Tony’s Bike

Tony’s bike

We were free range children out for a ride on a summer day. For some reason I was riding Tony’s bike that day. We found a trail that took us up a small mountain near the road we were riding on. When the trail got too steep we pushed our bikes up the trail to what seemed like a good starting point. “Who’s going first?” Nobody spoke. One of the guys pointed up to a higher (almost suicidal) point of the trail. “How about up there? “ Everyone looked at me to see if I would answer the challenge. I had an earned reputation for what 12 year olds view as courage and adults view as recklessness. I  agreed automatically, almost as though I had no choice to go first (and last as it turned out). Sadly, not one guy looked at the guy who suggested the starting point. Everyone cautiously rode down the trail to the road to watch the show (which in hindsight should have given me a clue that maybe I should reconsider). As I rolled down the trail picking up alarming speed, what originally seemed like an alright idea suddenly seemed a little crazy. I came to an almost 90 degree right hand turn. I knew I had to make a quick decision. If I tried to turn at the speed I was going I would have gone off the cliff sideways or backwards. I knew I was going too fast to turn so I pointed the handle bars straight off the trail and into the air. At that point I would have given 3 months paper route money for a parachute to at least slow the descent. I think I had enough time for maybe one “act of contrition” prayer (short version) before I would  hit the flat, unforgiving pavement below. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a car coming down the road. I knew that if the driver didn’t stop I would land on the roof (or worse, the windshield) which would certainly spoil her day. Thankfully one of my friends witnessing the event shouted for her to stop. I remember making eye contact thorough the windshield before I landed flat on the road ahead of her, breaking the forks of Tony’s bike and then scraping my chest on the road. I remember the horrified look on the driver’s face as she got out of the car. “Are you alright?” “Sure, I’m ok.” I lied (Sister V strapping had nothing on this pain). She drove off – pretty certain that I was lying. I walked across and collapsed on the lawn. I dragged the broken bike into the garage and didn’t tell anyone  what happened. 

I still feel bad about Tony’s bike.

Mothers and Moments

Nothing would be better than a visit with her mother. It had to be today.

Goodness knows she could use a break.

Mother lived a couple of hours away, the kids would surely get on her nerves being cooped up in the car for that long. Six kids – one adult. Luckily, the road to Courtenay could be broken into sections, she thought. If I get them into the car early they could probably stay calm at least past the “Hump” and be too full to squawk about ice cream in Whiskey Creek. “It’s too early for ice cream,” she’d tell them, hoping that they’d forget that she’d said it when they returned home late the day after.

It was too cold for a spring swim at Parksville or Qualicum Beach, but she could let them out and blow off some steam for a bit in Qualicum. From there it was an hour’s run up the highway to Courtenay.

Courtenay. Her home. Where she was born, where her first two children were born. Courtenay was where the air smelled right, fresh, and not full of pulp and paper fumes from a mill. Where Jersey cows meandered the lush grassy fields of Sandwick, and made milk and butter taste just a little better. Where she felt safe and welcomed, pampered even, by her loving mother who adored her children.

She could see it in her mind; a happy trip along the Island Highway, a happy stop at Qualicum to stretch and play, the final part of the journey past Bowser, the huge shell mountain at Fanny Bay, through tiny Union Bay and finally Royston, the village that would tell her she was close, maybe ten minutes from the tiny home where her mother lived in Sandwick. She could smell the air, she could see the smiles on the children, she could hear the sing songs in the car, she could feel the hearty hugs all around.  It was going to be a happy trip worth taking.

“Boys in the back,” she said as they scrambled at, on, and around the 1954 Monarch. Back seats were big. Front seats were benches, plenty of room for the two girls and the driver. Seat belts were not an issue; space was an issue, in particular, the space one declared was “mine” was immediately susceptible to encroachment.

“You can’t touch this part of the seat,” “I get to sit here if I want,” “I want to sit by the window,” “You always get to sit by the window,” and so on.

“I just need to tune them out,” she thought, then suddenly found herself saying”Hush! Ssshhh!! Enough! Be good.”

It worked for a while. Mt. Arrowsmith watched over them from the right as they climbed the passage known locally as “the Hump”. Trouble began with a rustle, as subtle and isistant as the wind through the cedars as she motored through Cathedral Grove. Squabbling and poking and occasional yelps were coming from the back seat. Trouble was rearing its childish head, not lurking like “Cammie”, the legendary lake monster of Cameron Lake, known but unseen.  This trouble was in full display and rolling and wrestling in the seat behind her.

“Look at Cameron Lake. Did you know they say it is as deep as the mountain behind it is high?” Some discussion about lakes and depths from the older ones followed, then, ultimately, more poking and silliness as the car passed Little Qualicum Falls. She debated in her mind the idea of stopping, giving them a run up to the falls, poop them out a bit, but just as quickly rejected it. It would delay the trip and make it longer than planned.  Then they would be getting hungry, too.  She pressed down on the accelerator.

By Whiskey Creek the noise was getting distracting. Giggling, shrieking, story telling, wrestling, and general nonsense poured from the back seat. “At least the girls aren’t being silly,” she thought, “they seem to be pretty good at ignoring their brothers. Why do they have to be so silly, so noisy?” She concentrated on her driving and tried again to shut out the noise.

“Let’s play a game,” she said suddenly.

“What kind of game? OK. What? Stupid. I’m not stupid,” came the simultaneous reply, mostly from behind her.

“Watch the first number of the license plates of the cars going by. Let’s see if we can count all the way to “9”.

The road through to Coombs suddenly got very quiet on the other side . Despite the watchful gazes from the 12 peering eyes, some standing on the seat to look out the window, the first few cars passed and the number “1” was not in play. The game began to die.

“Look at the goats on the roof. Did you know the people who own those goats used to live near us?”

Shriek giggle giggle

Shriek giggle giggle

“Stop that! I’m trying to drive.”

Silence as everyone held their breath. Inevitably, as the boys began to make eye contact, the giggling returned, slowly but more surely as each powerful burst of air blasted past each set of quivering little boy lips.

Shriek giggle giggle

Shriek giggle giggle

What else could she do?

She needed to teach them a lesson. Start with the oldest – no – the two oldest.

“Joe. Bill. Get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Get out.”

For the first time since Bishop Avenue in Port Alberni they were quiet. All of them. She had their attention now, she needed to follow through.

“This road is highway 4. Walk straight down this road towards the water. When you get to the island highway turn left. Walk on the left side of the road and keep the water on your right. Keep walking on that road and you will come to Sandwick Road where Grandma lives.”

Every eye in the car was wide, every ear in the car was tuned to her voice, every mouth was silent. “Good,” she thought. “Impact.”

In her rear view mirror she could see her boys walking as she pulled away. She ignored the loud protests of the remaining boys in the back. “Not yet” she thought. ” They have to know I’m serious. Besides, it’s actually almost pleasant in here now.”

She allowed herself to be “convinced” by the budding lawyers in the car that she needed to double back and pick the boys up. The conversation lasted long enough for the boys to have walked more than a few blocks and were farther ahead that she had expected.

“Your brothers convinced me that I should come back to get you. Get in the car.”

She ignored the smirky looks on their faces, pretended to not hear the bravado, “We were okay, we knew how to find Grandma’s house.” She looked away and had to suppress a laugh when she caught the younger boys conspiratorial glances at their older sibs, and the brotherly smiles they shared.

She knew instantly that their version of this story, if any of them remembered it, would be vastly different from her own. No matter. What mattered is that they had shared a moment, the kind of moment that makes the bond of brothers stronger, more solid, even if none of them could explain why.

“That’s what mothers do,” she thought as she passed the oyster shell mountain at Fanny Bay, “we create moments, teachable moments.”

By the time the Monarch hit Union Bay the car was quiet. She was thinking about seeing her mother. The kids were probably wondering what was for lunch.

“I hope we have cake and berries,” said someone. The others dreamed of cake and berries.

I Confess

Seven is the age of reason; that means you know the difference between right and wrong. Having reached the age of reason, a child may receive the sacrament of Communion. This was very exciting and much of that second year of school was spent in preparation for the big event. Our whole class would have our first Communion together in a mass in the spring. The girls would wear frilly dresses and the boys would wear clean shirts and some of us would get our picture taken by our proud parents. (Not me) We’d all line up together at mass and respectfully stick out our tongues at Father and he’d put the host on them. We looked forward to this rite and looked forward to the attention and ceremony that went along with it.  There were rumors of gifts! (Not me, again)

But of course, we weren’t going to be given anything we wanted without first being made to feel bad about something. A child can’t receive the sacrament of Communion without first undergoing the sacrament of Penance. That’s the rule. All of us seven year-olds needed to confess our sins to a priest and have him assign us our penance and pass on God’s forgiveness before we could receive Communion.

What I knew about confession was from TV. If you stole something or killed someone, then either Perry Mason tricked you into confessing that you did it, or you felt really bad and confessed it to a policeman. Either way you went to jail.

Mom was my grade two teacher and she prepared her class for our first Confession.  She took a morning to tell us for what to expect.  We’d go into one of the confessional booths that were lined up down one side of the church to make our confession.  On Sundays, while waiting for mass to start, I had checked out those mysterious phone booth things from the safety of our pew and had wondered they were like inside and what went on inside. There was a door in the middle for the priest to go in and out.  Above his door there was a white light that lit up when there was a priest inside it that meant he was open for business. There were two more doors, one on each side of the priest’s for the people to use. Above each of the people’s doors there were red and green lights.  When someone went in, the red light went on.  Usually it was green meaning that there was nobody there.

I asked Mom how to turn the red light on and if there was a lock on the door. She explained that there was no lock and that kneeling on the kneeler would turn the light from green to red. I liked that automation! That sounded like a cool thing to try out.  But since I wouldn’t be able to see the light change from inside I thought I’d ask my friend, Marc, to watch and confirm that it worked for me.

Mom taught us that once we were inside kneeling, we’d wait for the priest to open the little window between our booths.   When it opened up we’d wait for the priest to say something and then we’d make the sign of the cross and say “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my first Confession.”  Father would ask us about our sins and we’d tell them to him. Then Father would tell us how many Our Fathers and how many Hail Marys we had to say for penance and then he’d say a prayer and we’d say Amen and then we could go straight back to our pew and kneel down again and take care of those Our Fathers and Hail Marys before we forgot how many of each to do.

Mom tried to teach us what a sin was.  She didn’t make a distinction between venial and mortal sins (the Catholic version of misdemeanor and felony) or get into any kind of philosophy – we were seven. She never mentioned Hell or made any link between sinning and going to Heaven.  Mom coached us on what kind of things we might want to say. “I told my sister to shut up.” or “I didn’t clean my room when my mom asked me to.”  And she said it was important to confess the times where you were not nice to someone. If you were rude or mean or ignored someone. Or if you swore! In Mom’s catechism, if you were doing something your mother wouldn’t like, then you were probably sinning and you could confess that thing.

Then in the afternoon, Mom led me and the rest of my class across the St. Peter’s school playground and over to St. Peter’s church for our first confession.  We sat in a few pews and waited our turn.  As my classmates went in and out of the booths, I watched the lights flash green and red for a while and confirmed for myself that the mechanism was working.

Soon enough it was my turn.  I was surprised by how dark the booth was. I kneeled down and heard the light switch click somewhere below the kneeler. While I waited I listened to some murmuring and mumbling and then the door covering the window slid open and I could see the priest’s face in profile.  He was looking straight ahead and trying to not look at me.  I was startled by the noise of the sliding door.  I was expecting Father’s booth to be as dark as mine so I was also startled to see the priest. His booth was lit up and through the screen from my kneeling position, the priest was an impressive sight.  He raised a hand and did the priest’s version of the sign of the cross. I followed the script Mom had taught us and confessed my sins:  I changed the channel on my sister when her show wasn’t over.  I didn’t help my brother clean the kitchen. I talked with my brothers in bed even though Mom told us to be quiet.

Father assigned a reasonable number of Our Fathers and Hail Marys and I delivered every one of them. I checked with my friend that the lights worked as expected. My soul was now ready for that delicious Communion wafer that everyone lined up for. And best of all, I knew that I’d never have to go to Confession again!

About three years later, after we moved to Chilliwack, I went to Confession again. I really wasn’t expecting this one. There was no big event we were planning for, no hurdle that we needed to clear.  Also this time, there was no dark booths with the screen protecting our anonymity.  No red and green lights to keep sinners from accidentally stumbling in on each other.  We just walked across the parking lot to St. Mary’s Church and waited to go one by one into the vestry and confess to the priest who’d set up two plastic chairs facing each other.

This was about 1971 and the priests at St. Mary’s wanted to be modern or progressive or something. So Father said something about how since the priests could tell who they were talking to anyway that the confessional booth was kind of useless.  I couldn’t disagree more. It was one thing to kneel in darkness and confess your sins to that mysterious, glowing priest on the other side of the screen.  It was another thing altogether to sit in a plastic chair, eye to eye with a man wearing black pants and a burgundy turtleneck who coached the basketball team and to list for him all the things that you did that your mom wouldn’t have liked.

So, I made my second Confession at age ten.  The highlight was that my friend Clinton and I had laughed at a fat lady we were walking behind. Mom definitely wouldn’t have liked that. Not to make excuses, but the lady was really fat and that was pretty unusual back then. She probably didn’t hear us.  We tried to laugh quietly.

I got assigned some Hail Marys and some Our Fathers.  I probably said all of them, but I wasn’t feeling them the same way as I had after my first Confession.  Maybe if Father had made more of an effort, I would have, too.  I mean, the church had perfectly fine confessional booths that would have amped up the ceremony but he chose plastic chairs instead.

But at least I knew that I’d never have to go to Confession again.

And then I did.  Thirteen, another prerequisite to another Church sacrament, Confirmation. Same priest, same plastic chair configuration.  I remember the priest preparing us for confession and Confirmation didn’t focus on the whole impure thoughts area – which avoided potential teen-age embarrassment.  His preparations were more spiritual and philosophical in nature.  Most of the time the small group of us preparing for Confirmation just played pool in the rectory.

But I needed some sins to confess. I relied again on Mom’s catechism: I BS’ed a list of chores I didn’t do and bad manners I’d shown and Father said his prayer. Did I even get assigned some penance?  Both of us were going through the motions. Father expected more commitment on the basketball court than either of us gave to this particular holy sacrament. But we got ‘er done and I was Confirmed a few weeks later.

This time I was certain.  I’d never go to Confession again.