And living to tell about it.
Mom had some rules, maybe not rules so much as warnings of
impending death if I did not follow her edicts. Growing up was dependant upon
me being able to translate into my little mind what she expected from me. Lord
Tennyson’s “Ours is not to reason why, Ours is but to do or die” became my mantra,
or so Mom hoped.
Those of you who never knew mom never knew her rules, and those
of you who did, never knew her rules either. When I was born the hospital staff
gave her a book with lined pages to establish her ability to manage her son for
his lifetime.
“Be home before dinner time or else you don’t eat!”
“If I find out your teacher had to discipline you, when you
get home you will get the rest!”
“What am I related to the electric company? CLOSE ALL THOSE
LIGHTS!”
“STOP teasing your sister!”
“ whole pound of butter on a small piece of toast!”
And so the rules kept building, as I grew older and bolder.
It seems that the rules she imposed, the more I wanted to break them.
Then there was the button incident, of course from my own
doing. It seems I love white powdered donuts. In fact I had a passion for them.
I discovered the local grocery store was selling these little six-pack donuts
for a nickel, and I wanted some. But where do I get a few nickels? Mom and pop
were poor that made me poor, although I didn’t know it. When I was a kid
growing up in Brooklyn, we were so poor we couldn't even afford to pay
attention! Makes you want to send me money, huh?
Then it struck me one Sunday morning as Mom was getting us
ready for Church. Mom instructed me to ask Dad for some money for me to put in
the collection baskets. There were two collections so I needed money for both.
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. I 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 bow where she kept her buttons and reasoned that if I took 2 shiny
metal buttons, I could confuse Mom when they 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, stain 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.
Being a large
church, with a school, and about 5 priests, the ushers always dressed to the
nines, and when collecting, had these long handles collection baskets made of
what looked like 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 down stairs 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. “Hoe 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!
This went on all the
rest of Sunday morning, every time she saw me, “Embarrass me in church?” Whack,
and more whacks. 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
started to pray myself for preservation and rescue, hoping for company to show
up immediately, if not sooner.
Relief finally
arrived when Aunt Philomena and Uncle Dominick arrived, with customary
cheesecake and appetite.
It just so happens as she is sitting among the unwashed she
places herself in front of me in the pew ahead of us. But someone else comes
along to attend services! A spider suddenly appears along the backrest of her
pew in front of me. My sisters are watching, and so I take the spider, a daddy long
legs and carefully place it in the old girls hair, where it buries itself deep
inside her sprayed do, to the hysterical amusement of the four girls! Mom,
being a pious woman, who should have known better, was not paying attention, (I
think she was distracted with praying) suddenly looks at me and gives me the
second dirty look of the morning in that church!
All through the Mass, the spider made an appearance in and
out of the nest of silver hair, and the girls would try as they might, stifle
their laughter, as I would guide the spider back into the deep recesses of Lady
Clairol miracle maker.
After the Mass, Dad, who never went to church: picked us up
and we all got into the car. Mom asks what was going on in church, and my
sisters relate the whole incident, laughing as they do. What saved me was Dad,
who started to laugh uncontrollably, making Mom laugh too.
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