A Constantine Story: Count Gregory

I have a million of them. Well, not quite, but there are a lot of short short stories by my father. I intend to put as many of them onto my blog as possible, when my inherent laziness doesn't prevent me. This one is in the style of Damon Runyon. He did quite a few in that style, that is, using the present tense.  So here we go with "Count Gregory".

I do not see him for some fifty odd years.  Suddenly he is the host of a big bash to which I am invited.  He is no longer Count Gregory.  He has a new name I would tell you, but I am foresworn not to do so. He is a well known Hollywood actor, now retired, and a noted comedian.  He is regaling, now, perhaps one hundred invitees, many who are Hollywood notables of other days.  It is a routine that is as well-worn, and has many lines from his old routines, some that resonate like eggs that hit the floor, but are somehow palatable, in that they are in a polished presentation.

I say this authoritatively since I attend some of his early forays into show biz.  Nevertheless, in the back rooms and dressing areas of the New York demi-monde, he is warmly accepted.  He is charming, continental, sartorially elegant and usually treated by impresarios and actors as a peer.  He is a salesman who works for me, long ago, in a sales promotion organization which job is the main source of his daily sustenance.

I attend a few of the spots he appears in. They are, curiously enough, choice bistros on the East Side of Manhattan.  His routine is a kind of Victor Borge imitation.  I catch him several times at the famous Czardas Restaurant, or the Viennese Lantern.. He bombs as usual.  These places are elegant cafes on East Seventy-Ninth Street.

One night, at the Lantern I watch as he performs to total inattention.  The audience includes the Gabor sisters, Zsa Zsa, Eva and Jolie, who chatter away, indifferent to the Count and the universe outside the perimeter of their table.

It is following this performance that the Count treats me to an extraordinary inside look into some of the intricacies of behind the night life scene.

"Come," he says peremptorily, "we go to a fund raiser of a new musical. But first, we pick up Bibi."

He hustles me through the entrance of the Flamenco, an upscale bistro, through a maze of tables into a dressing room, where Bibi, the guitarist headliner, is doing her after performance ablutions.

She rises and they exchange hugs in a familiar manner. Then he introduces me.  She takes my hand rather than shaking it, and it is excessively warm, though I do not think a fever affects her.

"Bibi," announces the Count, "put something on.  We go to Orsini's for an expresso.  Then we go to a fundraiser for a new musical."

Orsini's is also a bar and restaurant.  The proprietor himself comes to serve us.  He greets the Count with a hug, and a kiss on both cheeks, catching a good look at Bibi.  He decides to join us for a dram or two.

His name is Orsini, which is an Italian name of medieval fame dating from the time of the Medicis. I hear later that he claims them as ancient cousins. He carries and twirls a key ring, which is a large wood effigy of a little bear, which is the meaning of his name.  e is not little though he bulges somewhat.  He is clearly taken by Bibi.  Somehow I get the feeling that they know one another, although there is no clear sign of recognition.

"You guys doing anything?" he offers. "Let's we go to Twenty-One, or the Colony."

I get a tremor of apprehension.  I do not carry enough money for a tip to the men's room attendant at one of those plush watering holes.

It takes much dissuading to discourage Orsini from coming with us, "Wherever you are going," as he puts it.  He seems very disconsolate when we leave.

We arrive at an elegant tall building of New York's Central Park West, somewhere in the low sixties.  The apartment, in the eleventh floor, is the antithesis of the exterior, small and cheaply furnished.  There is a grand piano, a tired sofa, several pillowed armchairs and an assortment of folded chairs.

It is a wearisome routine, with an interminable score, great accompanist, and an ingenue singer, who never makes it to the top, but fills in, now and then in the road companies of hits like Kiss Me Kate.

I move to an unoccupied sofa and Bibi sits on the arm and takes my hand.

I do not recall that there is an effusion of material appreciation for the opus. Count Gregory is practically oratorical in praise, but not forthcoming in pesos.  Bibi picks up her guitar in one hand, and takes proprietary possession of my arm with the other, as we leave.

On the street, Gregory hails a taxi.  We mount, and he directs the driver up town, dismounts, and asks me to escort Bibi to her home.  The taxi wends its way downtown to perhaps a block or two from where we begin.  I watch the meter apprehensively all the way and curse the Count silently.  We could easily have dropped off Bibi first.

Her building has a doorman and the elite appointments.  Her apartment is small and box-like.  I suppose that in show biz, it is the address that counts not the gentle appurtenances of living quarters.

We exchange amenities, and after a reasonable period, I rise to go.. Bibi gives me an affectionate hug and I notice that not only are her hands still warm, but so is the rest of her.  I remember that I am married.

There is no real story to this narration.  After the bash of last week of which I tell earlier, the Count and I spend some time in reminiscence.  I don't know how pleased he is to see me after all this time, but he gives me a hug and kisses me on both cheeks.  He is still very Continental.  After a few more shots of Vodka he answers the questions I do not ask him, though I am very curious.

"It is very simple," he says.  "Bibi is my little sister.  We come here together from Minsk and I always look after her like a big brother should.  She is married to Orsini--you remember--the little bear and he wants her out of show business and at home cooking spaghetti.  I figure a little jealousy mediates this problem.  I choose you as the shill, as you are young, passably looking, dress well, look like money, though I know you do not have any, and no danger to Bibi, who is often a little too warm; I know you recently marry and are reasonably safe. So I parade you a little, for the Little Bear.

I am not too pleased with the end of his dissertation.

"I can tell you know, as it is fifty years later. Bibi tells me that Orsini is waiting outside her apartment house, that night, with a baseball bat."

"Waiting for what?" I ask.

"Not what, you." he answers.

As Alan Alda says in one of his movies, "Comedy is tragedy plus time."

Evelyn Waugh's Diaries: A Mysterious Disappointment

About a week or two ago, I found a series of interviews, done in the 1950's, with a variety of well known thinkers and writers.  One was Bertrand Russell; another Edith Sitwell, and then another, the man pictured above, Evelyn Waugh, known likely for the book "Brideshead Revisited", that more than once has been made into a television mini-series. The story follows two primary characters, Charles Ryder, a middle class Englishman who becomes friends with and effectively joins the world of Sebastian Flyte when he attends Oxford University, a place of education, history and the debauchery of excess drink and sex. Sebastian is one of the children of an aristocratic Catholic family, the Marchmains, and he carries the excesses of student life into his adulthood, along with rebellion against the Transcendence of his faith, which tugs at him always. Ryder is consumed by the family and fascinated by its fitful faith, the "twitch upon the thread" of both men's consciences.

Now, the interview was both interesting, and a little uncomfortable, in that the host seemed to be grilling an adversary, and the respondent, Waugh, was reacting in a most prickly manner. I found some other interviews after that, and while he was less prickly in them, he was not, by any means, particularly charming. I found an extensive documentary on the man and while he had loyal friends, many people, famous and infamous, simply did not like him.

I have only read three of his books, Brideshead, of course, a biography he penned about the Catholic priest Ronald Knox (very much in the style and conscience of a Newman or Hopkins, but less well known in these days), and the Ordeal of Gilbert Penfold, which was about a man who takes an extended cruise and is delusional the entirety of it. It turns out that this book is somewhat non-fictional in that the very same thing happened ot Mr. Waugh on a similar sort of trip.

The satirical writing was sharp and sometimes laugh out loud funny. I guess I am not surprised that this was aI difficult man, and one who did not suffer fools. But with Brideshead, and commentaries on it, I sensed a complicated depth which always attracts me to read journals, if the person happened to keep one.

Well, Mr. Waugh did keep a journal. He never sought to publish it, and my sense from reading about him, he never intended the diary to be published (though one can argue about journal writers, and as one, I am aware of the contradiction, he might well have wanted in his heart of hearts that it might be after his death). He began it when he was about seven years old and kept it until about a year before he died at the age of 66. There were multiple gaps of a year or two or three in the product, possibly because certain sections he destroyed (like the period of his first marriage).

I started reading with relative thoroughness, but the first half, nearly, was indeed, as professional critics have noted, repetitive.  He drank a lot, he went out a lot to eat, he went to a great deal of theatre, and he wrote his books and reviews in between. Oh, and of course, just as in Brideshead, at college (and possibly at many other times) there was a lot of sex in all its polymorphous dimensions.

As the years passed, there was more and more travelling. He was a prodigious traveller, and from what I can tell, a very brave one, able to put up with a great deal of discomfort. And there was World War Two and a full, if contentious, military career. He taught some.

He went to Church, both as an Anglican, and then, after he converted, as a Catholic. As it happens, I was interested to know, one of the Catholic Churches he attended when he was in London was one I attended when I was visiting England in 2013. So, I can literally say (and I admit to a great deal of pleasure in it) that I trod the same Church aisles as did Mr. Waugh. I like it when my little history touches a bigger one. I suppose I expected as to the conversion, as I did related to anything else he wrote about privately, a bit more substance, detail, explanation of his intellectual road, his emotional state. Even when he spoke of his children, he was detached. I have read about him, that while his children loved him dearly, he was rather indifferent to them. Now that was a bit of a trend in "those days", but he even, in his diaries, characterizes most of his children with irritation if not disdain.

By the time I was into the second half of the diaries, I admit I had begun to skim. To be fair, I will do that in other books if something is not specifically interesting (to me). I think it is an element of my impatience to get to a point. I am a bit ashamed of this trait, as it probably causes me to miss the development  and nuances of the exposition, but there it is.

Then I found that among his articles was an essay written in 1930, just after Waugh became a Catholic, "Converted to Rome: Why It Has Happened to Me", and the depth I craved and had found in Brideshead, but not in his diaries.  I also think I might have read somewhere that Waugh did not like journals or diariI hes in which there was a more psychological bent.

I don't currently have access to the whole article, but only to a portion printed by Aleteia ( within an article byTod Warner) to which I provide a link:

https://aleteia.org/2016/08/22/christianity-or-chaos-the-life-changing-choice-of-evelyn-waugh/

 To me, his explanation of becoming and remaining Catholic, even after the wholesale changes in the liturgy in the 1960s, which he loathed (and boy is he not alone in that as the return to either a more reverent Novus Ordo and an exodus to the Tridentine Mass show today) speaks not only to 1930's Europe, but 2019 America.

He was, arguably, another in a line of prophets, that without Christianity, specifically from his view, Catholicism, the alternative was chaos.

So, in this particular case, it is the public, the creative Waugh who exhibits more depth than the diarist. Perhaps this is a case where it would have been better for the world, and for Waugh's legacy, if his second wife and his son, the late Auberon Waugh, had not sought to publish these diaries.

As I conclude, I wonder if there was not a bit of "Daddy Dearest" in the motivation rather than an effort to promote Evelyn Waugh. It's certainly too late to ask Auberon.

Monkeymind at Adoration

It's the First Sunday of the Month. In the Catholic faith, in many parishes across the world, the First Sunday is the occasion of a period of Eucharistic Adoration.  Let me back up. What is it that is being adored? Actually Who is it that is being adored?  It is our central belief that Jesus, the Second Person of the Trinity, upon the liturgy in which an ordinary piece of bread, in the shape of a host, becomes fully present Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity. The Host still has the appearance of bread, the taste of bread, but is Substantially God, Jesus Christ. So, at the Eucharistic Adoration, a large Host that has previously been consecrated through the instrument of the priest (but by God Himself; the priest has no power in and of himself) is placed in a receptacle called a "Monstrance" and left for a period, an hour, or as long as overnight, on the altar, as people come and go (some stay the whole time) and pray. The soon to be beatified Archbishop Fulton Sheen recommended the practice daily and in fact, he died sitting before the Sacrament (which means a visible sign of God's Presence on earth).

"Those crazy Catholics!" I hear some of you saying as you find another blog to read. But not so crazy if this 2000 year old belief in the Transubstantiation is true.  There have been a lot of people who have believed and died in that belief, and many who this very day who will die in that belief. Among them are some of the most brilliant thinkers in the history of civilization, a heck of a lot more brilliant than me, or anyone alive right now. The thing about this faith, it has been said, is that Christ was one of three things, a liar, crazy or that what He handed on was true. But I digress. which I suppose is the crux of this entry. And I know that my inadequate expression of the the theology of my faith isn't going to convince anyone.

St. Victor has an afternoon Exposition of the Blessed Sacrament on the First Sunday (among other occasions). I try to stay after the service and I try to pray when I do stay. Some days, I have moderate success at focusing on the altar with Our Lord, quite literally, with us as He was with the Apostles in the boat during the Storm on the Galilee. I say the rosary, or I read some short meditations from one book or another I favor.

My mind is always going a mile a minute, but usually I can slow it down when I come to pray within the Church. But today, it sped  up. You name it I was thinking about it, lunch, tasks I have to do during the week, ideas for things I am or have been writing, taking note of my overwhelming laziness when it comes to a variety of projects I claim to want to tackle, annoyance at an interaction I had during the week, comparing the accomplishments or lack thereof of my life to those of anyone or everyone whose face popped into my mind. They say in general meditation one should not follow the thoughts, but sort of bat them away in the mind with the help of a mantra, in this case, "My Lord and My God". "Ok," I think as I lose the rhythm of the prayer, "I've got it!" Then I don't and the thoughts rush in at dizzying insistent speed.

Of course, the more I say to myself, "Stop it!" the more I can't. I remember that I need to ask for God's Grace in this as in all else. I take a deep breath and probably for all of 50 seconds I am thinking only of God, not in any precise way, but being present in that pew.

And then it's gone and my mind is off again! Well, I remember that St. Theresa of Calcutta said something in her journey along the lines of "God does not ask you to be successful; He asks you to be faithful."  I go to St. Victor every day (except Saturday) for Mass, and I often sit in the Church bathed in a natural amber from the light streaming from the stained glass windows after Mass before I run off to this and that in my retired, anonymous life. And I will try again, with His Grace.

All of Me Why Not Take All of Me, Story by Constantine Gochis written in 1997

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2gfhQ91rwZ8

The above is the title of a song that was popular in the late 1930's, perhaps the early 1940's.  It is not a song of particular excellence to me, but it is memorable in that it evokes those days, when, as a young man, my fancies were somewhat limited--one might say monosyllabic.

So, I am somewhat saddened to hear on the news that the writer of this popular ditty has died.
This news and the memories they invoke give us a kind of kinship, though I do not generally composers of any stripe, fro Mozart to Tiny Tim--who, by the way, is now strumming his ukulele in some astral realm.

Larry, my best friend at the time, and I, have dates.  Eddie, a friend of Larry's, has a car.  It is an impressive vehicle, though it is not his. His father buys this make of car, a Cadillac, every year, or as soon as the ash tray fills up.  He does this with the shekels he accumulates from the sale of half-sweet and half-sour pickles, and very sour green tomatoes. Eddie, his only son, the apple of his eye is a distinguished scholar and a nerd by any standard.

Larry negotiates our access to the car, the conditions being that we find a date for Eddie and share in the expense for gas.  The conditions are harsh particularly since Larry does not volunteer a source our of which the date will appear for Eddie.  The girl Larry is squiring is b the beneficence of my girl friend, who has a sister with nothing to do on Saturday night.

Still the car is an absolute necessity.  We have promised our dates and evening at the Glenn Island Casino, many miles outside of New York City, one of the Big Band Temples of pre-war days.  I suggest we repair, preliminarily to West Farms Road, where the monstrous Seventh Avenue subway snaked its way out of its subterranean tunnel, onto the massive pillars of an elevated structure, and then wheels, one more stop to the Bronx Park Station.  It is at this juncture that the "Starlight Dance Hall" resounded to the rhythms of the Big Bands, where boy looked for girl on Saturday night, where "Marty" either played by Rod Steiger or Ernest Borgnine found his date, where three of my four sisters snared life-long mates, that we repaired in search of a date for Eddie, one flight up on a staircase of ascending and descending hopefuls.

Eddie was a disaster.  He could not find a single girl to dance with that he did not refer to as a "dog".  Our dates began to carp with impatience.  Drastic measures were called for.

I asked Eddie to dance with my friend.  I had noticed a very attractive girl standing apart from the fray, seemingly aloof.

She looked a little tall for me, but I decided to try.  She was indeed tall, wearing flat shoes, as if in testimony that height was a negative.  Her hair was long and almost blonde.  She was exceedingly pretty and bore a pencil applied mole on the side of her chin.  She was an accomplished dancer and managed to squish down that inch or two that exceeded my height.  She hummed the words to the number we were dancing to.  I, in turn, related our dilemma, assuring her that Eddie was a nice guy, that we were planning a big evening at the Glen Island Casino, and, she assented.  She would go with Eddie.

Eddie did not assign to her that canine quality he had applied to all others earlier. He was delighted.  Larry and I agreed that Eddie had the prettiest date.  He did not stop at a gas station to top his tank, a sure sign that her presence discouraged his usually miserly predisposition.  He put on several bursts of speed to demonstrate his mastery of the Cadillac. Larry and I gritted our teeth at these sallies, as he was as lousy a driver as he was a dancer.

It was a spectacularly successful evening.  The music, the dancing, the cocktails. Miriam, that was her name, though she preferred "Mimi" was gracious and comfortable even though Eddie was more insupportable than usual. She sang uninhibitedly to almost all the ballads.

She seemed to place a special emphasis on the words to that new song, as she intoned:

"All of me, why not take all of me?" looking casually at no one at all, but simultaneously caressing the inside of my thigh, under the table at which we all sat, in accompaniment.

POSTSCRIPTUM

I mourn, therefore, the passing of the song's author.  More tragically, I mourn the fire, after the war, that destroyed my memorabilia.  My photo album featured an 8 by 10 of Mimi, with the little black pencilled dot on the left side of her chin.

Four years of correspondence went up with the fire, words of dalliance continents away.  One of my sisters, on viewing the photo, dubbed her, uncharitably, "The Mole."  Sisters are ungenerous critics of other women.

"All of Me" was our song for memorable year before I went into the service. In January of 1943, we spent our last seven days together, a shiny, new second lieutenant and a lovely blonde girl several inches taller than he was.  Oh, such a world of memories that can be triggered by a song. 

Brief Encounter by Constantine Gochis

Sometimes, as some of you know, I post stories written by my late father. Here is another, called "Brief Encounter". It remains my long term goal to put as many of these on the blog as possible for his posterity, as he had no grandchildren, a regrettable reality of having only one, singularly single child. 


He was tall and supple for an elderly gentleman.  He bent forward and reached down to the last shelf for the item.

"There, there," instructed his companion, clearly his wife.  She prompted as he fumbled--
"the one in the brown wrapper."

I watched him with his characteristic absence of dexterity so common to the ale in matters of food shopping.  I turned and addressed the woman.

"They take instruction, don't they?"

She looked at me, puzzled for a moment.

"Men," I said.

She laughed finally in total agreement.  "They do need instruction."

He arose, finally, and placed his arm comfortably around his companion, then leaned forward and whispered to me an acknowledgement.

"She's my Commander-in-Chief."

"A recent elevation in grade?" I inquired.

"No, for forty-four years," he replied.

She smiled broadly. My guess was that they had had a marriage of affection and accommodation to each other's needs.  They had the wholesome air of small town, honest and unpretentious.

They looked settled with each other, at ease. To me this is a feat after so long an association.

"Any children?" I asked.

"Three, and nine grandchildren," she answered.

I was about to say "mazeltov" but I settled with the ore prosaic and certainly more timely "Happy New Year!" as the cashier rang up my purchase.

"With you too!" they answered in chorus. "Happy New Year!"

Aristedes the Tailor by Constantine Gochis

My cat has a favorite chair.  It has been so since I sprang for a set of white leather furniture. Not long after its delivery, I noticed that she was purring while kneading it with her claws, in contentment, after having ingested a full can of "Ralph's Liver and Chicken" creating the inevitable cat signature.

Today, there was a deeper cut than usual in my most expensive leather piece. Now, I have friends to whom there are summary solutions for this kind of problem. I however, belong to that category of human that credits the idiosyncratic ministrations of the cat to Divine causality.  I decided instead to investigate a possible repair. Then I would consider anti-cat measures to defy her ingenuity.

I hied me to the Smart Yellow Pages. Sure enough, leather can be repaired.  Heading the list of resources was the name "Aristedes the Taiilor".  There was instant recognition. For some fourteen years of my crossing the street going south on Fairfax Avenue and Santa Monica Boulevard, I have noticed the name emblazoned on the second floor of a corner building. The name "Aristedes" has always fascinated me. Plutarch spends considerable time on this hero of ancient Athens. In one of his digressions, Plutarch relates the story of his encounter with a peasant of Aristedes' contiuency, who favored his exile, or, ostracism.

I located the building and suffered some fifty steps to the second floor and importuned a person in the hall way, "Do you know Aristedes the Tailor?"

"I am Aristedes the Tailor," said the person.

He was short, swarthy, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties, with a full head of black hair, and a well tailored mustache. I thought "He doesn't look Greek."  Then again, I have a brother in law who could be his double, if he had any hair, who stems from the island of Cyprus.

"Do you still have the Ostrakon they laid on you,"  I asked, certain that no Grek would be ignorant of the story of "Aristedes the Just".

"It's still hanging," he replied.  I did not get the inference at the time.

"Are you Greek," I asked.

"No," he said. "Mexican. Aristedes Garcia Santiago."  He recited a short geneology, in which several generations of Aristides appeared to have contributed to his making.

We entered his shop, which was cluttered with leather artistry.  Outerwear items abounded. There was no sign of chairs, as such, which augured ill for my furniture.

He detailed why he could not repair my chair, so we went on to name origins.

"Do you know who Aristedes was?"

"No," he answered.

I related the Plutarchian episode to him, wherein a peasant solicited the assistance of Aristedes in the Agora. The peasant asked that he write the very name "Aristedes" on his "Ostrakon" a flat stone on which the voters of the time wrote the names of politicians they sought to exile. The peasant did not know that he was asking the man he wished to see exiled.

"What have you against Aristedes?" he asked the peasant, though he obligingly wrote his own name on the stone.

"Because I am tired of hearing him referred to as 'Aristedes the Just'."



The tailor listened with unremarkable interest. Then he said, "I thought when you asked about my Ostrakon you were referring to my. . . ." and he made several gestures toward his crotch.

"So much for Plutarch," I thought. And Aristedes for that matter.

The Here, Not Here Sensation

When you have been a parishioner at one Church for nearly 36 years, you have seen a lot of congregants come and go. Many of the goings have been through death. I have known well, and less well, a great number of people who came to St. Victor, my parish, who have crossed the threshold--to eternity it is my belief, though I know many think that death is merely the end of the road. Often, I have had the honor of being among the servers assisting the priest in the funeral service. Always, it has been humbling and when I think about it, a little surreal.

I was at another funeral today. Jim had been a regular attendee. He generally sat in the same place when he attended Mass, on the right side set of pews, a few rows from the back. He was a tall, solid man. He had been a radio broadcaster in the years before I came to California, even perhaps while I was a new resident, but I had never heard him on the air. He did have a mellifluous baritone voice which greeted "hello". I ran into him at a couple of parish dinners. He was, as always my fellow parishioners seem to be, a fixture, for years. One can imagine that such a person will always be there. Certainly, I have acted as if there is all the time in the world to get to know people when they are there every week, or sometimes every day, for Mass. I often thought it would be nice to know him better.  But I waited too long.

He was well. Then he wasn't. The time between a final illness and death was incredibly short. He had had hip surgery around Easter.

When I saw him, a couple of weeks ago, at a Daily Mass, he was still tall, but now very thin, and drawn. He was with a care taker. And he sat, not in his usual place in the back, but in the front row.
He didn't look well. After Mass, several people went up to talk to him. I decided that I didn't want to intrude. I would not see him again until today, when his casket was wheeled to the front of the sanctuary and I served at his funeral Mass. 

We are here. Then we are not. That was the sensation I had today, as I have had many times before. The bell tolls as the soul is handed from the earth to God. That image sticks in my mind, for it repeats, and in time, mine will be the casket that rolls down the aisle I used to walk. Some friends will think, I know, that this is another of my eccentric preoccupations, and just purely unnecessary, even silly. In fact, every time I attend a funeral, and given my 36 years I have attended many, I am comforted.

I was recently watching an old interview with Carl Gustav Jung, when he was about 84, and a year from his own death. Jung, of course, was a protege of Freud, until they broke over psychoanalytic philosophy. Asked at some point whether he believed in God, he said something like, "I don't just believe. I know." 

I was startled by the affirmation of this so secularly known individual, although I knew he was, at least nominally, a Christian. But that is what I felt today, and I think I have felt at many another funeral, when I watched the incensing of the coffin and the sprinkling of the holy water recalling baptism. He was here. He is not here. But he is somewhere, and God is there.

At least that is how I look at it. It's how a lot of us look at it. I know. A lot of us think that the grave is the end. Well, I kind of go the way of Pascal. If I am wrong, if a lot of us are wrong, we'll never know about it. If we are right in our "knowing" the joy will be explosive. And I promise not to say "I told you so."