Her Name was Mud

She’s back in the news; that infamous White House intern whose affair with a President 20 years ago was all anyone could talk about.

(First, let’s reflect on the fact that it’s been 20 years. This doesn’t seem possible.  I was listening to a story on NPR today about “Millennials:” babies born in the 80’s and 90’s. They interviewed a girl, born in 1992, who is graduating from college. College? Wasn’t 1992 just yesterday?)

Anyway, back to the intern. Twenty years ago, I volunteered at our church. My volunteer day often coincided with another group of volunteers. They were ladies of a “certain age” who came in to help out Frank, our master of all things printed. One of his jobs was to produce the Sunday bulletin and this wonderful group of gals, most in the 70’s and 80’s came in to help stuff all the inserts into the bulletins for him.

Frank and I loved to eavesdrop on their conversations. As they sat at their table, Frank and I would find any excuse to hover near and listen in. They always had a lot to talk about. It usually involved body parts and their functions and how so-and-so’s stuff wasn’t up to snuff. They always discussed last week’s sermon and other important church business. Some days, they took up current events.

As Intern-gate was the only thing you heard about when you turned on the TV, these ladies waded into the murky waters of politics and morals. They were, as most Americans, sick of hearing about it. They were mad as wet hens at the President and wanted to show him the door. Then one of them said, “I’d be happy to never hear the name ‘Veronica Stravinsky’ again.”

While the other ladies, not missing a beat, heartily agreed, Frank and I made eye contact across the room. That was all she wrote. We both ducked out the nearest door – he made for one hallway while I dashed down another. I snorted and gulped and thought I was going to make it without completely losing it when I heard, off in the distance, Frank’s cackle. I went around the corner to find him doubled over, convulsing with laughter. Of course I joined him.

When we finally got it together, he gasped, “Did she say, ‘Veronica Stravinsky’?” I only managed a nod before we lost it again.

Most, if not all, of those ladies have been promoted to stuffing Heaven’s bulletins. I bet they’re having a great time, talking about all the “goings-on” up there.

But I wish I had one more chance to listen in on their conversations here on earth. Frank and I would be hanging out, listening in, and trying to avoid eye contact.

I won’t be buying your book, Veronica, but I thank you for one of the best laughs ever.