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Editor’s note: This Optimist column first appeared in the Sunday Dispatch on March 2, 2003. It has been edited for space.
Since he hit 70 years old, my friend Joe Luke doesn’t fast on beer anymore. So I do.
It’s not really “fasting” we Catholics do during Lent, it’s abstaining, a “doing without.” But we call it fasting.
Many of us will “give up” something as a way of making a sacrifice during this solemn time leading to Easter. I think I heard that St. Francis used to put ashes on his food, so he wouldn’t enjoy it. Fasting is the same concept, except not as drastic, thank God.
As kids, it was common to ask each other “what are you fasting on?” We’d give up candy, or gum, or whatever we thought would make us sound holy enough to our elders.
My mom took it seriously, but I don’t think she, herself, fasted. She didn’t have to. She had her hands full planning meatless Friday meals. My dad, a non-church-going Lutheran, took a few things seriously, particularly anything he deemed a man-made rule disguised as the word of God. But he would fast every year — on watermelon, he’d proudly announce.
I can’t recall ever keeping a fast as a kid. Sooner of later I’d eat a Tootsie Roll or a Life Saver “by accident” and then all bets would be off. Once you broke your fast, that was that. There was no starting over. One piece of candy might as well be a thousand.
But what I could not do then, I force myself to do now. Once Ash Wednesday arrives, I’m finished with alcohol for the next six weeks. A few years back, I threw soda into the mix as well. I figured I didn’t consume enough beer and wine to make it a true sacrifice. Adding soda did the trick, especially when it comes to Friday night pizza. I’ve tried it with water, ice tea, and even pineapple juice. Yuk, yuk, and yuk. I should give up the pizza, too, and be done with it, but I’m not sure Heaven is worth that.
As I hinted at earlier, I owe all of this to Joe Luke.
Joe is a retired printer and pressman. He’s one of those guys born with ink in his veins. He worked part-time at the Dispatch making printing plates on Saturday nights during my first stint here, which lasted 23 years. Every Lent, Joe fasted on beer.
Now, I must explain, there’s a big difference between me and Joe Luke when it comes to beer. I enjoy a beer. Joe savors one. The relationship he has with his beer is the kind most men only experience with say, a hunting dog. The rest of us just stand aside and gaze in wonderment.
Yet, Joe would give up beer for Lent.
I always said the guys at the Dispatch invented “Miller time.” It was a family-owned paper back then and the boss kept the refrigerator stocked with beer. Once the press started to roll in the wee-hours of Sunday morning, the staff — many of whom had a 16-hour day under their belts by then — cracked open a cold one. The only time the fridge wasn’t full of beer was during the winter. Then the cans of beer were stuck in the snow out back. Old pros, like Joe Luke and his sidekick the late Leo Moran, insisted it kept the beer even colder. Who were we to argue?
The crew — Bill Corcoran, Kenny Feeney, the boss “Pidge” Watson, Leo, Joe Luke, and I — would hang around a couple of hours drinking beer, cracking jokes, and flipping through the pages of the Dispatch, hot off the press. Occasionally, a guy like Jimmy Murphy (Leo’s brother-in-law) would happen in with a couple of trays of pizza. It was some of the best fun I’ve ever had.
All through Lent, Joe Luke would sip on a Coke. You might think the rest of us felt a little guilty slugging away in front of him, but we didn’t. Actually, that would have been disrespectful, if you know what I mean. Going on with our normal routine right in front of him made Joe’s sacrifice all the more perfect.
While we admired Joe’s willpower, don’t think for a minute that we didn’t give him a hard time. After all, we were guys. Sometimes, we’d pop a ring tab on a fresh one right under his nose. Or Leo would take a long pull from a can of Bud and say something like “You know, Mr. Luke, I think this is the coldest beer I’ve ever tasted.”
We made a ceremony out of Holy Saturday night when Joe was about his have his first beer at midnight. The ceremony usually began with someone setting the hands of the clock in the composing room ahead an hour trying to trip him up. He was always on to us, but we did it every year just the same. At the stroke of midnight, we’d gather around for Joe’s first sip, and then break into applause.
I loved Joe Luke so much during that moment.
One year, I asked him if he’d mind if I joined him in his fast. But, I told him, I didn’t want to steal his glory. “I’d be honored,” he said. I haven’t had a drink during Lent since, a good 20 years.
And you know what all that has taught me? It taught me Joe Luke is one tough guy.