AT THE MAID RITE

One day I stopped at one of the local Maid Rite restaurants to pick up some
food to take home. So I sat at the counter and gave the waitress my order.
The work station for the Maid Rite sandwiches was right out in view of the
customers. So as I'm hanging around waiting for my order, I happened to notice my waitress lick her thumb several times to flip through the tickets on the order pad. Then I see her handling money as customers pay their bills. Then she goes over and makes Maid Rites with her ungloved, spit thumbed, filthy cash germy hands. She eventually came over to me with my bill and I said I've changed my mind, and I don't want my order now. I'm sure she didn't have a clue why I left empty handed. I never went back to that particular Maid Rite, but I subsequently told an awful lot of people about that experience. Apparently I'm still telling about it.

RAGGING ON HY-VEE

I don't like it when the cashier and the bagger carry on a conversation while scanning my groceries. It's always inane crap that has nothing to do with the task at hand. When I pay and get a reciept I always say 'Thank you' and in return I'm told to "Have a great day".
So sometimes when a cashier tells me to "have a great day" I reply with "you too". Then I add " Oh, sorry. You're not allowed to have a great day. You're working". That remark makes them smile but I know what they're really thinking, and I don't believe they have my best interests at heart.

At Hy-Vee part of the cashier's routine is to ask "Did you find everything you were looking for"? If I didn't find it or if they were out of it I say so. Then the cashier will reply "Sorry about that" or some such nonsense. They never ask if they can help remedy the issue. Next time they ask if I found everything I'd like to say no, I was looking for an employee that had a half a frickin' brain and couldn't find one, including you.

One day at the Hy-Vee we usually go to, I turned in ten or so winning Illinois scratch tickets, but I hadn't scratched off the serial numbers/bar codes. I never knew I had to. The clerk at the service desk handed them back and told me to finish scratching the tickets, and then she went on taking care of other customers. So instead of doing what she's paid to do, I was forced to do her job and then wait ten minutes 'till she got back to me. Friendly smile in every aisle my dyin' ass.

There is one lady bagger that constantly licks her thumbs to get the plastic grocery bags to separate. That is so beyond gross. Every item she handles goes to the customer's home with her spit on it. When I see her I go to a different cashier so I can avoid her and her spit. Idiot.

MEANINGLESS and RANDOM CATHOLIC GRADE SCHOOL MEMORIES

Snowy weather meant wearing black rubber boots to school. I remember sitting along the wall by my classroom trying to pull those boots off. My shoe would get stuck so it was easier to pull my foot out and then remove the shoe by hand. If it was cold enough the girls were allowed to wear a mysterious article of clothing called 'leggings'. I now realize they were 'pants'. Every classroom had a big closet where we would hang our 'wraps'. Being a rebel, at home I called it a coat. The nuns never found out.

 Fountain pens were required around fourth grade or so. These things were a real mess. They had a little black bladder inside that held the ink that was sucked into it by means of a little lever on the side of the pen. These things always eventually would leak. Then new pens came out that held a preloaded cartridge of ink. Just drop it in the pen body and screw the top on and you're ready to write. Course these things always managed to leak too. As I recall, when ball point pens came out, we weren't allowed to use them. Must've been too modern.

 Random thoughts. Hearing tests were done in the library. I can still hear those very faint high and low tones. I don't raise my finger now though. Every year the student pictures were taken . . . also in the library. Kind of odd that I can't remember ever borrowing a book from that library.

 Random thoughts: Teachers get mad when you beat the chalkboard erasers on the brick walls outside. The fire alarms made an ugly, scary sound. We were not allowed to talk at lunch. Weird.

 Cursive was a challenge for me. Practicing the circles and endless lines up and down and up and down. The front of the classrooms had all the letters displayed above the chalkboard. I still can't write the letter Z, especially the capital Z. No kidding. L was easy to write 'cause it just kind of flowed onto the paper. Couldn't screw it up. Q looked like a 2. What's that all about?

Early grades had reading groups in the back of the classroom. Brownies, Pixies, and Fairies. Although I fancied myself as a good reader, I was normally in the middle (average?) group. One day a dog walked into the room and sat down next to the reading group. We had to stay still and finally Louie Le Claire the janitor came and took the dog. I have fully recovered.

Sister Edward/8th grade. She was gone a lot with medical issues so Sister Barbara took over. We had to learn 'New Math', whatever the hell that was. Barbara could barely teach it 'cause she didn't understand it either. It was awful. This also was the year I broke my foot. I was one of the guys on the piano crew that would push the upright piano from one room to another, as needed. We were screwing around and it tipped over onto my foot. That hurt something powerful. Took a long time, but I got over it.

SHS employed a second janitor named Pete the fireman. He seemed friendlier than Louie. He played Santa Claus every year so it was natural to like him. At the classroom Christmas parties he would hand out a package of hard Christmas candy and a chocolate covered marshmallow Santa Claus. Good stuff.

3rd grade/ Sister Ambrose . . . I think. We were having a spelling bee and I was still alive in the third round. My next word was 'before'. I spelled it b-e-f-o-r. I was sure that's how it was spelled, but she said I was WRONG, and that it ended with an 'E'. I argued that she was nuts and that I spelled it right. I lost the argument. To this day I am very conscious about spelling correctly. I guess I learned something that day, so I never got over it.

Second grade I had Mrs. Shell. She was OK most of the time. The cool thing at the time was to stick your leg out in the aisle between desks to trip someone walking by. I figured I'd give it a try. So . . . down the aisle comes a girl and I put out my leg. She sees it and steps right over. No harm, no foul. Except Mrs. Shell also saw me do it and she gave me what for. I had to stand in the corner in the front of the room for an eternity. Even though I deserved the punishment, I still haven't fully recovered.

I remember my first grade teacher was Sister Anne Marie. (May have been 'Anna' . . . not sure). She was young and fun and was a good teacher. I had a crush on her, until one day I broke the keep silent rule. We were lined up in the hall for a lavatory break, and I evidently said something. Wow. Sister yelled at me and I was devastated. I couldn't believe she stomped on my heart like that. My special feelings for her were crushed. I still haven't fully recovered.

Fourth grade was Mrs. Ferkes. She was a good teacher, but a little impatient. Kids at that age are coming out of their shell and can be kind of boisterous. She was used to it though. She had a bell on her desk that she would ring to get our attention, and she'd say "CLASS . . . CLASS . . . CLASS!!!!!" until we cooperated with her wishes. I have 99% recovered, but sometimes when I am in my dark place I think I hear a bell going DING DING DING DING DING!!!!!!!!

Mrs. Donavon was the head lunch lady. To buy lunch a green plastic coin was required. Mrs. Donavon was in charge of selling these tokens. Sometimes the coin was like brand new, but usually they had bite marks all over them. I think maybe the lunch ladies chewed on them while they cooked just to mess with the kids. One day I realized I was short one token so I wouldn't be able to finish out the week evenly. I actually tried to fake out the lady collecting tokens by holding on to it and pulling back, pretending to pay. She caught me and beat me just like Mr. Gower hitting young George Bailey's bad ear in the drugstore. I've mostly recovered except for the echoes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My First Confession Experience

In second grade we were deemed old enough to have our First Communion. But in order to reach that destination, one must accomplish their First Confession. That's when the sinner has to tell a priest about all of the bad stuff he's been up to since his last confession. Teaching all of us little kids about confession was left up to a nun called Sister Gerald. She was real old, real wrinkled, and real mean. I swear her house was made out of gingerbread and candy. She was notorious for smacking kid's knuckles with her weapon of choice, a wooden ruler. Fortunately, I was never one of her victims.
We studied the ins and outs of Confession at school and at home until we got it right. We knew what to say and when to say it. We rehearsed in the real confessionals at church, with Sister Gerald standing in as a priest. We were given a fake Scapular to get us used to the idea of having a real Scapular. A Scapular is a little felt medallion thing with a cord that is to be worn around the neck. Sister Gerald told us that if you're wearing it when you die, then you get into Heaven, no questions asked. That seemed like a pretty good deal. Wear your Scapular, and have a worry free life. None of this Limbo, Purgatory, or Hell for this kid. I got me a ticket. Well, sort of. You have to do your first Confession before you get a REAL Scapular. I guess it's like an award, with benefits. That couple of weeks between getting the fake and First Confession was pretty scary. I was afraid I'd die and when I got to Heaven the gate guy would say sorry kid, this Scapular is a fake so you're stuck in Purgatory, and jeez, you were so close! Sucks to be you! But that wasn't my only concern. I worried what I was supposed to confess to. Little kids don't sin. We were way too scared to sin. So I figured I'd make stuff up just to get through it. But making it up and confessing it would make it a lie. This was certainly a dillema. I finally decided how to handle the problem though. I'd cover the made up stuff by confessing that I'd just lied.
The big day arrived and I'm ready to 'fess up and get my legit Scapular.
"Bless me Father for I have sinned. This is my first confession."
"OK kid. Lay it on me."
"Well, let's see. I stole; three times. I cussed; two times. I hit my brother; two times, I disobeyed my parents; three times,  and I lied; (um . . . let's see . . .) FOUR times."
Apparently I fooled the priest, because he told me to say some 'Hail Mary's' or something for my penance. I got my ticket-to-Heaven Scapular and all was right in my world. I wore my Scapular every day for a while. Then I got lazy and didn't bother with it, because if I'm still alive, it isn't really doing me much good.
I eventually lost my Scapular. Now I'm thinking maybe I should go to the religion store and buy a new one, and wear it. 'Cause at my age, you never know. Then if I died the Heaven gate guy would see my Scapular , and in I'd go, just like Sister Gerald said. I could even tell him I wore it every day of my life. But that would be a lie, and I'm not sure that they have Confession in Heaven.

On being an Altar Boy at Sacred Heart Church

I'm not positive what grade I was in, but I'm guessing sixth or seventh. It was the annual drive to recruit for altar boys. I had three older brothers that all became altar boys, so this wasn't new to me. I didn't want any part of it. I wasn't a joiner. I didn't want to get up that early. I didn't want to get in front of hundreds of church goers. I didn't want to belong to a thing called St. John Berchman Society. But I thought it was predestined that I would have to sign up. Being the fourth of four sons, I figured I had no choice. It was expected of me. So . . .
We were trained by older altar boy pros. We were expected to learn the choreography and prayers and responses in Latin. After a few sessions we were supposedly competent. I had more than a few doubts that I was ready. But schedules were made, and butterflies took up residence in my stomach.
  From my personal experience I remember that it was difficult to not set the altar on fire when attempting to light candles with that eight foot long flame thrower. Too big of a flame caused sooty wax to drip on the altar cloth. That was a guaranteed way to piss off the nun in charge of altar cloths.
  I remember that I was usually assigned to weekday Masses at six in the morning. That was fine with me. Only a handful of old people showed up. Same ones every time. Serving Communion only took a couple of minutes. Dickie O'Neal played the big pipe organ and sang all the songs solo. My Mom would drive me to church every time. I remember those car rides still. At the same time every morning, like 5:45 or so, a commercial would come on the radio for Red Man Chew. That ad jingle is with me still. I guess the spot was aimed at factory workers heading to their jobs. The song was incredibly annoying, and it never enticed me to chew tobacco.
Monsignor Blecke expected a lot out of his altar boys, so I hated serving his Masses. He yelled at me after one Mass because I didn't speak loudly enough to suit him. I didn't tell him that my responses weren't loud because I wasn't sure what the hell I was supposed to say. Jeez! It's six in the morning Bud! It's hard enough to stay awake, let alone pay attention to an old guy speaking in Vaticanese. It was equally hard to ring those bells on cue. I got more than one dirty look from a priest for daydreaming instead of clanging those cowbells on time.
  Since I was an average altar boy at best, I never had to work a wedding, or funeral, or Sundays. There was one time though that stands out. It was a High Mass on Easter Sunday. Me and seven other guys got the job of 'Kneel on the steps and hold a big candle for an hour and a half'. It was a hot Easter morning and we had on the usual altar boy uniform. We had to kneel on the steps parallel to the Communion rail. We each held a wooden pole with a red glass candle holder on top. Three quarters of the way through Mass, Joe Hines started swaying back and forth. I watched him, hoping I was wrong, but I knew what was about to happen. Then . . . BAM! It was lights out for poor Joe. He was down for the count. There was no contingency plan for such an event, so we all just held onto our candle poles, stared at Joe, and tried real hard to not get horizontal like he was. Monsignor Blecke turned around because of the commotion, but he just rolled his eyes and went about his business. Finally Joe got up and staggered off to the dressing room. I felt sorry for Joe, but I was also pretty damn glad it didn't happen to me.
  Many years later I was talking to my Mom about the altar boy ordeal, and that I felt forced into doing it. She said, hell, she didn't care whether or not I was an altar boy. Jeez! I could have saved myself a lot of grief, let alone sleep, if I'd known she didn't care! I only did it because I thought she wanted me to. Although I don't consciously regret becoming an altar boy, I do find it interesting that I have almost completely blocked all that Latin from my memory. I can't recall hardly any of it, except . . . Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!

Fifth Grade at Sacred Heart

My fifth grade teacher was Sister Mary Agnes. She was a mean short person. I think she had Napoleon syndrome. The class room was split. Half fifth grade, and half fourth grade. I didn't like this arrangement because although we had seniority, the fourth graders weren't afraid of us, and showed us no respect. The only good part of this classroom was that Teresa Van Raes was in the fourth grade section. She was my very first real crush. I would have married her, but I was too shy to talk to her alone. Somehow I got a wallet size photo of her, and I kept it on the under side of the bunk-bed mattress above my bed. That way I could see it every night. Plus, it was hidden from a normal view. I sure didn't want anyone to know I had it. Well, it wasn't long before my Mom found it. She told my brothers, and I was teased big time.
My best friend was Jim Flatley. He was funny and had a great sarcastic wit. Basically he was a smart-ass. We got along great, and kept each other laughing. He also was a non-stop talker. One Friday we were sitting together at the required once-a-month eleven o'clock Mass. Naturally he was talking, and of course I was laughing at his comments. Sister Mary Scagnes wasn't laughing though. She caught us, but didn't say anything. Until after church, that is. She bitched us out and sentenced us to write ONE THOUSAND LINES of 'I will not talk in church'.
I don't get why she was so pissed off. The show hadn't even started yet. There was no getting out of this crap though. My Dad was Mr. Integrity so although he wasn't even Catholic, I knew he'd go along with the punishment. I was f***ing doomed. I started writing my lines on Friday night, just to get a jump on it. I procrastinated all day Saturday, assuming that on Sunday I'd go at it 'till I was done. I finally resumed late Sunday afternoon. My parents went bowling so the house was mine. After a few pages of punishment I got the bright idea of how to speed things up. Carbon paper! I could write four pages at a time. This stuff was great!
'Course, page number fours were pretty faded, but I reasoned Sister Mary Ag-bag wouldn't look at every page, and hopefully wouldn't notice the thin blue copied words. My parents came home from bowling and Dad asked if I finished my lines. I proudly yet apprehensively said I'd finished. Now the reason for my apprehension came true. He wanted to see the finished product. Great. I'm screwed. He saw immediately that I copied at least half of my assignment. He wasn't laughing either. Mr. Integrity made me tear up the copied sheets and write the rest of the lines legitimately. I finally got all one thousand lines done late Sunday night.
Monday morning I gave my lines to Sister Mary Agony and she promptly threw them in the waste basket next to her desk. She didn't even look at them. What a f***ing bitch. All that work and torment and rework and re-torment. I wanted to take them out of the waste basket and show her that there really were a thousand lines, and I didn't have any carbon copies. I wanted to hear her say good job, you're back in my good graces. I wanted her to at least acknowledge my existence. I wanted her to see my integrity. No such outcome for naive little Pauly.
So, what did I learn from my thousand lines punishment ordeal? Let's see.
I learned that Sister Mary Battle-Axe Agnes had problems with kids talking in church. I learned that she was prone to over-reacting. I learned that Protestants don't have hang-ups about talking in church. Hell, they do it all the time. Walk into any Protestant church fifteen minutes before the service, and the whole place is filled with people yammering away. They're enjoying each others company, and they actually like being there. Pretty different from the forced silence demanded of us.
  Oh yeah. . . I don't remember why, but my friend Jim didn't write his thousand lines punishment. Wonder what he learned.

Kindergarten at Sacred Heart

It's 1956, I'm 4 years old, and my parents decide I need to strike out on my own. They enroll me in kindergarten even though I won't turn 5 until December. I feel betrayed and I am scared out of my mind. My sadistic brother Jim has already filled my innocent and trusting mind with the horrors of Sacred Heart School and the evil child hating nuns, priests and teachers. I've already been exposed every Sunday to the angry rants of Monsignor Blecke, so I knew Jim wasn't bullshittin' me. Monsignor would get up in that pulpit and get more pissed than he was the week before. He was always wanting more money. So every Sunday we'd put a tiny envelope in a basket that some old guy shoved in the pew right in front of you. Pretty subtle method to grab a little kid's nickel. I hated Blecke because he yelled all the time. ( I also hated Fred Mertz from 'I Love Lucy', 'cause he yelled all the time too).
So even though I knew what I was up against, my naive and trusting nature hoped that everyone in charge at school would embrace me with genuine love and affection, and prove Jim wrong.
Turns out, Jim was right. Authority was everywhere. Suddenly I'm not allowed to talk. I have to get in line for recess. Gotta get in line to come back in from recess. There's a line for the drinking fountain. There's a line for the lavatory. (That's a bathroom in Catholic school speak). We have to lay on a rug and take a nap. We have crayons that we're not allowed to break. We have paste that we are not allowed to eat. We have to sit at a round table with three other kids we can't talk to. I sit with Jim DeDecker, Joe Loftus, and Teresa DeRuyck. Joe, Jim and I all claimed Teresa as a girlfriend. I actually kissed her on the cheek though, so I won. We had to drink tepid whole milk from Baker's Dairy. Little glass bottles with paper tops. That shit stunk up the whole room. I hated milk, especially that stuff. It was only slightly cooler than a cow's body temperature. Some of the little bottles actually had cow hairs stuck to the lids, and cow poop on the steel racks the bottles came in. I refused to drink that stuff.  It was just way too gross. I wasn't allowed to substitute, not even with water, so every day at snack time I choked my graham cracker down unaided. My teacher was an old bag named Mrs. Shamoscow or something. She hated kids. My outstanding memory of this witch haunts me still. There is an easel in the corner of the room. It has a tablet of big-ass art paper on it. This stuff is for finger painting. How cool is that? Fingerpainting! I can only imagine the fun that would be. Only one kid at a time was allowed to  finger paint. So after weeks of waiting my turn, I asserted myself and asked that woman when I might have a turn. She said after Easter break. Oh happy f***ing day! I get to finger paint! Finally, Easter break comes and goes. Every day I anticipate Mrs. Old-cow will give me my turn. Maybe she forgot our pact. So I got up the nerve to confront her with my concerns, and I finally asked her. That old bat said we're all done with finger painting for the year, kid. I thought man, what a bitch. Not the situation. Her. That cranky old hag caused me to hate school and never trust authority. On her death-bed I hope her life flashed before her eyes and I hope she saw the disappointed face of a naive little kid all over again.
Maybe it's time to let it go. The memory is 53 years old. Nah. I'll keep it. Maybe it will help remind me to be a better person than Mrs. Shamoscow.