Church Taxi Services
One of my mother’s greatest frustrations had to have been my wanton need to attend the Catholic Church with my Dad. It was obvious to me it made her unhappy. What could I do to change that? I gave it absolutely no thought what so ever. Instead, it may have placed me on a road to mischievousness and perhaps blessed me with a prankster persona and the need to thwart authority. I was never allowed talking back or to voice an opinion. So I learned to love practical jokes and some might say unfortunately, it continues to this day. Most of my relatives have had to suffer some sort of foolishness on my part. They liked me enough but if I weren’t so invested in these devious habits I think they would probably like me better. I’ve heard it said being a prankster is all about control – which may have an element of truth in it. I do like having control; it is my handicap to wallow in.
I was about twelve when mother found a neighbor family that attended the same denomination she had grown up with. She was determined that I be educated in a better place than what she thought the Catholic Church provided. The McPeak family lived a couple of blocks away; they drove a four door Nash that I believe was blue. It was arranged they would stop and pick me up on Sunday mornings to attend church with them. My mother didn’t come along. This was, I believe, some sort of covert act against the wishes of my dad and his very catholic family. I liked the McPeaks but I wasn’t too happy with having to go to their church with or without mother. I suspect I was a pawn in her standoff with dad concerning my religious upbringing. He was after all the dutiful catholic son of Polish immigrants. The rules of the road, I learned much later, required when marrying a Catholic you agree to raise your children in the Catholic faith. However, somewhere along the way that rule fell by the wayside as did I.
It was a white cinder block building where the Church services were held. It was located in a nearby neighborhood up near Van Born Road and Beech Daly. I’m guessing the building itself was never meant to be a church. In its former life it must have been the home of a commercial enterprise of some sort. it could have been a former distillery; possibly from back in the days of Al Capone and prohibition… it smelled that good. It was hard to ignore the essence of alcohol and or turpentine that emanated from somewhere in a back room.
The congregation would gather in the main room. It was the larger of what was available and had been temporarily populated with wooden folding chairs. There were no windows but there were a few curtains hanging along the walls. They obviously covered something; some signature of what went on there in a previous life. After appropriate greetings were made the service would begin with the singing of a song from the hymnals. The song books having been placed earlier on the folding chairs by younger family members. Page numbers for the services songs were posted on a board up in the front near the preachy place. The Lectern.
After a brief bout with singing announcements were made concerning members of the church. Which sometimes, to my amazement, included a prayer for our dear Sister Hart. Whom, it was reported, had taken ill and couldn’t be with us today. We would then gather in our bible study groups, either behind curtains arranged up front or in separate little rooms. These could have been former storage closets from the bygone era. Keep in mind these events all occurred a very long time ago. And considering my advanced age now, I may have forgotten a few details. But, I cannot recall my Mother, our dear Sister Hart, ever attending the little church, either with or without me.
Cancel the Taxi
This taxi arrangement, with the McPeaks picking me up, went on for several weeks. It was the same period of time when Mom found it convenient to be ill in bed. It seemed way too convenient for my liking; In fact she remained sick in her bed for a very long time. It was so much so the congregation would from time to time, come to the house and pray over her. I was not comfortable with the visitations… it involved a lot of moaning and groaning. But it was hilarious to see them coming and the ensuing mad scramble for Mom to get herself into bed. Then afterwards, getting up and going back to whatever it was she was doing.
The McPeaks Sunday Church Taxi Services came to a screeching halt soon after their car accident. I am happy to report it was only the Mister that was injured seriously. He survived with a few broken bones but the car was a total loss and shortly thereafter the family disappeared from the neighborhood. I was delighted about losing their services, but of course it didn’t all end there.
My Cousin Danny, my former roommate on 32nd Street, who was a year younger than me would occasionally come and spend weekends at my Uncle LuLa’s house where we lived. One Saturday evening, not long after the McPeaks unfortunate accident, my mother suggested we could walk ourselves to church the next morning. It’s hard to say no when it is insisted we go or else. We were each given 50 cents to put in the collection basket when passed around. When attending the Catholic Church with my Dad, or Uncle Lula, I was always fascinated with the wicker baskets they used that were lined with green felt on the bottom. They had long handles on them and they had ushers extend them into the pews where you then placed your offering. I remember being mesmerized by the heaps of quarters and half dollars in the basket and was at times tempted to reach in and pull a couple of them out, but I never did because I could never have gotten away with it. It would have been too obvious and for certain would have been caught. It would be hard to answer to a double sin for stealing from the church. Most people put in cash but some didn’t. Others I suppose didn’t want anyone seeing their donations, so they placed instead a sealed envelope in the basket. I would guess some of the envelopes were empty. It’s just the way I think.
The next morning the appointed hour came so Dan and I headed off toward our destiny with the church. The fifty cents we were each given for the donation basket, we decided on the way, might be better spent at the candy store on the way back; we were going to share our good fortune with the store owner… a very Christian thing to do wouldn’t you think? If we only kept half – we could both have twenty-five cents to spend. The market on the way home happened to have great candy in both selection and supply.
We arrived at church and after assembling in the main room we waited to sing a song before we were to head for Bible study up behind the curtains. The song leader would say “Please turn to page number such and such in your hymnal” and that number would be whatever was on the little board up at the front. He would then take out of his pocket a little round silver device, like a miniature harmonica, and blow lightly into it and after humming back the sound to himself he would say… “let us begin.” Singing was what I enjoyed most about the church service and after the sermon the passing around of little trays filled with little glasses of grape juice and crackers. Sadly, we weren’t allowed to partake in this ceremony, we were outsiders, we hadn’t been baptized.
After the introductory song and a prayer we were instructed to assemble in our bible study areas.
Soon after gathering in our classroom I necessarily needed to excuse myself to use the bathroom and off I went. During my return, as I passed by the song board at the front, I don’t know what made me do it… but I did it. The individual numbers that were placed on the board for the service were the type you slide in and out easily… so I did just that, I rearranged a few of the numbers. Seems like a harmless thing to do… wouldn’t you think? I did not mention to Cousin Dan what I had done and about midway through our study I began feeling a little bit guilty, but not a lot guilty. Church does that to you; there are a lot of “thou shalt not” rules hanging about. At what age the “Thou Shalt Not” became a call to arms for me I can’t say? It was for sure a motivator throughout my young life; as in… “Oh yeah, watch this!” I feel certain the malady has been diagnosed many times over and there are probably many that share the illness locked up somewhere behind bars. Fortunately, I so far have escaped…. don’t anyone inform the Queen.
The look on the song leader’s face wasn’t what I expected. After reassembling in the main room for the continuing services he arose from his seat and made his way to the front center aisle. He stood there alone and asked us to sing along with him referring to the next page number on the board. There was the usual rustling of pages as everyone searched their hymnals. Then followed a hum from the little silver gizmo. And while looking for the words of the song he expected would be there on the anointed page, there came a slight harrumph, a clearing sound echoing from his throat. He turned to look again and then again at the numbered board and returned his gaze to the hymnal. At this point I had much difficulty containing myself as I recall detecting a slight bulging of eyes in his disbelief. His attention shifted from his hymnal back to the board a number of times. “Oh Shit” I heard him murmur; I’m pretty sure that is what I heard but, if he didn’t say it, it was for sure what he was thinking.
Needless to say this event took place so many years ago I can’t recall exactly how the situation was rectified. But, I am sure, it was to the satisfaction of all. As for myself, and for many of my pranks, I recall thinking… “Thou shalt not ever do that again.”
As for sharing our good fortune with the candy store owner, even while harboring the slightest hint of guilt… we thought it was sweet. A very UN-famous person once said “Thou shalt not linger long in guilt; it is hard on your arteries!”