You might say that the seven of us kids were raised extremely Catholic. In fact, almost all of us would now say, psychotically Catholic. Amongst other things, we spent many years praying the rosary every night. This was often followed by mandatory Bible study of some passage Dad would choose. The lesson usually focused on not losing our immortal souls to the fires of Hell, specifically by avoiding pre-marital sex and wearing our Scapulars at all times. This purposely scratchy “necklace” of sorts (discomfort helped to atone for sins)! was at best unattractive in school pictures, and at worst, awkward to have to explain to school peers. A typical scenario often went like this:
Kid: “What is that thing around your neck”
Me: (Not wanting to explain, but feeling obligated to tell the truth verbatim).“It’s a Scapular, and you’re supposed to wear this so if you die, you won’t go to Hell.
Kid: “Ok. That’s really weird. You’re weird.”
Me: (Sigh.)
At night, however, discussing the pitfalls of a life leading to Hell was a potentially interesting topic. It was at least colorful and dangerous. The lives of sinners seemed far more exciting and conducive to friendships. However, as good children, we were supposed to be far more interested in praying the rosary and leading holy lives of example to others. This included attending daily mass. Personally, I hated praying the rosary and dreaded attending daily mass. I was often so tired at the end of the school day that all I wanted to do was have a snack and then go to sleep. The thought of going to church, eating dinner, and doing homework, followed by kneeling up and saying five decades of the rosary (50 Hail Mary’s, five Our Fathers, and five Glory-Be’s) actually made me want to cry. I must confess, my thoughts were often NOT holy. But there was no avoiding it. Every night, like clockwork, church and the rosary came. Saturdays were little better because we had to get up early to go to morning mass (7AM), followed by Maureen’s and my Legion of Mary meeting where we plotted good deeds for the week and prayed the rosary for extra measure. Being members in the Army of the Virgin Mary was not something that carried a lot of social capital. I don’t remember if the morning rosary got Maureen and me out of the evening rosary - I’m inclined to think it didn’t.
However, the whole Catholic religion thing DID come in handy, because Maureen and I would weekly “go to confession” at precisely the time we would otherwise be babysitting the little kids. I am guessing the priest at St. Mary’s thought we were either very holy or very paranoid. Unfortunately, for me, it was more the latter. After going to confession, Maureen and I would often loiter in the back of the church, reading the various pamphlets on the lives of the saints, lighting 50 cent candles and sticking our fingers in the wax, and then pretending the wax was lipstick. We had very simple amusements. There were several times that the priest had to actually kick us out to church. The best part? Mom and Dad apparently never got wise to our avoidance scheme.
One early fall day, Mom and Dad decided to carry the holiness to a new level. It was decided that a shrine would be built in the backyard to the baby Jesus. So wooden landscaping boards were bought, and cut. A small rear corner of the yard nearest our solidly constructed family fence (built expertly by me, Maureen, and Dad) was chosen, and the building of the area began. The ground was dug with fewer than normal curses, since we were on a holy task. Pretty flowers were planted, stones were laid down to form a little path, and all was ready. Since we lacked a statue of the proper size of the baby Jesus, Mom decided a perfect substitute would be the one from our Christmas nativity scene. We ended up using the three inch ceramic manger and one inch ceramic baby Jesus. The manger containing Jesus laying on what appeared to be a soft bed of straw was placed on a shale slab in the center of the square shrine area, surrounded by flowers, and the whole project was deemed a resounding success. It was not until after the shrine was finished that we discovered a serious flaw with our plan.
Our yard was very popular with the local wildlife. There were at least ten squirrels who used our yard as their jealously guarded territory. For many old people, I’m sure that would have been great, but for the baby Jesus, it was not so. The squirrels in our yard must have been kleptomaniacs, because within days, the baby Jesus had been stolen. I remember all of us running out to the back yard for the mandatory rosary one night soon after, only to discover the barren manger. There was no Jesus anywhere, although there WAS a squirrel sitting on the top of the fence, directly above the shrine. I’m not sure who put two and two together, but all nine of us were soon combing the surrounding yard. One of the little ones even climbed the fence to search the neighbors, and volunteered to climb the large oak in the opposite corner to inspect the squirrel nest, much to Mom’s dismay. He was promptly denied.
I think Christine is the one who eventually found Jesus. He had been buried beneath a thin layer of leaves on the ground, and although his face was smudged, he was otherwise unharmed. Jesus was reverently placed back into the manger, and we prayed the rosary outside that night. I noticed during family prayer time that the squirrels seemed to be watching, plotting their next move. We waged the battle of the baby Jesus against the squirrels for the next several years. Although they kept us on our toes, we always did eventually find him. They continued to hide Jesus very obviously, and we continued to find him. They weren’t really sinners. The squirrels must have been Fransiscans. Or at the very least, they must have worn tiny little scapulars to atone for their sins.
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