Growing up Catholic
The realities of growing up Catholic were many and varied. Although I do not purport to be a religious guy, a lot of my Catholic guilt remains totally intact and emanates from the teachings of Sister Calista who, during my formative years, worked her magic. She did this by drilling us about certain things we were expected to believe and adhere to over and over again.
Seven of the rules on the Catholic “to-do” list that we had to memorize which, according to my little Italian nonna, were non-negotiable were called the Seven Corporal Works of Mercy. These were dictates like “feed the hungry, give drink to the thirsty, clothe the naked, visit the imprisoned, and shelter the homeless.” But the last two, “visit the sick and bury the dead” are today’s themes.
These works of mercy were oriented toward the body, and six of the seven were taken from Matthew 25:41-46. The seventh, “bury the dead,” came from Tobit 1:17-19 because the Jews believed that to be deprived of a burial was a horror.
So, back to my story. “Visit the sick and bury the dead,” if, like in the old days of the church when grace was a commodity, and we would pay to light candles for our special intentions, we figured that we would be building up credit in our grace account by following the instructions from Sister C.
Remember in the 1950s and 1960s, the nuns wore outfits reminiscent of a burka without the face covering. They could be very intimidating individuals, and occasionally, when you could sneak a peek under her head covering, it was clear that Sister Calista had a crew cut.
I once heard a comic describing something I had experienced that only a child could imagine. Because the nun’s habits were so long, I wasn’t sure they had feet. They just glided across the room reminiscent of the nun in “The Blues Brothers.” But if you didn’t remember the seven corporal works of mercy, their room-crossing journey could take seconds and the ruler in her outreached hand could appear to be lethal.
Well, as an altar boy, that burying the dead thing was a piece of cake because we were paid to be at funerals, and we got to miss school in the morning as well. It was a high-paying gig for a kid. I could make more on one funeral than I made for two weeks on my paper route. It was considered a donation, but if they wanted someone to ring the bells, pour the wine and water, and respond to the prayers, the cash had better be ready. Five dollars in 1959 is roughly worth $53.96 in today’s economy. That would pay for two bottles of water and half a tube of toothpaste at a Las Vegas hotel.
The visit the sick act was a little more challenging because we were sheltered in those days from knowing about things like cancer and heart disease. We often heard words like, “She’s having woman problems.” We weren’t that far away from seeing phrases on gravestones like “Died of the grip.” My favorite was, “Here lies John. No wonder he’s dead. A wagon wheel ran over his head.”
Anyway, as a septuagenarian, visiting the sick and burying the dead ranks right up there with seeing your doctor or dentist. What was the movie “Four Weddings and a Funeral”? Well, now we’re living in the reality of four funerals and a bunch of visits to the sick. You’ve got to admit, being an undertaker during the sunset of the baby boomer era must have been a good career choice.
That is unless you were like my mother’s family, where they would visit a sibling’s funeral and say, “I told my husband to just have me cremated and put in a coffee can.”
Nick Jacobs is a Windber resident.