I think I need a laugh. Maybe you do, too.
Back in the early 1990s, I needed a contractor. Note that I said “I,” not “we.” There was no “we” about it, because Bill went on a week-long fly-in fishing trip to Canada. And I got even by ripping off our enclosed back porch and building a screened porch, deck, and bought a sweet little above-ground pool. (Oh no, honey, I’m okay. You just go fishing. I’ll hold down the fort. Heh.)
Anyway, my colleague Ann recommended Maripat Donovan as a contractor. Maripat rolled up to the house in a big old black stretch of something that I think may have been a Lincoln. I sometimes re-imagine it was a hearse. Or the Batmobile. She was an hilarious — and sometimes terrifying — temporary addition to our little family. Because right on the heels of the porch deal, I decided we needed oak floors and a working fireplace. So Maripat was a pretty regular feature at our place. Summing her up for you would be impractical and impossible. And probably illegal.
Our contractor was also working on a little one-nun play. And we said, sure, we’d come on down to the Live Bait Theater way past our bedtime to see her conduct a late-night catechism. (Go ahead and Google it. And her.)
The funny part? One evening, Maripat was sitting with us at the kitchen table, quizzing Catholic School Girl Ginger on her Catholic Upbringing. When what do I hear my little daughter say? “Oh, yeah, my Dad is a Catholic. But my Mom is a Public.”
Ginger didn’t know the finer points of Being Catholic versus Being Protestant (thank goodness). She just knew that if you were a Catholic, you went to Catholic School. And if you went to public school, well, you were a Public.
With our blessings, Sister Maripat added that little gem to her ever-evolving and always sold-out performances.
And as far as we know, Catholics and Publics all around the world are still chuckling about words from the mouth of my baby.
ginnygram 