Wake up World, It’s Easter Again

When I was a little girl, waking up Easter Morning was the second best time of the year for me.  Right between Christmas morning and the First Day of School.  The night before, we put our Easter Baskets by the front door, and in the morning they were gone, hidden somewhere in the house.  Anticipation of the goodness waiting for me, if I just searched hard enough, made my stomach jittery like too much coffee does now.

Forty days and forty nights ago, all the statues and the crucifix got covered in purple cloth and the little bowls of holy water at the back of the church got emptied.  I thought I’d never remember to forget about blessing myself when I came in and out of church; no point with an empty blessing-cup.  Finally, no holy water was normal and then comes Easter morning:  Surprise, everything is changed again;  bright and wonderful.  At church, it was glorious ’cause everything was like brand new.

Easter was when I got to put on my new hat, and the brand new dress Mom made just for Easter. All the girls and women had on new straw hats, with flowers in the ribbon, and the dresses looked like a field of flowers: pink tulips, red roses, yellow daffodils, and purple hyacinths.  Starched stiff, with bows tied straight across behind all the girls dresses, just like we were freshly wrapped presents.  Even Father looked like sunshine with his white vestment embroidered with a crucifix across the whole front and back with golden rays of sun just a-shooting out of it.

The whole church was full of Easter Lilies, and the  two sets of three candles were lit on the altar, not just the one lonely candles on each side like all during Lent.  Most of the time, I held my breath when the my friend Mike’s big brother Bob, who was an altar boy, came out to light the candles.  Girls couldn’t be altar boys, ’cause only boys can get to be priest, that’s another one of those rules.  I guess when he was building the church and making up the rules about who could run things, Peter forgot all about the Marys and Veronica, who stayed right by Jesus when he got tortured and nailed on the cross and died.  Mom said that a smart woman lets the man think he’s running things, ’cause then his feelings don’t get hurt.  That was another one I had a hard time catching on to, like keeping my lip zipped.

All during Lent, just one candle on each side got lit, that was a low mass:  pretty quick.  If three candles got lit on each side:  high mass, never during Lent.  High mass meant gobs  of singing in Latin, on and on, Ed come spur tutu, oh and dominoes Nabisco, until I thought it would never end.  I thought it was polite how Bob sent out a little signal with the candles like that, then I knew whether I had to get ready for the long haul with a bunch of day-dreaming.   On Easter, right behind the gospel side of church, stood a brand-new-taller-than-me Pascal candle, which Bob had to reach way up on tip toes to light.

On Easter it was always high mass, except it seemed like it was so long ago that Father did a high mass that all that singing, one note over and over, then everyone changing it up a bit all at the same time like they learned to sing that way when they were still up in heaven before they got born, made my stomach feel all relaxed and happy, like after having a cup of hot chocolate.

The singing, all the hallalulias and hosannas, and the bell ringing  for the high mass just got me reminded how empty all of Lent was, and now it was like everything woke up and came alive, just like Jesus did.  God sure picked a good time to make the most super-duper miracle of all, ’cause the whole world was just like a big rock got rolled back and rose from the dead.

Happy Easter Everyone.

Dinner Time and Holy Thursday

When I was a little girl, supper time was an important time of the day.  I was on my own for breakfast, and lunch was flexible, but at supper time, everyone came together.  No one could start eating until hands were washed, everyone was at the table and the prayer was said.

The Last Supper

Mom said no books, no games, no homework, no newspapers, no elbows on the table during supper.  No radio, no TV, that was in the fronch room anyway, but still it had to be turned off, and no singing at the table during supper. We had a lot of “no’s,” but that left lots of room for talking, asking questions, and laughing.

No matter what was for supper, if I was the table-setter, I put down a plate with a fork on the left, knife on the right, and a teaspoon right next to the knife, plastic glass above the knife, glass- glass for Dad, he didn’t like the feel of plastic.  Of course, the baby only got a bowl and a spoon on the tray of the hi-chair pulled up, to the corner right there between Mom and Dad, no one would give a baby a knife and fork. Sometimes when Dad had to work overtime, his chair was empty.  I always sat a place for him anyway, just in case he got home, so it was a tinsy bit like he was there, even if he wasn’t.

At our house, Mom sat at the head of the table in the rolling chair, so she could get up fast to get stuff.  The table-setter sat in a rolling chair, too, ‘cuz the table-setter was the “hopper,” hopping up and down to fetch things.

Dad liked a whole bunch of special stuff that I thought was disgusting:  blue cheese, sardines, and that white stuff in the middle of the meat bone.  Whenever Dad had his special food, Bonita and Deanna and Vickie begged to have some.  I was pretty sure they liked it just ‘cuz he did, and I had a mind of my own, something that got pointed out to me at least once a day; sometimes it seemed like a good thing, “Way to go.  I always knew you had a mind of your own;” and sometimes it was a bad thing, “Why can’t you just do what you’re told, instead of always having a mind of your own.”

Once I told Dad that blue cheese smelled like his feet.  That made him hopping mad.  Dad hardly ever got mad at us kids, but when he did, it was usually at me.  He kinda liked me having a mind of my own, but not so much me saying all my thoughts out loud.  I figured out later, with the help of Mom, that I hurt Dad’s feelings by saying his feet smelled like blue cheese.  Dads sometimes got mad when their feelings got hurt, instead of just saying like moms do, “Hey, that was mean, now say you’re sorry,” then after that, everything gets back on track.   I always hated being off track with people, especially Dad.

That’s probably how Jesus and all the Apostles felt at the last supper:  all off track.  Here they were having a nice Passover supper, ‘cuz of no Easter yet.  First everybody started fighting about who would sit next to Jesus, just like Deanna and Bonita and Vickie fought over getting some of that white stuff from the meat bone.  Then Jesus announces that one of his best friends was gonna turn against him, and all the apostles  started saying “not me, not me,” and looking around, trying to figure out who had the guilty look on his face.

Judas was a bad guy for turning Jesus over, but I felt sorry for him anyways.  I got to thinking maybe he just had a mind of his own, and thought he was doing a good thing, ‘cuz afterward he felt so sorry he hung himself.  Sometimes my ideas turned out all wrong, like when I took a bite out of the rubber spatula just to see how it tasted, and then it seemed like nobody wanted to listen to the reasons why I did it.  I was just in trouble.

Maybe Judas should have talked thing over with Jesus’s mom before he got the whole ball rolling.  Mary was probably good at figuring things out, on account of most moms are.  Or maybe he should have just spoke right up, instead of sneaking around and making all those plans by himself.  Then somebody would for sure have said, “Wait just a minute now, that’s not nice,” and everything could get back on track.

With all my ability to reason with a grown up mind, this story continues to puzzle me.  Why must the story of our salvation be such a sad and confusing story of  mistrust, betrayal and brutal suffering?   Once long after I was no longer a little girl, a nun asked this provocative question:  Could Jesus’ death have the power to redeem, if he had not been executed and instead, died of old age?  I asked G-Money that question and after pondering it a bit, he said, “Well, maybe it’s good we only sinned as much as we did, because sometimes living a long time and dying of old age means enduring boat loads of suffering.”

I asked Mom that question and she said, “For the love of Mike, sometimes I just can’t believe the things you think about.”  Right after ‘thinking for myself’, ‘thinking too much’ is the next most often compliment-complaint I hear.

Rise Up World, It’s Easter (re-post)

When I was a little girl, waking up Easter Morning was the second best time of the year for me.  Right between Christmas morning and the First Day of School.  The night before, we put our Easter Baskets by the front door, and in the morning they were gone, hidden somewhere in the house.  Anticipation of the goodness waiting for me, if I just searched hard enough, made my stomach jittery like too much coffee does now.

Forty days and forty nights ago, all the statues and the crucifix got covered in purple cloth and the little bowls of holy water at the back of the church got emptied.  I thought I’d never remember to forget about blessing myself when I came in and out of church; no point with an empty blessing-cup.  Finally, no holy water was normal and then comes Easter morning:  Surprise, everything is changed again;  bright and wonderful.  At church, it was glorious ’cause everything was like brand new.

Easter was when I got to put on my new hat, and the brand new dress Mom made just for Easter. All the girls and women had on new straw hats, with flowers in the ribbon, and the dresses looked like a field of flowers: pink tulips, red roses, yellow daffodils, and purple hyacinths.  Starched stiff, with bows tied straight across behind all the girls dresses, just like we were freshly wrapped presents.  Even Father looked like sunshine with his white vestment embroidered with a crucifix across the whole front and back with golden rays of sun just a-shooting out of it. Continue reading

The Last Supper (re-post)

When I was a little girl, supper time was an important time of the day.  I was on my own for breakfast, and lunch was flexible, but at supper time, everyone came together.  No one could start eating until hands were washed, everyone was at the table and the prayer was said.

The Last Supper

Mom said no books, no games, no homework, no newspapers, no elbows on the table during supper.  No radio, no TV, that was in the fronch room anyway, but still it had to be turned off, and no singing at the table during supper.  That left lots of room for talking, asking questions, and laughing.

No matter what was for supper, if I was the table-setter, I put down a plate with a fork on the left, knife on the right, and a teaspoon right next to the knife, plastic glass above the knife, glass glass for Dad, he didn’t like the feel of plastic.  Of course, the baby only got a bowl and a spoon on the tray of the hi-chair pulled up, to the corner right there between Mom and Dad, no one would give a baby a knife and fork.

At our house, Mom sat at the head of the table in the rolling chair, so she could get up fast to get stuff.  When I was the table-setter, I got to sit in a rolling chair, too, ’cause then I got to be the hopper.  Sometimes when Dad had to work overtime, his chair was empty.  I always sat a place for him anyway, just in case he got home, so it was a tinsy bit like he was there, even if he wasn’t.

Dad liked a whole bunch of special stuff that I thought was disgusting:  blue cheese, sardines, and that white stuff in the middle of the meat bone.  Whenever Dad had his special food, Bonita and Deanna and Vickie begged to have some.  I was pretty sure they liked it just ’cause he did, and I had a mind of my own, something that got pointed out to me at least once a day; sometimes it seemed like a good thing, “Way to go.  I always knew you had a mind of your own;” and sometimes it was a bad thing, “Why can’t you just do what you’re told, instead of always having a mind of your own.”

Once I told Dad that blue cheese smelled like his feet.  That made him hopping mad.  Dad hardly ever got mad at us kids, but when he did, it was usually at me.  He kinda liked me having a mind of my own, but not so much me saying all my thoughts out loud.  I figured out later, with the help of Mom, that I hurt Dad’s feelings by saying his feet smelled like blue cheese.  Dads sometimes got mad when their feelings got hurt, instead of just saying like moms do, “Hey, that was mean, now say you’re sorry,” then after that, everything gets back on track.  With Dad, sometimes I needed help figuring things out.  I always hated being off track with people, especially Dad.

That’s probably how Jesus and all the Apostles felt at the last supper:  all off track.  Here they were having a nice Passover supper, ’cause no Easter yet.  First everybody started fighting about who would sit next to Jesus, just like Deanna and Bonita and Vickie fought over getting some of that white stuff from the meat bone.  Then Jesus announces that one of his best friends was gonna turn against him, and all the apostles  started saying “not me, not me,” and looking around, trying to see who had the guilty look on his face.

That Judas was a bad guy for turning Jesus over, but I felt sorry for him anyways.  I got to thinking maybe he just had a mind of his own, and thought he was doing a good thing, ’cause afterward he felt so sorry he hung himself.  Sometimes my ideas turned out all wrong, like when I took a bite out of the rubber spatula just to see how it tasted, and then it seemed like nobody wanted to listen to the reasons why I did it.  I was just in trouble.  Maybe Judas should have talked thing over with Jesus’s mom before he got the whole ball rolling.  Mary was probably good at figuring things out, ’cause most moms are.  Or maybe he should have just spoke right up, instead of sneaking around and making all those plans by himself.  Then somebody would for sure have said, “Wait just a minute now, that’s not nice,” and everything could get back on track.

With all my ability to reason with a grown up mind, this story continues to puzzle me.  Why must the story of our salvation be such a sad and confusing story of  mistrust, betrayal and brutal suffering?   Once long after I was no longer a little girl, a nun asked this provocative question:  Could Jesus’ death have the power to redeem, if he had not been executed and instead, died of old age?  I asked G-Money that question and after pondering it a bit, he said, “Well, maybe it’s good we only sinned as much as we did, because sometimes living a long time and dying of old age means enduring boat loads of suffering.”  I asked Mom that question and she said, “For the love of Mike, sometimes I just can’t believe the things you think about.”  Right after ‘thinking for myself’, ‘thinking too much’ is the next most often compliment-complaint I hear.

The Last of Supper

Every family has rituals whether  planned or just developed over time.  When I was a little girl, going to church on Sunday, a  candy treat afterwards at Glebe’s, and going for  ice cream cones in the summer were all rituals that got passed on from one generation to the next.  Supper turned out of  those everyday rituals that came to be almost sacred to me.

As I hauled up the hill after school, over the ruts Dad filled with black walnuts to get those oily husks off and so he could save on gravel,  the smell of Mom’s cooking made my mouth feel all slippery inside.  Unless she was making liver and onions, then my spit-juices got all thick and my stomach tried to get out my throat.  Or potato pancakes, those made my nose tried to shrink down to a nub and I had to cover my mouth, so I wouldn’t throw up.  I told Mom over and over, those things made me sick, but she thought I was just being dramatic, whatever that meant.  Once, when renters still lived in the frunchroom and my family still fit in the kitchen for supper and I was stuck in behind the table, sitting up tight against the wall, Continue reading

Lost and Found (re-post)

When I was a little girl, I got lost a lot.  I remember getting lost at the beach and lost in the museum.  I was never afraid when I was lost, because I never knew I was lost.

I got lost at the beach when I was really little.  I just kept walking along the beach, playing with different kids.  Once my foot got stuck down in the sand and a wave came along and pushed me under.  I blew the water out in big bubbles and looked around at the seaweed.  I guess I can swim now, I thought.  Nobody I played with could swim yet; I was first to learn.  A lady picked me up and asked me if I was lost.

“No.” I said.  She smelled just like shredded coconut and baby oil.

“Where’s your Mommy and Daddy?”  said the lady who picked me up.  She had on a black bathing suit with lots of skin up front on view and her bowls were great-big, giant bowls,  just coming right out of the front of her bathing suit.  I never saw anything like that on any of the ladies I knew, not my friends’ mothers, nobody at church, not Mom, for sure, not Mom.  This was before I went to school, otherwise, maybe Mrs. Brown, my kindergarten teacher had bowls that big, but hers were hanging way down, not like this lady, who’s bowls were pushed together and just bursting out like a big, pink, bare butt sitting up there in front. Continue reading

Give It Up (Re-post)

When I was a little girl, I always gave something up for Lent. I got to pick my “give-up” except for the one big thing Mom picked out for the whole family, that I had to do whether I liked it or not.

My best friend Connie and me at our First Communion.

Me and my best-friend-at-school Connie, liked to sacrifice by walking to church at Noon Hour on Fridays and doing the Stations of the Cross.  We put on our snow-pants and boots, coats and mittens, and slap-footed out the big double doors; not the ones to the playground, the ones at the front of the school.  Our moms wrote notes giving us permission; still we felt like the high schoolers, who could go downtown every Noon Hour, without notes from home.  Me and Connie walked along with Daylene, who went home for lunch.  Daylene’s mom was Cherokee, something I found out after I was all grown up.  Nobody talked about where they were from, or who their ancestors were, that was as boring as History, we just talked about where our dads worked.  Most of the dads worked in The Shop making cars; my dad worked for Bell Telephone fixing lines and phones and doing installations.  He had all kinds of neat stories about Continue reading