I'll never be a DDGL

It was a Lodge's nightmare… both the District Deputy Grand Lecturer and Regional Grand Lecturer were in attendance. Also a visitor at that meeting, I sat next to the two dignitaries and thought, "The officers better be on their toes. This could get ugly."

It went better than I expected but at one point during the meeting the DDGL leaned over to the RGL and whispered, "The Senior Warden said, 'You will advance to the West and communicate the password...' It should be, 'You will approach the West...' Should we stop them and say something?"

The RGL shook his head, "No… they got there."

I'm with the RGL: I am not a hard-core ritualist – and that's blasphemy in some circles. Don't get me wrong. I like a well-done ritual as much as the next guy; but I care more about whether the ceremony comes off well than if a Brother says "this" when he should say "that." I know… I'll never be a DDGL.

And don't even get me started on the guys in the "peanut gallery" who start yelling out the next line any time the speaker has more than a two-second pause. I'm not alone in that. I've been in Lodge when the Master appointed a proctor with the admonition, "I don't want to hear a word out of anyone else." I'm big on proctors.

I bring all this up because this week my Lodge tested for one of the ritual awards my Grand Lodge sponsors. We invited the DDGL in to grade us on our opening and closing. The guys were well-practiced and the ceremony went like clockwork.

I just sat there thinking how enjoyable it is to be in any of our ceremonies – especially degree work – when things just click along. That, as opposed to the living hell of sitting through the same thing when the speakers are ill-prepared and have to be prompted on every line. Sitting through an opening like that is the only time I actually look forward to getting to the reading of the minutes.

So, congrats to my Brothers at Liberty Lodge #31. They got the award.

Oh, there were mistakes. There are ALWAYS mistakes. I knew our perfect score was gone as the Chaplain, asking God to subdue our discordant passions, prayed, "Grant that the sublime principles of Freemasonry may so subdue every insubordinate passion within us…"

See, I just let that roll right off my back. In fact, I thought it was kind of funny. Unfortunately, the DDGL – you know, the guy keeping score – was not amused.

A Small Sacrifice

I found a metal file box while I was rummaging through a closet recently. When I opened it, I discovered a treasure-trove of things my parents had saved. Among the items were World War II ration books. I'm certain they belonged to my mother, because at the time my father was slogging his way across North Africa, up through Italy and into France. You've seen the maps. My parents, Robert and Alice, were part of that industrious, young and determined group that really did save the world; and for good reason we now call them "The Greatest Generation."

People of that era made sacrifices unimaginable to most of us, now living in what Time Magazine has dubbed the "Me Me Me Generation" — not to be outdone by the "Me Generation" of the 70s.

I'm not sure what all of Mom's coupons were for, but I know for sure the U.S. rationed gas, food and other items. People were encouraged to recycle tin cans for the war effort. Children even donated their metal toys to help. Each family was allotted five tires (for one family car), and had to give any others to the government. Even the fact that we are at war today does not affect us like that. Most of us, apart from families with loved ones in the military, may make some sacrifices but not on such a large scale.

The material shortages ran so deep that it even affected, at least in one small way, the Freemasons. When Dad returned from the War, he joined the Fraternity. Although peacetime had returned, production had not caught up with demand and certain things remained hard to get. In Dad's Lodge and many others, it was customary to present a new Brother his apron in a cellophane envelope, suitable for its protection. Cellophane, however, was in short supply and his Lodge had to use paper as a substitute.

When Dad passed away, I could not find his apron. His Lodge, as is the custom, supplied one at his funeral. Later, while going through some of his things, I found it in an old cedar chest, inside that well-worn paper envelope. Despite its wrinkles and tears, it had protected the apron all those years. On it is a drawing of a Steward knocking at the inner door on behalf of a poor, blind candidate. Along with the picture is this accompanying note:

MASONRY WILL UNDERSTAND

Our fighting men need cellophane and its ingredients. For that reason the protection cellophane formerly gave our Masonic aprons has to be eliminated.

This white paper stock will carry on for the duration.

That envelope, having done its job, now hangs framed on my office wall as a reminder of those sacrifices.