Showing posts with label catholic grade school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label catholic grade school. Show all posts

Friday, August 2, 2024

When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth 2

More reminiscences of a garrulous geezer.  
Not breakfast at my house, then or now. Image by Jo Justino from Pixabay
Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}a persistent hallucination and charming literary device.
  
                     ABOUT                                              GLOSSARY 


"Whenever I think of the past it brings back so many memories." 
                                                                                     -Steven Wright 


Dear Gentlereaders, 
Beginning with this column, I'm no longer committed to publishing a new missive every Saturday but I will be publishing a new, lengthier, column approximately every two weeks. Please stay tuned. 

Fear not, I remain committed to writing these letters/columns, and many of my millions of gentlereaders have expressed a desire for longer letters anyway.

{I doubt any of our gentlereaders are living in fear of a lack of letters on your part.}    


Welcome back boys, girls, and others. In our last episode, Dana asked me what was so cool about being a child of working-class parents with lots of kids and little money back in my day when the Baby Boom exploded. 

Answer: Dumb luck and good timing.

I, and my fellow Boomers, didn't come along till after the Great Depression had been overcome and the Second World War won, two back-to-back globe-spanning crises that killed off multiple millions and laid waste to no shortage of other countries. 

If you were lucky enough to be a kid, particularly before about 1965 — when things got weird and our current era began  — you benefited from the traditional American zeitgeist, an economic boom, and the birth of modern technology. 

You hit a trifecta without even making a bet. 

Of course, life was hard for most and terrible for many as it always has been and always will be. I/We need to proceed carefully. Nostalgia and our unreliable memories often generate a golden glow; sucky circumstances can morph into fond remembrances with the passage of time.   

Big BUT, that's not going to keep me from posting a paean to my childhood, specifically to my life prior to reaching the age of reason. 

{The Age of Reason? Just how old are you?}

When I was a kid attending a traditional Catholic grade school, much of second grade focused on preparing us for our First Holy Communion as it was assumed that we had more or less reached the age of reason. This is (according to the newadvent.org Catholic encyclopedia), "The name given to that period of human life at which persons are deemed to begin to be morally responsible."

On a related note, if you were a Roman Catholic kid "back in the day," particularly if you attended Catholic school but no longer consider yourself a Roman Catholic, the website quoted above can update you on how much things have changed over the years. Quite interesting.

{Fascinating. When do we get to the cool stuff?}

This is cool stuff, Dana. Any traditions that are actually cultural RBFDs with long histories behind them (as opposed to say kindergarten commencement ceremonies) provide firm foundations to stand on. Just as importantly, if you decide to reject a given tradition, it provides something real to rebel against. 

Being a rebel without a cause, or a clue, isn't romantic, it's merely embracing teenage angst as a lifestyle.  


Once upon a time in a country called the United States of America, there was a rough but widespread consensus. Although our country had/has its sins and flaws — having been created by H. sapiens, a notoriously flawed species — it was a product of something called Western Civilization which has roots that reach back thousands of years.

Thousands of years of having to get out of bed in the morning and do what you had to do to keep you and yours fed, clothed, sheltered, and as safe as possible given your circumstances at the time, resulted in some hard-learned lessons. 

Please be sure to take note of the highlighted phrase circumstances at the time.

The traditional family, and some version/notion of a higher power — be it God, or at least ideals to strive for even once you're wise enough to realize you'll never quite reach them but are wise enough to keep trying anyway — worked/works rather well. 

A Judeo-Christian spiritual tradition provided/provides a moral/ethical framework that worked/works well even for those who were/are "culturally" Christian or Jewish (GRIN). 

{Your love of the slash can be/often is very annoying.} 

Caveat: Much sin has been committed in the name of religion, and of course, other religious/spiritual traditions can thrive in a Western country if its adherents are willing to live and let live, and like a civilized gentleperson, avoid stepping on the toes of others...as much as possible. 

{Fascinating. When do we get to the cool stuff?}

I also must point out that the current epidemic of "illegitimate" parenting (there are no illegitimate children) will not be cured by attempting to turn back time. It just ain't gonna happen. While we shouldn't neglect explaining to the kids the why and how of the nuclear family and other traditions with proven track records, as always, life happens while you're making other plans.   

We need to look reality in the eye, not fear change, and try to come up with real-world solutions that work in today's real world. I have a few ideas, but ideas are like butt...wrinkles, everybody has some, and I confess I have no world-changing revelations to offer.  


When I was a kid Wokies and Critical Theory(ies) were already loose in the world but hadn't reached critical mass. 

If a visitor from the future had arrived in a time machine and tried to convince people that in the relatively near future, the Woke Mind virus had escaped the lab (the universities) and had become a pandemic, they wouldn't believe it. 

But a time machine? Why not? Disneyland opened in '55 and included Tomorrowland where you could catch a virtual rocket to the moon; the future was so bright we were all wearing shades. In 1962, in the middle of the Space Race, JFK challenged the nation to put a man person on the moon by the end of the decade, why not? So we did.

{Who were we racing?}

Not a who, a what, the U.S.S.R., and Marxism, an ideology responsible for more deaths than all the other -ologies put together. We won, but certain diehards are hanging on in certain places Marxism being a reliable cover story for blood and power-thirsty thugs. 

And in the meantime, some frustrated intellectuals, pissed off because most of the proletariat preferred joining the bourgeoise to violent revolution, created Critical Theory since the Deplorables were/are too damn dumb to realize that everything wrong with their lives is the result of adhering to the traditional mores of Western Civilization...and caucasian, male, H. sapiens of course. 

Wokies of the world, unite!

{Fascinating, when do we get to the cool stuff?}    

Sorry, you know how I get...


In my semi-humble opinion, having enough choices, but not an excessive amount of choices, choices made without the mediation of computer/smartphone screens is why I think my analog childhood was cool.

The cultural Rules&Regs that existed at the time didn't all make sense, and some needed to be altered or even radically changed (the term Jim Crow immediately springs to mind). Still, a rough consensus is required if a household, or a country, is to run relatively smoothly and a kid can be a kid for a few minutes before being dragged to his/her/their first drag queen story hour. 

Burning down the house, or country and starting from scratch because you believe that changing human nature, ASAP, ain't a big deal, is simply not a defensible position for any rational grownup to maintain and it's why we're in the fix we're in. 

Too many choices + too few restrictions - a sense of history = our current national mental health crisis. 

When I was a kid, other than window screens to take the edge off of the lack of air conditioning, the only video screen in our house was the one on our black-and-white TV. It came with an antenna with aluminum foil signal boosters but often stopped providing content after The Tonight Show was over. 

Music, books, video, etc used an analog format that by definition suffered from all sorts of limitations. This forced my fellow Boomers and me to spend an inordinate amount of time together in meatspace as cyberspace didn't exist yet.   

Fortunately, there were a lot of us and although almost everyone I knew had a mum and a dad — believe it or not, divorce was not something that was taken lightly, and single parents were relatively rare — we were left to our own devices for hours on end. 

For example, a lot of baseball (still the national pastime at the time) was played at/on "The Field" in my inner city neighborhood. It was just that, a field, in which well-worn paths connected the bases and a home run was a fly ball hitting the wall of the building that bordered the opposite end of The Field from home plate. 

The Field also featured an abandoned car for playing in and on. The top half of the field, which sloped down from the Boulevard of the Allies mentioned in our last episode, was more or less grass-covered and was used for all sorts of things, and there was no schedule. 

Somehow, this was accomplished without the benefit of adult supervision, and to the best of my knowledge no one was killed. Although injuries were commonplace, this was considered normal, life happens.  

Luckily, fleets of battered, rusty white vans manned by pedophiles roaming the roads in search of victims were not yet a thing. Being sent to a corner store several blocks from your house with a note (please give Mark a pack of unfiltered Kools and a loaf...) and some cash at a relatively tender age was not only reasonably safe (there were protocols in place for dealing with local ne'er-do-wells) it could be fun. 

"Hey, Mum, can I get a..."

No! and come straight home.

All the way there I'd be carefully scanning the environment for lost change. A penny could buy a penny pretzel stick, or gumball from a colorful machine that might also award you a prize. If you stumbled across the rare and elusive glass, quart soda pop bottle you could turn it in at the store for 5¢ and get five pieces of penny candy, or a full-sized candy bar, or a pack of baseball cards, or...

Everyone knew, knew of, or could easily find out who you were, or who your parents were, so you had to think twice about getting up to no good, or about disrespecting any adults you might encounter lest they turn up at your house to discuss things with your parents.

I remember this one time when... never mind. 


I could go on... I could mention more upsides from this period of my life and/or I could mention the downsides of life in the Stone Age. I could confess that I'm a bit of a hypocrite in that given a choice I wouldn't give up the internet, and many other technological advancements. 

I know how lucky I was given the terrible things that didn't happen to me, like not contracting polio for example, having been vaccinated. I believe I mentioned the power of dumb luck and good timing. 

Big BUT, as I apparently never tire of repeating, we Boomers accidentally tossed out the tot with the Jacuzzi water. 

I wish I knew of a way to fix it so that kids nowadays have a chance to be kids for a few minutes, with a full-time mum (or dad) till at least first grade and lots of other kids to play with instead of being parked in daycare, and then preschool (which incidentally, doesn't work). 

Colonel Cranky

Scroll down to share my work or to access previous columns.   

Comments? I post links to my columns on Facebook where you can love me, hate me, or cancel me. Cranky don't tweet (Xclaim?). 

Copyright 2024-Mark Mehlmauer-All rights reserved
  

  



Friday, June 10, 2022

A Fun Nun

Original title: My Sister of Charity, 12/21/19

Sr. Mary Clifford Soisson, SC

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted.  

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

Glossary 

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device 

"For a Catholic kid in parochial school, the only way to survive the beatings-by classmates, not the nuns-was to be the funny guy." -George A. Romero 


Dear (eventual) Grandstickies & Great-Grandstickies (& Gentlereaders),

I'm spending the summer in a cabin on a beautiful lake somewhere in the Swiss Alps, working on my memoirs, and trying to decide if this column will resume post-Labor Day. The market has found me wanting; I'm buying all of my own coffee. So be it, I remain an unrepentant supporter of capitalism. 

My big brother Eddie is currently my only financial patron so I'm starting to feel like Van Gogh... without the world-class talent, but with both ears. I'm also considering publishing only when the spirit moves me. Cranking out columns week after week, while enjoyable, is hard work — well, intellectually speaking — at least for me. 

{It sure ain't roofing or the like you whiney b...}

In the meantime, I'll be republishing (relatively) gently edited columns with updated statistics and fun facts in [brackets].


Six of my first eight teachers were members of a Roman Catholic religious community that has roots extending back to 1809, the Sisters of Charity.

Sister Mary McGillicuddy changed my life, Miss Crabtree, not so much.

[Um, don't you mean Ms. Crabtree?]

No, Dana, I do not. I'm so old that Ms. magazine wasn't published till the year after I graduated high school and which, according to Wikipedia, is when that particular honorific caught on.

Now that name tags read, "Hello, my name is _______ and my personal pronouns are _______  " it sounds/seems almost quaint.

Sister Mary and Miss Crabtree are composite creations. S'ter Mary McGillicuddy represents the six nuns mentioned above. Miss Crabtree stands in for the two lay teachers I had in Catholic grade school. To a lesser extent, she represents the handful of female teachers I had in public high school; the word handful is an indicator of my encroaching decrepitude.

The majority of my teachers in public high school were male, the principal and vice-principal of the two high schools I attended were both also members of the toxic sex, particularly the vice-principals (readers of a certain age nod knowingly).

However, this column is about a real Sister Mary, Sister Mary Clifford who was my teacher in seventh grade and whom I recently discovered died in 2010 at the age of 89.

She was my first and only "cool" nun. She was the first and only nun I liked. She was one of only two nuns I wasn't afraid of. She taught me, at the age of 12 — without meaning to — that nuns were just H. sapiens in peculiar clothes, not members of a separate, parallel species.

Sisters of Charity, New York -1965


Eileen Soisson ("She was a faithful Steelers fan and had a great sense of humor.") was born on the 17th of July, 1920 in the Borough of Bellevue which borders and is butt up against, by gum by golly (sorry...) Pittsburgh (with an h).

Like me, she attended Catholic grade school (hers still exists) and public high school. She received a scholarship to Seton Hill (not Hall) College which was founded by the Sisters of Charity and she took her vows in January of 1942.

She was not only my seventh-grade teacher she also was the principal of the school, St. John the Evangelist, which was located on the Sou'Side-a-Pittsburgh, across the street from the 12th street playground.

For some reason, I was one of her pets. To this day I don't know why.


Being a pet of the principal meant that at least once a week I got out of class to accompany her when she borrowed one of the parish priest's cars to take care of some sort of business, usually grocery shopping for the convent that was right next to the school.

It was never just me—there was always at least one of the other boys, sometimes two depending on our mission—but it almost always included me. In retrospect, I can guess why it was always more than one boy but at the time neither I nor any of my classmates (that I'm aware of) noticed or cared.

Different era...

But, why me?

There was this girl, Ellen (Eileen?) Somebody, who from year to year was always a teacher's pet, but that made sense. She had a beautiful voice and the nuns were always finding excuses to get her to sing.

I didn't give it much thought at the time, just enjoyed it, rolled with it, took it for granted. Somehow, even the other boys in my class didn't razz me about it and normally this was a group that called each out for everything


I have no idea what she saw in me, but I do know why I liked her so much. She was genuinely nice. She kept at least one foot in the real world at all times. She wore her vocation like a corsage, not a crown of thorns.

She clearly enjoyed driving and when I was out and about with her she behaved more like a doting aunt than a school teacher. She'd answer our questions about parish politics, other nuns, her life, etc., questions we'd never think of asking in class (it just wasn't done) as honestly as she could.

But always diplomatically, always taking the high road, never stooping to gossip or backstabbing. Keeping the faith, as it were. Perhaps this was why I caught no crap from my peers — everyone liked her. She ran a tight ship in class but possessed not a trace of Crazy Nun Syndrome.

Please note: If you've ever been exposed to CNS, which was a common malady at the time, no explanation is required. If you haven't, no explanation I can provide will come close to describing it properly. 
 

Prior to Sister Mary Clifford, I had six teachers.

Four Sisters of Charity afflicted with CNS; one lay teacher that was about 150 years old; another lay teacher, for second grade, that taught us how to curse (rather genteelly by today's standards) by conscientiously explaining which words we were not permitted to use under any circumstances.

Eighth grade: different school, different community, unremarkable nun. But I wasn't afraid of her thanks to Sister Mary Clifford's unintentional life lessons. I'm ashamed to admit I don't remember her name as she did an excellent job preparing us for Catholic high school knowing that intellectually speaking, things were about to get a lot more intense.

I do remember that she got tears in her eyes when she discovered I wouldn't be attending a Catholic high school. Callowyute that I was at the time, this baffled me. I think I get it now. Fortunately/Unfortunately (it's very complicated) my parents couldn't afford to send me, so I was off to public high school.

For the record, the nun that ran that school scared the hell outta me, as she would any right-thinking person. Crazy Nun Syndrome. But thanks to Sister Mary Clifford, as my faith slipped away, I knew that nuns were just people, sometimes very special people. Look at her eyes.

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day


Scroll down to share this column/access oldies. If you enjoy my work, and no advertising, please consider buying me a coffee via _____ card or PayPal.    

Feel free to comment and set me straight on Cranky's Facebook page. I post my latest columns on Saturdays, other things other days. Cranky don't tweet.