Growing up Catholic
Growing up Catholic
---Growing Up Catholic in Eureka---
By V.J. Smith
Frank McCourt is a millionaire. Five years ago he wasn't. His great book,
"Angela's Ashes," changed all of that. In that Pulitzer Prize-winning book,
McCourt related stories from his youth about growing up a Roman Catholic in
Limerick, Ireland.
I'm not a millionaire and in five years I still won't be one. But in the writing
that follows I will share what it was like growing up Roman Catholic in Eureka.
The only thing there were fewer of in Eureka in the late '50s and '60s than
Catholics were squirrels. There were maybe a dozen families who were members of
St. Joseph's Catholic Church. Even the Seventh Day Adventists had us beat.
Fortunately, our parents were powerful producers. Even to this day, whenever
someone asks me how many brothers and sisters I have, I tell them: "My parents
were politically correct. There are four boys and four girls." And they always
respond: "Oh, you're Catholic."
On a normal Sunday about 100 people would attend Mass. I know because I'd sit in
the choir loft and count them. It wasn't my job to take a head count -- I was
just bored. One great way of passing the time while sitting above the crowd was
to take fuzz balls off my clothes, roll them in my fingers, and then pick out a
target below. It was usually the head of some unsuspecting blue-haired lady. I'd
take careful aim and drop the fuzz ball hoping for a direct hit. This fun went
on for a while until the day one of the Imberi boys grabbed my arm and said,
"You better be paying attention." God wasn't amused by fuzz ball droppings.
I was an altar boy. So were my three brothers. It's great that today girls are
allowed to share that altar on Sundays as altar boys have been placed by altar
servers. But in those days, it was altar boys, and as an altar boy you were on
the "inside." Until the mid-1960s all Masses were in Latin. So when I became an
altar boy I had to learn how to say stuff in Latin. The priest would say
something and the altar boys would say something back. I had no clue what I was
saying, but it sounded like I did.
We had very interesting priests. The kids of the parish referred to one priest
as "Father Birdseed" because he liked to sing all the time. Since St. Joseph's
had very few parishioners, the priests lived in Hosmer. We didn't see a priest
in Eureka until Sunday mornings, funerals, or other days of holy obligation.
It was tradition in the Smith house that we would invite the priest to be with
us on Christmas Day. My mother would load up the eggnog with lots of rum. By the
end of the day the priest would be a lot funnier than when he had arrived. When
we were young we thought he was just having a good time. As we got older we knew
it was Mom's eggnog.
It was hard to explain to my Lutheran and Baptist friends the various aspects of
the Catholic theology. Places like Limbo and Purgatory were hard to describe in
kid's language. "If you eat too many hot dogs on Fridays you end up in
Purgatory," I'd tell them. Purgatory, as I understood it, was a holding cell
until the gates of Heaven were opened to you.
Fridays were always a challenge for people of the Catholic faith, especially for
their kids. In the early days meat was forbidden every Friday. That changed in
the late '60s when the Pope said it was OK to eat meat on Fridays but not on
Fridays during Lent. Those meatless Fridays were a true test of faith. Gladys
Streifel was the head cook in the school lunchroom. She was also one of the 100
people I counted every Sunday at Mass. Anyway, I'd walk into the lunchroom on
Fridays and be overtaken with the sweet smell of hot dogs. I'd grab a lunch tray
and wait my turn to have the servers load up my tray. Mrs. Streifel stood behind
the person handing out the hot dogs. I was always hoping Mrs. Streifel wouldn't
notice me. But when it came my time to stand before the hot dog server, Mrs.
Streifel would announce, "He gets tuna fish." Aargh. I'd been branded again. I
would retreat to the table and once again have to explain to my Lutheran friends
that there was a strong possibility of my going to hell if I took a bite from a
forbidden wiener.
The forty days of Lent are intended to be a time a introspection and
rededication to faith. When I was young I had a hard time relating to these
concepts. My idea of Lent was quite different. It started with ashes on my
forehead given early on Ash Wednesday morning. I was told not to wash off the
ashes so I would have to go to school and walk around with what appeared to be a
dirty forehead. "What did you run into?" I was asked. I couldn't explain the
reason for the ashes so I just kept my head down. Eventually the ashes came off
on my pillow that night.
Another part of Lent was saying the rosary. This really threw my Lutheran
friends, especially my best friend, Wayne. Every night during Lent, immediately
after dinner, our family would kneel around my parents' bed and begin the
process of repeating the series of Our Fathers and Hail Marys associated with
the rosary. I remember Wayne coming over one night and peering through my
parents' bedroom window. His eyes got real big as if he were watching some cult
ritual. When I explained to him what we were doing and the prayers being
repeated, he said, "Have you ever listened to yourself? You keep saying the same
things over and over again."
It was difficult to maintain a state of reverence when we were saying the
rosary. Let's face it, when you have kids and ask that they be quiet and
attentive for 20 to 25 minutes you're giving them quite a challenge. If one of
my brothers or sisters would so much as smile at me I'd break out in hysterical
laughter. There was no mercy from my parents especially if I said, "But Barb was
looking at me!" My dad, looking for ways to keep us quiet, would always place a
yardstick in the middle of the bed. If one of us looked unholy he would grab the
yardstick and bop us on the head. That yardstick could reach every corner of my
parents' bed so we learned to pay attention.
Easter Sunday was filled with joy. There was lots of candy and it meant the end
of rosary for another year. It wasn't a matter of us being irreverent. I think
the real reason we looked for the conclusion of rosary was that it cut into our
playing time. Spring was unfolding and we wanted to be outside with our friends,
eating hot dogs.
(V.J. Smith graduated from Eureka High School in 1973 and later from SDSU, where
today he is the director of alumni.)