A truly raging thunderstorm dropped hail on this tiny city last night. Temperatures, prone to range between low 90s and crisp 60s this time of year, instead plummeted into the 30s. Not even two weeks ago it was still open season for pool parties, yet last night as twilight turned an eerie ozone gold and pink clouds fought with black across a sweeping sky, ice was falling!
Ice was falling, covering the street and piling deep over the summer-green grass. I had to get outside for a better look. Grabbing a videocorder and a heavy, hooded, coat, out I went. I was unprepared for the effect, in person. I could see my breath! It smelled like snow, here in this city where snow never falls! And that innocuous fir tree that shades the front porch, it was behaving somehow differently in this chilly air, because all of a sudden I wasn't just scenting snow upon the wind, I was smelling Christmas!
Just like mid-Decembers from my childhood, crunching across the frozen landscape of a Tree Farm (or, in later years, some disused parking lot, hosting a seasonal Christmas tree sale), the smell of pine was heavy and lush. It's one thing to read about how our memory circuits are tied to olfactory cues more than any other- it's something else entirely to get blasted in the face by a rush of raw, snowy childhood in the midst of a freak patch of raging winter. I had just stepped outside, and was sheltering in the safety of the porch, when I was ambushed by the Christmas.
And there it was, not just the Tree Farm scene, but a full vision of the Catholic nativity assembled together, three-foot tall painted statues in a wood and straw lean-to. There was the baby Jesus, in the wood and straw crib, there was the holy family and some scruffy shepherds, too, and there were those ceramic angels affixed to the roof of the lean-to shed thing, gazing down placidly. Around it all, building a sweet dark backdrop, were five or six unadorned pine trees. And this was all indoors, in a nave of the huge church I grew up in, off to the side of the main altar zone.
It was the best time of year to be trapped in that church, when it smelled so sweetly of pine and fir. I could study those nativity figures and let my mind wander back to the wonderland of 1 AD, when shepherds wore pastel robes and congregated in open-air shacks to admire newborns. I could search about the entire church, looking for those Wise Men statues, and try to estimate how far they were moved each day, so that they would join the lean-to crowd on precisely January 6th. In short, I could escape the ritual and drudgery of the mass.
It was a nice change of pace from the terrible stained glass tableaus of war and anguish in the clouds, with their illegible banners and pithy Latin. And it was Christmastime, so there were thoughts of onrushing gifts and presents to further sweeten the mood.
Last night's freak storm reminded me, magically, of some of the more charming Catholic moments of my childhood. I hope I'll always have access to those memories, even if I need to go in search of fir trees and freezing weather to conjure them.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
there was a wheeled chicken
My sister and I shared many toys, in early life. And when I suggest early, that's exactly what I mean- the time of life when rocking horses and cars you power with your feet were all the rage. The one-point-fives through threes of life, let's say. So, long before the My Little Pony collection became de facto shared, there was a riding toy that we both enjoyed, a wheeled thing that was more or less a big yellow chicken.
It was mine, I swear. She only felt entitled to it because I loved it so. And the fights that would ensue, over who had rights to this "Bawk Bawk Chicken"... they were awful indeed. I can't understand it, because I'm no longer two years old, and not so possessive. Also because have a clear idea of what this thing looked like, unearthing it in my parents' attic several years ago.
It was a fairly solid brick of bright yellow plastic, with red and blue paint detailing the chicken's eyes, beak, wings and feathers. And the wheels, the tiny wheels, were bright blue. I seem to remember a pushing-handle, too. What sane parents would want to be seen pushing a riding-chicken around the neighborhood, their precious little babe astride? The mind reels, from the vantage point of adult blogger, sans children.
The fights were awful, though. I know most of the details secondhand, as I apparently blocked out the direct memories. My little sister time and time again would corner me near the fridge, screaming and ferociously threatening, demanding that I dismount the Bawk Bawk Chicken and surrender it to her. When this failed to work, she apparently leaped upon me, like some tiny Caliban or Enkidu, and began biting and tearing at my head. I didn't fight back, is the general opinion of my family.
This is exactly the sort of thing I learn when I do that "home for the holidays" thing. The cordials loosen my mother's mind, and she recollects amusements like the kitchen fights that took place over the wheeled chicken. We laugh, almost together, and my parents confess that they were shocked and dismayed at the time. Now, it's a tale to recall fondly, and opportunity to wonder why my sister was so fiercely feral at one time. She doesn't know, I don't know, and last I heard of it, the Bawk Bawk Chicken was consigned to that same rental dumpster that made cleaning out my grandma's house possible.
That's the best place for nasty bits of childhood like that- thrown out and laughed about. I wish I could do more pitching, and more laughing.
It was mine, I swear. She only felt entitled to it because I loved it so. And the fights that would ensue, over who had rights to this "Bawk Bawk Chicken"... they were awful indeed. I can't understand it, because I'm no longer two years old, and not so possessive. Also because have a clear idea of what this thing looked like, unearthing it in my parents' attic several years ago.
It was a fairly solid brick of bright yellow plastic, with red and blue paint detailing the chicken's eyes, beak, wings and feathers. And the wheels, the tiny wheels, were bright blue. I seem to remember a pushing-handle, too. What sane parents would want to be seen pushing a riding-chicken around the neighborhood, their precious little babe astride? The mind reels, from the vantage point of adult blogger, sans children.
The fights were awful, though. I know most of the details secondhand, as I apparently blocked out the direct memories. My little sister time and time again would corner me near the fridge, screaming and ferociously threatening, demanding that I dismount the Bawk Bawk Chicken and surrender it to her. When this failed to work, she apparently leaped upon me, like some tiny Caliban or Enkidu, and began biting and tearing at my head. I didn't fight back, is the general opinion of my family.
This is exactly the sort of thing I learn when I do that "home for the holidays" thing. The cordials loosen my mother's mind, and she recollects amusements like the kitchen fights that took place over the wheeled chicken. We laugh, almost together, and my parents confess that they were shocked and dismayed at the time. Now, it's a tale to recall fondly, and opportunity to wonder why my sister was so fiercely feral at one time. She doesn't know, I don't know, and last I heard of it, the Bawk Bawk Chicken was consigned to that same rental dumpster that made cleaning out my grandma's house possible.
That's the best place for nasty bits of childhood like that- thrown out and laughed about. I wish I could do more pitching, and more laughing.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
soul shape
As a young child, kindergarten age or so, I knew I had a soul. This is, after all, a big part of the Catholic dogma, having one. I also had a guardian angel, which was a benevolent and invisible friend that hovered nearby and somehow or other helped me. I was never too clear on how he helped, and I remain foggy on this notion. But I do know that his name was Rufus. I was permitted to name him, at this tender young age, and I guess this seemed like a good name to me at the time.
Never catching even a glimpse of Rufus, I grew somewhat skeptical within a few years that he was real. While he existed, though, I imagined him looking like the Raphaelite angels in the mosaics at church, with huge feathery wings, vaguely cream-colored, and a flowing light blue robe. He was invisible, of course, but this was the image I could best concoct in my childlike mind. I'm uncertain if he was tiny, like the angels that cartoonists place upon our shoulders, or if he changed size. Actually, I seem to remember him as an adult figure, but far from adult-sized. Kids want to relate to people at their own level and stature, I guess.
The business with the soul was nowhere near as vague and illusory as Rufus, though. I knew exactly what my soul looked like. It was almost as tall as me, floated inside of me, and was a squared off pillar, a cylinder that looked as if it would be glass- if it could be seen and touched. I don't think that my parents or grandmother ever went into any graphic detail about this concept, but I was completely clear on the details. Where did this picture of a translucent cylinder of light come from, then? It's another of those mysteries of early childhood, I guess.
Years later, when I had become enamored with the occult and began reading books about seances and out-of-body experiences, I learned that this is a very popular conception of the astral body. That's the 'inner you' that floats away and travels anywhere at all, during an OBE, the astral body. Many mystics and out-of-body voyagers have described their astral bodies as pillars of light. The trick in inducing an OBE is to cause the astral body to vibrate at a certain frequency, they claim.
I've never had any major luck with this, but I like the idea of a practical use for the soul. I was not only very clear on what mine looked like as a child, after all, I was keenly aware that every sin that I committed would slowly darken and cloud it, turning it smoky and opaque over time. As amazing a concept as this seems to me now, I can't consider it a practical notion- and it seems a thing especially unfit to darken the mind of a child.
Never catching even a glimpse of Rufus, I grew somewhat skeptical within a few years that he was real. While he existed, though, I imagined him looking like the Raphaelite angels in the mosaics at church, with huge feathery wings, vaguely cream-colored, and a flowing light blue robe. He was invisible, of course, but this was the image I could best concoct in my childlike mind. I'm uncertain if he was tiny, like the angels that cartoonists place upon our shoulders, or if he changed size. Actually, I seem to remember him as an adult figure, but far from adult-sized. Kids want to relate to people at their own level and stature, I guess.
The business with the soul was nowhere near as vague and illusory as Rufus, though. I knew exactly what my soul looked like. It was almost as tall as me, floated inside of me, and was a squared off pillar, a cylinder that looked as if it would be glass- if it could be seen and touched. I don't think that my parents or grandmother ever went into any graphic detail about this concept, but I was completely clear on the details. Where did this picture of a translucent cylinder of light come from, then? It's another of those mysteries of early childhood, I guess.
Years later, when I had become enamored with the occult and began reading books about seances and out-of-body experiences, I learned that this is a very popular conception of the astral body. That's the 'inner you' that floats away and travels anywhere at all, during an OBE, the astral body. Many mystics and out-of-body voyagers have described their astral bodies as pillars of light. The trick in inducing an OBE is to cause the astral body to vibrate at a certain frequency, they claim.
I've never had any major luck with this, but I like the idea of a practical use for the soul. I was not only very clear on what mine looked like as a child, after all, I was keenly aware that every sin that I committed would slowly darken and cloud it, turning it smoky and opaque over time. As amazing a concept as this seems to me now, I can't consider it a practical notion- and it seems a thing especially unfit to darken the mind of a child.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
what and why
I was raised Catholic, in a small and very old-fashioned family. I created this blog to explore the attitudes and beliefs that I was given by my grandmother and my mother and father, as a result of their membership and fervent belief in this particular religion. Now that I'm 31, and far removed from my unusual childhood, I hope to finally start understanding some of these attitudes and beliefs, and how they've affected my life.
Some of the stories and recollections will seem extremely far-fetched to many of you, but I will not be embellishing them whatsoever. They are strange and anachronistic, yes, but so is Polish Catholicism, and so is everyday life in the blighted Pennsylvania mountain town where I grew up. My mother truly did have 'baseball cards' of saints wedged into the mirror frame in the bathroom, where she could see them regularly... and, presumably, say little prayers to them as she went about her day.
Maybe this will be more of a meditation upon cultural differences, of Back East versus Out West. The families I see in the small California town where I now live, they seem to be from another century when compared to my memories of childhood. Children here in Northern California, they ride bikes to swimming holes and play outdoors all summer long. They laugh a lot, and they seem unselfconsciously happy about life.
Myself and my schoolmates, we weren't raised this way. Almost everyone I knew in grade school (where we were trooped off to the nearby church once a month, as a class) was severely sheltered by her or his parents, and didn't play outdoors, or even walk to school. The general atmosphere for us was one of fear, of great and terrible danger that lurked right around the corner, somehow held in check only by saying prayers, doing little rituals with rosaries, and similar weird stuff.
See, when you grow up Catholic, you grow up believing that you are a bad, flawed person, and that the only cure for this is to pray a lot and apologize to god for your almost-daily sins. Telling a white lie was a sin. Hitting another kid was a sin. Feeling resentful about having to say these prayers was a sin. Resenting your authoritarian teachers (some of them elderly nuns!) was a sin. There were endless amounts of sins.
Before I get carried away trying to explain it all, I'll simply say thanks for reading this meditation on Catholicism and childhood. If you have anything to ask, or share, please feel free to do so. I find it amazing that children are still being taught this system of beliefs, here in an era of humanity that offers so many wonderful social developments and advancements in communication.
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