husky on edwards (draft, first six chapters)

8/14/2019 Husky on Edwards (Draft, first six chapters)

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Husky on Edwards (Draft) Greg Kreisman

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Husky on Edwards by

Gregory Kreisman

Draft, first six chapters




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Husky brings to mind a noble arctic dog with the spirit and power of a wolf,

majestically running over a snowy, windswept landscape. This is exactly the wrong

husky for our story. The husky I am referring to is corduroy or denim. Husky is asize. Husky was the name of Sears department stores' largest size for young boys.

There is no wolf like spirit here; the closest thing is sweaty armpits and chafed legs.

Huskies were made from a treated fabric that would be pulled uncomfortably tight

over pudgy frames. The fabric would resist staining. The fabric acted like a personala drop cloth for fat kids. It would resist spills of coke, cool-aid, BBQ and pasta sauce,

as they trail from the mouths of over eager eaters. Mothers can then simply wipeaway the drops of sauce and dribbles, from these errant gobbles and chews.

Huskies are for that special type of American child, the one who overindulges, the

glandular, the big boned. And it was to this weighty child's mother, that Sears

marketed the clothing line. A mother buys Huskies for their child for practical

reasons, not for aesthetic ones. And it is the child who must suffer the indignity of

the brand, or wear it with pride. This is the story of an unapologetic, heavyweight,Husky wearer, waddling over the landscape of a middle American town, above

average in every way that is physically possible.

Edwards is a street on the near south side of St. Louis. Missouri, a city founded in the

late seventeen hundreds at the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi rivers. Most

people who are not from there, associate it with Huck Fin and his raft. The city hasseveral major league sports franchises, hockey, baseball and football, for which it is

also widely known.

St. Louis has large Catholic and Jewish populations that it owes to nineteenth centuryimmigration from Italy, Germany and Eastern Europe. The 'Louis' in St. Louis is

often pronounced Louie by people living south of the the old Mason Dixon line. Butnone of the papists or Jews who actually live there would say Louie. The Catholics,

Jews, and most everyone else who lives there, pronounce it Louis, in a distinctlynorthern way.

In the nineteenth century St. Louis was the fourth largest city in the United states.

And during that gilded age the city was outfitted with beautiful public buildings and

social resources as gifts from wealthy philanthropists, like the St. Louis library, art

museum, Forest Park and the symphony orchestra.

The worlds fair was held there in 1904 and transformed a large part of the city's rural

areas into a world stage for the exhibition of the emerging modern world.

When I was young my grandfather, Bud Whacker, used to tell me that just about

every modern convenience was invented at the 1904 worlds fair. Inventions such as

ice cream cone and the hotdog bun were believable, but the paperclip, the garden-hose

and the can-opener, what's more, the car window roller-upper and roller-downer, the

club sandwich and the toothpicks used to hold that invention together, seemed, to me,

a bit too much. Think of some invention, anything, a soda bottle top or copper wire,

for example, Grandpa would proudly say it was invented at the worlds fair.




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The 1904 Worlds Fair left a powerful lasting impression on the city, a high water

mark of cosmopolitan possibility and importance.

The twentieth century was less kind to St. Louis. It saw its population slip to the

ranks of the 52nd city in America. And far from being a world stage, it became more

of a quaint museum, with a few bright spots of culture supported and protected fromubiquitous social ills and urban decline.

This cultural St. Louis was a world physically close to Edwards street, in the southside of the city, but conceptually far afield from my world, which consisted of a two

story converted duplex at 2015 Edwards. This two story building on a small lot in adying city in the Midwest marks my origin. This building formed my original celestial

sphere; a young boy's universe constructed of red brick. This small world of minewas situated in the little Italy section the city bordering both the Irish and Jewish

quarters.

For most of my young life there was just five people living at Edwards, my mother,

sister, grandmother and grandfather and me. The Edwards house was built just after

the Worlds Fair as were many of the buildings in the surrounding ethnic

neighborhoods. The bricks of these buildings were reclaimed from temporary

structures used for the Worlds Fair exhibition. Some of the bricks were glazed with

different colors and were smooth to the touch like semi opaque ancient glass. I havea lasting tactile memory of feeling the smooth glaze on the bricks of our house. The

glazed bricks were gathered together in batches of mismatched colors, like a patchwork quilt over the buildings of the ethnic neighborhoods. These bricks often

formed a beautiful color pallet that, I believe, was most elegantly demonstrated in the brick shed in the back yard of our Edwards house.

The ethnic neighborhoods shared these glazed bricks as a meager but fitting family

inheritance from the World's Fair. But that is perhaps just a small part of the Fair's

impact on these neighborhoods which were built in the shadow of the great

exhibition. There was no shortage of colorful stories. St. Louisans called the Irish

neighborhood dog town, and not out of some ethnic slight against the Irish. Rather, to

hear my grandpa tell it, it's a ethnic slight against the Chinese.

Grandpa maintained that a group a primitive Chinese people were displayed at theWorlds Fair. But the exhibitions ran out of money and they had to cut the Chinese

free, instead of sending them back home.

"you know let them out of their cages.", Grandpa said

"Cages, Grandpa?", I replied

"OK maybe not cages but some sort of hut or other kind of enclosure. The important

thing is the fair organizers just let them fend for themselves."

"Now Greg," Grandpa continued, "do you know what Chinese people eat?"




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"No Grandpa. Chinese food?, I said imagining something like cat food.

"Chinese food!" Grandpa retorted, irritated by the tautology, "No, son, they eat

dogs."

"Dogs?" I answered quizzically, "No they don't, grandpa. They couldn't."

"Yes, son, they would eat Rover or Spot. They eat dogs just as we eat pigs. And

you'd probably eat the neighbors' dog too, if Grandma were late with your lunch."

"Grandpa that's mean," I complained but deep down suspected it to be true.

"So, as I was saying," Grandpa continued,"they let these Chinese guys go fend for

themselves right in the city as if it was in their jungle home.

"Back then things were different, the city did not have all these buildings andhighways. They had just invented all that crap at the Worlds Fair so it didn't quite

circulate yet.

"So these Chinese guys holed up in some trees and bushes right near where Paddy's

pub is now, on the south side of the park.

"You know Paddy's, they got the burger you like."

"yes, Grandpa, just near the park."

"So they holed up there in some trees. But they were getting hungry and they didn't

have no money, no Chinese money, or real money."

"What did they do Grandpa?"

"They made arrows and bows out of stuff just lying around," Grandpa continued, "like

from the trees and garbage. I guess it was the head Chinese guy that had the plan. He

was thinking, that if you give a man a fish he eats for a day. But the river was like

seven miles away; and they didn't have fishing poles; they had arrows. So, the head

Chinese guy instructs them to hunt dogs."

"Dogs! How did they eat them?

"The Chinese guys hunt them and then the Chinese ladies skin, and cook them."

"But your not getting the story boy, Grandpa continued, now, somewhat frustrated,"This ain't a recipe, fatty. I am trying to tell you a story about ingenuity and hard

work. "It's about the railroads, laundry and about those funny hats you see 'emwearing.

Grandpa put his hands to the corner of his eyes and and gave a big smile and said in

an accent, "Ancient Chinese secret."




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"The Chinese tied the cats to a tree with transparent sausage casing, and waited on the

dogs in the trees. The dogs were up-wind and get the smell of the cats. And then

BLAM! "The Chinese shot the dogs with arrows."

"The Chinese used the Italian's cats to trap dogs," I said, "It all sounds so sad."

"Now you got it, Son," Grandpa said, patting me on the head. "it was a more barbaric

time. And you know that created the longstanding mistrust between the Italians andthe Chinese, that is, until the Irish moved in."

Squirrel Highway

So my childhood home was this red brick, two story building, built just after the 1904

Worlds Fair. It was positioned on the east side of Edwards street, in the middle of asmall city block. An alley ran along the south end of the house. The alley was like a

country road misplaced in the middle of the city, a relic left partially paved with

weeds and wildflowers growing 12 inches on either side.

The two story house was remarkably small. Not even 30 feet from front door to back door, and less than 25 feet from side to side. It was originally intended to be 4 family

flat, so it had two doors of the on the first and second floor. Each floor was cut intofour pieces, which made four rooms, two bedrooms, a kitchen and a living room.

Indoor plumbing and bathrooms were put in just before my grandparents moved in.The original intention of 4 families living in just two rooms a piece with no plumbing

or bathrooms always seemed quite rough. Knowing that, some how, made this place

seems like a castle, as our one family was living where 4 families had lived before.

The building was tall and boxy. It had a flat roof. But it was certainly not square to

precision. The tall walls of the house seemed to be in a slow-motion sway, when

viewed from the sidewalk. I am not sure whether this was an optical illusion of

perspective or poor craftsmen-ship, I suspect a bit of both.

There were first and second story stone and concrete balconies, that ran the length of

the front side of the house. They were merely three feet wide but each of the four

front doors had access to them. The ornamental white sandstone was so soft, aschildren, we could easily clear out a gash after a 10 minutes of rubbing. Some times I

would sit on the front porch soaking in the morning sun sitting next to my mother who was cat napping in a folding chair. I would sit and feel the sandy residue beneath

my toes and working small indentation into the facade of the building.

The only problem was that the second floor balcony by design or accident leanedtoward the street, and and gave the impression that you could easily fall to the street

below. A three foot tall black metal railing was the only protection. I was oftencautioned not to lean against the railing, heavy as I was, as it seemed to be loosely

attached to the stone pillars with rusty metal screws, some of which had already

broken free from the crumbling sandstone.




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I would safely survey my neighborhood hugging one of the sandstone pillars for

balance. You could see clear to the next street and over the one story houses in our

neighborhood. When I stood there I felt as if I was up in the aether. From thatrarefied air you could launch a paper air pane clear down the block if you folded it

really well. Across the street was a single story sausage making plant. It was started

by and catered to the Italian immigrants in the neighborhood. There were nowindows facing us, just white cinderblock walls with a black tar roof. During thesummer the smell of the meat curing was only overpowered by an occasional coating

of fresh tar on its roof.

Power lines, suspended on tall wooden posts, ran up and down the block. Fat electric

cables and thin phone lines connecting and crisscrossing all of the neighborhood

homes. Leaning, like I wasn't supposed to, I could almost touch one of the lines, a big

post was less than two feet from the tip of my chubby little finger.

These lines may have been intended just to carry power, but their other use seemed far

more natural and exotic. It is what we called squirrel highway.

Grandpa took me outside. We'd left the back gate walked up the alley to the front of

the House. We were facing east looking at the front of the house. He told me to look

up. Just to the right of her house was a tall electrical pole a good 12 feet above our

porch. To the left of our house was another electrical pole just as high, with clunky

ceramic resistors and hulking electrical capacitors. As we were on the corner of we

were a hub for the neighborhood power grid. That powerful electrical grid connected

the East and West of the neighborhood. It had two thick heavy black wires, and stood

just 6 feet above our porch. Four feet above those wires, ran a second smaller series of

cables. Grandpa told me those were for the telephone.

Squirrels would run up and down the poles, over the lines, jumping from tier to tier,

from crowded thick cables to thin telephone lines. The squirrels would exit at trees,

jumping onto branches, or exit at buildings, jumping onto roofs, or even exit on our

porch.

"Now boy," he said, "see that pole?"

"Yes, Grandpa."

"When you're upstairs with your mother, while she does her nails, don't you ever lean

over and try to touch those wires."

"Yes, Grandpa."

"They will fry you sure as anything," he said, now, patting me on my round tummy.

"And you would fry up real nice, apple in your mouth and everything."

"Cut it out, Grandpa."

"But Greg, I just wanted to tell you that I know your mother's been doing her nails alot. And staying out late at night, too. I just want to let you know that this is normal."




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"It's OK," I said, "I like staying downstairs with you, on nights Mom stays out."

"Greg I want to tell you about squirrel Highway. Now you know how those squirrels

run back and forth along those wires. they can cross any direction in the city. The

squirrels can go up north to Jewish town. They can go down south with the Dutch.They can even travel far of North and be with the blacks, but I don't think these likesquirrels want to do that.

"Now I'm telling you a story about a certain girl squirrel, who lived on squirrel

highway. This squirrel had a big fluffy tail. It was a real pretty color, kind of brownand little red. It was like your mother's hair before she died it blond."

"Yes, I remember, Grandpa, real pretty she called it all burn hair, which sounds kind

of bad to me."

"That's right Greg. This auburn haired squirrel had a real nice family. She had a

mother that went to squirrel mass almost every day. But this auburn haired squirrellike to run about. The mother and father squirrel sent her off to squirrel college, so she

could find a good squirrel husband and maybe even a decent job so she could bringhome some nuts. But, this auburn haired squirrel met a sad gray squirrel that she

thought had a lot of potential. This gray squirrel was going to be a squirrel doctor taking care of a lot of sick squirrels. She and her squirrel parents thought this squirrel

doctor was going to have a lot of nuts.

"They'd both came running home on holidays. When the squirrel father met this graysquirrel doctor, he thought the gray squirrel looked a bit different. His nose was much

longer bigger. Kind of like your nose, pudgy." Grandpa says, tweaking my nose.

"Cut it out, Grandpa," I said, pushing his hand away and looking up at the power lines, looking out for other squirrels darting across them.

"This gray squirrel's nose was long and thin, with a black tip that darted back and

forth every time food was put on the table. The squirrel father thought the gray

squirrel's beady eyes, made him look like he was planning something. And one time

when the auburn squirrel, the gray squirrel and her parents were all sitting around thetable talking about tails, they all of a sudden set on what was so different about the

gray squirrel. That gray squirrels tail was bald as your bare ass."

"But, Grandpa, squirrels have bushy tails."

"Not this one Son. This tail was bald and segmented, like some kind of worm. It was,

really, really, ugly.

"Grandpa, that's a rat!"

"Well done Boy, you're not as stupid as the auburn squirrel." While patting me on theshoulder, Grandpa quietly remarked, "I hate to think who you get that from."




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"What's that? Grandpa."

"Never mind, Son. Back to the story.

"So the auburn squirrel and a the gray squirrel, or rat, get married. And It turns outthat the rat is not yet a full squirrel doctor. He still has a lot of work to do. And hedoesn't bring any nuts, whatsoever, back home. He even borrows nuts from the

auburn squirrel's parents.

"So the auburn squirrel is working really hard. And one day, a couple of squirrel babies come along. One real fat one and a real skinny one. The fat one would eat a lot

of nuts too which made for more pressure.

"At this time, there is a big rodent war going on, far way from these squirrels' part a

squirrel highway. So the rat goes off to the rodent war. The auburn squirrel and her

children move in with her squirrel parents."

"Where is the rodent war, Grandpa?"

"Far away, Boy, where all the squirrels have different color skin, and low morals."

"Do the squirrels use guns?"

"Yes, Boy, of course they use guns. But the moral of this tale is that, this rat won't

ever be coming on squirrel highway.

"I know how you look out that window and how you sit on the porch, with your

mother, with her painted nails, and bleached blond hair. Just remember, when you're

watching those squirrels run up and down the thick black power lines, that the bald

tailed rat is never going to come back."

The Shed

My childhood home at 2015 Edwards was situated on a small lot. It was a rectangle just 55 feet long and 25 feet wide. There was no front yard; the front of the buildingsat directly against the sidewalk and street. The left side of the lot bordered a half-

paved alley, with weeds and wild flowers poking up through crumbling asphalt.There were three round trash cans set toward the far end of the lot. The back of the

lot bordered a grass alley. This alley was unpaved and had dandelions and other weeds were growing unchecked. The house took up half of the lot, with the remainder

left to a small back yard. Yards like this were commonly referred to as "postagestamp" yards owning to their diminutive size. A brick shed stood at the far end of the

yard.

The shed was our lot's finest example of glazed bricks, reclaimed from the WorldsFair. All of the bricks used to make the shed were remarkable for diversity. The shed




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had patches of deep greens, with dashes of reds, blacks, browns, and even the odd

bright yellow brick. It was a tiny, but sturdy structure, almost a perfect cube. It was a

mere 10 by 10 foot building. It had one window on the back wall with plywoodcovering the glass. And, yet, even with the plywood, there was a blind hung over

window. The blind was open, and its metal louvers had been collecting dust for

several generations. There was a large green door offset to the left that smelled of mildew. Long chips of green paint were peeling off its soggy wood. This door washeld shut with a large padlock. I remember being just tall enough to open it on my

own, if I wanted to lend a hand to my grandmother. When the door was open the

smell of mildew intensified, and mixed with the smell of tar, paint and oil, from long

forgotten household projects. There was very little light in the shed, as the only

window was blocked, and it had no electric lights. The only light came from the

doorway. I would cast a shadow as I peered in. I could just barely see the wooden

beams of the roof. They looked as if they were railroad ties. Strips of tar paper

slipped through the joints of the wooden beams, making an outline that could easily

be mistaken for a hanging bat. On the right side of the shed was a large deep shelf

that held most of the smaller tools and seemed to be home to every sort of bug andcreepy crawly. On the left side of the back wall there was the remains of the stove

pipe which outlasted the wood stove long which had long since been removed.

Spiders spun large webs at the end of this pipe, catching the few flies that found their

way down the now blocked chimney. The shed floor was concrete. Tools andBicycles and the lawn mower were kept on on the five feet of remaining floor space.

Grandma would cut the small lawn with a push lawn mower. It had a cylinder of

cork-screw blades attached to two small wheels. The wheels were so old theyreminded me of wagon wheels. The handle was little more than a modified shovel

handle. I would often take the lawn mower out for her, trying to make myself useful.

"Greg, bring out the rake and the scissors. And hurry up, on account it's going torain.", Grandma said.

I dragged the lawn mower behind me, its blade ratcheting harmlessly as it free-

wheeled. I carried the rake and the scissors in my chubby right hand.

"Can mow the lawn, Grandma?"

"OK Greg, but you gotta run over those dandy lions two or three times, they just lay

down and wilt, tricking you into thinking they're cut. But just when you turn you back, there they go popping up again."

I ran the mower over the weeds, pulling it back and forth several times. Grandma

took the scissors and started to manicure the lawn, sniping at the edges where the

lawn met the concrete. These were not some sort of specialized gardening tool but,

regular scissors that you might use cut paper.

"Hold up Greg, we got some good dandy lions here."

I stopped mowing. Grandma got down on her hands and knees and started picking at

the weeds. Her body made a odd shape on the lawn. Her curly white hair was all youcould see of her head, as she bent face-down, pulling up the tender young dandelions.




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Her backside stuck up in the air, and the two tails from her long coat fell backwards

onto her back. She looked as if she were a giant bunny rabbit with a fluffy white tail

and and a fat black face.

"How about these over here grandma?", I said pointing out other dandelions.

"No they ain't no good, if they got a flower already. They're too tough even if youstew 'em."

She collected the weeds and set them in a pile in front of her. Still kneeling, she fixed

her jacket. She took an empty Wonder Bread bag out of her pocket. She shook the

bag. It caught a gust of wind, and opened. The bright circles of color on the Wonder

Bread bag made a stark contrast to Grandma's dreary black outfit. She looked as if

she were a nun carrying a golden chalice or gilded bible. She, then, picked up the

weeds and began to fill the Wonder Bread bag.

"OK Greg, that's about all the dandy lions in our yard. You finish up here, I am going back to the grass alley and see If I can find enough dandy lions to round out a salad

for dinner."

I continued cutting the lawn. The wind was picking up and the sky turning gray. The

shed door was still open and the grass cuttings were being blown back into the dark,

dank shed.

"Greg where's Grandma gone to?", Grandpa said, sticking his head out the back of the

house.

"She's in the alley looking for dandelions, for salad."

"Damn, woman!" Grandpa shouts, toward the alley as he walks into the yard. "Whyyou gotta pick weeds for dinner. Why can't we eat normal vegetables, like white

people. You don't have to go picking on the ground. Dogs shit there."

"Shut up Bud," she said while walking farther down the grass alley, to a particularly

bushy bunch of weeds.

"Hey Son," Grandpa said too me, "your grandma's got a big butt. That's where youget if from, her side." He pats me on the stomach, "No wonder you eat so much

candy, with her feeding you weeds."

"I like them, Grandpa."

"Shit, kid, you'll eat anything that won't eat you first."

"Mary," Grandpa shouted, "get your ass back here, it's starting to rain."

Grandpa took the lawn mower out of my hand and kicked the blades with his leather

shoes. The cylindrical bade freewheeled backward and the thin blades of grass andlong dandelion stems flew off. He then put the mower back into the the shed.




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"Greg, Bring the rake, its raining now."

Distant thunder reverberated. Grandma walked back into the yard leaving the metal

gate swinging behind her, her Wonder Bread bag full of fresh dandelions.

I drug the rake behind me and set it in the shed, Grandpa took the key out of myhand, pausing to look into the shed, as the light faded. He gazed into the darkness, as

if trying to remember something. I stood next to him trying to look where he was

looking, trying to stand as he was standing, all the while, smelling his strong after-

shave mixed with, grass cuttings, mildew, oil and paint.

"You know what this used to be, do you?" Grandpa said, after a long pause.

"What, what used to be?"

"What the shed used to be."

"No Grandpa"

He points to the back of the shed, "Look at that, on the window, that's a venetian blind. This used to be a venetian blind factory."

"What kind of factory?"

"A Venetian blind factory, He repeated. "Do you know how to make a Venetian

blind?"

"A venetian blind," I say pointing to the blind covering the the boarded-up window.

"No it looks kinda complicated. Grandma doesn't like me playing with the living

room blinds."

"Oh forget it. Get in the house. It's starting to rain. Sometimes you are stupider than I

imagine. But wait, tell me, Greg, who's buried in Grant's tomb."

"I don’t know. Is it someone famous?" I reply.

"Get in the house, and check on your sister!"

I run across the freshly mowed lawn and up the back steps. The back of the house

had a porch and balcony like the front, so I was now protected from the rain. The sky

was almost green as Grandpa finished locking the shed. He was wearing a hat, like he

always did. He locked the door and Grandma had walked beside him. She gave him a

kiss on the cheek. He hugged her, and after breaking free from the embrace, slappedher on the butt. She was carrying the wonder bread bag full of young dandelions.

She had turned up her collar, as the rain started to come down more heavily. Shefollowed me, running up to the porch. Grandpa walked more slowly. The heavy

drops of rain were bouncing off his narrow brimmed hat and black trench coat.




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Grandpa was a short man. He was bowlegged from malnutrition as a child. He was a

skinny man, who seemed to carry all his strength in his forearms and hands. His

shoulders were narrow and his back was slightly bent. I thought he walked like acowboy. He had straight gray hair that came to a pronounced widow's peak on his

forehead. He had a long crooked nose, kind eyes and a mouth that was most often

turned in a smile.

After grandpa comes up to the porch we all enter the house through the back door.

I run through the kitchen, straight into the living room where Angela was laying on

the floor watching TV on a large black and white television that was already a

museum piece. The picture was stretched at the sides, as the picture tube was rounded

like a small section of a sphere.

Angela was two years younger than me.

She was resting her head on her hands laying on the living room rug, her small frame

in skinny red corduroy pants and a white t-shirt with blue piping. I ran in and kicked

her foot. Then ran to the window and started playing with the blinds.

"Cut it out Greg!"

"Hey, Angela, look at this," I said, pulling on the blinds, quickly opening and closingthem. "This is a Venetian blind." Sh-wing, sh-wing.

"So what, who cares? You're not supposed to play with that. Grandma's going to

spank you."

Sh-wing, sh-wing , I continue opening and closing them. Sh-wing, swing.

"Angela did you know, that the shed used to be a Venetian blind factory. I bet you

don’t know how to make a venetian blind?"

"Who cares? Its just a stupid blind. Greg you're a dipstick dork."

"But look how well it works", I insisted. "Do you think the string goes up inside thattop part?" I say moving a chair toward the window too get a better look at the blind's

workings. Sh-wing, sh-wing.

"What time is mom coming home tonight?, Angela asked, completely ignoring my

investigation of the blinds. "I want to go upstairs to our house."

(The bottom four rooms of the house were Grandpa's and Grandma's The top four

rooms was where my mother, my sister and I lived.)

"I don't know," I replied. "She 's working." Sh-wing, sh-wing.




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"Get down from there! And wash you hands, you little ragamuffin. You're getting dirt

all over the window sill. And look at your feet." Grandma smacked me on the butt. Iran to the bathroom. "And you, little, lazy princess," she continued, addressing

Angela, "help me in the kitchen."

As Angela passed the bathroom door she stuck her tongue out at me.

The bathroom was small, less than four feet wide and and six feet long. It had a cast

iron tub with animal feet and a white, glazed basin, which grandma would scrub withdry green detergent after every bath. The bathroom was done in black and white tile,

and it had a toilet that sat so high, my feet would barely hit the floor.

I followed them into the kitchen. Grandpa is sitting at the kitchen table reading the

paper and drinking a cup at of coffee that grandma pored from the peculator.

"So Grandpa tell Angela about the Venetian blind factory.", I said, sitting down at the

kitchen table across from Grandpa.

"Bud are you telling stories again?" Grandma said as while cleaning the dandelions in

the sink.

"I don’t care about a dumb old factory," Angela said.

"Here dear cut up these carrots," Grandma said to Angela, "but careful that knife is

sharp."

Grandpa remained quiet hid behind his news paper.

"I want to make a Venetian blind," I said, proudly. "It doesn't look too hard. Can Iuse your tools?"

"Shut up, Greg! You're such a dork, blinds are stupid. I like curtains."

"You’re the dork Angela. I could make one I could make one. Curtains are for girls.

Blinds are cool tell her Grandpa. Tell her about the shed, tell her that it used to be a

factory, tell her."

"Damn, Boy!" Grandpa said putting the paper down, "You're too fidgety. Calm

down and I tell you about the factory."

"Oh Bud, you can go on all day can’t you," Grandma interjected.

"Well, Greg, you know we moved to his house when you mother was just a sweetauburn haired girl. Long before she went blond. And long before you were a sparkle

in your father's beady eyes."

"Bud, please!" Grandma interrupted. "Just, tell him about the blinds."




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"OK. Now listen, when we moved here, there was not a single thing over any of the

windows. The sun would come streaming through during the day. And at night the

street lights, and the car head lights would shine through. Grandma did try to sewsome curtains. They were real pretty to hang in in the window, but curtains can only

do so much especially in the summer.

"We were still moving in and hadn't explored the place, yet. The house was dirty andI had just got my job at McDonald Douglass, and Grandma was busy taking care of

you of your mother and her older sister and and brother."

"You mean Aunt Betty and Uncle Bill?"

"Thats right Greg. We had just opened up the shed. There wasn't much in there no

bikes or lawn mower, just some burlap sacks covering something on the shelf.

What do you think we found?"

"Spiders?"

"Well hell, yes, spiders! But that’s not the important part. What do you think we

found? Think a bit this time, Greg. "

"Venetian blinds, Grandpa"

"Give this boy a treat Mary, he's beginning to think a little. Yes, venetian blinds.

Enough for every window in the house, even the bathroom windows. How manywindows is that?"

"Um lets see there's the downstairs living room, kitchen, bedroom, well a that’s..." I

said, counting slowly on my fingers.

"It's 18," Angela said confidently. "18 windows in the whole house, upstairs and

down stairs." She then continued cutting up carrots with a butter knife

"See your little sister is sharper than you are, tubby."

"Tubby! That's for sure," Angela repeated

"Shut up! Monkey face." I said directed at Angela.

"Now Greg don't go disturbing your sister when she is using a knife she might cut

herself." Grandma said.

"So we find 18 Venetian blinds," Grandpa continued, "and they're covered in a burlapsack. Just the right number to fit over all the windows in the house. And we also find

a lot of spare louvers."

"Found a lot of spare what?" I said.

"Louvers kid, you know what a louver is?"




16

"What, Grandpa?"

"The louver is part of a blind, and it ain't the cord."

"The flat things that go up an down, Grandpa?"

"Yes another word for them is slats. Now Greg, there is a lot of art in a louver. Andin the shed we found a bunch of louvers, made of all different kinds of materials. And

there was this manuscript. Like a note book with all sorts of crazy designs. But at the

time I didn't think much of it."

"Bud, what are you going on about," Grandma interjected.

"After we moved in," Grandpa continued, "I met with some Italians who had been in

the neighborhood for years. They told me about the crazy guy who used to live in our

shed. He was from Italy just like the rest of the WOPs in this neighborhood.

"Greg can you guess what city he was from, remember we are talking about venetian

blinds?"

"Maybe, Rome, like the pope."

"No, not like the pope," Grandpa corrected, "This man was from Venice. He comes to

St. Louis around the time of the Worlds Fair and starts his business. This man always

wears a big hat because he doesn't like the sun.

"Back in Italy this man in the big hat, spent all his time in fancy museums looking a

pictures of fat naked ladies. Because back in Italy, especially in those days, they had

nothing but fat ladies. Your grandma would have made a good fat lady, if she stayed

in Italy."

"Be quiet Bud," Grandma said.

"Greg's never seen a naked lady, cause he's a big dork," Angela interjected.

"Have too!"

"Have not! Mom doesn't count."

"That doesn't matter Greg," Grandpa said interrupting the name calling, "there is

plenty of time for naked ladies.

"But this man from Venice, who wore a big hat, had a problem. In St Louis, at that

time, people did not like nudity, like they did in Europe. They would wear, maybe,

two or three layers of clothes. They would even put clothes on statutes, if it showed

too much leg and other bits."

"Really Grandpa?"




17

"It's true. They covered all the statues with flowing robes, until a naked Venus would

look like the virgin Mary."

"I think Mary is beautiful, like a princes," Angela said.

"So this man from Venice who wore a big hat because he didn't like the sun startsmanufacturing Venetian blinds, right here in our shed. But he also mixes in his other

interest-- naked ladies."

"Oh Bud what on earth are you going on about?"

"It was your Uncle Bill that discovered this," Grandpa continued. "Grandma, here,

doesn't know about it.

"Of course I don't Bud."

"Tell us! Grandpa, tell us!" Angela and I shouted.

"Your Uncle Bill uncovered a bunch of louvers. And these louvers were sort of odd,

in that they were white on one side but had some kind of colors on the other.

"One by one you couldn't tell that those louvers maid up a picture. But your Uncle

Bill was a patient boy who also had some interest in puzzles and naked ladies.

"He found that if you make a Venetian blind with those louvers, when you fully close

it, you get a picture of a naked lady, but when open it is hidden."

"Where is it Grandpa? I want to see it!"

"We don't have that thing, anymore. And good thing too, because looking at a picturelike that is not good for your eyes.

"In fact, that's what happened to that man from Venice. He spent so much time

closing the binds an looking at naked ladies, that he lost his sight."

"How about Uncle Bill?"

"Well, luckily, I took it away from him before that could happen. It just goes to show

you that there is more than one way to make a Venetian blind."




18

Italian Cream Bread and the Virgin Mary

At the end of our block was a bakery, Missouri Bakery. It was one of two other, two

story brick buildings on our block. The two story bakery and our two story house

seemed to form bookends for the one story houses shelved on the south side of the block. I always thought our house had some special affinity to the Missouri Bakery because of the two story-ness and of course the red bricks. But the most powerful

motivation for regarding the bakery as special was not this architectural similarity, but

the fact that they made food.

There speciality of the Bakery was the Italian bread. They called it cream bread. I

don't think it had milk in it. But that did not stop the Jewish in-laws from pausing

before talking a bite being concerned of Kosher law of dairy and meat when eating an

Italian sandwich.

This cream bread had a golden brown crust and seemed quite firm, but was in factlight and fluffy inside. Sometimes a slice would have large pockets of nothingness

under the crust. I would feel cheated when I could see my salami peeking through.

When we bought this cream bread, we always bought it sliced. In its sliced form, it

was almost as mailable and grocery store Wonder bread. It lacked, however, the

colors and fan fair of the Wonder Bread bag.

While Grandma was in the basement, doing the laundry, while, Grandpa was nappingin his chair, and while Angela was laying on the brown carpeting watching TV, I

would sneak into the kitchen.

The kitchen had a counter made of plywood and covered with cheap material that issupposed to look like marble. The same fake marble covered the kitchen floor.

Grandma used to call it linoleum. (I would often confuse linoleum for oleo which

was some kind of artificial butter. Grandma's house was like a reserve for endangered

words.)

Across that the linoleum floor sat a large gas stove. It was the kind with four burners

and a griddle under the hood, for special pancake days.

Next to the stove sat the earliest from of an automatic dish washer. I had a bread boxsitting on top, stocked with Italian cream Bread and Wonder Bread. (The dish washer

was on wheels. When it was loaded with dirty dishes, Grandma would move it butt upthe sink. Then, like some pornographic kitchen gesture, Grandma would have to pull

out its long hose, and with two hands attach it to the sink faucet.)

Next to the dish washer was the real hearth of the house. Traditionally this was thestove. More modernly it could be argued that the TV is the nexus of family

interaction. But to a ten year old fat kid, the fridge is really the hearth. Grandma'sfridge was that special color green shared by many appliances in the seventies.




19

I never entered or left the kitchen without opening the fridge and looking inside at the

food, which was there for picking. The fridge held blocks of Velveeta cheese, tubs of

butter, and glass jars of jelly. There were apples, peanut butter and lunch meat. Itheld baloney and the richest of the childhood meats, braunschweiger.

My chubby hands and food gathering reflexes had been honed, to the point where Icould deftly open the fridge, scan for the best target, snag some slice of ham or salami, scoop a finger full of peanut butter or mayonnaise, and shut the fridge, before

being scolded.

Then kicking the fridge door shut with my right foot, I would hold the spoils in myright hand. With my left hand, I would open the bread box that sat on top of the the

promiscuous dishwasher, and pull out a slice of the most convenient bread, which wasmore often than not the Italian cream bread. I would, then, fill the slice with the

contents of my right hand and eat it, before anyone became wise to my actions. With precision raids of the fridge, conducted many times a day, I became quite serious

about efficiency.

So I conducted 'bread tests'.

The bread box usually held a loaf of Wonder Bread, a loaf of Italian cream bread and

some stale coffee cake for Grandpa's breakfast. I would never touch his coffee cake. I

wanted the white carbs. The pure stuff, the kind you can feel turn to sugar on your

tongue and gums.

I would take out one slice of Wonder Bread and one slice of Italian cream bread. I

would feel them in in my hands; both had soft fluffy dough, giving to the touch.

For malleability and sculpting, Wonder Bread had the clear advantage. I could take

Wonder Bread and crumple it in my chubby little palm. With the folds of my greasy

palm I could, with one hard squeeze, make a small Wonder Bread statue of the Virgin

Mary. The head of the Madonna pushed up through my forefinger and thumb, while

her body clothed in flowing white vestments was created in my tightened fist. Of

course, while I did this, I would say a little prayer before dunking her in jelly.

This sort of devotional sculpture could not be done with the Italian cream bread.

However, it had other useful attributes. While the crust of Wonder Bread is almost

the same consistency as the bread itself, the crust of Italian cream bread is very

different from its bread. When the cream bread was sliced, the crust formed a shell

that protected the soft bread inside. The crust gave it form, like canvas stretchers

supporting a painting. Italian cream bread could support mini masterpieces of

snacking, created with a finger fulls of food from a refrigerated pallet.




20

The Virgin Mary

I loved the virgin Mary. A three foot statue of the Virgin Mary stood in our yard, on

the far right side of the shed. This was the devotional place in our yard, which was in

a very devout neighborhood. Every back yard, in this Italian neighborhood, had astatue of the Virgin Mary.

The basic form was pretty much the same, a young woman dressed in flowing robesstanding on a short pedestal cast in inexpensive cement. However, back-yard, Virgin

Marys were in very different in the details.

Some back-yard, Virgin Marys had painted layers of vestments. The outer layerswere usually blue and inner layers a deep orange. Others had blue outer vestments

with a golden sash and crown. A few were more detailed with painted hair and face.

Then there were the few truly devout neighbors who would electrify the Virgin andout fit her with spotlights and even a neon halo.

These flashy differences are easy to see. To the initiated, to the ones who pray daily,

to those who carry a rosary, other more subtle differences were apparent.

Back-yard Virgin Mary's have three basic differences, head position, arm position,

and snake or no snake.

Mary's head is either a tilted down to the right or to the left.

Her arms are either, folded in a prayer position on her chest, or, extended out in a

welcoming pose, as if to give a big, low hug to the whole world.

The third difference is, whether or not, Mary is standing on a snake.

Usually, a back-yard Virgin Mary, that had folded arms, had no snake. Nor, could you

see her bare feet. Her folded arms made this Mary seem a little up-tight. Grandpa used

to say they reminded him of protestants.

A Virgin Mary with extended arms, standing on a snake, had her little feet out, for all

the world to see. The snakes mouth was usually open, sculpted as if it was his lastdying breath. Yet Mary stands elegantly, as if she standing on a beach or freshly

mowed grass. She is not portrayed digging her heel in for the rib crunching coup de

gras.

The virgin in our back yard was the cheapest one on the block. She was an extended

armed, Mary standing on a snake. However she had several large disfiguring gashes

on her backside and one foot was nearly missing. What's more, if you didn't know any better you might easily have mistaken the snake for a long lump of dog poop.

But her face was pretty and tilted slightly toward her left. We did not paint it. We leftit cement gray. But we did extend her pedestal, by placing her on two discarded red




21

bricks raising he a couple of inches higher than the neighbors Mary, whose vestments

were painted blue and and whose head was crowned.

My sister and I loved the Virgin Mary. We would say rosaries with our grandmother,

sitting in the living room. We had glow in the dark rosaries, so we could finish of

decets, ten hail Marys, as we went to sleep. We had prayer cards with rich colorful pictures of Mary and baby Jesus. We had small statues that we would use as toys,alongside Star Wars action figures or Barbie.

Mary was part of the family. And when we prayed we only prayed to Mary.

We never prayed to Jesus. We never really thought about him. I think it was because

he was such an exhibitionist. Our church was one of the churches that had a veryrealistic Jesus on the cross. A skinny guy in a loin cloth leaves little to the

imagination, beat and bloody like some New York street twink, with a heroin habit.We could, just, not relate Jesus' whole deal.

We could, however, relate to Mary. She's behind the scenes. She has the ear of the

big guy, god the father. Not like her ADHD son who cant open his mouth, without

offending someone and causing all sorts or drama.

My favorite prayer was the Memoriae:

Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thine intercession was left

unaided.. . .

Mary was the person to go to in a tight spot. She won't let you down. The prayer plays up Mary's accessibility and readiness to help. This suggests praying to others in

the pantheon may not be as fruitful. The safe money is on Mary.

Inspired by this confidence,

Yes confidence, that's one thing you sure can't get from bipolar, narcissistic Christ.

I fly unto thee, O Virgin of virgins, my mother;

The of flying was always my favorite part. And when forced to memorize and recite it

in Catholic grade school, it was the line that almost no one forgot. (Fruit of the womb

was another favorite line from another Mary prayer. That would always get a giggle.)

to thee do I come, before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful.

I loved the repetition of the actions. I always thought of my self as sinful, all the

stolen snacks and bad thoughts.

O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer me.




22

I would often say this prayer quietly to myself, after Grandma had put us down to

sleep. We would stay in Grandma's spare room on nights my mother was out.

"Now get to sleep you Little Ragamuffins," Grandma says as we hop from one single bed to the other. Grandpa was watching the 10 o'clock news with the volume turnedso loud that we could easily listen through the french doors that separated the rooms.

"Grandma we aren't tired."

"I want to watch the news with grandpa," I say. But really I was totally bored by the

broadcast. and looked forward to the commercials and secretly hoping to watch the

programing after the news. This was usually a rerun of MASH a comedy about

doctors in the Korean war.

"Let us! please, please, we'll be good and go to bed right after," we say squirming onthe beds. "Please, Grandma, just 10 minutes. Maybe we could stay away until Mom

gets home."

"Get you butts under the covers, or I will get the spatula."

This was Grandma's ultimate threat. The spatula was a Rubbermaid cooking tool

about 10 inches long with a hard plastic handle and a thin rubbery blade. It would

sting quite a bit, when Grandma would smack it against our rear-ends.

"Let's say our prayers, now, and you can have some cookies for breakfast." Grandma

was a natural strategist and knew that for a cookie, I would exert pressure on my

sister.

We would say that popular prayer that I am sure contributes to my chronic dread,

paranoia and panic attacks. Now I lay me down to sleep I pray the lord my soul to

keep If I die before I wake I pray the lord my soul to take. There is nothing like a

children quietly secure in their beds with the self consciousness of their possible

death.

Grandma left the room. I could see blue light from Grandpa's television through the

french doors. I could still here the broadcast and would fade in an out while trying to

follow words I barely understood, Cambodia, bombings and vietnamization. I would

gain some consciousness during commercials for Tide or Lava. But then slip closer to

sleep with the sports news. I could barely make out some small talk between my

grandparents. I was waiting, like most nights, so I might possibly hear my mother'scar pull up outside the house. I hoped I might hear her keys jingle, and follow the her

footsteps up to the house. But not this night. I said one more prayer to the VirginMary, a Memoriae, requesting that she protect my mom, and somehow help my dad

find his way home.




23

St. AMBROSE

My Catholic grade school was two blocks from Edwards on a street named for the

famous Italian inventor, Marconi. St. Ambrose was a large stone church, with large

wooden doors and an ornate, circular stained glass window. it is by far the most aweinspiring building in the neighborhood. Attached to the church, was a less ornatesacristy, where the priests and nuns lived. Behind the Church sat a building that

housed the Catholic grade school.

The classes were, for the most part, taught by Carmalite nuns. They wore long, black

habits and kept their hair covered.

There were a few lay teachers who were neighborhood house wives looking for a little

extra income.

The classes were small small and and grades one through eight shared the small playground during recess. My class was very small with only eight boys and twelve

girls.

I was by far the fattest boy in my class. My dark blue school-uniform pants, in husky

size, seemed to be made from different material than the thinner boys. As if they hadshortened the legs of a workman's pants and put them on me. My pockets and zipper

seemed abnormally long and pockets were vastly spacious. The other boys pants fitslim on their tiny frames and their light blue button up shirts tucked in under black

belts, completing the ensemble with clean cut style. My shirts were either too looseor too tight and kept scooting out of the pants, which I held up with a brown belt that

had self-made extension holes, ice-picked into the leather, to accommodate my

expanding girth.

My sister and I would walk to school on own and meet up with tributaries of other of

other grade school students along the way, joining into a stream of uniformed

children, entering the large glass doors of the school building.

We would break off into our classrooms, walking down the long corridors of the first

and second floors. The home room teachers would stand at the classroom doors and

like a shepherds guiding us into our proper places.

The nuns all wore long black habits. What was set them apart from one another was

their expressions.

There were kind ones like Sister Fullamina. Her face and hands were as white as a

porcelain doll, and naturally red pigment on her lips. Occasionally, when she wasadjusting her habit, the children could catch a glimpse of her greasy brown hair, with

gray strands sprinkled throughout the locks. She would gently guide the first gradersinto their homeroom. Sister Fullamina's kind disposition made the transition into

grade school life easy. As a second grader I envied those lucky children, like my

sister, who were still in her homeroom, being gently guided into class with loving

welcoming gestures.




24

Second grade homeroom was taught by Sister Fullashitta her face showed the wear

and tear of years. Her lips twitched with disappointment as each of her homeroom

children entered. Her arms were not open and welcoming like a Virgin Mary or Sister Fullamina. Rather, her arms were more often than not crossed, or when very impatient

snapping a long ruler in the palm of her hand or, using the ruler as a crook to

forcefully guide her errant flock. She often singled me out. But it wasn't because Iwas the fat kid with a husbandless Mother, who died her hair; it wasn't that I stood for everything that was wrong with this earthly world; it wasn't because I was a glutinous

pig stealing chubby fist-fulls of food from the fridge; it wasn't even that my father was

Jewish and I had a Jewish name.

She singled me out as support. I was of average height but thick, not just fat. I was

fat, no doubt about it, but there was some structure there too. A massive frame

holding up my girth and topped off with a thick brown hair cut into a perfect bowl on

my head. (The hairstyle was often referred to as helmet head and I used to imagine

that this was not only for its appearance but for the fluffy protection that it lent me.)

So Sister Fullashitta singled me out as her crutch, when she really wanted to lay into

one of the children.

For example there was Matt Norseman who was s skinny kid with a narrow face, a

big smile and a sharp wit which he would not spare against the nuns. When he would

poke fun at one of them Sister Fullashitta would pull me out of line or get me up from

my desk and walk me over to Matt's desk. Then with the ruler in her right hand she

would repeated snap it against Matt's knuckles, while, she stabilized her aging body

on my fat frame with her left hand, her larger than normal nun hand mussing up my

perfect helmet head.

I would often catch mat looking at me helplessly, judging me for aiding in his

corporal punishment. I would close my eyes or look away. This was not my fight. I

was merely doing what I was put on earth to do. Support the Lord's work like some

unwilling apostle who would later rise to importance.

And you would think that in my role as nun crutch I my be given some special favors.

But Sister Fullashitta would unleash her full critical power against me despite my aid.

She always seemed to have a problem with my gait. I was fat, my blue husky uniform

pants would rub together. If I was walking alone through the cinder block hallways

of the grade school you could easily hear my pants swooshing together. Sister Fullashitta hated this. But she was really critical of the way I walked down stairs.

"Gregory why do you always lead with your right leg when you walk down the stairs.

You look like and empty headed ape smuggling bananas."

"Sorry Sister Fullashitta"

"Try it again." She clears the rest of my classmates from the stairwell. So I can have a

clear piste for my downhill run. I could see that Matt Norseman was already makingsome stupid remarks about Sister Fullashitta's comments. And why did she have to




25

say empty headed ape. I knew i would have to endure several days of teasing for that

one.

"Try it again. Your just like some lazy Roman solder, The kind that killed Christ."

So I walked fighting all of my instincts to shuffle down the stairs as I always wouldTo walk one foot in front of the other requires one to twist his hips from side to side

which, to me, felt almost sexy or flirty. And to make this movement while wading

through the gaggle of my little girl classmates put me off. It was much easier to

shuffle, it's fun and care free. Perhaps, shuffling is not graceful, but you won't catch

your big thighs together and fall flat on you big fat butt.

So of the two Nuns you fist meet at St. Ambrose school Sister Fullamina and Sister

Fullashitta, Sister Fullashitta was hands down the worst. We would often talk about

them on the playground. The playground was sweet relief from the confines of the

classroom and the dangers of social etiquette and advanced bipedalism.

The playground was a asphalt square with four-square boxes painted in yellow. The

twang of red rubber balls and screaming children's voices were everywhere. We were

young prisoners ragging on the guards.

"Isn't it funny that Sister Fullamina is is named Fullamina," I said.

"What is that ape boy, Does Sister Fullamina have a banana for you?"

"Cut it out Matt," I said and gave him a punch on the arm (Reminding him I have the

clear weight advantage.)

"You know Sister Fullamina is really nice, but her name is "full of mean" a."

"Yeah I guess that's kind of weird," Matt said almost keeping his eye on the girls four-square game.

"I which there was something we could call Sister Fullashitta," I questioned aloud.

"Her breath stinks like poop. And my knuckles still hurt from last week," Matt

replied. "What's worse when I got home my mother saw the marks on my hand and

then she gave me another wallop for acting up at school. So I get hit again just 'cusmy knuckles are bruised."

"You should wear gloves," I suggested.

"Well helmet head, you should just roll over for once," Matt said angrily, "You just

stand there like a dog's dork while she hits hits us."

Later at home I told Grandpa about the nun making me walk down the stairs. He

wasn't a church goer like Grandma and I could usually get sympathy from him if it

was an ecclesiastical offense. I told him that I thought it was funny that Sister

Fullamina was in fact nice and and Sister Fullashitta was the mean one.




26

"So Grandpa, I wish I could call her, some kind of mean name."

"Who are you talking about," Grandpa said sarcastically, "Sister Full a shit duh." He paused and patted me on my helmet head. "Son, I look forward to when you are a

little bit smarter so you can see how stupid you really are."

The Scapula

Sister Fullashitta would would start the day with homeroom. This was the time when

all the administrative details were taken care of. We had role calls to smoke-out the

absentees and the tardies. There were other issues, such as signed homework and

notes. After that there was always the issue of extra clothes for "accidents" and other

miscellaneous business.

One girl, Marybeth, had an accident almost weekly, that required an emergency

change of clothes. We would be standing, saying the pledge of allegiance, or sitting

drilling the times tables and the class would erupt in laughter at the sound of runnywater interlaced with desperate sobbing.

Now, second grade you think you have it all together, but these things happen to the

best of us. I still always wonder why Marybeth never just ran out of the room before it

started or why after so many times she still cried. There were even a few times late in

the year that the event was so predictable and expected that the no one in whole class

laughed when she started to tinkle during the recitation of the Our Father. She just

simply walked to the back of the class picked up her bag containing her emergencyuniform left the homeroom for the nurses office, while the rest of the class sat down

and opened there grammar books.

One thing we never laughed at was puke. A kid puking was an awful, frighteningaffair. If one student ralphs in class and least two others will retch and possibly blow

chunks as well. There is no humor about it. It is serious matter involving a trip to thenurse's office not for a quick change but a glass of 7up and phone call to parents. It

most likely means a trip home.

Kid puke is like an oil spill. It is treated as a accident involving hazardous waste.With pee the janitor simple mops up. but with puke he cordons off the area and lays

sawdust over the spill. The treated sawdust barely covering the odor of fruit loop

breakfast, fear, and bile.

So after homeroom, if there were no accidents, Sister would usually start with someEnglish. Then every hour we would switch books, ending a lesson on one subject

and starting another. The day was pure monotony. Everyday, lunch and recessspared us from these tedious classes for and hour. Twice a week we would have art or

music that let us do something other than quiet study. I rarely followed the classes I

would sit there and daydream. Serving my time in solitary contemplation or staring

out the window at the trees.

Occasionally we would have a guest speaker. It was usually a priest or deacon to tell

us some facts about the Catholic faith.




27

"Children, children, please, pay attention, we have a guest today. He is a new a

visiting priest Father Geoff Brannagin. He is a visiting priest from Ireland and he is

staying at St. Patrick's in dog town. Have any of you gone to mass there?"

A few children raise there hands. Sally proudly says her cousins go to school there so

she often goes to mass at st. Patrick's.

I had never set foot inside another church. My grandmother always feared going to

the wrong denomination so we never went into other parishes. My Grandma oftenspoke of the horror of one time, in her youth, sitting halfway through a Protestant

service.

"Father Geoff is going to talk to you about redemption, heaven and Mother Mary.",

Sister Fullashitta stated.

"So can any of you tell me on what day, your man, Jesus was born?" Father Geoff

asked.

The class was unusually quiet.

Guests tended to scare the smarter kids like Marybeth and Matt, I guess they we busy

thinking. Sally who spoke up about her cousins in dog town was certainly one of the

dumbest students in the class but totally unafraid of speaking to anyone.

I was sensing that this could be my chance to shine. So I begin to calculate. Well I

know that Jesus was born a long time ago. And today is Tuesday. so I begin counting back one thousand nine hundred and seventy six years. I was getting lost in

calculation and Marco the second stupidest kid in class is raising his hand. So I

blurted out, "Saturday, father, Jesus was born on a Saturday and Mary took him to

mass the next day."

Marco, noticeably upset at my circumvention of standard procedure of waiting to be

called upon, blurted out his guess, "Sunday, Father, it was Sunday. And Mary was at

Church."

"No Children that's not quite right," Father Geoff said a little shaken by our answers.

Now the rest of the dullard students in class offer up their hypothesis, "Wednesday,Monday." The smart kids stayed completely out of this theological train wreck.

"No Dear Children you have gone off the mark," Father Geoff said sympathetically.

"The answer is Christmas, Jesus was born on Christmas."

Father Geoff now leaned back on Sister Fullashitta's desk almost exasperated. Sister Fullashitta sat behind him looking terribly disappointed at her class.

Father Geoff was dressed in standard priest black, with a black suit coat over his

black shirt. He had a full head of greasy white hair and pale wrinkly skin. His black

suit coat was ill fitting and his large white hands waved about as he talked.




28

"I am here to talk to you about Mother Mary. And a gift that she gave to all of us. A

gift that can make sure we get into heaven. And this gift will make sure you don't

have to spend too much time in purgatory, or fall all the way down to the fires bellow."

"You mean h, e double tooth pics," stupid Sally Said.

"Yes, dear child."

Father Geoff continued, "There was this Priest a long time ago named Simon, Simon

stock. He lived way back in twelve hundred and fifty one. And the Mother Maryappeared to him. In her hand she was holding two pieces of brown cloth with two

long strings connecting them. She told Simon to take these pieces of cloth and string

and wear it around his neck. With one piece of cloth over his front and the other

piece over his back. She told him that he who wears this cloth will surly escape the

fires of Hell."

We students were transfixed by the story and shocked at father Geoff uttering loudly

the word Hell.

"Now you children know that as you are dying, even if you have committed the wost

sin, even if you have murdered, you can ask God to forgive you. And he will surly

forgive you. But for your sins you may have to do some time in purgatory. "

"So all I have to do is say I'm sorry before I die and I get into heaven?", stupid Sallyasked.

"Yes the Almighty is forgiving of our sins."

"So we just have to say we are sorry?" dull Marko asked.

"How about a murder?" another student asked.

"Why yes, that is up to God."

"What if you stole a million dollars and you killed someone," another young

theologian asked.

"Yes, the Lord is forgiving. But if you have committed so many sins that your soulhas turned black you may have to spend some time in purgatory as punishment for

you sins. But god will not send any soul to Hell that is truly repentant. Do you knowabout purgatory children?"

"That's the place unpasteurized babies go to." sally said.

"I think you mean unbaptized, sweet child. But no, unbaptized babies go to limbo."

"Yes father, I know" Mickey d'Angalino said. "My grandma tells me to say some prayers for my father who was in a poker game that went wrong. Grandma says he




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lived like a bad man but he was a good boy at heart. She tells me to say some extra

prayers so god will let him out of purgatory early."

"Why yes that right," Father Geoff said, stunned that a single theological question

was answered correctly. Sister Fullashitta was showing something close to pride for

her students.

"That’s right children, God may see fit to let you wait before you get into heaven.

After you die he will make you work off your sins. But you Have to be truly sorry."

"Does it hurt there, like the other place. You know. The H word?" Maggie asks.

"Now children you can say Hell as long as you are not cussing. But ..."

Suddenly Mickey interrupted, "Shut up stupid Maggie of course it doesn't hurt in

purgatory. Mickey was noticeably bothered by the idea that his father could be

suffering in purgatory. "You such a pig face Maggie."

"Now children please be calm," Father Geoff tried to quite the small row that has

developed in the class.

"Mickey," Maggie replied, "I don't know why your so upset, your Dad is in the

penitentiary not purgatory. My mom told me so. My mom says you are all a bunchof low life crooks. And he ain't never getting out."

"Shut up pig face."

Mickey lunged across the the desk and just managed to grab little Maggie's pigtails.

Sister Fullashitta erupted, rushed past Father Geoff, who was noticeably flustered by

the ruckus, he was obviously unaccustomed to dealing with young children in close

quarters. Priests' position, high on the alter and in the sacristy, keeps them isolated

from the young, rebellious flock.

Whipping past my desk and grabbing me by the collar, Sister Fullashitta drags me to

Mickey's desk and delivers him 5 sharp smacks with the ruler as she again balances

her weight on my head, and sends him out of the room.

"Mickey d'angelino," Sister Fullashitta yelled, "you're sure to follow that Father of

yours. Out into the hall.

"Sorry, Father, Please continue."

Father Geoff regained his composure and returned to the major themes.

"Forgiveness dear children, forgiveness is what the Lord gives us. If we are truly

repentant. That means you must say you are sorry and you must work off, by prayer,

all the sins you have committed."




30

The class began to calm and follow Father Geoff again. Mickey was peeking through

the small window of the classroom door.

"Think of this example children. Imagine you have just thought bad thoughts about

your parents, then, you walked down to the corner market and stole a piece of candy.

Next, as you are tired from abusing yourself all night long, you walk straight in frontof a bus and it hits you. In a blink of an eye you dead. God has taken you. Were youready? Were you free of sin?"

"err Father," Sister Fullashitta interjected loudly, "these students are a bit young for

self abuse."

"Oh yes sorry Sister.

"You get the point, children, you do bad things and suddenly you are dead. You don'thave time to ask god for forgiveness. And your soul heavy with black sin falls deep

down into everlasting fire."

The children who were listening were upset, some sobbing other shouting.

"Quiet children, please calm yourselves. This is what I am here to talk to you about.This is why Mary's gift to Simon is so important."

Father held the brown scapula in his hands and showed the class. He held the scapula

with such reverence and awe as if the pieces of felt and string held tangible power.We children were transfixed by this celestial loop hole this holy insurance policy on a

sting.

"Now look closely children, it says on one face of the scapular that whomever wears

this shall never suffer eternal fire.

"So even if your soul is weighed down by un-confessed sins you will not go to hell.

What's more every day you wear this takes some time off purgatory."

Father Geoff then turned around to his briefcase on Sister Fullashitta's desk. As he

does the class erupts into chatter about sins and death by accident. Whether it is

possible to ask God for forgiveness before you die. I was watching Father Geoff

closely, and not joining in a conversation with the boys about whether it is possible toask for forgiveness before a lawn mower cuts off you head.

"But what if it gets your lips and mouth first?" Ben said. "Then you cant say your

sorry and before your killed."

"You don’t need to say it out of your mouth, you just need to say it inside your head,"Matt corrected him.

Father Geoff took out a plastic bag full of scapulars handed them to Sister Fullashitta.

They were passed along to each of us.

I put it on, right there in class. I was instantly warmed by the power. I felt easy as if a




great burden had be lifted off of me. To be honest before that day I had never worried

about the worst case scenario death for a Catholic. Death without repentance. But the

notion of eternity in hell or even a thousand years in purgatory caused by the simpleomission of a "I'm sorry", was a powerful thought, easily obsessed over.

From that day forward I obsessed. Even wearing the Scapula while crossing the streetI would repeat, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, just in case a car when hitting me wouldrip the scapular off my neck. One cannot be to careful. Constant repentance was

logically, the safe bet.

husky on edwards (draft, first six chapters)

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