ShakeyJay

…..What kind of stupid game was this? Run up to some strangers house, knock on their front door, run away, very fast, hide out of sight, then watch the poor sod open the door, look around at nothing, shrug their shoulders, then go back inside.  Why on earth did we find this so hilarious? God only knows. We were kids after all.  This would not have been so bad if we didn’t continue to rant on about this at the same abode.  What did we expect to happen? To get caught of course.  And why did we call it “Nicky, Nicky Nine Doors?” And who was Nicky?

To a ten year old this was very dangerous, exciting stuff.  It was also very stupid.  And if we were really stupid we would find some dog shit, put it in a brown paper bag, run up to a door, light the bag on fire, place it on the stoop, strategically, so as to be about a foot or so away from the threshold, knock hard on the door then run away.  The aim here was for the homeowner, resident, family member, whoever, to open the door, spot the fire bag, stomp on it to put the flames out, and then watch the shit and curses fly.  As we laughed our guts out, it should not have surprised us in the least that someone would spot us and give chase.  But that was the real danger here: the excitement, the adrenalin rush.  If some homeowner did spot us and decided to give chase we would split up running in all directions.  This provided a conundrum to the chaser on who would be the chase-ee.  Pity the poor fool who was the slowest runner for he or she became the obvious target of the homeowner. As kids we were pretty smart that way.  Luckily for me I was never caught.

The dog shit setting and set-up was just one progression of creative thought in this game. Evolution and change management being the very essence and credence of human nature and action, it would not have been good enough just to knock on a door, run away and watch the fireworks develop.  No, no, no we had to come up with the dog shit scenario to make things more interesting.  As things progressed and as we became more mature in game play, we came up with the ultimate challenge: multiple targets. How? We needed at least five players here. The aim was to go up to 5 separate houses, knock hard, run away, hide, then hope to the highest hope that five separate doors would open simultaneously with five confused startled faces peering out into the unknown.  Look to the right, look to the left, look at one another and in a really stupid fashion, shrug their collective shoulders, slam their collective doors while uttering some expletive deletive, collectively speaking of course. The ultimate hilariousness here would have been to include the dog shit with the multiple targets.  But with everything in life there are consequences in trying to do too much with too little.  Synchronization by ten year olds was just too much of a stretch and too complicated to achieve.  On top of that there were too few resources in dog shit and brown paper bags. There was a life lesson here of course and on top of all that this would have been our “Shit Too Far.”….

…The incident with the confessional was a weird experience for sure but this next rule was really weird and was pure unadulterated stupidity of the highest order.  As good Catholic children we could not walk past a Protestant school under fear of religious persecution from these protestant ungulates or face eternal damnation, perhaps excommunication, from our Catholic hierarchy – or worse. Damn, what to do.  Hard choices.  For me this was a conundrum for a Protestant school was right along my path home. It was part of the shortest possible route without cutting through the hydro field, which would be next to impossible during the winter months. This was especially important for the adventures of Superman came on at 4pm every Wednesday.  We  had to get home quickly.

We went way out of our way to circumvent that school.  At least for one day.  More black spots! On top of that, the Protestants knew the score. They lay in wait for us Catholics to run the religious gauntlet.  In winter this equated to snowball Armageddon and the second coming. In the warmer months, bloodied noses and bruised egos.  We never won and they always lost. Stupidity ruled the intolerant roost.

It was also on one of those winter school days that I met another one of my life long friends. Sean O’Grady, or O’Grunts for short. I was in grade one at the time.  So was he but we never really knew each other in school.  I met him while walking along the road that ran parallel to the Protestant school yard. This was especially perilous for Sean as his home was adjacent to the Protestant schoolyard so he was damned twenty four and seven. And no matter what he did he couldn’t erase those pesky black spots.

He came up to me and asked, ever so politely but in a high pitched squeaky, weasely voice.

“Can I be your friend”

Being winter Sean had one of those Yukon Hats on. The ones with those unflappable ear muffs.  Only his hat was too small so those ear flaps flapped outwards at right angles to his flappable ears. His gloves, or mitts, were pinned to his snowsuit, which was also a tad small for his lanky frame. The waist was cinched, but at an angle that spoke volumes about his personal regularity. His boots, or galoshes, were of the black rubber type with the orange band at the top – cheap and barely capable of keeping the feet toasty. When you took them off you were left in bare feet as your socks always, always came off in those damn boots.

“Sure” I said

Sean looked sheepish. Funny at this stage of life as Sean would grow up to be one of the most self assured guys that I have ever known. But now, as he looked at me with his coke bottled glasses, clear snot running down from both nostrils, with the viscosity and the fluidity of water just over his upper lip, he queried:

“My name is Sean. What is yours?” he appeared to lisp

“John” I mumbled somewhat with annoyance and impatience. Don’t know why but Sean looked just a tad goofy to me then.  I wasn’t exactly sure how this would turn out.

As it turned out, we became good, no great friends that day. Life long, for ever and ever, for eternity or until one of us was dead.  Sean was lucky because, coming from a good Irish Catholic family, he was one of eight children. Eight children! They must have had a riot in their post war bungalow. Seven boys and one girl. How on earth did they survive without granite countertops? I loved going over to their place. Such chaos, but fun nevertheless.  I only had two older sisters and a younger brother to play with while he had six, of varying ages of course, but at least one older and one younger brother to hang out with.

His house backed on to a park, which backed on to the Protestant Schoolyard. So, in my mind’s religious eye Sean was doomed by proxy. I felt so sorry for him because he could never get rid of those pesky black spots. I didn’t voice my concerns of course and I was tempted by eternal damnation because that park became our world of play.  From the large swing-sets; the huge and grand maple climbing trees; and the baseball diamonds and fields that went on and on forever and were reamed, it seemed, with soft and freshly cut green grass that was darkly pungent, especially after a good trim.  

It was great to be alive, to be a kid and to have a park like this one to play in: to play and to play all day long and well into the evening only stopping for meals or running home the minute the street lights began to flicker on signally the days end and the beginning of a good nights rest, relaxation and sweet dreams.  In those heady days our horizons were only limited by our active imaginations, the soles of our dirty feet and the aroma of our smelly socks…

…I sat there in the pew for what seemed to me like an eternity. As the time marched on my hiccups seemed to get worse. I prayed and I prayed that they would stop but no heavenly dispensation came my way that day.  I held my breath for what seemed to be minutes but no luck.  I looked up into the bright afternoon sun but again no reprieve. Finally I sensed that I was the only young soul left sitting in the pews of the church, still hiccup-ing.  Just then the Priest came out from his Priest-Cave, looked around in the late afternoon sunlit church, with its long shadows and soft beams of spiritual light accentuated with particles of floating, flickering dust and spotted me.  It was Father Docherty. He was a fatherly Father of our church, nice but somewhat of a lush.  Chubby, but not fat, more cherubic like features, weathered and somewhat rustic with a fractured nose and pronounced limp from his athletic days of playing ice hockey for the “Holy Rollers.”

His robes hung over him in disarray. He was a slob, or should I say heavenly slovenly.  He always drooled so it was wise to give him a wide berth to avoid the spittle for, as mentioned previously, second hand spittle was a fate worse than death or penance for someone as young as me! He had a high squeaky voice which did not adequately or accurately personify his physical features.

How did I know he was a lush?  Several of my friends were alter boys – assistants to the Priest while celebrating Mass. And father Doherty always celebrated the 10:15 Mass. That was the time that the semi-high mass at our church was celebrated.  And one dictum that every young lad or lass in the parish knew was never ever go to the 10:15 Mass.  It lasted an eternity.  And being a semi-high mass meant more wine at the Offertory segment of the celebration.  It was the alter boys job to carry the small carafes of water and wine from a side table hidden from view from the parishioners up to the alter area such that the Priest could mix the water with the wine.  Only in his case there was no water only wine, and lots of it, in two carafes: one being white to resemble water the other being red to symbolise the blood of Christ. By the end of the Mass, Father Docherty’s limp became more pronounced as he began to slur his words. This was not really a problem because no one in the church was paying attention by this point in time anyway and even if they were they couldn’t understand Latin.

“Morrison” he commanded “What’s the problem”

I thought that I think it is obvious Father.

“I have the hiccups, Father, really hiccup-ing bad so I cannot say my hic-up-ed confession with these hiccups.”

“Come here”

I obeyed and when I got within an arms throw of his massive arms he put his left arm around me, chuckled somewhat and told me not to worry about the hiccups, as he led me to the confessional. Perhaps he was impatient for this session to end so that he could run back to his own quarters and watch Tarzan.

And at that exact moment in time, without a doubt and with no exaggeration on my part, when he slung his left arm across my shoulder, those hiccups ceased immediately.

Is this a saintly, canonization, beatification worthy moment?  Probably not in the overall Catholic scheme of things but for me it was an experience that I never forgot.  It was right up there with my Uncle Rupert’s guardian angel apparition on that dark and stormy night or my Dad’s miraculous recovery from cross eye-ed-ness after visiting St Anne De Beaupre’s shrine outside of Quebec City with his mother.  Truth or fantasy?  Don’t really know for I was an impressionable and innocent soul back in those days.  Cynicism had not yet manifested itself or wrestled away or destroyed my enthusiasm for life nor my innocence or naivety as yet.

Only happy thoughts!….

Note: this thread started 02 Jan 

….Our Catholic diocese had some really weird rules. Of course the Priests and Nuns had our unbridled attention for fear was their calling card and eternal damnation our incentive.  If I even thought some bad thought I was sure to go straight to hell – or worse!  I used to think that my soul after confession was as white and as fresh as newly fallen snow but for every venial sin committed a small black spot appeared.  After a while many black spots. Weekends were especially bad for black spots. Don’t even think about committing a mortal sin – like eating meat on Friday.  Heavens no. That was akin to rolling around in a coal bin. All black! The only way out was to go to confession again and spew out all of the sins of the past week: admonishment, atonement then absolution. Yes! Penance? The requisite number of Our Father’s, Hail Mary’s and Glory be to the Father’s, the Son’s and the Holy Ghost and all of the saints were attuned to your particular sinful list but faster than you could say Alleluia your soul was as white and as pure as snow again.  Whew! At least that is what I thought at that young impressionable age.

I am reminded of one really weird and unexplainable moment that occurred to me while waiting to go into the confessional to confess my indiscretions and sinful works and sinful deeds and equally sinful thoughts.  It was a Saturday afternoon, springtime, around 4pm, the scheduled time for confession at our church.  Given that the church was right across the road from our house that day or time of day for confession didn’t really cause me an inconvenience.  Run across to the church, do my thing, say the requisite number of Our Father’s, Hail Mary’s and Glory Be’s, and voila, the slated soul was clean, snowy white again, all black spots disappearing into the sinful ether.  Then run back home to catch the latest Tarzan edition on TV or tales from the really dark continent awaiting a supper of hot dogs, or better still, Kraft Dinner – with ketchup!

I am sitting there in the cavernous church, non plussed, wondering what I’ll be confessing. There was that list of sins of course both venial and mortal to contemplate. The church, being really well organized from thousands of years of practice and not wanting to waste anybody’s time, the Priest’s or mine, held the list and that list was all encompassing.  It must have been quite interesting and comical fun coming up with the list of venial and mortal sins.  I would have loved to have been part of that Working Group or Ecumenical Council for certain. Yes, a sinful checklist of remembrance was the way to go. Did I do this?  Check! How about that? Check. Masturbation? What is that? More on that later! Uncheck? Murder? Nope, uncheck, unless thinking about murdering my oldest sister was a sin? Uncheck that. On and on it went. Meantime, while I was sitting there waiting to go in to meet my fate head on, I suddenly came down with a horrific case of the hiccups: bad, violent, non-relenting.  Each hiccup shook my entire being.

Ever try to mask or hide a hiccup in a confined environment like a church, or worse yet, the claustrophobic confines of a confessional? It is not pretty. Your cheeks bulge out; eyeballs and pupils expand outwardly in a Feldman like manner; the stomach contracts then expands in rapid succession; and, like an uncontrollable fart, a growling sound begins its emanational rise from the lower bowels of the human body bypassing the stomach then running up the oesophagus in its belch like fashion, or in the Catholic vernacular, like a resurrection. The gut, it hurts. The whole sensation repeats itself over and over and over again until those hiccups run its course. With each attempt to mask the hiccup the sensation becomes worse and deeply magnified. 

Embarrassed, I sat out in the pews near the back of the church daring not to even think about going in to that dark, dank and tiny expanse that they called the confessional.  The interior of those tiny cells, abreast of and on either side of the priest’s chamber, have a unique odour about them. Here, some 50 years later, as I am writing this, I can still sense that smell.  A toxic mix of incense and sweat interspersed with a whiff of stale tobacco and alcohol for all of the Priests smoked and drank.  Once inside and kneeling there was no escape for the Priest knew you were there given the little panic-type-like button that activated a beep for the Priest’s sake and a tiny red light outside of the cell once your knees pressed into the red foam of the kneeling pad.  All the Priest had to do then was to slide the small grated, face level sliding door to the left or to the right as need be and you were trapped.   Trapped, trapped by the Priest’s undivided attention until absolution. I am sure that every Catholic knows and remembers the sound of that small sliding door opening and closing.  

I couldn’t even think of how I would handle that situation.

“Bless me father – hic -up – for I have hic-up – sinned. It has been hic-up – one – hic-up-ed week since my last hic-up-ed confession.” Good thing that I didn’t stutter for heaven’s and the priest’s sake!…..

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…Sweet innocent Sister Theresa. We all loved her. Beatific: possessing an angelic soft hewn face with saintly features. She was young and she was beautiful. And a nun at that! Thinking back, what a waste but at that time she made a lasting religious impression on our impressionable minds. In today’s world she would have been our elementary school “Ying.”  And with all things “Ying” there had to be a “Yang” and in this case our elementary school “Yang” turned out to be Sister Mary Bernice…”Yang.”  Burly, tough as nails, she wore polished black, ankle height sea boots with that black habit of hers.   Her gait was that of a sailor who was not yet accustomed to the stability of dry land.  She possessed a jaunt or a saunter not unlike Charlie Chaplin all the while twirling a baton, or strap, that we would become very familiar with soon enough.  She was so intimidating that even the parish priests took notice. Her face was non descriptive really as it was framed by that white veil of nunnery.  I think her hair was black, slightly graying at the temples. I know this because her temples seemed to bulge out whenever she was laying out the wrath of our heavenly father across the palms of our earthly hands.

Like her gait she also yelled like a sailor: a real Chief Boatswain’s Mate or Buffer in the naval vernacular. Her wrath came down unexpectantly and unrepentantly with the sure fired will of an archangel but no St Michaela here!  She had two main weapons in her arsenal to keep us all in line. Her hands, left or right, it didn’t matter, came across one’s face totally and entirely out of the heavenly blue like some religious and corporal stealth attack. Just like that: whack, whack, and more whack, followed by the incessant burning of the cheeks and ringing in the ears. Not tinnitus mind you for that would come later but a toned deaf ringing with each whack of those unflappable calloused palms or the knarly backs of her hands. And with years of experience under her black habit she learned to cup her hands ever so slightly and in such a way that with each open palmed whacked imprint her fingers would somehow claw their way across ones face in such a manner that they seemed to draw one’s cheek and face upward toward heaven, as if in a corporal raptured state of mind waiting for and begging for heavenly intervention.  To be fair to her she was an equal opportunity inquisitor. The girls got it too. And their faces? Wow. Pink and as pink as pure virginity could be but stained with the tracks of their tears: welling up and falling down and across those pearly, innocent, pretty cheeks.  

Us lads, we chuckled…