The Finer Points-The Girls Go to Catholic School, continued.

       Geographically, we were only two city blocks removed from our friends who continued on at Theodore V. Eddy Elementary School.  Experientially, the girls entered another universe.  Instead of gym class, art class or music class, the girls had Religion class five days a week.  First graders were not expected to go to daily mass but preparations began for the day in second grade that the girls would make their First Communion.
The first few lessons would not be much different than the ones taught in Sunday School at the Methodist, Congregational, Episcopal or Lutheran Churches attended by friends.  There was the Creation story, Adam and Eve,  angels and Satan, The Garden of Eden, followed by the banishment and on it goes.  Oh, yes, the girls learned math and reading and writing including penmanship.  These topics Sister Lorenzo covered in a droning monotone with the countenance of a person behind a mule and plow being dragged through a muddy field.  However, when the time came for Religion class, her eyes sparkled through her coke bottle lenses and her face grew flushed as her arms came out from under her scapula and animation carried her back and forth across the front of class.  Sister Lorenzo was in her element.

SISTER LORENZO ON BAPTISM
       When Eve talked Adam into biting the forbidden fruit,  they committed the first sin.  This was no ordinary sin,  this was the Original Sin.  Man and womankind would now suffer and suffer for a very long time.  This sin marked the souls of every human being born since.   God sent his Son, Jesus, to save us.  John the Baptist poured water on Jesus and Baptism became the first Sacrament.  Baptism washes away the stain of Original Sin.  That is why infants are Baptized.  They may look innocent but underneath their souls are stained.  A person, even a baby is not allowed into heaven to be with God unless this Original Sin is washed away.  Glancing side to side with question marks on their faces, one classmates at last was brave enough to ask where these poor dead unbaptized baby souls went.  "To Limbo," was her answer.   A pall of sadness encompassed the class.  Sister insisted that it was almost as good as heaven except that God was not there.  Well, at least the girls were living proof that Limbo would not be their fate.  It was a close call, though, especially for the younger twin.  The story told by Mother was that the second twin looked so  fragile  that after cutting the umbilical cord, the nurse baptized her. Mother would say she looked like one of those rubber chickens.  As an after thought, the other was baptized, too, just in case.

SIN:  STAINS THE SOUL.... SISTER EXPLAINS
     One of the first things the girls were required to memorize was the Ten Commandments.  A person sinned when they broke one or more of the Commandments.  Sin separated a person from God.  It marked your soul.  To demonstrate the various types of sin and the consequences, Sister used the chalk board.  The chalkboard, dusty from a previous lesson represented the soul of an unbaptized person with Original Sin.  Sister took a damp sponge and made the blackboard as spotless as the first day of school.  This is what Baptism does, she said. Your soul is spotless.  An untimely death in this state would carry you on the wings of angels right up to heaven. Next, she took the chalk and made some gentle scribbling strokes, "This is venial sin."  No one goes to hell for venial sins.  Then she took the chalk and with violent stokes that sent goose bump raising screeches into the air, she scribbled with furious giant arm strokes that sent her rosary swaying from side to side.  This is Mortal Sin.  This is the sin for which a person is condemned to the fires of Hell for all eternity.  The girls sat  up a little straighter, to accommodate the shivers each experienced going up their spines.
  

GOLDEN GIRLS

When I tried to find my blog by Googling it, I discovered that the TV show "The Golden Girls"  from the 80's took place on "Clinton Ave." the three women were sometimes referred to as the Girls of Clinton Ave.

I had to laugh at the coincidence.  Now that the real girls of Clinton Ave. are  in their 60's, we can claim the title of Golden Girls.

The Girls Go to Catholic School

Shoes polished, lunch boxes packed with bologna sandwiches and electrified with anticipation for the first day at Catholic School the girls posed with little sister Julie for a picture before the big yellow bus lumbered down Clinton Ave. and swallowed them into a sea of unfamiliar faces.  There was comfort for Betty in not being alone,  Bonnie, however, was in her element and charmed first the bus driver, then the boy across the isle.   

More than half of the bus occupants were let off at Eddy Elementary, just a block away from St. Mary's Catholic School.  The twins went there for kindergarten, separated into the two classrooms.  That now seemed worlds away as the girls stepped off the bus and entered the inner sanctum of Catholic education.  Past the flagpole, up the concrete stairs and through the double doors the girls ascended.  The brown linoleum gleamed and their nostrils filled with the smell of floor wax and pine cleaner.  We were met by, Sister Lorenzo.  It could not be called a greeting.  What was remarkable, was her size.  She was just a little taller than the tallest boys in the class.  She had thick coke bottle glasses that made her eyes look extra big and buggy.  She rarely smiled,  this was serious business.  Despite her diminutive size, fear quickened our pulses.   Under the habit, gleaming white with a black veil that covered every bit of flesh, except her hands and face, beat a heart dedicated to the tutelage of these impressionable minds and soul.  When her hands weren't pointing to admonish, or instruct, they were either hidden under the long white scapular* or fingering the over sized rosary draped from the black belt circling her waste. 

  Maybe I should call it Comic Faith.  Catholic Schools across the country gave rise to many comedians.  I would like to share some of the more amusing stories gathered from our eight years with the Sisters of St. Dominic or when I tell stories, "the Sisters of Show no Mercy."   See the nun in THE BLUES BROTHERS if you are unfamiliar with the old fashioned nun.  It can be found on youtube.

*Scapular:   A symbol of affiliation to an ecclesiastical** order, consisting of two strips of cloth hanging down the breast and back to the hem at the ankles and joined at the shoulders.

**Ecclesiastical:  Pertaining to the Christian Church or its Clergy.

Grandpa Bell

He might have been on time for the 7:am Detroit Urban Railway heading north from Marine City toward St. Clair for his winter job in the ship yard that cold December day in 1912 but he couldn’t resist a conversation with an eight year old boy petting a cat on the walkway.

Each time Henry’s hand slid down the cat’s back, the tail would shoot straight up in the air.

“Hey Mister, do ya know why Bootsie’s tail goes up when I pet her?” 

With a generous, good-humored smile, he encouraged Henry to continue.

“So my hand won’t fall off.”

“Oh Henry, you are one smart boy, I always wondered that myself and now I know.”  It was never hard to get a smile out of this gentleman known by his friends as Happy. 

   With his hands in his pants pockets and coat, open and flapping in the breeze, he headed toward his destination.  Still a couple of blocks away he heard the whistle signaling the eminent departure of the red electric street cars that serviced the loop of the Detroit Urban Railway going from Algonac to Port Huron traveling along the St. Clair River.  He began to sprint and then a full speed run as the cars clattered away from the station.  With a final burst of speed, he lunges forward to grab the handrail and jump on board.  His foot hits ice, his hand grabs air and the momentum carries his body under the train.  Those who witnessed assumed the worst…death or dismemberment.  The squeamish hid their eyes another ran for Doc Degursey.  As the last car clicked past the place where the man had disappeared, Chester Bell’s body became visible, lying horizontal to the tracks.  He jumped up, smiled and waved at the people gathered.  “I guess I am a lucky man,” Would be his refrain whenever anyone asked for a recounting of his brush with death.

Green Chili, the Dog

  Green Chile was the twin girl’s first dog.  Anytime the words are paired to describe the peppers used in Mexican cooking the first thought even now over 50 years later is still not of the vegetable, well, fruit technically, but of a dog.  Mother says that the girls named the sole survivor of the farm dog’s littler.  The younger twin remembers that green toothpaste was stuck to his black fur and the name “Green Tooth Paste” was too silly even for three year olds.  One girl said green the other said chili and they both laughed.

1951 was the year.  Out on the farm, the world outside the smack of the screen door was the girl’s playground.  The telephone ringing on the party line was the only electronic sound above the wind in the silo, the rooster and the cows.  The first month of that year brought a baby sister, colicky, she occupied the girl’s parents trying in vain to quiet and soothe.  With the snow melted and the tender grass carpeting the yard the screen door swung and slammed as the girls burst outside their exuberance matched only by the squirming, licking, chewing joy of a puppy’s boundless energy.  Together they frolicked under Mother’s watchful eye.  The new baby sister occupied her attention and hands so she was more than a little grateful for the harmless distraction of the puppy known as Green Chili.

By 1952, the girls and baby sister had moved from the rented farm house into a small Cape Cod on the edge of town, which was rapidly growing along the road-leading west:  Clinton Avenue in the city and Rattle Run Road after the city limits.  Small Cape Cods and ranch houses sprung up to house the post WWII young adults and their boomer children.  Now almost four, the girls were thrilled to have other children to play with and easy access to town.  The loud, sick-cow moan of the noon whistle summons them home for lunch and the streetlights signaled bedtime.

  The girls had a familiar world in their back yard.   Beyond the barbed wire fence at the property line, the girls still had the bovine calmness of the grazing cows.   Standing back watchful and menacing  the resident bull could induce   screaming, heart pounding terror when one of the girls  slithered under the barbwire.  Indignant of our taunting trespass, he would snort and bow his horned head and with hooves pounding, charge. Thus, these little girls became familiar with the adrenaline rush of taking a chance, challenging each other on how far away from the fence and into the pasture each would venture. Occasionally tearing clothes and skin on the barbed wire in a rush to safety, the girls blamed thorn bushes answering Mother’s inquiry.   Bordering the cow pasture on the far left and accessible through neighboring yards was a hardwood forest complete with frog ponds and a hermit.

Green Chile became their constant companion bounding through the woods, dashing across front yards, circling the girls barking with a tail wagging, tongue lolling dogie grin.  Somewhere in the soup of his mongrel genetics were the undeniable markings of a Doberman Pincher, short haired black body, red haired dots for eyebrows that danced up and down with expression, paws and chest to match.  He weighed about 30 or 40 pounds.  He also had strong guarding instincts that were both an asset and led eventually, to his demise.  The girls in their childish innocence discovered that he would always take their side in any kerfuffle, growling and barking menacingly.  Slow witted, slack jawed and twice as big as the girls, the next-door neighbor boy had a mean streak.  The girls would pick fights on occasion to repay for some transgression perpetrated by him on little sister or the cat and laugh gleefully as Chili chased him home growling and barking. “Good dog, Chili” as ears were scratched and chest rubbed.  The girls were unwittingly encouraging dangerous canine behavior.

After breakfast on warm summer days, the girls dashed out, screen door slamming, little sister in tow, activities to be determined.  Chili greeted the girls, tail wagging, he led the way down the dirt path to the neat brick house next door.  In sing song voices the girls chimed the friend’s name at the front door.  The heavy, front door glided open to reveal a spotless interior and the neighbor girl’s small dark haired, dark eyed mother who always seemed to be judging the girls and finding them lacking.  With memories of the end of a broom, Chili kept his distance, sensing no hint of warmth toward his canine countenance emanating from the open door. The neighbor girl whizzed past her mother and burst out onto the front porch trailing admonitions and warnings from her mother.  Off the four would go, the girls of Clinton Avenue, neighbor girl in a spotless, flawlessly pressed dress, pink cheeked, hair combed and barretted, the sound of her mother’s voice growing dimmer. The best friend’s mother knew that before the sun set her spotless child would have dirt somewhere and possibly a scrape.  The girls took their play seriously and nothing; even fresh cow pies escaped their scrutiny. Chili circled the four, the twins and little sister and friend, free until the noon whistle drew them home for lunch.

About mid mid morning, Chili needed a nap.  He would wonder home to sleep in the shade and was easily accessible to the girl’s mother.  If Mother wondered where the children had gone, or needed them home she would say to Chili, “Go find the kids.”   Despite his only moments before, imitation of a dead dog, he would spring up and lead Mother unfailingly to the back yard, woods, or tree where the girls played.

At dusk, “hide and seek” was the game of choice, the small sister, afraid of the dark, hiding with one of the older girls.  Chili was an asset when closed eyed counting began and the children scattered to a hiding place.  His nose would sniff out every hidden child and bark joyfully as a race to the safe spot ensued. 

Chili had the run of the neighborhood.   Rarely tied up, he came bounding from the weeds at the sound of the high pitched, octaves above speaking voice, call, “Here, Chili, Chili, Chili.”  Smiling dog face, red eyebrows dancing, saying with body language, “What’s next?” as he searched for clues in the children’s faces.  Canine loyalty beat a steady rhythm in his heart and his eyes glowed with love.  Green Chili would protect these girls and they knew it.  

The sister’s girl friend, while playing is the yard, ignored the increasingly irritated calls of her mother from the next-door porch. Too absorbed in a make-believe world of a frontier camp among the tomato plants, the children easily tuned out the adult voices.  When the mother, doing a slow burn came marching down the path, broom in hand, dark eyes flashing, brows knit, Chili raised his hackles.  She was ordering our friend home.  Chili’s low throated growl turned to bared teeth barking as he blocked her advance.  “You get home right now little Missy!” she raged, backing away from the threat that Chili posed.  Stamping off, the girls easily read the body language of an adult on a lesson-teaching mission.  Angry phone calls followed, along with dire warnings.  Banished to the back yard, tied, sheepish and guilty for unknown transgressions, his eyes asking the girls, “What?”  The girls, of course, blamed the angry neighbor mother for Chili’s shackled situation not their beloved dog.  Father cut a dog sized square in the rear of the garage, a large metal ring held one end of the chain while the other attached to Chili’s collar.  From the taught end of the chain, Chili pranced and whined as the children went off to play without him.

Weeks passed and the incident grew dimmer in everyone’s memory, perhaps with the exception of the friend’s mother.  He assiduously avoided the yard next door.   Chili regained his freedom only to bite the father in the next yard over, in the ass.

 It was one of those clear summer nights of the girl’s childhood, that magical time between dinner and the blinking on of the streetlights.  The kids all tramped, down the worn dirt path, to the neighborhood dad that offered the most fun.  His boy was the same age as the little sister who on occasion tagged along with the troupe of girls.  At the sound of a train whistle, this dad would pile all the kids in his car. Infused with good cheer, he drove the half mile to the tracks in time for thrilled waves at the engineer, counting the cars, then as the caboose pass, waving again at the crew.  The children plugged their ears and felt the tremble spread upward through their bodies awed by the power of the locomotive.

This dad was a war hero, too.  He had the scars to prove it, with one unseeing eye that always   looked straight ahead and a scar running down his cheek and onto his lip.  On this warm summer night the children gathered in his yard.  Airplane rides were offered for jollification.  This involved placing a wrist and ankle in the hands of our neighbor dad and then letting centrifugal force take over as he began to twirl.  Lifting the child up into the clouds and then coming close to the ground, high-pitched shrieks of terror and joyful laughter pierced the night air.  Chili, standing by, head cocking first to one side and then the other was getting mixed messages.  Eventually, a canine decision was made, moving him to quick action.  He laid his sharp teeth into the dad’s backside, tearing his pants and puncturing, fortunately, only his wallet.  The laughter ended quickly as Chili was escorted home among somber playmates.

Green Chili scrambled three-dozen eggs.  Not intentionally, of course.  The girl’s parents had an egg lady.  Every week the widowed egg lady and her crippled son would load the trunk of the car with eggs and deliver them to town,  three dozen every Saturday, to the small Cape Cod house on Clinton Avenue.  Milk was delivered regularly, too, shouting “Milk Man,” as he burst in the back door, never knocking first.  Jim, the milkman, would proceed directly to the refrigerator and place the glass, half-gallon jugs on the top shelf, along with some cottage cheese, whipping cream, or buttermilk depending on the order.  He would even rearrange things to fit the new items if necessary.  Hardly anyone knocked first.   

The weather had turned cool and Chili had been given a rug near the belching warmth of the coal-burning furnace in the basement.  He was an outdoor dog most of the year but cold winter days allowed him some improved and warmer quarters. The egg lady opened the door with one hand and held the cartons of eggs in the other.  Her short stout body was thickly bundled against the cold.  Squinting, as her thick glasses fogged over, she stepped inside and announced her presence.  Like the Hound of Baskerville going for the throat, Chili bound up the stairs from the dark basement growling and barking sharply leaving little doubt that he intended to protect his family from the intruder.  The egg lady sent three dozen eggs flying into the air.  The girls watched wide eyed as the brown globes landed, cracking open and oozing clear slime and yellow yolks.  Chili’s alarm was instantly squelched by the smell and taste of raw scrambled eggs.

The girls looked on astonished and Father charged in to take control.  The egg lady, reduced to gasps and sobs slid slowly down the small entryway wall clutching her chest.  Never had the girls seen an adult so frightened.  In that scene of chaos, as the children held their dog, an intuitive sense entered the girls that on that day things had gone terribly and perhaps irredeemably wrong.  With hearts pounding came a moment of silence.    The children knew in their bones that they were merely planets orbiting around the sun and moon of parental love and authority.  Father was faced with the known havoc and the specter of the potential harm the family dog could perpetrate.  The egg lady had been nearly scared to death, what would be next.  Father’s judgment came down with the certainty of the setting sun, “The dog must go.”  Tears and plaintive arguments were snowflakes in the fire of his determination.  Chili was going to the dog pound. 

“Dog Pound,” rolled around in the fraught brains of the girls.  Envisioned were  prison bars, harsh treatment, and little or no food.  How could their beloved protector be so coldly banished?  Mother and Father explained that although Chili was loving and protective of his family, he had proven himself to be a danger to other people.  Having the vivid example of the egg lady gasping and clutching her chest near collapse was a more vivid vision than the imagined dog prison.  Sobbing and breath catching in the manner possible only after the flood of immense grief, the girls were silent.  Mother painted a picture of Chili being adopted by a benevolent farmer where his protective instinct would be prized.  So vivid were her descriptions that the girls began to imagine wheat fields with Chili joyfully bounding and leaping through the waving grain.  Chili, they believed, would be happier than his future at the end of a chain in our back yard.  It was this benevolent hope that propelled the girls into the back seat, red eyed and still sniffling.   Chili bound into the car with heart breaking dogie enthusiasm.  Even though it was grey and cold, the girls rolled down the window so Chili could stick his head out.  No dog, even the most timid can resist the windy perch of an open window.  His ears flapped and eyes sparkled as his tongue hung from the side of his grinning mouth.  Glancing back at the children, the canine gift of sharing human suffering slowly entered his senses. He pulled back into the car and stretched his body across three laps, head down, eyes soulful, red brows alternating up and down.

Father was silent but his eyes were red and moist in the rear view mirror.  Father was the pillar of fortitude and righteousness.  The girls saw the sad truth.  In their grieving hearts was also a place of immense honor and love for  man who could be counted upon to do the right thing, even if it were painful and inconvenient.

Far out on a dirt road, surrounded by chain-link, stood a one-story cement block building painted the color of mud.  It matched nothing but the season and the mood of those on a grim mission. 

First, father went inside and returned with a rope.  Trying to be gruff and in control he ordered Chili out of the car.  Balking and stiff legged in the back seat, Father grasped the scruff of his neck and gently eased him out, “Come on boy, let’s go.”  One end of the rope was tied around his neck, the other to a leafless tree out front.  Father silently climbed back in the car, turned the key and with gravel crunching under the tires the car rolled away.  The oldest sister jumped up, twisted around and watched out the rear window as Chili became smaller and smaller and finally a black speck.  

The woman that girl became, keeps that image like a photograph in the locket of her memory.  Chili standing, rope taught, head cocked, ears perked, eyes confused with askance, “Where are you going without me?”  Born in her heart was the feeling of love bathed in grief and disappointment, but also hope.  Hope that Green Chili would find a place where he could be both himself and happy and that tomorrow perhaps she would be too.