Defensive detachment.In case you have been checking back for the story of my life, I've decided to stop publishing it - although I'm still writing it.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
My story.
Defensive detachment.In case you have been checking back for the story of my life, I've decided to stop publishing it - although I'm still writing it.
St. Pio
Opening the crypt...Legend has it, when the relics of saints are transferred (or when the tomb is opened) many favors and miracles are granted. Pray to St. Padre Pio during this period of exposition.
Photo: Exposition of the relics of St. Pio. Story here.
Devotion to Padre Pio: Prayers
(Offline for adoration Wednesday, March 5.)
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
The Archbishop indicted...
I got the pamphlet in the mail today!
"Apostolic Succession or the Priesthood Betrayed." It is very slick, nice format, well written. It is not an anonymous document, it was written by Dr. David Pence for the docsociety.org. In fact, one could pretty much get all of the same information from his website. It is kind of a rebuttal to the argument between Archbishop Flynn and Star Tribune columnist, Katherine Kersten concerning the "Battle for the soul of St. Thomas" - or the secularization of the University of St. Thomas. The document comes down pretty hard on Archbishop Flynn, the president Dennis Dease, and Kevin McDonough - although the Archbishop takes the direct hit.
I don't know - I've heard all of it before. The unofficial CDF blogs, doctrinal websites of faith and morals, voices in the desert, uber parents on line, church basement gossips - every one talks about this stuff and not much happens. Look how many years St. Stephen's has held the gates to hell open, and no one stopped them. Prayer is good, talk is cheap.
I'm sure someone at the Argument of the Month Club will get their copy of the booklet (Dr. Pence will be handing them out there) and if they feel it is important, one of those guys can write about it. The document is really addressed to priests anyway.
Last year at this time all of the blogs were abuzz about the Motu Proprio and the evil machinations of select bishops to prevent it. The year before at this time the local blogs were hot about the silencing of Fr. Altier by the mean ol' bishop. Been there, done that.
Monday, March 03, 2008
Boys Beware!
Interesting film that would have been shown in boys Health Classes during the late '50's, early '60's. It is listed on Youtube as a "ridiculous anti-gay propaganda film".
H/T to Unam Sanctum blog.
Pompous?
Not everyone was sad about Mr. Buckley.
With the conservative Catholic blogosphere nearly ready to canonize the guy, it was a hoot to run across this:
"The evil sons of bitches have lost one of their leaders. William F. Buckley is dead at 82.
Mr. Buckley’s greatest achievement was making conservatism — not just electoral Republicanism, but conservatism as a system of ideas — respectable in liberal post-World War II America. He mobilized the young enthusiasts who helped nominate Barry Goldwater in 1964, and saw his dreams fulfilled when Reagan and the Bushes captured the Oval Office.
If nothing else, Bill Buckley's death gives us one more reason to live a righteous life.
Because now, if you go to hell, you'll have to listen to this pompous asshole for all eternity." - Kenny's Sideshow
May God deliver him from the pains of hell, and may he rest in peace. Amen.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
I went out yesterday...
I left the house to go scavenging at a few architectural antique resources on Saturday. Then I stopped and had lunch with a friend. Omigosh, and then, all caution thrown to the wind, we stopped by the house of a couple of dear friends - just for a visit. (My friends claimed that it has been 8 years since they saw me.)Remember I told you I have been feeding the rabbits all winter?
My neighbor Hans holds one of the rabbits from my yard.
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
Friday poetry corner...
God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.
.
These are words we dimly hear:
.
You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.
.
Flare up like flame
and make big shadows I can move in.
.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don't let yourself lose me.
.
Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousnes.
.
Give me your hand.
.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~
.
My Bruderhoff friend David sent this to me.
then walks with us silently out of the night.
.
These are words we dimly hear:
.
You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.
.
Flare up like flame
and make big shadows I can move in.
.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don't let yourself lose me.
.
Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousnes.
.
Give me your hand.
.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke ~
.
My Bruderhoff friend David sent this to me.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Pony tails are so not cool...
Science class experiment.
"Connecticut girl sets teacher's hair on fire." I can't resist headlines like this. Apparently the high school girl did not like her teacher's hair. So she lit George Lardas' pony tail on fire with a lighter. Mr. Lardas was not injured, but the girl was arrested. Story here.
UPDATE:
I received this email on the news story:
"For those of you that do not know, on Sundays George Lardas is Father George Lardas, a Russian Orthodox priest in Milford CT. (Actually he is a priest all the time, and a high school science teacher during the week.) He wears his hair long because it is a precept of the Orthodox church to which he belongs that clergy not cut their hair. Because he is so used to having his hair catch fire during church services. When you mix young altarboys, long hair and lit candles, getting your hair singed just isn't all that unusual. So when he smelled the not-unfamiliar odor of singed hair, he reached around, put it out, and sent the girl to the principal's office. (She was mad at him because of a bad grade, I believe.)"
Well, now I know why he wore the pony tail.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Pictures at an inquisition...
A phone conversation.
Me: Hello?
Caller: Oh, you did answer! Mr. Nelson, I have Monsignor Mussorgsky on the line, please hold on.
Msgr: Hello? Can you hear me now? (Laughter)
Me: Yes Monsignor, may I ask what this is all about?
Msgr: Oh, Mr. Nelson, you did answer the phone. wonderful, yes, His Eminence asked me to phone you for a short interview, would you be so kind...
Me: Monsignor, which Eminence and an interview about what?
Msgr: Oh, I'm so sorry, I should have explained myself better, didn't my secretary brief you first? Well, Cardinal Levada has been reading your blog and would like me to speak with you about your, er, ah - Catholic weblogs.
Me: You mean the Congregation for the Doctrine of Faith has questions about my orthodoxy? Wow - that is so cool, is torture involved? Can I wear one of those yellow cone hats and be stretched out on a.........
Msgr: (Laughter) Oh no Mr. Nelson, it isn't that at all. (More Laughter, covers the phone and says something inaudible.) May I call you Terry?
Me: Please do Monsignor. I like the name Terrance, but you may call me Terry. Funny, when I was younger I wanted the name Ian, but of course I'd never change my name - too complicated I'm afraid, yeah, my friend Bob changed his name to Roberto - he's Italian - and.......
Msgr: Excuse me Terry, this is long distance from Rome and it's getting late, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to get on with the interview.
Me: Oh, no Monsignor, I'm sorry, I'm not used to talking on the phone so I'm not sure who talks when or how much to say.... But before we get going, let me say this: I am not Larry Craig, nor have I ever been Larry Craig! (I'm laughing really hard after I say that.)
Msgr: (Silence, muffled sounds, as if he is talking to someone else.)
Me: Monsignor? Monsignor? I'm sorry about that. Larry Craig is a politician who had been involved in a scandal and local news is doing a segment on him, and they keep repeating the sound bite he made, "I am not g------"
Msgr: Terry, Terry, that's quite all right. Now we notice you have two blogs and both claim to be Roman Catholic, is that correct.
Me: Again, I apologize - when I get really nervous I just repeat things I hear. Anyway. Yes - well I had four blogs, no 5 blogs, and now I have 3, but the main two are the Abbey-Roads two - the other one is just a file for photos and lame attempts at poetry.
Msgr: That is interesting. The Abbey blogs are the only ones we read here at the Vatican.
Me: So you really read my blog there? I thought it was just Fr. Z reading it when he's at the Vatican Library reading the newspaper.
Msgr: Huh? who is Fr. Z? No, we read your blog periodically, don't you check your stats?
Me: Well not really, I have a neo-counter, but nothing else, I have no idea who reads my blog otherwise.
Msgr: Well Terry, we've noticed that one day you will have a post up and then the next time we check, the post is taken down. It is a little disconcerting, especially when we happen to be following comments others leave. Could you explain why you do that?
Me: Of course, I take them down if they are too controversial, or after thinking about what I wrote, I decide the topic isn't meaningful. I don't know - maybe I just think the post didn't work. Or if I do a post I think is funny, say exposing another blogger's drunken Lindsay Lohan fashion blunders at the races, and she doesn't respond laughing out loud, I usually take it down.
Msgr: What are you wearing right now?
Me: I'm wearing a sleevless sweatshirt torn down to my navel and ripped blue jeans and - what? Hey! Who is this? What kind of question is that?
Msgr: (Laughing, hand muffling the phone.) I'm just kidding too Terry. Just teasing. We at the Congregation have a crazy sense of humor - even Galileo thought so.
Me: (Nervous laughter) Oh - I get it - I think....
Msgr: Yes Terry, we do have our fun here too. But seriously, is that you in the profile photo? Is it a current pho.......
Me: (Laughing) I'm certain you have more serious questions... may we just move this along right now?
Msgr: Well frankly Ter, the Congregation wants to know... Well, the Congregation has noticed you write an awful lot about... I'm sorry, the Congregation has noticed you write rather extensively about... well, I'll just blurt it out! Chapel veils for women who wear denim jumpers. And we wondered if you wouldn't like to do a little manual for proper attire at Mass for women and men in the United States?
Me: Are you serious? I'd jump at the chance! I can see it now - very Vogue/Harpers/Vanity Fair type photography and graphics - Paper! The best paper - very important for crispy print and photos to look good. Annie Lebowitz - she must do the shoot! top models wearing th..............
Msgr: Terry, fine, fine - we will go over the details later, what we need is the text first. I'd also like to ask a few more questions, covering some other topics, if you have time right now.
Me: Oh certainly Monsignor, go right ahead.
Msgr: The Congregation has noticed you are writing a sort of memoir. First let me tell you, we are all very sorry, it's not coming off as funny as you thought it would is it?
Me: Gosh! I know! It is really a lot of work - comedy is hard.
Msgr: His Eminence is more than a little concerned about how much involvement, or rather, will there be anything surprising coming out of the story about priests or religious? Any scandalous items, and more importantly, we hope to make sure of no liability on the part of the................
Me: Oh Monsignor, I can assure you - whaddya mean - liability? Would you pay me off? Would you pay me for the book rights? Hey what kind of a cheap------------I can't beieve you'd suggest such a thing.
Msgr: (Dead silence)
Me: No Monsignor, I am not like that - neither will I be bought off. All I can say - the Church has nothing to worry about from me.
Msgr: That is good to hear, Terry. Can you tell me this however; does your story have anything to do with the recent abuse crisis that has afflicted the American clergy?
Me: Monsignor, Didn't you just ask me that question? Monsignor, I'm afraid I can't answer that, I can't give away the details. Everyone will just have to read along as I post the story.
Msgr: Well thank you Terry. Now, don't forget, start on that chapel veil thing as soon as possible. Chop! Chop! Bye, bye now!
End of conversation.
.
After we hung up, I thought to myself, 'That was an odd conversation.'
Before Juno and that other film Catholics were so hot for...
We had our little Catholic girl, Madonna with her pro-life message!
The Story: Chapter Three, Part Three
Chapter Three, Part Three
Naturally, everything wasn’t always dark and tawdry, there are a few funny “coming of age” stories related to all of the depravity as well, but I’ll save them for later. Obviously growing up in such a household as mine was confusing at best, yet it seems I was remarkably blasé about life. For instance, I had no idea we were poor, and I assumed our family life was normal. I never believed my brother Skip disliked me, I just thought I embarrassed him, and accepted the fact I had to play by myself. I knew he loved me, because if someone bothered me, he usually came to my defense. Yet it was my sister Beth who took on the responsibility of watching over me, and it was through her I learned the most about being Catholic. She answered all of my questions about devotions, Mass, the Blessed Virgin and the saints. Religion began to be my solace and strength from that time, and I have my sister Beth to thank for it. It seems to me the verse from St. Paul was confirmed for us at that time: “Where sin abounds, grace super abounds.”
That said, wickedness seemed to stalk our family. It’s a phenomenon some people might refer to as a generational curse. Protestants believe such things exist, as do a growing number of Catholics. They base their belief upon Exodus 34:6-7:
“And he passed in front of Moses, proclaiming, "The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin. Yet he does not leave the guilty unpunished; he punishes the children and their children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation."
A niche healing industry has been emerging to heal memories and generational curses. Believers who accept this notion insist the sins of the fathers follow each generation, and that a “familiar” evil spirit incites the same sins from generation to generation. Perhaps there is some truth in that, for instance, psychologists believe children of alcoholics may have some sort of predisposition for addiction, in much the same way physical diseases may be genetic.
I’m rather dubious about the fundamentalist belief in the generational curse thing; I doubt very much it is as black and white as all of that. On the other hand, I’m certain “demons” of some sort may follow families for generations, inciting family members to repeat the sins of their fathers – but not always. I see it more in terms of temptation – subsequent generations may endure similar temptations, yet are not compelled to repeat the same sins. I have always looked upon adversity as a challenge to rise above, as a sort of discipline that can make you stronger.
I’m convinced of this because of the doctrine of free will. This may explain the fact that although my parents may have been abused or “sexualized at an early age” they never perpetrated the same behavior upon us. (Except in the case of my sister perhaps.) What is more, neither my siblings nor I ever repeated such abuse in our own lives. In fact, all of us seem to have gone out of our way to avoid behaving anything at all like our parents, despite the fact their flaws left their mark upon our lives. When Skip and Beth had families, the family life they created was the opposite of how we had been raised. Both of my older siblings had been determined not to repeat the mistakes of our parents, although my younger brother has been less successful..
As for myself, I resolved at a very young age to never marry, I wanted to live a life of chastity, like the saints. In many ways, this led to even greater difficulties as I matured, as you’ll see. Needless to say, what I have written of my life before the age of reason, my behavior offers proof to the doctrine of original sin and its risidual effects.
Naturally, everything wasn’t always dark and tawdry, there are a few funny “coming of age” stories related to all of the depravity as well, but I’ll save them for later. Obviously growing up in such a household as mine was confusing at best, yet it seems I was remarkably blasé about life. For instance, I had no idea we were poor, and I assumed our family life was normal. I never believed my brother Skip disliked me, I just thought I embarrassed him, and accepted the fact I had to play by myself. I knew he loved me, because if someone bothered me, he usually came to my defense. Yet it was my sister Beth who took on the responsibility of watching over me, and it was through her I learned the most about being Catholic. She answered all of my questions about devotions, Mass, the Blessed Virgin and the saints. Religion began to be my solace and strength from that time, and I have my sister Beth to thank for it. It seems to me the verse from St. Paul was confirmed for us at that time: “Where sin abounds, grace super abounds.”
That said, wickedness seemed to stalk our family. It’s a phenomenon some people might refer to as a generational curse. Protestants believe such things exist, as do a growing number of Catholics. They base their belief upon Exodus 34:6-7:
“And he passed in front of Moses, proclaiming, "The Lord, the Lord, the compassionate and gracious God, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness, maintaining love to thousands, and forgiving wickedness, rebellion and sin. Yet he does not leave the guilty unpunished; he punishes the children and their children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation."
A niche healing industry has been emerging to heal memories and generational curses. Believers who accept this notion insist the sins of the fathers follow each generation, and that a “familiar” evil spirit incites the same sins from generation to generation. Perhaps there is some truth in that, for instance, psychologists believe children of alcoholics may have some sort of predisposition for addiction, in much the same way physical diseases may be genetic.
I’m rather dubious about the fundamentalist belief in the generational curse thing; I doubt very much it is as black and white as all of that. On the other hand, I’m certain “demons” of some sort may follow families for generations, inciting family members to repeat the sins of their fathers – but not always. I see it more in terms of temptation – subsequent generations may endure similar temptations, yet are not compelled to repeat the same sins. I have always looked upon adversity as a challenge to rise above, as a sort of discipline that can make you stronger.
I’m convinced of this because of the doctrine of free will. This may explain the fact that although my parents may have been abused or “sexualized at an early age” they never perpetrated the same behavior upon us. (Except in the case of my sister perhaps.) What is more, neither my siblings nor I ever repeated such abuse in our own lives. In fact, all of us seem to have gone out of our way to avoid behaving anything at all like our parents, despite the fact their flaws left their mark upon our lives. When Skip and Beth had families, the family life they created was the opposite of how we had been raised. Both of my older siblings had been determined not to repeat the mistakes of our parents, although my younger brother has been less successful..
As for myself, I resolved at a very young age to never marry, I wanted to live a life of chastity, like the saints. In many ways, this led to even greater difficulties as I matured, as you’ll see. Needless to say, what I have written of my life before the age of reason, my behavior offers proof to the doctrine of original sin and its risidual effects.
To be continued.
[Photo credit: Topper with George and Marion Kirby haunting in the background.]
Have you seen this man?
His name is Hunter Collingwood. Please contact Charlene Pfounman through the comment section of this blog with any information you might have concerning his whereabouts. DO NOT approach him or talk with him.
Monday, February 25, 2008
Question and answer.
My post-Oscar interview.
Question: Are you going to see the pope?
Answer: No
Q: Why not? You have plenty of free time, you could easily go.
A: Yeah. No. I'm not going.
Q: Why?
A: I can see him on television and read what he has to say online. I don't like big Masses anyway.
Q: So, what do you think about the pope coming to visit?
A: I'm very happy about it. I like this pope very much.
Q: More than John Paul II?
A: Yes, much more.
Q: Why?
A: Because he is more Catholic than the pope. (Laughs out loud.)
Q: What exactly do you mean by that?
A: Nothing... nothing, really.
Q: Are you happy with the Oscar winners?
A: Yes, very.
Q: Who is your favorite?
A: Favorite what?
Q: Actor, movie, director, you know, who is your favorite?
A: Can't say really... Daniel Day-Lewis is very good, he is talented and doesn't seem to be caught up in all the publicity and glamor. The British actors seem more grounded and much more talented.
Q: Yes, but many of them lead rather amoral lives. For instance, Tilda Swinton lives with her lover and her husband, and of course many Hollywood people live in morally irregular situations as well.
A: So?
Q: Okay then. Now how is that memoir thing working out for you?
A: I'm not sure, it is getting bogged down at the moment, much too complicated and wordy.
Q: What will you do?
A: Stop writing for awhile, I suppose.
Q: How is Lent going for you then?
A: Not very well, and it seems as if it is half over now.
Q: Do you look forward to Easter then?
A: Not really.
Q: Why not?
A: It seems artificial. You know, all sad and weepy on Good Friday until suddenly on Easter Sunday everyone is supposed to be happy and celebrating. I have a really hard time making that transition.
Q: I'm surprised to hear you say that, what do you mean by that statement?
A: Nothing... nothing really...
The end of the interview.
Question: Are you going to see the pope?
Answer: No
Q: Why not? You have plenty of free time, you could easily go.
A: Yeah. No. I'm not going.
Q: Why?
A: I can see him on television and read what he has to say online. I don't like big Masses anyway.
Q: So, what do you think about the pope coming to visit?
A: I'm very happy about it. I like this pope very much.
Q: More than John Paul II?
A: Yes, much more.
Q: Why?
A: Because he is more Catholic than the pope. (Laughs out loud.)
Q: What exactly do you mean by that?
A: Nothing... nothing, really.
Q: Are you happy with the Oscar winners?
A: Yes, very.
Q: Who is your favorite?
A: Favorite what?
Q: Actor, movie, director, you know, who is your favorite?
A: Can't say really... Daniel Day-Lewis is very good, he is talented and doesn't seem to be caught up in all the publicity and glamor. The British actors seem more grounded and much more talented.
Q: Yes, but many of them lead rather amoral lives. For instance, Tilda Swinton lives with her lover and her husband, and of course many Hollywood people live in morally irregular situations as well.
A: So?
Q: Okay then. Now how is that memoir thing working out for you?
A: I'm not sure, it is getting bogged down at the moment, much too complicated and wordy.
Q: What will you do?
A: Stop writing for awhile, I suppose.
Q: How is Lent going for you then?
A: Not very well, and it seems as if it is half over now.
Q: Do you look forward to Easter then?
A: Not really.
Q: Why not?
A: It seems artificial. You know, all sad and weepy on Good Friday until suddenly on Easter Sunday everyone is supposed to be happy and celebrating. I have a really hard time making that transition.
Q: I'm surprised to hear you say that, what do you mean by that statement?
A: Nothing... nothing really...
The end of the interview.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
The Story: Chapter Three, Part Two (Sex in the city)
Chapter Three, Part Two
It occurs to me the house in my dream had to be the Bates house, and it makes no difference whatsoever if one believes in dreams or not, the imagery was definitely file footage from my unconscious. I suspect my search throughout the house is exactly what this memoir is about, my search for meaning in life – or more specifically, in what happened to me. As I mentioned, it was at that address I arrived at the age of reason, I learned the difference between good and evil, and although I was overwhelmingly attracted to all that was good and holy, evil robbed me of my innocence.
In the mid-1980’s, shortly after my mother died, I began to see a doctor for therapy. I wasn’t having any breakdown or crises, although I had some difficulties understanding certain behaviors. I kept it secret from friends and family simply because I was ashamed of seeing a psychologist, and I was afraid others would think I was crazy and “needed” psychiatric help. I also did private pay so that there would be no insurance record. Interestingly, the psychologist offered me medications almost immediately, although I refused, I knew I didn’t need them. Anyway, everyone knows how in the past, mental illness was a stigmatized disease, although that attitude has changed dramatically in the past couple of decades. Today, we recognize many illnesses, clinical depression, bi-polar, and others, that can be controlled with medication and therapy. Today, it seems a good portion of the population is on some form of anti-depressant or mood enhancing drug, so mental illness is pretty much out in the open. Therefore, discriminatory feelings against anyone seeking psychiatric help should be quite rare today.
That said, my therapist helped me immensely when he explained to me I had been sexualized at an early age, something I never even thought about until he said it. Certainly sexual things went on before the family had moved to Bates, although I’m not sure witnessing my parents making love while I was still an infant counts. (I'm sure it must have happened to countless kids who slept with their parents.) Of course, fondling a neighbor, the husband of a woman who happened to be a friend of my mom’s, as well as being molested by an older neighbor boy would fit the doctor's diagnosis. Being four years old at the time of these encounters certainly fits the description of, ‘sexualized at an early age’.
Something must have been very odd in that neighborhood, since it seems to have been a rather sexually active place. The boy who molested me, most likely had been abused by his dad, since some of the things he wanted to do to me fit the profile of adult on child sexual activity. The family lived next door to our building in a single family dwelling – with a garage – where it happened to me. My dad disliked the father, calling him a “god damned D.P.” – which stood for Displaced Person after the war. My dad referred to him as a “fruitcake” (another term for homosexual) and was clearly jealous of his immigrant status as well as the benefits he received from the Government. My brother Skip played with the son, although I have no idea if his friend Rudy molested him too. (After my brother died, Beth told me Skip had been molested in New Richmond. The subject only came up when I mentioned I thought he had been sexually abused as a child.)
My relationship with my brother was confusing at best. On one hand, he emerged as my protector against physical abuse from my parents, yet at the same time, he seemed to resent me. He made fun of everything I did; mocking my piety, my intelligence – I could read simple comic strips before I was 5 years old - and he made fun of my attempts at drawing. He never wanted me to play with his friends, and refused to let me do anything except sit on the sidelines when they played sports. (Privately, Skip could be very good to me. I honestly think his negative behavior towards me was the result of how mom and dad neglected him – something I’ll discuss later.) Feeling somewhat inferior to Skip and his friends became the perfect set up for his boyfriend to exploit me. When Rudy was kind to me, and seemed interested in playing with me, I was flattered and fell right into the trap. And I never told anyone about it – because I thought it had been my fault.
Of course, Beth wasn’t exempt from abuse either. One day Skip and I had been locked out of our apartment by the high school boy my parents hired as our babysitter. Beth was inside. Strangely, both of us knew something was going on, although Beth has no recollection of it. We told mom and dad what happened and they fired the boy for locking us out – but we never mentioned Beth had been inside, nor our suspicions of sexual abuse, for fear of what would happen to Beth. Looking back, it seems to me the kids in that neighborhood were exposed to sexual activity everywhere they turned.
The same can be said for the parents, remember all of these things happened before the sexual revolution of the 1960’s, and I’m fairly certain that when my parents were kids, things were pretty much the same for them. (I have reason to believe they too had been sexually abused at some point in their childhood – but that’s another story.) Obviously, as adults, sex was a big deal for my parents; I mentioned seeing/hearing them late at night, and witnessing other “inappropriate” behavior during the day. (Appropriate for marriage, inappropriate in front of kids.) Typically, when some of their friends visited, the conversation veered in that direction; not just jokes, but stories about sexual misconduct. For instance, once the parents of one of Beth’s girlfriends came over to talk to Betty and Kenny about the parish school. After a few beers, Mr. Rabbet, a door to door salesman, began telling stories of housewives who answered the door naked. It sounds rather juvenile, nevertheless for the time, these were titillating conversations, and totally inappropriate in front of children.
Naturally, everything wasn’t always dark and tawdry, there are a few funny “coming of age” stories related to all of the depravity as well. (I call one of them, "Jill on the window sill.")
To be continued.
It occurs to me the house in my dream had to be the Bates house, and it makes no difference whatsoever if one believes in dreams or not, the imagery was definitely file footage from my unconscious. I suspect my search throughout the house is exactly what this memoir is about, my search for meaning in life – or more specifically, in what happened to me. As I mentioned, it was at that address I arrived at the age of reason, I learned the difference between good and evil, and although I was overwhelmingly attracted to all that was good and holy, evil robbed me of my innocence.
In the mid-1980’s, shortly after my mother died, I began to see a doctor for therapy. I wasn’t having any breakdown or crises, although I had some difficulties understanding certain behaviors. I kept it secret from friends and family simply because I was ashamed of seeing a psychologist, and I was afraid others would think I was crazy and “needed” psychiatric help. I also did private pay so that there would be no insurance record. Interestingly, the psychologist offered me medications almost immediately, although I refused, I knew I didn’t need them. Anyway, everyone knows how in the past, mental illness was a stigmatized disease, although that attitude has changed dramatically in the past couple of decades. Today, we recognize many illnesses, clinical depression, bi-polar, and others, that can be controlled with medication and therapy. Today, it seems a good portion of the population is on some form of anti-depressant or mood enhancing drug, so mental illness is pretty much out in the open. Therefore, discriminatory feelings against anyone seeking psychiatric help should be quite rare today.
That said, my therapist helped me immensely when he explained to me I had been sexualized at an early age, something I never even thought about until he said it. Certainly sexual things went on before the family had moved to Bates, although I’m not sure witnessing my parents making love while I was still an infant counts. (I'm sure it must have happened to countless kids who slept with their parents.) Of course, fondling a neighbor, the husband of a woman who happened to be a friend of my mom’s, as well as being molested by an older neighbor boy would fit the doctor's diagnosis. Being four years old at the time of these encounters certainly fits the description of, ‘sexualized at an early age’.
Something must have been very odd in that neighborhood, since it seems to have been a rather sexually active place. The boy who molested me, most likely had been abused by his dad, since some of the things he wanted to do to me fit the profile of adult on child sexual activity. The family lived next door to our building in a single family dwelling – with a garage – where it happened to me. My dad disliked the father, calling him a “god damned D.P.” – which stood for Displaced Person after the war. My dad referred to him as a “fruitcake” (another term for homosexual) and was clearly jealous of his immigrant status as well as the benefits he received from the Government. My brother Skip played with the son, although I have no idea if his friend Rudy molested him too. (After my brother died, Beth told me Skip had been molested in New Richmond. The subject only came up when I mentioned I thought he had been sexually abused as a child.)
My relationship with my brother was confusing at best. On one hand, he emerged as my protector against physical abuse from my parents, yet at the same time, he seemed to resent me. He made fun of everything I did; mocking my piety, my intelligence – I could read simple comic strips before I was 5 years old - and he made fun of my attempts at drawing. He never wanted me to play with his friends, and refused to let me do anything except sit on the sidelines when they played sports. (Privately, Skip could be very good to me. I honestly think his negative behavior towards me was the result of how mom and dad neglected him – something I’ll discuss later.) Feeling somewhat inferior to Skip and his friends became the perfect set up for his boyfriend to exploit me. When Rudy was kind to me, and seemed interested in playing with me, I was flattered and fell right into the trap. And I never told anyone about it – because I thought it had been my fault.
Of course, Beth wasn’t exempt from abuse either. One day Skip and I had been locked out of our apartment by the high school boy my parents hired as our babysitter. Beth was inside. Strangely, both of us knew something was going on, although Beth has no recollection of it. We told mom and dad what happened and they fired the boy for locking us out – but we never mentioned Beth had been inside, nor our suspicions of sexual abuse, for fear of what would happen to Beth. Looking back, it seems to me the kids in that neighborhood were exposed to sexual activity everywhere they turned.
The same can be said for the parents, remember all of these things happened before the sexual revolution of the 1960’s, and I’m fairly certain that when my parents were kids, things were pretty much the same for them. (I have reason to believe they too had been sexually abused at some point in their childhood – but that’s another story.) Obviously, as adults, sex was a big deal for my parents; I mentioned seeing/hearing them late at night, and witnessing other “inappropriate” behavior during the day. (Appropriate for marriage, inappropriate in front of kids.) Typically, when some of their friends visited, the conversation veered in that direction; not just jokes, but stories about sexual misconduct. For instance, once the parents of one of Beth’s girlfriends came over to talk to Betty and Kenny about the parish school. After a few beers, Mr. Rabbet, a door to door salesman, began telling stories of housewives who answered the door naked. It sounds rather juvenile, nevertheless for the time, these were titillating conversations, and totally inappropriate in front of children.
Naturally, everything wasn’t always dark and tawdry, there are a few funny “coming of age” stories related to all of the depravity as well. (I call one of them, "Jill on the window sill.")
To be continued.
The 2008 Oscars!
The big upset of the night will be the Best Actress award.
Marion Cotillard will take the award. Most people seem to be betting on Julie Christie, whom I love, or the Juno star. But I'm predicting Marion Cotillard for her performance as Edith Piaf in "La Vie En Rose". Vive la France!
Then, the Oscar goes to:
Best Actor: Daniel Day Lewis for "There Will Be Blood" (I mean, how often is a real actor nominated for this award?)
Best Actor in a Supporting Role: Philip Seymour Hoffman for "Charlie Wilson's War" (He should win. He is probably one of the very best actors ever.)
Best actress in a Supporting Role: Cate for "I'm Not There" (She should win. Ruby Dee wasn't acting - she really is that old.)
Best Picture: "No Country For Old Men"
Director: the Coen Brothers, "No Country For Old Men" (I know! It's rare best pic and director both get the Oscar - but this year they have no other choice.)
Best original Screenplay: "Juno"
And just for Cathy:
Makeup: "La Vie En Rose"
Costume: "Sweeney Todd"
If I am wrong on any of these, the Academy made the mistake, not me.
(Posted at 1:25PM, February 24, 2008.)
Saturday, February 23, 2008
The Story: Chapter Three; Part One
Chapter Three: Part One
If you are still reading this, it means you made it through the most boring part of my life – who wants to read the memoir of someone’s infancy? I had to do it however, I wanted to offer brief glimpses into the personality of a couple of the people who will come and go throughout the entire monologue – my parents. Without delving too deeply into why Betty and Kenny acted the way they did, I have revealed just enough for the reader to understand they came from rather difficult backgrounds, having been children of the depression and all of that. Indeed, both of my parent’s childhoods were marked by instability along with elements of abuse, although I will bring that out later in the narrative. There is no telling of a life story without understanding the family or milieu one grew up in, for better or worse, the manner in which one was nurtured has its effects.
The pattern of instability in my dad’s life, losing the farm, the divorce of his parents, moving from apartment to apartment with his dad, continued into his adult life. Our family life took on an aspect of a traveler family, or perhaps more accurately, a fugitive’s lifestyle. I actually credit this sense of exile as a sort of foundation for my spiritual life, especially as I got older. I grew in the awareness that life on earth is indeed an exile and human beings are pilgrims upon earth, as the scriptures tell us. Hence, my sense of home was always more interiorized, because we had no permanent homestead, much less possessions of any value. Feeling the outsider was something I became acquainted with from an early age, which isn’t a bad thing necessarily, except when a sense of shame causes it to seem so.
Our first apartment in the creepy mansion on Bates Ave. was upstairs on the 3rd floor. To get there one had to climb several turns and twists of staircase and narrow hallway, permeated with old cooking smells typical of canned food, escaping from transom windows. We were on a floor where the occupants of various apartments had to share the bathroom. In those days I guess it wasn’t so uncommon, although today it seems unimaginable. Just imagine yourself taking a bath in a tub other strangers used.
Years later, when we had to move into worse accommodations, I recall my mom crying as she cleaned the place, totally grossed out at the filth of the previous tenants, and even more despondent over the depth of poverty we had sunk to. I never remember any tears on Bates however. I’ve decided, since no one is here to contradict me, that with both parents working, there was enough income to maintain a certain comfort level. Actually, for my mom, she was happy if the house was immaculately clean, the cupboards and refrigerator were full of food, and we had beer. I should also mention that although my mother drank in those days, she wasn’t a heavy drinker then, only my dad was – he stopped after work only to return home drunk. It was kind of a workingman’s thing to do back then.
The very first thing mom did after we moved into Bates was sign the family up as parishioners at the Church of St. John on the eastside of St. Paul. Skip and Beth were immediately enrolled in the Catholic school, as they had been in New Richmond. To my mom’s credit, she insisted upon Catholic education for all of us, which I am sure contributed to our well being as we grew up. I of course wanted to go to school with Skip and Beth, but I was too young, although I remember going through their books to find holy cards and anything religious when they came home from school. Mom also contributed to the missions and sent offerings to various religious orders for Masses and prayers to be offered. These organizations often sent gifts, plastic statues and framed pictures, which were given to me for my altar. Thus, mom took care of our souls the very best way she knew how.
Eventually mom left her job at the motel and got a better one at Minnesota Mining, or 3M as it became known. She worked in a newly constructed modern office building on St. Paul’s eastside, a fact which for some reason impressed Skip and I very much. It was a glamour job in our eyes, mom dressed in very fashionable clothes, had her hair done regularly, and made a very good salary for the time – more than my dad earned. I can’t say for certain the circumstances of her leaving Lakes and Pines, although I suspect something may have been amiss.
Not with my mother, to be sure, but with my dad. About 6 or 7 years after they left employment at the motel, one April Fools day my sister played a trick on mom and dad that morning while they were yet asleep. In those days there was a number one could dial to have your own phone ring, which Beth did. As she answered the phone, she pretended the Comports were on the other end – they had been the owners of the motel. Beth covered the receiver just as my parents whispered, “Whoever it is, we are not home!” (I’ll bet that is where my habit of never answering the phone came from!)
Covering the receiver, Beth told them with a sense of urgency in her voice, “It’s the Comports! They want to talk to you right away!”
Well it hit the fan then, they leapt out of bed and my mom yelled at Beth that she specifically told her to tell them they were not at home. My dad was swearing and insisting he was not there and wouldn’t talk to anyone. It was chaos; finally, she grabbed the phone and said, “Hello?” The three of us kids broke out laughing and shouted “April Fools!” Unfortunately Skip and Beth and I were the only ones who thought that was funny – I don’t remember any hitting, but we were in trouble. Neither parent liked children’s humor very much.
I mention this because, knowing my sister Beth, she “knew” something as to why my parents left employment at the motel. (Of course, today she can barely remember living at the motel.) Looking back on how Kenny and Betty reacted to the pretend call from former employers they hadn’t spoken to in years; I’m convinced something happened at the motel they were covering up. I think my dad left employment first because mom discovered he had been dipping into the till. I should have mentioned that when they got into fights, mom invariably assaulted my dad’s character, by bringing up examples of dad’s dishonesty. One of the proofs for Betty Mae’s allegations had been the receipts she had saved from when they worked at the motel. (Obviously she had done her best to cover any discrepancy in the books.) Therefore, my theory isn’t such a leap. And my sister Beth, who was always such a quiet and well behaved girl, sweeter than candy, was actually kind of a stinker – which makes the whole story even funnier today.
If you are still reading this, it means you made it through the most boring part of my life – who wants to read the memoir of someone’s infancy? I had to do it however, I wanted to offer brief glimpses into the personality of a couple of the people who will come and go throughout the entire monologue – my parents. Without delving too deeply into why Betty and Kenny acted the way they did, I have revealed just enough for the reader to understand they came from rather difficult backgrounds, having been children of the depression and all of that. Indeed, both of my parent’s childhoods were marked by instability along with elements of abuse, although I will bring that out later in the narrative. There is no telling of a life story without understanding the family or milieu one grew up in, for better or worse, the manner in which one was nurtured has its effects.
The pattern of instability in my dad’s life, losing the farm, the divorce of his parents, moving from apartment to apartment with his dad, continued into his adult life. Our family life took on an aspect of a traveler family, or perhaps more accurately, a fugitive’s lifestyle. I actually credit this sense of exile as a sort of foundation for my spiritual life, especially as I got older. I grew in the awareness that life on earth is indeed an exile and human beings are pilgrims upon earth, as the scriptures tell us. Hence, my sense of home was always more interiorized, because we had no permanent homestead, much less possessions of any value. Feeling the outsider was something I became acquainted with from an early age, which isn’t a bad thing necessarily, except when a sense of shame causes it to seem so.
Our first apartment in the creepy mansion on Bates Ave. was upstairs on the 3rd floor. To get there one had to climb several turns and twists of staircase and narrow hallway, permeated with old cooking smells typical of canned food, escaping from transom windows. We were on a floor where the occupants of various apartments had to share the bathroom. In those days I guess it wasn’t so uncommon, although today it seems unimaginable. Just imagine yourself taking a bath in a tub other strangers used.
Years later, when we had to move into worse accommodations, I recall my mom crying as she cleaned the place, totally grossed out at the filth of the previous tenants, and even more despondent over the depth of poverty we had sunk to. I never remember any tears on Bates however. I’ve decided, since no one is here to contradict me, that with both parents working, there was enough income to maintain a certain comfort level. Actually, for my mom, she was happy if the house was immaculately clean, the cupboards and refrigerator were full of food, and we had beer. I should also mention that although my mother drank in those days, she wasn’t a heavy drinker then, only my dad was – he stopped after work only to return home drunk. It was kind of a workingman’s thing to do back then.
The very first thing mom did after we moved into Bates was sign the family up as parishioners at the Church of St. John on the eastside of St. Paul. Skip and Beth were immediately enrolled in the Catholic school, as they had been in New Richmond. To my mom’s credit, she insisted upon Catholic education for all of us, which I am sure contributed to our well being as we grew up. I of course wanted to go to school with Skip and Beth, but I was too young, although I remember going through their books to find holy cards and anything religious when they came home from school. Mom also contributed to the missions and sent offerings to various religious orders for Masses and prayers to be offered. These organizations often sent gifts, plastic statues and framed pictures, which were given to me for my altar. Thus, mom took care of our souls the very best way she knew how.
Eventually mom left her job at the motel and got a better one at Minnesota Mining, or 3M as it became known. She worked in a newly constructed modern office building on St. Paul’s eastside, a fact which for some reason impressed Skip and I very much. It was a glamour job in our eyes, mom dressed in very fashionable clothes, had her hair done regularly, and made a very good salary for the time – more than my dad earned. I can’t say for certain the circumstances of her leaving Lakes and Pines, although I suspect something may have been amiss.
Not with my mother, to be sure, but with my dad. About 6 or 7 years after they left employment at the motel, one April Fools day my sister played a trick on mom and dad that morning while they were yet asleep. In those days there was a number one could dial to have your own phone ring, which Beth did. As she answered the phone, she pretended the Comports were on the other end – they had been the owners of the motel. Beth covered the receiver just as my parents whispered, “Whoever it is, we are not home!” (I’ll bet that is where my habit of never answering the phone came from!)
Covering the receiver, Beth told them with a sense of urgency in her voice, “It’s the Comports! They want to talk to you right away!”
Well it hit the fan then, they leapt out of bed and my mom yelled at Beth that she specifically told her to tell them they were not at home. My dad was swearing and insisting he was not there and wouldn’t talk to anyone. It was chaos; finally, she grabbed the phone and said, “Hello?” The three of us kids broke out laughing and shouted “April Fools!” Unfortunately Skip and Beth and I were the only ones who thought that was funny – I don’t remember any hitting, but we were in trouble. Neither parent liked children’s humor very much.
I mention this because, knowing my sister Beth, she “knew” something as to why my parents left employment at the motel. (Of course, today she can barely remember living at the motel.) Looking back on how Kenny and Betty reacted to the pretend call from former employers they hadn’t spoken to in years; I’m convinced something happened at the motel they were covering up. I think my dad left employment first because mom discovered he had been dipping into the till. I should have mentioned that when they got into fights, mom invariably assaulted my dad’s character, by bringing up examples of dad’s dishonesty. One of the proofs for Betty Mae’s allegations had been the receipts she had saved from when they worked at the motel. (Obviously she had done her best to cover any discrepancy in the books.) Therefore, my theory isn’t such a leap. And my sister Beth, who was always such a quiet and well behaved girl, sweeter than candy, was actually kind of a stinker – which makes the whole story even funnier today.
.
As I write this phase of the story, my remembrance of the house on Bates evokes the backdrop of a recurrent dream I experienced as an adult. In the dream, I was sure to be on an upper floor of a very large old house, searching for something unknown. I would roam the floors of the house trying to look behind doors, peer into cupboards, looking under furniture for something, yet I never could find what I was searching for. As the dream progressed, I had a growing sense of foreboding about my search, afraid I would be discovered and accused of some crime. I sensed danger lurking in the house, not only as if it was haunted, but also as if someone, or something could leap out at me at any minute. Each dream sequence involved various stages of the search, yet every dream ended with my discovery of a trap door to the basement. I was never able to open the door, either because I was standing on it, or some other intrusion distracted me from doing so. Then I would usually wake up.
To be continued.
[Photo: Katherine Hepburn, Joan Blondel, Dina Merril, and Sue Randall - from the film, "Desk Set" - the photo depicts the type of glamour job we imagined my mom had.]
Friday, February 22, 2008
The Story: Chapter Two, Part Three
Chapter Two: Part Three
Exiled from New Richmond, the family headed back for St. Paul. Our first place of lodging was The Lake and Pines, a motel located in an area that was not even a first tier suburb of the city at the time, although today it is part of the city of St. Paul. Actually, it was a classy motel for the period; I think it eventually became a Holiday Inn. I know, it was by no means the Ritz, but at least it wasn’t a fleabag motel.
In fact, the owners hired my parents as managers, allowing us to have a small apartment there. I remember very little about the accommodations, although I have vivid memories of one Christmas there when I received a realistic looking choo-choo- train, as I called it, but it was rubberized and the wheels didn’t move. I recall being very happy with the train yet disappointed it did not have moving parts or a track. I believe I was still young enough to ask about that without being misunderstood as a total ingrate. I distinctly recall thinking, “No wheels… doesn’t move… looks like choo-choo… not real choo-choo.” (I was a smart kid, huh.)
I also have memories of lying in my crib crying and my parents yelling at me to “shut the hell up” and saying things like – “Keep it up! Keep crying – and you’re never getting up again!” I wonder if most parents just let kids cry themselves to sleep from time to time like that. When my younger brother Tim was born, eleven years after me, many times he was treated the same way when he refused to go to sleep or had an earache. It wasn’t uncommon for Betty or Kenny to slap him until he stopped crying, or yelled so loudly, he would be too scared to continue crying. Therefore, I’m fairly certain I received the same type of treatment. Betty and Kenny could be rather impatient parents, but at least none of us died from shaken baby syndrome.
I never asked why we left the motel, although my mother retained an office position there, taking the city bus to and from the ‘country’ to keep her job. I remember my mom wore make-up and perfume, and dressed up for her job. I was taken along everyday and dropped off at day-care in a garden-center/nursery, called Seifert’s, across the road from the motel. I loved it there, and looked forward to taking the bus every morning with mom. I remember the bus driver being very nice to both of us, and often giving me treats. Because of the experience, I had decided I wanted to be a bus driver when I grew up. The driver liked that, and sometimes, after we left the city limits, he’d let me sit on his lap while he drove. At that early stage of my development, the bus driver had become an important person for me. By his kind, friendly demeanor, he left the memorable impression he liked both my mother and me. Each morning he seemed happy to see us and was always kind. As an adult, his example stands out for me as to why it is so crucial we show kindness to strangers, especially children, since many may not experience it at home.
While my mom continued to work at the motel, my dad found a job as a laborer at Lampland Lumber, a lumber yard on the outskirts of downtown St. Paul. We also moved into a huge, wooden, Victorian apartment building at 252 Bates Ave. in St. Paul, I recall the address being repeated to me so that I would never forget it – just in case “someone kidnaps you.” To this day I can remember the telephone number as well, Prospect 1- 5256. Without doubt, it was a very creepy building, I never heard anyone describe it as anything better than a tenement slum.
Exiled from New Richmond, the family headed back for St. Paul. Our first place of lodging was The Lake and Pines, a motel located in an area that was not even a first tier suburb of the city at the time, although today it is part of the city of St. Paul. Actually, it was a classy motel for the period; I think it eventually became a Holiday Inn. I know, it was by no means the Ritz, but at least it wasn’t a fleabag motel.
In fact, the owners hired my parents as managers, allowing us to have a small apartment there. I remember very little about the accommodations, although I have vivid memories of one Christmas there when I received a realistic looking choo-choo- train, as I called it, but it was rubberized and the wheels didn’t move. I recall being very happy with the train yet disappointed it did not have moving parts or a track. I believe I was still young enough to ask about that without being misunderstood as a total ingrate. I distinctly recall thinking, “No wheels… doesn’t move… looks like choo-choo… not real choo-choo.” (I was a smart kid, huh.)
I also have memories of lying in my crib crying and my parents yelling at me to “shut the hell up” and saying things like – “Keep it up! Keep crying – and you’re never getting up again!” I wonder if most parents just let kids cry themselves to sleep from time to time like that. When my younger brother Tim was born, eleven years after me, many times he was treated the same way when he refused to go to sleep or had an earache. It wasn’t uncommon for Betty or Kenny to slap him until he stopped crying, or yelled so loudly, he would be too scared to continue crying. Therefore, I’m fairly certain I received the same type of treatment. Betty and Kenny could be rather impatient parents, but at least none of us died from shaken baby syndrome.
I never asked why we left the motel, although my mother retained an office position there, taking the city bus to and from the ‘country’ to keep her job. I remember my mom wore make-up and perfume, and dressed up for her job. I was taken along everyday and dropped off at day-care in a garden-center/nursery, called Seifert’s, across the road from the motel. I loved it there, and looked forward to taking the bus every morning with mom. I remember the bus driver being very nice to both of us, and often giving me treats. Because of the experience, I had decided I wanted to be a bus driver when I grew up. The driver liked that, and sometimes, after we left the city limits, he’d let me sit on his lap while he drove. At that early stage of my development, the bus driver had become an important person for me. By his kind, friendly demeanor, he left the memorable impression he liked both my mother and me. Each morning he seemed happy to see us and was always kind. As an adult, his example stands out for me as to why it is so crucial we show kindness to strangers, especially children, since many may not experience it at home.
While my mom continued to work at the motel, my dad found a job as a laborer at Lampland Lumber, a lumber yard on the outskirts of downtown St. Paul. We also moved into a huge, wooden, Victorian apartment building at 252 Bates Ave. in St. Paul, I recall the address being repeated to me so that I would never forget it – just in case “someone kidnaps you.” To this day I can remember the telephone number as well, Prospect 1- 5256. Without doubt, it was a very creepy building, I never heard anyone describe it as anything better than a tenement slum.
While we lived on Bates, I arrived at the age of reason, as well as the realization our family life was anything but happy.
End of Chapter Two
End of Chapter Two
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)