Small Town Girl ... Chapter 2: Little Catholics (Read for Free Here)
Link to Foreword and Chapter 1: https://www.thegenxplayground.com/p/small-town-girl-livin-in-an-80s-world
Most of my memories of being a young child are from when we lived on Miller Street in Marinette, Wisconsin. Marinette was a town of about 12,000, and the closest “big” city was Green Bay, about 55 miles to the south. It was also nestled right against the border of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, next to another little town of similar size called Menominee. Once you crossed one of three bridges in town, you were in another state.
Miller Street was a kids’ sanctuary, filled with lots of middle-class families with children. My best friend, Beth, lived a few streets away, and my cousins Jason and Chris lived right down the block. My brothers and I always had plenty of kids to play with; summer afternoons were filled with Kick the Can and Capture the Flag. It also helped that our backyard butted up against a huge church parking lot that doubled as a paved playground with basketball courts. It was the parking lot to Sacred Heart Church, the Polish Catholic church in town. There were three other Catholic churches besides that one: St. Joseph’s (a mere three blocks away from Sacred Heart) was the French Catholic church; Our Lady of Lourdes was the Irish Catholic church; and St. Anthony’s, which catered to the German Catholics.
As for my family, we seemed to waffle between the French and the Polish churches since they were both within walking distance from our house. That seemed quite fitting since my mom was mostly French, and my dad was Polish and German. The French church seemed to be filled with more young families, whereas the Polish one was mostly filled with the elderly. One of its parishioners was a mentally challenged old man named Casimir, who was prone to sudden outbursts in the middle of mass. It wouldn’t be uncommon for Casimir to interrupt Father Strebel right in the middle of his homily. And on Easter, we would see him holding a gigantic bunny on his way up to Communion; during the Christmas holidays, it would be an enormous Santa Claus.
My baptism, 1973
When my brothers were about 8 and 9 years old they suddenly couldn’t wait to be altar boys. And who could blame them, really? Rumor had it that once you were old enough to be an altar boy you could leave class a little early to prepare for the weekly school mass. If you were really lucky, you’d be asked to serve at a funeral mass, which meant getting out of class for at least an hour, followed by a potluck meal prepared by the Altar Society ladies.
All I knew about altar boys was that none of them could get the “ringing of the bells” right. If you’re Catholic, you know exactly what I mean, even if you don’t entirely know the point of the bells themselves. Allow me to explain: At a certain point during the mass, the priest prepares the bread and wine, and turns them into the Body and Blood of Christ. Then at a particular part of the ceremony, one of the altar boys is supposed to ring a bell. Some churches actually had a set of bright gold jingle bells; other churches were pretty high tech and had something like a doorbell. The bells were supposed to symbolize joy as the priest displayed the Body of Christ to the congregation. The altar boys could never quite get the timing right; those bells rang at different moments during every single mass.
It was always pretty evident when the altar boy didn’t know when to ring the bells. The priest would pause after saying something significant; but was it a long enough pause? Was it time? Everyone (well, at least me) would watch in agony as the altar boy sheepishly and cautiously reached for the bells. Would he pull the trigger and ring them? Or would he miss the opportunity and let the priest continue? Most of the time he missed it; then he would just ring the bells a little later at any old random time, much akin to a basketball referee doing a make-up call. For awhile I noticed that the masses stopped featuring the ringing of the bells altogether, and I’m pretty sure it was because the altar boys mucked it up so badly that it lost all significance. But now I’ve noticed the bells are back, and the altar boys and girls seem to be a little too prepared to ring that bell, and they always get it right. It really must have been drilled into them at Altar Person Boot Camp.
As for my brothers, they could only sit and patiently wait until they hit sixth grade and could join the altar boy pool. But in the meantime, Peter and Dan decided that some playacting (I think they call it cosplay nowadays, but I don’t think that word existed in 1978) would be the next best thing. After all, they were already pretty good at reenacting their favorite Star Wars scenes, as well as several WWF wrestlers, so why couldn’t they portray men of the clergy? If you think this made my parents extremely proud, you’re absolutely right. Your young children showing an early interest in the priesthood? This was every Catholic parent’s dream.
Since Peter was the oldest, he made himself the priest and designated Dan as the altar boy. In order to make it legitimate, they started with – what else? – the costumes. If you know anything about the priesthood, you know that priests get to wear somewhat fabulous gowns, formally known as vestments. And bishops get to add some really cool hats. But if you’re an altar boy, it’s always the same: a thin white hooded gown with some rope around the waist. And I don’t care what church you go to, there are never enough robe sizes for all of the shapes and sizes of altar boys (and now altar girls). It wasn’t unusual to see some high-school senior at the altar with a gown that hung just past his knees. Basically he was wearing a tea-length dress. On the other hand, the sixth-graders who had not yet reached their growth spurt were trying not to trip over their gowns while simultaneously lighting the altar candles. Talk about an occupational hazard.
Since my brothers didn’t own anything even vaguely resembling priest vestments nor even the lowly altar boy robes, they improvised. Both of them decided that their very own homemade patchwork quilts would do the job just fine. They wrapped and hoisted the quilts up around their torsos, then tied them off with belts at the waist. Nailed it!
The next step was to visit Father Strebel at Sacred Heart Parish, the Polish church right behind us.
On a side note, I’m not sure how the Polish church let in a priest with such a German-sounding name; it must have been quite controversial. Out of curiosity, I looked up the meaning of the surname Strebel just make sure it was German. Here’s what I found, courtesy of www.houseofnames.com: The surname Strebel was a name for a man who was unkempt and had hair that was shaggy and bristly. Ancient records reveal the name Strebel is derived from the Old German “strub,” which means “rough” or “unkept.” I find that to be incredibly ironic since Father Strebel had beautiful wavy, very neat reddish hair that was the farthest thing from shaggy. I even looked him up online and found that he had just retired in 2010. And there was a picture, his same beautiful wavy hair now gray but still very beautiful. While reading about his life, I learned that Sacred Heart was his first assignment as a pastor, so he must have been very young. Of course, back when I was 4 years old, I thought he was about 40, so imagine my surprise when I Googled him and found out that he was actually still alive. As of this writing, he’s about 80 years old. God bless you, Father Strebel!
My brothers visited the young priest in order to get some church books that contained songs and readings. That would give them the mass “scripts,” if you will. Father Strebel, of course, relished this moment. Two little boys who idolize the priesthood so much that they’re willing to dress up in patchwork quilts and perform pretend masses in their bedroom? Pure Catholic gold. He willingly handed over as much literature as my brothers could carry.
Peter and Dan spent hours preparing for their masses. Since the performances took place during the summer, my mom and I would be invited sometimes. Inevitably my 4-year-old self started to feel left out and insanely jealous. Pete and Dan looked pretty legit to me … they were like a real priest and real altar boy! I so wanted in on that action, whether they had room for me in their act or not. And so, I did what I had to do: I made myself an honorary nun.
Naturally the first thing I needed was my own costume, so I slipped one of my mom’s silky nightgowns over my clothes. Because obviously a nun’s attire closely resembles a silky nightie from Penney’s. I also grabbed a tennis racquet from the garage because everyone knows that all nuns play the guitar. (For the record, I never did meet a nun who played the guitar, although my first-grade nun played a mean harpsichord.)
Eventually my brothers’ practices led to one big, shining moment/performance, otherwise known as “The Day Grandma Drees Came to Mass.” (Grandma Drees was my dad’s mom, aka Alice Pazynski, aka my Polish Grandma.) I was disappointed when my nun routine was suddenly banished to the sidelines, as my brothers made it clear that there was no room for my fake guitar playing, no matter how enthusiastic I was. I had to grudgingly hang up my silky nightgown, and join my mom and grandma on folding chairs in my brothers’ shared bedroom. I think we all sang a few songs (“Peace is Flowing Like a River,” maybe?). My mom had even made actual Communion wafers, just like they had in real church.
Future priests?
I really don’t remember much about that particular performance, except that my brothers put everything that had into it. I would give anything to have a recording of it or even to remember what the sermon was about. I suppose it would’ve been similar to what my 9-year-old brother had already learned in church and school: lessons about sharing and being kind, and such. All I know is that after that performance they seemed to lose interest. Apparently Grandma was the ultimate gig, akin to winning all four Grand Slam tennis tournaments, perhaps? There was nowhere else to go. Eventually Peter retired from the priesthood, and Dan hung up his altar boy robe. That is, until they both hit junior high school, and promptly and proudly became real altar boys.
Even though the whole nun thing didn’t work out for me (truth be told, I was more into Barbies anyway), there were still plenty of fun opportunities for me to participate at church once I actually got into school. At the time, each of the Catholic churches in town had an accompanying Catholic school. (That is, except for little Sacred Heart.) The Lourdes school housed kindergarten through third grade, although the kindergarten didn’t exist when I was that age. St. Anthony’s school only had grades four and five, and St. Joseph’s school was the middle school: grades sixth through eighth.
Since the actual Lourdes church building was a little too far away from the school, our weekly masses were held on the second floor of the school. There was a huge open space with classrooms situated on the perimeter. A gigantic area rug covered the wooden floors, and it was there that all of the kids would hunker down for weekly mass with Father Hogan, a round and soft-spoken man, who would preach behind the altar table that was wheeled out every week. The teachers would haul out folding chairs from somewhere and sit at the edges of the rug, directly next to their respective classes, which, of course, allowed them to keep a watchful eye on all of us.
Each week one of the classes was responsible for leading and organizing the mass. That meant that the kids from that class would do the readings and choose the songs. If a reading was particularly action-packed, sometimes the kids would throw in a little performance and act out the reading. I really don’t remember how that worked with kindergartners and first-graders – surely there were readings that were way too advanced – but they still managed to participate somehow. But I do remember being a huge participant from early on, largely due to the fact that I was an excellent reader. My teachers often chose me to be the lector or to do a long reading. My delivery was smooth, and my inflection was directed in all of the right places. The teachers would neatly print out each reading on a white piece of paper and then glue it onto some sturdy construction paper. I loved holding those important pieces of paper.
At the Lourdes school, our church songs were mainly memorized in order to accommodate the younger kids who couldn’t read yet. The songs we sung were completely kid-friendly and fun, and sometimes even boisterous. I will remember them for as long as I live, songs like: ”His Banner Over Me Is Love” and “I’ve Got the Joy In My Heart.” The latter went a little something like this:
I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart
Where?
Down in my heart!
Where?
Down in my heart!
I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart
Down in my heart to stay.
And I’m so happy
So very happy
I’ve got the love of Jesus in my heart
Down in my heart
And I’m so happy
So very happy
I’ve got the love of Jesus in my heart.
I’ve got the love of Jesus, love of Jesus
Down in my heart
Where?
Down in my heart!
Where?
Down in my heart!
I’ve got the love of Jesus, love of Jesus
Down in my heart
Where?
Down in my heart to stay.
And I’m so happy
So very happy
I’ve got the love of Jesus in my heart
Down in my heart
And I’m so happy
So very happy
I’ve got the love of Jesus in my heart.
And if the Devil doesn’t like it
He can sit on a tack!
Ouch!
Sit on a tack!
Ouch!
Sit on a tack!
And if the Devil doesn’t like it
He can sit on a tack!
Ouch!
Sit on a tack to stay!
And I’m so happy
So very happy
I’ve got the love of Jesus in my heart
Down in my heart
And I’m so happy
So very happy
I’ve got the love of Jesus in my heart.
That song always turned a bit wild during the whole “devil” verse. Every time we sang, “Ouch!” our little butts would pop up in the air as if we were sitting on actual tacks. It never got old; we’d laugh every time, and come up with more and more creative (and annoying) ways to pretend we were actually sitting on tacks. There were always a few troublemakers who used the song as an excuse to get a little bit out of control, so it was probably best sung at the end of mass instead of right in the beginning or middle. But when you’re 6 or 7 years old, and you’ve got that joy, joy, joy … you sometimes can’t dial it back a few notches and settle down enough to pay attention to the scripture readings. You were too busy thinking about the devil sitting on thumbtacks, and naturally that’s mighty distracting.
Many years later the four Catholic churches had to consolidate to two. St. Joseph’s and Our Lady of Lourdes remained, and the one parish was renamed Holy Family. If you ever want to piss off a bunch of Catholics, there’s nothing better than closing down their church. Many people were so upset that they started attending church across the bridge in Menominee. That is, of course, until something at that church pissed them off, and then they came back.
As for my parents, they stayed at the new consolidated parish. Every once in a while they’d venture over to Menominee if there were “scheduling conflicts.” Such conflicts can best be summed up by a conversation I had with my mom a few years ago, when she was in her late sixties:
Mom: So, Dad and I went to church over in Menominee because we knew it was Confirmation night and that would take forever. Well, that backfired because Father’s homily ended up lasting 40 minutes. It was ridiculous … that homily just kept going on and on and on. Dad and I were so stressed out by the time we got home we both made ourselves two old fashioneds right away.
Me: Ah … spoken like a true Catholic.
All dressed up for my first-grade Christmas program.