All children at one time or another hear something about all work and no play, but it probably needs to be modernized to include another train of action, perspiration, and thinking, a spoonfull of work, a spoonfull of play creates mugfull of volunteers. Although it might sound silly, it is sensible, plausible, believable. Just ask the members of the St. Matthew’s Cathedral Young Adults and the St. Thomas Apostle Young Adults groups.
My true involvement began with a pretty young woman who in quick succession informed me about the event, suggested that I attend, asked me to attend. I had barely a moment to consider the possibility of not going or even create an implausible yet polite reason to decline. On paper it must be revealed that I not a beer connoisseur. My gourmet palate does not include bratwurst our sauerkraut. Give me an even start on a level playing field and am I able to discuss anything and suggest ways to end child poverty, war in the Middle East, Columbian drug traffic, and avoid attending most events without anyone ever suspecting that I might not want attend the event. So earnest am I with my Pennsylvania Station at rush hour combination of excitement and exhaustion. If by accident you were to walk three city blocks on a warm Sunday afternoon, whom would you choose, a workaholic lawyer, whose reputation suggests very strongly that she never leaves the office, never sleeps, never starts a conversation without citing precedence, or the pretty young woman that meets her friends at two o'clock and schedules going to a museum, attending Church?
I found myself shelling out money which I had planned to use for other activities. I found myself adding the Octoberfest to my calendar. I found myself planning to make a cameo appearance. My mind argued fiercely with itself. It was like being a tennis ball at the US Open. I was victim to some completely American idea of social interaction and discourse and magnetism, which if I was able to contact the lawyer could be described as abduction, assault, temporary insanity.
All yesterday, I was a solitary deathbed patient in need of a second-rate hospital, a third-rate television reporter with a camera crew, and a first-rate incurable photogenic make-believe disease. The thrills of melodrama, the agony of melodrama. I pondered off and on, on and off. I pondered so much till I didn’t realize that somehow the p became a w and I was off wondering. I wondered about this and that, now and then, this and now, then and that. I wondered so much that I didn’t realize that the o had become an a. I wandered in the brief sunshine, in the cloudy moments, in the hard, cold autumn rain. I wandered so much that I could not take myself seriously.
I was going to the Octoberfest. And seventy-five per cent of my imagination was busy crafting platitudes and trying to decide what clothes would be appropriate for an Octoberfest celebration being held in Washington, DC. I wondered what an Octoberfest being held in the basement of Catholic church would be like.
And at last after shaving, showering, moisturizing, snacking, tooth brushing, sipping, flossing, gargling, mirror glancing, I was almost ready to leave. I kept waiting for the phone to ring or something. I thought maybe the torrential evening rains would begin. Of course that did not happen.
I began my journey. It was arduous. It was difficult. I had to cross the street without a traffic signal and without my iPod. I tried calling several of my friends but no one answered. Headlights were approaching dizzyingly fast. I was crossing a bridge trying to imagine Octoberfest.
When I arrived at the church, I went to the wrong door on the wrong side but I did have the right idea. So I looked around and found the right door with the Oktoberfest sign. Slowly, down the stairs to the basement my feet carried me.
At some point my imagination turned off. I was alone. I could only see what was in front of me. I could only hear what was around me. I could only smell what was around me (really my imagination must be defective, I don’t think that I have ever had an imaginary smell.)
In matching blue tee-shirts the welcoming janissaries beckoned me as I almost walked past the entrance room. I swept into the room with the receding hospitality of a settler about to be scalped by a savage. Of course I was expected to write my name on a name-tag and then wear the name-tag and of course I had trouble writing my name and after I wrote when I realized that the name-tag was optional it was stuffed into my pocket. And so I said my salutations, received my branding a green circle drawn on my right hand, and I was the picture of sepia colored servility.
As I walked into the main room, my imagination kicked back on, images literary and cinematic flooded my brain. Looking around the room at the rows of tables filled with happy faces and plates of sausages and rolls and green beans and plastic utensils I smiled and looked for both familiar faces and friendly familiar faces. Standing there as I was without any props my mind quickly decided that everyone else was inveterate and that they spent their lives attending beer festivals in church meeting rooms.
And these people were as fresh as unopened jar of spicy mustard; they were so jovial that it was impossible that any of them had ever had a logy second at anytime in their lives. I half expected to find a torpid person slumped near the beer table. But, none was to be discovered. There was much hugging, back slapping, handshaking, laughing, and waiting for beer to be poured into the long, heavy glass.
But I must concede, that as I stood in the line waiting for beer without my long, heavy glass with this year’s logo politely etched on it, I was amazed by the hurlyburly created by the army in blue tee-shirts, that I realized that this army was completely one hundred percent volunteer. There was no hidden executive director in an office somewhere with a coffee stained mug and a half gnawed sugar-free granola bar.
I was invited to this event by one of the volunteer’s; her declaration quickly turned into a gentle persuading interrogation. Standing there at the beer table with my long heavy glass, I had to decide upon which beer to get. Simultaneously, I had to forget that I don’t like beer, that I don’t drink beer unless during moments of extreme duress or in Europe but that is another story. And I was a mere spectator this evening, observing the active participants the volunteers who conducted their business with champion or near champion skills and finesse. It definitely was a first string evening.
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