It all begins with St. Anthony and then the fish sticks

 I was born and raised a Roman Catholic, somewhat of an enigma for one who lives amongst mainly Mennonites, and evangelical Protestants and just around the corner from the Amish.

More and more citizens are escaping the confines of city life for the cozy, easygoing life afforded them in Pennsyltucky and other countryfied counties on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. Needless to say many are Catholics.

It once was a rarity in our parts to ask directions to the nearest Catholic Church without receiving the one word answer; "Huh"?  It was possible to get a  response like " I've heard of one of them churches in Picklersville. If you want to get there head 20 miles south then 13 miles east.  Don't know the name of it, I think its something like "Saint something or other". But good luck and have a safe trip. And by the way, if you change your mind we have a wonderful Assemblies of God church just down the road right next to the Baptist church and a Methodist church a little further down across from the Mennonites. We have even let in a United Church of Christ, but we don't really talk about that, and way back in the woods there is one of them Kingdom Hall Witness churches.

I have learned a lot about our non-Catholic brethren, especially being married to a life long Baptist for over 50 years. Even though she has not really attended a Baptist church for nearly 30 years, she still wears the badge and she does spend time each day in prayer and scripture reading, and communicates with God throughout the day. Her spirituality is applauded and unwavering.

I wonder if one day she would consider becoming a Catholic as she does attend weekly mass with me, but like a dutiful Protestant  she remains seated during the kneeling parts and doesn't cross herself.

Trying to interest a life long Baptist to Catholicism is like trying to befriend a feral kitten. It's a continuing process, leaving a little tidbit at the back door each day until one day you get to actually pet the furry little thing. In the case of a Baptist its a long journey before they realize Catholic Mass does not entail worshipping Marian statues or we're not selling indulgences at the door for a price of admission

For most these steps usually take time, for a life long Baptist they can seem like an eternity.

I tried little things over the years to help interest her to a possible Catholic conversion, explaining that St Anthony helped her find everything she has misplaced (He practically is on call 24/7 at our home) to feeding her fish sticks every Friday because as we all know Catholic girls all love fish sticks.

I don't know how the fish stick craze began. Growing up we always had fish on Fridays, Fridays were meatless. Flounder was a cheap fish to buy, and easily fried and served for a family of 8 on a tight budget. The issue of properly de-boning usually ended up with one of us requiring a Heimlich maneuver at the dinner table. Thus the introduction of fish sticks.

I think she has somehow begun to accept the idea of the communion of saints as hardly a day passes when I have to say to her " say the Saint Anthony Prayer" because of course something is always getting misplaced.

Recently a set of keys was discovered in my truck, an item I swore was lost in her car.

The Saint Anthony prayer was prayed by me at that time and nothing happened until now.

I don't know why it took almost a year for the discovery but I am thankful.

I guess Anthony was too busy keeping track of my wife and her antics to be bothered. 

Truth be told, most of us live in a Pennsyltucky world.

For those critics and naysayers who are not fortunate enough to know the joys Pennsyltucky has to offer, I say good...stay away and allow the rest of us to enjoy the benefits.

I didn't grow up in the rural area between Philly and Pittsburgh, actually born and raised in the city but longed for life outside when I worked summers as a camp counselor and lifeguard in the P'Tucky heartland.

Quiet, peaceful, relaxing, cool summer nights with breathable air and crickets chirping as opposed to hot and humid, sweltering heat and unbearable nights with police sirens blaring at all hours. The crowds, the rushing, the anger, who needs it.

I knew my eventual destiny would lie outside of city lights.

People seem kinder, joyful, and more apt to help unlike what we witness when we turn on the 6 o'clock news and watch the horrors that unfold in most major cities these days.

This joy is really not limited to Pennsyltucky, as I travel in country areas in other states I find kindred spirits and easier paced lives that tell me we all live in a Pennsyltucky world, at least most of us outside of the metropolitan areas.

So to the naysayers, critics and those who find their joy in ridiculing us I say stay where you are. 

You will never know and appreciate the peace and assurance we find here.

 

I was once the king of Halloween.

 It ended just a few weeks ago so I am finally able to relax at home. 

Another year and all the planning just to avoid having to shell out hundreds of dollars of cavity makers to an army of little costumed porch beggars with nothing better to do than disrupt my quiet evening looking for a sweet handout.

I always have someplace to hide out on October 31st, even if its only sitting in a Walmart parking lot playing my harmonica while relaxing in my Silverado.

Do I have a grudge against All Hollows Eve? You bet!

My disdain for this night has gone back many decades.

My earliest recollection was at my grandmothers house looking at a wall full of ugly rubber masks being told to select one to use as part of a costume.

I recall two things about this mask; it smelled really bad and it covered my entire head igniting my claustrophobia.

It wasn't called a mask, they called it a "Funny Face" and indeed it was not.

At that point I insisted that all future costumes would be "Funny Face Free".

I was quite young, perhaps only 5 or 6 years old at the time, but from then on, and for at least the next 6 years every Halloween was the same; I was a clown. 

Clown white and grease paint is something I could handle.

My mom loved clowns. While in womb she thought her first born should have a paint by numbers picture of a smiling clown over my bed.  Believe it or not I still have this piece of art in the back of a closet.  

Here it is:

In any case I eventually tired of all that makeup and so another costume was created, an organ grinder which i donned for the next two seasons.

Something changed when I was about 13 years old giving me a new found interest in Halloween.

Around the corner lived a young married couple, Lou and Ann Marie who all the kids really liked. We thought of them as the hip couple who could relate to all the kids, they were really cool.

Lou loved Halloween and we shared the same interest in the horror movies of the day, Frankenstein, The Mummy, Dracula and my favorite, The Wolf Man.

Lou showed me one of his magazines, a horror magazine with all the latest monsters and stories that would provide just enough fear that walking home in the dark heightened my imagination that evil lurked around every corner.

Lou saw in one of the issues step by step directions on how to apply realistic makeup, just like the professionals, to create a Wolf Man. Lou planned to do this for the upcoming annual event. 

He would hide in the tree outside his home and jump down just as the trick or treaters would enter his property.

I watched from afar amazed at how well it went; scaring the kids, everyone laughing and having a good time.

I asked Lou if the following year he would make me up as the Wolf Man, he agreed... and the following year he did.

It was so realistic and every home I entered I received so many compliments that I felt like the King of Halloween.

I bragged to all the kids at school the next day.

I was in the 7th grade and invited to my first boy-girl party for the following weekend. It was a costume party.  I had an interest in a particular girl and thought going as the Wolf Man would really impress her.

The problem I had was that Lou was unavailable to do the makeup, the party was Friday night and makeup took time to apply. There was barely enough time to rush home from school and get ready.  

I was determined to do it, after all puppy love was at stake.

Lou provided me with his magazine for the directions so I believed I was all set to go. I had to do it all myself as my mom was busy cooking dinner and taking care of all my brothers and sisters.

I found the leftover materials I needed but noticed there may not be enough. 

There was some greasepaint but just a smattering of hair remaining, plenty of spirit gum to use but I couldn't find the cool fangs I wore. 

I needed a substitute so I improvised and used a set of wax teeth from the candy store. They were somewhat different, no sharp fangs, and they were bucked teeth but they had to make do.

I did what I could, but it was far from the professional application Lou provided. 

Patches of hair all over my face and hands, spirit gum looking like I had cobwebs and sticking to anything I touched. 

Somehow I had buttons attached to my fingers. The buck teeth provided no reassurance.

I arrived at the party looking like a rabid, demented squirrel being ridiculed by my friends, not impressing the girl I had in mind, and wishing I would have gone as an organ grinder, or a clown. I slinked away quickly, my ego bruised.

I swore off Halloween for good getting my annual candy haul from the pillow cases of all my brothers and sisters.

I will say that when my kids were little, and costumed, we did the obligatory offerings as it was the only fair thing to do. 

They were out there retrieving all those Peanut Butter Cups for us to steal from them so I thought the least we should do is  offer Necco Wafers, Candy Corn and nickels to the little porch beggars.

These days not only has the cost of candy skyrocketed, even for the cheap little miniature bars we now have to buy, but our neighborhood is so packed with kids they are even bussed in from other neighborhoods to fill up those pillow cases.

I may once have been the King of Halloween but I now opt out forever.

It's just me and my harmonica, sitting in the Walmart parking lot in my Silverado and an extra hundred or two in my pocket.

 

A Thanksgiving for love of family.

Thanksgiving was always so much fun as we usually spent the day at my grandmothers home along with our cousins, about 20 of us crammed into an intercity row home for the big event.

The obligatory card tables were set up in the basement for all the cousins while the adults feasted upstairs on probably the largest turkey available.

My grandmother was a remarkable woman, one I loved deeply and because of her example I have a great love for family and family togetherness.

She was widowed at a very young age, my mother was only 3 years old while her brother was still in the womb when my grandfather died.

It was also during the years of the depression and she had limited education and no discernible skills but was determined to raise her two children in spite of the urgings of others who suggested adoption. Her love would eventually conquer all.

These were difficult times and I don't know how many today would have accepted the challenges she faced, opting out instead for an easier life. 

Her grit and determination, along with her love for her children kept her going. It was not always the easiest path but the most rewarding.

Years later her oldest sister, who was widowed and childless, came to live with her to take over the household chores while my grandmother went to work in a factory. Two very remarkable women made a home for my mother and uncle.

Her true blessings was her family and especially all those grandchildren, 13 in all, who gave her life joy and purpose.

Each and every one could claim to be her favorite, and we would all be correct.

This Thanksgiving I am thankful for my grandmother, Margaret Mary Bradley and her sister Mae Scanlan, for their love and warmth and example of what love can do for a family. My mother inherited their love and passed it down to her children so we can hand it down to ours.

May God bless us and all of you this Thanksgiving Day

My Mother, Uncle John and Grandmother circa 1944

It was 60 years ago today

It was very imposing to an 11 year old boy, standing 3 stories high a magnificent  structure built by stonemasons, Italian Immigrants, local neighborhood folk at the turn of the century. 

I imagined it was a castle.

This was my elementary school, grades 1 thru 8, 3 classes in each grade with at least 50 students in a class.

Thats around 1200 neighborhood kids, from large Irish and Italian families taught by a dedicated group of St. Joseph nuns and a smattering of lay women.

Standing alongside was a beautiful Catholic Church, similar stone assembled by the same, a tribute to beauty and craftsmanship and a proper place to house the body of Christ.

Keeping order was no easy task, often an unruly student was made "right" with a ruler smack on the hand. Ruler smacking by nuns has its own legendary tales, but truth be told I never witnessed anything more than a light smack with just enough force to say "go sit down and behave". In any case the offended may have shed a tear or two, hardly a flood. 

The demeanor of the disciplinarian was maybe a little angry, hardly enraged, regardless of the tales that are often told.

It was just enough drama to keep misbehavior in check.

On this day, in my 6th grade class, the nun told me to take this large bucket of erasers, along with my classmate John, and go down to the fire escape tower and clap them clean.

I don't recall if this was a voluntary job but in any case it provided the opportunity to remove myself from class, if only for awhile. 

This was a welcomed change.

Neither John or I had ever had eraser clapping duty before and after a very short time we found inhaling chalk dust was very unpleasant and we began to question what we had done to receive such a horrendous punishment.

Putting our thinking caps on, and with all the ingenuity an 11 year old boy can muster, we found throwing the erasers against the stone walls of the fire tower not only helped to clean them, we could get a chance to improve our pitching skills and chose particular stones as targets.

We found this enjoyable but soon the fascination faded as 11 year old boys can get bored easily.

Now I don't know just who came up with the new game but we soon found ourselves covered head to toe in chalk dust, laughing hysterically, as we thought it fun to have an eraser fight. 

Now young boys are really not known for their foresight, well developed brains don't arrive for at least another decade, so stupidity abounds. and that's why nuns carry rulers.

We began to realize that upon our return, covered in chalk,the remaining part of the day may not be favorable so we would delay our return as long as possible while we attempted to wipe away all the dust we accumulated.

Let's just say that idea was not working as we now looked like 2 guys wearing Casper the Friendly Ghost Costumes.

Our fate was sealed, we were doomed to a ruler smack and worse when we would arrive home and our mothers would see what we had done to our school clothes.

We both contemplated running down the fire tower and skipping the rest of the school day when a classmate was sent to retrieve us.

Walking back slowly, like prisoners heading to the executioner, we  turned the corner and upon entering the classroom we could hear a radio broadcast on the schools public address system. We looked around the room to witness tearful classmates and a very sad nun who told us just to take our seats.

The broadcaster was telling America that President John F Kennedy was shot.

Nothing else mattered that day.

 

Yeah, that's right, blame it on the chair.

 I am not a young man anymore, regardless of what my mind tells me. My body and my Cardiologist say something different.

As a kid it was always a little tough for me to stay in one place, inactivity was not something that suited me. 

Then one day a few years' ago it happened; that simple purchase that turned my whole life around.

I bought myself a La-Z-Boy and true to its name I became one with the chair.

It's not alot of fun now as sloth is one of the seven deadly sins and I know the job jar has been overflowing since 2010.  There is work to be done and I am getting some guilt and nasty comments from Jakeette, my wife of many years.

I also need to start exercising again and my Cardiologist says to begin walking.

Well walking outside may prove a little difficult at the moment, the summer weather in Pennsyltucky has been brutally hot, probably that El Nino or El Nina cycle or whatever they call it.  So I got a walking video program for my computer and I'll start slowly.

Imagine, I have to buy a program to tell me how to walk!  It's pretty basic. Lesson one is "How to get your fat butt off the La-Z-Boy and just move".

Amazing how much these computers know about us.

All I ever hear, especially on television and radio is "sitting is the new smoking".

That's why I turn off the TV and radio and just read.

I was a smoker at one time. I quit many years ago. 

I tried so often and it never worked. Every time I quit I would eat more. Then I would start smoking again then lose weight.

 I'd repeat this again and again, until I said I could do this no longer. 

I was not only a yoyo dieter, I was also a yoyo smoker.

My doctor at the time, a real skinny guy, said I should focus on the smoking and don't worry about the weight as I can take that off.

He's no longer my doctor.

I did make a choice between smoking or weight. I chose to quit tobacco.

After hundreds of attempts (well maybe not hundreds) I went to bed and had a little talk with God.

I told Him I was too tired of trying and that I asked for his help and take my habit from me.

True story, when I awoke I never again had a desire to smoke; and I was a two pack a day smoker.

That was about 30 years ago.

I was very thankful but have yet to say a prayer before bed asking the good Lord to stop my desire for a pepperoni pizza, or a trip to the Dairy Queen.

I would like to get healthy, walk more, so my prayer is to get up and move...but please Lord, don't break my La-Z-Boy in the process.

I'd like to get out of my bubble but then I'd have to leave my La-Z-Boy

 

Ok I decided to begin a blog and comment on what goes on inside and outside of my little world. 

Pennsyltucky is a term many use to negatively refer to those of us that may appear to be less sophisticated, possibly lacking in superior intelligence, a shortage of chromosomes as well as a few teeth.

We are depicted as if we are a neighborhood of porch-boy banjo players as seen in the movie "Deliverance".

That's OK by me, it keeps out a lot of undesirable "sophisticates" who will only try to take over and ruin our happy lives.

This blog (and possibly a podcast) will shed some light on my universe inside and outside of the bubble I call home.

Let the journey begin.

Pennsyltucky Jake  10-1-2023