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
