Patios by Daddio

Mr. Daddio was going into St Peters Hospital to have a double hernia. Apparently from all the hard labor he did being a brick layer and what I’d call a woodsman he developed these muscle knots over the years. I heard him complain about the one for a while but it wasn’t until he got the second one he decided to do anything about it. I was a close friend of the family particularly Ralph and Tony, Mr. Daddio’s older sons. I was about 21 at the time so Mr. Daddio must have been around 50.

Ironically my girlfriend’s mother, Connie, was going into the same hospital at the same time for a hysterectomy. Toni had met Connie previously at my parent’s house. My girlfriend, April, and I took Connie to the hospital for the procedure. While we were waiting for her to have the procedure we went to visit Mr. Daddio. We were wandering the halls of St Peters looking for Mr. Daddio’s room when we smelled a distinct odor coming from one of the rooms. We knocked on the door and Ralph slowly opened it to see who it was. After seeing it was only April and I he let us into the den of iniquity. Tony, Ralph and two of the floor nurses were in the room smoking some weed. Smoking weed in their dad’s room who would have believed it. So naturally we joined them. What seemed to be hours later Mr. Daddio was wheeled into his room still a little groggy. The nurse told us everything went just fine but she did inform us the surgeon insisted that Tony be knocked out even though he elected not to be put under anesthesia as he wanted to watch them perform the procedure. She said he was arguing with the doctor that he had drawn the incision lines about a half an inch too low. Mr. Daddio informed the physician that he was a core man in the service during WWII and had assisted with many operations and he knew what he was talking about. Apparently the physician had enough of his nonsense and told the anesthesiologist to knock him out!

In the next few minutes Mr. Daddio regained his consciousness and began speaking clearly. He told the nurse he was thirsty so she brought him some apple juice. He took only a sip and let it sit there. He let us know he was a little upset with the surgeon for knocking him out. A different nurse then came in and asked Mr. Daddio for a urine sample which he replied this wasn’t a good time and could she come back. She said that was fine and she left a cup for him to urinate in.

April and I left to go check on her mother and she was just coming out of recovery and put into her room. We greeted at the room and she seemed to be less groggy then Mr. Daddio. She was very vocal and annoyed that she didn’t get any rest in the recovery room as all she could hear was this deep voice repeating, “Patios by Daddio, Patios by Daddio.” She said it woke her up and she turned to see where it was coming from and she saw the “nose” and knew who it was. Mr. Daddio has a very prominent nose. She insisted she didn’t get any rest until they took him away and that she wasn’t the only person in recovery complaining.

I left April to visit with her mom and headed toward the Mr. Daddio’s room on another floor. As I got off the elevator and started down the wing towards his room I heard the nurse running down the hall screaming, “ he’s nuts, he’s insane, oh my god.” Something told me she was referring to Mr. Daddio. As I arrived in Mr. Daddio’s room all I could hear is laughter although it hurt Mr. Daddio to laugh so he had to control himself which was not an easy task. Ralph and Tony could hardly tell me what happened because they were laughing so hard. Finally Ralph got it together and told me the nurse came in for his urine sample and he grabbed the cup she had given him earlier except it had only a very small sample in it. She said she’d come back later and hopefully he had more of a sample. Mr. Daddio grabbed the cup and drank it like you’d do a shot. He offered that “I’ll run it through another time maybe that will help.” The nurse almost lost her cookies and took off down the hall. Little did she know he staged the entire incident as he had filled the cup with the apple juice he had gotten earlier? Daddio humor it’s a pisser!

Penguin Car Wash

Saturday morning and instead of playing ball or riding dirt bikes we were on our way to wash the Penguins car as some form of punishment for being habitually late for catechism class. It was difficult riding through Memorial School as the baseball diamond was on the far side of the school and we could see there was a game in progress as we approached. We dragged our ass the last hundred feet or so as we watched the guys playing baseball. This seemed like an awfully harsh punishment for being late. The British Invasion was dominating the radio waves, muscle cars like Camaros, Mustangs, GTO’s were ruling the streets, the war in Vietnam was escalating and hippies were blossoming during the spring of 1965 and here we were at St Bartholomew’s Convent washing the penguin’s station wagon. It just didn’t seem fair.

The Penguins were all piling into a buss when we arrived. Apparently they were all going on a field trip. A look or relief was on Sister Leonard’s face as we got off our bikes. “Good you are here. I was doubting you two would show.” “Listen we are all going to a museum and won’t be back until around 2 PM. “Who’s going to move the car out of the garage?” I asked Sister Leonard. “Mother Mary is the only one with a license and she’s gone ahead on the first bus,” declared Sister Leonard. “Well that’s just our luck. Now we can’t wash the car in the garage can we?” Gary so imphatically stated. As we were getting back on our bikes ready to make an escape Sister Leonard remembered that Mother Mary always left a second key in the kitchen. She halted our departure and went to retrieve the key. Upon returning she asked all of the other Penguins if they knew how to back the car out of the garage. None of them responded so I put my foot in my mouth and told Sister Leonard that I always pulled my dad’s car out of the garage (which was true, but not a good time to confess this particular skill). “Thanks a lot,” Gary whispered. “Now mind you, be careful young man and just back it out and put it right back when you’re finished,” bellowed Sister Leonard. “Yea, yea sure we’ll do just fine,” declared Gary.

The Sisters finished boarding the bus and were soon out of sight. Gary had a ginormous smile on his face as the bus faded out of sight. He held up the keys and said, “Who’s driving first?” “We can’t drive the penguin’s car.” I exclaimed. “Are you kidding Pat why not? Who is gonna know? Nobody that’s who. They are all gone. We have 5 hours until they return.” “Damn Gary you’re right. We’ll take it for a joy ride then wash it like it was new! They will never know.”

At first we were just driving the wagon around the parking lot but then when the baseball game ended we took it on the field and drove it over the pitcher’s mound to get some air! We were skidding all around the bases just smoke and dust everywhere. Then we took it back into the unfinished parking lot (pebbles) and did donuts around the statue by the rectory. This was so much fun when you’re 12. Some punishment we were having a blast. We took turns till we were too tired to continue. I pulled the car in front of the garage and we got out the hose and soap. First we washed the car and it was really dirty after driving the bases and then we hosed out the garage so it looked like we did a really good job. We cleaned the inside of the car and windexed all the windows. We left the key on the kitchen counter with a note that we hoped they all had a good time. Days went buy and nothing happened so we totally thought we’d gotten away with one.

The next Sunday I was serving the 9 o’clock mass with Father Kelly. Prior to mass it is standard protochol for alter boys to enter the Priest’s Sacristy to confess just right in front of the priest not in the confessional. I told him my sins which consisted of lying, cursing, thinking improper thoughts and maybe stealing an apple or two. I was all ready for Father Kelly to tell me to ”make a good act of contrition and for penance say 5 Hail Marys and 5 Our Fathers.” But that didn’t happen. He seemed somewhat deliberate as he spoke, “are you sure that’s all your sins son?” I looked up from kneeling and my eyes met his and I could tell he knew something. So I cleared my throat and said, “that’s what I remember.” “Think harder,” said Father Kelly. “Think about last Saturday when you and Gary were driving the sister’s car around the statue of St. Bartholomew.” I could feel my knees tremble. Wow, he knew. He must have seen us from the rectory. I thought our goose was cooked. I thought for sure he’d tell the Sisters and we’d be punished something wicked. But that didn’t happen. Father Kelly just had me admit what we did was dangerous, disobedient, and required additional penance. He suggested we helped set up the bingo tables for the next four Saturdays which I gladly agreed to. During mass all I could think of is why he didn’t stop us from driving and then not to tell the sisters. To this day I really don’t know but if I had to guess I think Father Kelly enjoyed watching us having fun and in a way was a big kid himself.

TURNPIKE TREES

Tony Daddio heated his home with two fire places and a pot belly stove. I was always comfortable in the house even in the depths of winter. The rear property fence had always a minimum two rows of cut logs about four to five feet high. This wood was the fuel to heat his home. Mr. Daddio would accumulate the wood during the spring, summer and autumn months. If you needed a big tree taken out of your yard the Daddios would do it for little to no cost as Tony wanted the wood.

Where ever there was property to clear Tony would volunteer to get rid of the trees. I remember one brisk Sunday morning waking up at the Daddios to the sound of chain saws buzzing. I could smell Mrs. Daddios’ coffee percolating in the aluminum pot. That coffee would make your hair stand up! Mr. Daddio came in for breakfast and informed young Tony, Ralph, Darryl and I that we’d be tree surgeons today. Mr. Daddios property was close to an area owned by the New Jersey Turnpike. That property was apparently going to be developed soon as surveyors had recently marked trees they wanted removed. This was like an invitation to Mr. Daddio to help himself. His approach was like a friendly neighbor just helping out. After breakfast like an army of leaf cutting aunts we marched off with our McCullah’s over our shoulders. Mr. Daddio gave the orders, “Tony you and I will cut down the trees and after Darryl cuts off all the branches we will cut up the girth of the tree. Ralph you and Pat can stack the wood onto the pickup and drive back to the house to unload.” I never really argued with my father I just figured he knew best but Ralph and Tony always argued with their Dad usually over the best way to do some physical task. I don’t know if it was because they were Italian or if it was just a family characteristic but they would get into heated arguments over what I would consider minor reasons. This morning was no different from others. Young Tony was yelling over the noise of the chain saws that his dad was cutting the trees wrong and if they did it his way they would be spot on accurate on where the tree would fall. The old man insisted upon using ropes to guarantee the spot the tree would drop so no one got hurt. We used the ropes all day. The ol’ man usually won the arguments. After several hours of helping Mr. Daddio’s neighbor we had a good size driveway cleared of the trees and we were showing some good signs of progress.

Just then an official New Jersey Turnpike Authority Truck pulled up next to where we were working. Two men exited the truck and stood there in awe. The driver was saying something to Ralph and me because we were the closest but we couldn’t hear a damn thing he was saying due to the noise from the three chain saws. We motioned we couldn’t hear him so he approached us and asked us what we were doing on Turnpike property. We told him we didn’t know we were just laborers he’d need to speak to the foreman. Ralph pointed towards his dad who just now noticed the intruders. He didn’t blink an eye rather he kept cutting with the buzz saw. The men approached Darryl next and I think he told them where they could stick it! Finally they reached Tony and his old man who pretended the intruders didn’t even exist. At one point Tony asked them to move back so they weren’t in the path of the tree about to fall. Mr. Daddio dropped the tree curiously close to where the intruders were standing. They were trying to get Mr. Daddio’s attention and he purposely was trying to avoid them. So after a little game of cat and mouse the intruders insisted they turn off the saws. Begrudgingly the two Tony’s turned off their McCullah chain saws and stood there with this discernable look on their face. One of the Turnpike Authority dudes asked Mr. Daddio in a rather rude tone what the hell he was doing on Turnpike property with those chain saws. Mr. Daddio grinned kinda like Clint Eastwood and answered, “What does it look like we doing?” “Well it looks like you unlawfully removing trees from Turnpike Authority property” barked the Turnpike employee. Tony replied, “And just who the hell are you?” “Well I’m Mr. Samson the regional director of the New Jersey Turnpike Authority,” he stated, “and you’re illegally on Turnpike property and I can have you all arrested.” “Is that a fact,” barked Tony? “Mr. don’t try and get smart with me I will call the authorities,” he replied. “Listen while you’re calling the authorities called Mr. Dorian at the Turnpike Authority and let him know what you are up to,” Tony insisted. “Mr. Dorian, Mr. Dorian why what does he have to do with this? He is the Director of the New Jersey Turnpike Authority” “Do you have a badge number or some identification Mr. regional Turnpike Authority?” barked Mr. Daddio. “Well yes why do you need that?” said he. “I want to make it very clear to Mr. Dorian just who the idiot was that stopped me and my crew from working on a Sunday earning double time in order to clear this property by 6:00 AM tomorrow morning. Our contract is very explicit if the work isn’t done on time we forfeit a significant part of our compensation and you are costing us valuable time,” Mr. Daddio stated. “But we didn’t know, did we Bob? No one told us. We weren’t informed! I don’t think contacting Mr. Dorian on a Sunday would be a good idea. Listen why don’t we help you so you can get the job done.” Tony replied, “Unfortunately the insurance won’t cover you guys but you could go to Dunkin Donuts and get us some coffee and donuts that would save us a trip.” “Well yea sure we’d be happy to do that for you considering how we interrupted your work here.” The dudes went and got us coffee and donuts and of course Mr. Daddios line about working for Mr. Dorian was a complete bluff. He just that morning read the name on the sign posted in front of the property. Never be afraid to stand your ground even if it isn’t your ground. A lesson Mr. Daddio taught me.

MR DADDIO VS. THE TROOPER

Ralph Daddio and I met in the 6th grade at Churchill Jr. High School. Ralphs parent’s house in East Brunswick was like a small zoo at the time. Aside from the typical couple of dogs Ralph’s pets included two crows Alfred and Joe (both could speak Alfred had the more comprehensive vocabulary…I always remember him saying “wana cricket”). In addition to the crows there were two skunks, Oscar and Fragrance. They made a great couple. There were also snapping turtles that weighed more than we did. Snakes both friendly and poisonous and a pond full of fish, frogs and salamanders. If this weren’t enough Ralph’s older brother, Tony, had Harley-Davidson Motorcycles; a virtual paradise for 11 year old boys. I spent a lot of time over Ralph’s.

Ralph’s father, Mr. Daddio, was a mason by trade. He built the red brick house they lived in. He was very knowledgeable in all trades and reminded me of a “Paul Bunyan” type guy with a great sense of humor. I liked him right away. Mr. Daddio owned several cabins in Bangor Maine and every summer he would go there to cut wood for the winter months when they were rented to hunters. He invited Ralph and me to go with him this summer so I asked my parents and we were off. Mr. Daddio doesn’t believe in burning daylight so we were off at 5:00 AM in a big Oldsmobile station wagon with wood on the sides. The route is simply we take interstate 95 most of the way. There is lots to see in New Jersey along the turnpike headed towards The City. The Statue of Liberty, all the ships in Port Elizabeth and Port Newark, let along the numerous refineries that always seemed to me to be on fire! Then we entered New York via the George Washington Bridge which had a wicked view of most of Manhattan and the Palisades. Going through the Bronx is always fun as the interstate is way below street level maybe 30-40 feet below and you actually drive under these huge skyscrapers. You never want you car to break down here as evidenced by the number of stripped almost skeleton looking vehicles you see on the roadside. Your car breaks down and it’s like an animal in the Grand Canyon getting injured it only takes the vultures parked on the edge of the cliffs seconds to swoop down and rip apart the prey. I don’t want to say the crime rate here is particularly high but one does notice there aren’t many police in the Bronx.

So now we’re going through Connecticut which is a little boring nothing but trees to see on the roadside and an occasional gas station or restaurant. At about 7:00 AM we reach the Massachusetts Border. Mr. Daddio pulled into the toll booth at the beginning of the Massachusetts Turnpike and notified the attendant that the vehicle behind us was his son-in-law and his daughter and that he would be paying their toll. This is a complete fabrication, of course. Ralph and I looked at one another and said “what the hell.” So Mr. Daddio pays the toll for us and the car behind us and exits the toll booth. We asked him why he did it and the only response he gave was “that we would see”. After the initial acceleration leaving the toll booth we noticed the car was slowly gaining more speed and Mr. Daddio kept looking in his rear view mirror. It was apparent the car behind us was trying to catch up. This was like a game of cat and mouse to Mr. Daddio. Since we had already finished playing the alphabet game on the Connecticut Interstate I guess this was the next game to play. This was all done for pure amusement! We were doing about 90 mph when we heard the siren from the Massachusetts State Trooper behind us. Mr. Daddio calmly pulled over and the young officer with the wide rimmed Smokey hat approached the car and asked for his license and registration. Mr. Daddio replied, in a very neighborly manner “wonderful morning here is Massachusetts isn’t it young man?” The officer then proceeded to the patrol car. Ralph and I questioned Mr. Daddio on if he was worried about getting a ticket or could they impound the car or even if we could we go to jail. “Nonsense, nonsense” Mr. Daddio utters. Not to worry”. After a couple of minutes the officer comes back to the car and gives Mr. Daddio his license and registration back and asked, “Do you know how fast you were traveling?” Mr. Daddio proudly announces he thought “about 90 mph.” The officer replied, “Are you serious? You admit to driving 90 mph?” “Well of course officer I was doing at least 90 mph.” Somewhat in the state of shock the trooper said, “I’ve been patrolling this turnpike for three years now and you are the only one to ever admit they were going that fast.” “I don’t understand that,” replied Mr. Daddio. “I’m not going to lie about it that’s what I was doing. The boys are witnesses.” “You know then sir I’m going to have to give you a citation.” “For what?” remarked Mr. Daddio? “Well for exceeding the speed limit of course,” replied the trooper. Mr. Daddio answered, “I don’t understand I just told you I was doing 90 mph.” “Which is 35 mph over the legal speed limit” said the trooper. “Over the speed limit by 35 mph what are you talking about?” Mr. Daddio stated emphatically. “That’s not over the speed limit.” The trooper stared at him for a good two minutes and replied, “The national speed limit is 55 mph and has been for several years.” “Son that may be true in other states but I’ve been coming up to Massachusetts since 1940 and the speed limit has always been 95,” Mr. Daddio informs the trooper. “Sir I am damn sure the speed limit is and has been 55 mph for some time now,” replies the trooper in a stern voice. “If that is so what are all these signs I keep seeing on the side of the road that read 95?” Meanwhile there is one of those signs 20 feet in front of the car. The trooper takes off his Smokey hat and points at the sign. “You mean that sign?” “Certainly I mean that sign there must be 200 of them on this turnpike” declares Mr. Daddio. “You know Mr. Daddio I don’t know whether to believe you or not,” the officer stated with the most perplexing look on his face. “Those signs indicate you are on Interstate 95 they are not the speed limit,” insists the trooper. Mr. Daddio fires back, “This is a turnpike not an interstate officer.” “Actually it’s both,” says the officer. “Well that’s a little confusing don’t you think?” replied Mr. Daddio. “You know I guess it is and since you admitted driving at 90 mph I’m not going to write you a citation but I am giving you a stern warning if you are ever caught in the State of Massachusetts driving over 55 mph we will throw the book at you. Do you understand that Mr. Daddio?” Said the trooper. Mr. Daddio hesitates to answer. “Mr. Daddio do you understand I’m cutting you a break here?” barks the trooper. “I do son and I appreciate it I’m just happy you didn’t catch me on 287 in New York!”

Mr. Daddio pulled off the turnpike at the next exit to go into I-Hop for breakfast and the young couple trying to catch us followed us to the restaurant. They asked us in line what happened and why we paid their toll so Mr. Daddio told them he was bored and thought it would be fun. They had breakfast with us and we told them what happened with the trooper. It definitely wasn’t boring and never is with Mr. Daddio.

CONFIRMATION

Autumn in New Jersey can be sweet. The air gets brisk and the leaves from the deciduous trees start to turn the kaleidoscope of ambers, beiges and reds. The evening skies are splattered with wispy white clouds that stretch over the horizon. It looks and feels awesome especially after a hot and humid summer. It is unfortunate that the spirit of the season is not appreciated b y sixth graders going back to school. No we are concerned and consumed at attending junior high school. We are not the revered “big kids” anymore. No, we are the little punks that don’t know our way around. We’ve never had lockers with locks before and we are paranoid we’ll forget the combination. We lose sleep at night just thinking about how stupid we’ll look standing in front of our lockers mumbling trying desperately to remember the sequence of numbers. We’ve never had to change rooms for each subject either. How do you get to know all your teachers and rooms? You don’t even get a desk of your own. You just borrow one in the class you’re attending. And there are rumors you have to get naked and take showers after gym class. My older sister told me that there’s homework every night! No, with all this anxiety sixth graders are not impressed with autumns’ glory.

Starting the sixth grade really sucks after a summer of swimming, playing ball and just hanging out. It is so abrupt! They don’t even let a guy ease into it. We started back on a Wednesday this year. Wednesdays really suck because all us Catholics have to go to catechism class right after school so your first day is a total bust. I didn’t like most of my classes. I seemed to be in the advanced group and most of my buddies were not. Why the hell was I in the advanced classes? I certainly wasn’t a star in the fifth grade. It must be some mistake! They will probably change me in a week or so when they find out I’m just regular. There were also a lot of new kids that weren’t in my grammar school. I was actually happy walking into catechism class because my buds, Gary and James were there. I remember the noise level being extremely loud as everyone was jabbering about how they liked or didn’t like their first day in the sixth grade and summer stuff too. Gary, James and I were shooting the breeze big time when in walked sister Leonard. Sister Leonard was the epitome of a penguin… her habit was so low on her forehead that you couldn’t see eyebrows. It was so tight to her cheekbones you couldn’t see ears. There was a rumor that she shaved her head and eyebrows. The mental picture of this bald nun with no eyebrows was scary. She had little wire rim glassed like John Lennon way before anyone knew of John Lennon. I don’t know why Sister Leonard became a penguin but I suspected she was too strict to be a teacher. Bats do not have radar as finely tuned or powerful as sister Leonard. As she first entered the crowded classroom just full of chattering Christians she immediately singled out Gary, James and I and separated our seats as if we were the instigators of all the commotion. I sometimes wonder if she wasn’t warned by previous penguins or if she really was able to detect devilment. I was fortunate to land the seat directly in front of her desk. This was particularly unlucky in the sixth grade as this is the year we began to study for confirmation. Confirmation is a catholic sacrament invented primarily to teach young adults the commandments and Christian philosophy. There are volumes of books with questions and answers like, “Why did God make you?” The answer being, “God made us to show his love for us and to make us happy with him in Heaven.” Forty years later I can remember the answer like it was yesterday as Sister Leonard drilled it into my mind and soul. I suspect the reason penguins were so infatuated in making sure we learned all the material necessary to be confirmed as it was a reflection or a report card on their accomplishments to the Bishop. You see, the High Bishop performs the confirmation ceremony, and the bishop ranks just behind the Cardinals and the Pontiff who reports directly to our lord Jesus Christ. I think it helps understanding the hierarchy. So you can understand if a penguin were ambitious this is their opportunity to impress the High Exalting Bishop and get a closer seat to God.

Awarding me the seat directly in front of sister Leonard came with a certain cruelty besides having to look directly at her all the time. Sister Leonard decided that if any pupil didn’t know the answer to one of the eleven million questions we needed to know to be confirmed that I would. For the entire year if a student gave an incorrect answer she would direct me to give the correct response with meant I had to know all these questions and answers. To this day I can correctly respond to the questions.

I don’t know what the Latin derivative of “mind –you” is but it certainly must have a holy origin. I believe the phrase so often repeated by the sisters of St. Bartholomew’s in ancient times must have been ”mind-Jew”, possibly referring to the doctrine of the Jews. “Mind-you Mr. Flynn. “ I must have heard that phrase repeated half a dozen times a class with Sister Leonard! The Catholic Church is so formal! We were always addressed by our last name. James, Gary and I did ponder over this enigma and in the tradition of Jew Jersey we figured it was the slang for “Remind-You”. Although that really doesn’t make sense sisters using a slang term in the same sentence they call you Mr. Flynn. Hey, we were only in the sixth grade!

Seventh and Eighth grades were also dedicated to the noble pursuit of the sacrament of confirmation. This meant my sister Jean would also be preparing for confirmation. The last time I had a sister in my class was the fourth grade and I had a punishment every day... I must not do this or that whatever it was miserable. But Jean wasn't a tattle tale like Karen plus she had a different penguin. As if there wasn’t enough rain for Noah nor punishment for the Christians during the Roman Era public school Catholics had to endure two weeks of extra catechism each summer. Certainly it must be a taste of purgatory. For the record we attended two days that summer but we diligently rose early each morning and pretended to go to catechism while actually playing baseball or raiding the nearby orchards. James, Gary and I threatened all our siblings and friends not to squeal on us. It seemed to satisfy everyone. Unfortunately shortly after the summer session ended our parents received a letter from Father Clark not only providing attendance information but the solution to the dilemma as well. The correspondence threatened excommunication from the church unless we repented by attending Latin instructional classes to become “alter boys.” It wasn’t until much later I realized this was in fact their most popular way to recruit altar boys. The entire contingent was populated by guys like us doing penance. So we traded two weeks in the summer for two days a week for the next year. We purposely failed the first six months training session to discover Father Clark would have us in class until we passed. Upon finally learning the Latin prayers, the bell ringing, and strategic movements of the bible during mass we graduated with one condition… That we never serve the same mass together. This was most assuredly divine inspiration. My partner was an older guy named Warren who welcomed me into this holy covenanted cluster by telling me the best wine was served at Easter and Christmas. There was little doubt he was indemnifying some mortal sins.

Rookie altar boys have special duties like serving the 6:00 AM mass for a week every six weeks. It was especially nice in the winter leaving my nice warm house at 5:30 AM in the pitch dark on my bike tracking through the tire scrunching snow. The route to the church was about two miles through the neighborhoods. I did it so often I could tell if I was on time by who was leaving their house as I passed by. I never wanted to be early as the church would be locked and I much prefer to freeze while moving than standing still. Of course, the only parishioners at the six were mostly penguins.

One morning I was especially tired and I fell asleep on the alter stairs leaning on my fists and elbows. I awoke abruptly to the sting of Sister Leonard’s hand across my face. Apparently she had noticed Father Kelly had changed the bible from one side of the alter to the other for the reading of the gospel, a task I was supposed to perform. She took the liberty of punishing me in front of God so to speak. I came consciously close to decking her. Father Kelly looked visibly surprised and angered. After the mass he apologized to me as if it were his fault for moving the bible. He said he knew I had been pulling more than my fair share of the 6:00 AM masses and he thought I could use the rest.

St. Bartholomew’s was conveniently located in East Brunswick next to some orchards and baseball diamonds. Talk about temptation! Every day we rode our bicycles through the baseball diamonds adjacent to the orchards into the compound of church, rectory, convent, school and gymnasium to listen the penguins preach. All of the time your mind would be thinking of the lucky Protestants and Jews playing ball, swimming, bike riding, building forts, riding go carts, dirt bikes or catching frogs, snakes and turtles. It was enough to make you want to convert.

So months and months of studying this arduous material painfully endures with but a single purpose…to receive the sacrament of confirmation. Bishop Hagen from the Arch Dioceses of Trenton will preside over the ceremonies. As the time grew closer we would practice in the church. Guys on one side and girls on the other in order of height. Apparently the Catholic Church feels juveniles should be structured this way possible for our own protection. Being one of the taller guys I sat in the last row between Wayne Depano and Peter Walling.

The day before we were supposed to be confirmed we had a rehearsal in the church. Everyone was present and accounted for. We had to get this right. After all our parents and relatives would all be there to witness the event. Part of the ritual of confirmation was that someone had to stand up for you; usually a relative and you took their name as a second middle name. I think the person that stood up for you had to be Catholic and the name had to be one of the apostles or saints or something. I know it wasn’t the other way around because my Uncle Jack who stood up for me was no saint. So my name became Patrick Joseph John Flynn, John being my confirmed name so as not to get me mixed up with the heathens at judgment day, I guess. As our final practice came to a close Sister Leonard stalked over to my pew and commanded that I have my hair cut prior to attending the ceremony. Now in 1965 with the British Invasion just taking hold my hair length had managed to make it maybe to a quarter inch over my ears. This was obviously not acceptable to the high exalting Bishop, although all the apostles and disciples seemed to have really long hair in the bible we had be studying.

We all had to attend mass early in the morning prior to the ceremony. So at 7:00 AM I sat in the last row between Wayne and Peter awaiting the mass. Of course I didn’t get my hair cut but I did have it slicked back so as t appear shorter. Sister Leonard promptly entered the church from behind the altar at 7:00 AM. In a manner that could only be described as marching she paraded in front of the altar genuflecting, of course, in front of the cross and turning around to face the pews. The church was dark early in the morning and profoundly quiet. From my perspective sitting in the far back of the pews she looked like a small and shadowed leader about to command the troops. It was that moment I knew she was staring at me. Over 300 juvenile Catholics seated in the church about to be confirmed and I was convinced she was looking at me. My mind was racing and I was panicking internally. She started to walk towards the back of the church. Each step more deliberate than the last. Her hollow heels echoed in the holy halls. Although it was probably 60 some degrees inside the church I started to perspire. Her head was now cocked towards the male gender seated in the pews. I had no doubt she had detected from afar that I did not get my hair cut and she was on a mission to make an example out of me by denying me the opportunity I had earned to be confirmed. All I could think of is what my parents and uncle would say. The closer Sister Leonard came the more I perspired. By the time she stopped in front of my pew the sweat was running off my temples. She turned and faced the pew I was in and our eyes met. Complete fear now raged throughout my body. The anticipation was more than I could take. It was worse by far than any penance I had received. As Sister Leonard’s mouth started to open my life of 14 years passed before me and I was humbled by her power. “Mr. Flynn”, she barked, “It seems no altar boys showed up for the mass this morning so I am volunteering your services.” “I know you are not an altar boy anymore but I know you can perform the services.” I don’t know what came over me that moment. I felt such an enormous relief my sweat dried cold. I responded with, “Do you think someone with this long hair could serve the church?” I tried to pull the words back into my mouth but it was too late. I guess I felt so guilty I had to confess but in a sarcastic, cool, peer driven manner. Well that foul drew a back of the head slap and “you get there right now young man.”

So now I get to hold the patten under the chins of all my classmates while the priest offered them the host. Occasionally when I was an altar boy serving mass I would get some of my friends and classmates in this situation and it always seemed strange. I mean I could have been stealing apples out of the orchard with some of these parishioners the day before and now holier than thou they’re receiving the sacrament and I’m assisting the Priest in this ritual which seemed less meaningful under the circumstances. But now the grand opportunity to see all my classmates take the offering. I liked to observe if they opened or closed their eyes and there is something sexual about women in this position. This turned out to be so much fun! I started to take some real liberties with the patten like digging it into the necks of some of my guy friends or slapping them on the cheek as I went by. I was having a ball. I pressed so hard on one friend that he spit it out and I caught it. Up on to now I had never even seen one fall except on time Father Kelly mishandled one and it flew over the parishioners head like a coin toss. I wasn’t prepared for that. Father Kelly obviously knew what prodigal was necessary in this situation. Very nonchalantly he placed a scarf he was wearing over the host and told me we would recover it later. Father Kelly had a lot of class. He was my favorite priest and a great basketball coach.

After the mass I returned to the alter boy’s sacristy to change out of the black robe with the white ruffled top. I noticed that some of the Bishops Entourage had placed some of his garments in the sacristy including his crown and staff. There they lay littered with jewels begging me to try them on. After all when would I again get this opportunity to impersonate a Bishop. I mean I already had on the robes. So I put the immaculate crown on and picked up the staff and starred into the mirror.
At just that moment Sister Leonard decided to make an appearance in the boys sacristy which I thought was like the boys locker room and was off limits to the female gender. Apparently not! She screamed at the sight of me and ran out the door calling for Mother Superior. Within seconds they bolted into the boys’ sacristy ordering me to take off the garments and declared I had committed a sacrilegious act and would have to make a Novena before being confirmed. With all the commotion going on in the boys’ sacristy Father Kelly entered and greeted the sisters with a more than perplexing look on his face. I could tell he was thinking the same thing as me… Nuns should not be allowed in the boy’s sacristy. It was like the holy locker room. The penguins were the ones committing a sin here. I was just curious. Father Kelly patiently listened to the penguins bark out the dreadful deed. Father Kelly thanked them and dismissed them stating he would handle it from here. The moment the door closed Father Kelly smiled and said not to worry about it and that I didn’t do anything sacrilegious and under the circumstances he might have done the same thing. The second cold sweat in less than an hour a true red letter day. The lord was looking out for me on that day that’s for sure.

So Catechism as we knew it ended on that celebrated day because once you were confirmed none of the CYO classes were mandatory. So none of us went. We did, of course, continue to attend mass on Sunday and Holy Days, but communion was less and less frequent and confessions disappeared. Does the phrase retired catholic mean anything to you?

KEVIN'S EASTER CONFESSION

In the spring of 1969 my mother decided it was important that all six of her children go to confession so we could receive the holy sacrament on Easter Sunday. Most of us had not been to confession for some time. Kevin was a freshman in high school and he hadn’t been to confession since last year when he was confirmed. Normally confession was very crowded prior to Easter and the lines were very long. The church always seems to be hot and people regularly passed out waiting in line. Priests seemed to be very liberal during these times. Confessions were usually hurried. I think no matter what kinds of sins you committed; venial or mortal as long as you hadn’t murdered someone you got ten hail marys and ten our fathers and say a good act of contrition and you were out of there.

My four sisters lined up on one side of the confessional and Kevin and I on the other side. Most confessions seemed to be heard in 3-5 minutes. Kevin was in the box for 45 minutes! People were changing lines and my sisters were staring me down. When he finally emerged his face was flush and he looked visibly troubled. I whispered to him, “What the hell had you in there for 45 minutes?” He looked up at me with a perplexed expression on his face and said, “I can’t talk about it.” He was waiting in the parking lot when I got out of the church. I spoke to him again and inquired how he could possibly be in confession for all that time? He said the priest told him not to discuss it and in the next breath he asked me if I knew what a Novena was? I asked him what he told the priest and again he was reluctant to give me any information. I convinced him that when the priest said he shouldn’t talk about his confession that it didn’t include brothers, that brothers were exempt. Kevin seemed to accept this explanation and proceeded to repeat the conversation he had with the priest but first he asked what excommunicated meant.

Kevin confessed to stealing from department stores. The priest asked him to be specific so he told him about his Christmas shopping spree this past season. It consisted of going to the Menlo Park Mall with his then best friend, Pat Selvaggio, and raiding Bambergers, Pennys, and several sporting good stores, not to mention the shoe stores. Kevin lifted full length suede coats for my sisters and a pea coat for me (he’s so generous towards his siblings). He swiped a golf bag for our dad and some Chrystal for our mom. Of course the stealing Santa was good to himself confiscating over 20 albums, a 16 foot aluminum canoe with paddles, and a matching pea coat. He also confessed the dozen of times he’d walk out of a restaurant without paying the bill or bowling for hours and never paying(these minor infractions didn’t even count as far as he was concerned). Finally the priest inquired what the most valuable item Kevin had ever stolen. Happy to oblige the question and like a farmer proud of his crop he announced he had stolen a new motorcycle right out of the showroom in Boundbrook and that he had also been an accomplice in stealing a 1967 GTO. The concerned father then asked Kevin his age as he must have been perplexed as to why a 15 year old was not licensed would steal a motor vehicle….Like that would stop Kevin from driving. Kevin put more miles on my Triumph Motorcycle under the age of 17 than most motocross riders do their entire career. Finally the priest got around to asking Kevin if he had any improper thoughts. Kevin is truly naïve and didn’t understand the question. The father rephrased the question and asked him if he thought of acting on impulses with the opposite sex. Again the question did not register with Kevin but he did understand the priest was hinting about sex. Kevin being the kind soul he offered to help the struggling priest out here and proceeded to tell, in some detail, his sexual escapades with the opposite sex. He mentioned having sex in the funhouse in Seaside Park and how he and his namelesss friend would climb to the second story of their friends house to have sex in her room while her parents were downstairs. The most difficult part here for the priest was convincing Kevin that these acts were wrong and that his intentions had to be never to commit them again or he couldn’t be forgiven. Talk about taking the wind out of your sails. Kevin was under the distinct impression that no matter what you did as long as you went to confession it was OK and intention to repeat the acts should have no bearing on being absolved. I’m not sure he ever understood that concept.

Full knowing our sisters would tattle and tell our parents of the mysterious 45 minute confession we needed to come up with a plan to explain the situation. Our dilemma was we couldn’t think of anything that would sound believable. The good news is that the priest didn’t ask Kevin for his name so his Novena and threat of excommunication were just that ….threats. Nothing for Kevin to worry about!

SCIENCE CLASS

Seventh grade was the first year we had science in a lab, that is to say the front of the room was equipped with a large slate topped desk with a sink and a Bunsen burner. We didn’t sit at regular desks either. Instead we shared a large desk with three other classmates. I can remember the first day of class Keith, Larry and I decided to sit in the last desk in the back of the room. Well, we did for five minutes anyway! Ms. Jones came into class, Ms. Pochohanus Delilah Jones, and immediately ordered us to sit in locations she chose. I don’t believe Ms. Jones to be particularly perceptive woman rather I believe she was warned. So Keith wound up in the front directly behind the lab desk and right in the path of Ms. Jones. Larry was ordered to sit all the way over against the wall in the middle of the room. As a matter of fact Ms. Jones made some innocent bystander move their seat to accommodate positioning Larry as far away from Keith and me as possible. I was able to retain my seat at the bottom of the triangle. Sam Wang sat next to me. Sam was from China and immigrated to the United States last year when he was in the sixth grade. Sam’s father was an interpreter at the United Nations. When Sam arrived in East Brunswick he knew only a handful of English. One year later his vocabulary outweighed most Native Americans his age. Sam was instinctively intelligent and yet I found it not to be his most admirable quality. Sam could draw like no one I’d ever known. He could sketch five or six lines while studying the face of a classmate and it would be a perfect caricature. He totally amazed me! I liked Sam. Although he seemed very subdued and serious there was a rebel in Sam trying to break out. I believe I’m partially responsible for corruption of culture in Sam. I don’t believe I ever helped Sam learn any English, but to this day I can remember the Chinese words for bastard and son-of-a-bitch. I believe Sam went on to become an artist against the wishes of his parents. Go Sam!

Ms. Jones had many peculiar ways of teaching. For instance, while lecturing about matters of importance she would always stop and query the class, “Now how many of you understand that?” And yes she would expect us to raise our hands in agreement. She would often single out Keith and address him in her North Carolina accent as Keiff while always spraying the words ending. Keith would turn around and face the class wiping his eyes from the spray. This saga would occur routinely. I know Keith enjoyed that front row seat so much! I especially enjoyed Ms. Jones exams. It soon became obvious to all in her class that if you didn’t know the answer to a question (she pronounced querstion) on the exam you simply raised your hand and communicated to Ms. Jones that you didn’t understand the question. The exchange would go something like this, “Ms. Jones I’m sorry but I don’t understand question number nine.” Ms. Jones would come over to your seat, read the question, “A high pressure air system and a low pressure system brushing up against one another creates a _____.” “Now Patrick I know you know this answer. We have gone over this many times in class. Now what do you think that a hot and dry body rubbing up against a wet and cool body could create?” I don’t know Ms. Jones the need for birth control?” “Now Patrick let’s be serious here. Doesn’t it create storm front?” “Well yes of course Ms. Jones but that is the obvious answer I thought you were looking for something more.” “Now Patrick you know I don’t go in for those trick querstions on my exams.” Of course everyone in the class was sure of the answer now. You could hear the erasers going for the students who had answered it incorrectly. If you didn’t receive a high mark in Ms. Jones Class you belonged in remedial science.

One afternoon Ms. Jones showed up for class rather late and the class had begun to get loud and unruly without the presence of authority. Larry had been flirtatiously entertaining Sherrie Trump and Maryanne Brundage by sticking his finger in the fish tank and playing some asinine game with the fish. His back was turned when Ms. Jones entered the room and in an exercise of authority Ms. Jones singled out Larry and said, “Now Larry what are you doing with your fingers in that fish tank? Don’t you know that your fingers could have chemicals on them that can harm those fish?” “Now get your hand out of that fish tank and you will have detention for two weeks Mr. Burnett.” To this day I leave voice mail messages for Larry repeating those stern words of wisdom from Ms. Jones. Of course Larry instantly knows who is calling. Boy do you ever make friends like the friends you had when you were twelve?