A 60 or 70 year old can remember things that happened at age 4 or 5. Especially if they are significant, meaningful, or frightening.
Remembering that one day you became aware that a force in your home, your family, was sometimes explosive and dangerous.
One learns early to be quiet and obey. Stay out of sight. Don’t disturb the order of things. Everything must be a certain way or else.
What is the “or else”?
For some families in the neighborhood in the fifties and early 60’s, there was orderly predictable punishment–loss of dessert or TV time for minor offenses.
Or, for bigger offenses, structured spankings with a conversation about the offenses and calm delivery of a belt to the back side. All as if it was part of the normal and expected experience of growing up.
A small minority of neighborhood kids escaped physical punishment. These kids seemed softer, less likely to listen to their parents, and easier to bring to tears on the playground and playing fields.
With the “Force” it was more like spontaneous combustion, like a firecracker. You see the fuse is burning, burning. “Someone get her a cigarette before she blows.”
Then, the explosion.
Pretty soon it was over–a few slaps to the side of the head –maybe after a brief chase getting slammed against a wall like a TV style police arrest.
The anger is more frightening than the physical attack. The demeaning and spiteful words are more painful than the occasional stick whipped to your backside. The threats keep you off balance and watchful for days. There is often an absence of fitting the punishment to the offense. It’s all random and out of balance. If you fucked up, your brother might get his ass kicked if he was close at hand.
Never “I’m sorry”, or “ I lost control”.
More likely, “you had it coming”,, “ you are lucky it wasn’t worse” .
Fortunately there is respite from the cat and mouse game with the Force. School was generally a safe and predictable sanctuary. Too young to realize the foolishness of the religious component of Catholic Schools.
In fact the mysticism of the Church was soothing—-candles, incense, quiet,
stained glass and statues of people who look serene and nice.
Jesus loves you—sounds good—where do I sign up?
More respite came from Saturday night “date night”, with parents out to dinner and drinking with friends. That often meant spending the night with the paternal grandmother and her 2 sisters. They are old and tired but loving and peaceful. British immigrants who use the word “proper” a lot. Boring and old fashioned can be tolerated when the alternative uses up too much adrenaline.
Looking for playing cards in the buffet drawers and finding rosaries and pictures cards of saints. Do they trade these like baseball cards?
Learn what the face cards mean, the queen of England seems to be very important.
Learn British poems and Irish limericks and how to play rummy and Parcheesi.
There is regular talk about Jesus and tea, and how prunes help you poop.
There is the hope that dad will come alone to pick us up in the morning and advise us on the current mood in our household.
On some Saturday nights there is a babysitter. That can be fun. Doing things you don’t dare do when the Force is home. But sometimes you go too far and piss off the babysitter and she tells the Force when she gets home. “They were wild and wouldn’t listen.” The Force is really mad but it will be tomorrow before dues are paid. Dad is the target for tonight.
In the morning the best hope is for dad to take us to Sunday Mass early. Maybe things will calm down.
But before we go the Force demands better dressing skills and brushes our hair firmly until there are tears in our eyes.
And with great pleasure, tells us how we will get our asses kicked when we get home.
So, pray to Jesus
One fine summer the two older brothers go to spend several days at the maternal grandfather’s farm an hour outside of Chicago. It turns out to be a beautiful outing. It is peaceful in the huge old house. Lots of nooks and crannies to explore and hide. No one is yelling. There are two teenage aunts who are fun and playful and loving. Hard to know how to respond to this. It’s awkward.
As expected the grandparents are serious and religiously uptight but they are busy and we are carefree. There are animals to feed and learn about. A calf is born on July 13th. His name is Tommy.
But then you pay for your peaceful retreat with small portions of food ( seems like the animals are better fed). The small portions are delivered only after the whole rosary is prayed at the table.
Constant talk about Jesus. Pray at meals, pray at bedtime, pray for rain.
The time there begins to feel too long,………Until the Force pulls in to the driveway to take you home.
Time to pray.
We are comforted by the fact that we will be very well fed when we get home.
When you are in 7th grade in Catholic School you get to be an altar boy if you want. Like being a caddy for Jesus. Carry the prayer book, the water and wine, the wafers.
Take stuff over here and then over there. Lots of jobs and Latin prayers so don’t mess up or some old creature with nothing better to do will tell you to get your shit together. Some people go to Mass every day and they are watching closely because these rituals are really important. Everything must be done a certain way.
You have the honor to “serve” at 7am Mass M-F once per month. The Force has to wake you up because it’s cold outside and you want to sleep. “Why did you sign up for this if you can’t get up? I spent all that time ironing your vestments.”
It is dark on the walk to church but the bakery is open. Nothing like a chocolate donut to take the edge off. After you serve your Mass it’s straight down the hallway to school–long day.
Eventually the nuns take the cheer out of the church kids.
“Stand up straight”
“Don’t play with the public school kids”
“Stop touching yourself” (where?)
And the priests have their own pathology.
Some are drunk or burned out
Most are arrogant and authoritarian
Some seem a little too interested in the cute young altar boys
Can I please go to High School now?
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