Tag: youth

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…

Big Maxx

…Big Maxx’s uncoordinated approach to this game was something to see and experience. Maxx could not and would not stand appropriately in front of and to the side of the square. He would stand off to one side of course and slightly angled off to the left of the square so the pitcher could see his target but held his back against the backstop itself.  Somewhat like a rat caught in a corner with no avenue of escape.  And when the pitcher began his rotation, his motion toward the white chalked square, Maxx would begin to crouch, his whole body as tight as a tight spring and so tightly focused like a panther waiting to launch.  His eyes seemed to be on fire with facial features that were designed only for intimidation.  And if looks could kill, Big Maxx’s sneer could annihilate.

Maxx would position his body so as to present himself with a full frontal aspect to the pitcher. He held the bat in front of his mass, vertically; with just a slight back and forth motion, toward the pitcher.  Not your typical practice swing mind you but a slight to and fro rhythm.  As if to say to the pitcher: “okay asshole, give me all ya got. – if you dare”.  Without having to say a single word Maxx’s physical presence spoke volumes and to a young lad, a young pitcher like me, spelled B-U-L-L-Y.  It was bully-ish like behaviour for sure. Perhaps this was the reputation that Maxx inadvertently, but unintentionally, presented to the world around him.

And when the pitcher finally found the nerve, wound up and fired that ball from about 45 feet way, Maxx in anticipation would turn, and run with the bat still vertical at what seemed like a gallop, toward the ball’s trajectory, but to an invisible spot that only he could fathom in his mind’s eye then swing that bat as bloody hard as he could muster with all of his massive might in a frame that convulsed in such physical rapture and tumultuousness.  The entire evolution was not unlike “Happy Gilmore’s” golf swing.  Most times Maxx missed and fell on his ass but when he connected, look out, that ball was gone or destroyed.  Indeed, I think one of his batted balls is still up there in orbit somewhere. 

We normally played for 2-3 hours then quit. Hot, thirsty, ready to cool off. Then of course came the requisite juvenile male banter:

“So, whatdaya want to do now? Oh, I dunno. Whatta you wanna do? I dunno whatta you wanna do? Oh, I dunno, whatta you wanna do” or something similarly profound, and on and on it went.

Good friends, good cheer and awfully good conversation among us.  You know, judging from Maxx’s and our own literary skills, his physical strength, his hand / eye coordination, his and our conversation skills and diction, boys really are different than girls.

Maxx and I hung out quite a bit for awhile. He was always good natured to me even with his brusque approach to life in general. 

“John”, he would say, “You are my best friend. Hope to all of good hope that we stay good friends, always.”

“Sure Maxx” I reassured him.

In those days all of your friends were your best friends at any given time or another.  You always had a best friend hanging around.  We had some good laughs me and Maxx. In later years I loved to go over to his house Saturday nights, especially during those cold winter months, for his dad had a secret stash of booze in his basement.  Secret, only to his dad of course, for we knew where it was.   

Maxx’s basement was great. His was one of the few finished basement that I knew of in those days.  Only rich people had finished basements, with a wet bar, with a TV room, with a pool table, with a toilet, in the basement for heaven sakes. That was so cool. O’Grunts had a finished basement as well but for good reason. They had eight kids – 7 boys and one girl, plus Mom and Dad.  All living under one roof.  In Maxx’s house there were only four: Mom, Dad, Maxx and his sister.

Do the math. A small post war bungalow, 3 bedrooms and one toilet, small kitchen, even smaller living room and a tiny dining room, with a piano thrown in for Chopin’s sake.  In addition to the normal 3 bedrooms on the main level, Sean’s house also had a bed in the laundry room, a bed in the play room, bunk beds in the furnace room, double bed in the back basement room, another bed in the cold storage room and one bed in the garage. It was great! But, I don’t know how they managed given that the kitchen didn’t have stainless steel appliances.  Mornings must have been chaos.

So Maxx and I would play pool and suck back on a couple of shots. No more. Too dangerous. We didn’t quite smoke yet but the smell would have been a cruel giveaway. Maxx always won. He was damn good at pool. Maxx could also be somewhat philosophical:

“Hey John, do you think I’m stupid?”

Where the hell did this come from?

“Nope, yellow in the corner.”

“Do the other guys at school think I’m dumb?”

“The ones that are still breathin?” I joked “Nope” I continued  “And if they did I doubt that they would ever say it to your face.”

“So, they do then?”

“Nooo, no,” I lied “Sure you have some quirks Maxx. But your English compositions are great.  Everyone cracks up.” and that was the truth.

“I know, but sometimes I just can’t seem to understand what’s going on. What I see and think sometimes comes out as what I think then see. You know what I mean? Things seem to be bass ackwards.  My dad says I should go to Trade School but I don’t want to go.  I have nightmares just thinking about it.  I’d miss my friends too much. I’d miss guys like you and O’Grunts” 

Damn Nuns I thought.

“Don’t worry Maxx, everything will be fine.” Now let’s play pool.

He never brought that up again, at least to me.  Yeah, Big Maxx was somewhat of a lout. He had his problems but was a good guy. I liked him a lot.  Nevertheless we drifted apart after a few years primarily because of his tendency to repeatedly repeat grades. Then one day, I noticed that he wasn’t around at school anymore. And after about a week of looking out for him I finally worked up the courage and asked Ms McFayden – our resident chain smoker – if she knew where Paul was.  Courage, because deep down inside I kinda sensed that I knew his fate but I was afraid to hear the obvious.

“Paul’s gone to Trade School!” she announced.

“Damn.” I cried. 

No, Maxx was no bully.  The real bullies at that school were the Nuns and the Priests.

I lost track of Big Maxx after that. I did run into him years later though.  He was indeed dyslexic and once that condition became clear to him he excelled, scholastically and practically.  On completion of trade school he took an apprenticeship in plumbing. In five years he became a journeyman and did exceedingly well. He went back to night school, earned an undergraduate degree in business then opened his own plumbing business.  He then went on the get an MBA and is beginning to expand his business into a franchise based organization.  All is well with Big Maxx except, as he told me, he still cannot write a flowery English composition…