Our Lady of the Lost and Found

by Diane Schoemperlen

  In this time well before the invention of printing, two full centuries before the appearance of the Gutenberg Bible, the first substantial printed book, Anthony’s most prized and essential possession is his psalter, a collection of scriptures, psalms, and canticles in manuscript form. It is invaluable not only for its own sake but also for the notes and comments Anthony has written in it to aid him in his teaching. He keeps it always close to him, even going so far as to sleep with it in his hands.

  —But one morning, Mary said, Anthony awakened to find his hands empty. He figured the psalter must have slid to the floor in the night. But it was nowhere to be found in his cell-like room. He alerted the other friars. Frantically they searched the entire monastery but instead of locating the psalter, they discovered that a number of other items were missing: a store of root vegetables they were recently given by a neighboring farmer and were saving for the next feast day, three loaves of bread just baked the day before, four bottles of sacramental wine, a healthy young mule, and a French novice who had recently been complaining at length about the deprivations of monastic life. Clearly it was he who had absconded with the psalter.

  Anthony prays that it will soon be returned to him. The very next day, the remorseful novice comes slinking back. He tells a horrific story of being confronted by a hideous, axe-brandishing demon as he tried to make his getaway. The novice is forgiven, the psalter is restored to Anthony’s hands, and there is much all-round rejoicing.

  In 1231, after preaching through Lent, Anthony is stricken with dropsy and retires with two other friars to a woodland retreat at Camposanpiero. He lives there in a cell built under the branches of a walnut tree. When it becomes clear to him that death is near, he asks to be carried back to Padua. But the trip by wagon proves too much for him and, on June 13, he dies at the Poor Clare Convent at Arcella. He is just thirty-six years old.

  On his deathbed, Anthony sings a hymn to Mary:

  —O Gloriosa Virgine: O Glorious Lady, exalted high in heaven above, the great Creator, mighty Lord, was nursed by thee with mother’s love. What sinful Eve had lost of us, by thy dear Son thou didst restore.

  Immediately after his burial on June 17, 1231, miracles begin to occur at his tomb. In the fastest canonization ever, Anthony is officially declared a saint by Pope Gregory IX on Pentecost, May 30, 1232. Thirty-one years later, in 1263, his body is exhumed and moved (or “translated” as is said of moving such relics from one place to another) from the convent to the newly erected Basilica di Sant’ Antonio at Padua. Although it is found that most of him has turned to dust, his tongue, which praised the Lord with such eloquence and wisdom, remains fresh and red. Present at the exhumation is Saint Bonaventure, another great successor of Saint Francis. Upon seeing the wondrous tongue, he takes it in his hands and kisses it fondly, declaring this the ultimate proof that Anthony had indeed found favor with God.

  Neither his miracles nor his popularity subside over the following centuries. In 1350, his tomb is reopened and his jawbone is removed, it, too, having been part of what made him so eloquent. With its teeth still intact, the jawbone is placed on display in a head-shaped reliquary in the basilica near his tongue. In 1668, four hundred years after his death, Anthony, by royal decree, is made a soldier in the second infantry regiment of the Spanish army. Each time his regiment shares in a victory, Anthony is promoted. In 1889 he retires, having reached the rank of general.

  In 1946, Anthony is declared a Doctor of the Church by Pope Pius XII. In 1981, his tomb is opened yet again. This time his vocal cords are extracted. After scientific testing determines that they too are undecayed, they are put on display in a crystal ball set upon an open book. Golden flames leap from its pages which are made of solid silver.

  Anthony is such a popular saint that he has more places named after him than any other. Throughout the world, sixty-eight cities, mountains, bays, and reefs bear his name. He is the patron saint of many things, including harvests, the mail, sailors, fishermen, spinsters, barren women, American Indians, Portugal, Italy, Brazil, the poor, and the oppressed. He is called upon for help against infertility, fever, demonic powers, and plagues afflicting cattle. He is most often invoked as the finder of lost objects because of the story of his psalter, lost and found.

  Busloads of pilgrims, more than a thousand a day, come from around the world to see his relics in Padua. In the basilica gift shop and at the stalls of vendors in the surrounding square, they stock up on souvenirs. They buy bookmarks, key chains, tape measures, school supplies, combs, and toothbrush holders, all with Anthony’s image on them. They take home Anthony snow globes, dashboard magnets, lightswitch covers, ballpoint pens on which his figure moves up and down, and pink plaster Anthonys which predict rain when they turn blue.

  In return, these pilgrims leave behind gold and silver exvotos, colored snapshots of their loved ones, embossed thank-you cards, short notes dashed off on the backs of place mats and parking tickets, long letters handwritten on expensive monogrammed stationery. Ever obedient to the words of Jesus, Anthony, they believe, will not deny them: Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find. Anthony receives nearly four hundred letters a day.

  Today to him the faithful pray: The sea obeys, and fetters break, And lifeless limbs thou does restore; Whilst treasures lost are found again, When young or old thine aid implore. Those who like to speak to him more casually say: Tony, Tony, turn around. Something’s lost and must be found. He is the friendly finder of car keys, earrings, mittens, hats, money, wallets, homework, husbands, gloves.

  —Anthony is, Mary said, the restorer of lost hopes, lost dreams, lost souls, the shining beacon for all those who have lost their way.

  Walking

  For the duration of Mary’s visit, we fell into a comfortable routine that suited us both. She was the perfect houseguest. She was not noisy, demanding, messy, or intrusive. She was helpful without getting in the way, and she did not need to be constantly entertained. I sometimes asked her if she wanted to go out: for lunch or dinner, to a movie, an art show, or something. But she always said she was happy just staying close to home.

  —Given a different set of circumstances, she said, I would have been a real homebody. But that’s not the story that was written for me.

  She insisted that I should just go on about my business and she meant it.

  Each morning I got up at six o’clock as usual, brought in the newspaper, turned on the radio, and made the coffee. Mary would join me for a light breakfast and then go back to her room where, she said, she had some reading to do, some letters to write, some phone calls to make. I imagined that these calls might give the phrase “long distance” a whole new meaning. My anxiety about the resulting phone bill must have shown on my face.

  —Fear not, Mary said. I’ve got my calling card.

  I would then spend the rest of the morning doing exactly what I would have done if she were not there. I would read in the kitchen for an hour or so, then have a bath, get dressed, and go to my study. There I worked on whatever business needed tending to and continued making notes for my next book. Sometimes I could hear Mary moving around in her room or talking on the phone. I could hear her in the shower. But mostly she was silent.

  Around noon or one o’clock, we would reconvene in the kitchen for lunch. After lunch, the rest of the afternoon was open.

  Late on Tuesday, the second day of her visit, Mary suggested that we take a walk around the neighborhood. The prospect of some fresh air and a little exercise was appealing. We put on our shoes and went out. Mary wore her brown cardigan which, on her, did not look dowdy at all. It was close to five o’clock and many of my neighbors were just returning from work.

  On any given weekday, myself and a handful of retirees are usually the only people home on the block, the others having gone off to fulfill their respective obligations in the real world. While I am at home here constructing my own fictional worlds, performing what I like to think of on a good day as my own minor miracles, they
are out there making their various contributions to society. They are out there cutting hair, serving meals, nursing the sick, fixing cars, delivering mail, teaching the twelve times table, selling lawn mowers, dresses, refrigerators, life insurance, real estate, and shoes.

  My neighbors do not seem to be unduly impressed or bothered by having a writer in their midst. I don’t know for sure if any of them have ever read my books. If they have, they might or might not have recognized bits and pieces of themselves in the pages, stray details here and there: a description of a house, a garden, a trellis, a dog, a face in the window looking out at the rain. If they have noticed, they do not mention it.

  They do usually notice when I get my picture in the local paper. One or another of them will cut out the article and bring it over in case I haven’t seen it or might want an extra copy. The newspaper picture that generated the most excitement around the neighborhood was when, two years ago in the fall, I happened to arrive at the Health Unit Flu Shot Clinic at the same time as the newspaper photographer. So there I was the next day in black-and-white with my hair not combed, my sleeve rolled up, and my teeth gritted in an utterly unconvincing smile while the nurse stuck the needle in my arm.

  As far as my neighbors are concerned, what matters the most about me is that I am a good neighbor because I do not have a dog that barks all night or a cat that digs up their gardens, I keep my lawn mowed in the summer and my snow shovelled in the winter, and, most important, I do not have wild parties to which the police must be called.

  Now, as far as they were concerned, that day in April had been as ordinary a day as any other. When Mary and I set out on our walk, they were pulling into their respective driveways with relief, I imagined, at another day’s work done, looking forward to dinner, a relaxing evening, early to bed, and a good night’s sleep. At least that’s how it looked from the outside. If any of them were coming home with reluctance or regret, dreading yet another boring evening, another scene, another argument, another phone call from the principal, the collection agency, or a spurned lover threatening to spill the beans, they did not let it show, and I did not have to know about it. Respect for each other’s privacy is, I believe, an essential component in the loving of thy neighbors.

  Just as Mary and I reached the end of my driveway, the woman who lives directly across the street pulled in in her new red minivan. She is a secretary at a real estate agency and her husband, who was bound to be home shortly, works for the city. Her three towheaded boys tumbled happily out of the van. The two older boys clutched their lunch boxes and several sheets each of colored construction paper, today’s artwork, no doubt destined now for the fridge door. The youngest, who was still in day care, carried his teddy bear by one leg, its brown head dragging on the ground.

  —Hello, hello, their mother called merrily across to us, juggling her purse, her keys, and a large bag of cat food, while gently herding the children toward the back door. Their big tabby cat sat in the front window, washing his face and waiting patiently.

  We waved and called back.

  —Who’s that other lady with the long hair? I heard the oldest boy ask his mother, looking over his shoulder at us. I could not hear her answer but one of the questions I had not asked earlier had thus been answered.

  —They can see you, I said with wonder.

  —Children can always see me, Mary said. But yes, this time they can all see me, the mother too. Don’t forget: seeing is not always believing. They can see me without seeing me, if you know what I mean.

  Then she quoted Jesus from the Gospel of Saint Matthew:

  —Therefore speak I to them in parables: because they seeing see not; and hearing they hear not, neither do they understand.

  Mary was the only person I have ever met who could quote the Bible in ordinary conversation without sounding pompous, self-righteous, or overweeningly pious. When Mary spoke scripture, it sounded as natural and unaffected as anything else she had to say.

  We turned right and headed down the street, falling smoothly into step, strolling at an easy pace.

  Now considered part of the downtown area, my neighborhood, when it was originally developed fifty years ago, was one of the first suburbs of the city. Most of the houses are much like mine, three-bedroom bungalows in red brick or white stucco. There are a handful of larger homes with two stories and four or five bedrooms. Over the years, many of the houses have undergone changes. There have been renovations and additions, new porches, patios, windows, garages, and decks. There have been innumerable paint jobs. The neighborhood has thus long since lost that cookie-cutter look of newer suburbs and possesses now a comfortable character of settled respectability, kindness, decency, safety, and well-being.

  The large deep lots contain mature trees of various kinds: maple, poplar, spruce, fir, cedar, weeping birch, black walnut, mountain ash. In the yards both front and back there are many kinds of bushes and shrubs: lilac, juniper, forsythia, weigela, mock orange, honeysuckle, hydrangea. Because it was only April, the deciduous trees and bushes were just beginning to glow green with leaves in bud, but Mary said she could imagine how lush it would all look in a couple of months and how glorious the leaves must be in the fall.

  As we walked, Mary noted and sometimes paused to admire certain details of various houses. She liked the vine-covered wall of one, the cedar hedge of another. She liked a cobblestone walkway, a bay window, a split-level front deck, an old-fashioned screen door, and a bright blue pair of shutters. She liked a white wooden trellis that was bare now but would soon enough be completely hidden by a deep purple clematis so large and striking that cars passing in the street frequently slow down to admire it and, if the owners of the house happen to be outside, they wave and smile proudly from their chairs on the front deck.

  We talked about gardening, which is something I have come to enjoy very much in recent years. Mary was quite knowledgeable and enthusiastic about the subject and lamented the fact that, because of her peripatetic lifestyle, she was not able to have a garden of her own.

  —I have to let other people do my gardening for me, she said, and went on to tell me about Mary Gardens, a medieval tradition now enjoying something of a revival.

  According to this tradition, each plant and flower cultivated in such a garden is either named for or symbolic of her possessions, her body parts, her virtues, and the events of her miraculous life. The rose and the lily, both symbolizing her purity, are the two flowers most commonly associated with Mary, but there are hundreds of others. Each flower has its own meaning and significance. Each plant is a prayer.

  —Take that clematis, for instance, she said, pointing at the still-empty trellis. It’s also called Virgin’s Bower. The fuchsia is Our Lady’s Eardrops, campanula is Our Lady’s Thimble, Canterbury bells are Our Lady’s Nightcap, thrift is Our Lady’s Pin Cushion, and lily of the valley is Our Lady’s Tears.

  Mary Gardens, both public and private, have all these and more: Our Lady’s Hair, Our Lady’s Ribbon, Our Lady’s Glove, Our Lady’s Fingers, Our Lady’s Comb, Our Lady’s Looking Glass, Our Lady’s Needle, Our Lady’s Thumb, Our Lady’s Meat, and Our Lady’s Cheeses. There is Mary’s Face, Mary’s Gold, Mary’s Nut, and Mary’s Milk, a kind of thistle whose leaves are covered with white spots said to be drops of breast milk spilled while Mary nursed the baby Jesus on the road to Egypt.

  —And don’t forget navelwort, Mary said. Once it was called Venus’ Navel, but then it became known as Our Lady’s Navel. Another one of the many interesting things I seem to have inherited from the early goddesses. I also share a lot with Artemis, the Greek goddess of both virginity and childbirth.

  When we reached the stop sign at the corner, we turned right and then right again. Midway up that part of the block there lives an old but ferocious yellow bulldog. In fact, that is his name: Bulldog. His owners, much to the relief of the rest of the neighborhood, keep him in at night so his barking does not disturb anyone’s sleep. But in the daytime he is mostly outside, tied up in the fr
ont yard on a sturdy rope just long enough to allow him to reach a spot on the outer edge of his lawn six inches short of the sidewalk. Bulldog cannot tolerate anyone walking past his house. No matter how sound asleep he might appear to be in his usual station beside a large forsythia bush at the foot of the steps, whenever a pedestrian approaches his yard, Bulldog comes flying out with his vicious little teeth bared and his watery brown eyes bulging. He tears hard and fast toward the street and, just as he reaches the edge of his lawn, Bulldog also reaches the end of his rope. He is then unceremoniously yanked off his feet and flipped over backward. Struggling upright again, he goes into a maniacal convulsion of barking and gagging while nearly strangling himself and spraying slobber everywhere. Once the pedestrian has passed, Bulldog plods back to his favorite spot at the foot of the steps and falls instantly asleep, exhausted, no doubt, by his valiant efforts.

  As if on cue, the moment our feet touched Bulldog’s stretch of sidewalk, he launched himself across the yard. Mary stopped walking. Bulldog kept running. That day, as always, he headed full bore toward us until the rope caught him up short and flipped him over. We both laughed as his stocky little legs pawed the air. He flailed about, righted himself, bared his teeth, and faced us down. His eyes bulged. His mouth opened. But nothing came out. He closed his mouth and sat down. Mary frowned at him. He cocked his head and eyed her suspiciously. Mary smiled. He stood up, turned around, and trudged back to his spot at the foot of the steps. He lay down and closed his eyes.

  Mary laughed and we continued down the street. At the corner we again turned right. Several houses down we stopped to let a battered brown station wagon pull into the driveway of a redbrick house just like mine. There were children’s toys scattered across the front lawn and a red and white stroller parked near the door. This, I realized, was the front of one of the houses whose backyards I can see from the window of my study. It was, in fact, the house whose laundry I had been contemplating the previous morning, the house with five identical shirts and a Jesus teeshirt on the clothesline.