Well, at least drilled us for our conceptual thinking and abstract understanding were limited due to our young ages and much of what we learned was rote memory. For those of you half-baked Catholics with poor memories, some of the questions for the first two lessons went like this…
From Lesson 1, “On the End of Man”
• Who made the world?
• Who is God?
• What is man?
• How is the soul like to God?
• Why did God make you?
• What must we do to save our souls?
From Lesson 2, “God and His Perfections”
• Who is God?
• Had God a beginning?
• Where is God?
• If God is everywhere, why do we not see Him?
• Does God see us?
• Does God know all things?
My first grade class received one of the seven Catholic sacraments, first Holy Communion, on May 2, 1958, and back in those days later that same evening, another sacrament, Confirmation. The sacrament of Confirmation is a mature Christian commitment and faith in God’s fidelity to us. Again, we were too young to understand fully or even moderately appreciate the significance of these sacraments.
As a second grader in 1959, I remember the beginning of several visits each year from missionaries known as the Maryknoll Fathers. For some reason, their spirit and presentations mesmerized me or the Holy Spirit was stirring me at a young age. They always included a film about their missionary work in some remote country that I had no idea existed let alone know its geographic relationship to our country. Hell, I did not even know where our state was located. I did not really understand in any great detail the importance of the films, but the passing scenes of the plight of third-world countries and narration made the message clear: those who have more help those who have less. God was marketed as a big part of that message and it seemed a clear, simple message at the time. Little did I know how much it would both enhance and complicate my life, by choice or otherwise, and in some ways alter my unfolding adolescent years.
A less fond memory of my second grade year was receiving a spanking from a relatively mean spirited Spanish nun. My transgression? I was the last student out of the classroom during a fire drill and forgot to close the classroom door. My punishment was meted out when we returned as El Nun took me by the hand to the front of class and gave me several smacks across my butt. It was only after this embarrassing incident did she relate my hideous misdeed and forewarned others that they would receive the same castigation if their 7 year old brains committed the same sin of omission. To this day, I am not particularly fond of doors, which ruled out any future careers as an Amway salesman or as a Jehovah Witness.
Hindsight dictates that the assimilation of these life experiences had a considerable impact on my being. I recall playing with trucks, cars, pick-up-stix, slinkies, tinkertoys, cowboys and Indians, GI Joe, erector sets, and other gender-specific toys of the day. We played outdoor games such as hide-and-go-seek, kick the can, lawn darts (encouraging children to throw sharp metal things toward each other was a rather insidious invention), and backyard golf. Backyard golf was most annoying to my parents not due to burying a tin can to simulate the golf hole, but mowing the yard at three different levels to simulate the fairway, rough, and green. This seemed to annoy my mother a great deal even though to me it was just grass. Needless to say, they did not encourage my participation in the sport of golf—another Tiger Woods-maybe was lost to the world!
In outdoor games, like all children, we did not always play fairly. I recall a particular game of “kick the can”—the object of which is to kick the can placed in the middle of the yard before the person identified as ‘it’ can touch the can while calling out your name. Five of us convinced our unsuspecting friend that there was safety in numbers. We all decided to run toward the can as a group agreeing that all our names could not be called out before one of us kicked the can. We encouraged our gullible friend to lead the pack, but what he did not know is that although we would scream with him, we would remain at our veiled location. Needless to say he was caught easily— apparently there is no safety in ‘one.’ Laughing so hard at our friend’s predicament, however, justice was served as we were all subsequently caught.
Unlike most of my agemates, however, I also remember donning the role of the celebrant at home saying the Catholic Mass. Any piece of furniture was always accessible for the altar and one of my parents’ wine glasses served as the chalice or cup. Bread was forever abundant, and cutting circles out of the bread and smashing the circles flat represented the unleavened sacramental hosts. A blanket, sheet, or towel always served as the blessed cassock or cape.
Grabbing any family member formed the congregation as did any pet that was willing to be part of the congregation or by happenstance was at the right place at the wrong time. Bribery was often involved in building my congregation and seemed to work better than putting the fear of God into my perpetual flock. On many occasions there was no congregation at all, but the virtual celebration of the Eucharist went undaunted by empty pews. Even my imaginary friends at the time would not attend—I know this because they told my parents they did not want to play with me!
I survived my parochial school days, in part, because there was an abundance of holidays and vacations during the grade school years. Remember, “I live to relax.” Parochial students had many free days celebrating the lives of saints or biblical moments in history. We had many more saints back then because removing the celebration of their sainthood was unheard of at the time. Schools were not concerned with a 184-day schedule or statewide group testing, and we welcomed as many snow days as the heavens would bestow upon us. Snow days in our Midwestern state did not have to be woven back into the school year schedule. They were one of few things that were truly free in life—well, in a child’s life.
In grade school, free days for events other than sainthood and biblical festivities were bestowed happily upon us. As a fifth grader in 1961, a new church was built and the old church became a gymnasium—a rather holy one at that! All 900 of us, grades 1-8, went outside to watch the crowning of the church with its steeple. It was midmorning and for whatever construction reasons, the steeple could not be properly fitted. We were sent home anyway as parents were notified the night before of our early dismissal and made the necessary arrangements for our care. We returned the next day to watch the steeple topping once again. It took several hours to accomplish the task, but this time there was nothing left to chance. Perhaps some divine intervention was requested. After all, even our gracious pastor was not about to let us miss school for three consecutive days. We applauded the crowning event before being sent home midmorning for yet another unscheduled holiday. Gosh, those were indeed the good old days!
When a boy entered the sixth grade, he could choose or be chosen as an “altar boy.” I realize that “altar boy” is now considered sexist language, but altar persons were not in vogue at the time and girls did not serve Mass as they do today. As the altar boy of a given week, I arrived at the church by 6:00 a.m. for early Mass. During the winter months, I remember trudging through the snow that arose above my waist; well, I was a short 11 year old. It is amusing now because we all say something like that when we get older, but it really did happen—but we all say that too. Despite such dedication, the priest and I were usually alone in celebrating the Eucharist. God, after all, resided in the hearts of people. The multitudes had sufficient common sense to stay home where it was warm, dry, and safe. The site of prayer mattered less than the spirit of invocation.
As much as going home from school unexpectedly was a great thing for a kid in those days—only to be outdone by spending time in front of a new black and white television—it was not a pleasant one for a seventh grader of the time. It was November 22nd of 1963, a particularly cold day in November in Indiana, but unseasonably warm in the state of Texas. President Kennedy traveled to Dallas in hopes of resolving a feud between the then Governor Tom Connally and then senior senator Ralph Yarborough. President Kennedy believed that he would be unable to carry the state of Texas in the 1964 presidential election if