“I’ll be right up.” No Get Smart. No more old-lady conversation. The slow dread began to race up my spine. CCD, here I come. “Good-bye, Mrs. Hruska. It was good to see you.”
“Have a lovely time, Ben,” she advised as she patted her hair in the mirror.
I headed up the stairs, knowing that once I saw A.C., the dread would disappear. I should probably give A.C. most of the credit for me learning anything about the Catholic Church since he always made the journey fun. If he didn’t make me laugh, he made me pay attention.
During the year that we were preparing to make our First Confession in our CCD class, I held the greatest fear during the weeks leading up to that first time I would walk into the confessional closet and sit in the dark, alone with my sins and my fear. A.C. held no fear, as he devised a master plan based on the information he had received from some savvy fifth grader, who had told him that Old-Fart Father Dailey was stone deaf. The fifth grader had told A.C. that Father could not hear our sins and would usually bestow upon the confessor some pretty minor penance. The fifth grader had tested the rumor by reporting to Father Dailey during one of his confessions that he had committed adultery once, committed suicide twice, and had fought with his sister a few times. Father told him to be sorry for his sins and to say one Hail Mary and two Our Fathers.
A.C.’s plan was for the two of us to race to the line to the confessional of Father Dailey, avoiding the possibility of being directed toward one of the younger, nondeaf, and more-penance-heavy priests. I was happy about the plan and proud to have such a schemer for a friend. Once Sister Alleluia announced that we could go to the confessionals to make our First Confessions, the entire class raced to form a line outside of the confessional for Father Dailey. Apparently, the fifth grader had told several people his little secret.
After the other priests sat for several minutes in their confessionals, awaiting their first confessors, they each poked their heads out and looked to the line for Father Dailey. Young Father Gusweiler—we later added Uptight to his name—walked over to me, tapped me on the shoulder, and pointed to his confessional. “Now!” My sins were indeed heard that day by a grumpy priest who gave me more than a deserved amount of penance.
A.C. and I ran to his car to go to Pius for another episode of “CCD in the Seventies,” a great premise for a reality show long before its time in which second-rate Catholics were sentenced by tired parents/CCD teachers to memorize prayers and rules. For what? Why, the prize was the experience. Every Wednesday we got to sit at another kid’s desk, who would then blame us public-school kids for messing with his stuff.
And maybe we did.
6
Mrs. Webber: Something “Fun,” Sports Banquet for Hope
Wednesday, July 10
1974
Even though the nation cried “ouch” during the national fuel crisis of 1974 due to the OPEC oil embargo, the crisis did little to affect my life that summer. The lines for gas were ridiculous, but they didn’t hold me back from wheeling around on my royal-blue, ten-speed bike every day.
That summer I rode several times a week to Brookhill Country Club, the neighborhood hangout. I hung with the kids on my block and A.C.—when he could get a ride to my house. We rode down to Ben Franklin Five and Dime for junk food. And as usual, I helped my mom out in our basement.
Around that time, I began to sense my mother’s limitations in running a business. She knew people and she knew hair, but she had never been good with money. I always knew that we “struggled” in the financial area; I can remember more than once witnessing my grandfather hand something to my mother in an envelope and quietly say, “You’re taking it. And that’s that.”
Several times a month, even during those summer months, Grandpa Mac would pick me up and take me to Saint Pius to serve Mass. The schedule I picked up each month from the sacristy announced days and times that I would serve. Daily Mass was offered four times and Sunday Mass five in our parish. My name popped up on the schedule about six times a month. I always picked up an extra schedule for Grandpa Mac.
That evening I sat on the porch in long dress pants and church shoes even though it was ninety-seven degrees out. Always, I made a point to be on the porch ready to go so as to avoid those awkward exchanges between Grandpa Mac and Mom. Long ago, whether one of my sisters told me or I had acquired special powers of tension osmosis, I became aware of the situation, as it were, regarding the Catholic religion in my home. The imaginary conversation between Mac and Mom would have gone something like this:
Mom: “I’m angry at the Catholic Church.”
Mac: “I can see that.”
Mom: “I am afraid that the Church doesn’t like me because I am divorced.”
Mac: “You had no choice.”
Mom: “I don’t think I should have to go through the so-called annulment process to prove my innocence. Why should I be the one who has to work so hard? He left me.”
Mac: “What about the kids?”
Mom: “I don’t know.”
Mac: “Let me show them the Church. They need the Church.”
Mom: “Just don’t talk to me about it.”
Mac: “I love you.”
So that’s how it worked. We all ignored the big Catholic elephant in the room. We all pretended that I wasn’t really going to serve Mass. I was just putting on the ugliest and most uncomfortable clothes that we all knew I hated and heading to sit on the porch. We just didn’t need to talk about it. That’s what it was like growing up in a not-quite-Catholic home.
My shirt began to stick to my back from the sweat trickling down my neck. Such suffering was offered to my grandfather, as I would do anything for Grandpa Mac. I knew, for whatever reason, that it was important to him that I serve Mass. My trivial suffering was soon interrupted by a loud and off-key song walking toward my house.
“Grounds in my coffee, grounds in my coffee, and you’re so vain, I betcha think this song is about you, Ben!” Hope laughed loudly as she and her mother walked toward my porch. “That’s how Lovey sings that song. Everybody knows that it’s ‘Clouds in your coffee.’ Duh!”
“Let’s not say ‘duh.’ Can we think of a different word to say, Hope?” Mrs. Webber was holding Hope’s hand.
“Not really.”
Hope’s reply was genuine. It was not in any sort of tone, typical of girls her age. I agreed with her, though. “Duh” was pretty much the only word to use there. Hope’s comment was regarding what in time came to be known as “Loveyisms.” Loveyisms were the strange spin that Lovey put on lyrics. Hope’s little sister, Lovey Webber, was notorious for belting out her own erroneous versions of the most popular songs at the time. What damage Lovey could do to a song could sometimes never be repaired.
Hope smiled at me. “Hey, Ben. Guess where I’m going?”
“Uh, crazy? Can I come along?”
Hope’s head went back, and her authentic laugh made me smile. “Ben, this is serious,” Hope said. “I am going to a rewards assembly.”
Mrs. Webber chimed in. “Ben, Hope is being honored today at a sports banquet. She’s receiving an award for success in track at the Special Olympics. Hope holds the state record for the mile run last year. Your mom is going to do something fun with her hair.” Mrs. Webber was always kind and quiet. The only time I saw her mad was when little Robert went streaking toward the pool yelling, “Ethel, don’t look!”
“Congratulations on your award, Hope. You should feel really good about that.”
As Hope and Mrs. Webber headed toward the path to the back door to the salon, Mrs. Webber asked me the question that every adult had asked me that summer. “Hey, Ben, have you decided where you’ll go to high school in the fall?”
I dreaded the usual dialogue. I knew that we couldn’t afford for me to go to the Catholic all-boys Jesuit school, Creighton Prep. Mac had offered to help with that, but my mom knew she couldn’t pay him back. She’d said no to offers for my sisters to go to Marian High School. With our financial situatio
n, my family would stay on the public-school track.
“You know, I’m not sure yet…”
Grandpa Mac honked from the curb and waved at Mrs. Webber. “Gotta go. Congrats, Hope.” I ran to the big silver boat of a Buick that Grandpa called Babe.
“Heya, Benny,” Grandpa Mac yelled. Note: Grandpa Mac is the only person who got away with calling me Benny besides my mom.
“Heya, Grandpa, heya, Babe,” I addressed his silver femme-auto that only slightly embarrassed me as we drove by the kids on the block. “It sure is hot.”
The talk would remain on the surface during the ride to the church. Weather, ball games, and gas prices. Pretty much it. I think our great effort to sound nonchalant was an attempt to make this little ritual seem natural. And for sure, we never talked about my mom during those ten-minute drives. Mac always allowed me to turn the radio in his car to WOW. That evening, the Righteous Brothers were singing about heaven in the song “Rock and Roll Heaven.”
As we pulled onto the blacktop parking lot at Saint Pius, I took a deep breath. Going to a church that I didn’t feel much a part of. Standing up in front of large crowds of people watching me try to remember every little cup I must give Father. Lighting candles twice as tall as me. Kneeling for what seemed like an eternity. Wearing a dress that I guess was supposed to make me look like a “minipriest” or maybe an angel. This was not easy.
But Grandpa Mac would be sitting out in the pews. He would drop me off near the sacristy and then park out front. Mac would enter the church through the front doors and would sit on the left side, halfway up the aisle, always. He was never too far, not too close or obvious. He would make eye contact with me only once, as I walked down the aisle in the procession with Father Whelan. Grandpa Mac would wink.
Grandpa Mac dropped me off, and I headed toward the back door to the sacristy. Just outside the door against the building leaned Father Whelan, smoking a cigarette. I can still hear A.C., as he puffed on a candy cigarette from Ben Franklin Five and Dime Store: “Winston tastes good…like a cigarette should.”
Most of the priests that I knew at that time smoked. Heck, most of the adults that I knew smoked at that time in my life: Grandpa Mac, most of the dads, and some of the moms on our block. I had my suspicions about a few teachers. A.C. and I used to think that Father Whelan was one of the coolest smokers ever, though. He seemed deep in thought as he inhaled and squinted. Maybe he was contemplating his sermon for this five thirty p.m. Mass. Maybe he was praying for someone he had visited in the hospital. Maybe he was thinking about some of the more awful or interesting confessions he had listened to recently.
“Good evening, Ben.” Father exhaled as he spoke. Father Whalen was the only priest who knew my name. Father Whelan was cool. A.C. and I had names for each priest in our parish. Big Father Laverty, Young Father Gusweiler, Old-Fart Father Dailey, Fun Father Spokinski, and Cool Father Whelan.
“Hey, Father!” I always liked serving for Father Whelan. He didn’t make me feel nervous if I forgot to bow or get the wine right away. I ran into the sacristy hoping that he would think that I was eager to serve.
Calling these men “father” was always strange to me. They weren’t my father. My own father wasn’t even my father. The name, I figured, even then, was to show that a priest held great responsibility to the people of the church. He was supposed to nurture the people and be their strength and safety during challenging times. People looked to the priest in this way. I could see that in the older women in the church as they told Father Gusweiler he gave a great sermon, or in the faces of children as they ran to Father Spokinski on the playground.
One Thanksgiving as the choir pounded out an impressive performance of “Faith of Our Fathers,” I listened to the words:
Faith of our fathers, living still,
In spite of dungeon, fire and sword;
O how our hearts beat high with joy
Whenever we hear that glorious Word!
I pinched my eyes together to see what face would pop up in my mind as the father, living still. The father who made my heart fill with joy. I saw Grandpa Mac. Not the priests of Saint Pius.
Faith of our fathers, holy faith!
We will be true to thee till death.
A.C. and I had analyzed the whole priesthood thing. Having people look up to you and call you Father would be kind of cool. Giving our lives to God would certainly gain us some points and impress the adults in our worlds. If I knew that I could be as cool as Father Whelan as a priest, I might consider the priesthood, especially if that whole girl thing never worked out.
A.C. had already committed his life to God in the second grade following his First-Communion ceremony. He had announced in front of the cake and coffee at the family party that he was going to be a priest. He would live his life and offer all he did up to God. He also wanted to be a zookeeper and an NFL football player. If anyone could juggle the three, Father A.C. would be the man.
As soon as I signed in to serve that summer evening, I bumped into a kid whose last name must have been right next to mine in the altar server roster since I more often than not got stuck serving with him. Ken or Keith Kemper or something like that. I just remember I didn’t care much for him.
“Dibs on the book. Oh and I’ll do the bell, too!” Ken-or-Keith skipped off to light the candles on the altar—another fun thing I wouldn’t get to do. The “book” happened to be the easier of the two jobs assigned to the servers. These jobs had been taught to me earlier that year during a forty-five-minute training session where Young-Uptight Father Gusweiler magically made me an altar boy. A flock of half minipriest hopefuls and half this-was-not-my-idea youths sat listening to Father while their mothers sat in the back of the church.
Hey, I have an idea! Let’s get the boys in their most awkward, self-conscious state of puberty and put them on the altar for all to gawk at during Mass. Oh, and don’t let the girls up there. Did they really want to give the key to the tabernacle to a sixth-grade boy? Did they have any idea how hard it was for a twelve-year-old boy to keep a straight face when he saw his friend from the pews crossing his eyes? Did they not know how tempting it was to shine the shiny-crumb-catcher thing right against the light so that it would reflect on the ceiling? Did they know how hard it was to get up at 5:45 in the morning on days that boys served at the 6:30 a.m. Mass and stay awake for that next hour? I think they knew. Oh, they knew. No one had spared them, either.
Those who schemed up this whole altar-boy thing must have felt that young men might gain some character taking part in the liturgy. They must have hoped that the overwhelming, nauseating stench of the incense would knock some sense into the young boys. Maybe the holy-water thingy that the priest shook at the congregation would look like something fun to do. Maybe some of those young participants would consider the priesthood. I’m sure they had an agenda. I just know that the roller coaster of emotions every time my name showed up on the altar-server roster was absolute. From the moment I put on the ugly church clothes to the moment I was dropped off after the Mass, I would endure that anxious feeling that I might screw something up.
Occasionally, while enduring my “anxiety and suffering” offering to God, I would have moments of awe. As I held a gold plate under the communicants’ chins as they stuck out their tongues for the Holy Eucharist, some people looked hungrier than others to me. Hungry for something. Hungry for what? Of course, the younger communicants focused more on the style of receiving the Eucharist. After watching and anticipating their time to partake in the Communion, they wanted to do it right. It was the older people of the community who always struck me. They looked so hungry.
During the mornings that I served, I had to wonder, what had gotten these older people out of bed to come to Mass? I know that if Grandpa Mac had not prodded me along, I certainly would still be in a nice, warm bed. What made these people get up so early to come? They could have slept in. If you are over one hundred years old or so, you shouldn’t have to go to 6:30 a.m. Mass. Righ
t? Yet they all looked so hungry. They actually wanted to be there. It was during this time that I felt completely unworthy. Unworthy to be standing on the altar. Unworthy to be partaking in this amazing ritual. Unworthy to receive such grace I did not understand.
After Mass that evening in the summer of 1974, once Ken-or-Keith and I had cleaned up, snuffing out candles and putting everything in order for the next Mass, I hung up my robe and headed out to the blacktop parking lot. Grandpa Mac and Babe were waiting for me. The ride home was pretty much the same as the ride to church except that every once in a while Grandpa Mac would stop by Goodrich Dairy and get two chocolate malts for us. That night on our way home, we saw a small black man walking down Blondo Street with an armful of brooms and a white cane. Mac waved at the man. The old man, in a suit and tie, wearing a capped hat, held about five brooms over his shoulder. He moved the cane back and forth as he walked down the sidewalk.
“That’s Reverend Livingston, Ben,” Grandpa Mac said quietly. “He’s a blind man who sells brooms for a living and preaches God’s word. Makes the brooms, too. The man’s a saint, a quiet little saint weaving around the city.”
“He’s blind? How does he know if people are paying him the right amount of money?”
“He just trusts them, I guess. I bought a broom from him when I was working downtown. He was walking around the UP building at lunch time, but I’ve seen him all over Omaha.”
Grandpa Mac turned Babe past the Wicker Witch house and onto my cul-de-sac. He parked in the driveway. “Thanks for serving, Benny.”
“You bet. Hey, Grandpa?”
Grandpa Mac looked at me as I opened the door to get out of his car.
“You waved to a blind man.” I started laughing. “Did you know that?”
Grandpa Mac smiled. “Wondered if you’d caught that.”
I ran up to my porch and went into the house. The summer of 1974 was stinkin’ hot. Gas prices were wacky. An old, blind man sold brooms on the streets of Omaha. And over in England, after a stint as a ditch digger and an English teacher, my future hero, was playing music wherever he could get a job. Gordon Sumner, music man of England, was starting to make a name for himself.
Vanity Insanity Page 5