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
E ven 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 anythingfor Grandpa Mac. I knew,
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
E ven 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 anythingfor Grandpa Mac. I knew,
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