary replacement. Now they could turn their attention to the upcoming Christmas season. Perhaps a truly decorative manger scene could be built outside, using only part of the savings. Father T beamed out his message of joy, love and good fellowship. He was in rare form that morning,
Suddenly, he stopped talking. He leaned forward, blinked his eyes again and again. He was having trouble focusing, that had to be it! Not a peep or a sound came from those gathered before him. Everybody followed him, watching their priest wipe his glasses with the same precision that a practiced eye doctor might use. Once the glasses were back on, he smiled. Yes, all was right with the day, the world, and especially his flock! He raised his arms in a great and grand exalting sweep, ready to began his chant. The arms froze in mid-air, his eyes bugged. A frown became an ugly, deep scowl. He rushed out from behind his pulpit and startled the first two women he came to by not looking into their faces, but paying close attention to their clothes.On to several men, seated next to the women. Same hard stare, same scrutiny!
Father T hurried to the basin of holy water, dipped one hand into it, then examined his fingers before letting his gaze travel up to the last section of scaffolding, located directly above. He let a minute pass; then two.He waited for the air to start drying his fingers. There it was! What he had already suspected was now forming before his very eyes! Traces of white muresco! Father T let out a guttural scream that raised the hairs on every one present!
He climbed the first section of the extension ladder, shaking his fist and cursing a blue streak. He shouted profanities in Polish, then English! Below, many women gasped at such vulgarity, their Christian ears fairly burned, while Father T climbed higher and higher, bent on finding Guy Foxx, drunk or sober. It made no difference now!
An empty wine bottle clanked and clunk, as it hit several ladder rungs on its way down to a crash landing on the floor. Father T reached the thick planking about the time that Guy raised up from his drunken stupor. He screamed his head off, yelling for help, sure that Father T was going to knock him off the planking, and send him to the same fate his wine bottle had met just a minute ago! Help arrived just in the nick of time as two men pulled their priest off of poor Guy, who was gasping for breath from the choke-hold around his throat! Two others joined in forcing Father T to come down to the main floor. It took all four men´s brute strength to keep Father T restrained, while Guy Foxx, one badly shaken Irishman, was allowed to stagger and stumble his way out of the church to freedom.
News of Guy´s narrow escape from the beating of his life, and what he´d done to the holy water, ricocheted around town quicker then a Dakota twister. Two weeks later, Father T arrived at our home to "settle up" as he called it. To all our surprise, he was his old self once more, even to shaking Rollo´s hand. There was only a brief mention about Guy, whom he referred to as "him." In low tones, he thanked Rollo for doing a fine job of painting. Then he went on to explain why it took this long to settle up: he´d made a special trip to Aberdeen, some 43 miles away, to pick up a carload of drycleaning. He had every one who attended mass on that fateful Sunday, go home to change their dresses, shirts and suits. They turned their clothing items over to him so he could get them drycleaned. Now Rollo, I expect you to take care of this bill before we discuss what, if anything, will be left to cover your painting fee. My mother looked at the bill, then walked into the next room to give her Quaker thoughts and ways free reign. Her way of not voicing her considerable contempt over "him" in front of Father T.
To this day, neither my two older brothers nor I ever found out if Rollo made "dime one" out of the mess his old friend had saddled him with. For that matter, we also don´t know if Guy Foxx ever paid our dad back. Nothing was ever brought up about it in our presence.
What I do know is that there were some immediate changes to our family´s lifestyle from that day forward. Every Sunday, without fail, three young sons went with their mother to Sunday school. Once that was over, we were free to attend church with her or wait for Rollo to pick us up to do pretty much as we pleased. If hunting season was open, you could bet your last dollar that Guy Foxx was still part of our hunting party. Rollo´s friendship with the wiley old bird remained very much in-tact. The subject of Father T and the holy water mess was never brought up, either within our family or around Guy. There was no need to. Leola´s solid citizens kept it alive for more years then I´d care to count!
What's in a name? Through out most of my life, I've hardly ever given it much thought, yet there are those who put considerable stock and credence in it. To me, what a person stands for, has done, could be or do, carries a lot more weight in the real world. However, now that I do think about it, there is one person whose name says a lot a more about the man then I'd care to admit. His name was Guy Foxx. In his case, his surname certainly spoke volumes about the man.
Guy Foxx first came onto the local scene during the time Leola, South Dakota decided to take the big technology plunge. Guy started with the telephone construction crews and stayed on as a central office switchboard and line repairman. He had an Irish sense of humor complete with a sharp tongue when needed. He also had an enduring way about about him, especially when females were present. He was the living epitome of that overworked term "confirmed bachelor." He earned that distinction with relentless pursuit of the many things and nuances associated with bachlorhood! Blessed or cursed, as one sees it, Guy had a boatload of Irish wit and charm that shook this small wheat-farming community to its very core. He never ran out of good or bad jokes and had the uncanny ability to slant any joke to fit the person listening. No matter if it was a farmer, preacher, housewife, local merchant, or the town drunk, Guy always left 'em laughing.
Guy never let his status interfere with his pursuit of female companionship.His romantic escapades were the talk of the town, which made him a living legend in his own time.If you were a lonely widow, Guy could be counted upon to fulfill your every wishful fantasy. If you were a neglected farmer´s wife, starving for a little affection, all you had do was contact Guy with a roving eye. And if you were one of several old maids, you were either taken or terrified by the twinkle in his eye, the prelude to a line of blarney that had only one outcome: a seduction dripping with honey-spun words and action that usually lead to one place: your bedroom or his. Yet there was another side of Guy that only a few ever knew about. During the years that followed "The Great Depression, " a number of local families continued thru hardtimes. Come the morning, many would roll out of bed to discover a box or two of groceries, clothes, coal or whatever else the family needed most-from some unknown giver. My dad used to tell our family that Guy would take note of the kitchen pantry, coalbox or closet when he made his telephone service or repair calls.
Almost all Irish people are staunch Catholics; at least the ones I've ever known are. Not so with Guy! But there's a story there, too! Depending on which version you believed, I choose my dad's over several others that made the rounds. Leola had a new Catholic priest, a Polish man with a name that defied all logical spelling or pronunciation. The best I can do is compare it to the famous head basketball coach at Duke University, Mike Krzyzewski. He had no problem with being called "Coach K." Leola´s version agreed to be called "Father T."
The bad blood between Father T and Guy Foxx just didn´t happen by accident, it was deliberate according to the good priest. Apparently Saturday night´s little problem with Guy´s drinking, carried on over into early mass one Sunday morning. Now Guy was known to "cozy up" to a bottle or two of wine whenever the spirit moved him. He slipped into mass unnoticed until Father T spied a very tipsy man who´d became unruly among some of his flock. Father T walked down the aisle to put a stop to all the disruptive commotion going on in the back of his church. Heated words were exchanged, then a brawl broke out and Guy Foxx was tossed out "on his ear" and told never to come back. If he dared to set foot in church again, Father T assured Guy, he´d tear him from limb to limb.
Time passed. The brawl between the two continued to be the hot topic around town, especially among those with wagging tongues and willing ears. About this time, Rollo, my father, decided to supplement his mail carrier salary by doing some painting.During World War I, he´d been taught a very valuable craft or trade: painting. He spent most of his time at Camp Hoboken, New Jersey, painting many of the officers´ cars there. After being discharged from The Army, Rollo returned to Leola where he did two things: "bunk in" with Guy and court a country school teacher, who later became my mother.
Both Guy and Rollo´s reputation continued to grow: One with his prowness with the ladies; the other with a paintbrush. In a short time, Rollo had repainted many of the buildings along mainstreet and all of the churches in town except one: the Catholic church. Imagine his great delight, when Father T asked him to redo his church inside and out. Just doing all the fine statuary inside would more than triple his customary fee.
The long summer days and weekends fit Rollo´s schedule perfectly.Soon all the church´s outside was finished. With fall fast approaching, Rollo concentrated on the fine, detail work inside. Father T complemented him several times on doing such a good job with the statues. Only one job remained, that of putting a muresco coating on the church´s high ceiling, some thirty feet above.
Once the scaffolding was in place, Rollo diligently applied the thin, water-like white coating with a big, thick brush.Progress was slow-too slow for Father T´s liking. Each day he would climb the extension ladders and gingerly walk on the scaffold planking to check on progress and urge Rollo to use faster strokes. After three straight days of this, Rollo rebelled. Father T countered by pointing to all the scaffolding that Rollo had set in place each morning for that day´s work. He complained long and loud that the scaffolding took up too much room on the main floor.Many of his flock had come to him saying that they felt uneasy kneeling and praying under all the wooden network above them. Get some extra help said the priest, I´ll agree to pay for their time! This is all taking too long! Alright, said Rollo, but the only one I can use is Guy Foxx. He´s helped me on a couple of jobs downtown. He knows what to do. NEVER! Came the aggitated reply! NEVER! Anybody but him!
The impasse between Rollo and Father T lasted until the next weekend. Early Saturday morning, Father T called up to Rollo. Alright hire him! But you are warned that if I see him even wobble, or I smell liquor on him, or I see a bottle near him, I´m going to beat the living tar out of him. He´s going to wish he was dead before I get thru! Notice that Father T would only refer to Guy as "him." That was the only acknowledgement that Guy was still part of the human race as far as Father T was concerned.
Guy proved to be good help, despite the threat to life and limb. It was an uneasy peace at best with Rollo always positioning himself between the two who hated the very sight of each other. One more weekend of painting remained. My mother and my dad heaved a great sigh of relief. She turned to Rollo. Well, was it worth it? I´ve been on pins and needles for two solid weeks since you hired Guy! Yes, you´ll get three times more than any job you´ve ever done, but believe me, Rollo, you´ve more than earned it! I´ve only tolerated that nasty man because he´s your friend! Half the town wishes he would leave! That part of their conversation I overheard. I´m sure there was more, much more that I missed!
A near overflow crowd attended early mass on Rollo´s last weekend of painting.Father T welcomed them with his assurance that by that night, what was left of the remaining scaffolding would be down. He pointed to several statues and said that they looked new again.No, make that better than new, because a true craftsman had applied his masterful touch. Rollo´s intricate painting had saved a considerable amount of the money originally set aside for statuary replacement. Now they could turn their attention to the upcoming Christmas season. Perhaps a truly decorative manger scene could be built outside, using only part of the savings. Father T beamed out his message of joy, love and good fellowship. He was in rare form that morning,
Suddenly, he stopped talking. He leaned forward, blinked his eyes again and again. He was having trouble focusing, that had to be it! Not a peep or a sound came from those gathered before him. Everybody followed him, watching their priest wipe his glasses with the same precision that a practiced eye doctor might use. Once the glasses were back on, he smiled. Yes, all was right with the day, the world, and especially his flock! He raised his arms in a great and grand exalting sweep, ready to began his chant. The arms froze in mid-air, his eyes bugged. A frown became an ugly, deep scowl. He rushed out from behind his pulpit and startled the first two women he came to by not looking into their faces, but paying close attention to their clothes.On to several men, seated next to the women. Same hard stare, same scrutiny!
Father T hurried to the basin of holy water, dipped one hand into it, then examined his fingers before letting his gaze travel up to the last section of scaffolding, located directly above. He let a minute pass; then two.He waited for the air to start drying his fingers. There it was! What he had already suspected was now forming before his very eyes! Traces of white muresco! Father T let out a guttural scream that raised the hairs on every one present!
He climbed the first section of the extension ladder, shaking his fist and cursing a blue streak. He shouted profanities in Polish, then English! Below, many women gasped at such vulgarity, their Christian ears fairly burned, while Father T climbed higher and higher, bent on finding Guy Foxx, drunk or sober. It made no difference now!
An empty wine bottle clanked and clunk, as it hit several ladder rungs on its way down to a crash landing on the floor. Father T reached the thick planking about the time that Guy raised up from his drunken stupor. He screamed his head off, yelling for help, sure that Father T was going to knock him off the planking, and send him to the same fate his wine bottle had met just a minute ago! Help arrived just in the nick of time as two men pulled their priest off of poor Guy, who was gasping for breath from the choke-hold around his throat! Two others joined in forcing Father T to come down to the main floor. It took all four men´s brute strength to keep Father T restrained, while Guy Foxx, one badly shaken Irishman, was allowed to stagger and stumble his way out of the church to freedom.
News of Guy´s narrow escape from the beating of his life, and what he´d done to the holy water, ricocheted around town quicker then a Dakota twister. Two weeks later, Father T arrived at our home to "settle up" as he called it. To all our surprise, he was his old self once more, even to shaking Rollo´s hand. There was only a brief mention about Guy, whom he referred to as "him." In low tones, he thanked Rollo for doing a fine job of painting. Then he went on to explain why it took this long to settle up: he´d made a special trip to Aberdeen, some 43 miles away, to pick up a carload of drycleaning. He had every one who attended mass on that fateful Sunday, go home to change their dresses, shirts and suits. They turned their clothing items over to him so he could get them drycleaned. Now Rollo, I expect you to take care of this bill before we discuss what, if anything, will be left to cover your painting fee. My mother looked at the bill, then walked into the next room to give her Quaker thoughts and ways free reign. Her way of not voicing her considerable contempt over "him" in front of Father T.
To this day, neither my two older brothers nor I ever found out if Rollo made "dime one" out of the mess his old friend had saddled him with. For that matter, we also don´t know if Guy Foxx ever paid our dad back. Nothing was ever brought up about it in our presence.
What I do know is that there were some immediate changes to our family´s lifestyle from that day forward. Every Sunday, without fail, three young sons went with their mother to Sunday school. Once that was over, we were free to attend church with her or wait for Rollo to pick us up to do pretty much as we pleased. If hunting season was open, you could bet your last dollar that Guy Foxx was still part of our hunting party. Rollo´s friendship with the wiley old bird remained very much in-tact. The subject of Father T and the holy water mess was never brought up, either within our family or around Guy. There was no need to. Leola´s solid citizens kept it alive for more years then I´d care to count!
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