TALE OF TWO MISSOURIANS WITH PROBLEMS

"I'll bet you didn't expect to hear from me today," the voice on the other end of the phone said. There was no note of anxiety, no nervous sputter, no hesitation in the speech, and the voice was correct: I didn't know who was calling.

"This is Judi," the voice said helpfully. "Just calling some people on this memorable day." The day was memorable, all right. The governor had just appointed an interim Secretary of State of the State of Missouri, and the woman who had been serving in that capacity since Jan. 11, 1993, had become, for all intents and purposes, the de facto ex-secretary of state. The day before, the Missouri House of Representatives, for the first time in 26 years, had voted an impeachment of a public official.

It had not been a happy day for anyone connected in any way with the case of Judith K. Moriarty. And the day of the phone call, the day the Governor of Missouri said was to be her last in public office, was not much better for either the friends or enemies of the embattled official.

Judi and I talked about events of the past two days, and throughout the conversation, there were repeated protestations of innocence. Words such as "I did nothing wrong" and "They (never identified) were jealous of my popularity" and "This isn't over yet" were interspersed with recollections of happier times in the past and dreams of future glory.

Since Judi was born at about the time I was thinking -- and worrying -- about entering the Navy in World War II, I offered her some fatherly consolation, the kind I still offer my children when they encounter problems that each of us experiences sometime during our lifetime. She seemed not to notice, maybe not even hear, as we continued our discussion of her career, her travails and her despair that had been heightened by her enemies.

To say it was a one-sided, self-absorbed conversation would be stating the obvious. Not once was there any mention of what course of action might be best for the citizens of Missouri or even the cadre of friends who publicly, and privately, still offered their support. If there was any thought of what Judi Moriarty might do that would most benefit the citizens of her state, if was never broached in a conversation that was quite lengthy and often quite emotional.

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A few days before the impeachment of Judi Moriarty, a voice on the phone identified the caller as a parent of a mentally retarded child in the State of Missouri. "I'm sorry to bother you," the voice said apologetically, and despite my reassurance that his call was not in the least inconvenient, he again apologized.

"I know my problems must seem inconsequential to you," the caller said, "but my wife and I have been going through all kinds of hell, and I wanted to solicit your advice. Our son has been a resident at a habilitation center for the past 17 years, and this week we received notice that he was being moved to a residential living facility, which means he will be pretty much on his own."

The father proceeded to reveal his son's disabilities, which were sufficiently serious to merit closer supervision than he would receive from a residential setting. Just why he was assigned this advanced level is a mystery, except that his care will cost the state fewer dollars, which seems to have become the most important criteria for Missouri's mental health department these days.

"The problem is," the father continued, "my wife was diagnosed this week as having a terminal cancer, and our doctor has told her she has only a few weeks, maybe months, before it takes her. The next day we heard from the state about our son's move from the habilitation center."

"I'm not sure," the voice continued, "that I can endure either one." At last the caller's voice broke and he began crying uncontrollably for several minutes.

That made two of us. No family deserves such blows, for there is a limit to human suffering and the ability of our frail humanity to withstand and endure them.

"I'm sorry to inflict this on you," the father said, "but I thank you for just listening to my problems. It helps to tell someone, and I don't expect you to do anything, but could you direct me to someone who might help? I really do apologize for bothering you."

A few calls solved one of the family's problems, although no amount of calling will solve the other one. At least the child will remain where he can receive the proper care and the family can hopefully deal with the other critical piece of news.

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I'm not certain how these two phone calls relate to each other, but I think they do. Perhaps they illustrate that disaster has various levels, or that not every disaster is really a calamity. Maybe it illustrates the difference in people and their wants and needs. Maybe it says the only permanent quality of life is suffering and unhappiness, although I find that thought depressing beyond belief.

Maybe all the calls really say is that life eventually gets around to each of us, and that regardless of how well prepared we think we are, we really aren't. It's strange, but oftentimes we remember how well we deal with the lousy hand that's been dealt us more than we recall the problem itself.

It generally helps if we remember that life is what happens to us while we are making other plans.

Jack Stapleton is a veteran journalist from Kennett whose column keeps tabs on Jefferson City.