Reviews, journalism, musings
“Oh, you’ll find out. Boy, will you find out!”
This ominous statement, tossed my way by my cousin Sam during our final balmy picnic of summer, was half-warning and half-taunt. He’d approached me after the apple bobbing and said, “Hear you’re going to sister school next month.”
“Now you’re getting older, your body’s starting to change,” said Dad. “Any questions?”
“How do you stop getting hard in church?” I asked.
“Don’t be ridiculous. That never happens.”
“I just heard . . . in school. Some of the guys . . .”
“It doesn’t happen if you’re Catholic. You know all about impure thoughts by now.”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“You just got confirmed for chrissake.”
“Not sayin’ it was me.”
“Then who? Better not be that Channing Johnstone character.”
“I’m just asking, what if it happens? What are you supposed to do?”
“You say a prayer or something.”
“What prayer?”
“Any prayer!”
“But what if some girl’s sitting in the next pew and . . . and looking real pretty . . . and things get out of hand and suddenly you gotta get up and take communion?”
“How the hell should I know? Ask Father Berube.”
–from “Questions I Tormented my Dad With”
IN WHICH we are truly blessed.
I never did ask Father John Berube that question, but not because I didn’t trust him. He was eminently trustworthy. Every Danvers Catholic kid I knew swore by what he said. About anything. The reason why was . . . complicated. Oh, so complicated.
“What’dya think Pete? Less than an hour and we caught a whole bucket of pickerel.”
“Yeah. All right, I guess.”
“All right? It’s been one after the other.”
“We’re done.”
“Done?”
“We’re fresh outta luck.”
“Only a minute since the last one.”
“Yeah, and the last one got off the hook and escaped.”
“So?”
“So he’ll tell the others to watch out. Bye bye fish.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“We’re all done. Might’s well go home.”
“A quitter never wins and a winner never quits.”
“A quitter gets to watch Captain Midnight.”
“Don’t be a wise guy.”
“Do fish go south like birds?”
“No! And you know they can’t talk, right?”
“Whales squeal to each other.”
“Who told you that?”
“Sea Hunt.”
“These pickerel can’t resist our tasty sea worms.”
“Who knows what they been eating? They don’t look right.”
“Now you’re skating on thin ice.”
“No ice here. If we were ice-fishing, we’d need an auger for the hole and a fish house.”
“We’ll quit when I catch the next one.”
“When’s that gonna be?”
“Few more minutes.”
“Already been a few more minutes.”
“Shut up! You’re scaring the fish.”
Dating at thirteen is never what you expect: a mishmash of guesswork and lucky moves.
IN WHICH I learn not quite enough about love.
On the playing field of girlfriend getting, my best friend Steve scored a touchdown his first try.
The first time I met Keith Connes, he was getting raked over the coals.
We were attending a writers group meeting in the Florida retirement community of Sun City Center. The group had been hijacked by Christian fundamentalists.
It’s not often that a wondrously bizarre story drops into your lap.
But when it does, I believe it must get told, and as soon as possible. Have you ever heard of News of the Weird, that syndicated email column begun in the late 80s? It supplies digests of outlandish stories that happened the previous week, like a woman canceling her marriage to a ghost because it “kept disappearing.” Well, this is one of those stories. And it happened to me.
Continue reading “93-year-old Woman Nabbed for Impersonating Glenn Gould”
IN WHICH I learn the Facts of Life. Twice.
Dad picked the wrong time and place to explain The Facts to me. The time, well that’s complicated. I’ll get to that. But the place . . .
Had I known I’d be writing about Steve, my first adolescent friend, I would have carried my Brownie Hawkeye camera around with me more.
IN WHICH I learn that friendship is more complicated than enemyship.
I’ve never been friends with anyone in the same way I was with Steve Demetrious. It was one of those “more than” relationships. We were more than schoolmates, more than movie companions, more than teammates, more than confidants.
You may not believe what I’m about to tell you, and I wouldn’t blame you. I have trouble believing it myself, nearly sixty years later.
IN WHICH I learn the subtle side of conflict.
Paul Dabuse was the toughest kid in the seventh grade and I knew this because I once saw him fight. It was enough to brand him in my brain as someone I didn’t want to mess with. Continue reading “Bullyland, Part II: Up a Notch”
