I'm a poet / essayist / memoirist/
journalist (in the sense of keeping a journal, not of working for a newspaper) and it occurred to me that a blog fits in with all that. If Montaigne, father of the essay, were alive today, he'd keep a blog. This is my self-portrait as frustrated artist who can't believe she's not famous yet. (And because it's part of my artistic endeavor, the whole damn thing is copyrighted. All rights reserved.)
July 2009
Sun Mon Tue Wed Thu Fri Sat
      1 2 3 4
5 6 7 8 9 10 11
12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25
26 27 28 29 30 31  

Categories

Archives

  • July 2009
  • June 2009
  • May 2009
  • April 2009
  • March 2009
  • February 2009
  • January 2009
  • December 2008
  • November 2008
  • October 2008
  • September 2008
  • August 2008
  • July 2008
  • June 2008
  • May 2008
  • April 2008
  • March 2008
  • February 2008
  • January 2008
  • December 2007
  • November 2007
  • October 2007
  • September 2007
  • August 2007
  • July 2007
  • June 2007
  • May 2007
  • April 2007
  • March 2007
  • February 2007
  • January 2007
  • December 2006
  • November 2006
  • October 2006
  • September 2006
  • August 2006
  • July 2006
  • June 2006
  • May 2006
  • April 2006
  • March 2006
  • February 2006
  • January 2006
  • December 2005
  • November 2005
  • October 2005
  • September 2005
  • August 2005

Recent Entries

  • Criminal Gila Monsters Riding Tractors and Eating Artichokes
  • You might want to put a bid on this one tonight, ladies and gentlemen, because we are talking to Phil Collins's people
  • Sunday So Far
  • Darling Lily
  • Even East Coast Super Lefties Think SLC Is WAY Cool
  • The Vamp Ass Buffy Really Kicks
  • Bore vs. Gore
  • The Priesthood is Magic
  • Stunted and Misshapen by the Priesthood
  • Men with First Names and Sweaty Palms

Recent Comments

  • Holly on The Other Saint Joe
  • aerin on The Other Saint Joe
  • Juti on The Other Saint Joe
  • rebecca on The Other Saint Joe
  • Mary Ellen on The Other Saint Joe

Read These

News Feeds


RSS1 | RSS2 | Atom

Credits

Powered by
Movable Type 4.261

Designed by

« He Wants the Precious | Home | My Crappy Part-time Temp Job »

October 15, 2008

The Other Saint Joe

I grew up in the St. Joseph Stake, the 25th stake of Zion. When it was organized in 1883, its eastern limit was El Paso; its western limits were St. David, on the road to Tucson (which didn’t have enough Mormons to need any sort of church leadership), and Miami, AZ, on the road to Phoenix (which was taken care of by Mesa). Its headquarters were in Thatcher, the little farming town whose first white inhabitants were my great-great-great grandfather and his family. Still located on Church Street is the Stake Presidency Building, thank god--so many other important buildings in Thatcher’s history burned down in the 1980s due to faulty wiring installed by some douche nozzle, including the wonderful old church where I was baptized, and the administration building of the old Gila Academy, one of the first junior colleges built west of the Mississippi.

Because I grew up in the St. Joseph Stake, I knew exactly who St. Joseph was: Joseph Smith, the first latter-day saint, the guy who made it possible for me to grow up a saint. When I would encounter things like St. Joseph’s baby aspirin, I would think how nice and how strange it was that a bunch of heathen recognized Joseph Smith’s importance by naming their pills after him.

I was pretty old--in junior high or so--before I realized that the aspirin was actually named for the other St. Joseph--you know, the guy who married Mary, the mother of Jesus. I remember thinking, “All he did was marry a pregnant lady. How does that qualify him to be a saint?"--not in the Mormon way, of course, where all you have to do is be born into a family who believed in the proper set of doctrines but in the Catholic way, where you have to do miracles or something.

It became easier to understand when I learned that another translation of “saint” is simply “holy,” and another translation of holy is simply “set apart, unusual, other,” or special. It’s very easy to think about how a guy in an old patriarchal society who is willing to go ahead and marry his fiancé when she’s knocked up with someone else’s kid is, indeed, special.

This preamble has been designed to establish two things: one, I still have to remind myself, every time I hear a reference in the world at large to Saint Joseph, that it’s about the other Saint Joseph, not the Saint Joseph of my childhood (indoctrination runs deep); and two, I’m now going to tell you a story about that other St. Joe.

As I mentioned back in July, I sold my house. What I didn’t mention is that I was lucky enough to sell my house less than a month after I put it on the market, at a price high enough over what I paid for it that I made a small profit, even after I forked out for things like painting and some upgrades; and with my equity, I had a nice chunk of change in my pocket after all was said and done.

And although I can’t say for certain, St. Joseph might have had something to do with this. See, there’s a belief that he can help you sell your house. My loyal reader and commenter Juti told me about this, and, not one to skip out on divine intervention when I can get it, I paid 99 cents plus tax for a three-inch plastic statue of St. Joseph at my local Catholic book store, buried him upside down in my backyard; then, when he'd done his job--because I didn't want to lose the magic, should I ever need it again--dug him up just before I moved away and hauled him to my new home.

Here he is on my kitchen table in my new apartment, soil from my old garden still clinging to him.

Other_St_Joe.jpg

I left the mud on him because I thought it would make for a cooler photo, but I was too hurried to take a picture right when I dug him up. Now the dirt has flaked off considerably, but I kind of like the look. (And I realize it's the pears behind him that are in focus, and that the sunlight from the window behind him makes him even blurrier, but I like that too--it looks like a halo to me.)

So--if you're trying to sell a house, invest a buck in a plastic statue and bury it in your backyard in some appropriately hopeful and respectful ceremony. OK, if you're a hardcore nonbeliever when it comes to supernatural and religious phenomena, you might be betraying your principles, but aside from that, what can it possibly hurt?

Posted by holly at October 15, 2008 9:02 AM

5 Comments

By Mary Ellen on October 15, 2008 1:34 PM

I need a St. Joseph for our Texas house, on the market since April 14. Gah.

By rebecca on October 15, 2008 4:50 PM

That is a GREAT story!

By Juti on October 15, 2008 10:26 PM

I'm glad it worked for you! Now you need to give St. Joseph a neat little spot in your new home so he can watch over you.

By aerin on October 17, 2008 11:32 AM

I have heard this as well - never tried it myself though. I will keep it in mind if we ever decide to sell!

By Holly on October 19, 2008 9:30 AM

Hi Everyone--thanks for stopping by. Mary Ellen, I definitely recommend getting someone to do this for you--like I said, what can it hurt? It costs a dollar and five minutes. Rebecca, glad you liked the story. Juti, St. Joe is sitting on the little ledge above the window in my kitchen, which faces east and gets lots of light. I think he likes it there. aerin, I hope if you ever do try this, it works for you too!

Leave a comment


Type the characters you see in the picture above.