Memories (growing up Catholic)

 I was born and raised a Catholic in a small midwestern town in Indiana.  From as far back as I can remember, I have memories of the Catholic traditions, the masses where as a very young child, I had to sit there quiet as a mouse trying to pay attention to the priest speaking in some unknown language to me at the time.  And the congregation answering back in that same unknown language.  It was always hot and stuffy in church. And mom was fond of dressing the four girls in the family up in frilly little dresses with scratchy slips underneath which just made sitting there even more uncomfortable.  But I didn't dare move or make a sound for fear of the dreaded "mom" pinch on the arm that would leave a bruise that lasted for days.   Mom wasn't a real strict woman, except in church and then you needed to be on your best behavior or suffer the consequences.  I really only remembe one good pinch, and I am going to blame that on my brother who probably distracted me because he could never sit still.  It might have been that his tie was too tight and he was thrasing around as he suffocated. But at least he didn't feel like he was being scratched to death in his own clothes!

We always had to wear a head covering, either a scarf of some sort or a hat. The men of course didn't have to wear hats. I can still remember back in the 50's when men would wear hats and the minute they entered the building, they would immediately take them off.  I can still see the line of hats sitting on the window sills of that old church.  Most of the hats were something like these. 

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I guess I got a little sidetracked there, reminiscing about hats from the 50's. 

Another thing I remember in the church was the fact that just when a person got comfortable, they made us stand up, and then kneel and then sit and then stand up, sit and kneel.  I can still picture some of those elderly women and men trying to get back up after kneeling. Poor old things, by the time they got up and sat back down, it was time to get up and stand again, or kneel.  I do know the old ladies learned to just rest their butts on the pew and do a half kneel. I can sympathize with them in my old age 🤣

Being a Catholic wasn't really that bad in the years before starting school.  As I said, the worst thing was avoiding the "mama" pinch.  Oh and having to get up on Christmas morning and attend mass when all we wanted to do was play with our new toys.  

It was a whole other story once I started school.  Like all good Catholic parents, if you were really GOOD Catholics, you sent your kids to the school associated with your church. There were four Catholic churches in my town and they all had their own school that went up to the 8th grade. 

The summer before first grade, I was so excited that I would get to go to school finally. There was no kindergarten at the time so it was straight into first grade.  

I was a really shy little kid so the reality of school really hit me on the first day when we all had to get up and say our name and tell something about ourselves.  I was horrified that I would have to talk in front of all 36 of my classmates, none of which I knew as friends, having only seen them during church where we were not allowed to talk to anyone, much less move...   We lived about 10 miles from town and my friends were the neighborhood kids, all of whom were protestants and went to public school.  So I started out in first grade without friends.  And being shy, it was hard to make friends, but I did end up having a couple girls who befriended me, the little bitty short shy girl.  

So the first day of school was rough, and I have blanked out the first couple of wee.ks, but I eventually got used to it.   My teacher was a nun. Her name was Sister Robert Ann.  I still find it odd that they would take on a man's name, but it was quite common.  Sister Robert Ann took a liking to me for some odd reason. Maybe because she felt sorry for the shy little mousey kid that I was.  That worked to my advantage for awhile, but then some of the other kids got jealous and started calling me "teacher's pet".  I hated that. I didn't want to be anyone's pet, but I kind of liked the teacher and she always smelled like fresh baked bread because the nuns who lived in the convent which was right next to the rectory (where the priest lived) were responsible for baking the bread.  

Several months into the school year, I decided maybe she wasn't so nice after all. Now my older brother and sister always warned me about how mean the nuns could be, but after being in school for a few months, I decided they must have been messing with me.  I was always well behaved because I didn't want to experience the wrath of  the nuns.  

One day, we were learning how to do long division . Yes back then, at least in Catholic school, you were proficient in even long division or you didn't move on to the next grade.  These days I think they learn that in 3rd or even 4th grade.  The teacher sent me to the board where she had several problems written down.  I got up there and my mind went blank. I sat there trying to crank up my brain and try to look like I knew what I was doing, which had I been at my desk and not in front of all my classmates, I would have aced that problem.   But I got nervous and couldn't think. And that is when very nice teacher that I really liked decided to come up behind me and pull my hair. I mean PULL MY HAIR to the point she yanked out a bunch of it.   

That was my first encounter with the "mean nuns" my older siblings always talked about.   I was shocked, embarrassed and sad.   I went home and told my mom, but she didn't do anything about it. I guess she was such a good Catholic, that she didn't feel she could confront the teacher who put a bald spot in her 6 year old's head.

I managed to make it through first grade, but I never liked Sister Robert Ann after that.  

Years later in 1989 I went up to Indiana for my dad's funeral and low and behold I ran into dear old Sister Robert Ann.  I didn't recognize her at first but my aunt pointed her out to me. So after the funeral I went right up to her and told her I had been in her first grade class back in 1961.  And then I told her I remembered how she pulled a hunk of my hair out.  She was a bit taken aback and all she had to say was "My goodness, if I did that these days, I would be in jail"   🤣😂🤣😂😏😶

I have more of these stories, but for now, just have a great day my friends.

Much Love,

Lia

Memories (soon to be a regular feature if I get off my butt and actually write)

 I grew up in a rural area in Northern Indiana . My dad and mom owned twenty acres on a dead end road. About half of that was woods and the rest was a field and my dad's garden and our yard.  

Just down the road from us was a creek and that was one of the places the kids on our end of the road would go to play. I remember fishing in the creek, but I don't remember what kind of fish we caught. I just remember catching lots of them and bringing them home where my brothers would clean them.  I helped with that also, but only scraping the scales off. I didn't much care for cutting off heads lol.  

My dad had taught us all how to fish when we were quite young.  By the time we were 4 years old he had us out on the nearby lakes with him fishing.  Well not actually out on the lake. We fished from the shore. I do remember what kind of fish we caught in the lakes , bass and blue gill.   I just can't remember what fish were in the creek.. I will have to ask my brother next time I talk to him. He is younger, maybe not quite as senile as me lol.

 Now even though we knew how to fish with a cane pole or a rod and reel, we never used one down at the creek.  Instead we made our own out of string, a hook and a long branch!  I don't know why we did that at the creek, but it might have been because my dad kept the fishing gear stored in a locked shed and we usually did that kind of fishing on a weekday when he was at work, so we had to improvise.  Also, if we couldn't dig up any worms to use for bait, we would use cut up pieces of hot dogs. Apparently those fish, whatever they were, loved hot dogs.  

The creek fed into Lake Michigan and certain times of the year the Coho Salmon would come to the creek to spawn. My brothers would make homemade spears and go stand in the creek and spear the salmon.  I never actually tried that for some reason, but I would stand by and watch them spear one salmon after another.   Suffice it to say, they caught more than their fair share of them. Enough to share with the neighbors.   These days there is probably a limit to how many you can catch, and maybe there was back then too. But we lived in the country and the creek ran through the woods and if there were rules, those rules were made to be broken by us country bumpkins!

So there ya go, my first "memory" post.

Have a beautiful day my friends.

Much love,

Lia