There are only three that I would give a star in the Priestly Hall of Fame - my list is short and brutal! Fr. Paul Duplessis (a Capuchin from St Philip Neri and chaplain to the French Language school my children attended), Fr Bernie Wilson (a late vocation as it was termed, at the Transfiguration Charismatic Prayer Group I attended with my older sister), and Fr Mongillo (a Dominican priest associated with the Catechises of the Good Shepherd and who won his place in my heart by calling my mother 'Mummy' when he visited us from Rome). Honourable mention would go to Fr Bud Cullen ( a Basilian and childhood friend of my father), Fr Paul Brennan (who valiantly tried to buck the tide), and Fr Hogan (former pastor at Our Lady of Sorrows and extremely popular with the school yard crowd) Oh, and I should throw in Bishop Allen - his redeeming quality was having great hair - silver and plentiful - and being nice to my younger sister when she was working part time at the rectory of Our Lady of Sorrows - he gets special mention for not being mean to her!
The rest were products of their upbringing and training at the seminaries of the time! One pastor of Our Lady of Sorrows would regularly call up parishioners to ask what they were having for dinner and invite himself if the menu was to his taste. This same priest embarrassed me beyond belief when I introduced my mother-in-law and her sister to him after mass one Sunday, by saying to me 'and you are?'. I had attended mass regularly at this church for over 25 years! Thank you very much (Oh my head is so big I can barely fit through the nave) Father!
My sister told me once that priests were merely sheep that had gone around in front of the altar - she denies it now and says I misunderstood what she was trying to say - but I took it the way I wanted. If we are all 'sheep' in the kingdom, we are all worthy to be behind the altar - female or not!
Showing posts with label Growing up Catholic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Growing up Catholic. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
LENT - Not for the Faint Hearted!
I am about to describe Lent in the 1950s and I am serious when I say it is not for the faint hearted, so dear readers, beware. Do not read any (further as in more or farther as in down the page?) if you are blissfully unaware of the burden laid upon the tender backs of children by the Church!
Our parochial school revolved around the rites, observances, and liturgy of the Church. When Lent commenced, the nuns gleefully geared up for six weeks of penance and suffering. It started with the Ash Wednesday observance of mass and distribution of ashes. Every Catholic in the world attended mass that day to get their ashes - Remember man that thou are dust and unto dust thou shalt return. We would go to mass and get our ashes and rush to school to compare our crosses! In later years, the parish priest would come to the school to distribute ashes to those who had not attended mass. Ashes were a serious business and integral to the weeks that followed - a time to reflect on our unworthiness and to try and repent and make amends!
During Lent our school would have various fund raisers. The nuns distributed little cardboard boxes that folded out to make a church. We were to collect money in these boxes, bring them in, and then depending on how much we had raised, we could 'ransom' a little heathen baby in some under privileged place in the world. One Lent, we had a huge chart on the wall with a picture of a church. By raising a certain amount of money, we could colour in a brick or a window of this church to be built in some far off country. My family was barely able to make ends meet so I was never able to accumulate enough money to be able to colour in one of those bricks or windows. I was over whelmed with a huge sense of disappointment that all those heathen babies were left unbaptized because my parents would not give me money for my little Lent box!
My younger sister and I would trudge out in the dark each morning to attend daily mass. On occasion, we would stop at the Two Brothers' Restaurant on Bloor Street for a breakfast of white toast and jam - a fitting reward for our diligence in getting to mass every day during Lent. We would then return home in time to make porridge for breakfast for the rest of the family, and start the coffee for our parents. We were so small we had to climb up on the counter to reach things in the cupboard. Speaking of making coffee, Mrs Dallimore our next door neighbour, would send over one of her kids each morning with a coffee cup to be filled from our ever present coffee pot! We never questioned this practice - it was what it was.
Fridays during Lent meant the Stations of the Cross. The whole school, led by our resolute and often grim teachers, would head over to the Church for the dreaded 14 stations. Crammed in there, in my winter gear, hot, sweaty and impatient, all I could think was 'Simon, pick up the damn cross - Veronica, wipe those tears - oh please, let it end'. Is it any wonder that I spent every Saturday afternoon at confession! Which segues into......
Saturday Afternoon Confession! Every Saturday my father would gather up all the children who had made their First Communion, and haul us over to the Church to go to Confession. I figured out quickly which priest meted out the least amount of penance based on the length of the line outside their confessional. Surprisingly my main concern was not the accurate tallying of the number of times I had lied, disobeyed my parents, or got angry, but rather if I would remember the Act of Contrition that ended my part of the confession process. I now wonder what those priest were thinking when listening to the 'confession' of a child. I recall one priest saying as he dispensed penance and absolution, 'do something nice for your mother'. Whoa there Father, that's not the deal. Do something nice for my mother? Please, just give me my five Hail Marys and five Our Fathers'.
Our parochial school revolved around the rites, observances, and liturgy of the Church. When Lent commenced, the nuns gleefully geared up for six weeks of penance and suffering. It started with the Ash Wednesday observance of mass and distribution of ashes. Every Catholic in the world attended mass that day to get their ashes - Remember man that thou are dust and unto dust thou shalt return. We would go to mass and get our ashes and rush to school to compare our crosses! In later years, the parish priest would come to the school to distribute ashes to those who had not attended mass. Ashes were a serious business and integral to the weeks that followed - a time to reflect on our unworthiness and to try and repent and make amends!
During Lent our school would have various fund raisers. The nuns distributed little cardboard boxes that folded out to make a church. We were to collect money in these boxes, bring them in, and then depending on how much we had raised, we could 'ransom' a little heathen baby in some under privileged place in the world. One Lent, we had a huge chart on the wall with a picture of a church. By raising a certain amount of money, we could colour in a brick or a window of this church to be built in some far off country. My family was barely able to make ends meet so I was never able to accumulate enough money to be able to colour in one of those bricks or windows. I was over whelmed with a huge sense of disappointment that all those heathen babies were left unbaptized because my parents would not give me money for my little Lent box!
My younger sister and I would trudge out in the dark each morning to attend daily mass. On occasion, we would stop at the Two Brothers' Restaurant on Bloor Street for a breakfast of white toast and jam - a fitting reward for our diligence in getting to mass every day during Lent. We would then return home in time to make porridge for breakfast for the rest of the family, and start the coffee for our parents. We were so small we had to climb up on the counter to reach things in the cupboard. Speaking of making coffee, Mrs Dallimore our next door neighbour, would send over one of her kids each morning with a coffee cup to be filled from our ever present coffee pot! We never questioned this practice - it was what it was.
Fridays during Lent meant the Stations of the Cross. The whole school, led by our resolute and often grim teachers, would head over to the Church for the dreaded 14 stations. Crammed in there, in my winter gear, hot, sweaty and impatient, all I could think was 'Simon, pick up the damn cross - Veronica, wipe those tears - oh please, let it end'. Is it any wonder that I spent every Saturday afternoon at confession! Which segues into......
Saturday Afternoon Confession! Every Saturday my father would gather up all the children who had made their First Communion, and haul us over to the Church to go to Confession. I figured out quickly which priest meted out the least amount of penance based on the length of the line outside their confessional. Surprisingly my main concern was not the accurate tallying of the number of times I had lied, disobeyed my parents, or got angry, but rather if I would remember the Act of Contrition that ended my part of the confession process. I now wonder what those priest were thinking when listening to the 'confession' of a child. I recall one priest saying as he dispensed penance and absolution, 'do something nice for your mother'. Whoa there Father, that's not the deal. Do something nice for my mother? Please, just give me my five Hail Marys and five Our Fathers'.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
A Rose By Any Other Name
My name has been a burden my whole life but given the choice to change it, I would not - I believe too much of who I am today is linked to the struggles associated with my name. I have only met one other Cecily - a person told me his wife was named Cecily but as he was trying to sell me something at the time, I had a hard time accepting he was being truthful!
The story goes that my parents chose my name and that of my older sister, from the Canon on the Mass. Saints Cecilia and Felicitas. They anglicized it to Cecily (and Felicity). My aunt Sis was so smitten with this concept that she gave her daughter the middle name of Perpetua.
Here's an example of the challenge I face with my name.
Phone Call
Me - Hi, this is Cecily Clark.......
Other Person - Stephanie?
Me - No, Cecily.......
Other Person - Oh, Leslie.....
Me - No, Cecily.......
Other Person - Like the Actress?
Me - No, Cecily - not, Cicely......
Other Person - How do you spell it?
Person calls back - Hi, can I speak to Stephanie?
Me - Speaking.....
Having a lisp doesn't help. And when I was younger, I also had a stammer - double whammy. So when I started at my second school and was asked on my first day to stand up and tell everyone my name, I panicked and said 'Rosie'. All went well until the Principal came into the class and asked to speak to Cecily Coulter. My teacher replied, 'Oh I don't have a Cecily but I do have a Rosie'. BUSTED!
The story goes that my parents chose my name and that of my older sister, from the Canon on the Mass. Saints Cecilia and Felicitas. They anglicized it to Cecily (and Felicity). My aunt Sis was so smitten with this concept that she gave her daughter the middle name of Perpetua.
Here's an example of the challenge I face with my name.
Phone Call
Me - Hi, this is Cecily Clark.......
Other Person - Stephanie?
Me - No, Cecily.......
Other Person - Oh, Leslie.....
Me - No, Cecily.......
Other Person - Like the Actress?
Me - No, Cecily - not, Cicely......
Other Person - How do you spell it?
Person calls back - Hi, can I speak to Stephanie?
Me - Speaking.....
Having a lisp doesn't help. And when I was younger, I also had a stammer - double whammy. So when I started at my second school and was asked on my first day to stand up and tell everyone my name, I panicked and said 'Rosie'. All went well until the Principal came into the class and asked to speak to Cecily Coulter. My teacher replied, 'Oh I don't have a Cecily but I do have a Rosie'. BUSTED!
Friday, January 7, 2011
Angels
How many readers (other than my siblings) know there are nine levels or orders of Angels? From highest to lowest:
Seraphim
Cherubim
Thrones
Dominations
Virtues
Powers
Principalities
Archangels
Angels (includes Guardian Angels)
According to tradition, only Archangels and Angels interact with humans. Although I can't wait to meet the rest (what's a Throne like?), I have interacted with Angels on a number of wonderful occasions. The most significant time occurred when I was driving my older sister home from Princess Margaret hospital after one of her visits regarding her cancer. We were driving in the middle lane of the Gardiner Expressway when the car on my right crossed into my lane. It was so sudden and unexpected that I did not have time to react - not even to brake.
The other car passed through the front of my car as if it were water. After pausing in shock for a few seconds, I said to my sister, 'Did you see that? Did that really happen?' 'Yes' she said quietly. We did not say anything else the rest of the ride home and never talked about what had happened. I know that our Guardian Angels had stepped in and averted that disaster - why, I don't know - it's a mystery.
Another time I was shopping at Ikea and came upon the dinette set that I had wanted (but couldn't afford), reduced in the 'damaged' section of the store. The box had been broken open and there were parts scattered around the floor. I dragged everything together but was unable to lift the box into the cart when a man came up and asked if he could help me. Not only did he put the box into my cart, he came with me through the checkout and then loaded it in my car. I turned to him and said 'Thank you so much - you're an Angel'. And then he replied, 'Yes I am but few people recognize me' and he walked off. True story........
Seraphim
Cherubim
Thrones
Dominations
Virtues
Powers
Principalities
Archangels
Angels (includes Guardian Angels)
According to tradition, only Archangels and Angels interact with humans. Although I can't wait to meet the rest (what's a Throne like?), I have interacted with Angels on a number of wonderful occasions. The most significant time occurred when I was driving my older sister home from Princess Margaret hospital after one of her visits regarding her cancer. We were driving in the middle lane of the Gardiner Expressway when the car on my right crossed into my lane. It was so sudden and unexpected that I did not have time to react - not even to brake.
The other car passed through the front of my car as if it were water. After pausing in shock for a few seconds, I said to my sister, 'Did you see that? Did that really happen?' 'Yes' she said quietly. We did not say anything else the rest of the ride home and never talked about what had happened. I know that our Guardian Angels had stepped in and averted that disaster - why, I don't know - it's a mystery.
Another time I was shopping at Ikea and came upon the dinette set that I had wanted (but couldn't afford), reduced in the 'damaged' section of the store. The box had been broken open and there were parts scattered around the floor. I dragged everything together but was unable to lift the box into the cart when a man came up and asked if he could help me. Not only did he put the box into my cart, he came with me through the checkout and then loaded it in my car. I turned to him and said 'Thank you so much - you're an Angel'. And then he replied, 'Yes I am but few people recognize me' and he walked off. True story........
Sin and Healing
I believe in Christ as Therapist - and that he does help us heal ourselves. When the bible talks about Christ giving the apostles the ability to 'loose their sins - and bind their sins', it means to me that Christ understood that for some, the burden of what they had done, or the bad things that happened to them, was often difficult or impossible to let go. He recognized that a concrete experience where a person could lay bare their soul was psychologically necessary and would make it easier to feel at peace and connected to his divine love. So if it helps to talk about it, Christ wanted someone to be there to 'loose the sin (burden)' - but if the person couldn't or wasn't ready to let it go, then Christ let them 'bind their sin' meaning, that's okay, hold on to that burden if you want, but it would be whole lot easier if you just backed it up to that dumpster over there and dropped it in.
It's not about sin and subsequent punishment/penance but rather the divine Therapist knowing how much we suffer from what we do to ourselves or what the world has done, and offering us healing when our hearts are broken. Wish the Church taught that.
It's not about sin and subsequent punishment/penance but rather the divine Therapist knowing how much we suffer from what we do to ourselves or what the world has done, and offering us healing when our hearts are broken. Wish the Church taught that.
Virtue and Personality
It has taken me a long time to realize that so much of our spirituality is linked to our personality type. I do not mean to deny our 'free will' to choose how we respond or behave in certain situations, but if we can step back and be kind to ourselves instead of beating ourselves up, we will see that our 'natures' or 'personality-types' have a powerful influence over our life vision, our morality and our spirituality.
Take the example of forgiveness: we agree it is good to be able to forgive - not for the other party, but for ourselves. Hanging on to a hurt or nursing a grudge rarely affects the other person but can and does damage us through stress (sometimes guilt) and often depression. So why is it hard for some people to forgive and not for others (like me). It seems to me that it is much easier for an extrovert to forgive than an introvert. Certain personality types (extroverts) have it easier in their social interactions by processing externally (instantly) and not internalizing or dwelling on things. For an introvert who absorbs everything and processes internally over long periods, the real or perceived wrong gets stuck firmly in the psyche where it festers and grows causing pain and suffering.
Is an extrovert more virtuous because they are able to forgive and the introvert less because forgiveness does not come so easily? The answer should be - 'no, of course not' - but this has not been the teaching of the Church regarding sin and virtue. We were taught that we all must follow the same path towards 'goodness' regardless of the effort and that the more effort involved, the more virtuous we become. Are we culpable for 'sins' over which we have little or limited control - or to be considered 'virtuous' when for some it is merely a function of their nature or personality?
Take the example of forgiveness: we agree it is good to be able to forgive - not for the other party, but for ourselves. Hanging on to a hurt or nursing a grudge rarely affects the other person but can and does damage us through stress (sometimes guilt) and often depression. So why is it hard for some people to forgive and not for others (like me). It seems to me that it is much easier for an extrovert to forgive than an introvert. Certain personality types (extroverts) have it easier in their social interactions by processing externally (instantly) and not internalizing or dwelling on things. For an introvert who absorbs everything and processes internally over long periods, the real or perceived wrong gets stuck firmly in the psyche where it festers and grows causing pain and suffering.
Is an extrovert more virtuous because they are able to forgive and the introvert less because forgiveness does not come so easily? The answer should be - 'no, of course not' - but this has not been the teaching of the Church regarding sin and virtue. We were taught that we all must follow the same path towards 'goodness' regardless of the effort and that the more effort involved, the more virtuous we become. Are we culpable for 'sins' over which we have little or limited control - or to be considered 'virtuous' when for some it is merely a function of their nature or personality?
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Are We Like Sheep?
The chorus from Handel's Messiah is full of how we stray and get lost and separated etc. and while glorious music, the message is too sombre to do other than listen to the majesty of the piece. But it brings up one of my favourite DEEP THOUGHTS. I recall talking to my brother the monk on one of our visits to the monastery and saying to him 'does God expect us to be anything more than a sheep?'. Being intuitive and sharp, he knew exactly what I meant. He smiled, shrugged and then explained that his monastic life of prayer and meditation was at one end of a continuum balancing the opposite end which while not 'pure evil' was definitely 'bad'. He did not say those exact words but I followed his meaning.
Ironically this brother has embraced the concept that one can LOVE their way to 'heaven' unlike most men who believe one has to THINK their way to salvation. It is perhaps mental laziness on my part to refuse to engage in philosophical discussions regarding how one must behave according to/perform/conform to the doctrines of the Church. In my heart, where my God resides, I just KNOW that all he wants for us is to accept and be open to the peace, joy, and love that is there for us. Free, no strings, just pick up the gifts little lamb.
I will never forget hearing the phrase (from some nun or priest very early in my formative years) that the two worst sins were PRESUMPTION and DESPAIR. In other words, don't hope and don't get depressed thinking of your worthlessness and your pending banishment to hell. That is a tough order. What is the fine line between hope and presumption and if we cannot hope (presume) then how can we avoid despair?
If we are like the sheep the Good Shepherd cares for, do we not presume that we will be fed and taken care of, and if we stray or get lost and despair of our situation, does the Shepherd not look for us and when he finds us, does he not call out in relief and joy that he has found us? 'Cecily, I was looking everywhere for you - don't scare me like that!'
Ironically this brother has embraced the concept that one can LOVE their way to 'heaven' unlike most men who believe one has to THINK their way to salvation. It is perhaps mental laziness on my part to refuse to engage in philosophical discussions regarding how one must behave according to/perform/conform to the doctrines of the Church. In my heart, where my God resides, I just KNOW that all he wants for us is to accept and be open to the peace, joy, and love that is there for us. Free, no strings, just pick up the gifts little lamb.
I will never forget hearing the phrase (from some nun or priest very early in my formative years) that the two worst sins were PRESUMPTION and DESPAIR. In other words, don't hope and don't get depressed thinking of your worthlessness and your pending banishment to hell. That is a tough order. What is the fine line between hope and presumption and if we cannot hope (presume) then how can we avoid despair?
If we are like the sheep the Good Shepherd cares for, do we not presume that we will be fed and taken care of, and if we stray or get lost and despair of our situation, does the Shepherd not look for us and when he finds us, does he not call out in relief and joy that he has found us? 'Cecily, I was looking everywhere for you - don't scare me like that!'
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
The Orange Peril
They called us Dirty Catholics and we, likewise, thought of them as Dirty Protestants although never actually admitting it! I always envied them - with their art and music classes and Sunday School. I so wanted to go to Sunday School instead of Mass! While I was not able to wrangle an invite to Sunday School, I did sign myself up for Saturday art classes at Islington Elementary which worked until they demanded payment and I was forced to slink out of class. I was 8 at the time.
We walked to school every day - and back home for lunch - and then back to school and home again. We had to go through Central Park which was behind Etobicoke Collegiate - a Protestant school! We were terrorized by gangs of Protestant Youths who would chase us and throw stones (snow balls in winter) and if they caught us, they beat us up! Yes the Order of the Orange was thriving in those days. My poor younger sister had a particular bully who targeted her - Paul Woods - he was big and mean and ugly. I am sorry to say I never went to her rescue - I was too concerned with making my own escape!
We had to cross over a set of railroad tracks on Montgomery Road, the dangers of which, we were blissfully unaware until one of the Scanlons was killed at this crossing. I secretly felt it was his own fault as the neighbourhood boys delighted in walking the rails, putting pennies on the track in the hope of derailing one - my own brothers included.
Walking to and fro from school meant appropriate clothing. God how I loathed our winter snow pants, buckle boots, jackets and hats/mitts. Once Julian Empy grabbed my hat and threw it on the little river that ran through Central Park. It was winter and the river was only slightly frozen. Rather than face the wrath of my mother if I returned home without my hat, I inched myself out on the precarious ice to retrieve it crying the whole time. I was so afraid I wet my pants. Whether my tormentor Julian knew this or not, he seemed to have a change of heart, and dashed out ahead of me and retrieved my hat. 'Here's your stupid hat' he said and threw it at me. I think he had a crush on me.
As soon as the weather permitted (or even if it didn't), we eagerly discarded our winter clothes and donned our TRENCH COATS. These were so cool - kind of military so I had to MARCH to school rather than just walk. We all had black oxfords to wear and sans buckle boots, the freedom from the buckle boots was so exhilarating, I felt like I was floating.
We walked to school every day - and back home for lunch - and then back to school and home again. We had to go through Central Park which was behind Etobicoke Collegiate - a Protestant school! We were terrorized by gangs of Protestant Youths who would chase us and throw stones (snow balls in winter) and if they caught us, they beat us up! Yes the Order of the Orange was thriving in those days. My poor younger sister had a particular bully who targeted her - Paul Woods - he was big and mean and ugly. I am sorry to say I never went to her rescue - I was too concerned with making my own escape!
We had to cross over a set of railroad tracks on Montgomery Road, the dangers of which, we were blissfully unaware until one of the Scanlons was killed at this crossing. I secretly felt it was his own fault as the neighbourhood boys delighted in walking the rails, putting pennies on the track in the hope of derailing one - my own brothers included.
Walking to and fro from school meant appropriate clothing. God how I loathed our winter snow pants, buckle boots, jackets and hats/mitts. Once Julian Empy grabbed my hat and threw it on the little river that ran through Central Park. It was winter and the river was only slightly frozen. Rather than face the wrath of my mother if I returned home without my hat, I inched myself out on the precarious ice to retrieve it crying the whole time. I was so afraid I wet my pants. Whether my tormentor Julian knew this or not, he seemed to have a change of heart, and dashed out ahead of me and retrieved my hat. 'Here's your stupid hat' he said and threw it at me. I think he had a crush on me.
As soon as the weather permitted (or even if it didn't), we eagerly discarded our winter clothes and donned our TRENCH COATS. These were so cool - kind of military so I had to MARCH to school rather than just walk. We all had black oxfords to wear and sans buckle boots, the freedom from the buckle boots was so exhilarating, I felt like I was floating.
Second School
Half-way through my first grade, we moved to Etobicoke and I began my long and checkered career at Our Lady of Sorrows. Sr Rosella was now my teacher - she and my younger sister are still friends. I was unable to read when I started as were most of the other children in the class. We had cardboard alphabet letters which we kept in cigarette tins supplied by our parents. Mine was a Black Cat tin - the current brand my mother smoked. I dropped the tin on the floor one day and it made such a racket that I thought I might have to leave again!
Miraculously one day all the letters made sense and I was ABLE TO READ. I became a different person - a full person - and from that moment on, I spent most of my time with smuggled books on my lap reading instead of paying attention in class. As a result, I was branded as a trouble maker - bold and impudent one teacher called me. I got the strap in every grade for real or presumed misdemeanours. I actually did not mind as I was usually up there with one or more of the 'bad boys' getting the strap along with them. Only problem was, trouble at school meant trouble at home - double punishment. If my parents found out I had been strapped at school, I got it at home too! It was a full time job intimidating the younger kids not to rat me out.
My sixth grade teacher was Miss Bissette. She looked like Olive Oyl. She was cross and strict all the time. Then half way through the year, she GOT MARRIED and changed completely. She was all giggly and laughy - none of us could understand why. I do understand now. Previously she had lived with the formidable grade 8 teacher, Miss Cassin. For some reason I thought they were sisters. After Miss Bissette became Mrs. Bolger, she did not live with Miss Cassin anymore and Miss Cassin became even meaner and more formidable. I dreaded the prospect of grade 8 as her's was the only class.
I had a crush on Kevin Karner in grade 6. He injured his eye playing hockey and I cried when I saw his poor eye - I was so worried he would go blind. Whatever happened to you Kevin? Are you a big CEO somewhere? How is your eye?
Miraculously one day all the letters made sense and I was ABLE TO READ. I became a different person - a full person - and from that moment on, I spent most of my time with smuggled books on my lap reading instead of paying attention in class. As a result, I was branded as a trouble maker - bold and impudent one teacher called me. I got the strap in every grade for real or presumed misdemeanours. I actually did not mind as I was usually up there with one or more of the 'bad boys' getting the strap along with them. Only problem was, trouble at school meant trouble at home - double punishment. If my parents found out I had been strapped at school, I got it at home too! It was a full time job intimidating the younger kids not to rat me out.
My sixth grade teacher was Miss Bissette. She looked like Olive Oyl. She was cross and strict all the time. Then half way through the year, she GOT MARRIED and changed completely. She was all giggly and laughy - none of us could understand why. I do understand now. Previously she had lived with the formidable grade 8 teacher, Miss Cassin. For some reason I thought they were sisters. After Miss Bissette became Mrs. Bolger, she did not live with Miss Cassin anymore and Miss Cassin became even meaner and more formidable. I dreaded the prospect of grade 8 as her's was the only class.
I had a crush on Kevin Karner in grade 6. He injured his eye playing hockey and I cried when I saw his poor eye - I was so worried he would go blind. Whatever happened to you Kevin? Are you a big CEO somewhere? How is your eye?
First School
I started at Christ the King school (adjacent to Church of same name) and my teacher was Miss Fritini. I went on the bus from our Whalley Drive home to the school on the Lakeshore. My older sister had to take me and we were both embarrassed at this arrangement. I have few memories of my time at CTK other than the day I went to get my lunch from the cloakroom at the back of the classroom to discover someone had taken my lunch box. There was only one left which I had to take. When I opened it, there was a whole tomato in it. I was so shaken by this that I had to put the lunch box back and leave. At age six, I walked the 1 mile home crossing major intersections and navigating other perils and arrived only to have my mother cry out in alarm! My poor sister for some reason bore the brunt of blame when clearly it was not her fault. I tried to explain to everyone that seeing that tomato in the lunch box was so traumatic I had no choice but to leave and go home (presumably for a 'real' lunch).
The pastor of the Church frequented our school and of course we were all in awe of him. I had long braids and he teased me about them saying he would cut them off and use them for paint brushes (charming). He later became one of the first successful heart transplant recipients in Toronto.
The pastor of the Church frequented our school and of course we were all in awe of him. I had long braids and he teased me about them saying he would cut them off and use them for paint brushes (charming). He later became one of the first successful heart transplant recipients in Toronto.
First Memories
Just call me Connie Willis as I time travel back to the 1950s and 60s to describe for fellow sufferers and my children what it was like growing up in Toronto as a Catholic.
My first memory is getting ready to go to Sunday mass. This was the only time my mother ever wore perfume and I can still recall the scent of Chanel's Cuir de Russie on my mother's coat and gloves. And the wearing of hats! With five girls to prepare for attending church, my parents had to ensure a wide assortment of suitable head coverings. They ranged from winter knitted hats (I had one with multi-coloured fake braids on it that I loved), to summer straw ones that picked at my scalp, to a variety of veils, little white or black doilies that perched on my head secured with bobby pins, to hat headbands that included one with a dramatic sweep of fake pheasant feathers which curled provocatively around my face (awesome) and another with black velvet and pearls.
I remember sneaking into church (hatless) on my way home from school to make a 'visit' during Lent as one could earn extra indulgences (more on that later) for a church visit especially if you used holy water to bless yourself, when I was accosted by an older woman who scolded me and slapped a kleenex on my head hissing 'you must cover your head'. I was so mortified and scared that I immediately ran out of the church (dunking my hand in the holy water on the way so I could cross myself until all the holy water evaporated - additional indulgences earned which I now needed to make up for the Not Wearing a Hat in Church sin). The Wearing of Hats in Church mysteriously ended in the late 60s which I assumed was a result of Vatican II and Pope John's desire for 'fresh air' to be let in. Overnight women no longer wore hats in church or pretty much anywhere. Strangely, no one spoke about it - we all just stopped wearing hats - I know I was afraid to question it fearing I would be responsible for exposing this underground movement and bringing down the wrath of Rome along with the hat requirement being reinstituted.
My first memory is getting ready to go to Sunday mass. This was the only time my mother ever wore perfume and I can still recall the scent of Chanel's Cuir de Russie on my mother's coat and gloves. And the wearing of hats! With five girls to prepare for attending church, my parents had to ensure a wide assortment of suitable head coverings. They ranged from winter knitted hats (I had one with multi-coloured fake braids on it that I loved), to summer straw ones that picked at my scalp, to a variety of veils, little white or black doilies that perched on my head secured with bobby pins, to hat headbands that included one with a dramatic sweep of fake pheasant feathers which curled provocatively around my face (awesome) and another with black velvet and pearls.
I remember sneaking into church (hatless) on my way home from school to make a 'visit' during Lent as one could earn extra indulgences (more on that later) for a church visit especially if you used holy water to bless yourself, when I was accosted by an older woman who scolded me and slapped a kleenex on my head hissing 'you must cover your head'. I was so mortified and scared that I immediately ran out of the church (dunking my hand in the holy water on the way so I could cross myself until all the holy water evaporated - additional indulgences earned which I now needed to make up for the Not Wearing a Hat in Church sin). The Wearing of Hats in Church mysteriously ended in the late 60s which I assumed was a result of Vatican II and Pope John's desire for 'fresh air' to be let in. Overnight women no longer wore hats in church or pretty much anywhere. Strangely, no one spoke about it - we all just stopped wearing hats - I know I was afraid to question it fearing I would be responsible for exposing this underground movement and bringing down the wrath of Rome along with the hat requirement being reinstituted.
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