A whole mass of trouble

Fule for Thought

 

I grew up in Canmore in the 60s and 70s. Back then, it was still primarily a coal mining town of about 3,000 people. In fact, when the town needed a new Catholic church, the miners were mobilized. My dad and many others would work an eight hour mine shift, then the various mine shifts would construct the church. In other words, with all the mine shifts, there were 3-8 hour shifts on building the church!

My family were regulars at the church as soon as it was constructed. Oh sure, there were the odd “phantom illnesses” I may have had as I got older, but we were there a lot. I vaguely remember (but my dad would often remind me!) that I had developed the bad habit of taking the hats off ladies who sat in front of me. In fact, I would smack them off, if I could! 

It must’ve been great fun for a five-year-old, but my mother was not amused. When she went to pull me away, however, I chose that one time to slap her face! Now this was about 1965, Pre-Woodstock with its “flower power” and everybody loving everybody else! At least, I know there was no flower power at MY house. 

My dad was a slight, wiry Hungarian, who immigrated here in 1950. As a result, a patient discussion of why I shouldn’t grab hats, and then slap my mom, never came up. Before I knew it, I was airborne … snatched off the pew by my dad’s strong miner’s hands! He never even waited until we were outside the church! The “dad spank” began in transit! I caught a last glimpse of my pal Joey … he was of no help, HIS dad was a miner too, and Polish! I was on my own! It was a fast pace out the church and into the old Pontiac, where he and I spent “quality time.”  

There were no “time-outs” back then, if there was, it was basically just for my dad to maybe rest his hand! I know I cried, and I know my dad did feel badly (as he said years later), but I never took another lady’s hat, and I never, ever smacked my mom again. 

A few years later, I was dragged to a Christmas Eve Midnight Mass. We were allowed to open one gift before Mass (early on in this “bargain,” I realized it was just a bribe!). Anyway, I was really sleepy. In a Catholic Mass, there is a lot of standing, and kneeling, and hand gestures, at certain parts of the ceremony. I was sleepy and starting to lose my balance! Before I knew it, I had missed the padded “kneeler,” and was going down! In a panic, I had grabbed on to some old guy sitting next to me! I latched on to his shoulder for “dear life” and pulled him down with me! The last noise I heard was his voice: “Huuuuuuhhharrggh,” as we both went to the floor.  

My little six-year-old body broke his fall, and once again I got crap from my parents, as they rushed to help the old man. I was a victim, too … I was the one UNDER him! The lecture on the way home dealt with me being more careful, and that we were in Church!  

Nothing was said about a five-year-old POSSIBLY being a bit too YOUNG to be up after MIDNIGHT. Again, I was very careful about kneeling after that. For some reason, the old man would never sit by us again … I tried to wave … he just scowled!

For a few more years, things went fairly smooth at masses. Then came the most solemn of days … Good Friday. I was now 11 and even though my parents had pleaded, I would NOT become an altar boy … it was something about wearing a gown that didn’t feel right! Anyway, I went up for communion, and when I made it to the front, I was ready to receive the communion host from my priest. Now, he was a very serious priest, and I was already afraid of him. I put out my hands to receive this communion wafer, and I as I reached forward, he let it go. The packed church came to what I thought, was an absolute silence!   

All eyes were on the priest, and me, and his eyes were glaring at me! I was 11, I didn’t know what to do! There was no manual for 11-year-olds for when a priest drops the communion host! His eyes stayed riveted on me … they never left … the silence continued … I was badly blushing and mortified now. Finally, he bent down, picked it up, and slipped it into his mouth. I basically RAN back to our pew. It literally took me years before I would go back up there and try another communion; I was way too traumatized … and I don’t think the priest trusted me, anyway!

Much later, when Deb and I were engaged, we had several meetings with our new priest. Deb was United, and he asked why we wanted to be married in the Catholic Church. Again, for all you new grooms, don’t answer: “cuz your church is bigger.”  

Not a good answer … we had a lovely wedding in the United Church!!

(“Fule for Thought” is a slice of life humourous column that will appear in the Strathmore Times, written by long-time resident, town councillor, high school teacher, coach, husband and father of two – Pat Fule. If you would like to get in touch with Pat, you can send him an e-mail at Pat.fule@shaw.ca)