Stories from my breezeway

When I was a kid, at a time when the bodies of women were a curious mystery to me, my best friend’s brother told me that tampons were ladies cigars and they smoked them in the bathroom.

As a young single mom, I was forced on occasion to send my sons to the nearby grocery store to get them.  I’d give Sam and Benny a coupon and tell them to get exactly what was on the picture.  They took this job very seriously and were proud that they could do something important for me.

One time I caught Sam and Benny playing with discarded tampon cardboards outside in the dirt next to the house.  They were using them for GI Joe missiles.

While we were cleaning up the house preparing for his First Communion party, Benny came out of the bathroom clutching a fistful of tampons and declared, “There’s going to be a lot of women here and we’re going to need more of these.”

Another time, I was busy volunteering for the church festival staffing a betting game, when I knew by the way I was feeling that the dreadful event was about to surprise me.  I sent Benny home to get me a tampon.  He came back with two.  “I know how you women get,” he said.

I know it’s unusual but my boys were very comfortable with tampons although I don’t think they knew exactly what they were for.  Maybe they thought I smoked them in the bathroom.

This little old Latino guy is standing on the corner with a folded piece of yellow tablet paper in his hands.  He is looking around at the street signs.  Even though I am sure stopping will make me late for my meeting at the neighborhood coffee shop, I ask if I can help.

In English of course.  I don’t speak Spanish other than a few niceties like “gracias,” and I can ask where the bathroom is by saying “el baño?” with an urgent look on my face.

He responded in Spanish of course.  And from his gestures and inflections, I gather that he is very disappointed that I don’t speak Spanish.  It’s happened before.  People mistake my olive skin and dark hair for something else.

He chatters on and I figure out a little of what he was trying to tell me.  He is from Peru.  His family lives in Michigan.  He showed me the piece of paper he was holding.  It had some phone numbers on it but I couldn’t understand anything else.  I take my phone from my purse and offered it to him so that he could call one of the numbers.  He shakes his head no.

So we walk together in the direction of the coffee shop.  All the while I’m hoping that we run across a Spanish speaker.  That doesn’t happen so as we pass by my friend Jill’s house, I ring the bell.  Her husband speaks Spanish.  The dog barks his head off but no one answers.

Then I get the brilliant idea that I could call one of my Spanish speaking friends and ask her to translate for me.  On the third try, I connect with my friend Maria who lives in California.

I explain the situation to her and hand my friend from Peru the phone.  I am really hoping that the assistance he requires won’t take too much longer.  They exchange a few brief words and he gives the phone back to me.

Maria says, “Elaine, he’s been trying to tell you that he doesn’t need any help.”

My friend from Peru and I shake hands and go our separate ways on this fine sunny day.

“DADD.  Dads Against Daughters Dating.  Shoot the First One and the Word Will Spread.” I saw these words on a t shirt at a gift shop in the Wisconsin Dells and nearly choked on my walnut fudge.  It made me think of my own Dad.  He had rules about dating when I was a teen.  I had to be home no later than 10 pm.  He had to know exactly where we would be going.  No dashing out at the sound of a car honk.  My dates were required to ring the bell, come into the house and be properly introduced.  And every time, Mom would be harmlessly puttering in the  kitchen but Dad would be in his basement workshop loading shot gun shells.

It didn’t occur to me that there was anything devious about this at the time.  After all, he is a hunter and loading shot gun shells is something he did.  But many years later, when I ran into an old boyfriend at a club, he mentioned it.  “Your dad was really scary,” he said.  “Not only was he always working on ammunition, he made sure I saw his arsenal of rifles.  There had to be 6 or 7 of them standing in that glass case! ”

Most of the time, all of dad’s protectiveness annoyed me as it would any teen girl.  But I  remember a night I was glad to have that kind of dad.  I’d had a date with a guy I wasn’t that into.  When he brought me home, he walked me to my back door and made what I will politely call “a pass” at me.  I had the perfect way out.  I just leaned back on the door bell and Dad was there in a flash.  Having been introduced to Dad in his workshop earlier, “Romeo” skedaddled without even a parting glance.  Romance over.

When my first marriage ended, I was concerned that Dad might seek some sort of revenge.  But he was just glad for me to be done with him and kept his feelings in check.

Then there was the time I brought my future second husband over to meet my parents for the first time.  Tom was trying really hard to win my two boys over and wanted to show my parents that he was a good prospect for me.  He bought the boys two of those small balsa wood airplanes.  The second we arrived, Sam and Ben launched their planes into a quick high arc landing them both high up in a birch tree.

Dad, standing shirtless in the driveway, said, “I’ll take care of that,” went in the house, came out with a shot gun and blasted them both out of the tree with two rapid shots destroying the planes in the process.  No “Hello, glad to meet you.”  Nothing.  Tom, a guy who would never even consider owning a gun, froze with his mouth agape and mumbled, “What kind of hillbilly family am I getting mixed up with?”  Being used to their grandfather and the stuff he does, the kids merely shrugged at the loss of the planes and the evening went on as if nothing happened.

Dad still hunts some and loads shot gun shells in the basement although that’s long faded as a threatening activity to anyone including deer.  Yet, I still think of him as my protector.  The guy who will do anything he can to prevent me from harm, especially in the form of a male human.

I didn’t get on an airplane until I was 31 years old.  I flew to Atlanta for a work conference.  I felt so awkward and stupid—asking flight attendants if I was on the right plane a million times, wandering around the airport looking for the baggage claim.  It was a humiliating experience and  I wasn’t going to let this happen to my kids.  I wanted them to be savvy travelers and see the world.

I came home from work on Tuesday and announced, “We’re going to Disney World!  We leave on Thursday.”  I found the deal of a life time, $150 for me and both my kids.  A last minute charter deal.  Off site motel and rental car included.  We were all set!

The boys jumped up and down and shout, “We’re going to Disney World!”  But after a few minutes of revelry, Sam stops cold.  “Wait, how are we going to get there?”

“We’re flying,” I say.

“What airline are we taking?”

“Funjet.”

His face disintegrates and he wails, “Those pilots take drugs!  Can’t we take a train or drive?”

At 13, Sam watches way too much news.  Flash floods, starving children in Ethiopia, and drug testing for pilots are of great concern to him.

Ben, who is 9, is mostly worried about what we’ll eat.  I explain that they will serve food on the plane and that their will be plenty of McDonald’s in Florida.

Tuesday arrives.  As we board the plane, Sam takes a long pause to look into the cabin at the pilot.  After we’re served lunch, Ben stuffs our uneaten saltine crackers and packets of jelly into his pockets so that we’ll have something to eat later.

The pilot lands the plane safely.  We follow our fellow passengers to the baggage claim.  But then, I have no clue where we’re supposed to go to get the rental car.  I had no idea there were so many choices.  So, again, I follow my fellow passengers.   We board a van which takes us to Enterprise.

I leave the boys in line and head to the bathroom because I have that feeling.  That crampy “oh crap, I have my period feeling.”  I have a stain on my khaki shorts which I try to hide by holding my purse in front of my crotch.

It’s finally our turn.  The clerk asks me for the voucher.  “What voucher?” I ask.  He tells me that I can’t get a car without a voucher from the charter group and turns me away.

Sam, Ben, and I sit on our two suitcases in the now almost empty parking lot in front of Enterprise, and I cry.  I don’t have any idea what we’re supposed to do now.  Sam squeezes onto the suitcase with me and puts his hand on mine.  Ben stands with his arm around my shoulder.

Apparently it’s bad for business to have a sobbing woman with blood stained shorts and two waifs in front of your building.  The rental car guy comes out and tells me there’s a car left that I can have and we’ll straighten everything out later with the travel agent.  He gives me a map and detailed instructions for how to get to our motel.

Our motel as it turns out, is right next to a pawn shop and a Quick Mart.  The kids are excited because it has a pool but the empty beer cans strewn around it make me nervous.  The motel clerk asks for my voucher, which of course I don’t have again.  I promise to straighten it out with the travel agent and we’re given a room.  It’s pleasant enough.  Air conditioned with two double beds.

Stressed out Sam heads straight to the bathroom.   When he eventually comes out, the toilet is running and water is pouring on the floor.  I call the motel office and someone comes to fix it.  But now I’m crying again.  I call my boyfriend of just a few weeks.  He’s sympathetic and offers to call the travel agent on my behalf.

Ben’s eating the crackers and jelly he squirreled away from the flight.  But we’re all hungry so we go to the 7/11 for foot-long hot dogs and antacids for Sam.  We finish the night with a swim in the pool until a gang of creepy teenagers show up.

The next day, with a death grip on the steering wheel, we make it to Disney and buy three day passes.  We head for the big roller coaster first but Sam’s not feeling well.  I leave him on a bench with his Tums.

Day 2 at Disney: We lose Ben for almost an hour.

Day 3 at Disney: I’m so lonely for adult company that I chat up the waitress for an awkwardly long time.

Day 4:  We take a break and head to the NASA Space Museum and Cocoa Beach, at least I think it’s Cocoa Beach.

Day 5: Epcot Center

Day 6:  Cypress gardens where my cousin is on the water ski team.

Day 7:  Head home.  I cry when the plane lands.

What do my adult children remember about this trip?  Chasing seagulls at Cocoa Beach.   

But here’s what I know more than 25 years after this trip.  Sam never balked at flying again and has traveled all over the world.  He makes friends everywhere he goes.   Ben has done his share of traveling too but never without a snack for the road and a meal plan.  We all take a vacation together every year.

Me and that hero boyfriend of mine who is now my husband, took the grandkids to Legoland this summer!  I can’t wait to hear what they remember about it in 15 or so years.

My grandson Ezie is very serious about being Darth Vader, the latest in a string of evil personas he’s adopted.  He brought two red light “savers” and his “Dark” Vader mask/helmet with him on our annual New Years vacation to San Diego.  Character assignments were made.  I was Queen Amidala.  His Dad was Han Solo.  His brother was Luke.  Grandpa was Jabba the Hut.  Battle after battle was staged.  When I tried to tear him away from the Star Wars marathon on Spike TV to go out and enjoy the sunshine, he crossed his light “savers” across my neck to behead me.

He might think of himself as Dark Vader but he looks more like pig pen.  I swear small tornadoes of dust follow him.  He insists on wearing his blond hair past his shoulders and it’s always in his eyes and snarled in spots with cyclones of something sticky.  He usually has snot streaked across his face.  He won’t wear anything but sweat pants that are too big so that the bottoms are always filthy and frayed.  Paired with his favorite grey on grey striped sweat shirt he looks like a small prison inmate.

Pig pen and I were going through security together on our way home.  “I’ll have to check this young person,” the agent said.  “Is this a boy or a girl?”  Seriously, I thought.  Who would make this slob out for a girl?  Ezie rolled his eyes.  He hates being mistaken for a girl.

“I guess he’s going to have to check you,” I said.  “To make sure you’re not bringing any weapons on the plane.”

“Why?” Ez wanted to know.  “I packed the light savers in the suitcase.”

I looked around to make sure no one heard him say this.  You’re not supposed to joke about these things.

“I guess they know you’re on the dark side,” I replied.

That made perfect sense to him.  His dad went with him over to a designated area where the TSA agent swiped his hands with something.

By the time we all reassembled and recombobulated, it was time to board the plane.  Ezie sat next to Jabba the Hut and said with genuine sincerity, “They had to check me because they know I’m on the dark side, right Grandpa?”

“Yes, I’m sure that they know,” he said.

“How come they didn’t check you, Grandpa?” Ez wanted to know.  “You’re on the dark side too.”

“Well, I just joined recently,” said Grandpa.

“Oh,” said Ez and he settled down with his Star Wars phonics book for the long flight.

We weren’t home for more than 24 hours when Ezie and Noah’s mother, Angela, called to let us know that Ez has already informed her about his Christmas list for 2014, just shy of 12 months away.  “He wants two robot legs and a robot arm like Darth Vader,” she said.

“That’s interesting,” I thought. “I wonder if he is willing to have his real legs and an arm burnt off by hot lava like Anakin Skywalker to get them.”

As a single mom, I hated one chore above all others.  Grocery shopping.

Juggling a baby and a rambunctious four year old while trying to navigate the aisles with a grocery cart was a nightmare.  Benny, the baby, would gnaw right through plastic packages to try to get at the apples, the hot dogs, the bread.   At eight months, he only had a handful of teeth but made good use of them on anything he could get his hands on.  By the time I got to the check out counter, a good portion of my groceries were open or mangled and wet with baby slobber.  Once, in an attempt to distract him, I gave him a bar of Dove to hold.  Little Sharky quickly chewed through to the soap, made a gagging sound, and flung the bar into the Pepsi display.

Sam, the four year old could, not be contained.  He was Mr. Curious—touching and smelling everything.  Rearranging canned goods.  Adding random items to the cart—Count Chocula cereal, shaving cream, dog biscuits for his imaginary dog.   I tried putting him in the cart with Benny but then I didn’t have any room for groceries.  I tried putting him in a second cart but he hated it and effectively pulling one and pushing another was impossible.

My only option was to lessen the pain and agony by power shopping just once a month at one of the new gigantic warehouse stores.  And it was on one of these trips that the unthinkable happened.

Stressed out and distracted, I had reluctantly let Sam stay in the paper goods aisle to look at  the Star Wars Kleenex boxes while I made a quick loop around the next aisle with the cart, Little Sharky happily trying to eat grapes through the bag.

I returned quickly but he was gone.  I tried not to panic.  This had happened before at Target.  That time, I didn’t even know he was gone when an announcement was made—“We have a four year old boy named Sam who has lost his mother”—because I was standing just two feet away from him.

So, I figured he’d show up.  I continued to do my shopping, keeping an eye out for him, and returning to the Kleenex section every few minutes.  But when I’d finished my shopping and scanned every aisle one more time, and there was still no sign of him.

I proceeded to the check out counter to unload my months worth of mauled groceries, and explained to the cashier in what I hoped was a light-hearted way that I had looked everywhere but couldn’t find my four year old.  She shrugged.

“Could you have someone look for him?” I asked.  She paged a stock boy and explained that a kid was missing.

I chewed my nails and waited with my bagged groceries and Benny for what seemed like an unbearably long time when the stock boy returned with a child who was struggling to get away from him.  He was about the right size, but this kid wasn’t my son and I wasn’t willing to settle for a replacement.

“Maybe you should call the police,” the cashier said and gestured toward the pay phone near the door.

Near hysteria, imagining all of the horrible things that could have happened to him, I pushed my cart full of groceries and my baby toward the door to call the police.

I had just dialed the first number when I heard something.

“Beep.  Beep.  Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep…….”  It was the sound of a car horn.  Not like a car alarm had gone off.  But like someone was beeping the horn in rapid succession  And it sounded suspiciously like my car.  I dropped the phone and flew out the door with the cart and my baby.

Yep.  There he was.  Sam, the curious one.  In my car.  Laughing his head off and smashing his little fists into the horn. “Where were you?” he said.

Crisis averted.  I dried my tears and started to load the groceries into the car.  But the parking lot had a slight hill.  And while I was lifting the last bag into the trunk, the cart started rolling.  Fast.  By the time I picked my head up, it was out of my reach and I could only watch in horror as it hit a cement parking curb and launched Benny right out of the cart seat and into the bushes.

He survived with just a small scrape on his head.  But I would never recover.  For the next several years, I paid a baby sitter when I had to go to the store.

It’s my favorite day of the year–the annual pilgrimage to Summerfest.  The Fest is a tradition that’s picked up momentum over time and created a focal point for an annual Milwaukee reunion of a bunch of friends that go as far back as Catholic grade school. This was my time to let loose! 

We’ve been going together since the largest music festival in the U.S. wasn’t much more than a muddy field with a raggedy tent, a rickety stage and a beer stand on the shore of breezy Lake Michigan.  We danced our butts off on top of picnic tables to CCR, Tina Turner, Kool and the Gang, Tom Petty and the Heart Breakers, Bonnie Raitt,  The Thunderbirds, Morris Day and the Time, Joan Jett, The Go Go’s, Pearl Jam, Stevie Wonder, BB King and way too many others to recount.

Typically, the event starts with me, Tom my husband, and California Dave heading off to Slim McGinn’s (Now O’Lydia’s)  where a quick vodka and lemonade buys us a trip on the “slimozine” to the front gate of Summerfest where we meet the rest of our posse.

Dave left Milwaukee for warmer weather in 1977.  He vowed never to come back again in the winter.  And he didn’t except for one snowy December 22 years later when a family member died.  He showed up at our door wearing snow pants.  Dave is the party instigator too.  He’s the one all of the old friends gather to see.  The one who says, “Of course we can go to Summerfest five days in a row” not considering that some of us aren’t on vacation.

This year, we parked the car a few blocks away as usual but when we walked around the corner to Slim’s, we were surprised by the presence of a horse and carriage “parked” right in front of the door.

“Why not?” said Dave.

“How much to take us to the Fest?” he asked the top-hatted driver.

“Ten bucks a piece,” she said.

Given that we were now empty nesters with 401k’s and pension plans, $10 for a one mile ride meant nothing and we jumped right in without question.

A big smile spread across my face as we began our journey.  The lowly people who had to walk gazed upon us with envy.  Anxious drivers stalled in the tangle of traffic and gas fumes rolled their eyes as we passed.

“This is the life,” I said and the three of us giggled at the clop, clop, clop sound of the big Clydesdale.

But after a few blocks I started to notice that the walkers were moving faster than we were.  In fact, they were passing us.  The driver was doing her best to be gentle while encouraging the horse to keep moving.  The three of us exchanged wary glances.

“How old is this horse?” I ask.

“This old girl is about 27,” she said.

“Is that pretty old for a horse?”

“It depends,” said the driver.  “If they’re well cared for like old Cindy here, they can live 25 to 30 years.”

We didn’t say another word for the rest of the slow trip which concluded with sighs of relief.

“Well, it’s a good story to tell,” said Dave, as we walked toward the entrance.

Tom legitimately qualifies for the senior citizen discount so we sent him to the ticket booth to make the purchase while Dave and I held a place in line for the gate.  Saving a few bucks on the tickets would make up for the splurge on the horse and buggy ride.   We still like to be frugal 401k and all.

We inched our way forward until it was our turn to submit to the search which is now standard for all big public events.  Back in the day, I just shoved a few bucks and my ID card in my pocket and went.  But now I have to bring a purse, a big cloth hippy bag to carry my wallet, cell phone, lipstick, glasses, allergy pills, some tissue, and a sweater in case I get cold.  I strap it across my chest so I can keep my hands free to hold a beer.  The guards waved a metal detecting wand over my body and took an obligatory peek into my hippy bag and I was able to join Dave and Tom who were already through.

We headed straight for the nearest beer stand.  A Miller Lite in my hand and I was awash with euphoria.  Let’s get this party started.  Dave calls the look I get on my face my “perma grin.”

Now it was time to hook up with the two other Toms, Tom P. and Tom H., and Tom P’s kid, Rudy.  (Tom was a popular name during the Baby Boom.)  We surfed through the streaming crowd like the Summerfest pros we are and found them quickly.

“Heyyyyy,” the guys said and slapped each other high fives.  And right behind us, a group of younger guys snickered and did the same thing.

“We’ve been mocked,” Dave said with mock outrage, and we laughed.  We started to head off for the first band together and to meet some more friends– Pat, Carl, Terry, and Gebs but we had to wait for Tom P. to pee first.

There they were, right in the usual location, Miller Stage to the left of the beer stand on the far left.   The conversation was lively.  Catching up on kids and jobs, health and erectile dysfunction.  Dave’s daughter started college.  My grandson started first grade.  Carl got another promotion.  Tom’s brother had prostate cancer.

I went to get another beer and find a nearby picnic bench to sit on.  My bunions were killing me.  I watched my friends from a distance for a few moments and noticed that everyone except for Tom P.’s teenage son was wearing glasses; and that they all had grey hair; and that some of them hardly had hair at all.   And except for Dave who wears a circa 1994 Mexican Fiesta shirt, when did they all start wearing baggy Hawaiian shirts?

I stood up to rejoin them and as I did I felt a quick slap on my ass.  What the hell?  A guy actually smacked my butt.  I was stunned.  It was a young guy who just kept moving through the crowd with his buddy without even a backward glance.  The feminist in me wanted to go after them and give them a stern talking to about respecting women.

Only Dave saw what took place.  He moved to my side quickly.

“Did that guy just do what I think he did?” Dave asked.

“Yep,” I said.

“See, Elaine, you’ve still got it,” said Dave with a laugh.

For a moment I was flattered.  And then my face flushed as the realization overtook me.   “No, Dave.  I think I was mocked,” I said.

After waiting for Tom P to come back from the bathroom again, we reassembled and took a position on the benches for the main reason we were there—George Clinton and Parliament, a funky band that fills me with glee.  The band came out with a blast–Red L:ight/Green Light.  It was their big hit when I saw them the first time in 1978 and it took me right back there.  I was instantly a vibrant, energetic, sexy 22 year old again.

It was a spectacle.  I was disappointed that guy with the big diaper was no longer part of the show but there was a young woman roller skating around the stage in a skimpy outfit, a paper mache monster with a doobie in his mouth, and one of the extraterrestrial brothers looked like he was wearing cellophane pants.  Instead of the multi-colored dreds and bright clothes he used to wear, George wore a pimped out admiral’s uniform.

We all bobbed our heads and swung our hips to the funky beat, and screamed every lyric loud “WE WANT THAT FUNK, GOTTA HAVE THAT FUNK!” enjoying every blessed second of it.  George took a few breaks and let his son and granddaughter do a few numbers.

Midway through the show, we slowed down and had another beer.  Tom P. had to go to the bathroom again.  Tom, my husband, put cotton in his ears because the loud music was getting to him.  He had come prepared.

During the second set, I stopped shout/singing every lyric.  A few of the guys had enough and left.  After all, it was the late show and it wouldn’t be over until 10 p.m.

After the last song, Tom, Dave and I made long trek back to Slim’s on foot like we always do.  “Another great Summerfest memory,” said Dave as we walked.

I tried to ignore the blisters on my feet which I thought I would have avoided given the special orthopedic sandals I was wearing.  Tom and Dave talked about how the line up at Summerfest wasn’t as good as it used to be and that they hadn’t even heard of a lot of the bands that were performing.  We had a drink at Slims and waited for the traffic to die down before heading home.

I was looking forward to a long sleep.  But I was up before 6 with an aching neck and back.  My feet were on fire and my calves felt stiff as a pirate’s peg legs.  Thank god for Aleve.  I feel like such a cliché.  The old gray mare ain’t what she used to be.

Sometime during my elementary school years, one of the years after the toothless second grade and before breast buds, at a time when I thought that liking or thinking about boys too much could get you in “trouble” whatever that meant exactly, I wanted to be a nun.

It must have been around the time of fourth grade when my parochial school chums and I were embarked upon a full year of studying the lives of the Saints in preparation for our Holy Confirmation the following year.  I understood Confirmation to be the important act of “confirming” our Catholicism, proving that in addition to our Baptisms over which we had no choice, our now mature minds choose this path for ourselves.

Anyway, I liked the Saints.  They were brave and scary–fighting lions, getting stabbed lots of times, hanging out in the desert all by themselves, losing their heads…  They were glamorous too.  Mere children seeing visions, having the whole world take notice and make pilgrimages to their magic spot, being revered for their special piety.  These children were my heroes.

I especially liked Saint Bernadette.  I saw a picture of her and she had brown hair like me.   She was an oldest sister like me, too.  She was strong and brave and held on to her special secrets.  She only told the Pope and he wouldn’t tell anyone.  Then she got to be a nun.

Since I plainly knew it wasn’t a good idea to think about boys, I got really carried away with fantasies about Bernadette and her siblings.  I began to think that if I prayed a great deal and acted real pious, maybe I could earn that special kind of attention.  However, being an older sister, I knew that to get any real attention for anything, you couldn’t wait around for someone to notice.  You had to specifically ask for it.

So, one day, during recess, I rang the rectory door bell and asked to speak to Father Brown.  We arranged ourselves in his office.  He on the working side of the desk.  Little old me in a big leather visitor’s chair on the other side.  There was a lot of paper.  I explained my quest for holiness; my desire to spend my life in devout servitude; my commitment to never liking boys; and my attraction to wearing the really neat outfit of a nun.  In fact I shared with him that I wanted to enter the convent now and I hoped he would help me.  “The world’s youngest nun.”  I liked that idea a lot.

In hindsight, I’m amazed he didn’t laugh out loud.  He probably called all of his priest buddies the second I was out the door.  “Hey, Father Jones!  You’ll never guess who was just in my office!  The world’s youngest nun!”

But Father Brown gave me his sincere attention.  He said he thought it was wonderful that I found my vocation but that if I left my family for the convent now, they would miss me and would be sad.

“I don’t think so,” I pleaded.  After all, there were two other kids to keep my parents busy.  It couldn’t hurt to ask.

Father Brown wouldn’t budge.

I cried a little.

Instead, Father Brown suggested that I could get started on the path to nunhood by giving up my recess time every Wednesday to the service of the Lord.  And so, every Wednesday for the remainder of the school year, I earned “brownie points” toward my convent goal by vacuuming and dusting the sacristy area.

I was real grateful at first.  A few other nun wannabes had already been given the assignment so they showed me the ropes and where the priests kept the magical holy things every church needed to be a real church of God and not just a fancy building.   I did my chores and I stared at the statues of Jesus with his bloody palms, and the paintings of the Madonna, who was a virgin, a woman who had been very careful not to like boys too much.

But after a while, after dusting these icons dozens of times and finding chips in their paint and uneven brush strokes, after seeing our communion stacked up in boxes like saltine crackers, and after plowing the noisy Hoover around the sacred relics a few hundred times, these embodiments of holiness began to lose their charm.  By the time the school year was ending, all the other wannabes lured by the warming weather and recess, and boys I presumed, had abandoned their posts, leaving me to Wednesday cleaning chores on my own.

I needed a test to see if this holy stuff was going anywhere.  I needed to see a beam of light, some mysterious smoke, a statue crying real tears or bleeding!  I needed a vision.  I needed a sign.  Something from God, The Virgin Mary, or little baby Jesus, or even a Saint to let me know that I was indeed worthy of nunhood and that I should keep this cleaning junk up.

Of course I couldn’t just wait around for the holy family to know I needed this sign.  I had already been watching carefully for weeks.  So, on the last Wednesday of the school year, after completing my tasks and putting away the Hoover and the dust rags, I stood in the sacristy, in front of the alter, facing the choir balcony and said the dirtiest most awful word I knew, “shit.”

I waited.  Nothing happened.  My profanity in the holiest of holy places evoked no response.  No bolt of lightning.  No sudden cold breeze.  Not even a whisper of smoke.  It was over.  My dream of becoming not only the world’s youngest nun, but a nun at any time in my life, was dashed. And as young people do, I quickly moved on to a new passion—baseball.   I even thought it might be ok to play with the boys a little bit that summer.

By Elaine Carol Bernadette Maly

confirmed 1967

(This essay was featured on WUWM’s Lake Effect program in 2012.)