CHOICES

I wasn’t a bad kid so much as a child that trouble found. My reasoning was guided by my lack of understanding of what the line drawn meant, the teachings of my grandparents and parents so desperately tried to instill in me. I wasn’t paying attention!

“Joseph, go to the store for me” could have been anyone of the grownups responsible for guiding me as much as: “Don’t do that or else!” It was the Old Italian spirit of discipline; Grandma could smack you around just as well and maybe with more experience than Mom or Dad. Usually, it was Grandma who ran to my aid, just as the boom was being lowered, saving me from myself.

It was a Sunday morning, bright and sunny and I was getting dressed for church. Mom was very fiscally responsible and Dad was her resource. Not being a churchgoer, Dad was still in bed and it was time to leave for church and the dreaded 9:00 A.M. Mass. Being it was summer, there were no requirements that I sit with my class during the Mass, so Mom made sure I got there by accompanying me there.

“Joseph, go get some money from your father for the collection,” Mom ordered me. She was good that way.

I wake up Dad and tell him: “Mommy said, give me some money for church.” (I didn’t have to say please when Mom ordered it) Slowly he opens his eyes and rolls over and grabs his pants from the side of the bed, reaches in and gives me 2 shiny nickels.

As I head toward the kitchen from the bedroom, I pass Mom’s sewing basket, and an idea hits me. For a nickel, I could buy a bottle of Pepsi, and for another nickel, I could buy a package of 5 or 6 small powdered donuts. If given powdered donuts, you could get me to do anything, say anything or lie about anything! Yes, powdered donuts were my addiction!

So quietly I go into Moms sewing box where she kept her buttons and reasoned that if I took 2 shiny metal buttons I could confuse Mom when the usher came to collect money, then afterward, I could celebrate with a Pepsi and donuts! I couldn’t believe my genius had taken me so far!

Our Lady of Lourdes was a beautiful church, with marble floors and columns, stained glass windows and a large dome that sat over the front altar. There were three additional altars with the one in the back having La Pieta inside a gated enclosure. With it’s foreign Latin prayers and interminable sermons, the hocus pocus of rituals I did not understand and the hunger that seemed to deeply inside my hollow stomach as the Mass dragged on the only praying I seemed to do was for the whole experience to end.

Being a large church, with a school, and about 5 priests, Our Lady of Lourdes’ ushers always dressed to the nines, and when collecting, had these long-handled collection baskets made of wicker.

Mom and I sat, she in deep meditation and prayer, and me deep into whether or not I could scale the grotto wall behind the main altar. Suddenly I noticed the ushers with the collection baskets and reached for my first button. As the basket slid under my nose, I slipped in the first of the shiny buttons. Mom deposited her money and went back into her prayers (probably for my soul) and said nothing. Ah, I rouse was working!!! Donuts for sure!

The second collection comes, and like the first, I slip in the other shiny metal button, Mom deposits her money, and once again goes into deep pray-filled pleading for my wicked soul. Oh! The joy of deep quiet celebration, knowing there were donuts soon on the horizon, glory is to God!

Mass is over and as we walk home I start to talk to Mom, but she is not answering me. I figured her mother instincts for survival have kicked in. This goes on for a few blocks, nothing being said by Mom. We climb the two flights of steps to our third-floor apartment when I announce to Mom that I am going downstairs for a while. (Donuts on my mind)

Suddenly, I feel this grip on my shoulder and the words: “Embarrass me in church?” Whack, dragging me into the apartment. “How dare you embarrass me in church of all places?” Whack, whack and whack. If nothing else at this critical moment she was certainly hitting the target and as a parent, being very consistent!

She drags me over to my father who is sipping his morning coffee at the kitchen table and says:

“TELL YOUR FATHER WHAT YOU DID!”
“Nothing,” I say.

“NOTHING!” She yells!

"YOUR son put buttons in the collection basket instead of the money you gave him!" (I always hated these verbal custody battles)

Dad spits out his coffee and is laughing out loud.

“Sure, encourage him!”

This went on all the rest of Sunday morning, every time she saw me, “Embarrass me in church?” Whack, and more whacks with her wooden spoon. Dad kept a low profile; he didn’t want to get in the way of her fury, no need to interrupt. That whole morning and early afternoon, I finally started to pray myself for preservation and rescue, hoping for company to show up immediately, if not sooner.

Relief finally arrived when Aunt Filomena and Uncle Dominic arrived, with customary cheesecake and appetite.

Somewhere that day angels sang and poets rhymed, the sun shone and the trees whistled in the wind, and somewhere a little boy sat on his stoop in Brooklyn, relieved of his guilt and his nose powdered white, as all was even again!