Summary: Funny how a dream can help you figure stuff out…
Rating:  G  (1,500 words)

The Brandsters have included this author in our project: Preserving Their Legacy.  To preserve their legacy, we have decided to give them a home in the Bonanza Brand Fanfiction Library.  The author will always be the owner of this work of fanfiction, and should they wish us to remove their story, we will.

Thanks, Little Joe

I had a piece all set for an exercise on one of the Bonanza boards. I had even posted it. But I wasn’t satisfied with it so I deleted it from the board, intending to edit it and repost it later.

But then I had a dream that seemed to fit the topic—sort of. And one of the Cartwrights showed up in it. Now I’ve had plenty of dreams about Adam, but curiously he wasn’t in this one. And, uh, it wasn’t that type of dream.

I was sitting in a Catholic church that I didn’t recognize. There was an old lady a few pews ahead of me, kneeling with her back held stiffly erect, muttering the rosary.

I stared at that straight back. Jeez, wasn’t she uncomfortable?

Then I realized that I was sitting up pretty straight myself. That was odd. I tend to slouch, except when I wear stays.

Oh, yeah. I wear stays—or a corset, if you prefer—now and again because I participate in Revolutionary War reenactments. I have a closet full of 18th century clothes.

I looked down at my clothing. I was wearing stays, all right. And a chemise, several petticoats, and a muslin dress cut in a style appropriate for the 1860’s. No hoopskirt though. Just as well, I thought. I find them difficult to manipulate.

I felt my hair. It was tucked back into a snood. I smiled at that—I always experience ‘snood envy’ whenever I see the Civil War ladies.

And I had on a mantilla of some kind. Well, women used to keep their heads covered in church.

Just then someone genuflected his way into my pew. The whole church was just about empty, yet he had to sit next to me. I gave him a questioning look.

He felt my stare and turned his head toward me, smiling. “Sorry, Ma’am,” he whispered as he pulled out the kneeler. “I usually sit in this pew—when I bother coming, that is.”

I gasped. It was Little Joe Cartwright.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

He stared at me as he knelt down and crossed himself. “Um, I was just waiting for confessions to start.”

I had the grace to blush as I turned away from him. Then I followed his lead as I knelt down too and crossed myself. But my mind wasn’t on prayers—it was racing ahead.

I was sure now that I was dreaming. And if dreams help you solve the problems of your waking life, then it made sense that I would dream about Little Joe.

I always pictured Joe as a nice Catholic boy—after all, his mother was a French Creole from New Orleans. And the problem I had concerned the Church.

And Michael Landon was Jewish. Well, he came from a mixed background. His father was Jewish so he was a patrilineal Jew. His mother, as I recall, was Catholic. Perfect! If anyone could help me, it would be Michael Landon’s alter ego.

I turned back to Little Joe. “Can I ask you a personal question?” I whispered.

He cocked his head at me. It must have seemed like an odd question for a total stranger to ask. But he flashed me an adorable smile regardless—you know the one—and nodded.

“Sure,” he answered, keeping his voice low. “Why not?”

“Can you honestly recite the Creed?” I asked.

He considered that for a moment. At length he shrugged. “More or less. I’ve never given it much thought. Why? Are you having a problem with it?”

I sighed. “I can say the opening sentence: ‘We believe in God, the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth.’ But after that—well, there’s not much else I agree with.”

Joe furrowed his brow. “So why are you here?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I suppose because I like the Mass and I have a sentimental attachment to it—even if I don’t strictly believe everything the Church teaches.”

I paused and took a deep breath. “I think I’m worried about this because it’s April,” I continued. “And that means Lent and Easter. It seems relevant—especially since my family will be going crazy preparing for the holiday.”

“Everyone’s family goes crazy,” he assured me with a wink. “People make fools out of themselves in April trying to get everything perfect for the Easter dinner—or the Seder, I suppose. It’s traditional.”

“That’s just it,” I told him. “It’s time for Passover too. One line of my family used to be Jewish, but we’ve let the religion die out among us. I’ve always felt bad about that. So a few years ago I started attending synagogue—just once in a while—with friends.”

I paused again and swallowed hard. “Then yesterday I realized that I’ve spent more time in synagogue over the last year than in church. And I like it just as much and my attitudes and beliefs are much more in line with Judaism.”

Joe’s hazel eyes twinkled at that. “Well, you can convert, can’t you?” he asked. “A priest might argue with me, but I don’t think God minds one way or the other.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “but—well, there’s a problem.”

He nodded. “Yeah, I’ll bet. My brother Adam courted a Jewish girl for a while. She and her father were fully observant—that’s requires a pretty radical change of life.”

I bit my lip. Of course Little Joe wouldn’t have heard of Reform or Conservative Judaism—I don’t think Reform took off in America till around 1885 and the Conservative branch started after that. He’d only be familiar with Orthodox Judaism.*

But even Reform or Conservative Judaism would make a big change in my life—just not as radical as Joe was thinking.

“And then there’s your family,” he added knowingly. “Would they give you a hard time?”

I shook my head. “No, they’d be fine. If—if I tell you why I’m hesitant, will you promise not to laugh?”

“Of course,” he said at once.

I shot him a suspicious glance, but he looked perfectly sincere.

“I’m afraid I’ll forget not to cross myself and such,” I told him.

He stared at me for a moment and then burst out laughing. The old lady ahead of us turned around and gave him a quelling look as I punched him in the arm.

“You promised not to laugh,” I hissed.

“Sorry,” he managed, lowering his voice again. “I know what you mean, though. Old habits die hard. I usually go to church with my Pa and my brothers—they’re real low-church Protestants—and I have to remind myself not to genuflect, kneel, cross myself, et cetera.”

I smiled. “Well, then you understand. Something about the customs and the liturgy get under your skin. And I might miss the things I’m used to. Things like—well, even things like the statues of Our Lady.”

Joe’s eyes went to the statue. Then he turned back to me with a grin. “I wouldn’t worry about that too much,” he whispered. “When you come right down to it, Mary’s just a nice Jewish girl.”

“True,” I owned, biting back my own laughter.

“Look,” he said, leaning closer to me, “there’s no rush, is there? Why don’t you attend the synagogue regularly for a year or so? That ought to give you time to figure things out.”

I nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”

“And once a year has past,” he continued, “you’ll know if you belong there and if you want to take on all the responsibilities that go with it. And, on the other hand, you’ll know if it was only ‘sentimental attachment’ keeping you here—or something more.”

That seemed like an eminently reasonable solution. “I think you’re right,” I agreed, giving him a grateful look.

He winked at me again. “My advice is always good. Folks usually go to my Pa when they have a problem, but I could sort them out just as well.”

I opened my mouth, trying to think up a reply to that. But it turned out not to matter, since I woke up.

I stayed in bed for a moment, staring up at the ceiling and absently stroking my cat. Then I got up and my eyes met the postcard of the Cartwrights that sits among the pictures of my family.

I smiled at the framed, faded picture. “Thanks, Little Joe,” I whispered.

Then I remembered that, no matter where you worship, part of your worship should include thoughtfulness for others, right? So I went to my phone, called my mother and asked her how I could make her life easier when it came to the Easter meal.