Читать книгу Beginnings - Edward Galluzzi - Страница 9

Chapter 3 Living History

The early childhood years passed without much fanfare or notice. Another beginning entered our lives as mandatory formal education soon beckoned at our door. Mother was overjoyed for some reason—a reason we never clearly understood until our later years. Attending parochial school left me with many memories, most of them fond and sentimental ones. These memories are often brought sharply into focus by fleeting scenes on television and the movies, or by nostalgic song lyrics. By now, you may be wondering where this is going, but stay with me. I am still leading up to why I was unable to date formally.

In 1957, I and 119 other neighborhood six-year-old children were entering parochial school for the first time. Those of us who were born during the term of President Harry Truman were known as the Korean War Babies—at least that was how we were described by the newspapers of the time. There was no kindergarten in parochial schools in that era. All 120 of us wide-eyed and curious entered the first grade at St. Therese of the Infant Jesus.

In 1957, a World War II hero, Dwight D. Eisenhower was serving as president. It was the year in his term that he was to suffer a serious illness only to recover and serve three more years. In America then we were laughing at a Cuban named Castro and the French were losing a war in some far away country we never heard of—Vietnam. Our own nation and people were at reasonable peace.

As many young Catholic girls and boys, we learned about God and the teachings of our Church via the dark blue covered Baltimore Catechism dated pre-Vatican II. The Catechism taught us the faith of the Catholic Church in 37 lessons using question/answer format, and included the learning of standard prayers. Well, at least drilled us for our conceptual thinking and abstract understanding were limited due to our young ages and much of what we learned was rote memory. For those of you half-baked Catholics with poor memories, some of the questions for the first two lessons went like this…

From Lesson 1, “On the End of Man”

• Who made the world?

• Who is God?

• What is man?

• How is the soul like to God?

• Why did God make you?

• What must we do to save our souls?

From Lesson 2, “God and His Perfections”

• Who is God?

• Had God a beginning?

• Where is God?

• If God is everywhere, why do we not see Him?

• Does God see us?

• Does God know all things?

My first grade class received one of the seven Catholic sacraments, first Holy Communion, on May 2, 1958, and back in those days later that same evening, another sacrament, Confirmation. The sacrament of Confirmation is a mature Christian commitment and faith in God’s fidelity to us. Again, we were too young to understand fully or even moderately appreciate the significance of these sacraments.

As a second grader in 1959, I remember the beginning of several visits each year from missionaries known as the Maryknoll Fathers. For some reason, their spirit and presentations mesmerized me or the Holy Spirit was stirring me at a young age. They always included a film about their missionary work in some remote country that I had no idea existed let alone know its geographic relationship to our country. Hell, I did not even know where our state was located. I did not really understand in any great detail the importance of the films, but the passing scenes of the plight of third-world countries and narration made the message clear: those who have more help those who have less. God was marketed as a big part of that message and it seemed a clear, simple message at the time. Little did I know how much it would both enhance and complicate my life, by choice or otherwise, and in some ways alter my unfolding adolescent years.

A less fond memory of my second grade year was receiving a spanking from a relatively mean spirited Spanish nun. My transgression? I was the last student out of the classroom during a fire drill and forgot to close the classroom door. My punishment was meted out when we returned as El Nun took me by the hand to the front of class and gave me several smacks across my butt. It was only after this embarrassing incident did she relate my hideous misdeed and forewarned others that they would receive the same castigation if their 7 year old brains committed the same sin of omission. To this day, I am not particularly fond of doors, which ruled out any future careers as an Amway salesman or as a Jehovah Witness.

Hindsight dictates that the assimilation of these life experiences had a considerable impact on my being. I recall playing with trucks, cars, pick-up-stix, slinkies, tinkertoys, cowboys and Indians, GI Joe, erector sets, and other gender-specific toys of the day. We played outdoor games such as hide-and-go-seek, kick the can, lawn darts (encouraging children to throw sharp metal things toward each other was a rather insidious invention), and backyard golf. Backyard golf was most annoying to my parents not due to burying a tin can to simulate the golf hole, but mowing the yard at three different levels to simulate the fairway, rough, and green. This seemed to annoy my mother a great deal even though to me it was just grass. Needless to say, they did not encourage my participation in the sport of golf—another Tiger Woods-maybe was lost to the world!

In outdoor games, like all children, we did not always play fairly. I recall a particular game of “kick the can”—the object of which is to kick the can placed in the middle of the yard before the person identified as ‘it’ can touch the can while calling out your name. Five of us convinced our unsuspecting friend that there was safety in numbers. We all decided to run toward the can as a group agreeing that all our names could not be called out before one of us kicked the can. We encouraged our gullible friend to lead the pack, but what he did not know is that although we would scream with him, we would remain at our veiled location. Needless to say he was caught easily— apparently there is no safety in ‘one.’ Laughing so hard at our friend’s predicament, however, justice was served as we were all subsequently caught.

Unlike most of my agemates, however, I also remember donning the role of the celebrant at home saying the Catholic Mass. Any piece of furniture was always accessible for the altar and one of my parents’ wine glasses served as the chalice or cup. Bread was forever abundant, and cutting circles out of the bread and smashing the circles flat represented the unleavened sacramental hosts. A blanket, sheet, or towel always served as the blessed cassock or cape.

Grabbing any family member formed the congregation as did any pet that was willing to be part of the congregation or by happenstance was at the right place at the wrong time. Bribery was often involved in building my congregation and seemed to work better than putting the fear of God into my perpetual flock. On many occasions there was no congregation at all, but the virtual celebration of the Eucharist went undaunted by empty pews. Even my imaginary friends at the time would not attend—I know this because they told my parents they did not want to play with me!

I survived my parochial school days, in part, because there was an abundance of holidays and vacations during the grade school years. Remember, “I live to relax.” Parochial students had many free days celebrating the lives of saints or biblical moments in history. We had many more saints back then because removing the celebration of their sainthood was unheard of at the time. Schools were not concerned with a 184-day schedule or statewide group testing, and we welcomed as many snow days as the heavens would bestow upon us. Snow days in our Midwestern state did not have to be woven back into the school year schedule. They were one of few things that were truly free in life—well, in a child’s life.

In grade school, free days for events other than sainthood and biblical festivities were bestowed happily upon us. As a fifth grader in 1961, a new church was built and the old church became a gymnasium—a rather holy one at that! All 900 of us, grades 1-8, went outside to watch the crowning of the church with its steeple. It was midmorning and for whatever construction reasons, the steeple could not be properly fitted. We were sent home anyway as parents were notified the night before of our early dismissal and made the necessary arrangements for our care. We returned the next day to watch the steeple topping once again. It took several hours to accomplish the task, but this time there was nothing left to chance. Perhaps some divine intervention was requested. After all, even our gracious pastor was not about to let us miss school for three consecutive days. We applauded the crowning event before being sent home midmorning for yet another unscheduled holiday. Gosh, those were indeed the good old days!

When a boy entered the sixth grade, he could choose or be chosen as an “altar boy.” I realize that “altar boy” is now considered sexist language, but altar persons were not in vogue at the time and girls did not serve Mass as they do today. As the altar boy of a given week, I arrived at the church by 6:00 a.m. for early Mass. During the winter months, I remember trudging through the snow that arose above my waist; well, I was a short 11 year old. It is amusing now because we all say something like that when we get older, but it really did happen—but we all say that too. Despite such dedication, the priest and I were usually alone in celebrating the Eucharist. God, after all, resided in the hearts of people. The multitudes had sufficient common sense to stay home where it was warm, dry, and safe. The site of prayer mattered less than the spirit of invocation.

As much as going home from school unexpectedly was a great thing for a kid in those days—only to be outdone by spending time in front of a new black and white television—it was not a pleasant one for a seventh grader of the time. It was November 22nd of 1963, a particularly cold day in November in Indiana, but unseasonably warm in the state of Texas. President Kennedy traveled to Dallas in hopes of resolving a feud between the then Governor Tom Connally and then senior senator Ralph Yarborough. President Kennedy believed that he would be unable to carry the state of Texas in the 1964 presidential election if the feud was not abated. The motorcade showcased an open-air limousine for President and Mrs. Kennedy given the unseasonably warm weather in Dallas. President Kennedy was reportedly shot near a book depository building. We all walked from the school to the adjacent church to pray for our Catholic president who was trying to survive an attempted assassination. We prayed. He died anyway. And then we sadly went home.

People of our generation always say that this is one day we remember not only where we were, but also what we were doing. The generation before remembered Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, and the generation after remembered their circumstances following the terrorist attack on the World Trade Center in New York on September 11, 2001.

I do remember clearly the presidential assassination. I recall watching television with my family when Walter Cronkite announced President Kennedy’s death. He took off his glasses and for one of the few times exposed his tearing vulnerability as he spoke these brief, haunting words: From Dallas, Texas, the flash apparently official, President Kennedy died at 1:00 p.m. central standard time, 2:00 p.m. eastern standard time, some 38 minutes ago. What we thought of as Camelot vanished in a horrifying instant. There was no longer …a more congenial spot for happy ever-aftering than here in Camelot.

On a less somber note, it was in that same year that I recall witnessing Catholic nuns “out of place,” that is, not in the roles in which we inflexibly restricted them. In the late fifties and early sixties, nuns were habitually in habit and we assumed wrongfully that they probably slept and showered in them as well. There was both a mystique and admiration about priests and nuns back then that blinded us about their human condition and human frailties. We did not attribute normal human actions and daily functions to nuns. We assumed that they had no hair, and never left the confines of their convent. After all, they were stay-at-home nuns on house arrest for God. Most of us did not even think that nuns used restrooms! I do not know why; we just did not attribute normal bodily functions to women of God.

We knew that nuns did not drive or go shopping. I am not sure how we thought that they purchased food or other commodities. I guess we thought such merchandise miraculous appeared—if they had water, they could make wine! Anyway, the aura about nuns was shattered one day when I caught a glimpse of a Sister shopping at the local grocery store. I was dumbfounded and astonished. I remember asking myself, “What is she doing here? How could this be?” The event was unordinary and the experience surreal. Something was obviously out of place and it was not I!

It was Sister Modestrine whom we called unaffectionately “Mighty Moe.” She was thin in frame and all of four feet tall. Her short stature was inconsistent with her gruff presentation. She was tougher than any drill sergeant you could imagine or would want to experience. Her reputation preceded her in a Bondian sort of way, or the demented ravings of her past pupils exposed her. The Incredible Hulk had nothing over her. Progressing from the third to fourth grade became known as hell’s rite of passage for some students. You found out your assigned teacher several weeks before the start of school on a Sunday morning. Students who were entering the fourth grade scanned wearily the classroom lists posted on the main door of school. You prayed that your name was not identified below the envisioned title of “Mighty Moe.” Like many students before me, I hesitantly ran my finger down the classroom list as I peered through the fingers of my other hand... and there it was! No doubt about it. Many are called, but few are chosen. And I was chosen. There was no escape as my baptized name betrayed me and did not protect me from perceivable harm and horror. A prayer, a novena, not even a trip to Lourdes, France or joining the foreign legion would make a difference now. Although reality did not set in immediately, the dye was cast. But I digress once again…

I was startled to see a nun shopping at the local grocery store; never mind that it was “Mighty Moe.” Her head was not much higher than the top of the cart and you wondered how she steered the darn thing. I thought it best to stay at a discreet distance and observe her from afar. I was flabbergasted that Sister was placing items in her cart that were similar to those mother placed in ours. How could this be? We eat the same foods and use the same products as “Mighty Moe?” All of a sudden the theory of parallel universes made good sense because this Sister certainly was not sharing the same time and space as my mother!

Outside of school, somewhere around the third grade, my friends Bob, Skip and I decided to start a local newsletter in our neighborhood. We entitled the newsletter LuCinDa, which was named after who we believed were our ‘girlfriends’ at the time. My girlfriend was Lucy, Bob’s was Cindy, and Skip’s was Diane. I do not remember whether they were flattered or not, but I assume they were; or perhaps they preferred roses or jewelry.

The newsletter shared much about nothing that occurred in the neighborhood. There were no computers or copy machines at the time. So we typed the newsletter on our Smith-Coronas portable typewriters using 10-12 sheets of carbon paper. Now, for those of you who precede carbon paper, it had the interesting quality that the more you used, the fatter, duller, and less readable the type became. You were not sure whether you were reading something or analyzing psychological ink blots. We almost felt guilty about selling these latter copies of the paper to our neighbors for the full 25 cents… almost, for this would cut into our ice cream and soda money; after all, the “profits” had to be split three ways. The neighbors did not seem to mind and enjoyed reading about the going-ons in a very narrow slice of the community while they were working or busy being homemakers. The reader is spared the breaking news events shared in our neighborhood paper, as no known copies have survived the passage of time.

Beyond our community, more noteworthy events occurred in the world from 1957-1965 during our eight years of what was then identified as “grammar school.” Indeed, unbeknown to us at the time, we were living history as much as studying it. There were three chief executives serving our country: Presidents Eisenhower, Kennedy and Johnson. The coronation of three popes as heads of the world’s Roman Catholics also occurred: Popes Pius XII, John XXIII, and Paul VI. The Second Vatican Ecumenical Council (Vatican II), dedicated to The Immaculate, was convened. The First Vatican Council was adjourned way back in 1870. Vatican II was declared open under Pope John XXIII in 1962 and closed under Pope Paul VI in 1965. Pope John hoped that the Council would “…increase the fervor and energy of Catholics, to serve the needs of Christian people.” Locally, two of the worst disasters occurred in our state during that period: a gas explosion blew up the local Coliseum and killed 75 people; and 135 victims lost their lives to a tornado.

By 1964, we all entered our last year in grade school. We were now maturing into young adults—well, a good many of us anyway. This was a year of work that was to prepare us for high school. Boys finally discovered girls and girls seemed to like the idea. Being the less mature of the sexes, there were still some boys whose chief concern about relating to girls was contracting cooties.

At the end of these long eight years, I chose what I thought was my life’s calling and in all honestly had not thought about much else since the second grade. To my family’s surprise, I decided to enroll in a Catholic seminary with the intention to be ordained a Roman Catholic priest. How did I know that at age 13 I was too young to decide what to do with the rest of my life? Yet, it seemed naively simplistic, but so reassuring at the time.

As a young man with a pastoral focus, I spent almost as much time at the parish rectory as I did at home. The rectory is where priests lived and the parish business was transacted. My transportation back and forth to home, which was less than a mile away, was initially by bicycle, then by car when I became of legal age. This worked out rather well until one evening when somebody broke into my car and lifted my cassette stereo deck—right in front of the church! Such incidents were unheard of at the time in this neighborhood. Neither the culprit nor the deck was ever found; however, I suspect the person progressed to bigger crimes and is surely rotting in a jail cell or hell today. At least I hope so because I do not feel particularly forgiving.

Typical tasks that were entrusted to the seminarians at the rectory included answering the door and telephones during the evening hours, and printing the parish Sunday bulletins, newsletters, etc. In turn, we also had free run, more or less, of watching television and raiding the icebox. There was a group of five of us seminarians who were honored with these responsibilities. They were a large part of my life at the time, an important part of my forming adolescent years. Bob, Jim, Joe and Tom (Gris) hold a special place in my heart even though we rarely see each other now as our roads have traveled diverse paths and what relationally bound us then has weakened.

Bob was the bright, intelligent seminarian keen in theological wisdom and Canon Law. Jim was the caring seminarian with a kind and inviting smile for anybody from anywhere. Joe had the most angelic voice whose singing did more for one’s peace of mind than Prozac ever could. Gris— well, we spent so much time together because of our duties and friendship. I was closest to Gris in age and deeply miss those times we had together. Yet, all these men generously shared their friendship and their guidance at a formative time in my young life.

During the years, we saw a number of parish priests come and go from the rectory. Some went because priests were reassigned generally about every five years. Some went because they chose a different path and abandoned their chosen vocation—some to marry. Some went because they were assigned only temporarily to the parish to ‘dry out’ from the alcoholic demons that devoured them.

We also developed relationships with the good sisters of the parish who lived in the nearby convent. Parishes did not have coed dorms that housed both priests and nuns. These relationships, beyond our peer relationships, were highly treasured ones. It was difficult to see them go after being such a big part of our young lives. It was during this period that I could remember first experiencing personal feelings of loss.

Graduating from grade school was another one of those beginnings of the end that most of us commonly share. It was a time when you first gained awareness that you are not just kids anymore. Playtime neither reigned supreme nor could you get away with just playing all the time even if you wanted to do so. This thought was reflected in the address to our graduating class of 1965: “Now you must enter high school, a time only half as long as grade school. This is your preparation for tomorrow that will be here much sooner than you think. Your parents spent the last eight years begging you to study and will probably continue for another four years... The tomorrow has arrived. You soon will be on your way to a career. The years will seem to pass quicker now so enjoy them as you progress through this fine part of your life...” Responsibilities came to the forefront and thoughts about life, life’s goals, and careers became more defined—truly, a beginning of the end