Tag: candy

11th and 12th Commandments

…I saw Gerard over by the ball diamond with a couple of other kids, friends of his no doubt.  As they saw me coming toward them I thought I detected a smirk or two directed in my direction. Can’t be sure though.  Was that a chuckle I heard?  At my expense? Don’t know. Gerard seemed to shoo them, correct them, and silence them for some reason unbeknownst to me.

“Hi Gerard” I said coolly, nonchalantly in my best, I don’t really give a damn fashion.

“Hey Gilly” Gerard answered with a sly look of confidence in his eye.

“Don’t call me Gilly”

“Okay Gilly”

“Okay Gerard.  So what have you in store for me? What is this surprise?

“It’s at my house.  You’ll have to come home with me after school to see it.”

“What?” I stammered, somewhat in nervous anticipation.

“Caramels”

My interest suddenly piqued: “Caramels? As in Kraft caramels, the only kind, the real McCoy?”

“Yup.” he said with that youthful brash and assurance of a braggart.  “I have boxes of them at home in my basement.”

“No way”

“Yesss” Gerard confirmed. “My uncle works for Kraft. He gets them for free.  As much as he wants but he can’t eat them all himself so he gives some to my family. We keep them in our basement for safe keeping. We have tons!”

Figuratively thinking perhaps? But then? At that age?  Literally thinking of course. Perhaps naivetévly.  Tons of caramels, mmmm, wow. I was a sucker for caramels. Like the old Barnum and Bailey proverb says: there’s a caramel sucker born very second! There really is.

“Really?”  Excitedly! I couldn’t believe it. Kraft Caramels, by the box load, in Gerard’s basement no less. Tons of them.

“So, um” I asked somewhat timidly and with mild trepidation. “If I come to your house with you after school can I have some?”

“As much as you want.  As many as you can carry.  You just have to help me with some chores, that’s all.”

“Okay Gerard” Wow, man, this is great, unbelievable, I thought excitedly. Then added: “I’ll just have to go home for lunch to check with my Mom to see if I can go to your place after school.”

“Okay, but for Kraft’s sake this has to be our secret.  No one needs to know.”

Thinking that that was a strange way of putting things, I agreed. And what was that about chores I thought?

I ran home and for what seemed to be an interminable journey.  Home for lunch, soup and sangy.  It never changed.  Campbell’s canned chicken noodle, or canned tomato with a peanut butter and jam sangy. Yes, all the major food groups in those halcyon days.  We lived for salt and sugar.  We were living the life.

Our school did not allow us to stay for lunch as they did not have the resources to supervise us.  Only those kids who had prior permission from the school board were allowed to stay over lunch.  Usually both parents worked or the child was from a single parent household. Not many of those around in our parish.  No, better to be knocked up and married to some brute then strike out on your own. As long as the brute was Catholic was all that mattered. We really didn’t have a clue as to what went on in that parish.  Like good old Mr. Delvechio and his two Catholic wives.  Misogyny and misandry may be, after all is said done or thought, the 11th and 12th commandments.  Perhaps that is why Catholic men and women get on so well and stay together for a lifetime. Divorce, in the Catholic vernacular, is not an option…

Indolence

…One day in school, as I was sucking away on my caramel, Gerard inadvertently bumped into me during recess. I almost choked and coughed from the caramel laced spittle in my mouth.  Embarrassed, some of that spittle flared out and onto Gerard’s jacket. He looked at me somewhat miffed but then smiled and began to laugh.

“Smells like butterscotch caramels” he stated unquestionably. “You should be more careful. The teacher may find out. But I won’t say anything cause I love caramels too. Got anymore? He queried. “Can I have one?”

“Sure Gerard.” I took one out from jacket and handed it to him.  He took it and in one smooth singular motion had the wrapping off and the caramel in his mouth.  Sign of a true caramel sucking professional.  Admirable!

Nothing more was said as he walked away and met up with some of his friends.  It was, truly, the unspoken acknowledgement of a true caramel sucking professional.

I turned away, then ran over to some of my friends to watch them play Conkers all the while sucking away in peaceful contemplation, as if an eight year old can really contemplate anything.

Just before the bell rang to end our morning recess Gerard yelled over to me to wait up. I complied but had no idea what he wanted.  I didn’t really hang out with Gerard although I knew most of his family and had met his older brother Art under very inauspicious circumstances.

“Hey John, hey Gilly, so what are you doing after school?” he chuckled

“Um, well nothing Gerard. And don’t call me Gilly”

“Okay Gilly, so why don’t you come home with me after school today. I have a big surprise there just for you.   It has your name all over it”

Intrigued? You bet. He had my undivided attention

“Oh yeah, like what”

“Can’t say right now. See me during lunch and I’ll fill you in.”

We parted and went our separate ways to our individual classrooms.  For the next hour and 45 minutes I had to pretend that my mind was on the lesson at hand.  Not really. I could not even begin to ascertain or suggest to myself what Gerard had in store for me. And why me? Perhaps he was duly impressed with my shared experience with his older brother Art during a recent strap session. 

What could it be? The teacher seemed to be able to peer into my mindless eye and share his lesson with my soul.

“Morrison, pay attention or would you like to share your thoughts with the class? Try not to be so indolent”

Indolent? I thought. What the hell does that mean? I continued to daydream about Gerard, but in a good way, and what he had said to me. 

History, or was it Math. Don’t matter too me to much.  Perhaps English grammar or spelling is what we should be doing. Whatever, I couldn’t have care less for all of my thoughts were on Gerard’s words to me at this morning’s recess.  A surprise?  A surprise for me! What could it be?  What could IT be?

Finally, for what seemed like an eternity, the lunch bell rang.  We all ran for the door. School was like that for us.  The girls formed up in single file as good girls always do to await the teacher’s permission to vacate the classroom and go for lunch while the boys scrambled out and charged the door, en masse.  Pushing, squeezing and shoving our small frames through that opening: tripping, falling, yelling, and screaming brutes, all of us.  Somehow, we were able to get out at the same time, as we did every single day.  It is no wonder and no surprise to me that girls are far smarter and far more mature and patient than us lads…

Itchy Woolen Pants and Leggings

…Anyone who attended the Sunday 0745 mass at Our Lady of Peace got to know who the O’Neill family was.  Into the church they’d march, like a rosarian fashion statement: the father, the sons and the holy goats.  Looking back on those days I am sure the father took stock prior to entering church and with strict military guise established a right marker, then had the whole clan line up and dress themselves off accordingly. All that was missing were the barking orders and the march past. I say this because when they marched into their pew, always third from the front, they were always poised. When sitting behind them and looking forward toward the alter, one could see that the tallest – the father – the one with the longest arms and the longest reach was to the right while the smallest O’Neill was to the left. Mother was somewhere near the middle but strategically placed so when Art, Gerard or one of the other boys began to squirm from the death gripped itchiness of those woollen pants an arm would somehow appear, mysteriously, spiritually, as if by heavenly chance, to box the ears of the offending culprit.  No one in the church was shocked at this display of affection for in those days discipline equated to what some would term as child abuse today.  Whatever is was it worked and built character, so they said.  At least that was their story. Until polyester, cotton, acrylic, rayon made its debut that church congregation resembled a giant seesaw to someone who was detached from it all, as if in some out of body experience, looking down at the congregation from the rafters above.  For the younguns like Art, like Gerard, like the rest of us squirmed relentlessly in those open pews: restless and suffering from unimaginable torture from the maddening tentacles of those grey woollen trousers and leggings.  I am sure, though I cannot be certain of this, that when a good Catholic boy or girl is born, immediately after that life giving slap on the ass, that they are assigned and fitted out with grey woollen trousers or leggings to be worn prior to their first communion.   Only then will they be accepted as really good Catholic boys and girls. After all, psychological suffering through fear and guilt and physical suffering through self flagellation, or in this case, itchy woollen pants or leggings, are all part and parcel of the pillars of the founding creed of the Catholic faith…