Saint Anthony's Prayer

Dear Saint Anthony,

Thank you very much for helping me find my birth certificate. It came in the mail last week. It made me feel sad when I learned my mother had only been 19 when she had her second child. It had surpized me to learn her middle name. I didn’t know what it was. Couldn’t answer that question when the registrar asked. I had to give him the Bull’s middle name instead. But when I read “Mother's Name: Lily Ann Weaver”, I stopped. Why had she given me exactly the same name as hers? It seemed strange considering she wants nothing to do with me now, never has as far as I can remember.

I thought I'd put it away somewhere safe. Last night I started looking for it so I could go get my passport. I looked through all the drawers and cubbies in my desk, and all the manila envelopes in the Sierra Nevada box, all around my computer station, and in my studio, in the den, in both bathrooms, in all my coat pockets and twice through my back pack. I think it was then I decided not to roll the Curbie out for the garbagemen.

This morning I thought maybe I brought it to work yesterday and left it there. I put on a bright blue shirt and make-up for my passport picture. At work, I cleaned off my desk and started to worry that I wasn't going to find it. Tonight, when I finished putting my groceries away, I told myself that after supper I was going through the garbage. The idea of digging through the wet coffee grounds and discarded egg yolks was so revolting that I went through all the same paperwork I’d already been through the night before. I told myself that this was truly one of those times when I wished I didn’t live alone so that I would have someone else to blame.

In desperation I repeated the St. Anthony’s prayer that Indigo taught me: “St. Anthony, St. Anthony, Please look around. I’ve lost something which must be found.” I made myself get down on the floor with an industrial sized garbage bag which I blessed myself, forgive me St. Anthony, for having on hand. Then I cut the old one open and gently dissected the layers like an environmental archeologist or a jealous lover. Only I felt more like a pathetic child, whimpering as I admitted it wasn’t there. It was raining outside, of course. So I put on my hooded sweatshirt and remembered when I used to be afraid to be home alone.

I remembered the first time Woody left me alone with the three little kids on the farm in Bradfordsville. He’d driven up to Louisville early in the morning for a load of lumber and I’d expected him home before dark. I remember little Trueman going outside to pee before bed and running back in the house screaming with terror, “FFO… FFO…I saw an FFO”. We all ran out expecting to see a UFO and saw it was an airplane. We’d laughed and explained what it was to Trueman. Then we all sat out on the porch for awhile looking up at the sky and down the road, waiting and hoping for Woody to come home.

After he left there were a few times I felt afraid but I got over that fast. I don’t think I’ve felt afraid since the time the thieves broke the lock off my back door while I was at work. Bigboy told me to put a chair under it and he’d fix it the next morning. I loaded the shotgun and slept with it under my bed. Now, I can walk out to the shed in the dark and think I look bad in my hooded sweatshirt.

I had to tip the Curbie over to get the lone bag of garbage then brought it back into the kitchen and laid it down on the plastic and slit it open. “This is why you can’t lose any weight”, I scolded myself as I lifted the boxes of melba and Popsicles and felt a surge of hope as I spied the pile of catalogs. There it was in its unremarkable envelope. “Praise God and Alleluia” I shouted. “I’m going to Costa Rica”.

Iris called and said she was packing for Montana and asked me to bring back her warm fuzzy pullover. I told her how I’d found my birth certificate and bragged that being really smart meant being smart enough to know how dumb you could be. She said it meant being smart enough to set up safety nets for your stupidity.