Me And My Lady Of Assumption

True story. For a fortnight I have been receiving telephone messages concerning baptisms, funerals, confirmations, and the like. Callers wish that I perform said duties straightaway. I find this curious because my standard out-of-office recording—“Hey I’m away from my desk leave a message BEEP”—contains no evidence of my being a Holy See of the Roman Empire.

Hold up. I looked up the definition of fortnight. Apparently it only means 14 days, not five years. So what I mean to write up there—for I am far too lazy to move my cursor up a few lines and edit it—is, For many, many fortnights this has been happening. It happens a couple times a month; just enough so that I figure I should do something about it but just enough so that I don't.

When I answer the phone, this is how it goes:

Ring ring.

Me: “Hello. This is P.L. Frederick.”

Cute Little Old Lady Voice: “When is Father H---- in?”

Me: “Uh. I think you have the wrong number.”

Lady: “Why can’t I speak to him?”

Me: “This is the wrong number. I’m sorry but—”

Lady: “This isn’t Our Lady? Our Lady of Assumption? What is this?”

Me: “Sadly, no. Are you looking for a church? In what town? What number were you looking for?”

Lady: “This is the number.” (heavy breathing)

Me: “If you hold on, I could probably find it for you—”

Lady (heavy breathing): Click.

Over the five years I’ve lived in two towns with two distinctly different telephone numbers. Yet people still call looking for Our Lady of Assumption. They don’t call my home number; they don’t fax, email, or text. They call and leave messages for me at work. What is this? If you know, because I am really, really curious, I will give you a nickel.

Image of Our Lady of the Angels, San Francisco El Grande. Painting by Antonio da Contreras, 15th century. Refrigerator tidbits gotten by reading Death In The Kitchen.