cont…AND THAT’S ALL THAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 6

(Page 136)

I walked back to pwivate man behind my station wagon. What’s the worst that could

happen? St. Thomas O’Gustine always said, “Hear the other side.” This I could do.

“Sir.” I very politely addwessed pwivate man. “What do you want me to do? Can’t

you see the toll-gate arm won’t budge?” Maybe pwivate man didn’t realize what was

going on with the malfunctioning toll-gate. “Perhaps you could come help me lift the

gate or just back up so I can get out, sir?” I tried to be as nice as possible. “I don’t know

what to do, sir.”

Pwivate man looked me up and down, then at my car in front of him with all my little

children. I think maybe he was having a change of heart. Perhaps the children reminded

him of what it was like when he was a child.

“Them all your kids?” Maybe I reminded him of his mother.

“Them are.” I smiled broadly and twied speaking pwivate man’s language.

“Ain’t ya heard of birth control?!” pwivate man spoke.

I bit my tongue, but I was thinkin’ – pwivates.

I abruptly turned and walked back towards my car. Half-way there he shouted…

“Hey Chiquita, why don’t ya get your old man’s ‘banana’ fixed!” He said it loud

enough that I was afraid the children heard.

My Irish was up. I stopped, turned and walked back to pwivate man.

Okay, I had tried Tommy O’Gustine’s “Hear the other side” but this was war and

Tommy boy, being the good Irish Saint that he was, also said, “The purpose of all war is

peace.” And now I wanted – a piece - of pwivate man.

“Now whatta’ ya want, Chiquita?” Pwivate man was picking at his teeth with a

toothpick. Oh, what I could do with a box of Walgreen’s mint waxed dental floss pulled

taut.

I stood at his window giving him one more chance to redeem himself by offering to

help me and my children.

“Well? Whatta’ ya want, now?” Pwivate man gwowled. “Move it, Chiquita!”

“You, sir, have a loud bark, I bet your mother had one, too.” I quickly turned and left,

because, as my grandmother always said, speak the truth but leave immediately after.

cont…AND THAT’S ALL THAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 6

(Page 135)

The cars continued honking. I pushed and pulled. I knocked on the toll-gate arm with

my hands. Nothing. Nada. Some of the cars at the back of the line pulled over to the

other toll-booths. I guess they were worried about being late for Mass. The man behind

me and the one behind him and a few others after that, just kept honking. What could I

do? I put my hands up in the air and shrugged my shoulders. They honked even more.

Animal atheists!

Once more I threw in thirty cents. The gate stayed frozen. I slapped the bloody

woop-woop out of the metal basket like I was slappin’ one of my kids. It wouldn’t budge,

just like one of my kids.

“Come on Chiquita, move your bunch of bananas!” The man behind me called out.

I’d be slappin’ his bloody woop-woop next. “Hable el Englisio? Move el grande assito,

Senora!”

I looked up to the heavens and squinted my eyes. What did the sign above my tollbooth

say? “Madness takes its toll. Please have exact-change.” I rubbed my eyes. Did I

read that right?

“What’s a ‘grand mosquito’, Mom?” Nora asked rolling the car window further down.

“Nora, take those braids out of your mouth, maybe you’ll hear better.” I was

exasperated with her deaf and deafer. Why couldn’t she be more like me, deaf and

dumber.

“Mom? I’m gonna shoot that guy in his pwivates!” Campion was hanging out his

window pretending to be aiming a bazooka at the animal atheist behind me.

“No, Campion, that’s not nice to say,” I scolded. “You don’t say you will shoot

anybody in their pwivates. Mommy will do that.”

cont…AND THAT’S ALL THAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 6

(Page 134) 

I pulled into the La-la parking lot absolutely exhausted. We had driven by my

calculation exactly 100 yards.

“Go, go, go, go!” I said to Campion who jumped out of the car. “Anyone else have to

go, because we’re not stopping until we get to church.” They all jumped out.

I know trials are proof of God’s care, as my grandmother always said, but sometimes I

wish He wouldn’t care so much.

Michael and I were separated right off the bat. He had left the campgrounds while we

were in the restrooms. I wasn’t worried, I knew how to get to the church.

With everyone back in the car, we merrily headed towards the Tri-State, towards the

city, towards the church, towards the very worst part of town. Lovely.

We had been driving for about 30 minutes and gone through four toll-booths on the

tri-state and were coming up on the fifth. I had hoped this was the last one before our

exit onto Jefferson. Surprisingly there had been a lot of traffic for so early on a Sunday

morning. I guess Chicago is a pretty Catholic town. Everybody’s going to Mass.

I inched my way up, for the fifth time, to the “exact-change-only” toll-booth and

dropped in my 30 cents. The light turned green but the toll-gate arm just stayed in place.

I dropped in another 30 cents into the basket. The light turned green, again, the toll-gate

arm didn’t budge. Another thirty cents, another green light. No “burrito”. Thirty cents

again. No “enchilada”. Thirty cents more. No cigar. (Cuban, I’m sure, since we’re talkin’

“Spanish”…”enchiladas” and all.)

“Blessed Antonio Banderas!” I prayed. (Oooops, he’ a movie star, not a Saint, but,

oh boy, is he blessed. I must get to confession.)

“Blessed John the Spaniard!” I corrected my prayer, as I was pretty sure we were in

the Hispanic section of Chicago.

The guy behind me started honking his horn, and the guy behind him, and the guy

behind him. No patience. I decided to get out of the car and see if I could manually push

up the toll-gate arm.

“Don’t leave, Mom!” shouted Campion. “A Tywanasaurus Wex might come and eat

us!”

“Campion, this is not Juwassic Pawk.” Although, there were some real animals

behind us. The others started honking their horns again.

Nora hung her head out the window as I tried to push up the gate arm.

“Some guy just screamed that you should move your sweet gas, Mom!” I’ve got to get

that girl’s hearing checked.

cont…AND THAT’S ALL THAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 6

(Page 133)

Michael started up the pick-up. I started up the station wagon. Somebody cried that

they were hungry.

“Nora, give the little ones those breakfast bars. The rest of you have to fast if you want

to go to Holy Communion, then we’ll go out to breakfast after Mass.” I put on the

defroster and started the wind shield wipers going. Michael was still sitting letting the

truck warm up.

“Can we go to Nacho Mammas for breakfast?” Jack asked as I was looking in the

rear-view mirror trying to straighten out my messy wet hair.

“We’re going to Nacho Bob Evans, I hope,” I said as I looked over at Campion sitting

next to me. He had already finished his breakfast bar and had a crunchy mess all over his

mouth.

“You look so nice in your handsome white shirt and red tie, Campion.” I leaned over

to straighten his wankajawed tie, then started looking in my purse for a kleenex to wipe

the breakfast bar crumbs off his mouth.

“I wanted to dwess like God today,” Campion said, wiping his messy mouth all over

the right shoulder of his white shirt.

“Don’t wipe your mouth on that shoulder!” I cried.

“Oh.” He said. Then immediately turned his face, left, wiping his mouth on the other

shoulder of his white shirt. I just rolled my eyes up to heaven.

“Mom, Dad’s leaving,” Bridget called out.

“Okay, kids.” I put the car in drive. “Let’s shake a leg Dinah gal, and put your shoes

on Lucy, ’cause we is goin’ to the city. Chi-town! Say good-bye to our campsite, we had

a great time kids, didn’t we?”

“Byeeeeee…..good-byyyyyyyye!!” The kids all waved and shouted.

“Please let’s go to Nacho Mamas,” begged Jack.

“How many days in a leaf year Mom?” Nora asked.

“Mom, James is touching me!” Bridget complained.

“I gotta go to the La-la!” Campion chimed in.

Paddy threw his empty plastic bottle of milk; hitting me at the back of my head. I

guess he was finished.

 cont…AND THAT’S ALL THAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 6

(Page 132)

“Who let Fluffy off the leash?” Jack complained, speaking of vowels.

“Phoofs and tooters, phoofs and tooters!” They started chanting.

“Ya ready to hit the road?” Michael smiled, leaning into the car window, rain

dripping down from his St. Louis Cardinal’s baseball cap. Michael, always smiling, the

fool.

“Phoofs and tooters, phoofs and tooters!” The kids were all laughing and singing.

What would life be like without gas?

Putting my hand to my forehead to wipe the raindrops off, I said, “Michael my seat

belt is broken and I’m completely appearance challenged.” I pulled at my wet frizzy hair.

“…and I want some coffee,” I demanded like a spoiled brat.

“Look. We have to get going or we’ll be late for Mass. You can drive without a seat

belt. What do you think our parents did?” he asked.

“My Mother never drove.” Boy, was she smart.

“Come on you look fine. After Mass we’ll all go out for breakfast.” The kids

cheered.

“Sure, sure.” I said. “Talk is cheap but it takes good money to buy whiskey.”

Throwing caution to the wind, I threw the belt and buckle onto the floor. Life must go

on.

“Do you need more change for the toll-way?” Michael checked.

“No, I have lots. Now show me on the map where the church is again. I just want to

be sure so if we get separated I can find it myself.”

Handing him the Illinois map, Michael showed me the way down the Tri-State as

drops of rain dripped off the bill of his baseball cap.

“Now get off here at Jefferson, turn left, go four blocks, then right on Laclede. Turn

left on Lafayette and it’s about four blocks down on your right. Father said it’s St.

Bernadette’s and it’s a big old red brick church. This part of the city is called Pierre

Square and there are a lot of urban pioneer types who have been re-habbing the area over

the last 20 years. Some of the neighborhood are projects and the church sits right in

between the projects and the urban pioneers.” He explained all this while standing in the

rain, getting soaked and never complaining. It’s a good man, Michael is.

“Projects? So you’re sayin’ the church is in a bad part of town, are ya?” I already

knew the answer. The rain was coming down even harder now.

“Yeah, probably. But remember, Maureen, Our Lord wasn’t born in the best part of

town.” It started really pouring. Michael kissed me and hauled-ass in the torrential

down-pour to the truck the way St. Joseph would have – kissed the Blessed Mother, that

is. St. Joseph only “hauled” donkey

DE PROFUNDIS      Every Sacrament I could…     Immersed my soul In graces, good. Every penance     That I uttered In fear and trepidation     Shuddered.     Every child I birthed in pain, I offered Him      So souls would gain.      And now, my soul,     In night, won’t cease,      For you, my prayers… De Profundis.     http://tinyurl.com/kp8q7s

cont…AND THAT’S ALL THAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 6

(Page 131)

“St. Senan of Scattery!” I exclaimed. Our campsite was scattered from hell to

breakfast. The tents were both down but things were strewn everywhere.

“Maureen, the baby’s in his car seat. I gave him a banana, he’s happy. You and the

girls throw everything you can onto the truck. You boys come help me get these tents

packed up.” Michael was spitting out orders as the clouds started to spit out rain.

We threw as much as we could onto the back of the pick-up. Then we pushed and

shoved what was left into the station wagon.

It began to pour; raining like a big dog.

The kids screamed and jumped into the car and truck. Did you ever notice that when

the going gets tough, everyone leaves?

“Everyone down to Jack get out and help, now!” Michael commanded. Out they

came and we all worked like the dickens in the pouring down rain.

Gregor and Jack helped their Dad tie down a big black tarp over the back of the pickup

and Kathleen helped me get all the little ones buckled into their seats. She then joined

Gregor in the cab of the truck. I started to buckle myself into the front seat of the station

wagon. I was sopping wet.

“Mom, Campion put his middle finger up at me without his other fingers!” Bridget

tattled.

My seat belt broke as I tried to pull it across my lap. There I sat, holding part of the

belt and buckle, with my right hand up in the air and the rest of the belt just laying limp

across my lap.

“Mom, Campion put his middle finger up at me without his other fingers!” Bridget

repeated.

I sat there still staring at the seat belt buckle that just broke off in my hand, as water

dripped from my hair, down my nose and into the front of my white, wrinkled, cotton

shirt. The rain pounded harder down on the car.

“MOM!” Bridget yelled.

“Bridget, give him YOUR finger!” I couldn’t think of what else to say. I just couldn’t

believe I was holding the seat belt buckle in my hand. For some reason I was having a

hard time dealing with the fact that the seat belt buckle just broke off right in my hand.

How was I going to drive 6 hours home to St. Louis without a seat belt?

“Mom. Tell, James that ‘a’, ‘e’, ‘i’, ‘o’, and ‘u’ are all bowels?” Nora requested.

St. Kilian! I’d kill for a cup of hot coffee.

All Souls’ Day     YES, I KNOW NOVEMBER     Yes, I know November     The tolling of the bell,      The whispers of the suf’ring souls      From mountain top to dell.     The chilly, gray, damp mornings     The rusting of the leaves,      The whispers of the suf’ring souls      Like moans from one who grieves.      And in the windy noon-time      When clouds fight ‘gainst sun’s might,      The whispers of the suf’ring souls      Cry, “Sanctuary light!”      So ‘fore the red-glassed candle,     Compelled, I go to pray,     The whispers of the suf’ring souls     Plead, “Sacrifice today!”     Now, deep, dark sanctuary     Is lit by candle, bold,     The whispers of the suf’ring souls…     “Your prayers are autumn gold!”     So like the leaves of autumn     I fall to kneeling posture,     The whispers of the suf’ring souls    Beg, “Say a Pater Noster!”     The flicker in the red glass     Burns hotter, now, with Creed.     Oh, yes, I know November! The month of Hope…souls freed!    http://tinyurl.com/kp8q7s

Year of the Priest    VIVA!     Viva!      Viva Cristo Rey!     Viva!     Just shouted yesterday.     Viva!     So hated down in Hell.     Viva!     Was shouted by Miguel     Viva!     Viva Cristo Rey!  Viva!     Just shouted yesterday.     Viva!     All Catholic boys should know.     Viva!     This word from Padre Pro.     Viva!     Viva Cristo Rey!     Viva!     Just shouted yesterday.     Viva! His arms outstretched, they shot.     Viva!     To stop the Catholic plot.     Viva!     Viva Cristo Rey!     Viva!      Just shouted yesterday.      Viva!     The body dropped and died.     Viva!     His blood then multiplied.      Viva!      Viva Cristo Rey!     Viva!     Just shouted yesterday.     Viva!     His blood runs through our veins.     Viva!      His holy hemorrhage reigns     Viva!      For Viva Cristo Rey!     Viva!     Forever and today.                                      VIVA!!     http://tinyurl.com/kp8q7s

 cont…AND THAT’S ALL THAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 6

(Page 130)

I threw more

toothbrushes at them, and assorted deodorants and soaps. Raindrops were starting to fall.

The girls and I headed into the ladies’ side.

I went to pull out my tube of Walgreen’s hemorrhoidal cream to dab on my eyelid and

realized that I had two tubes of toothpaste, no tube of hemorrhoidal cream.

“St. Heimrad, no hemorrhoidal cream?” I faced myself in the bathroom mirror. “I

must have given the boys the tube of hemorrhoidal cream instead of toothpaste.”

Expecting the boys to come pounding on the ladies’ La-la screaming for the tube of

toothpaste, we went ahead and brushed our teeth and combed our hair. Sometimes you

just have to live dangerously.

Outside, Gregor, Jack, Campion and James were patiently sitting on a bench with rain

drops fallin’ on their heads, and them, oblivious, staring into space just like their Dad, the

Ph.D.

“All finished and ready to go, boys?” I winced, waiting for them to yell at me because

I gave them the tube of hemorrhoidal cream instead of toothpaste to brush with.

They jumped up from the bench without a word and we started back to our campsite.

“That toothpaste is the macomic bomb, Mom.” Campion smiled, his teeth all hiney, I

mean, all shiney.

“Moms, you should buy that toothpastes more often,” James agreed.

“I liked that stuff.” Jack licked his lips. “That toothpaste would really be good in

hamburger-flavor.”

“Yeah,” was all that came out of Gregor’s mouth.

“Why are those people vacuuming their tent?” Kathleen asked as we passed Daryl and

Meryl Sterile’s campsite.

“I don’t know. It’s a mystery.” At least they’ll probably never have to worry about

their doctor finding green Easter basket grass up their butt cracks of dawn.

“She must be a dental case.” Said Nora.

“Mental case, Nora, not dental,” I corrected. There was another distant rumbling of

thunder over the lake. “And before you criticize someone, you should walk a mile in

their shoes. That way, when you do criticize someone, you’ll be a mile away and have

their shoes.” It was too early in the morning to laugh at myself, so I thought I’d make fun

of somebody else.

 cont…Chapter 1 

(page

"Answer the trashcan?" somebody asked. Now, there’s a mystery.

"For Heaven’s sake, you know what I mean." I continued to pick up the trash while

the phone continued to ring.

"Wipe my stupid popos!!" James was pitching a fit. I dropped the trash and ran into

the bathroom to help him.

"Mom, can’t you get that phone?" Rose, our 20-yr.-old, college, daughter, asked.

"I’m putting makeup on for work." As usual she was in front of her mirror. Her college

field of study is the mirror, I think.

"I’m wipin’ a ‘claggy off a waggy’!" putting it as delicately as possible. "Now get off

yours and answer it yourself, young lady."

"Mom, I’m not dressed. What’s a ‘claggy’? What’s a ‘waggy’?" Rose asked.

"It’s a mystery, Rose!" I said.

"A ‘claggy’, ‘waggy’ mystery?" she asked. Don’t they teach these kids any good

philosophy in college anymore?

One of my favorite Irish philosophers, G.K. O’Chesterton once wrote on the subject of

mysteries…

"Mysticism keeps men sane. As long as you have mystery you have health; when you

destroy mystery you create morbidity. The ordinary man has always been sane because

the ordinary man has always been a mystic. He has permitted the twilight. He has

always had one foot in earth and the other in fairyland. He has always left himself free to

doubt his gods; but (unlike the agnostic of today) free also to believe in them."

"He has always had one foot in earth and the other in fairyland." That’s me, one foot

in earth and the other foot in – "La-la" land.

The phone continued ringing. Finished with James, I ran from the bathroom, back to

the kitchen, tripped over the trashcan and looked for the phone.

"Pee-uuu!" Campion held his nose as Jack, his eight-year-old brother, joined him in

snooping into my Walgreen’s bag. "You stink, Jack!" Campion charitably exclaimed.

Setting the trashcan back up straight, I asked Jack, "What did you do?"

"I farted," Jack said, common as a can of corn.

"Well, I don’t want to hear it!" I commanded.

"You didn’t," Jack replied. He had a point. He headed toward the steps from the

kitchen to the garage below.

"Why, I oughta’." I raised the back of my hand to him and he ran down the steps like

a striped-ass bird. These kids, so crude.

"Mom!" Rose called out, pausing from her studies in front of her make-up mirror.

"What’s a ‘claggy’?"

"If you don’t know by now I’m not tellin’ ya." The billy-be-damned phone kept

ringing.

"St. Telosphorus! Where the heck is that telephone?" I cried, searching all over and

around Robin Hood’s barn.

Then, suddenly, right there, in Robin Hood’s barn, I spotted them…THEM. The latest

mysteries of my life, carpenter ants or THEM.

One of the first really scary science-fiction movies I ever saw, back in the 1960’s, was

a film entitled "THEM", about ants which became giant mutants after they had been

radiated from a nuclear bomb blast testing site in the desert. THEM grew into

gargantuan-sized-Godzilla-like ants which decided to invade man’s domain, the sewers of

Los Angeles.

I started stompin’ on THEM with all my might as they scurried to-and-fro in all the

trash scattered on the kitchen floor. Campion immediately screamed, "It’s THEM! Hey,

you guys, we got THEM!" He was delighted. It’s a deprived life my children have.

Campion joined in on the stompin’ of THEM. Actually it’s become, rather, a motherson

kind of bonding experience, killing little ants, together.

"Blessed Antony Grassi. Oh, please keep these ants out IN the ‘grassi’!" I prayed to

dear Blessed Antony.

"This is the macomic bomb, Mom!" Campion gloried, stomping with joy.

Everything was the bomb to Campion, the latest catch-phrase for something "cool",

but he also placed "macomic" in front of it and meant "atomic" but he never can quite get

his pronunciation of certain words right. At least I have been able to impart some of my

erudite knowledge to him and now Campion knows the scientific word for ants…THEM.

"St. Francis of Assisi. All I ever asked for were the ‘creature-comforts’ of life NOT

creatures," I asked St. Francis to intercede for me, wrong Saint for that!

I grabbed a large, red can of ant spray from one of the kitchen cupboards and started

nuking THEM. I love the smell of Raid in the morning.

"Mmmmmm, good, Mom. I love that smell." Campion drank in the aroma of the

Raid Bug and Ant Spray. Like Mother, like son.

 cont…Chapter 1

(page 9)

The front door-bell was now ringing and ringing. Shoveling up an armful of garbage

from the floor I ran to the front door to see who was leaning on it, forgetting to throw the

garbage back into the trashcan.

Smooshing the garbage between my chin, chest and one arm, I opened the front door

with the other hand.

"Yes?" I said still cradling the garbage in my arms staring at a rather hefty woman

holding a little – no, a large little boy’s hand.

"What happened?" The woman asked looking at the bundle of garbage in my arms

and past me into the house.

"Nothing," I frowned.

"Has your house been broken into or something? Things look a mess." The woman

was now looking over my shoulder and eyeing my living room.

"What are you talking about?" I turned, scanning my living room clutching the

garbage close to my heart. "This is the way my house always looks."

"Oh. I AM sorry." She raised her eyebrows condescendingly.

"Excuse me, I can’t remember your name, and please don’t help me." I feigned

Alzheimers.

"You know perfectly well who I am, Maureen, I’m your neighbor from down the street

and don’t put on that short-term-memory-act with me. Even though you are much older."

It really wasn’t an act, but I’d bite. Mrs. Hefty, like me, was a stay-at-home Mom whom I

wished, didn’t. "You hit my big boy, here, right in his face when you opened up your car

door a while ago."

Mrs. Hefty’s son, little lefty-Hefty, because of his left-punch, and his two younger

brothers, the littler Hefties, were the bullies of the neighborhood constantly practicing

their Karate moves, punching, chopping and kicking the bloody woop-woop out of the

other children building up their self-esteem, according to Mrs. Hefty, who didn’t believe

in guns and violence.

"Oh, don’t worry," I smiled. "My car door is fine. Thank God it didn’t get dented or

anything. There’s no need for you to call your insurance company, I’ll let it go this time.

Have a nice day." I kicked the door to shut it with my left foot. Mrs. Hefty stuck her left

foot in between my door and the frame stopping it from closing.

"I can never seem to communicate with you, can I, Maureen?" Mrs. Hefty said.

"I don’t know." I shrugged my shoulders.

Always up on the latest parenting techniques and lingo Mrs. Hefty asked, "Can we use

our ‘words’ here, Maureen?"

"No!" I kicked the door shut.

 cont…Chapter 1

(page 10)

The phone was ringing again. I went back to the kitchen stuffing my armful of

garbage back into the trash-can, still sitting in the middle of the floor. You’d of thought

someone might have taken it out by now. Even THEM ants could help once in a while.

They live here too.

Mumbling under my breath I berated myself, “Why didn’t I buy that WELCOME mat

I saw at the Walgreen’s today, it would have been perfect in helping me to avoid

confrontations with Mrs. Hefty.” The mat had read “WELCOME, now go home!” That’s

what I call usin’ your words!

Campion was still stompin’ on THEM, who were half dead, from the Raid,

yet still desperately pulling themselves along the kitchen floor, clinging to life. “Mom,

was that Mrs. Hefty?”

“Sure was,” I said looking under the kitchen table for the phone receiver that was

ringing again.

“Did you slam the door in her face?” Campion asked.

Stooping under the kitchen table I pivoted towards Campion. Not wanting to lie I

said, “Yes, Campion, I did.”

“That’s not very nice, is it Mom?” Campion had an informed conscience and was

coming into that age of reason. I gotta’ stop raisin’ kids to be this way.

“No, son, it wasn’t and I’ll have to be going to Confession soon. But you have to

realize, Campion…” I paused trying to think of something profound to say that might

help explain my bad behavior. “…in this world the problem with some people, is that

when they’re not drunk, they’re sober. A very great (and very drunk) Irishman said that,

Campion.”

cont…Chapter 1

(page 11)

Campion, frowned and scrunched up his bran-flake freckled nose. He had no idea

what I was talkin’ about. Neither did I.

"It’s one of them mysteries, Campion." Mysteries – the sanity of life.

"Oh!" Campion smiled and walked past me down the steps to the garage below. I

really had to get to Confession soon.

The phone still rang. I could hear it, but it wasn’t in its cradle on the hutch, in the

kitchen where it’s supposed to be. That’s why I was on the floor looking under the table.

Cordless phones; the teenagers love them and leave them, anywhere.

I listened stooping down, resting one of my arms up on the kitchen table to balance

myself. Glancing up to the heavens, in exasperation wondering if I would ever be able to

talk on the phone again. Then I saw a sight that would chill any mother’s soul. Black

watermelon seeds – all over the ceiling right above the kitchen table.

"St. Mellon, who’s been spitting their watermelon seeds onto the ceiling again?" No

one answered. No one was there. At that very moment a seed fell from the ceiling and

hit me smack-dab in my left eye. If it’s not my left foot, it’s my left eye.

The phone continued ringing. I thought, "Oh, well." Flipping the melon seed out of

my left eye, I decided to walk over to the refrigerator and make myself a baloney

sandwich. When out of your mind, eat.

Opening up the door of the refrigerator I was met with another sight that would, once

again, chill any mother’s soul – the phone receiver ringing away on a shelf inside the

refrigerator next to the baloney and the baloney package was wide-opened!

"Now, that’s about as useful as a windshield wiper on a goat’s ass." It rang and I

answered, closing the refrigerator door. "Hello, Flanigan’s mule barn, Chief Jackass

speaking."

"Mrs. Flanigan?" It was Father Stanislaw, pastor and principal of our church and

parish school. "Hello, is this the Flanigan’s residence?" He asked hesitantly. "The

‘what’ barn?"

"Ahhhmmmmm…" What should I say? Just be truthful, I thought to myself.

"Hello, hello, is anyone there? Do I have the Flanigan’s residence?" Father continued

questioning. What was this priest’s problem?

Always be truthful, no matter how humiliating.

"No speeka da inglish," I mimicked Tina Talluto from Wallgreens. It was a truthful

and good imitation.

 cont…Chanpter 1

(Page 12)

"I’m sorry, I must have the wrong number." Father hung up.

"Mom?" Nora screamed, sending another chill into my refrigerated soul which bore

the dark secrets of our water melon seed-dotted ceiling and our fridge with furry, bowls

of left-overs and phones.

Nora is our 10-year-old pre-teen in bouncing braids. She ran in the back door with her

shadow, Bridget, who sticks to Nora like peanut-butter. Bridget wears braids, also, and

she and Nora look a lot alike. They are affectionately known as the Braid Brigade,

around the house, but Bridget is nine with mood swings that could shame a menopausal

50-year-old.

"You shin kicker, spit flicker, nose picker!" Bridget spewed at Nora. Bridget loved to

recite poetry.

"Where have you two been? Help me pick up this trash." Placing the phone receiver

securely back in its cradle, where I prayed it would remain, I began throwing banana

skins, apple peels, and those indestructible red rings of paper from the baloney slices into

the trashcan.

"I’ve been helping Dad pack the truck and coolers for our trip, Mother." Nora

answered too calmly and maturely. Oh, the calm before the storm. "But Bridget called

me Olga the Ugly." Oh, boy, here we go, the old "Olga the Ugly" storm trick. Nora

folded her arms in front of her and put one of her braids in her mouth to suck on.

"Bridget, what did you say to Nora?" I looked up at her as I was stooping on the floor

amidst the trash. This is not good, this looking "up" to my children.

"I said I hate her because she took my shorts and I told her she’s ugly, because she is."

Bridget folded her arms and stomped her foot for emphasis at the end of her sentence.

She then stuck her brown braid into her mouth also.

Bridget and Nora are only 15 months apart and look so much alike, people mistake

them for twins, especially when they are mad and both sucking on their brown braids.

This is known around our house as, "braid-rage".

The phone started ringing again. I had to be a good mother and mete out justice

swiftly, and there was little time. Since I still had much packing to do, so I made it short

and sweet.

"Well, God made you ugly, then booed at you." I told Bridget standing in front of me

defiantly as I grabbed hold of her braid and flipped it out of her mouth.

Nora burst out laughing, pointing a humiliating finger at Bridget.

"And you’re so ugly that when you were born the doctor slapped me." I flipped Nora’s

braid out of her mouth for laughing at Bridget’s scolding.

"But, Mom!" Bridget whined as I walked over to the sink to brush off some cookie

crumbs from my hands. Bridget was on me like ugly on an ape. "But Mom, but, mom!"

Bridget persisted. "I need some more shorts."

"All right! We’ll go to the chicken nuggets after our camping trip and buy you some."

I turned on the faucet to splash some cold water on my face.

"To the chicken nuggets?" The Braid-Brigade glanced at each other, then at me.

"I mean the clothes store. Chicken nuggets is what I’m making for dinner tonight.

Darn you kids." I splashed some more water on my face.

Boy, did I need a vacation. Boy, could I use some chicken nuggets. Boy, was I

getting hungry.

 cont…Chapter 1

(Page 13)

The phone continued ringing.

“Now, you two help pick up this trash and apologize. It’s a sin to be so uncharitable.

God gave you each other for a good reason. (Probably to punish me.) You have so

much. Why, there are people in Hell that want ice water.” I yanked on each of their

braids. They both said they were sorry, then stuck their tongues out at each other. I

pretended not to see.

I ran over to answer the ringing phone slipping on a banana peel twisting my back in

such a way that an electrical-like current shot through my right buttocks down my leg.

“No, no, oh, no, dear God,” I prayed, paralyzed in pain, grabbing my lower back.

Sciatica!

“Mom, where ya going?” The Braid-Brigade asked.

“Don’t you EVER talk to me like that again or I’ll slap you both, do you hear? You

bunch of bratty Braid-Brigades!” I screamed at the girls, in an apparent rage from

nowhere, insane with pain. Closing my eyes, trying to endure the torture of a pinched

sciatica nerve, I realized how terrible I had sounded.

Nora curled her lip and raised an eyebrow, cocking her head towards Bridget, giving

her that all-knowing look that said, “Mom’s-cracked-a-mental”.

“What an idiotic.” Bridget whispered, now, only too happy to help her dear sister pick

up the trash as they bonded together to make fun of me. .

I dragged my sciatica, numb right-leg, and my left-foot, over to the phone, ensconced

in it’s cradle, on the kitchen hutch.

“Huh-looooo?” I sang out in my most honest, fake, voice as I picked up the telephone.

“Mrs. Flanigan?” Father Stanislaw, again! Doesn’t this priest have a confession to

hear or something?

“Speaking,” I sinfully sang as if everything was hunkey-dorey.

“Mrs. Flanigan, I have the name of the Church you wanted to attend while in Chicago,

administered by our Order. It’s called St. Bernadette’s and it’s in a part of Chicago, called

Pierre Square.”

“Oh, that must be in the French Quarter, right Father?” I wanted to sound like I was

well-traveled, well-rounded, you know.

“I’m afraid the French Quarter is located in New Orleans, Mrs. Flanigan,” Father

kindly corrected. So much for well-traveled and well-rounded. (although, after birthing

10 kids I am well-rounded.)

“But, of course,” I responded in a French accent. “Pierre Square, New Orleans, St.

Louis – well, it’s all Greek to me. Or French? Yes, French. I’m sounding like a

complete loon, aren’t I? Or should I say, ‘Claire-de-lune’, Father?” Surely, the sciatica

had gone to my brain I couldn’t really be this stupid or maybe I just ate a lot of lead paint

chips as a child.

“Yes, Mrs. Flanigan.” Father Stanislaw, always kind to the mentally ill.

 THE

 NECKLACE

My children

Made a necklace,

For me,

Pearl-white and green.

And ev’ry jewel

Sat right a top

On stems, of earth,

Quite lean.

The stems they

Held the pearls

Pronged in by

Emerald jewel,

A prodigy

Of balance

Above the blades

They rule.

Each jewel,

So cotton-soft,

Exudes a scent

All over.

Pearl and

Emerald, necklace?

The miracle

Of clover!

Long-Skirts

www.hilaryflanery.blogspot.com

MY
MOTHER’S
FEET

Long-Skirts

www.hilaryflanery.blogspot.com

Oh, Mother of God,
Holiest one
Please guide me
‘Till my days are done.

Help me to wipe
The nastiest nose.
Help me to
The dirtiest clothes.

Help me to nurse
The sickest child,
Discipline
Teen boys, so wild.

My precious girls,
Help them to learn,
Good men from bad,
They must discern.

And if I die
Before my honey,
Guide him, next time,
To marry for money !

www.hilaryflanery.blogspot.com

 cont…Chapter 1

(page 14)

“Okay, now, Father, what was that church address again in Chicago?” I wrote the

location of St. Bernadette’s on a white paper napkin with a broken crayon that I had

grabbed from the Braid-Brigade who were about ready to throw them into the trash-can.

“Oh and by the way Father, is Father Artego still stationed at the Chicago Parish?”

Father Artego had been at our Parish for a couple of years in St. Louis and the children

had just adored him. He was always ready to play soccer, share a bottle of wine or make

you get on you knees and thank God you’re still on you feet. Especially if we all had too

much wine.

“Yes, Mrs. Flanigan but unfortunately Father Artego will be leaving for Argentina

today. His father just passed away. He’s stopping in St. Louis at our Priory tomorrow on

his way home to Buenos Aires.”

“Oh I’m so sorry we will miss him, Father. Please give him our sympathies and we’ll

be sure to have a Mass said for the repose of his father’s soul. Do tell Father Artego that

our farts are with him.” I said.

“Well, I hope not.” Father Stanislaw was a strange priest.

“Huh?” I replied. What’s wrong with “our hearts are with him.” I was thinkin’.

“You have a good time, Mrs. Flanigan. I think you are really in need of a vacation.

God bless you.” Father Stanislaw meant well but it was him who needed the vacation.

“Thank you, Father.” I answered.

“And keep those mules under control.” He reminded me of my earlier indiscretion

with the “Flanigan’s mule barn”.

“Yes, God…I mean, thank you man…no. Talk to you later, Father.” Holy

shhhhhh…shhhmokes! Father knew. He knew, I was the Chief Jackass.

I hung up the phone. I took in a deep breath and let out a long sigh. At that moment

James came bouncing out of the La-la into the kitchen and through the trash on a pogostick

like Tiger from Winnie the Pooh.

“Get off that pogo-stick, James, you’re scattering trash everywhere and you’re

supposed to do that outside.” I ordered, wiping the sweat from my brow with the paper

napkin I had just written the church address on, leaving a streak of crayon across my

forehead.

“You idiotic freak of nature.” Bridget swatted at James as he pogo-sticked past her.

“That’s not a pogo-stick Mom, that’s the toilet plunger!”

Squinting my eyes after James, bouncing down the hall I remembered that we didn’t

even OWN a pogo-stick.

“James! Put that plunger back in the La-la and come sit in front of the T.V. set!”

There are times when a T.V. can be a friend of mine

 cont…Chapter 1

(page 15)

“I’m not your stupid neighbors, Mr. Rogers!” said James, who had obediently come

right out of the bathroom and took his place in front of the little T.V., tuning in on Mr.

Rogers.

The T.V. is in the kitchen so I can keep an eye on what the children are watching. It

also comes in handy when I’m fighting, dialoging with our teenagers. I just turn up the

volume and the little ones can’t hear a thing I’m saying.

“Coming through…look out!” Speaking of teenagers, Kathleen, our 17 yr. old, teen

queen, had just run into the kitchen tripping over the trashcan, knocking it down, and then

ran down the hall-way into the La-la locking the door tight. Something was up.

Then Liam, our 21 year-old son, and the oldest of our clan, stomped through, right

behind her. Uh, oh, THAT’S what was up.

Liam had driven Kathleen home from the Mall, where they work and now they were

both making mad dashes to take showers for dates. We do have another shower but no

one likes it as much as the La-la room’s shower. It has a stronger spray. Well, actually,

the other one doesn’t even work but we like to “say” we have two showers.

“Open up, Kathleen!!” Liam shouted pounding on the door. “Or I’ll break this flippin’

door down!” And he would if I didn’t think of something fast.

“What’s the matter with Liam, Mom?” Bridget frowned at him yelling at Kathleen.

“Honey, he’s teething.” When the kids are little and irritable, I always say “they’re

teething”. It’s worked for 21 years.

Liam was now madder than a cut snake, a teething cut snake.

“St. James ‘the Cut-to-pieces’, Nora, where is your Dad?” I called out.

“In the garage packing the truck.” She replied helping Bridget gather up more trash

that Kathleen and Liam spilled after tramping through the kitchen on their shower safari.

“Please, go get him, girls.” I begged, throwing my eyes around the kitchen for some

sort of food-intervention to throw at Liam. Food usually soothes his teething.

“If you don’t open that door, Kathleen…MOM…get her out of there, she knew I had to

take a shower first, I’ve got a date. I’m gonna’ kill her!” He meant it, and I believed him.

Teething young men of 21 years, turn into savage beasts when it comes to needing a

shower or food. The shower was out, for the moment, so I ran to the refrigerator for

reinforcements. Opening the door I spotted my faithful back-ups…food and better yet,

ambrosia of the gods, mother’s milk…a can of Miller High-Life beer!

“Come on Liam,let’s have a little…’Miller-time-out’?” I held up the can of beer and

popped the top.

I’ve never been a big proponent of “time-outs” for my little kids as disciplinary

measures. Opening up a “can-of-whoopin’” is our “modus operandi” (yes, I’m fluent in

other languages.) I don’t believe in wasting perfectly good “time-outs” on young

children. Time-outs are Friday night dates for the parents. But when they hit those

terrible-teething-twenties, it’s, Miller-time-outs all around.

If it is right

And wasn’t wrong,

Our breasts would have been,

Five miles long.

So working Moms,

Who leave their young,

Could nurse at work,

No baby clung

To Mommy’s arms

That now makes bread,

Oh, not that wheat,

The green instead,

Where, printed, “…God we trust”,

With zest -

In everything…

But Mommy’s breast!

THE INCREDIBLE EDIBLE
CATHOLIC EGG

Incredible,
Edible,
Catholic egg.

For you
I’d sell
An arm and a leg.

Delighting rich
And simple
Folk.

Hard-boiled
White
Around the yolk.

Sometimes scrambled.
Sometimes
Fried.

Often, next
To bacon’s
Side.

Spittering,
Sputtering,
Splashing grease.

But into my life
You bring
Such peace.

For after
Matins’ morning
Prayer

I go to the
Fridge
And you are there.

Always
Constant.
Circled friend.

No beginning
No big
End.

Reminding me,
When sick
Or well,

You’re always
There
Inside the shell.

Ready to
Nourish.
Ready to feed.

Obeying God,
Your dairy
Creed.

And yes
You’re Catholic,
Incredible egg.

For monks say
You’re best…
With a St. Bernard’s keg!

FATIMA

        SINGS

We battle for Mass,

Daily it’s said.

We battle for schools,

Where God is not dead.

We battle for books

Published and read.

We battle for peace

Retreats are priest led.

We battle to shield

Motherhoods’ plight

To let her nurse child

At home day and night.

We battle for men,

Who quietly fight,

Support them in prayer

To lead us to right.

We battle for truth,

Professed in the Creed,

Say “NO” to the wolves

Who twist it indeed.

We battle for grace

We drink it like mead

It quenches our thirst

Refreshed so to heed…

All that is said

By wolves wearing rings

Corrupting the facts

With traditional slings.

But triumph is coming

Heart Immaculate brings,

‘Cause the war isn’t over…

Till  FATIMA sings!!

NOTRE DAME

Dare me Not

Woe…

          Notre Dame

To hold back His wrath

For my holy name

Dare me Not

Woe…

          Notre Dame

Bestowing great honors

On lawmakers who maim

Dare me Not

Woe…

          Notre Dame

With Judas you learned

At the first priests can shame

Dare me Not

Woe…

          Notre Dame

Transpose my nine letters

“Dare me Not” I proclaim!!

cont…Chapter 1

(Page 16)

Stompin’ THEM and Miller-time-outs…quality-time never sounded so good.
“Your sister will be out in a few minutes, just relax. Have a beer and a smoke. Go, sit
out on the back porch, it’s a beautiful afternoon.” Alcohol and tobacco – mother’s little
helpers.
“Okay, Mom…but she shouldn’t have gone in there before me,” he complained, taking
the can of beer.
“I’ll talk to her. Now, go, sit. She won’t be long.” I shoved him out the kitchen door
to the back porch with my left-foot.
I stepped over James, sitting in front of the T.V, to pick up the trash from the kitchen
floor. Talking to myself, loudly, competing with Mr. Rogers, like some poor old
deranged bag lady, I muttered and prayed to God to give me some more patience…NOW!
Sciatica pain shot down my leg. I ask for patience, He gives me pain.
“Mother of God!” I moaned.
“Who are you talking to, Maureen?” Speaking of pain, it was Michael, the husband.
“I’m talking to God,” I answered.
“God?” He laughed.
“Yes, Michael, God. Ya know, that crazy Creator guy?” I placed my hands on his
square shoulders, pulled him by his strong neck and kissed him, grabbing a handful of his
thick, wavy, black-Irish hair.
“Want to do some ‘creating’?” Michael loved to fight.
Michael and I have known each other since our senior year in high school and married
while in college. He went on to graduate school and received a Ph.D., from the
University of Wisconsin, in Madison, and now, is a professor in Clinical Psychology at a
local university, here, in St. Louis.
He is the head of our family, who thinks before he speaks. I, am the woman behind
the man, shouting, yelling, flailing, screaming, and always speaking TWICE before I
think. That’s just the kind of hair-pin, I am.
“What’s going on up here? I heard Liam shouting and the girls said he was going to
kill Kathleen.” Michael started helping me pick up the scattered trash.
“So what else is new? It’s okay. I gave him a time-out,” I explained. “He’s out back
having a beer and a fresh of breath air.” I pointed over my shoulder to the back porch off
the kitchen.
“A ‘fresh of breath air’?” Michael looked puzzled.
“You know what I mean.” St. Scholastica, these academic types, so literal. They
expect you to speak perfect English all the time.

 cont…Chapter 1

(Page 17)

“Mom! Dad! Campion closed the truck door on his hand and there’s blood and guts

everywhere!” screamed Nora, hysterically.

“Good Lord, our first camping injury and we’re not even camping!” Grabbing a bath

towel from the hall closet to wrap up Campion’s hand, I ran slipping and tripping, again,

into the trashcan in the middle of the kitchen floor.

“I told you boys not to play in that truck.” Michael was already at the kitchen sink

running cold water over Campion’s bloody finger.

It wasn’t very bad. But I did wrap it in the towel to stop the bleeding.

“Is he going to die?” Asked Nora.

“How many times have we told you children never to play in cars and trucks. I swear

you kids must have fallen out of a stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down!!” I

gently applied pressure with the towel to stop the bleeding.

“Come on kids, let your mom take care of Campion and we’ll finish packing up the

truck and coolers.” Michael headed back down the kitchen stairs to the garage with a

couple of the kids following.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” screamed Campion.

“Campion, you’re all right. It’s just a little cut, thank God! I’ll put some vaseline and a

band-aid on it and it will be fine.” I soothed him and wiped away the tears from his

sunburned pink freckled cheeks.

Reaching into the cupboard above the kitchen sink I took out a jar of vaseline and a

band-aid.

“Jack told me that I was going to have to have my finger amputated AND cut off at

the hospito and that I couldn’t go campin’ in Chicago,” Campion sobbed.

“Shush. You’re just fine, honey. You shouldn’t listen to Jack, you know he likes to

tease.” I stooped down and gave him a big hug and kiss. He shot back a big smile and

promptly put his finger into his nose, picking it.

“Stop that digging for gold.” I slapped away his band-aid finger from his nose. “Now

you go back to helping your Daddy pack that truck.” I kissed him and away he went

holding his band-aid finger in the air for all to see while sticking his other finger up his

nose.

“Jack!” I shouted.

“Yes, ma’am?” I jumped with a jerk straining my sciatica. Jack had been standing

right behind me.

“Darn you, Jack, you scared the be-jeebers out of me,” I said, pressing on my lower

back with both hands.

Jack is eight years old, and pretty quiet, for a Flanigan, but he’s not to be trusted. That

one’s always got an ace up his hole, I mean his whole sleeve.

“Okay, buddy, let’s have a chinwag.” I sat him down at the kitchen table.

“Huh?” he said.

“What do you mean scaring the bloody woop-woop out of your little brother like

that?” I questioned.

“Huh?” He asked. “Woop-woop?”

“Doesn’t anyone in this family understand English?” I asked.

“What’s ‘woop-woop’, Mom?” Jack had the audacity to ask.

“It’s Latin or something or some derivative or something, or…now stop changing the

subject and tell me why you scared Campion by saying his finger was going to be

amputated?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged his shoulders.

“Mom, how long do I boil these eggs for my dinner at work? I want them to be hard-

boiled.” Rose, the college makeup-mirror-major, was cooking something on the stove.

“I don’t know Rose, can’t you see I’m dealing with a ‘woop-woop’ crisis?” I said.

“A ‘what-what’ crisis?” She just had to ask.

“Is Kathleen out of the La-la?” Liam stuck his head in from the back porch.

I ignored them all and centered my attention on Jack.

“Jack, you scared Campion, he thought he was going to have his finger cut off. Now

what happened? Tell the truth and shame the devil or I’ll kill ya.” I demanded.

“I’m gonna’ kill Kathleen, Mom!” Liam walked back into the house.

“Have another beer.” I called out to Liam over Jack’s head. Better an alcoholic than a

murderer.

“I just told a little white lie, Mom. Campion’s a big baby.” Jack narrowed his eyes in

defiance.

“Mom, what about these eggs? How long do I boil them so they get hard-boiled? I

have to get to work!” Rose yelled.

“Boil them….’till…’till…” I looked at Jack and put my hands over his ears,

exasperated, and whispered, “Boil them ’till they asshole!” That’s what my grandmother

always said. “Rose, I’m busy here; 10 minutes or so.”

“WHAT…ever!” Rose said indignantly.

Fr. Hesburgh said:  “The 91-year-old Hesburgh said in an interview Thursday with WNDU-TV that the school was right to invite Obama…Solutions to difficult problems are going to come from “people from universities. They aren’t going to come from people running around with signs,” he said. “

AUTUMN

BLOOD

Fall fall

Fall the leaves

As the blood-red Autumn

Sighs and grieves

For in the gentle

Blood-fed womb

Leaves are crushed

An Autumn tomb

“And the Word made Flesh”

For “excommunication”

But flesh wouldn’t say…

So exoneration.

Nor did flesh demand

Or articulate

Only “morally-bankrupt”

Not “excommunicate!”

So fall fall

Fall the leaves

The blood-red Autumn

Sighs and grieves

In the land of the blind

One-eyed man’s king

But on his head

Autumn blood will cling!

Hesburgh…”people from universities”

THE
IRISH
KNEELERS

And when we are told,
“Don’t kneel anymore.”
Since we don’t hold doctorates…
We kneel and IGNORE!!

cont…IT’S A GOOD CATHOLIC MOTHER, I AM!

cont…Chapter 1

(Page 18)

“Go help your Dad pack up, now.” Jack jumped over James still sitting in front of the

T.V. and kicked him in the head accidentally.

“Jack…please be nimble.” I joked, as he shot down the kitchen stairs to the garage.

Hauling my sorry-sciatica back to the trashcan Michael called up the stairs to me from

the garage. “Maureen, where’s the keys?”

“The inside pocket of my purse,” I yelled.

“The keys, in your purse?” He asked as though that was the strangest thing he ever

heard of. He’s got his nose in the books too much.

“Yes, in my purse! That’s where I always keep the keys!” I found that I was throwing

trash into the can to the beat of Mr. Roger’s theme song, “…it’s a beautiful day in the

neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighborhood…”, sure it is, Mr. Rogers, when your

take-home salary is a cool million.

The braid-brigade came running up the steps, jumped over James’ head and started

rummaging through my purse still sitting on the kitchen table.

“What are you two doing?” Rose asked from over at the kitchen sink where she was

peeling her ass-holed eggs.

Nora and Bridget, ignoring Rose, (as we all try to do) ran over to the stair railing and

shouted, “We can’t find it, Dad.”

“What can’t you find?” I asked, looking up from the trash.

“Honey?” Michael walked slowly back up the steps into the kitchen from the garage

below. “What are you doing keeping the CHEESE in your purse?”

“The CHEESE in my purse? I thought you said, the KEYS…and why, why, Michael

would you send the girls to look in my purse for the CHEESE? Who would keep their

CHEESE in their purse?” Michael must have eaten some of those lead paint chips as a

child, too.

“I was looking for it in the small refrigerator in the garage and it wasn’t

there, so I sent the girls upstairs to see if you had it in your purse, where you said it was

when I called up asking where it was.” He spoke very calmly.

“In my purse, Michael?” I burst out laughing. “CHEESE in my purse? I thought you

said KEYS, Michael, KEYS!”

“Knowing you, Maureen, anything is possible.” He commented.

“But to tell the girls to look in my purse for the CHEESE? What were you thinking?

How intelligent is that?” Poor, Michael. He was used to dealing with only artificial

intelligence, the University.

cont…IT’S A GOOD CATHOLIC MOTHER, I AM!

cont…Chapter 1

(Page 19)

 ”Oh, Michael…” I doubled over laughing harder at the

thought of him screaming out “CHEESE” and me hearing “KEYS”. “…I haven’t laughed

so hard since the hogs ate sister.” I spit and drooled all over the front of myself. I needed

das dental hygienist’s chained bib.

“Maureen, get yourself under control would ya’, then give the girls the cheese…c-h-ee-

s-e…CHEESE!” He spelled it out as if I was dumb; what happened to deaf?

“Come here girls, the cheese is up in THIS refrigerator where we keep

the…phhhhone.” I covered my mouth laughing and drooling, and accidentally bumped

into Rose who was trying desperately to get back to her mirror and finish dressing for

work. I wiped my hand, covered in drool, on Rose’s arm, not thinking.

“Disgusting, mo-ther. You people are…WHAT…ever!” Rose threw in her support

wiping my spit off her arm. Everyone says Rose is my spittin’ image, I was just trying to

reinforce that.

I gave Nora and Bridget the loaf of cheese and they ran downstairs to pack it in the

cooler.

“Maureen.” Michael walked towards me, frowning, as I leaned my back against our

refrigerator continuing to shake with laughter. He was pointing his finger at me and

shaking it sternly.

“Now, dear…remember our motto, ‘Murder, yes, divorce, never’! I smiled, sheepishly,

holding my hands up in the air innocently surrendering. When we married we exchanged

vows and that particular motto penned by that great Irish-American, Erma McBombeck.

“Yes, Maureen, I remember our motto.” He put his arms around what used to be my

waist, and pulled me so hard into him I thought he was going to murder me. He kissed

me. “You are certifiable, you know,” he whispered after the kiss. I threw my arms

around his neck and kissed him back, spit, drool and all. It WAS a beautiful day in the

neighborhood.

“How about bringing me down a nice, cold beer?” He bribed me with another kiss.

“Blessed Herman the Cripple, Michael Flanigan.” I whispered so the children of the

neighborhood wouldn’t hear, “Just because you have a crack in your butt doesn’t mean

you’re crippled, ya know?”

cont…IT’S A GOOD CATHLOLIC MOTHER, I AM!

cont…Chapter 1

(Page 20)

“Maureen, Maureen, Maureen…” He shook his head as he went down to the garage to

finish packing.

I pulled out a beer for Michael and myself. This was my vacation, too, and it was time

to kick back and relax. Beer isn’t just for breakfast anymore.

Kathleen emerged out of the bathroom drying her hair with a towel and stood

watching Mr. Rogers with James.

“Liam, Kathleen is out of the shower.” Liam was now on the living room couch

reading.

“In a minute, Mom.” Liam said nonchalantly.

“What? In a minute?” I limped into the living room. “Why I oughta…causing such a

ruckus like you did, and now you say ‘in a minute’.”

“Don’t crack a mental, Mom,” Liam condescendingly instructed.

I mumbled under my breath turning back into the kitchen. “You kids are making me

mental.” I hobbled back to the kitchen table, put down Michael’s beer and took a gulp of

mine.

The trashcan stared up at me. I took another swig…”Gregor-dog-gone-you!” I

shouted. “Get this trashcan out of the middle of the kitchen floor.” It really was Gregor’s

job to take out the trash.

Gregor is your typical 13-year-old boy. He’s here, and he’s not here; we think of him

as surfing in Nebraska. He doesn’t care if or what you call him, just as long as you call

him to supper.

“Gregor, I made you a baloney sandwich with peanut butter, a bowl of corn flakes

and a glass of Mountain Dew!” I dragged my sorry-sciatica to the steps, holding tight to

mine and Michael’s beers. “Whew, it’s hotter than a beer fart in a mitten!” Oh, my. The

beer was beginning to have an effect on me. Good!

“MO-THER!!!” Kathleen looked up from Mr. Rogers. “Who farts in a mitten?” She

tried not to smile.

“Mr. Rogers,” Liam said, passing Kathleen on his way to the La-la and bumping into

Rose, on her way out to work.

“No he doesn’t, either,” Kathleen disagreed. “He farts in a sweater.”

“Hey!” James protested. “Mr. Rogers doesn’t do stupid farts.”

“He would if he lived in this neighborhood or else he’d get beat up.” And Liam

proceeded to “framp” all the way down the hall to the La-la.

“Pee-uuu!” James rolled onto his side on the floor giggling.

“You’re so funny, Liam, you’re disgusting.” Kathleen went back to drying her hair.

“WHAT-ever!” Hardboiled Rose grumbled, grabbing her bag of ass-holed eggs off

the kitchen table and the car “cheese” out of my purse. “I’m getting out of this mad

house. You’re all a bunch of clowns.”

“Rose! Good humor comes from the kitchen.” I called out.

 cont…IT’S A GOOD CATHOLIC MOTHER, I AM!

cont…Chapter 1

(Page 21)

“WHAT…ever!” Rose slammed the front door.

Suddenly, Gregor appeared, looking for his sandwich, bowl of cereal and glass of

Mountain Dew. He slipped on the scattered garbage and into the trashcan…speaking of

clowns.

“What? What?” He asked sitting in the middle of the floor hoping a “Big-Mac” might

be found in the “Big-Mess”.

“What, what, chicken butt…fried in grease, want a piece?” I joked.

“Sure!” He hungrily replied and Gregor meant it.

“Pick up this mess, Gregor, and take out the trash. Now!” I ordered.

“Okay.” He obediently started picking up the trash. He found some well-preserved

potato chips. He popped one into his mouth.

I shivered watching him happily chomp away as he hurriedly stuffed everything else

into the trashcan.

“Man’s way to God is with beer in hand.” I took another drink starting down the steps

to the garage. “That’s what my dad, God rest his dear, departed soul, used to say, kids.”

Gregor, with the map of Ireland all over his face, knitted his protruding cliff of black

Irish eyebrows.

“Wasn’t your dad an alcoholic, Mom?”

I stopped and backed up the steps. I shot him the mother of all stink eyes.

“And WHAT piece of filth told you that dirty lie?” I asked indignantly.

“You,” he replied.

“Oh.” I gotta teach these kids not to be so darn honest. “You know, Gregor, it’s all

over the Holy Bible that God does approve of some drink. Why even as far back as in the

book of Genesis, Noah speaks of its importance.”

“Noah?” Gregor asked.

“There’s a very famous quote from the book of Genesis. Chapter…ummm…100,

verse…ummm…100.” I took another drink of beer. “Ahhhhemm…” I cleared my throat.

“And Noah he often said to his wife when he sat down to dine, ‘I don’t care where the

water goes if it doesn’t get into the wine.’ See? Noah knew.”

“Noah knew?” Kathleen dared to question.

“Yes, Miss ‘Noah-all’,” I pronounced.

“Chapter 100, Moms?” Even little James knew.

“Don’t you get fresh with me.” I pointed my finger at them all.

Gregor shrugged and popped another potato chip into his mouth, Kathleen went back

to her hair and James watched Mr. Roger’s.

With a sip of beer, a wink and a smile, I finished up my impromptu religion class.

Down the steps I went, singing loudly, because as another great Irishman, St.

O’Gustine, once said, “To sing is to pray twice!”

So praying twice, I joyfully sang, “In Heaven there ain’t no beer…that’s why we drink

it here…”

IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

Chapter 2

(Page 22)

Michael, my love, Father of our four, 

Your kind talk and love, I do so adore.

Love sweet as honey, from the bee in the hive.

Love like a sting…’cause we’re havin’ number five!

5:30 a.m. Up with the sparrow’s fart.

We loaded up the last minute stuff into the car top carrier secured on top of our

Mercury Sable station wagon. I would be driving the wagon with Nora, Bridget, Jack,

Campion, James and 1 year old, Paddy. Kathleen and Gregor would ride in our old pickup

truck with their Dad and all the camping equipment. Michael had covered the

equipment at the back of the open truck, with a plastic tarp the night before in case of

rain.

Liam and Rose weren’t going this year. They had summer jobs and at 21 and 20 years

of age we felt they were old enough to stay home alone.

“Don’t worry, Maureen.” Mrs. Sullivan our next-door neighbor assured. “If those

kids throw a party…I’ll join them.”

I asked their grandmothers to also check in on them, unannounced, along with their

aunts, some of my eight sisters, their uncles, married to some of my eight sisters, the

chief of police, the fire department, the mail-man, Father Stanislaw and any Bishops that

might be in town for the weekend. I completely trusted them.

The party-police alerted, we were almost ready to go. There was one more trip to the

La-la and we got into the car and truck.

“Moms! Paddy’s got a stanky poo-poo, poo-poo stanky!” Now why couldn’t James

just say dirty diaper? Where do these kids get their colorful way of expressing things?

Paddy is our one-year-old and the baby of the family, so far. He has a round chubby

face with wisps of curly hair encircling it. He is always smiling as if there were little

angels all around him making him happy. This was to be his first camping trip with us.

He held out his plump arms for me to lift him out of his car seat while calling, “Mammee,

mam-mee.” All the other children called me “Mommy” but for some reason he says

“Mam-mee”. I picked him up thinking that it was hard to believe, at this precious age,

that someday he too, will be just another rotten teenager.

But first things first. Paddy had a dirty diaper waiting to be changed with my name on

it. Back in the house I laid Paddy down in his crib and turned quickly to grab a diaper

and wipes. I twisted in that special way that causes sciatica to shoot down my right leg.

“Sweet angelic Mother of God!” I winced in pain. “Do ya ever give me a break?” I

looked up to Heaven for an answer or even some help. Nothing. Oh well. I guess a dirty

diaper is a place where even angels fear to tread.

Incredible,
Edible,
Catholic egg.

For monks say
You’re best…
With a St. Bernard’s keg!

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 23)

With Paddy back in his car seat and me at the helm of the Sable station wagon we

were finally ready to shove off. Michael put on his good-luck, summertime straw hat,

which looked like it had had bad-luck and a rough winter, stuck his head in the car

window and asked if we were all ready to go campin’ in Chicago?” Michael then asked,

“Don’t I look like Ernest?”

“Yes, dear.” I gave him a kiss for the road. “You look like Ernest.” He meant Ernest

with the Hemingway name. I meant Ernest of the “Ernest Goes To Jail” movie fame.

I started up the wagon. Ernest started up the truck. I backed out of the driveway first

running over a couple of basketballs, plastic bats, a tub of fat chalk and skates. I knocked

down a bike and Ernest crushed it. I ran over a squirrel and Ernest killed it dead.

“Hey, Jack!” I called out. “Remind me to have you shovel up that dead squirrel in the

driveway, Dad and I just ran over, and throw it in the garbage when we get back if Liam

doesn’t do it, okay?”

“Okay, Mom.”

Killing squirrel first thing in the morning, now that’s a good omen.

Michael took off in the truck and my station wagon died. I started her up again and

revved the motor. The odor of gas floated through the car like perfume at a prom.

“Gosh, what stinks?” Campion complained.

“Just the gasoline.” I put her in drive and shot down the street.

“Mmmmmm…oh, yeah, I forgot, I like that smell.” Campion sucked in the fumes.

“Idiotic, freak of nature.” Bridget waxed poetic about Campion.

We waved good-bye to our home and the dead squirrel, said a prayer for a safe trip,

and headed towards that great highway called…that great highway.

“Mom!” Campion screamed as though I was in the truck up ahead with his Dad.

“Has it been two days of a week yet?”

“What?” I was concentrating on driving and really couldn’t comprehend what in the

world he was asking.

“Has it been two days of a week?” He asked again.

“Yes.” What the holy-hell are two days of a week?

“Moms!” James shouted next. “When we have chickens don’t give me a thighs or a

legs. I want a tummy, okay?”

Chicken tummy…yummy.

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 24)

This was going to be a long trip…but, no matter. We were finally on our way so I

pressed down on the accelerator and told the kids to cover me while I changed lanes

because nothin’ was going to slow me down as I approached the on-ramp and merged

onto I-55 to go campin’ in Chicago!

Heading north on I-55 we were driving parallel to the Mississippi River which elicited

happy memories of my childhood to a simpler time, the 1960’s.

Every once in a while, as a child, Mom and Dad would pack up my eight sisters and

one brother into our lime, green, Chrysler station wagon and drive us all the “special”

way, as my Dad called it, to my grandmother’s house.

The “special” way was driving on I-55 not because we could see the mighty

Mississippi with her tugboats and barges or because we would be passing the St. Louis

downtown area with her tall buildings and brand new “Gateway-To-The-West”

monument, the Arch. No. Driving north on I-55 the “special” way was “special” because

after about 20 minutes on I-55 Dad would call out…

“Are you ready?” Dad would prepare us.

We kids would answer, “We’re ready.”

“Okay.” Dad would continue. “On your mark…”

We kids would all move towards one of the opened car windows, usually two heads to

one window and at least four or so to the back window of the Chrysler station wagon,

electrically operated which just amazed us.

“…get set…” Dad would build the suspense, “GO!”

We would stick our heads out and scream in delight…

“Peeeee…uuuuu! It’s the slaughter house!” We were, literaly, in “hog-heaven”.

Yes, it was the St. Louis City slaughter house that made driving north on I-55 the

“special” way. Oh, how we loved that on those hot, humid days of a sultry St. Louis

summer. The 1960’s…a carefree, smelly, happy time.

I was feeling fine, now, fine as cream gravy. Thinking of the old city slaughter house

tends to remind one of cream gravy and that made me feel optimistic about this trip just

as the flow of traffic came to a sudden halt. Uh, oh, the cream gravy was getting lumpy.

“St. Dominic of the Causeway!” I should have known, “optimists are people that just

don’t have all the facts”.

Fact. We were on the Poplar Street Bridge crossing the Mississippi River from

Missouri to Illinois. Construction work on the four-lane bridge had made it one lane

only.

So we sat…and sat…and sat in the thick of the cream gravy traffic with not one

slaughter house odor to enjoy.

cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 25)

I guess slaughter houses went the way of the mosquito-spray trucks of the early 1960’s

with their white, billowing puffs of DDT clouds that we used to love to run, bike and

skate through on summer evenings in our neighborhood on Lansdowne Avenue. Not

only did our mothers call out to us when they heard the humming of the mosquito-spray

truck coming down the street, they actually encouraged us to get out there and get some

exercise by running behind the trucks.

Like clock-work, the 6:00 p.m. Angelus bells would ring up at St. Michael’s Church,

the bug man would come, and the bells would call us to “pray and spray”, as we kids

dubbed that time of day.

“And the Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary…Yippee!!” we would cry entering the

big, banks of cottony clouds on bikes, skates or feet, into the mists of mosquito

mausoleums while the Angelus bells tolled.

The tolling bells also helped to lead us out of the sometimes blinding, DDT white-outs

and onto the solid, black, terra firma asphalt parking lot of St. Michael’s school yard. We

would then push, shove and kick our way up to the drinking water fountain troughs

attached to the stone wall at the back of the church and proceed to “drink the

Mississippi”. It was pure heaven.

cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 26)

Thirty minutes later, two aspirin, 12 donuts, the guy behind me starts laying on his

horn.

“Who pooped in his Post-Toasties?” The kids all laughed as we munched on Hostess

Outlet powdered sugar donuts, making the best of a stressful situation. When under

stress…eat. When NOT under stress…eat. Heck, when breathing, eat.

“Hey, kids, look down there.” I pointed to a tugboat pushing barges out from under

the bridge.

“Cool,” Jack said.

“Wow, that’s the macomic bomb!!” Campion agreed.

“It’s not ‘macomic’, it’s ‘atomic’!” Jack corrected.

“You’re so ‘Illinoising’, Campion,” Nora interjected

“It’s ‘annoying’, Nora,” Jack said.

“Well, we’re practically in Illinois, so I call it…’Illinoising’!” Nora huffed.

“Idiotics,” Bridget muttered.

“Just imagine, kids, when the great Black Robes, as the Indian’s called the Jesuit

Priests, explored this part of our country floating all alone down the mighty Mississippi

River.” It was a perfect time to teach them about the Faith and history.

“Mom are you going to start talking about religion again?” whined Jack.

“Shut your atheistic donut-hole, Jack!” That didn’t sound nice. I rephrased that.

“Shut-up, Jack!” I continued. “Anyway, kids, there was Pere Marquette, a great Jesuit,

who explored this very river. Think of all the pioneers who crossed it to go out West and

how they didn’t have telephones or radios to keep in contact with others back east. Those

people really had great faith, they forged ahead to discover this beautiful world God

made for us.”

I really did admire those Jesuits and early pioneers blazing trails to new worlds not

knowing what lay ahead. Fighting the elements, disease, fears of the unknown…and them

damn squirrels.

cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM! 

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 27)

“Were those the owden days Mom?” Campion asked.

“Those were the olden days, yes, Campion,” I said.

“Moms? Did you live in those stupid olden days?” Asked James.

“Sounds like it was the macomic bomb!” Campion exclaimed.

“You idiotic freak of nature.” Bridget lovingly bantered. “Those pioneers got killed

all the time and they didn’t even have T.V.!”

There was truth in what Bridget said. They didn’t have T.V.

Once I was talking to my grandmother about the old days and the romantic adventures

of the pioneers, etc. Boy, did she set me straight, “….oh, yeah? Just remember, the plains

were littered with pioneers with arrows up their ba-hinds.” I see a lot of my grandmother

in Bridget.

The traffic started moving and the guy behind us started nudging the bumper of my

car with his. What I could do with an arrow.

Bridget said she needed to go to the La-la and Campion wanted to know God’s middle

name.

The guy behind me laid on his horn again. I stayed calm.

“Nora, you’re an idiotic freak of nature!” Bridget and Nora were engaged in a

discussion.

The guy behind bumped me again with his car and continued laying on his horn.

“Mom, if your heart stops beeping you’ll die right?” Nora asked.

“You idiotic, it’s beating not beeping.” Bridget asserted.

“Beeping!” shouted Nora.

“Beating!” Bridget countered. “Mom what is it? Beating or beeping?”

“I don’t know.” I was inching my way up the lane trying not to let the guy behind

unnerve me with his incessant honking. “St. Diodorous! Who’s shootin’ the bunnies?!” I

rolled my window further down to let in some more fresh air.

Paddy started crying. “Mam-mee, mam-mee.”

“I know, sweetheart, it’s stinky,” I spoke to Paddy trying to keep him from crying too

hard.

“It was just a bottom burp, Mom,” Jack demurred.

“I’ll ‘bottom burp’ you, Mr. Jack.” I reached back to rub Paddy’s leg. He quieted

down.

“Hey, Jack.” Campion wanted to dialog. “I went over to Brendan’s house yesterday

and we went out to pway. Then we went back into his house to pway. Then we went

back out to pway. Then we went back into his house to pway. Then we ate. Then we

went back out to pway. Then we went back into his…”

Campion’s voice became muffled. While I liked the quiet I thought I’d better look in

my rear-view mirror. There was Jack with Campion’s head in a headlock way back in the

third seat.

Jack was helping Campion with his speech impediment. “It’s ‘play’ not ‘pway’.”

“God-bless-America!” I cursed. “Jack, let go of Campion’s head!”

The creep behind me laid on his horn again.

“Bwess Amewica…is that God’s middow name, Mom?” Campion asked, his head

popping up and out of Jack’s headlock.

“No!” I was losing patience. “St. Hedwig, Jack, put your brother’s head back in that

headlock,” I commanded.

cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 28)

“It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhoods, a beautiful day in the neighborhoods…won’t

you be mines, won’t your be mines, won’t you be my stupid neighbors.” James sang just

as happy as Larry.

The guy behind me continued honking and bumping the back of my car. I decided to

take matters into my own hands. I stopped. Opened the door and got out.

“That’s right…that’s right…just keep on honking, guy, it will give me more time while I

reload.” I smiled, waved and got back in the car. Now that he thought I was packin’

“heat” it WAS a beautiful day in the neighborhood.

The traffic finally moved into three lanes.

Waving his finger the guy from behind shot past us like a shower of sitzu.

I know our Lord said no “eye for an eye or tooth for a tooth”, but I never heard Him

say no nothin’ about “no finger for a finger”, so, I waved MY finger back and bestowed

an old Irish blessing upon him that my grandmother used to say “…and may the Lord,

Himself, constipate you for a year!”

Straight on I-55 we went, over the river, through the East St. Louis woods between

the rich, dark, earth of the Illinois farmlands towards the windy city, north to Lake

Michigan and NOT to grandmother’s house, you know.

“Mom! Jack’s tickle torturing Campion. He’s tickling him under his arm pigs.” Nora

tattled.

I could see Campion in my rear-view mirror holding his own shoving the heel of his

hand up into Jack’s nose. They had things under control.

“What a freak of nature. It’s arm ‘PITS’ not arm ‘PIGS’!” Bridget straightened Nora

out as only brothers, sisters and freaks of nature can.

So driving north on I-55 to Chicago is pretty much smooth sailin’ once you cross over

the river and get through the woods of East St. Louis, Illinois. If you can get through

East St. Louis, they say, without a bullet hole in your wind-shield or your head, then

you’re pretty much ridin’ a gravy train with biscuit wheels.

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 29)

After that you’ll pass through some quaint little towns where even your grandmother

would like to go. There’s Funk’s Grove, Litchfield, Pekin, Minonk, Kankakee, just

normal midwestern names…oh, and there’s even a town called Normal.

The terrain of northern Illinois is flat, very flat and very, very flat with only a silver

aluminum silo, every once in a while poking up out of the black loam of these whitebarned

farms.

Yep. Like I said, it’s good to THINK FOOD, as in “ridin’ a gravy train with biscuit

wheels” when you’re about to lose your mind of boredom going through these freaky named

little towns on these flatter-than-a-flitter farmland highways of Illinois.

Five hours later we were just west of the Windy City and ready for some campin’ in

Chicago!

In dog years I was dead. Ninety-one degrees, no air-conditioning, semi-trucks roaring

past and you begin to feel like…now what was it grandmother always said?…”Hammered

dog snot”.

“Life is like a cup of tea, Maureen, it’s all in how you make it.” Grandmother would

philosophize as she poured herself a whiskey-sour and topped it with a red-stemmed

maraschino cherry.

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 30)

Michael pulled the truck into one of those tollway Oasis restaurants that span I-294.

I-294 runs north and south, west of the Chicagoland metro area. We would be able to

avoid driving into and through the city by taking I-294 north and then exiting at Gurnee,

Illinois. We would then drive 30 or so miles east to Illinois Beach State Park on Lake

Michigan.

“Okay kids.” Michael ran back to us in the station wagon opening up my door for me.

“It’s La-la time! You boys come with me and you girls go with your Mom.”

“Honey, I’ll take Paddy, he needs his diaper changed.” Lifting Paddy out of his car

seat we all headed for the air-conditioned Oasis.

Michael and Gregor held the doors open for us as Jack announced, while shoving

Campion, “Hurry up, I gotta brown dog barkin’ at my back door.” The boys all laughed.

“Jack!” I smacked him on top of his head.

The Braid-Brigade and Kathleen went to the ladies’ room rolling their eyes while I

gave Michael that certain look hoping he would correct the boys.

“Don’t talk like that, boys.” Michael pushed them towards the mens’ room. “And it’s a

dirt snake not a dog.” I wondered if I could buy a whiskey-sour at this air-conditioned

Oasis?

cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN,  I AM!

cont…Chapter 2 

(Page 31)

In the ladies’ La-la, I changed Paddy’s dirty diaper, handed him over to the braids and

Kathleen, washed my hands and drew out my tube of Walgreen’s hemorrhoidal cream to

dab on my eyelid. It was a bit puffy from the blephoritis. What whiskey and butter won’t

cure, (forget them cups of tea.) hemorrhoidal cream will.

Next, I pulled out my Walgreen’s, waxed, mint-green, dental floss to try and get

something out from between my two front teeth that had been bothering and hurting me

since our picnic lunch at a highway rest stop in Funk’s Grove, Illinois. It hadn’t felt

normal since…Normal, Illinois.

There I was minding my own business with dental floss pushed up between my two

upper front teeth when I noticed this woman behind me staring in the mirror over my

shoulder. I stopped flossing but couldn’t get the floss out from between my teeth. It was

stuck. I turned around with the floss hanging out of my mouth and impatiently asked the

woman, “…What?”

“Pardon me. I saw you walking in with that man and eight children between you. I

don’t mean to be nosey, but…” she hesitated…”are those children all yours?” She was a

tiny thing. Perfectly coiffed. Perfectly matched. Perfectly, perfect. I didn’t like her.

“Why yes, yes they are.” I smiled proudly. Perhaps she was going to compliment me

on them. They really were good children and beautiful like me. There I go, jumping to

conclusions about other people. Father Stanislaw wouldn’t have approved of my

judgmental thoughts that she was “perfectly, perfect” and that “I didn’t like her”. I guess

she wasn’t so bad. I shouldn’t be so mean. What is my problem? Not everyone is out to

get me.

“Tell me.” Miss Perfect continued. “Are they ALL by the same man?”

The bitch.

“Of course they’re all by the same man, their FATHER…MY husband!”

the world is either Irish or wants to be…Catholic or should be

ONCE

    THERE

       WAS

            A

              FATHER

Once, there was a father,

Who loved his little girl.

He held her hand and walked to Mass

So she could see the Pearl.

“My darling, there is silver,

My darling, there is gold,

But the greatest price is sacrifice,

The world keeps that untold.

The world can give you silver,

With gold, it can entice.

Diamond, topaz, rubies,

But none can match Pearl’s price.

Sacrifice, gave birth to you.

Sacrifice, it fed.

Sacrifice, it guided you.

Sacrifice, it bled.

For every drop of blood He shed,

Gave us the faith to trust.

And made us rich in sacrifice

To give you Bread not crust.

And for awhile, sometimes, we stray,

Believing not in Creeds.

But when things don’t sustain our souls

Then turn to Pearl that bleeds.”

Failing, father said he wished,

“For every time…a penny,”

He heard the daily words, so rich,

“…be shed for you and many.”

The little girl, she cried,

Raining on his bed a flood.

But father saw her sacrifice,

“Your tears are crystal blood.”

Once there was a father,

Who loved his little girl.

He held her hand for his last Mass

But left her with…the Pearl. 

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 32)

 I was so shocked by her question I forgot I was standing there, defiantly hands on hips, with one

lone strand of Walgreen’s, waxed, mint-green, dental floss flying out from between my

two front teeth hitting her in the face.

“Oh my.” She looked startled. I don’t know if she was more startled by the floss

hitting her in the face or by the fact that all eight children were by one man. It really

didn’t matter, though, because she had a face…a face…God forgive me…like a burnt

thong.

“St. Mamilian!” I cocked my head and pointed at her chest. “And are those your real

‘mamograms’?” I asked.

She grabbed the front of her shirt, as if to conceal her breasts. (I don’t know why,

obviously, there wasn’t anything there to conceal.)

“You are rude and crude!” She had some audacious nerve.

“Remember, my dear, that a dog is a dog unless he is facing you; and then he is MR.

Dog…grrrrufff!!!” I barked at her, hands still on hips and floss flying freely.

She covered her mouth, wilting into tears; being one of them delicate, female, flowertypes,

and ran out of the restroom.

“Mom,” Kathleen handed me the baby. “Did that woman ask what I think she asked?”

“Remember, Kathleen, in this world there are stupid questions AND stupid people.”

Speaking of “stupid”, Paddy yanked the dental floss out of my mouth and we marched

out of the La-La to the parking lot.

I buckled Paddy in his car seat, slammed the door, walked over to Michael standing at

the back of the truck and gave him a big kiss.

“Whoa…what’s that for?” Michael pulled me closer.

“It’s a good man you are, Michael Flanigan, and I love you.” We embraced and kissed

again, surrounded by all those children by the same man.

“Gross!” Gregor and Jack grunted.

“Hey, how do you think you got here?” Michael asked, tightening his arms around

what was once my waist before all those children.

“God!” James smiled up at us.

Poor James, only one father, one mother and one God.

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page33)

“James, haven’t you evo hoed of the stoke?” Campion asked picking up a smashed,

powdered sugar donut off the floor of the car. James greedily grabbed the donut out of

Campion’s hand and Campion swiped it back and shoved it immediately into his mouth.

“Mom! Dad!” Kathleen was shouting from the cab of the truck. “Could we please

get going? I want to get to the beach and get some sun.”

“Okay, gang. Let’s hit the road!” Michael called out as we went to our separate

vehicles, continuing on our separate vacation, together.

“Does everyone have on their seatbelts?” I asked getting into the driver’s seat. I could

see that Campion was jumping around at the back of the station wagon completely

unbuckled.

“James…I mean Gregor…no…Liam…Jack…Paddy? What the heck is your name?” I

blurted out.

“Who?” The kids all asked.

“You!” I pointed to Campion at the back of the car.

“Campion, Mom.” Campion laughed, lighting up his freckled face.

“St. Symphorosa and her seven sons!” I smacked my forehead. “I’m sorry, honey,

just get your seat belt on will ya? Only another hour and then you kids can run, play and

swim in the waves of Lake Michigan, ’cause we’re goin’ campin’ in Chicago!”

I started up the car and with renewed enthusiasm, and sciatica shooting down my leg,

we took off.

“Yowser!” I shrieked in pain. The children thought it was an exclamation of delight

because we were on the last leg of our journey. I was on my last leg, all right with this

excruciating sciatica.

“Diggedy dank!” Nora chimed in excitedly. “We’re goin’ ‘campin’ in Chicago’!”

“Mom?” Campion started with the questions. “When I get confirmed, can I take the

name Eddie?”

“Yes.” I’d say yes to anything at this point.

“Everybody beat up Campion!” Jack shouted.

“Yes.” I said, not thinking. “Hey, hey, hey, you guys, knock it off,” I yelled as I was

driving down the on-ramp, or was I on the down-ramp driving? Damn kids, “all by the

same man”…get me so confused.

cont… IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page34)

“Come on now, let’s pray for a safe rest of the trip.” I shouted out a litany of Saints to

pray for us with the children’s own patron saints, that they were named after.

“St. James.” I called out.

“Pray for us.” They responded.

“St. Padraic.” I continued. This usually calmed them, hearing the name of their very

own patron and all.

“Pray for us.”

“St. Edmund Campion.”

“Pray for us.”

“St. Bridget.” I merged with the idiotic freak of nature drivers onto I-294.

“St. Stupid Moms,” James joked with glee.

“Saints preserve us!” I cried, and they did.

I sped up and down and all over that highway, weaving in and out of those highway

lanes called…those highway lanes, trying to keep up with Michael, as one crazy Chicago

driver after the other would cut in front of me and separate us even more on our vacation

that Michael and I were trying to take together.

“Mother of God!” I prayed. “I’d rather have another baby than drive in THIS traffic.”

I was a bit deranged from the heat.

An hour later we pulled into Illinois Beach Sate Park, along the western shores of

cool, blue Lake Michigan, a bit north of Chicago, a bit south of Milwaukee and a lot of

exactly right.

Lake Michigan, the poor-man’s ocean. Chicago’s famous Lake Shore Drive and it’s

Magnificent Mile of upscale retail shops, luxurious expensive hotels and restaurants over

looking the lake with glistening, white yachts in it’s harbor? Lake Michigan, the poorman’s

ocean for the pretty, damn rich.

cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 35) 

At the front gate of the state park we got out, stretched our legs and looked over a map

of the campgrounds after paying the $4.00 a day camp site fee.

“Let’s get a site close to the Lake,” Gregor suggested as he loved to fish.

“Let’s camp by the pwaygwound.” Campion put in his two cents without any “r’s”.

“Let’s set up by the woods so we can explore, please, Dad?” Jack pleaded.

“Let’s go home.” At 17 years, Kathleen decided she was too old to go camping

anymore.

We drove up and down the tree-lined campground roads looking for just the right spot.

The lumpy roads were hypothetically paved in asphalt and bordered by very still,

solid, hunter-green furs interspersed with lime-green elms. The leaves of the elms

fluttered in the breeze from the lake and sparkled against the almost velvet-black pine

needles of the furs.

Looking and longing to sit under the shade of those fur trees without reminders of city

life, I spotted the perfect campsite.

We could walk the short distance to the lake or the playground nearby. The site was

canopied by a wood of hunter-green furs, and best of all there was a La-la within ear-earshot.

Dig a hole and bury me, it just doesn’t get any better than that.

The site had an adequate camp-fire ring, a pad of thick grass for under our tent floors

to cushion us when we slept and a long, freshly painted, shiny green picnic table with

benches. It was a site just waiting for a big family to make a big mess on.

We backed the station wagon and truck into the site and got out.

“Let’s hit the La-la’s!” I gave the primal call and we all ran to the campground

restrooms.

After splashing water on our sweaty faces and washing our hands it was time now to

set up camp. Like hanging wallpaper together, setting up camp is the litmus test for

married couples. If a couple can do this without maiming or leaving each other, then they

can do anything.

While setting up camp, Michael and I always try to be open and honest with our

feelings just as in all aspects of our marriage. If we run into troubles while setting up

camp, we believe you should stop what you’re doing, sit down…and shout your problems

out.

LITTLE

LIGHTNING

BUG

Little lightning bug

O, fellow

Where’d you get

That torch so yellow

Flicking off

Then flicking on

Right above our

Front yard lawn

Giving children

Merry-mirth

Acolytes

Upon this earth

Keeping lit

Your votive flame

Compline’s call

To praise His name

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page36)

We had just gotten the first tent up when I tried to unzip the entrance flap and the

zipper got stuck.

“Dear? Could you help me with this silly, stuck zipper?” I called out, openly and

honestly to Michael, who had gone back to the truck to unload the other tent.

“What? Don’t tell me.” Michael came back to help. He yanked, pulled and tugged.

The zipper wouldn’t budge.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” I hoped against hope.

“Honey, I’d walk through hell in gasoline underwear for you, but where the HELL did

you learn to unzip a flap?” Michael questioned, through open and honest clenched teeth,

as he worked on unsticking the stuck zipper.

“Listen dear. You go set up the other tent, dear, I’ll get this zipper fixed and the kids

and I will start putting our sleeping bags and things in it, dear.” I “deared” him to death

hoping that would soothe him.

“God, bless, it’s hotter than a fat man’s ass crack in July!” Michael cussed.

“Well aren’t we the patriotic one today,” I waxed sarcastic.

“Woman…go…COOK something!” He yelled at me tugging on the very, very stuck

zipper. “God bless America…what the Hell did you do?”

“Don’t you dare get patriotic with me, Michael Flanigan…DEAR!!” I snapped.

“Patriotic?” Michael frowned, looking up at me. “Huh? What are you saying?”

“What am I saying? I’m saying, hotter than a dickey-dah-dough in July? JULY,

Michael? As in the 4th of July…as in ‘God bless America’? As in that’s pretty patriotic.”

As in, I had no idea what I was saying.

“A ‘dickey-dah-dough’, Maureen? A ‘dickey-dah-dough’? What the Hell is a ‘dickeydah-

dough’?”

“Yes, Michael, I’d prefer saying, ‘dickey-dah-dough’, rather than stooping down to ‘a

fat man’s ass crack’.” Actually, I’d prefer ANYTHING over stooping down to a fat man’s

ass crack.

cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!
cont…Chapter 2
(Page 37)

Michael had a sly smile of superiority upon his face. “I think you mean ‘patronizing’,
dear, not ‘patriotic’, dear.” Oh, he was shrewd, that one.
“Patriotic, patronizing, what’s the difference? You know what I mean, Michael.” I
articulated, inarticulately.
“Mean what you say, would you, Maureen.” Michael turned back to tug on the zipper.
“Huh? You know what I mean…and who in their right mind, anyway, ever really
MEANS what they say?!” I shoved my hands through my hair, frustratingly, frustrated.
(where are these words coming from?)
He took out a white handkerchief from his jeans pocket and carefully wiped his
forehead then his lips. “You know, Maureen, you’re right, I AM ‘patriotic’, a ‘patriotic’
patronizer, who would like you to go COOK something, now, and not bother me again
until Independence Day on the flippin 4th of July! How’s THAT for being ‘patriotic’?!”
The man had clearly lost his mind.
“COOK something?!” I took a step back from this man I hardly knew. “COOK
something?” I openly and honestly then replied, “Well…when the ‘fat man’s ass crack’
sings, I will,” says I.
“Don’t tempt me,” Michael slurred in a restrained whispered.
“Your’re walkin’ on thin air, Michael Flanigan with one ‘n’ in the first syllable.” I was
pacing back and forth behind him like a caged…wife.
“Thin air?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.
“Yes-siree-Bob…Michael…see…you’ve completely discom-’Bob’-ulated me, it’s your
fault! I meant thick air, thick air. Why, I do so much for you, Michael Flanigan!
Cooking and cleaning. Shame on you for biting a ‘gift horse in the mouth’!” I pointed a
stern finger at him.
“Maureen. Who the hell bites a horse in the mouth?” Michael had obviously lost it.
It must have been because of all the thick air. He continued to pull and tug on the zipper.
I was furious. When in a fury stop and think, then eat.
“Okay, Michael. I am going to go over to the back of the truck, now, and set up our
little kitchen and make a nice little snack.”
“Woman, are you barking mad?!” Michael screamed. “Don’t set up a ‘little’ anything
until we know we’ll have a ‘little’ shelter for the ‘little’ night!!”
The man was trying my patience. “You said to ‘cook’ something, so I’m going to
‘cook’ something in my ‘little’ kitchen, okay ‘little’ Michael? Okay?!”
James walked over to his Dad and asked, “Dads? Is the stupid devil deads?”
“Oh isn’t that cute, dear?” I had decided to try and take Michael’s mind off the zipper
and insert some “cute” into the situation.
“It’s not cute. That’s a serious question. But I don’t have time to answer his serious
question because I have to fix this serious zipper problem that YOU caused because YOU
are a serious loon, ‘dear’!” Michael yanked and yanked at the zipper. It wouldn’t budge.
“My God, woman, I sometimes wonder if your parents were siblings!”

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 38)

“What? Well your parents can’t even spell.” I started reciting, under my breath,

“murder, yes, divorce, never…murder, yes, divorce, never…murder…maybe?” I crossed

my arms in front of me, trying to keep myself under some control.

“Hey, Dad!” Campion joined James, right behind Michael. “I can count to a

hundwed. Want to heo me count to a hundwed, Dad?”

“Not a hundred, not two hundwed…hundred! Not now, Campion.” He continued

with the zipper as the two little boys ran over to the truck where the rest of the kids were

scrounging with Gregor in the grocery bags looking for treats to eat.

“‘Were you’re parents siblings’?” I repeated in a low, controlled, whisper as the boys

walked away. “Well, Mr. Ph.D., ‘Piled High and Deep’, I would LOVE to see things

from YOUR point of view but I just can’t seem to get my head that far up my ‘fat

man’s…ASS…crack’!!”

The zipper came unstuck. The children cheered. Michael stood straight up and

pointed his index finger right at my face. “I’ll deal with you later, ‘dear’.” Then turning to

the kids, said, “Now look everybody, please be careful when you zip and unzip these

flaps, don’t do it without thinking like your mother or else we’ll have problems again.”

Michael looked right at me and shot me a stink eye. I raised an eyebrow of defiance and

jutted out my chin. “Now, all of you get in your swimsuits and go to the beach with your

‘dear’ Mom. Gregor and I will set up the other tent by ourselves and get a camp fire

going for our fish fry.”

“A fish fry? Diggedy-dank!” delighted Nora.

“Get the luggage,” I called, taking hold of Paddy’s hand who had been toddling around

the picnic table pickin’ up paw-paws put ‘em in his…MOUTH! “Put ‘em in your pocket,

Paddy,” I said.

They all ran to the car to get their personal, matched luggage…Walgreen’s, white,

plastic, drawstring, garbage bags, each containing their own clothes with their own,

stubborn-stained underwear.

ODE
TO
AN
AIRCONDITIONER

What a joy to be cold,
When it is so hot,
Undeserving, sometimes my life’s sordid.

You give me a taste,
Of what I want not,
In hell, for eternity, boarded!

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 39)

Inside the tent, I was on the floor changing Paddy while the others ran, wildly, to the

restrooms with their luggage to change into their swimsuits.

“I’m sorry I lost my temper. I didn’t mean what I said.” Michael came in the tent and

knelt down behind me. “You know, we’ll get along better this vacation just as soon as

you realize I’m God,” he teased and swatted me.

“Listen to the Dad, will ya?” I said to Paddy as I put him into his Winnie-the-Pooh

swimming trunks. Michael and I kissed and I told him in the nicest way possible so as

not to damage his self-esteem, that he was a complete “fat man’s ass crack”.

“You all go swimming, Maureen. Gregor and I will put up the other tent, get the

campfire going and the fish on the grill.” Michael carried Paddy out of the tent so I could

put on my swimsuit. He was feeling better. I also knew he was looking forward to a

couple of beers, after our long drive and setting up camp. Nothing like cold, iced-up beer

from the Coleman cooler when camping. Ya’ know what the Irish really say about that.

They say the best beer is where priests go to drink. That’s why the priests come so often

to our house for dinner, being the good Irish-Americans, we are.

“The fish is in those plastic sandwich bags in the brown Coleman cooler. I prepared

and dipped them in the beer-batter yesterday, so they’re ready to go on the grill.”

Emerging from the tent I gave instructions to Michael how to lay the fillets in my black

cast iron skillet, then I proclaimed, “Kids…that fish is gonna taste so good it’ll make your

teeth white, your skin tight and childbirth a pleasure!” Now there’s some sex education

for ya’.

“Priests & Seminarians Killed”

…but their silence screams VIVE CHRISTO REY!!

THE
CARTHUSIANS

To be “Hanged in their habits”
What a glorious thing,
For their silence screamed,
“Christ is the King!”

And like the Innocents
So Holy, that died,
With sword-cut bodies
Their mothers cried

And wept like mothers
Do today,
Who send their sons
Into the fray

Like Innocent Carthusians,
With  staff and rod,
Who continue the defence…
The Priest-sons of God!

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 40)

Picking up Paddy we all headed towards the campground road.

“What’s childbuth?” asked Campion.

“A mystery, Campion.” He seemed ok with that.

“What an idiotic,” Bridget said.

“Behave, Bridget, or I’ll crown you and it won’t be queen,” I corrected her.

We walked towards the tree-lined road and smelled the campfires being lit for cooking

the night’s suppers.

“How old are you Moms?” James asked.

“Nine days older than God,” says I.

“How old is Dads?” James was being inquisitive.

“Dad was a waiter at the Last Supper.” I replied.

“Hey…I heard that!!” Nothing gets past that Ph.D.

After being in the campgrounds only about an hour or so, I pretty much had some of

my neighbors sized up.

As we strolled to the road I eyed the couple to the right of us and their two children, a

boy and a girl. They were people of means in their L.L. Beans, sitting inside their tent of

screens…eating cups of yogurt, granola bars, nuts, dried fruits and lot’s of fibre. I’d be

callin’ them the Fibre Family. They epitomized what G.K. O’Chesterton said,

“…there is more simplicity in the man who eats caviar on impulse than in the man who

eats grape-nuts on principle.”

In other words, don’t smoke, eat right…die anyway.

Then there was the older man, retiree-type, across the road from our campsite waxing

his honkin’ Winnebego. I’d be callin’ him Mad Wax. He had been waxing it when we

came in, and he was still waxing it and would probably be waxing it when we came back

from the beach.

So little time, so little to do.

Turning left, from our campsite and onto the road, we passed Daryl and Meryl Sterile,

as I dubbed them.

Daryl was sitting on one of their two matching wood framed leather sling back chairs

with his lap-top, drinking espresso coffee out of a tiny cobalt blue espresso camping mug.

They had an electric site and their espresso machine was whooshing away, out here in the

wild. I saw the wife, Meryl, go inside their little 2-person dome tent, carrying a portable

dust-buster vacuum cleaner machine of some kind. The children thought it was hilarious

as the tent was wiggling and shaking like a plate full of jello while she vacuumed.

“Why is that lady vacuuming her tent?” Jack asked in all seriousness.

“What a freak of nature,” exclaimed Bridget.

“She probably has what they call an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder or O.C.D. for

short,” I explained. (Or maybe Bridget was onto something, F.O.N.D. – Freak Of Nature

Disorder. I think I’m rather fond of that.)

“What’s exsessive impulsive?” asked Nora.

“Nuts.” I said. “Daddy helps a lot of people like that. They have issues.”

“Tissues?” Nora asked. I’ve got to get that girl’s hearing checked.

“Issues, Nora…problems. They are people who just can’t relax, even when on

vacation. She probably cleans all the time. Everything just has to be perfect, in its place

and a place for everything. Very sterile.” Like her, I’m thinkin’.

“Is that why our house is so messy, Moms, ’cause you’re so relaxed?” James, always

so observant. Damn kid.

“Of course, James, but not because I’m relaxed, I’m just normal. All normal women

HATE housework.” Nothing gets by these kids. “It’s not that housework can kill you or

anything…but why take a chance? That’s what Phyllis O’Diller always said.”

The Year of the Priest

ELEVATION

 BELLS

“The year of the priest!”

Screeched the beast

 Down in depth’s

Dank cells

Blest Mothers ignore

 his devouring ROAR –

As they conceive

Future’s Elevation bells!

cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 41)

“Who’s Phyllis O’Diller?” Kathleen asked.

“A great 20th century Irish philosopher. You’ll be studying her when you get to

college.”

Reaching the beach, the kids kicked off their shoes, dropped their towels, and started

whooping and yelling running into the ice-cold, blue water and jumping over the white

topped waves. I stood there holding Paddy in my arms delighted at their joy and

wonderment in this magnificent, great lake.

There is something about water that makes me happy, too. I just wanted to run into it

with Paddy, so I kicked off my thongs, shorts, and Paddy’s sandals and started running

and screaming like I was seven years old again.

“Here we go, ….wheeeeeee!!!!” I ran full speed ahead and jumped into a wave

holding tightly onto Paddy.

“St. Adamnan of Coldingham!” I screamed. “It’s colder than a pocket full of penguin

shhhh…eesh!”

I was retreating back towards the shore when a huge wave knocked me to my knees.

Holding onto Paddy and getting pushed left and then right I tried to stand but tumbled

down again and landed on my behind. Another wave slapped me in the face. I gasped

for air, I held Paddy’s head up so he could breathe. I struggled to get up but toppled to

the left, then to the right looking drunker than Cooter Brown. Finally, I lunged straight

ahead landing on the beach tripping and sinking into the sand. My head thrust forward,

with my chin leading and bobbing in the air looking like I had forgotten to pay my brain

bill.

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 42)

I grabbed a towel and wrapped up Paddy who was shivering and blue lipped. The rest

of the children came up laughing hysterically.

“Wo you twying to be funny on popuss, Mom?” Campion was doubled over

laughing.

“Moms, that was so funnies,” said James shivering and holding himself to stay warm.

“What’s wrong with you, Mom? You’re embarrassing me.” Kathleen was not pleased.

“Mam-mee, mam-mee.” Paddy smiled and touched my face.

“Hey, you guys, why didn’t you come and help me. Those waves are terrible, and so

cold. Mother of God, we almost drowned out there. You kids stay on shore that lake is

treacherous.” I said, rubbing Paddy’s arms. So much for my “happy waters”.

“Mother! You were only in two feet of water. What’s wrong with you? You looked

like Jim Carey out there imitating Jerry Lewis. You are so over dramatic. I’m going back

to the camp site.” Kathleen left, obviously humiliated by me and my near death

experience.

“Well, Blessed John Carey, I almost drowned out there!” I yelled, looking for a little

sympathy.

“Come on, Mom,” pleaded the Braid-Brigade, “Let us swim close to shore a little

longer and then go back.”

“Well…okay, but stay close to the shore.” They ran back into the water not the least

bit afraid.

“Jim Carey imitating Jerry Lewis.” I was thinkin’. “Why, I was fighting for my very

existence, practically.” I wrapped Paddy up in the warm fuzzy towel. “Oh well, I guess

you can call me Jerry Carey.” I hugged Paddy tight.

Paddy was still shivering and I didn’t bring any extra warm things for him. As usual I

only had three sets of clothes for each of the children…”put on, pull off and do without”.

I decided to put James’s sweat pants and t-shirt on Paddy to warm him up. I rolled up the

way-too-big pant legs for Paddy, put on his t-shirt and wrapped my arms around him.

When in need, I can make any size of clothing fit a child. You know the saying

“Necessity is the Mother of invention”? I know it well, ’cause I deal with a lot of

necessity and have to do a lot of inventing like having to make big clothes fit little ones

and little clothes sometimes fit bigger ones.

“Necessity is the mother of invention”, you got that right, that “necessity”…she IS a

“Mother”!

(Year of the Priest)

SACERDOS

 Who held the Fort

Till the Calvary came

Fighting for all

In His Holy Name?

Who fed the sheep

As the pastures burned dry

A few Good Shepherds

Heeding their cry?

Who led the charge

‘Gainst heresy’s Huns

Defending the degreed

To His lowliest ones?

Who battened down

The hatch of the barque

To warm cold souls

From shivering-seas dark?

“Who?”  mocks Satan

Delighting in doubt

Fills you with questions,

Never lets you find out.

“Hoc est enum

Corpus meum…

…and for many…” who kept

The dead words – Te Deum!

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 43)

It was getting to be dusk as the kids and I headed back to our campsite. Up the white

sandy beach we walked, crossed the lake beach parking lot and back through the woods

to the campground road.

Yellow campfires being lit for dinner dotted the road in front of tents and R.V.’s. The

grey smoke curling through the cool evening air just made you want to get out of your

wet suits, put on sweats and sit around a warm, crackling campfire.

“Mmmmmm…do ya smell that good Missouri River cat-fish frying in beer-batter

kids?” I wasn’t sure if it was the fish or the beer that smelled so good. “Mmmmmm, fish,

beer and Friday; we be cookin’ on the front burner, tonight, kids.”

We walked onto our campsite where Michael was sitting having a brew and frying the

fish over a fire in a big black cast-iron skillet. I could have found our campsite with my

eyes closed, using only my sense of smell. We were the only family having a fish fry

and, boy, did it smell good.

Gregor, ever hungry, was sitting next to his Dad reading a Tolkien book and eating a

peanut-butter and jelly sandwich with a can of Mountain Dew.

“Mom?” asked Jack, “how come we can’t have burgers or hot dogs like everyone else

around here, or spaghetti?” Jack hated being a Catholic on Fridays and most other days

of the week, too.

“Spaghetti?” I shouted. “St. Maria Goretti, spaghetti? It’s Friday, we’re Catholic and

we don’t eat meat on Friday. Now everyone into the tents and get out of those wet swim

suits before you get the dampass and die.”

“But, Mom, it’s our first night cookin’ out. I want to bar-b-que burgers or something,”

Jack continued complaining.

I was wet, cold, hungry and like any mother of a large family desperately in need of a

beer.

“Our Lord gave up His flesh for us on Friday, Jack, so I think we can make a little

sacrifice and give up the flesh of meat once a week like Jesus did for us. Besides, boy, ‘a

trout in the pot is better than a salmon in the sea’.” That’s what my grandmother always

said.

Year of the Priest

SEPTEMBER’S LIGHT                                                                    

Chosen.
September’s,
Light of the world!

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!!!

 ONCE
THERE
WAS
A
FATHER

Once there was a father,
Who loved his little girl.
He held her hand for his last Mass
But left her with…the Pearl.

www.hilaryflanery.blogspot.com

cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 44)
“But that’s catfish, not trout.” Jack argued.
“Get the gun,” I told Michael. “St. Werburga! No burgers, Jack!” Jack went into the
tent to change, mumbling under his breath. The little meat-eating atheist.
“Mam-mee,” Paddy cooed.
“Baby Paddy your nose is runnin’ like a sugar tree.” I picked up a paper napkin and
wiped it. “Honey, I’ll change the baby and get out of my suit, then the kids and I will set
up the picnic table. How about getting me a beer out of the cooler?” I went into the tent
to change Paddy and myself.
Kathleen had tied a clothesline up between two trees and everyone hung their wet
suits and towels on it.
“Maureen this beer-batter on the cat-fish is really going to hit the spot…smells great!”
Michael said. “Hurry up, your brew’s ready.”
I put the baby in the playpen with a bottle of milk and a cookie.
“Braids, would you please set up the table and you boys will clear off afterwards.
Michael, just let me open up the pork and beans and put them on to simmer over the fire.
Kathleen get the cut-up tomatoes out of the cooler and put them in a bowl, would ya?”
I went to the little kitchen Michael had set up at the back of the truck and opened up a
couple of cans of beans with my ever-faithful, 20 year-old, rusty hand can-opener. Not to
worry, we’re all up on our tetanus shots.
“We’re gonna’ ride our bikes around the campgrounds before it gets dark, Mom.”
Gregor said, speaking for himself, Jack, Campion and James.
“Don’t go far, we’ll be eating in about 20 minutes.” Said Michael.
“Moms, where’s our stupid bike helmets?” James asked.
“We forgot them, boys, so ride slowly and carefully.” Actually some of the bike
helmets were a few of the things I had run over and crushed with the car when I pulled
into the driveway yesterday after my trip to the dentist and Walgreens.
“Moms…” James went on, “we can’t ride our bikes without a stupid helmet!”
“Of course you can, James. That’s just one of those ‘new-lives-tales’…ya know, ’save a
whale’, ‘recycle’, ‘wear a helmet’,” says I. “And only cigarette smokers go to Hell.” (That
I said under my breath so as not to alert the cigarette-police.)

Year of the Priest

STARKENBURG                                                                                

The Holy Mass, that cannot die,
Was said amidst the oaks,
While pin-oak leaves came floating down
Around the simple folks,

Who knelt upon the acorn floor,
All dotted nutty brown.
The acorns cracked and old knees snapped,
Yet still there was no sound…

But the tinkling of the golden bells
As the White Host Son rose high,
On priestly limbs, like mighty oaks,
They branched up to the sky.

And in that wood, I laughed with joy,
Amongst the souls bowed down,
For the mighty oak was once a nut
That merely held it’s ground.

So Christian souls, like acorn nuts,
Must burrow all around
And be the seed that sprouts new oaks
On consecrated ground…

Where the Holy Mass, that cannot die,
Is said around the oaks,
While pin-oak leaves come floating down
Amidst a mighty folk!

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 45)

“You’ve got your guardian

angels, guys, and they were around way before bike helmets, recycling OR whales.

They’ll keep you safe. What do ya think people did before bike helmets?”

“Ride whales?” Where does Gregor get that sarcastic sense of humor?

“They rode bikes, boys. And in my day we wore ‘thinking-caps’. Remember, even if I

can’t see what you’re doing your guardian angel can, so think, do what is right and obey

the rules of the campgrounds.”

Bike helmets can never replace a good, guardian angel and personally I think they

should “recycle” those recycling bins into helmets and let the whales wear them, that

ought to help save a whale or two.

“Yes, ma’am.” They all smiled at me like little angels and took off on their bikes like

little devils.

“Come on, babe, sit down and relax a minute. It’s our vacation. We’re ‘campin’ in

Chicago’ on cool, blue lake Michigan.” Michael patted the chair next to him. “The sun’s

setting for the night, the sea-gulls are swooping over the sandy beaches and we got beer!”

And “we got beer”. Isn’t Michael brilliant? You can see why he holds a Ph.D.

I sat down in one of our dented aluminum fold-up chairs and Michael popped open a

brew for me. I could see the diamond-blue lake sparkling in the distance through the elm

trees and firs standing guard against the evening breezes from across the campground

road. There was a uniform-yellow stripe of sunlight streaking down the sides of each tree

trunk leg that slowly slipped away as the sun retreated in the west and the sea-gulls sang,

day-is-done.

The waves of Lake Michigan rushed up against the shore, splashed, and spilled all

over the sandy beach, then silently slipped back into the bed of Lake Michigan.

The Braid-Brigade, finishing setting the table, were now in the woods picking wild

flowers for a table centerpiece. Kathleen went into the tent to write a post card to one of

her girlfriends about how I had horribly humiliated her at the beach doing my “Jerry

Carey” imitations.

The fire smoked and crackled as the cat-fish sizzled and the beans simmered in the

pot.

“We give up meat on Fridays but God always provides. Beer for our hearts and beans

for our…hearts to make them strong too.” I’m afraid I’m around little kids too much.

Year of the Priest

http://tinyurl.com/kp8q7s

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 46)

“Have another beer, Maureen.” Michael went to the cooler to get us a couple more

brews.

After a couple sips I decided to recite one of grandmother’s favorite drinking ditties.

Well, just ONE of my grandmother’s favorite drinking ditties, you know, when she was

drinkin’ them cups of tea?

“Here’s to good beer, men and song.

And here’s to workdays that aren’t too long.

Here’s to shoes that always fit.

And here’s to you, you silly…’shhhhh…

…ibit’!”

Michael spit out his beer, choking. “Good God woman, ’shibit’? You ARE crazy.”

We laughed. I slapped him on his back since he was still choking.

“Don’t you dare choke to death, Michael Flanigan. We’ve still got 10 kids at home

and I do not want to be alone with all of them.” (I didn’t want to be alone with ANY of

them.) Finally he caught his breath. He was back to normal and so back to normal, we

drank.

I like beer. What can I say? I come from a long line of Mullarkeys, Quinns,

McMichaels and McRees (yes, Virginia, there really was a “Mother McRee”…my greatgrandmother).

It’s my one vice, beer, but you know what our great, Irish-American President,

O’braham O’Lincoln, once said about vices? “It has ever been my experience that folks

who have no vices, have very few virtues.” It’s a virtuous woman, I am!

“You know, my love.” Michael said feeling relaxed. “It’s times like this when

everybody should believe in something.” Going over to the cooler he pulled out another

couple of beers. “I believe I’ll have another beer.” He was feelin’ good campin’ in

Chicago.

“Me, too.” I winked as he handed me another brew. “But I drink out of charity, I do,

so that others will seem more interesting.” We kissed and popped our tops.

Not the best,
Nor what’s called shoddy.
A sheath for soul
Which follows body.

But necks all stiff,
Backs, ram-rod straight,
They shrugged and said,
“Can’t make that date.”

And this from mothers,
Daughters, hapless,
Demanding Eves,
Who wear skins strapless.

No mea culpas,
Pleas for pardon…
But bob for apples
In Eden’s Garden!

cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 47)

The boys were back from their bike ride, the girls set out a wild-flower centerpiece

and I got up and attached Paddy to the end of the table in his portable high chair.

Michael lit the Coleman lantern and hung it from a nail sticking out of a tree to give us

more light to eat by since it was getting darker than God’s pockets.

It’s wonderful eating outdoors by lantern and campfire light on a clear night with a

white, bright full-moon shining above and the nocturnal buzzings of God’s insect world.

“I can’t see.” Nora whined. “It’s too dark.”

“It’s too hot by this camp fire.” Kathleen complained.

“That idiotic moon’s too bright. It hurts my eyes.” Bridget squinted up at the night

sky, blinded by moonlight?

“Is there any bug spray? These mosquitoes are biting like crazy.” Gregor slapped the

back of his neck. “I’m getting eaten up alive!”

Yes, it’s wonderful…being eaten up outdoors.

I started dishing out the pork and beans, catfish and cut up tomatoes.

“No wabioli?” Campion would eat ravioli every night if he could.

“St. Wiborada! No wabioli.” I started cutting up the little ones’ fish. “Just good

Missouri River catfish, Campion.”

“Yuk!” Campion asserted. “I hate Missooie wivo catfish. It’s disgusting, Mom!”

Campion pushed his plate away. “Have I evo had Missooie wivo catfish?”

“Yes, Campion, you loved it.” I lied, oh God how I lied as I cut up Paddy’s fish and

tomatoes.

“Oh. Thanks Mom!” Campion ate it like it was wabioli…Missooie wivo wabioli.

Gregor and Kathleen started fighting over one of the lawn chairs at the other end of

the picnic table.

“I’m the oldest, I should sit on the chair,” cried Kathleen. “Gregor, sit on the bench.”

She tried to push Gregor off of her as he hunkered down on her lap.

“I want the lawn chair, Mom. I said I had it first,” Gregor insisted.

“Dads, Dads, get Jacks off my heads!” We heard a distant cry for help from James,

but where was he?

We did a quick sweep around and under the picnic table spotting Jack sitting on

James’s head over on one of the spread out sleeping bags near the campfire.

“I’d rather have hamburgers.” Jack was ignoring his brother’s cry for help and feeling

sorry for himself because we still weren’t having hamburgers.

“Get off that child’s head or, St. Smaragdus, I’ll smarack you into next week, Mister!”

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 48)

I threatened as Michael grabbed Jack and swatted him on his behind.

“Knock it off, Jack, and behave yourself.” Michael admonished. “You sit on your

brother’s head again and you won’t be sittin’ for a week!” Michael roundly smacked his

behind, again, and dragged him by one arm over to the picnic table and shoved him next

to me for our wonderful family, lantern-lit, dinner, next to the campfire under the white,

bright, full-moon in the great-out-of-doors.

“You get over here too, James.” Michael shouted going over to pop open a couple

more cans of beer for us to have with supper.

“James!” Michael shouted at James again sitting silently and still. Michael went over

to James and grabbing him by one arm, dragged him over to the picnic table like he did

Jack.

“Diggedy dank!” Nora was always happy to see her brothers and sisters being

dragged by one arm.

Michael plopped James on the bench to the right of me and James looked all pouty

and said nothing.

Now don’t go thinkin’ there are no crocodiles just because the water is calm with

THAT kid. James is never completely innocent. He, like Jack, always seems to have an

ace up his hole…errrr…WHOLE! Whole SLEEVE, that is.

The ace just happened to be his left index finger, which he pointed at Jack, who was

sitting to the left of me. James stood up and started rubbing his left finger with his right

index finger taunting…

“Oh my naughty finger, oh my naughty finger…” James teased Jack.

“I’ll show you a naughty finger, you tardo!” Jack tried to raise his middle finger but

was thwarted when I stabbed him in the arm with a plastic fork.

“Ouch!” he cried.

“Ha, ha, ha, ha!” James howled with laughter. I turned and stabbed him in the arm

too.

“Yeoow!” James collapsed onto the bench.

“What did you do that for, Mom?” Jack sorely complained rubbing his arm. “That

hurt.”

“Yeah, Moms.” James joined him. “Jacks right. That did stupid hurts.” He sat back

down on the bench holding his arm where I pricked him knitting his brow in anger.

“We got your ‘point’, Mom. Okay?” Jack offered his turned up palm to James behind

my back. James slapped it in solidarity that they had both equally been wounded by me.

“Did it hurt, boys?” I asked going back to cutting up the baby’s fish. They both

chimed in, “Yeah!” I responded, “Good!” I winked at the others.

“Freaks.” Bridget shook her braids.

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 49)

Now Jack and James BOTH hated me. That’s what good parenting techniques (and a

stab with fork prongs) can do, unite.

“Get him off, get him off!” Kathleen screeched.

Gregor was still sitting in Kathleen’s lap pretending she wasn’t even in the lawn chair.

Then it happened, a loud clap of – underthunder!

“Oh, yeah!” The kids laughed throwing up their hands in the air.

“Way to go, Gregor!” Jack cheered, as James gave him “five” again.

“That was the macomic bomb!” Campion declared.

There is nothing in the world like “breaking wind” to also help unite children in peace

and harmony.

“Oh my God, oh my God, he just EMBEDDED something on me, Mother!”

Kathleen was wildly incensed.

“A simple ‘trouser-cough’, my dear, or a ‘nooper’ if you prefer,” Gregor stated,

sedately, in a decided British accent.

“Nooper?” At least his vocabulary was broadening.

“You’re disgusting!” Kathleen cried pounding on Gregor’s back with her fists. Gregor

slowly stood up while Kathleen kept pounding. She jumped out of the chair and flopped

down on the picnic table bench. Gregor took his seat on his aluminum throne.

“All of you shut-UP, we’re going to say our grace!” Michael sat down at the head of

the picnic table on one of the fold-up canvas camping stools which was so low to the

ground his chin was resting on the top of the table. Instead of being the “Head” of the

family, he looked more like the “Chin” of the family. This would not be acceptable.

Michael immediately stood up and made Gregor trade his aluminum throne for the

fold-up camping stool.

“Awwwww, Dad, why do I have to sit on this dumpy old stool and you get the good

chair?” Gregor was now the “Chin” of the family.

“Because – I’m the Dad!” No other explanation was needed. “Are we ready to say

grace, now? Campion stop eating we haven’t said grace!”

“Wait a minute, honey. Please pass me that loaf of milk and gallon of bread, first, will

you, Bridget?” I asked.

“Mom, there’s something weird on my plate.” Bridget complained.

“Well don’t look at it. Pass that loaf of milk, please, then we can say grace.” I

begged.

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 50)

“Bridget, your face is weird.” Said Nora.

“Idiotic!” Bridget replied.

“That’s enough!” I demanded.

“Mom…’hello’…it’s called a loaf of ‘bread’ and a gallon of ‘milk’…what’s wrong with

you?” corrected Kathleen.

“What’s wrong with her? What’s wrong with her? You kids are what’s wrong with

her.” Michael was defending me. Call the governor!

“Nora, your breath stinks.” Bridget said out of nowhere completely ignoring her

father.

“Bridget, your face stinks,” Nora countered, a stink for a stink.

“Stop it!!” I screamed, slamming both of my fists on the picnic table. “Okay…okay.

So you kids wanna’ fight…huh? You wanna’ fight? Well, then…” I said slowly with a

kind of insane control leaning into all the children. They all stared back with their

mouths hanging wide open. “…why don’t you all just stick your heads up my rear-end

and try fighting for air!”

Dead silence. Only the chirping crickets could be heard and they seemed to be

singing in chorus, “Mom’s gone crazy…mom’s gone crazy…mom’s gone crazy.”

Then, the baby threw his wonderful, Missouri River catfish, fried in beer-batter, at my

face.

“Mam-mee, mam-mee.” Paddy smiled.

“Uh…ohhh.” The children gasped. More stunned silence.

A crecendo of crickets sang, “Mom IS crazy…mom IS crazy…mom IS crazy!”

“Shut-UP!” I shouted into the night at the crickets and they did.

I swiped the fish off my face, threw it onto the ground, looked back at the children and

a big, glob of SOMEthing long and rubbery slowly dripped out from the inside of my

nose and…plop…it landed on my plate of wonderful, Missouri River catfish, and it was

NOT the beer-batter. Everyone burst out laughing.

Michael put his forehead in his hand and just shook it back and forth. I think he had a

headache.

“Let’s say grace now shall we?” Michael made the sign of the cross and I blew

whatever the heck was leaking out of my nose into a paper napkin. “Father, Son, Holy

Ghost, who eats the fastest…gets the most!”

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 51)

Moved by the Holy Ghost, everyone

grabbed whatever they could. Jack and James each stomped on my feet as they stood up

to lean over the table to reach for tomatoes. Oh, the heaven of motherhood!

“Father, Son, Holy Ghost, who eats the fastest…gets the most” is a humorous prayer

that has been in my family for centuries. It goes all the way back to St. Brendan, the

great 4th century Catholic monk and sea navigator.

The Irish have always mixed humor with the Faith for as that great Irishman, G.K.

McChesterton, said, “It is the test of a good religion whether you can joke about it.” Now

the prayer has been modified a bit for modern times since St. Brendan wrote it in his

“ship’s log” on his way over from Ireland where it can still be read to this day…”Father,

Son, Holy Ghost, discovered America…Ireland’s boast!”

After dinner the boys cleared off the table and took the trash to the dumpster while the

girls got the toiletries ready to take to the showers and restrooms.

Michael had put the tailgate down at the back of the truck for my kitchen. I washed

the dishes with soapy water heated in a big aluminum pan over the campfire and rinsed

them in another aluminum pan with cold, clear water from the water pump on the

campground road. Then I placed everything on dishtowels to air dry.

The great-out-of-doors. It’s quite an experience washing dishes under silver stars

instead of silver faucets. Actually, the experience is in the morning when you can see

clearly that you didn’t get half the crud off the dishes because it was so dark the night

before.

Kathleen led the kids to the restrooms to shower and brush their teeth. I changed

Paddy’s diaper, gave him a bottle and laid him in our tent for the night.

I heard James asking Kathleen questions, as they left, that I was too tired to deal with.

“Kathleens…where does toothpaste comes from?”

“It comes from Lake Michigan, don’t ya know nufsin’?” Campion was sounding a bit

impatient.

“Oh,” said James.

“Kathleens, do stupid ants swim?” James was still questioning Kathleen as they

headed to the restrooms.

“James! You alwedy asked that question fotey-eweven times!” Campion was

obviously tired and didn’t want to deal with James’ stupid questions either.

“Oh.” James seemed satisfied with “fotey-eweven times”.

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 52)

Coming out of the tent I went over and sat in the lawn chair next to Michael in front of

the campfire. He opened another beer for me.

“You’re going to get me drunk.” I said, happily taking it from him.

“Everything in moderation,” he said, lighting up a cigar.

“And moderation in moderation, too.” I took a long drink.

“Your grandmother?”

“Nope. My great-Uncle John Mullarkey.” I propped my feet up on the ring of wood

surrounding the fire.

“The one who drank Pepsi Cola all day with whiskey in it?” Michael asked.

“The one and only.”

I loved my dear, dead dad’s dear, dead, Uncle John. He and his wife, my dear, dead,

Aunt Helen, were my dear, but now dead, godparents. Did I mention they were dead?

Once upon a time, in the early 1960’s, when I was about eight years old, I spent a

weekend with them and got to drink ice-cold glasses of Pepsi Cola all day long starting at

10:00 in the morning. This was unheard of in my family. Why to be drinking ANYthing

at 10:00 in the morning, except for water, I think, was probably a venial sin.

Special treats came only on Friday nights later in the evening at our house in the early

1960’s but not until well after supper and the weekly grocery shopping.

In the spring and summer, Mom would oven-bake fish-sticks and lay them between

pieces of soft, smashed, white bread soaked in catsup and place them next to a pile of

steaming, Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee’s American spaghetti. In the fall and winter, Friday evening

meals were usually pancakes. Mom would drop cup-fulls of batter into two frying pans

on one side of our white, enamel gas stove and on the other side, on the front burner, she

would have a sauce-pan of maple syrup simmering. Behind the maple syrup was always

the trusty, aluminum pot of coffee faithfully perking away. Those were the days; perking

pots of coffee and our Mom’s homemade syrups with all natural, artificial Maple

Flavoring and Kayro syrup.

I can still remember raking and mixing up red and yellow leaves along with the crispy,

crackling brown ones in the back yard, stopping to sniff up my runny nose and catching a

scent of Maple syrup wafting out from Mom’s warm kitchen on the fresh, chilled air. We

would all throw down our rakes and yell, “Last one in is a rotten egg!” Usually, the “last

one in” got a bump on his noggin the size of an egg ’cause he was the littlest and not the

fastest and always the lastest! The rakes hit him on the forehead. Life is tough, growin’

up in a big family. But like that Irish philosopher, McNietzsche, always said, “What

doesn’t kill me…will make a big bump on my head.”, or somethin’ like that. I think

McNietzsche drank.

cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 53)

After supper Mom would go to the Kroger store for her weekly shopping, while we

washed and dried the dishes. She and Dad would arrive home just as we were finishing

up and for about an hour after that we would put away brown paper bags of groceries,

after groceries, after groceries.

The kitchen stocked for the week, we would then gather around the portable T.V. with

a large pitcher of Kool-Aid sweetened with great big cups of white, granulated sugar and

silver, aluminum, dented bowls of pan-melted-buttered popcorn to watch “The

Flintstones”, “Mitch-Miller”, “Gomer Pyle” and “The Twilight Zone”. The early

1960’s…those were the days when the only “f” words Catholic kids knew were “Friday”,

“fish” and “Flintstones”.

Of course we all knew the “E” word back then, Elvis. My great-Aunt Helen adored

Elvis Presley almost as much as Pepsi Cola, Uncle John and whiskey. She took me to see

one of his movies, “Viva Las Vegas”, I think it was.

I never told my mother about it because she wouldn’t have approved. I’m pretty sure

that was a venial sin, too, but being a girl, I just had to tell someone. I decided to reveal

my sinful weekend to my best friend, Marie Claire.

Marie Claire lived next-door with her 10 brothers and sisters and was going to be a

Notre Dame nun when she grew up. Marie Claire was real holy.

It was spring and we were eating our lunch on the kitchen porch steps of my house.

The apple trees in our back yard hung heavy with snowy, white blossoms and the scent of

the perfumed flowers made me giddy. I spilled my guts to Marie Claire over baloney and

mustard sandwiches along with great gulps of cold, Carnation-Powdered milk in our

mom’s best glasses, Flintstone jelly jars.

“I had a Pepsi with breakfast, lunch AND dinner, and it wasn’t even Friday night!” I

had exclaimed to Marie Claire, who couldn’t fathom having a glass of Pepsi Cola on

ANY night much less in the morning.

“Neat-o!” Marie Claire, the future Notre Dame nun replied.

Then I whispered, “My Aunt Helen even took me to see an Elvis PRESLEY movie.”

Marie Claire’s jaw dropped. You would have thought I had offered her a glass of that

new Pre-Sweetened Kool-Aid.

THE ZINNIAS -  Zinnias grow  In dirty earth   Crumbly wormy   Soil of worth.

 Not only zinnias   Apple trees   And dirt dams up   Our open seas.

Earth’s dirt   Keeps us firmly anchored   When even wars   Her surface cankered.

But joyful souls   Who trust stay meek  From earth’s dirt see…   The zinnias peak!

http://tinyurl.com/kp8q7s

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 54)

“That’s a mortal sin, Maureen!” Marie Claire admonished. “The ladies wear

immodest clothes in his movies.” She had a point, but if truth be told, whenever we were

jealous of something the other got to do we would accuse them of committing a mortal

sin. Kids looked out for each other’s souls, back then. We were the best of friends.

“Like FISH!” I defied her, using one of the “f” words.

“Ya liked that fish?” I had recited the phrase “like fish” out loud and Michael thought

I was saying that I had liked the fish we had for supper.

“Oh, yes, yes, Michael. A great fish fry.” I declared as I came back to the present and

left those sweet, Pre-Sweetened Kool-Aid days of fish-sticks, Friday nights, the

Flintstones and Elvis.

“Too bad we didn’t have some Pepsi Colas to wash it all down with, huh?” Michael

winked.

Puffing on his cigar, blowing smoke rings, Michael leaned back in his chair and

relaxed. Stretching out his legs we listened to the tree frogs’ soprano-like-trills

harmonizing with the chorus of crickets supported by the base of the bull-frogs while

drinking our beers.

“Well, Michael, it’s a good thing my Uncle John and Aunt Helen weren’t just drinkin’

Pepsi Colas otherwise Uncle John wouldn’t have been inspired enough to recite all the

wonderful Shakespeare, he did.”

“What Shakespeare, Maureen?” the husband questioned.

“Well, one of my favorite speeches was one he would recite from, ummmm, I think it

was “A Mid-Summer’s Night Dream”, it went like this…” I stood up and imitated my

Uncle, who had a great flare for the dramatics…

“Drink is the curse of the land.

It makes you fight your neighbor,

It makes you shoot at your landlord,

And it makes you miss him.”

I sat back down in my lawn chair after the recitation and Michael immediately

corrected me, “No, no, no, Maureen…that was from ‘A Mid-Summer’s Nightmare After A

Long-Days Journey Into That Good Night’, written by Shakespeare O’Neil.”

“Oh, was THAT Shakespeare’s last name? O’Neil? I should have known he was

Irish.” We both had a giggle.

HOLY SMOKES!

http://tinyurl.com/kp8q7s

TEMPTING TOBACCO  Oh, God Why did you make, The tempting tobacco leaf?

Life is Full of stress  and

Tension all so brief.  It’s nice To have a smoke, With friends for a little relief.  Oh, God  Why did you make, The tempting tobacco leaf?

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 55)

Putting down his beer and with his cigar in his right hand, Michael leaned over putting

his left arm around me and we kissed. We kissed long and passionately. Suddenly he

pulled back crying out in agony. Was my breath that bad?

“What’s the matter?” I asked worriedly.

“CRAP!” Michael grimaced.

“Michael! CRAP? Must you use such language when the children aren’t here?”

(whoops, a McFreudian slip!)

“I said, ‘CRAMP’…’CRAMP’…I’ve got a cramp in my left shoulder.” Doubled over in

his chair he grabbed his left shoulder with his left foot…I mean his right foot…I mean his

right hand after throwing down his half-smoked cigar. A half-smoked cigar? He really

WAS in pain!

Turning to my left, setting my beer on the ground to free my hands to massage his

shoulder, I twisted around to the right, hitting him in his left eye with my right elbow.

“Arggghhh!” He grabbed his eye. “My God, kissing used to be so easy.” He threw

his head back still rubbing his shoulder and now blinking his eye.

“Honey, I’m so sorry.” I lunged further to my right trying to caress his forehead but as

I twisted an incredible pain, from my left buttocks, shot down my left leg.

“CRAP!” Jumping straight up and out of my chair, I limped around the campfire

trying to get the excruciating kink out of my leg. “Oh, CRAP!”

“Cramp?” Michael asked, concerned.

“No! CRAP!!” I blurted out again. “I’ve got sciatica and it hurts like CRAP!!” I was

running around the campfire like an Indian warrior whooping it up. “Oooo-wu-wu-wu!

Ouw-wa-wa-wou!” I chanted in pain, my hands plastered to the small of my back.

“Come here and sit on my lap.” Michael put his arms out to me now that his cramp

was gone.

“St. Venerius! There’s no such thing as ’safe-sex’ EVEN in marriage!”

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 56)

Gently, I lowered myself onto his lap. Then he handed me my beer, picked up his own and we

drank very slowly and very carefully so as not to pull any more muscles.

“Remember when we were dating and we called this ‘necking’, and we liked it?”

Michael cautiously kissed me.

“I guess we should call it ‘wrecking’, as in our bodies.” I took another sip. “Ya know?

What doesn’t hurt, doesn’t work.”

“Come here.” Michael pulled me closer into him and we kissed, a long, drawn-out

kiss.

Then there was a long, drawn-out sound.

“Michael!” I stood up hitting him in his chest. “The ‘duck’…how un-romantic!”

“Sorry.” He took another swig of beer and pulled me back onto his lap, kissing me,

like, like, I was his GIRLfriend or something. (You go, guy!)

“Michael, the kids will be here any minute.” I whispered between our coming up for

air. I pushed him away straightening my blouse.

“You’re beautiful.” Uh, oh, he was achin’ for the bacon as my grandmother used to

say.

“Beauty is in the eye of the beer-holder.” I pointed to him.

“Let’s go in the tent,” he suggested, in a suggestive way.

“The baby’s in there. Besides, a husband with a wife on a camping trip has one intent.

Right?” I teased.

“Hell, yes! Let’s go in the other tent,” he implored, rubbing his hands up and down

my legs. “You have the greatest legs.”

“I know what you have on your mind.”

Michael pulled me closer and we became more passionate almost forgetting where we

were.

“St. Sexburga!” I gasped for air and playfully pushed him away. He pulled me right

back. His hands were all over me. I was giving in. I was giving up. I was as weak as

pond water.

The fire was getting low and the campgrounds quiet. The stars were silvery bright and

the moon, brightly silver. The perfumed honeysuckle floated through the air and the

sweet smell elicited happy memories of long goodnight kisses on my parents front porch

in St. Louis. I was 18 again. (Okay, so maybe it was the beer, but I felt like 18 and it felt

good.)

http://tinyurl.com/kp8q7s

A CATHOLIC FOURTH OF JULY – Happy Fourth!  Happy Fourth!  Always a Catholic Firtht, of courth. 

 Happy Fourth, And I say – eth We’re no descent Of Henry the eigh – eth!  

Happy Fourth U – S – A  Priests say Latin Mass each day!

Happy Fourth!  “Latin what??!!” A firecracker Up Henry’s…

But – Happy Fourth, Hank’s in his grave, The One, True, Faith

Still frees the brave, 

So Happy Fourth Of God’s July, In the U – S – A

A Catholic I’ll die!

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 57)

His kisses, were hot and heavy. Our breathing, was hot and heavy and then

Michael’s aluminum lawn chair broke, because WE were hot and…heavy. CRASH!!!

The chair completely fell apart and we landed on the hard ground.

“I better lay off those wheat thicks, huh?” I joked still sitting on Michael’s lap and

him on the crushed aluminum lawn chair.

“Arrrrggghhh!” Michael groaned. “Maureen, if you don’t get off of me right this

minute we will never have a baby again.”

“Hmmmmmm.” I put a finger to my lips as though in deep thought.

“Maureen!!” He shouted.

“I’m sorry.” I got off of him and helped him to his feet. He was doubled over in pain.

“Oooh, honey, is it your tallywhacker?” I asked.

“My what?” He was limping around the campfire bent over with terrible

crapping…cramping.

“Did you hurt your Willy Wonkas?” I was concerned.

“Willy Wonka’s tallywhacker?” He frowned. “You make me sound like Tinker Bell

in Peter Pan, for God’s sake.” There would be no knockin’ boots tonight.

“No, no. Your Willy Wonkas are separate from your tallywhacker. My grandmother

used those expressions all the time with my grandfather. I think they’re cute. More

poetic sounding, don’t you think, than what you men usually call them. Actually, I like

the alliteration in ‘Willy Wonkas’ don’t you?” I asked.

“Maureen…” Michael was gritting his teeth speaking very slowly, “your grandmother

didn’t know baby-shit from Butterscotch!”

“What?!” I was incensed.

“Maureen, when the dog’s bullocks are crushed, he wants to be alone. That’s what

MY grandfather used to say and will you SHUT-UP, WOMAN!” He yelled right into my

face. I was dumbfounded, but I kept right on talking.

“I see. After 10 kids and 25 of the skinniest years of my life. Well, maybe 15 of the

skinniest years of my life, you’re now telling me to ’shut-up’?” I was deeply wounded.

“You sir, can just go stand on your head and shit lightning!”

cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!
cont…Chapter 2
(Page 58)

“Shit lightning? That’s the macomic bomb, Mom!” Campion had come up behind me
from the restrooms and showers.
“Don’t you ever say that word, Mr. Flanigan. I said SPIT lightning, SPIT, do you
hear? Stop that digging for gold.” I slapped Campion’s finger out of his nose. He
shrugged his shoulders, picked up a stick and went over to push it around in the dying
embers of the campfire.
“Mom, Jack’s got loose balls.” Nora announced also arriving back at camp.
“You too?” Michael was recovered.
“Michael!” I shot him the stink eye. “Jack, what in the world is Nora talking about?”
“She means loose bowels, Mom.” Kathleen explained throwing the Wallgreen’s
plastic garbage bags into the tents. “He has a little diarrhea, he’s fine.”
“It’s from all that fish we have to eat on Fridays because we’re Catholic.” Jack sat on
the picnic bench scowling.
“St. Paregorius! Get over here and I’ll give you some Paregoric, you little atheist.” I
smacked his head.
“And Kathleen’s having her pyramid too, Mom.” Nora said going to the truck to pour
herself a cup of water from a plastic milk jug.
The other children were putting their toiletries away in the tent as Michael started
cleaning up the pieces of the broken lawn chair.
“Tell her to shut-up would you, Mom?” Kathleen pleaded. “I have no privacy in my
life. It’s so embarrassing.” She walked up behind Nora and grabbed the water jug out of
her hands to pour herself a cup of water too. I gave Jack his Paragoric and sent him into
the tent to put away his toiletries.
“First of all, Nora it’s called your period.” I whispered, “and you don’t need to
announce to the world when your sister is having hers. We must respect each other’s
privacy.” We stayed by the truck so the little boys didn’t hear.
“Mom, Tiffany told me it’s called your pyramid.” Tiffany was the little girl who lived
behind us.
“Period, Nora.” I repeated, trying to be open and honest.
“Pyramid, Mom, it’s called your pyramid, Tiffany said so.” Nora knew.
“Okay,” says I, “learn it in the gutter. Pyramid!”

His Most Precious Blood, Springs up in July, In picnic-red checks
Reminding us why, We’re all in His rhythm, He gives us all reasons,
To incite and delight… The beate of all seasons.
http://tinyurl.com/mrfl8l

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 59)

“Mom!” Campion called from inside my tent. “Paddy’s dwinking the juice out of

somebody’s contact wens case!”

“Maureen!” Michael knew the case was his.

“Kathleen, that’s your dad’s, go get it from Paddy and lay him back down with his

bottle.” She started to open her mouth but I intercepted, “and don’t say a

word…’pyramid’!” Kathleen shook her head and rolled her eyes.

“All right, it’s ‘ring-around-the-Rosary’ time!” Michael threw old sleeping bags down

on the ground round the campfire ring for the children to sit upon.

I handed everyone a rosary from my Mental Health First-Aid Kit that I bring along on

our camping trips and keep in the little kitchen at the back of the truck.

The ideal Mental Health First-Aid Kit should always contain NyQuill, for a good

night’s sleep, Rosaries and a couple of cigarettes. The NyQuill is for your physical, the

Rosaries, your mental and the cigarettes – your spiritual. Sure, haven’t ya ever heard of -

“Holy Smokes”?

Michael put another log on the fire and the children sat crossed-legged around the

campfire ring looking tired and sleepy.

“It’s Friday, what Mysteries are we saying tonight?” Michael asked as we sat with the

children on the sleeping bags.

“The Sorrowful mysteries!” Bridget rejoiced.

“Do you want to say it in Latin or English?” Michael asked.

“Can we do English, I’m too tired for Latin, Dad,” said Jack who had just started

studying Latin this past year in first grade and was having some trouble with it.

“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. I believe in God the

Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ, His…” Michael led

the Rosary.

We prayed the first four Sorrowful mysteries – the Agony in the Garden, the

Scourging at the Pillar, the Crowning of Thorns, the Carrying of the Cross and then

Michael asked Jack to announce the 5th Sorrowful mystery.

“I know, I know…” Shouted Campion, enthusiastically, who would be starting

kindergarten in the fall and wanted to be as good as the big kids at saying the Rosary.

“Okay, what is the 5th Sorrowful mystery, Campion?” Michael questioned.

“The Big Bang!” Campion declared smiling with his bran-flake freckles flickering on

his face in the fire light.

TO THE ISLE OF PELELIU  (Winocki)  In the Fall   Of forty-four   Our country battled  In a war. 

A young boy went -  The proud the few  To the isle  Of Peleliu.

A young boy went -  The proud the few  To the isle  Of Peleliu.

His mind he steadied  Not to cry  Then metal shrapnel  Sliced his eye.

A young boy went -  The proud the few  To the isle  Of Peleliu.

Writhing in pain,  His eye red-hot,  A smiling medic,  Then he was shot.

A young boy went -  The proud the few  To the isle  Of Peleliu.

Under his back,  Only the earth  In front to his sides  Souls of great worth.

A young boy went -  The proud the few  To the isle  Of Peleliu.

The boy was wounded  Left eye blind,  Back to the states  To paint and remind…

Just yesterday killed,  The proud the few -  May all souls rest  On…Peleliu.

 cont…IT’S A VIRTUOUS WOMAN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 2

(Page 60)

“Good try, Campion.” I comforted him as the others laughed.

“Jack?” Michael asked. “You’ve been studying the Rosary this past year at school so

you should know the 5th Sorrowful mystery.”

Jack frowned. “I don’t know Dad, I can’t remember.”

“Gregor, help your brother out, tell him the 5th Sorrowful mystery.” Michael coaxed.

“The crucifixion.” Gregor told Jack.

“Oh,” Jack responded knitting his brow. “Of who?”

“ST. ANTHONY ‘HAMMER OF HERETICS’??!!” I screeched. “Of who?!!” I threw

my hands up in the air.

“Maureen!” Michael gave me a stern look. “Don’t you know, Jack?”

“Oh, yeah, Dad, Christ’s!” He slapped himself in the forehead with the palm of his

hand. “Oh well, as Father Stanislaw taught us in Latin class…’Semper ubi sub ubi’.”

“He knows some Latin. I can’t believe it – call the governor!” I was happy to hear

Jack had retained something he learned this past year. “Now what does that mean, Jack,

that, ’semper ubi’?”

“Semper ubi sub ubi,” Jack repeated, “means, ‘that’s life, live it for God’!” Jack

winked. The other children snickered.

“Maureen, let’s get on with this. I’m beat.” Michael pleaded, yawning wide.

We continued reciting the rosary round the campfire lulling Campion and James to

sleep. Each had their heads on my lap, they were breathing deeply as the fire died down

and we locked up the night with our prayers.

“‘That’s life, live it for God’! I like that Jack, I like that a lot.” The 5 older children all

smiled broadly and I thought, “yes, life is good, when one lives it for God. Semper ubi

sub ubi!”

IT’S THE FIGHTIN’ IRISH, I AM!

Chapter 3

(Page 61)

Michael, my love, Father of our five,
Let’s hop in the car and go for a drive.
And on “Blueberry Hill”, let’s neck just for kicks,
And, hey, did I say, I just felt number six!
“Michael, Michael, wake up.” It was the middle of the night and I could hear strange
noises outside our tent.
What?” Michael growled, making even stranger noises INSIDE our tent.
“I think there are raccoons in the cooler,” I whispered trying not to wake the little ones
asleep around us. Then there was a loud thud. The coons had knocked the cooler off the
picnic table to the ground. Michael jumped up, grabbed the flashlight and started
fumbling with the tent zipper.
“Get out of here!” He tripped out of the tent, fell and landed on his stomach.
“Remember, Michael, a rolling stone gathers no moss, but pick one up and throw it
and ya have a darn good weapon! That’s what my grandmother used to say.” Stepping
on Michael I picked up a couple of stones outside the tent, and threw them at the
raccoons.
There were three of them, each with a loaf of my Hostess outlet day-old-bread in their
mouths standing there, brazenly, next to our opened up Coleman cooler.
“Blessed Edward Coleman of the Oates Plot!” I prayed. “Kill them! Kill them dead!”
There came a bloodcurdling scream from within me.
You have to understand the words, “outlet” and “day-old”, well, them are fighting
words in a big family. I threw a log at the coons and they took off like a couple of
striped-ass birds, errrr, coons. We ran after them into the woods throwing sticks and
stones, hoping they might drop just one loaf of bread.
Michael was hollering and throwing things and I was the woman behind the man,
hollering, when all of a sudden one of the raccoons stopped in its tracks. We stopped. It
turned around. It stared us down. We stared back. The raccoon bared his teeth and
growled at us, still clenching my loaf of Hostess outlet day-old-bread.
The time had come for Michael to prove himself as the hunter of the family. I didn’t
want to interfere with his manly-moment or, St. Feargal, let that raccoon smell my fear.
So, being the woman behind the man, I didn’t say a word, turned around, and without a
sound – took off like a man with a paper ass running through a forest fire.

cont…IT’S THE FIGHTIN’ IRISH, I AM!

cont…Chapter 3

(Page 62)

I got about 25 yards when it hit me – I had to go to the La-la very, very badly.
The moon was white and high so I was able to see a nice grassy knoll by a couple of
trees. I would have to void in the great outdoors.
“A full moon tonight I see.” Michael was back.
“That’s NOT the moon, Michael Flanigan!” I exclaimed loudly from behind one of
the trees up on the knoll where I was partially exposed.
“You look as silly as a cow’s behind in moonlight.” Michael joked. “Come on
woman, let’s go.” Michael was tired.
“Did the racoons get all the bread?” I asked.
“All of it,” he said. I was devastated.
“Hey! There’s no toilet paper out here!” Now I was really devastated.
“Come on, Maureen, just shake the dew off your lily pad and let’s get back to the tent
and get some sleep.” Just like a man, hunt down racoons and forget to bring the toilet
paper.
Well, I’ve been in this predicament many times before, that’s why God made coffee
filters. I looked around, no coffee filters, so I grabbed the next best thing, rain filters, a
clump of leaves from a bush. The deed was done.
We walked back to camp through the moon-lit woods awake with night sounds.
The peepers were peeping, the bull frogs were – bulling? The crickets, the June bugs,
they all were chirrping and buzzing. Then a hoot from a curious owl “whoo? whoo?”.
I had a rhythm going to our walk along with the background beat of the sounds of the
woods, reminding me of a ditty my grandmother used to sing. I recited it under my
breath, in time to the night music, as I had a little “Night Fever”…

 cont…IT’S THE FIGHTIN’ IRISH, I AM!

cont…Chapter 3

(Page 63)

“Possum up a gump stump,

Cooney in the holler.

Whip snake,

June bug,

Give me half a dollar!”

“What?” Michael looked at me strangely. Michael had no rhythm. Ph.D., you know.

“Possum up a gump stump,

Cooney in the holler.

Whip snake,

June bug,

Give me half a dollar!”

I was dancin’ and swinging my arms, now. Michael didn’t dance and Michael never

swung. I sang even louder.

“POSSUM UP A GUMP STUMP,

COONEY IN THE HOLLER.

WHIP SNAKE,

JUNE BUG,

GIVE ME HALF A DOLLAR!”

“Okay.” Michael stood still, arms folded shaking his head. “You look like Jim Carey

imitating the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz.”

“Just call me Jim ‘Scare’-y!” We laughed and hugged.

Michael rubbed my arms, pulled me into him and kissed me in the moon light. “You

really, ARE, ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’, you know.” He kissed me again and we

put our arms around each other’s waists and walked back to our campsite.

Locked in each other’s embrace I looked up at him, “Well, as Jack says, darling,

‘Semper ubi, sub ubi’…’That’s life, live it for God’, no matter WHAT side of the rainbow

you’re from or what color of the rainbow you are.” And at that very moment the moon hit

our eyes like a big pizza pie, “it’s amore”, or pizza pie passion as we Irish like to call it.

Pizza pie? St. Elizabeth of Hungary! We had to get out of this moon light, it was

making me think too much about food.

cont…IT’S THE FIGHTIN’ IRISH, I AM!

cont…Chapter 3

(Page 64)

“I’ll put the Coleman coolers in the truck cab and lock the doors, Jim ‘Scare’-y.”

Michael tripped over a log on the ground. “Gosh darn it, I can’t see a thing without my

glasses.”

“I can see, don’t worry, just keep holding my hand.” I led the way.

“How is your eye-lid, by the way?” He asked.

“The swelling is down a lot since I’ve been putting that Walgreen’s hemorrhoidal

cream on it.” I helped him with the coolers.

“I can’t believe you’re putting that stuff on your eye-lid,” he said.

“Hey! That stuff has been around since white thread and it’s more versatile than

baking soda,” I pronounced as we loaded the two Coleman coolers into the cab of the

pick-up.

We crawled back into our tent very sleepy and tired.

“I feel I was born tired and since suffered a relapse.” I slipped into my sleeping bag

next to Michael feeling completely worn out. Paddy was sound asleep in his porta-crib

and Campion and James were still snuggled up in their sleeping bags.

“Are you in the mood?” Michael whispered in my ear, caressing my neck with his

fingers, feeling pizza pie passioney.

Looking back over my shoulder our eyes met. I smiled and asked that burning

question, “Does a snake have an ass?”

Michael kissed me and gave me a swat on my backside. The “Pizza Parlor” was

closed for the night.

The campgrounds were full of restful sounds. Chirping, crickets, the waves of Lake

Michigan hitting the shore, the leaves of the trees rustling in the summer breeze and the

sweet sighs of our little ones’ breathing in the tent with us. Michael’s arm tightened

around me and he pulled me close to him. I thought of T.S. McEliot’s words, “Let us go,

then, you and I until human voices wake us and we drown.”

“Whaaaaa…whaaaaa!!!!” A human voice, Paddy’s. Time to drown.

THE BOYZ ARE BACK    My father died In nineteen-eighty… When girls served On the altar.    And pray I have For his poor soul, Daily the Angelic Psalter.    But Christmas Eve Your grandsons served The midnight Mass
So mighty!    The Sacrifice Has been preserved. The boyz are back – With piety!!

cont…IT’S THE FIGHTIN’ IRISH, I AM!

cont…Chapter 3

(Page65)

“Mom!” Campion woke up next to the porta-crib. “Paddy stinks. He’s got loose

balls.”

“Bowels, honey, bowels. Go back to sleep, I’ll change him.” I reassured Campion.

“Honey? Mmmmm…I like honey.” Campion laid back down licking his lips.

I changed Paddy but he was still fussing. I sat up on my sleeping bag trying to rock

him back to sleep. I was so tired and he kept crying. I couldn’t stand up and walk with

him in the tent and I couldn’t go outside and possibly wake up other campers, so I just sat

and rocked. My lower back was being strained and I was in pain. Paddy threw himself

backwards, then forwards, head-butting me on my mouth. I now had a throbbing swollen

lower lip. This completely took my mind off my throbbing, lower back pain. Paddy

continued fussing.

“Do you want me to try to get him to sleep?” Michael was awake too.

“No, you sleep, I’m okay.” I really wanted Michael to rest. He works so hard and

deserves a vacation and rest

After about 15 more minutes of rocking Paddy started nodding off on my shoulder. I

decided to use this time to say some of my morning prayers. A “Hail Mary” always lifts

my spirits when I am leaning towards feeling sorry for myself. With this aching lower

back and fat swollen lip, I was leaning.

I started praying silently – “Harry Mary full of grace…” What did I just say?! “Mother

of God!” I whispered to myself. “Why did I say ‘Harry‘ Mary? I meant ‘Hail‘ Mary!”

“Mom?” Campion sat up straight in his sleeping bag. “Can we have that farmer John

cheese on wabioli tomorrow night for supper?”

“Shush, you’ll wake Paddy, and St. Bernard of Parma, Campion, it’s ‘parmesan cheese’

not ‘farmer John cheese’, and yes, you can have it on ravioli if we have that for supper.

Now go back to sleep.”

“That’s the macomic bomb!” He laid back down and went wistfully to sleep.

Ahhhhhhhh, sleep. I was getting so tired.

Paddy stirred, swung his arm out and punched me in the nose with his fist. Blood

started dripping. Grabbing my pillow I stuffed part of the pillow-case up my nose and

pinched my nostril to stop the messy bleeding. After a few minutes I slowly and

carefully lowered myself down onto the sleeping bag on my back balancing Paddy on my

right shoulder trying to keep it so he could continue sleeping pressed up against me while

still holding half the pillow up my nose with my left hand.

I was totally exhausted. My grandmother used to say…”Get all the sleep you can,

there’s something holy about sleep.” Oh, so THAT’S why I’m not so holy. No wonder I

can’t even recite my prayers properly…’Harry‘ Mary. I’m sleepy AND unholy.

I took in a deep breath, sighed, and looking up to the roof of the tent through the

square-screened opening and out to the starry heavens above I prayed, “Good night

‘Harry‘ Mary…wherever you are.”

http://tinyurl.com/kp8q7s     ANCHORS AWEIGH!!    Shale-gray morn,   Lace in purse,   Thin-paged Missal,   Scriptural verse.    Rosary rattles,   Scooped from table,   Will pray ‘fore Mass   If I am able.    

Quiet, still,   Children sleeping,   One more coffee   For my keeping.    

Back porch view,   Conscience-clear,   Trees stand guard   There’s    aught to fear.    For like the tree   With anchored root,   When heresy-hales   I can dispute…    Hold holy ground   White-surpliced birch,   “Anchors aweigh!”    I sail to Church.

THAT’S THE KIND OF HAIRPIN, I AM!

Chapter 4

(Page 66)

Michael, my love, Father of our six,

Love of my life, together we mix,

Like a recipe written, by God up in Heaven,

‘Cause in the “oven” is cookin’ number seven!

Every morning is the dawn of a new error and Dawn was vacuuming her tent. It was

5:00 in the morning.

“What is that racket?” Michael sat up with his eyes still closed.

“Blessed John Nutter! The nut next door is already vacuuming!” I replied.

“Ignore her.” Michael laid back down.

“Yeah, she must be that ‘O.C.-D.C.’,” I pronounced incorrectly.

“You mean ‘O.C.D.’, Maureen, it’s Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, not ‘O.C.-D.C.’.

You’re thinking that ‘A.C.-D.C.’.” Michael corrected.

“‘O.C.-D.C.’, ‘A.C.-D.C.’, they’re all CRAZee-E.D. to me,” I declared.

“You would know, Maureen.” Michael couldn’t fight me on this one.

“Well, I’ve been up since the butt-crack of dawn with Paddy’s crying, I might as well

get up and start the camp fire so we can have our first cup of coffee in the great

outdoors,” I said sarcastically.

“I’ll do that, Maureen, and start the Coleman stove to perk the coffee on.” Michael

pulled himself out of his sleeping bag as the alarm clock went off, his underthunder.

“St. Exsuperantius!” I was so exasperated. “Tone it down, will ya? You’re going to

wake up the whole camp grounds, you and that ‘O.C.-D.C’..”

“What do you want me to do, let it crowd up around my heart and kill me?” He said

in all seriousness. “Now where are my glasses?” He was feeling around with his hands

on the floor of our tent and gave me a pinch.

“St. Sexburga! Is that all you ever think about?” I handed him his pair of glasses

which were under his pillow.

“Yes.” He smiled.

cont….THAT’S THE KIND OF HAIRPIN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 4

(Page 67) 

“Where’s the sheepdog?” I was now feeling all around the floor of the tent, trying not

to disturb Paddy who was laying sound asleep on my pillow and sleeping bag.

Michael and I are opposites on everything. The one thing we do have in common,

though, are sheep. He has a Ph.D., sheepskin, I have a Br.A., sheepdog – rounds ‘em up

and gathers them in.

“Here it is.” Michael held up my bra in his hands. “What are you going to give me to

get it?”

“A fat lip. Now, hand it over.” I grabbed the Br.A. from the Ph.D.

I climbed out of the tent, after Michael, carrying my bag of toiletries hoping to go to

the showers before the kids awoke. He was pumping the fuel into the Coleman stove to

put hot water on for our coffee. I was hoping maybe the raccoons already had a pot

going.

“Have you ever?” I sighed, looking over at Daryl and Meryl Sterile vacuuming their

tent. “You know, it’s sad to think that those people are depriving some nice little

village of an idiotic!” I just shook my head in disbelief. Michael put his arm around my

shoulders trying to calm me and pushed me in the direction of the showers.

“Go take a shower and you’ll feel like a new woman.” He suggested. “I’ll have the

coffee waiting for you when you get back.” Taking hold of my chin to kiss me, he

cringed, “Who gave you the fat lip?” Ahhhhh – love is blind but marriage restores its

sight.

“Paddy smacked me with his head last night and my eyelid’s puffy again too.” My

blephoritis was acting up.

“Go shower, I’ll get breakfast started and don’t worry, it’s going to be a great day.” I

kissed Michael with my fat lip, fat eyelid and thought about what he said, “a great day”.

Fat chance.

cont…THAT’S THE KIND OF HAIRPIN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 4

(Page 68)

Walking north up the tree-lined campground road, in the gray misty morning I started

to feel a terrible itching down south. I suddenly had a horrific burning and sensation like I

had fire ants in my pants.

I kicked out my leg and yanked at the back of my sweats. Oh my, the itch was

getting worse. I knew I had my Walgreen’s’s hemorrhoidal cream in my toiletry bag but I

was giving some thought to picking up one of them pine-cones, lying on the campground

road, to use when I got to the La-la. The itch was indescribable.

“Beautiful morning. Have a nice day.” Meryl Sterile waved to me emerging from her

tent, portable vacuum in hand.

“Thanks, but I have other plans.” I picked up one of them pine-cones thinking of how

I would relieve this itch and THEN it would really be a nice day.

To my right the gray mist was dissipating as the sun yawned yellow over the blue

lake. The seagulls swooped down to catch their fish for breakfast cawing and care-free.

If only I could be so care-free, if only I could caw. I think the “itch” had reached my

brain.

There were four other women in line waiting for the two showers when I reached the

restroom/shower building so I decided it was a good time to go into a bathroom stall and

answer the call of nature.

Not wanting to call attention to myself by singing a La-la tune, I bunched up a big,

wad of toilet paper and made a large nest of tissue in the commode to catch nature’s

calling cards and muffle all and any sounds.

Nature called and I quietly lit a match to burn off any offensive odors and flung it into

the commode while flushing. Then to my horror – “Phoom”! A pillar of flames! The

toilet wouldn’t flush properly and my nest of toilet tissue was going around and around

very slowly, very, very slowly, burning, burning away. “Phoom”! More flames shot up.

It was a toilet-tissue-towering inferno! Oh, the humanity!

FATIMA SINGS    We battle for Mass,    Daily it’s said.    We battle for schools,    Where God is not dead.    We battle for books    Published and read.    We battle for peace    Retreats are priest led.
We battle to shield    Motherhoods’ plight    To let her nurse child
At home day and night.    We battle for men,    Who quietly fight,
Support them in prayer    To lead us to right.    We battle for truth,
Professed in the Creed,    Say “NO” to the wolves     Who twist it indeed.    We battle for grace     We drink it like mead     It quenches our thirst    Refreshed so to heed…    All that is said    By wolves wearing rings    Corrupting the facts     With traditional slings.
But triumph is coming    Heart Immaculate brings,    ‘Cause the war isn’t over…    Till FATIMA sings!!

http://www.dominicansisterswanganui.blogspot.com/

cont….THAT’S THE KIND OF HAIRPIN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 4

(Page 69) 

I tried relentlessly to flush again and again but the smoke was getting thicker and the

flames hotter. By this time some of the women were screaming, “Fire!” and they ran out

of the showers and restrooms.

Bursting out of the stall, gasping and choking for air, I ran to the sinks, filled a cup

from my toiletry bag with water and fought the back-draft to the towering stall of flames.

While throwing the cup of water on the flames, the flushing mechanism began to work

and the fiery Titanic toilet tissue nest succumbed. Down, down, down it went to it’s

deep, dark, watery grave.

I emerged from the stall exhausted but victorious.

. Two women were still there, the others had abandoned ship. They stood staring, with

their mouths hanging open. They said nothing. I said nothing. They said nothing. I said

nothing.

“Ahhhhhemmm…” I cleared my throat and coughed a bit. “Well, I guess that’s what

you call, ‘hot shibit’, huh?” I laughed nervously, wiping the sweat off my forehead trying

to break the tension.

“You mean ‘hot shit’?” One woman put it crudely.

“Yes, well – I was trying to be delicate. That’s just the kinda hairpin I am. Sorry,” I

apologized.

“Hairpin? Delicate?” The other woman repeated. “Lady, you just set fire to your

‘kah-kah’, and you’re talkin’ hairpins and delicate?” The other woman questioned.

“You do have a point.” I smiled congenially, leaning against the bathroom stall. They

looked at each other, shook their heads and walked out not even taking their showers.

I felt like I had been eaten by a wolf and “shibitted” over a cliff.

ECOspirituality!    THE WAKING OF MAN  Beware goddess green  Mother earth’s pagan queen She’ll recycle man’s faith Unto doubt.  They will question their existence  Contracept with persistence  If man does not wake…  He’s waked out!

 cont…THAT’S THE KIND OF HAIRPIN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 4

(Page 70)

I went ahead and took my shower, brushed and flossed, gargled with my prescription

mouthwash, dabbed Walgreen’s hemorrhoidal cream on my eye-lid and wondered what

life would have been like if I only had had enough oxygen at birth.

I walked back down the winding, tree-lined campground road with more of a bounce

in my step.

What had happened in the La-la’s was behind me. It was water under the bridge…no,

it was more like, fire in the hole!

Jack had said the night before, “Semper ubi sub ubi…’That’s life, live it for God’!”…

and that’s exactly what I was going to do, no matter what. I only wish God would let me

live my life without this horrendous itch I was still grappling with down south.

I had to hop up every once in a while and kick my leg out to the side to stop the itch,

but, not to worry, says I, there was always man’s best friend, old faithful…the Old Yellar

of all Old Yellar’s – the “yellar” tube of Walgreen’s hemorrhoidal cream! Yep! The sun

don’t shine up just one dog’s bee-hind.

The air was light and fresh now, with the scent of fish from the lake. The birds were

chirping in the trees as the sun’s gold-dusty beams slanted through their branches. I could

smell bacon frying, eggs scrambling and coffee perking over the open campfires. There

were the clanking of pots and pans and the giggling of little children anticipating a

glorious day at the white, sandy beach with it’s white, topped waves to jump in. It was

enough to make a rabbit hug a hound.

I waved to Daryl and Meryl Sterile sipping their coffees out of their tiny cobalt-blue

espresso coffee mugs, the vacuum cleaner resting at their feet.

Next, I passed Mad Wax already waxing and shining his Winnebego at 6:00 a.m.

Turning right, off the road to our campsite and on my left were our other neighbors,

the Fibre family. They and their two children, were having breakfast or should I say,

fibre-fast and were filling themselves with nothing but natural fibres. On their picnic

table, inside their screened tent, were boxes of granola cereal, granola bars, figs, dates,

prunes, nuts and to wash it all down, each had their own effervescent, all natural, bottled,

store-bought water.

Their clothing was, naturally, very wrinkled looking because they were “LL-Beaned”

and “Oshkoshed-B’Goshed” in 100% cotton. All natural mother-earth-tone colors and

all…naturally, very expensive.

With all that, naturally, expensive cotton and all that natural fiber they ate, the Fibre

family epitomized what my grandmother used to say about some people, “they was

’shibittin’ in high cotton”.

cont….THAT’S THE KIND OF HAIRPIN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 4

(Page 71)

So you see, a State Park campground is full of different families, and families are just

like fudge – “mostly sweet, but with a few nuts” and granola bars.

“Maureen, why are you walking so funny?” Michael asked looking up from the

campfire where he was frying the bacon for our breakfast.

“I don’t know. I seem to have developed a rash on my bee-hind and it’s itching

something fierce.” I was pulling at the back and legs of my sweat pants trying to keep

them from sticking to my delicate condition.

“Have you experienced any burning sensations?” He handed me a mug of hot coffee

as I very cautiously, sat down, unable to conceal my discomfort.

Burning sensations? “Ahhhh, well, yes, some.” I wasn’t lying. The “toilet-bowlflambeau”

really “burned” and really WAS a “sensation”.

“Maybe we should go to the E.R. and have it looked at, that doesn’t sound good.”

When Michael suggests a trip to the emergency room, he’s really concerned.

“Just what I want to do on our vacation.” I complained sipping my nice warm cup of

coffee. “We can’t go anywhere, anymore, without going to the local E.R.R. Every time

we go someplace we have to go to the E.R.R. for a cut, a sprain or sore throat.”

The E.R.R. stands for “Emergency Reality Room”, in my world. Just when things are

going great and I’m having a little bit of fun, God forbid, I get shot down with the old

“Reality Bites” syndrome, a broken bone, a cut that needs stitches or a rash on my beehind.

“I guess I should write a book about the “Best Mid-Western Emergency Reality

Rooms to Visit While Having Too Good of a Time on Vacation.” I dipped my pity pie

into my coffee.

“You’re going to the E.R.” Michael was insistent. “Look at you. You’re jumpin’

around like a fart in a skillet.”

“Disgusting, Michael, and do you have to be so crude?” says I, the proverbial pot

calling the kettle black. “Oh, all right, I’ll go.” I knew I had some sort of bad rash and it

did indeed need medical attention. “First, let’s get the kids up and eat breakfast then I

want you to take them to that Nuclear Power Plant museum. They’re so looking forward

to it and I promised we would go this morning.”

A mile or so up the north shore of Lake Michigan was a Nuclear Power Plant with a

wonderful museum. The children loved to go to it and they had all sorts of hands-onactivities.

What the children loved most was the large steel wind-mill-blade that was on

the outside of the plant and went round and round in the breezes of the Lake Michigan

winds.

Emergency Reality Rooms and Nuclear Power Plants. How many people can boast

about visiting places like THAT on their vacations.

CATHOLIC  COMBAT    BOOTS    I fight the flesh,    The world’s no test,   

When I fight the devil    I’m at my best!    But Catholic combat    Boots for me,    When fightin’   

Modern theology!

cont…THAT’S THE KIND OF HAIRPIN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 4

(Page 72)

Paddy was crying in our tent. I went in, layed him on his back on my sleeping bag,

got on my hands and knees and started changing his diaper rather than in his crib since it

was easier on my back than bending all the way down into the porta-crib.

Within two shakes of a stick Campion jumped up and sat on my back, choking me

with his arms around my neck and James stood on the back of my calves leaning on the

small of my back.

“When I gwow up…” Campion said, releasing his stranglehold and now squeezing my

shoulders with his clenched fists, “I’m going to be a Maween and then I’m going to be a

pwiest and shoot a bazooka. Can a pwiest shoot a bazooka, Mom?”

James screamed at the top of his lungs. “Moms, change my stupid pull-ups!” He was

jumping up and down on the back of my calves.

“Do gowls have awm pits?” Campion asked out of the clear, blue, bazooka sky.

“Only Maweens and Pwiests have awm pits?” I assured. “Go, ask your Father,

Campion.” Michael is supposed to take care of all that sex education stuff with the boys

and I think arm pits can be pretty sexy stuff.

Paddy grabbed my nose and dug his four little tiny fingers into the top of it while

sticking his sweet little baby thumb up and into my nostril, squeezing – hard. I knelt there

paralyzed as tears came to my eyes. I didn’t dare move as I was afraid he might rip the

only nose I ever had right off my face.

“Honey, I can’t find the sugar, can you get out here and help me?” Michael called out.

“Holy Mother of martyrs.” Says I, frozen in fear with Paddy’s grip of death around

my nose, Campion on my back and James jumping on my stupid calves. I’m thinkin’, the

creeks rising and I’m up to my ass in alligators, and Michael wants sugar?!

“Mom?” Campion needed some straight forward sex answers about “awm pits”. Ever

so gently I pried Paddy’s sweet little, (mean-ass) baby fingers from my nose. It started

dripping blood.

“Mom!” Nora unzipped our tent flap and came rushing in with Bridget. “Bridget

won’t help me button up the back of my blouse.”

“Because, you’re an idiotic.” Bridget declared. “Mom, she won’t help me find my

sandals.”

“Stop calling everyone an idiotic, you idiotic!” I had lost it and another drop of blood

from my nose.

“Mom, button my blouse,” Nora pleaded.

“Mom, I can’t find my sandals,” Bridget whined.

“Can I have a bazooka AND a wosawy for my buthday, Mom?” Campion called from

my back.

“Change my stupid pull-ups,” cried James, grinding his heels into my calves.

“Honey, I can’t find that sugar!” Michael shouted.

Suddenly, I shot straight up to my knees causing Campion to tumble off and onto

James.

“Mother of God! There’s not enough room in here to swing a cat. Get out of here!

All of you! NOW!!” I began flailing my arms, swinging at them. “And if I fart, I’ll call

you all back in so you can smell it!!” Where did THAT come from?

cont…THAT’S  THE KIND OF HAIRPIN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 4

(Page 73)

“Bridget, go back to your tent and help Nora. Nora, you help Bridget find her sandals.

James come here and I’ll change your stupid pull-ups, and yes, Campion, you can have a

bazooka AND a rosary for your birthday because that way you can shoot the devil’s

‘fluffy-ass’ when he tries to bother you or anyone else’s arm pits.” I finished dressing

Paddy and James.

“Did you heo what Mom said you guys, ‘fluffy-ass’? That’s the macomic bomb!” He

and the Braid-Brigade tittered, covering their mouths, as they left my tent.

“Honey, I found the sugar, never mind,” Michael declared.

“Good. Now start another pot of coffee ’cause I got too much blood in my caffeine

system this morning.” Did I really say “fluff-ass”? Oh well, no time to think about that,

I’d be going to confession tomorrow. We were all hungry and I had to get breakfast

going. I straightened up the sleeping bags and folded a few blankets to try and bring

some order to the inside of our tent.

Coming out, I placed Paddy in the outside playpen with a bottle of milk and

proceeded to crack eggs into my cast-iron skillet, along with a stick of margarine, to

scramble some cheddar cheese and eggs over the campfire.

“Hey, guys,” I called out. “Set the table, we’ll be eating soon.” I began to beat the

eggs into the melted butter and add the slices of cheese. I was starving. Like my

grandmother always said, there’s nothing like going off the deep end first thing in the

morning and screaming “fluffy-ass” at your children to help work up a good appetite.

Finally, the meal prepared and the table set, we said our grace and dug into a real

outdoors kind of breakfast. Scrambled eggs with melted cheddar cheese, fried, crisp,

bacon, bread and butter and a large red and white checked jar of Smuckers strawberry

jam. I had decided to really put the big pot in the little one and go all out. Dig a hole and

bury me, it just doesn’t get any better than that!

The children cleaned off the table and washed up the dishes without a single fight.

(Call the governor!)

I played happily with the baby while Michael pushed the logs around in the campfire

ring. Kathleen, Gregor and Jack went off to fish in the lake, while Nora and Bridget took

a bike ride to scout out new girl friends. Campion and James went to the camp

playground to swing.

Placing Paddy back into the playpen with some toys, I poured Michael and me another

cup of coffee and we sat in our lawn chairs and relaxed facing the east.

Across the campground road, through ochre outlined trunks of trees, we could view

the sparkling lake glittering in early morning light.

Kathleen, Gregor and Jack looked like little black puppets casting their tiny threads of

fishing lines while standing on the white, rocky shore against the immense expanse of

blue sky and water under the yellow sun.

All our worries and cares seem like those very, tiny threads of their fishing lines when

we’re up against such large open spaces. It reminds one that God – IS – and His

marvelous vistas help us to get a better perspective on our lives, if we want.

Man has captured, for centuries in the Sanctuaries of our churches, that same feeling

of majesty and awe which reflect God. But of course in the center of the Sanctuary,

basking before the golden Son, one is not “against” the immense expanse, one is “before”

It. His glorious graces come rushing over our minds and spirits and wash up to soothe

the shores of our white, rocky souls. If we let It.

DEATH at the MANGER     Sorrowful mother,      Do not weep     When children’s faith They do not keep.      With prayers to God     They’re not compliant?     Then time for mother     To be defiant!      Get on your knees,      Where you adore,     He who made     Each babe you bore     Out of love,     So tangled-tight,     Burst their souls     Of promise, bright.     And if the brightness     Starts to dull     Think not that he     Is just a cull,     He’s here to make     You ever holy,     We all need help,     Can’t do it soley.     That’s why we suffer     To imbue,     Prodigals, others,     Our cry and hue.     So they can see       On knees, we drop,     If unto death?      Our prayers won’t stop.     And by His heart,      So sacred, tender,      In grace you’ll die,     A suffering-splendor     Where in the fields Of     Heaven’s Granger, Sainted mothers pray     For your death at the manger.

cont…THAT’S THE KIND OF HAIRPIN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 4

(Page 74)

 Speaking of rocky, my “southern shore” was beginning to feel like it had barnacles

growing on it. I couldn’t sit still. I stood up and was scratchin’ all over the place again.

“That’s it, I’m taking you to the E.R. now!” Michael declared.

“No, no.” I pleaded. “You and the kids go to the Nuclear Power Plant and I will go

into Waukegan by myself to their E.R.R. It’s ridiculous for us all to go and waste half the

day. We’ll all meet back here in the afternoon and swim. The kids would be so

disappointed if you didn’t take them.” Shoot! A visit to the Nuclear Power Plant was

almost as good as the slaughter house in downtown St. Louis that my brother and sisters

and I all loved so much. “I’ll be fine,” I assured Michael. “I’m probably having an

allergic reaction to something.” Life. I learned that in the Emergency Reality Room

years ago.

“It won’t be any fun without you, Maureen.” Michael rubbed my back as I resumed

sitting down in the chair. He leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I sighed,

knowing I had to make, yet another trip to the E.R.R.and get a dose of reality.

After a half hour or so, the children straggled back, anxious to get to the Nuclear

Power Plant. By now I was bouncing up and down, jumpy as spit on a hot skillet.

“Come here, Campion and James, let me brush your hair.” Wiggling over to the

picnic table, I grabbed a hair brush, glad to stand up and get out of the chair. “You two

look like Willy off the pickle boat.” I started brushing and straightening their mops and

brooms.

“Mom, why are you walking so weird?” Kathleen asked.

“Oh, honey, I’ve got a rash or a fungus or something. While you all go with Daddy to

the Nuclear Power Plant, I’m going to go to the E.R.R. in town and get some medicine.” I

finished the boys’ hair and started changing Paddy’s diaper.

“What’s a fungus?” Campion asked.

“It’s like that fury stuff that grows on the food in Mom’s refrigerator,” Jack explained,

putting away the fishing tackle, the little reality atheist.

SOLA SCRIPTURA?!!!!

http://tinyurl.com/mrt8t6

cont…THAT’S THE KIND OF HAIRPIN, I AM!

cont…Chapter 4

(Page 75)

“Hey, you, don’t be makin’ fun of my fury stuff in the refrigerator. That’s the only ‘fur’

I’ll ever own.” Is nothing sacred with these kids?

The kids piled into the Sable station wagon. Michael said he would take Paddy too, so

I could get myself taken care of in peace at the E.R.R.

“Come here.” He pulled me into him and kissed me. I was downcast.

“What’s the matter, Maureen?” He asked.

“I really wanted to go to the Nuclear Power Plant museum and now I’ve probably got

cancer.”

“Oh, not again, Maureen. You just had rib-cage cancer a couple of weeks ago,

remember?” He squeezed my still tender rib-cage trying to tickle me.

“Well, it could have been cancer, you know?” I kept my eyes lowered in self-pity.

“It was just a pulled chest muscle, Maureen. Don’t catastrophize. You are such a

pessimist, woman.” He squeezed me tight. Little did he know, it might be for the last

time.

“I’m not pessimistic. I’m really very optimistic, honey – that something is going to go

terribly wrong.” He looked at me as though my reality check bounced. (Don’t all checks

bounce?) “I’m just an optimistic-pessimist.” Now that’s just having good mental health

the way I see it.

“O-kaay.” He let it go. “Now, my little loon, what should we do about lunch?”

Michael took my chin in his hand, shaking it affectionately, listening to the screws

rattling around.

“Splurge, go to ‘Mickey-Donalds’,” as James calls it.

“Do you have any more cash?” he asked, as I hobbled over to my purse sitting on the

picnic table.

“Here’s some.” I put the dollar bills to my lips, kissed them and said adieu. “It’s

always a one night stand with us.” I handed him the cash.

“You know, Maureen, the love of money is the root of all evil,” he admonished,

hopping into the car and driving off.

“It’s also the root of all wealth!” I yelled after him. Ph.D.’s – no clue.

I AM WHAT, I AM!

Chapter 5

(Page 76)

Michael, throw another load in the washer.

I got James sittin’ on the pot-tee,

And Nora just wiped up a gallon of spilt milk

With a load of my clean launder-ee!

“St. Julian the Hospitaller! What?!” I screamed sitting up on the Emergency Reality

Room table at the local hospital in Waukegan.

“Poison ivy, Mrs. Flanigan. You have poison ivy all over your perineum.” The

E.R.R. doctor explained.

“My pair of ‘what’?!” I asked in shock while trying to hold up the paper examination

gown against my body racked in poison ivy reality.

“Your per-i-ne-um, your pos-te-ri-or end, Mrs. Flanigan!” He shouted and over

enunciated his words as though my sidewalk didn’t quite go around the whole block or as

if I was deaf. I am not deaf.

“Poison ivy – on my…” I must be delicate. (Ten children and poison-ivied-ass, that

should go over like a turd in a punch bowl.) “…on my popo?”

Popo? Did I say, popo? Oh, my, I used to have a handle on life and then it broke.

“Yes, on your ‘popo’, if you like.” He frowned as he went over to the sink and washed

his hands.

Poison-ivied-popo. I had sunk to a new low in the Emergency Reality Room of life. I

mourned the loss of my once, normal existence. What was it my grandmother used to

say? Oh, yeah, “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall receive comfort…and please,

Lord, make mine ‘Southern’.”

“St. Sexburga!” I groaned. “Did my husband give this to me?” How could I ask such

a question?

“St. Sexburga?” The E.R.R. doctor looked at me like he had never even heard of St.

Sexburga.

cont…IAM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 77)

“Poison ivy is not a sexually transmitted disease, Mrs. Flanigan.” He wrote
on his tablet. “You said that you’re camping up at Illinois Beach State Park, right?” He
asked. I nodded yes. “Have you been in the woods picnicking, hiking?” He continued
questioning.
“Why, yes, yes we have.” I perked up feeling a good story coming on. I felt a little
better, too, as I realized that at least I didn’t have popo-cancer. “You see, doctor, we had
an incident in the woods last night. Let me explain.” I straightened out some of the
wrinkles in the paper-examining gown I was wearing, wanting to look my best as I
related my story. “Raccoons broke into our Coleman cooler and stole three to four
loaves, three to four, mind you, of our Hostess outlet day-old bread. We have 10 children
to feed, you know.” The doctor stared, his mouth gaping, shocked that raccoons could
open up a Coleman cooler. “Anyway, my husband and I chased them coons like ‘possum
up a gump stump’ but they got away. They got away with all our Hostes outlet day-old
bread.”
“You’re tent camping with ten children?” The E.R.R. doctor had a kind of psycheevaluation
look on his face.
“Ten? Oh, no. That would be insane.” This guy was as thick as dew on Dixie.
Camping with 10 kids, can you imagine? “Our older two stayed home, in St. Louis,
summer jobs, you know. We’re camping with only eight of our children.” I reassured.
“That would explain it.” He went back to writing on his tablet.
“Explain what?” I asked innocently.

 cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 78)

“That strand of the Easter basket grass,” he answered.

“What strand of Easter basket grass?” One of my eyes began to twitch.

“That strand of Easter basket grass I removed from your per-i-ne-um,” he stated.

“You found Easter basket grass on my – per-i-popo?” My other eye twitched.

“Yes, your ‘popo’. I removed it and disposed of it.” He wrote some more on his

tablet.

No God. Oh, no, please God, no, not that. Not – Easter basket grass – ass!

I had been trying to vacuum that stuff up since March and here it was “knee-hi-by-

July” or should I say “bee-hi-nd-by-July”. I swear, that Easter basket grass could survive

a macomic bomb blast. Someday I’ll look back on all of this and plough into a parked

car.

I decided to continue on with my story. When under Emergency Reality Room stress

- eat and/or talk.

“So, as I was saying, doctor, the coons stole our Hostess outlet, day-old bread and here

we were standing in the middle of bloody woop-woop and I needed to void-void.” I

winked and laughed. He didn’t. I was beginning to feel like the world’s only living brain

donor.

“Anyway, I void-voided behind a tree and grabbed a bunch of leaves to use as toilet

paper, doctor…” I stopped in mid-sentence. It had hit me. “St. Hyginus!” I exclaimed.

“It must have been those leaves. They were poison IVY leaves!” I gave a big smile of

relief at my self-diagnosis.

“Mrs. Flanigan, what would raccoons want with day-old bread?” he asked very

condescendingly.

ALERT!!! In all seriousness, a 15 yr. old boy has been KIDNAPPED in Texas please HELP and pray – go to -  http://tinyurl.com/lzzhah

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter5

(Page 79)

Okay. This guy had done bit the fat dog in the ass, with me. I had his number. “Ten

kids”, he was thinkin’, “her family never crossed the creek”. Well, I’d be showin’ him, I

would, what a mother of ten knows. I’d just spout off a little Latin. I wonder how many

mothers can do that, Mr. Dr. Un-Fun.

“Well…” says I, juttin’ out a proud chin. ” ‘Semper ubi sub ubi’!” I quoted our son

Jack from the night before. I would demonstrate that I could converse in practical Latin

AND be philosophical too, exclaiming, “That’s life, live it for God.”

“Do!” he pronounced. “Then you’ll be sure not to have this problem again, Mrs.

Flanigan.” He pointed his pen at me. He seemed to understand Latin.

“Are you saying God is punishing me?” I asked incredulously. “Are you saying I

don’t ‘ubi sub ubi’?… ‘live my life for God’?”

“‘Semper’, Mrs. Flanigan, means ‘always’, ‘ubi’…’where’, ’sub’…’under’, and

‘ubi’…’where’.” The Emergency Reality Room doctor related very realistically.

“Translation?” the doctor continued. “‘Always where under where’, then you won’t have

this problem again, will you Mrs. Flanigan?” He handed me a prescription for

prednisone.

“St. John before the Latin Gate.” I muttered under my breath. “I’m gonna’ kill that

kid, I’m gonna’ kill him dead!” Maternal thoughts went racing through my mind about

my little Latin atheistic scholar, Jack.

“Yes.” The doctor went on. “‘Semper ubi, sub ubi’, and I see you wear two brassieres,

so why not underwear?” He pointed at my waist and chest.

“What?” I felt my chest and there was my bra. What was this Latin scholar

Emergency Reality Room pervert talking about?

Suddenly, I became cognizant of something around my waist where the doctor was

pointing. I began whimpering having to face more reality. “St. Braulio!” I had on

another bra around my waist. I WAS wearing two brassieres!

It all came back to me in all it’s reality glory. After toilet-bowl-flambeau in the

restroom/showers earlier that morning, I had been such a nervous wreck that I had

snapped on my bra around my waist and forgot to pull it up. I was so discombobulated

over the whole incident that I had thrown on my sweatshirt and hurried out as I was

worried to death one of those other women were going to call the poopie-police on my

popo.

When Michael and the kids left for the Nuclear Power Plant I had gone back into the

tent to change into a skirt and blouse for the Emergency Reality Room visit. Not

realizing that I still had a bra on around my waist, I must have absent-mindedly put on

another bra and snapped that one on up around my chest.

“These aren’t my brassieres, doctor.” I clutched at my chest and stomach indignantly.

“These are my sheep-dogs.”

 cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 80)

The Doctor gave me that psyche-evaluation look again. Taking my hand from my

chest he squeezed it and said, “The nurse will be in to give you a mild sedative in pill

form, Mrs. Flanigan. You can get your prescription for the prednisone filled at our

hospital pharmacy down the corridor if you like. Good day ma’am.” He placed my hand

back up against my chest and left.

“‘Always where under where’?” I mumbled in shock, clutching my sheep-dogs, seeing

clearly now my brain was gone. I had gone from sugar to shibit.

No longer in my right mind, or my left, I jumped off the examining table catching

part of my paper gown and ripping the side of it.

“Blessed Laurence of Rippafratta!” I followed the doctor out of the examining room

holding pieces of my ripped gown to the side of me.

“But doctor! I always wear underwear!” I called out to him in desperation. He

walked faster down the hospital corridor. I started perspiring so profusely, trying to catch

up to him, that some of the front of my paper gown was actually melting away from the

moisture. I stopped. The doctor was now sprinting down the corridor. I guess it was

time for his daily jog.

I couldn’t catch up to him and besides, I had become aware that my whole backside

was exposed and all I had on underneath, were two sheep-dogs and NO “sub ubies”.

Turning around, there was the whole “Coxie army” starring at me.

“But I always ‘ubi sub ubi’.” I whimpered hoping none of them understood Latin. I

saw nothing but stares of pity from the people surrounding me in the hospital corridor.

“No, it’s true, I really never ever go anywhere without my ’sub ubies’, really.” They all

backed up and away. Even blind Freddy could see it. I was on my way to a nervous-

Reality-Room-break-down.

 AT   MASS   ALONE     November freeze,     Warmth melts the chill,     At Mass  alone,     On Calvary’s hill.     Where from its heights,     Fierce sleety rains     Beat down upon Stained-window panes.     At the Mass of all times,     The Faith’s never frozen,     “Many are called… But few are chosen.” (www.hilaryflanery.blogspot.com)

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 81)

Sweating even more with anxiety, the front of my paper-examining gown was now

dissolving in chunks. I backed down the corridor towards the examining room trying to

keep the pieces in place.

“I’m melting…melting,” I imitated the wicked witch from the movie, “The Wizard of

Oz”. I continued this brassiere, bizarre behavior until I had reached the examining room

and could step back in and shut the door.

I just stood there as my paper gown melted away into thin air. I took in a long, deep

breath, counted to 8 and exhaled slowly.

“I am in control. I am in charge. I am…okay,” says I, shakin’ like a dog shittin’ a

peach pit.

The nurse came in and gave me a mild sedative in pill form (I would have taken it in

ANY form; even peach pit.)

I sat down and rested and stared, just stared. Thirty minutes or so went by of just

staring before I dressed and ventured out into the real world that the Emergency Reality

Room prepares you for.

As cautious as a prostitute in confession, I opened the door.

No one was in the hallway. I took a deep breath, stumbled through the door and

followed the signs to the hospital pharmacy.

Hobbling down the corridor I realized that, indeed, I was starting to feel pretty good at

last. Yes, yes, I was actually feeling fine, just fine – fine as a frog hair split three ways.

Actually, I hadn’t felt THIS good since the hogs ate sister. Yes, I was suddenly high,

high on “frog hairs” and “hogs”. “Frog hairs” and “hogs”?? What in the world was in

that pill?

Floating into the hospital pharmacy I dropped off at the counter the prescription that

the doctor had written for me. I then sat myself down in one of their waiting room chairs

very carefully since I was still tender. All nice and situated I let out a loud sigh of relief.

An elderly lady sitting across from me leaned forward and whispered….

“Hemorrhoids, dear?” She was trying to be discreet but whatever was in that sedative

pill the nurse gave me caused me not to have one drop of discreet left.

I said, just as loud as you please, feelin’ fine as wine in the springtime, “Oh, no, dear.

Not hemorrhoids…’possum up my gump-stump’!”

Year of the Priest – SACERDOS  -    HIS  BREVIARY BATTERED     In the fifth,    Two thousand six,    Melts the wax    Of candle sticks.    May moon, full,    Begins to wane,    Shadows race    Across the plain    Reaching gulfs,    The ocean tides    Break on beach    Where pride presides.    Cassocked in,    The thickest fog,    Plodding cross    The marshy bog.    Maddening moons,    Through the fire —    Near the depths    He wends on higher.    Many years,    Breviary tattered,    Deep in mists    His strength unshattered.     ’Gainst black storms    Wet linen heavy,    soul after soul…    Gives his life for each bevy.     And when he is called,    Because souls really     mattered,    He will enter Reward…    With his breviary battered

 cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 82)

She shot up so straight and so erect, suddenly, that I thought maybe she had possum

up her gump-stump.

“Whoops!” I laughed, slapping my forehead with the palm of my hand. “THAT was

a ‘dickey-dah-doh’.” A burst of spit erupted from my lips, looking like I was giving her

the raspberries, then I drooled all over the front of myself. The poor woman frowned and

cocked her head like a confused puppy.

Before I could get myself under control, explaining that I was having a bad reaction to

the sedative, the woman ran out of the pharmacy. I guess it must have been time for her

daily jog too.

“I just need some strong black coffee!” I called out after her. “Don’t ya know, there

are probably people sleeping in China?” She continued running down the corridor just

like the Emergency Reality Room doctor. If ya ask me, I think these people here in

Chicago are prejudiced against sleepy, Chinese people.

They called me for my prescription and I waddled to the hospital cafeteria for the

biggest, blackest, cup of hot coffee I could find before I got behind the wheel of our

truck. Blessed Martyrs of China, I didn’t want to be runnin’ over no sleepy Chinese.

Off in a corner of the cafeteria, away from everyone, I sipped my Chinese coffee

waiting for the effects of whatever they gave me to wear off.

Reaching into my purse to get my paperback to read, Mr. Blue by Myles Connolly, I

pulled out the television remote control from home.

“So this is where you’ve been.” We hadn’t seen that thing since God was a boy.

I reached in again and pulled out a pacifier, a sticky sucker stuck to a kleenex, a nail, a

smashed Three Musketeer candy bar, some more Easter basket grass and a pair of little

boy’s dirty underwear. I ate it – the Three Musketeer candy bar.

Finally, I found my book and read Mr. Blue which is about a modern day St. Francis.

He’s a mystic, has visions, “dreams up glorious projects, flies kites, exults in brass bands,

preaches God, love and mercy and squanders a fortune”. “Squanders a fortune”?! What’s

the matter with these saint-guys?

Year of the Priest – THE IRISH KNEELERS We are St. Joan, Philomena, Campion. The Faith in its whole Is what we do champion. We are St. Margaret, Pearl of York, Where the bowels of the Faith They tried to torque. We are Sir More, That’s Thomas, the Saint, Whose reputation They could not taint. We are vocations, In Ireland, kneeling, Adoring His presence, It’s not just a feeling. We are descendents Of Irish and beggin’ To stop all the men Who are turning us pagan! We are the poor, Uneducated ones, But in faith, well-informed, The heretic shuns. And when we are told, “Don’t kneel anymore.” Since we don’t hold doctorates… We kneel and IGNORE!!

 cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 83)

After about 45 minutes or so I was very, VERY, relaxed. Reading about “squandering

fortunes” seems to do that to me.

I began to feel in better shape to drive back to our campsite, although I just couldn’t

seem to wipe the silly smile off my face. So grinning like a jackass in a cactus patch, I

limped out of the hospital on all four legs.

Ensconced in the cab of our pick-up and putting the keys into the ignition, I was ready

to drive down that highway of life called…that highway of life.

Then it happened. The unthinkable happened. The first turn of the key in the ignition

and the truck started. It started right up. Call the governor!

Next, call the police. There was a pistol being pointed at my left temple.

A nice, young thug had put a gun up to my head through the opened truck window and

told me to “get out!” I was being car-jacked.

“Who are you?” I asked the car-jacker.

“Jack,” he answered, politely. “Get out!” he screamed, not so politely.

I tried the door handle but the door wouldn’t budge.

“I’m sorry, Jack the car-jacker. Hey, your name fits your occupation, you know? I

have a son named Jack.” I felt like I was going to start crying because Jack the car-jacker

reminded me of my own son Jack and I was starting to miss him. ” Jack the car-jacker,

excuse me but sometimes this door sticks and I can’t get it to open.”

Jack the car-jacker, then ran to the passenger side while still pointing his gun at me,

opened that door and demanded I get out. I slid over and stepped down as he jumped in

slamming the door shut.

I should have run away but I stood there dazed.

Jack the car-jacker, was stepping on the gas going nowhere fast. He wanted to back

out of the parking space but the truck wasn’t budging.

Still feelin’ high from the sedative I sauntered over to the driver’s window.

“Jack, Jack, Jack.” I shook my head. “You don’t mind me calling you Jack, Jack the

car-jacker, do you?” I placed my elbow on the driver’s door.

“Huh?” He was stepping on the gas glancing behind and in front of him frantically,

not looking like a professional at all.

“Have you ever done this before, Jack?” I asked gently.

“Huh?” Jack wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.

“Why, Jack. You don’t know ‘jack’ about car-jacking, do you?” I jumped up on the

running board and screamed at him like he was one of my kids.

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 84)

Jack cowered, leaning

away from me and taking his foot off the gas pedal.

“Lady, please!” he begged.

“Please? Please?” I grabbed him by his shirt collar and pulled him back over to me

by the driver’s window. “Look, Jack the car-jacker, I can ‘please’ only one person a day

and today isn’t your day, Jack, and tomorrow isn’t looking good either, Jack, do you

understand me Jack the car-jacker?”

“How do ya get outta’ here?” He started whimpering, nervous as a long-tailed cat in a

room full of rocking chairs. He pulled on the gear shift. “What’s wrong with this truck, it

won’t go into reverse.” He was sweating bullets. “Help me!” he cried.

“Well, The Fourteen Holy Helpers, Jack. Calm down, now.” I patted him on the back

of his head; my maternal instincts kicking in. I wanted to kick him.

“Now listen up, Jack the car-jacker,” I instructed.

“I can’t listen up, I’ve got a learning disability and I’m dyslexic.” He threw his face

onto his left arm and boo-hooed.

“Jack, Jack, Jackie, Jack, Jack,” I said, grinning from ear to ear. “Not to worry, Jack.

You picked the perfect truck to car-jack. This is a learning-disability-dyslexic’s-delight,

Jack, just made for DUMB-asses like you!” I could see tears of joy welling up in Jack’s

eyes. He started blubbering.

“Now listen, Jack.” I took his chin in my hand, turned his face towards mine and gave

him car-jacking instructions as if he were my own child.

“You can do this, you freak of nature,” I asserted, reassuring him with positive

reinforcements. “Now, first of all Jack, put the truck in Park when you want to go in

Reverse and in Neutral when you want to go in Drive. When you want to turn the

windshield wipers on, you have to turn on the lights and the same for the lights, Jack, turn

on the wind shield wipers.” Jack started shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. I guess no

one had ever taken time with him before to explain the “how-to’s” of car-jacking.

“If you use the air-conditioner, Jack, watch out when making a right turn. A river of

ice-cold water will pour out all over your right foot and into your shoe from under the

dash-board. It’s just condensation, Jack. What I do – now, listen up, Jack.” Jack had

pulled away from my grip and was hitting his forehead against the steering wheel. I think

he had a mild form of autism but I would have to deal with that later.

“What I would do next, Jack…” I shouted louder into his dyslexic ear. Jack continued

hitting his forehead on the steering wheel. “Blessed Henry the Shoemaker, Jack, listen!”

I grabbed a wad of hair above Jack’s forehead and turned his face to me. “The next thing

you’ll have to do is empty your shoe when it fills up with water when you get to a stop

sign or something; then your foot won’t get the damp-ass and die. See?”

“The ‘damp-ass’. What’s the ‘damp-ass’?” Jack’s whole face started quivering.

“Ya don’t want to know, Jack, ya don’t want to know.” The damp-ass is not something

one should talk about in mixed-up company.

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 85)

“Mommy!!” Jack let out a most pitiful cry. He slid over to the passenger’s door,

opened it, jumped out, and took off through the hospital parking lot like there was no

tomorrow. At least his gross motor skills were all intact.

“St. Juvenal (delinquent) of Narni!” I exclaimed. “Ya try to help a guy.” I shook my

head in disgust.

Yanking the driver’s door open I hopped in the cab. I put the truck in Park, backed up.

I put the truck in Neutral and drove off high on Chinese coffee.

It was now about mid-afternoon and my sedative was starting to wear off as I bumped

and thumped my way back down the unevenly paved campground road. Because of the

sedative, all the jostling about in the truck cab wasn’t as bad as it had been while first

going to the Emergency Reality Room.

First, I passed Daryl and Meryl Sterile.

Daryl was still filling up with endless cups of espresso, Meryl was cleaning their

Sports Utility Vehicle filling up their vacuum.

Mad Wax, waxing his Winnebego, was filling up his time, and the Fibre family were

gone, probably at a local Health Food Store, filling up on fibre.

Taking the truck out of Neutral and putting it in Drive, I parked, stepped down on the

emergency break and turned off the ignition. Then I went into the tent to change into a

pair of loose fitting shorts and take off one of my sheep-dogs.

I really needed a beer and some time alone so I could remember to forget what had

just happened back at the hospital.

“A good memory is fine but the ability to forget is the true test of greatness.” That’s

what my grandmother always said.

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 86)

Dryer than a popcorn fart, I grabbed a beer from the cooler, took another prednisone

pill, settled in a lawn chair, propped my feet up on the picnic table bench and opened up a

jar of Planter’s salty peanuts.

“A drink a day, keeps the shrink away!” Beer, Planter’s peanuts and prednisone.

Pinch my toes and call me a jelly donut, it just doesn’t get any better than that!

Looking up at the blue sky through the lime-green leaves, I breathed in slow and

deeply and breathed out slow and deeply. Can ya breathe out deeply?

The anxieties of the day were finally melting away. (Like that E.R.R. paper-examing

gown.) Listen to me. I’m on vacation and full of anxieties. I took a big gulp of beer.

There, that should help me get rid of some of them anxieties and get a little rest. Of

course, I’m at that point in my life when it takes longer to rest than to even think about

getting tired.

Mad Wax waved to me and I gave a friendly wave back. Max waved to me again.

Odd. I waved back, again. Max, then stood military straight and gave me a salute. What

was that?

He stared at me for a few moments. Don’t tell me he’s going to come over and talk

when I finally have some time to myself.

I opened up my Mr. Blue paperback, surreptitiously looked up, and he had gone back

to his waxing. He wasn’t coming over. Good. Now for a good read about squandering

fortunes.

“Dakota!” The Fibres pulled into their campsite in their Volvo station wagon.

“Dakota, darling.” Mother Fibre pleaded. “What did I tell you about acting out with your

little brother?” The little boy was crying as his sister pushed him out of their Volvo.

Dakota-darling jumped out of the car then kicked her brother in the shins.

“Well, Billy-be-damned!” I cursed under my breath. “Now there’s a candidate for

child abuse,” I whispered about Dakota-darling as she continued picking on her little

brother.

“Dakota, darling, please, I beg you. If you are feeling anger, let’s deal with it. Let’s

go in and punch a pillow together,” Mother Fibre beseeched. “Let’s use our words,

Dakota, darling.”

Oh, God, no. No! Not “our words”! These, “our words” women; they should be tied

to the back-end of a cow and shibbited to death.

The Year of the Priest  -  SEPTEMBER’S LIGHT     The light is     In the sun     Of gold     To warm you     When your thoughts     Grow cold.     The light is     In the wafered     Moon    Piercing pitch,     A glorious Boon.     The light Reflects in     Crystal snow,     A glittering     Mantle Blanketing woe.     The light is     Stagnant     In infants’ souls,      Glistening water      Will deepen Their shoals.     The light is     In your flocks’     Flawed faces,      Waiting to     Heal from     Penanced graces.     For you are robed,     Royal, purpled     Unfurled.     Chosen.     September’s, Light of the world!

hilaryflanery.blogspot.com

year of the Priest    MY PILOT      My furthest.      My nearest.     My supernal.     My eternal.     My pilot.     My adored.      My prompter.      My Lord.     My shore.     My sea.      My higher.     My sire.     My lender.     My breath.     My adventurer.      My death.      My all then.      My all now.       My all vast.      My all past.       My all heaven.      My all goal.      I confess…      Take my soul.

hilaryflanery.blogspot.com

 cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 87)

I needed another beer.

Dakota pinched and shoved her brother so he fell to the ground. That poor helpless

boy.

“That is not appropriate behavior, Dakota, darling.” Mother Fibre gently chided.

“Would you like to go into ‘Time-out’?”

Time-out, I’m thinkin’? Put her in knock-out!!

“There’s nothing to do, I’m bored. I hate camping, I hate you, and I hate this wheatgerm

yogurt.” She threw down her container of wheat-germ yogurt. Now THAT I could

relate to.

“Dakota, darling, what is it you’re feeling?” Father Fibre inquired, holding a bottle of

Evian water in one hand and fidgeting with his pierced-ear with the other. St. Joseph,

patron of Fathers, this guy isn’t the man his mother was. “What is all this hostility your

exhibiting towards Chauncey?” he queried.

“‘Chauncey’?!” St. Homobonus, this kid doesn’t have a chance!

“I’m hungry. I want something good to eat.” Dakota-darling stamped her foot.

St. Macedonias the Barley-eater! What Dakota-darling needed was some good animal

fat to slow her down. Give her a big, fat, red-dye #2 hot dog is what I’m thinkin’.

year of the Priest     SEMINARIAN    My son has left    For boot camp     To learn to     Fight the war     My son has got     His Rosary –    His missal    To go far    My son will wear    A uniform     Of blackthorn sloe    Coal tar    In robed cassock    Silent rebuke of shock…    An Alter    Christus Czar.

http://tinyurl.com/kp8q7shttp://tinyurl.com/kp8q7s

 cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 88)

“Why didn’t you articulate your feelings earlier, Dakota, darling?” Mother Fibre

asked.

“I don’t know.” The little brat was playing coy.

“Well, thank you for being open and honest. I think that deserves a reward. But you

must promise to use your words with us in the future instead of getting physically violent

with your brother. Violence solves nothing. Do you understand?” Father Fibre asked as

he brushed his long, brown, ponytail off his shoulder.

“Yes, John.” Dakota-darling evidently was allowed to call her parents by their first

names. God help us all!

“Thank you, Dakota, darling, for using your words and hearing what I was saying.

You’re a good little person.” Father Fibre stroked Dakota-darling’s, esteemed (sorry-ass)

self.

“A good, little person,” Mother Fibre reaffirmed. “We acknowledge your feelings

Dakota, darling and hear what you’re saying and know that you really are an excellent big

sister-person, to Chauncey. Thank you, for being you.” Mother Fibre, Father Fibre and

Dakota, darling had a big, group hug. I was ready to commit a big, group murder.

“Now, what do you say we all go out for some tofu ice cream?” Father Fibre asked.

Tofu ice cream? Now, that’s the cat’s ass. St. Asterius! I’d rather eat the cat’s ass!

Year of the Priest – THE HOLY CARD     Five a.m., my coffee,     Rosary in my hands,     All upon my lap-desk,     My soul inhales, expands.     And then I spy the HOLY card,     Upon my desk it lay.     A relic, token, keepsake,     Memento for the day,     From those who’ve gone before us,      We hope decked out in grace,     And yet, so often, leave their cards,     Sometimes in strangest place.      One side…their names and dates,     The other, Christ or Saint,     Prayers to persevere for them,     Make sacrifice, don’t faint.      So when you spot such HOLY cards,     Behind it is a story,      That you’ve been chosen, asked to help,     Free souls from Purgatory!

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 89)

Chauncey stood there, shunned by the “fibre-fest”, with his mouth wide open. He

knew his sister was slick as snot.

Suddenly, Chauncey grabbed the bottle of Evian water out of Father Fibre’s hand and

hurled it over to our campsite, landing right in front of me. Uh, ohh.

Father and Mother Fibre came running over to our campsite to retrieve the bottle.

They were practically in tears but not because their son was “acting out”. Their tears

were because he might be spoiling the environment. Forget the kids but NEVER the

environment. In other “use your” words…spare the sod and spoil the kids.

Getting a closer look at them both I could see Father Fibre was definitely a withered

“Flower-Child” of the 60’s and Mother Fibre, a washed out “sister-golden-hair-surprise”

of the 70’s. (St. Clare! What I could do with a bottle of “Clairol” from Walgreen’s.)

“A thousand apologies.” Mother Fibre begged. “I just don’t know what’s gotten into

our little, male person. He’s been exhibiting such hostile behavior lately.”

I got out of my chair and walked over to them. One hand on my hip and the other on

the trigger of my beer. I shifted into “Mominator” mode.

“Listen, sister.” I was gettin’ so damned-depressed. “It’s not your son it’s that

daughter of yours.” Mother Fibre’s eyes widened. They were gonna get a lot wider.

“Yes, for some reason she’s acting out,” she confessed.

“Acting out? She’s acting up!” I could hardly contain myself. “If I were you, I’d trade

that girl in for a yaller’ dog and then I’d shoot the dog!” I pointed my trigger finger at

Dakota-darling, who gave me a squinty stink eye, slithering up behind her parents.

“What?” The Fibres gasped. “We love dogs. We love all animals.”

“Well THAT’S obvious!” I took another drink of beer.

“Chauncey aggravates his sister because he’s a boy, with A.D.H.D. He can’t help it.”

The “Mother” spoke.

“He can’t help what? That he’s A.D.H.D., a boy or named Chaucey?” If this wasn’t

bull shit and wild honey. Well, at least that’s better than tofu and granola.

Year of the Priest (ST. Margaret Clitherow)  -  THE PEARL OF YORK     A girl, a lady,     Wife, a mother,     From church of England     She saw the other.     The other where      Her church came from.      The other where     The fruit was plumb.     The other where      Her church beat down,      And looted jewels      For earthly crown.      And watching she     Was irritated,      And slowly grew Sophisticated.     Sitting silent     In her shell,      Her home, a place      Where priests could dwell,      Confect the Mass,      Many saved,     For this their limbs      And lives were braved. Because a woman      Kept her shell,     A jealous fortress     Barring hell.      And then the weak Pried open wide,      Exposing truth,      The shell’s inside,      Where mother, wife,      Lady, girl, Had turned into      York’s royalist pearl.

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 90)

“That he is A.D.H.D.,” Father Fibre spoke.
“Have you got a big hole in your screen door, Dad?” (Besides the one in your old
hippie ear, I’m thinkin’.) “This kid doesn’t have A.D.H.D., he’s got a sister who’s
B.A.D.D.!” I looked right at Dakota-darling and gave HER the stink eye.
“I think we should go,” Mother Fibre took over. “This is not an appropriate discussion
to have in front of a little person.” She nodded towards Dakota-darling.
“We don’t believe in using foul language.” Father Fibre cowered.
“What foul language?” I asked, stunned, being a connoisseur of foul language and
proud of it.
“‘B.A.D.’. The word ‘bad’ is foul to us. Nothing, or no one, is ‘bad’ in the universe.
That would be making a value judgement.” Mother Fibre pontificated.
Well, excuse me, I was thinkin’, but what the bloody-hell was all that good and bad
Karma we “exhibited” in the 60’s? Why we lived, breathed and ate the “F”
word…”F”ornication “U”nder “C”arnal “K”nowledge, and now we can’t even say the “b”
word? Pissillanimous puritans, talkin’ ’bout my generation.
“Are you planning on having any more children?” Dakota-darling dared to ask.
“Fornication Under Carnal Knowledge, yes.” I dared to respond. I know: I “b” bad.
Mother Fibre didn’t even flinch. “We encourage our little persons to question
everything and everyone.” She explained, placing her hands firmly on Dakota-darling’s
shoulders giving support to a future “mother”.
Dakota-darling bent down and picked up a cigar-butt from holy Mother-Earth.
“Throw that filthy, immoral thing down Dakota, darling.” Mother Fibre knocked the
cigar-butt out of Dakota-darling’s hand.
“Oh, yes, that’s just one of my husband’s cigars that he was smoking, immorally, last
night,” says I. “And him with a Ph.D.!” Nah, nah, nah-boo-boo. At last, Michael’s Ph.D.
comes in handy.
“My significant-other has never put a cigar in his mouth.” Mother Fibre bragged.
“My significant-other has never put it anywhere else,” I bragged.

Year of the Priest – THE ROAR OF THE GREASEPAINT… Always there lurks    In recessed choir corners –     Well paid hirelings      Like professional mourners      Talentless mistresses      Taking by storm –      Stage mothers pushing      On the Altar, perform Theatrical wanna-bees      Grease-painted and curled –      One-upmanshipping the Eucharist      All staged, their world.     http://tinyurl.com/mrfl8l

 cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 91)

Mother Fibre, or M.F. for short, turned and marched away with Dakota-darling.

“A woman, a pig and a mule are the most difficult things to teach.” Talkin’ ’bout my

generation!

Father Fibre stood there playing with his earring nervously. He didn’t really want to

be alone with them big AND little female persons.

“Listen, we’ve all been under some stress lately. I do apologize if you are feeling

offended.” Feeling? Father Fibre wanted to smooth things over. He pulled his ponytail

over to the side of his head and started smoothing it with his hands. Well, it’s a

beginning.

“We’ve just competed in a Tri-athalon and are in training for climbing Mt. Ranier at

the end of the summer. Do you climb?” he had the audacity to ask.

“Do I climb? Why, I’ve been known to climb some of the highest delivery tables in

the mid-west.” I shuddered at the thought of what I’ve had to do to reach those peaks of

child-birthing.

“I sense an aura about you.” He motioned his hand in an arc around my body. Here

we go with good Karma. What a flippin’ weirdo.

“Well, since my last baby I’m still about 20 pounds ‘aura’ weight.” I drank some more

beer watching as Mother Fibre led her “issue” away and into the future. The future isn’t

what it used to be.

“John!” M.F. called for her significant-other who will never know the joys of a good

cigar with an after-dinner brandy.

“Peace.” John presented the peace sign with his two fingers. “And watch your

cholesterol intake drinking all that beer.”

“I drive way too fast to worry about cholesterol.” Blessed John Speed, help us all.

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 92)

The Fibres climbed into their Volvo station wagon with Mother Fibre in the driver’s

seat and Dakota-darling next to her on the passenger’s side, also known as the death seat.

Father Fibre and Chauncey were relegated to the back.

I guess they left for tofu heaven. I’ll take hog heaven any day.

With a sigh, I returned to my book.

“How ya be?” Came a friendly voice. I looked up from my book that I so desperately

wanted to enjoy. It was Mad Wax from his honkin’ Winnebego across the road.

“Want some company?” He toasted me with whatever he was drinking in his jumbo

size tumbler.

“Sure,” I said. He was about as welcome as a fart in a phone booth.

He sat down at the end of the picnic table on the bench.

“The name’s Max.” He put his hand out for me to shake.

“Max?” I chuckled to myself. “Mad Wax”, I was close.

We shook hands and Max held on just a little too long. I’m thinkin’, “Welcome, now

go home.”

“Well, well, Wax…errrr…Max, would you like a beer?” Even in the great out-of-doors

one should try to be hospitable…as well as happy.

“I brought my own libations, babe.” He toasted me again with his tumbler.

Babe?

“That’s sure a beautiful Winnebego you have over there.” I put down my paperback. I

gave up and decided to be neighborly.

Max was about 20 years older than me and in pretty good shape for his age. He had a

nutty-brown tan that set off his nice white, wavy hair with a handsome, grey handle-bar

mustache. He reminded my of my dear great-Uncle John Mullarkey, so he wasn’t of my

generation. He should be safe.

Year of the Priest -  YOUR HAND I’D KISS     Your hand, I’d kiss    But not for this,    The mundane games    Men play.     Your hand, I’d kiss    For doing this,    Absolve my sins
Away.     Your hand, I’d kiss    But not for this,    That any man     Can do.    Your hand, I’d kiss,
For doing this    God’s strong, His choice,    The few.    Your hand, I’d kiss    But not for this,
Like any    Virile male.     Your hand, I’d kiss    For doing this,     Place Him between
Lips, pale.    Your hand, I’d kiss    But not for this,    Your strength    Exudes each pore.    Your hand, I’d kiss    For doing this,    Your prayers,    I do implore.   

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 93)

“Thanks. I just bought her. Retired last week and decided to hit the road.” He took a
big gulp of his libations, a BIG gulp.
“Where are you from?” I asked. He seemed normal enough.
“Waukegan. Thought I’d test her out close to home.” He laughed, taking another
gulp, and then, another. Waukegan was where I had been earlier that morning at the
E.R.R.
“So that’s why you’ve been washing and waxing so much, so she’ll look good for the
road?” I asked.
“Yeah! You see the wife doesn’t want this beauty in our driveway. She’s not too keen
on takin’ to the road, either. I guess I might have to go it alone.” He looked
downhearted. He took another drink. “I’ve been looking forward to this for years. I
worked hard and saved, and now my better half is not interested.” Finishing off the rest
of his drink he was getting a glazed look over his eyes as he stared ahead, talking about
his significant-other, the Winnebego.
I got up to get another beer out of the cooler and he asked for one, too.
“Saved for it for years, huh?” I handed him a can of beer and sat carefully back down
in my lawn chair. “You know what a married couple should really save for in their old
age? Each other.” We popped our tops and laughed.
“She doesn’t care about me.” He took a long drink of his beer. “All I ever was to her
was a paycheck all these long years.” Uh, ohh. He finished off that beer in about two
gulps. His handsome, gray handle-bar mustache was beginning to foam. Uh, ohh. They
say a drink always precedes a story but it can precede a lot of other things, too.

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 94)

“Mind if I help myself to another, babe?” I nodded as he opened up the Coleman

cooler. Him and those racoons. “Waxing all day really works up a thirst. It’s also,

lonely.” He gave me a wink and started playing with his handsome, grey handle-bar

mustache between his two nasty fingers. Did he say lonely? He hiccupped. Oh, God,

why me? Why me? The guy was re-rawed.

He sat back down on the bench and was starting to lean into my space. His foot was

touching mine.

“Well, my HUSBAND…” I said the word husband loudly so he knew that I had one.

“…my HUSBAND and I hope to grow old together on one pillow. That’s what my

grandmother always said. Wasn’t that nice?”

“I would have liked your grandmother and I love a nice, soft, fluffy pillow in bed.”

Oh, why did I say “pillow”? “So, that’s your husband with you?” nasty Max asked. Who

did he think he was, my grandmother?

“Of course, he’s my husband and he should be back ANY minute. He took our

children to that glorious Nuclear Power Plant farther up the North Shore.” Glorious?

I was trying to bide my time and pretend that I didn’t notice the way Nasty Maxie was

staring at me. Me, for God’s sake, mother of TEN with poison ivy-ass-rash who does

grass “crack” and is a fugitive from the poopie-police. And him, old enough to have been

the cruise director on Noah’s ark.

“Are all of those children yours?” He squinted his nasty, Mad Wax eyes and slyly

smiled.

“Yes, yes, they are.” I put my hands in my lap protecting my space. “I conceived

them, birthed them and changed all their poopie-diapers.” Did I say conceived? Uh, ohh,

wrong word to use in front of Nasty-nasty with his “honkin’ Winnebego”.

the ASSUMPTION! – FIAT     There can be no peace    If not of good will    There can be no race     For those who stand still.    Only she    Full of grace    Could share in the miracle    Without disgrace.     To magnify    Her soul prepared    By God, her spirit    Never ensnared.    
“Blessed art thou…”    Gabriel hailed –    And at that moment     The enemy railed.   
For he remembered    The garden free    ‘Tween him and the woman    Enmity.   
But who the woman?    God did not tell –     Then Mary’s “Fiat”    Shook the depths of Hell.
And Satan screamed    Turned on a wing    To offer some peace     And will good to a King.
Peace for Herod    And much good willed –    “My RIGHT if even    Some Innocents killed.”

http://tinyurl.com/kp8q7s

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 95)

“Babe, you look GREAT for having so many kids.” Uh, ohh.

Wait a minute! Hold your horses, Maureen, old girl. What did he say? “…you look

GREAT…”? I looked great? I looked great! Well, now…maybe Mr. Max with the

handsome, grey handle-bar mustache wasn’t so bad after all. Perhaps I was jumping to

conclusions again. I do that a lot, you know. Oh, when will I ever learn?

Tsk…tsk…tsk…it’s a judgmental woman, I am.

“Hubby likes you bare-foot and pregnant, huh?” Mr. Nasty leaned over and rubbed

his hand up and down my leg.

“St. Margaret the Barefooted! No!” I slapped his hand away from my leg. “I like me

bare-foot and pregnant!” That didn’t sound right.

“That’s great, babe, that’s great.” Mr. Mad acted like he didn’t notice that I was

irritated with him. “My wife wouldn’t give me more than two, you know?” No, how the

hell would I know? “I would have loved to have had a house full of kids, babe.” He tried

to walk a straight line to the cooler to help himself to another beer but he was so drunk he

couldn’t see a hole through a ladder.

Now was my chance to get up and go over to the picnic table and act like I was

organizing things on it.

“It’s been nice talking to you Mr. Winnebego…errrrr…Mr. honkin’….but I really must

clean up this picnic table. My HUSBAND…” I shouted the word husband again.

“…HUSBAND and EIGHT kids…” I emphasized eight, too. “…EIGHT kids, will be

back soon and want a snack. So – so long.” I kept my back to him hoping he would get

the hint. Life is short, I’m thinkin’, get your own, Mr. Nasty, Waxy, floppsy and cottontail.

COMBAT BOOTS SIZE 8      I fight the flesh      The world’s no test      When I fight the devil      I’m at my best.      But combat boots      Size 8 for me      When fighting modern      Theology!         http://tinyurl.com/mrfl8l

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 96)

“Why don’t you come over to my place and partake in some libations, babe?” He

teetered over to me drunker than a peach orchard boar. “I’ll show you my – fishing rod,”

he whispered in my ear pressing himself smack-up against my cotton-tail.

“St. Nymphodora!” I stood up straight, stiff as his fishing rod. “Unless you’re a

hemorrhoid, please, sir, get off my ass,” I said between clenched teeth.

“I like a babe with spunk,” he rubbed and patted me down south in the land of cotton -

tail.

“St. Asclas!” I screamed spotting my Walgreen’s mint waxed dental floss sitting in

my toiletry bag on the picnic table. I had an idea.

Waxy, Maxy and Peter-cotton-tail were all over me, now, like ugly on an ape. (Ape?

So much for MY self-esteem.) I grabbed the box of dental floss in my left hand and

pulled out the floss string with my right. I turned around and shoved the dental floss,

taut, across Peter’s nose pushing him back, back away from me. His arms flailed and he

stumbled and tumbled backwards but I kept on flossing, flossing the good fight.

Harder and harder, farther and farther he went tripping and begging me to stop as we

crossed the campground road and finally reached the site of the Winnebego’s honkin’

 cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 97)

“Okay, okay!” he shouted, sobering up quickly. “I got your message, babe, I got

your message.” I stopped flossing as he turned and stumbled towards his Winnebego

rubbing his nose with his hands. I stood my ground, legs apart, holding the Walgreen’s

mint waxed dental floss taut in front of me, prepared to battle if need be, again.

I had the distinct urge to crack it at my side like a bull-whip, but I was afraid the floss

might get all tangled up and lose it’s flavor as the mint lethal-weapon it really was.

Back at his Winnebego, hand on the doorknob, the Mad Hatter shouted. “Just

remember, babe, you aren’t getting any younger. You’re no spring chicken. I was just

trying to make you feel good about yourself!” He belched, then hiccupped.

“Feel good about myself?” I picked up a big stick and started swinging it above my

head. “Get a mile away from me and say that, mister Madder Hatter!” I pretended to

push towards him. He ran into the Winnebego, slammed the door and locked it. “No

spring chicken?” I says. “Well, you’re ugly! And, and, and life is too short to dance with

ugly men!” Now that was profound.

The battle was over. The enemy had retreated. I had, once again survived the

Emergency Reality Room of life!

Dropping the stick, I turned, held my head high, threw my shoulders back, and

marched across the road towards Mominator base camp.

I was victorious. I was strong. I was confident, even, shall we say, invincible?

I am WOMAN, hear me ROAR…

“MICHAEL!!” I roared as my troops arrived back at base camp.

I did a body-slam across the front of the Mercury Sable onto the hood and just clung,

reduced to a whimpering simp.

ECONE - BLACK HOLES   Disco-decayed    They cancelled all color     Sanctuaries stripped     First Communions were duller.     No crinoline whites     Pale hues they were stressed     Only pearled-Pharisees     Are ever so dressed.     Roses carnations,     Flowers all manners     Left just to wither ‘Gainst assertives’ beige banners.     Pillars of marble     Corinthian styles      They decided to paint      Like pink bathroom tiles.     Cassocks of red     Habits blue-white      Robes of distinction Extinct over night.     Missals with pages     Embossed in gloss-gold     Latin in tint English-black often bold.     Even the ribbons     To mark scriptural prayers     Were of green, yellow, silvers   So to keep us from errors.     The soft votive flames      The red opaque glass      Gave an aura of stillness      Like time could not pass.     Yet time it passed      Vividness drained     And populations with out color     Cannot be sustained.      So those underground     With red blood in blue veins     Birthed knowledge the arts     Great virtues they’ve gained.     They did not decay- God’s colors kept green     For the day up above      Once again to be seen.   Except for those beige Banner-like-blind…     Gray fertility fades     In their black open minds. 

 cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 98)

Michael stopped and lovingly called out, “What the heck? What are ya, Maureen,

crazy?!” My hero slowly drove into our campsite with me still laying across the hood,

completely depleted.

The kids jumped out and I slid off, putting my arms around them all, giving hugs and

kisses and wiping away my tears of happiness at being reunited with my loving troops.

“God bless us everyone!” I was ecstatic to have my family back. It was like

Christmas, but without the bills.

“Mom, mom, that nuklea powa plant was the macomic bomb!” Campion declared,

looking up into my face as my runny nose dripped onto his.

“Moms!” James cried. “Stupid Jacks sat on my head and practically cut off my blood

suckulation in the car.”

“Oh that’s nice, sweetheart.” I hugged my sweet, stupid James.

“How did the emergency room visit go?” Michael asked looking concerned. “Are

you all right, Maureen?”

“Mom, where’s my Daniel Boone book?” Jack asked.

“‘Daddy O’Boone’. Was he Irish?” Campion wanted to know.

“Maureen, are you all right?” Michael knew I was not acting myself.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’ve got poison ivy,” I said, peeling a banana for little Paddy and

breaking a piece off for him.

“Down there?” He discreetly whispered.

“Down there, underwear.” I burst out laughing. “And I’m talkin’ ’sub ubi’ underwear.

Right, Jack?” I shot the stink eye over at Jack.

“Huh?” Jack looked over at me. I’d be dealin’ with him later.

“Maureen!” Michael shouted, trying not to look worried in front of the children.

Getting composure, I explained. “Oh, Michael. Evidently, I must have used a bunch

of poison ivy leaves last night in the woods for toilet tissue. But I’m fine now. The

doctor gave me some sednizone and a predative.”

“Sednizone?” Michael asked. “Predative?” He looked worried.

 cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 99)

“The museum was diggedy-dank, Mom!” Nora delighted while peeling a banana and

dipping it into the can of peanut butter. “It taught us all about how things are run with

nuclear power. There were photos, real old photos like you and dad, of how electricity

was first used at one of the Chicago World’s Fair and all sorts of fun things to play with

while learning about energy.” Nora was always full of enthusiasm but stupid about age.

“Moms!” cried James. “There’s only two stupid breads left with crust all over them

and I want a peanut butters sandwich.”

“Honey, those are the thighs,” I said, placing little Paddy in the playpen with a bottle

of juice.

“THIGHS?!” Everyone shouted.

“I mean heels, heels.” I went over to help stupid James with his stupid sandwich.

“Blessed Thomas Whitebread of the Oates Plot, why do they give body part names to

white bread, oat bread or ANY bread? It’s obscene.” I started peanut buttering the heels

for James. “And then there’s chicken – chicken legs, chicken breasts, chicken thighs.

Obscene, simply obscene!” And I was sounding simply obtuse.

“Ouch!! Paddy bit my finger.” Gregor cried out in pain.

“He must be cutting another tongue.” I replied nonchalantly, more concerned that

James didn’t learn about too many body parts from these obscene foods surrounding us.

“TONGUE?!” The whole family shouted again. Some families pray together, ours

shouts.

“I meant tooth, you guys, TOOTH. He cut another TOOTH.” My family. So literal.

YEAR of the PRIEST – THE MULE     Purple, purple,      Purple, pink,     In evergreen     The candles sink.     Candle’s age?     One thousand yeared,     With four, four-thousand     ‘Fore He appeared.     Each Sunday four,      In front of Yule     When she arrived     Upon a mule.     A revolution      Round the stall,      Till suddenly     On knees were all!     Like priest incensing Hallowed altar,     To bear her Son,      All kneel, none falter.      Firm, determined,      Burdened-beast,     With veins of gold,     Great stubborn priest!

 cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 100)

“How about everyone getting into their swim suits and heading for the beach.”

Michael suggested.

“Yeah!!” They all scattered to change for swimming. I started undressing James and

Campion and helped put on their trunks behind the clothes line with the beach towels

hiding them from view.

Kathleen emerged from the tent in a two-piece bathing suit as I came out from behind

the beach towels.

“And where did you get that obscene thing from, a loaf of bread?” I confronted her.

“Mom, please, all the girls wear these. My friend Susie let me borrow hers. I’ll get a

better suntan.” Kathleen knew we didn’t allow the girls to wear two piece bathing suits

because they were immodest.

“A one-piece suit is so old-fashioned.” Kathleen and I had been through this before

and before that, it was with our Rose, our college “mirror-majorette”.

“Rejecting things because they are old-fashioned would rule out the sun and the

moon.” Actually, raising the sun and moon would be easier than raising teenage girls.

“Change into your old-fashioned, one-piece baTHING SUIT, NOW!!” Michael

ordered in a deep, terrifyingly angry voice. I love men.

YEAR of the PRIEST – hhttp://tinyurl.com/kp8q7sttp://tinyurl.com/kp8q7s   

 THE FORGE    It’s not the teachers,    Their degrees,    It’s about the priests    Down on their knees.    Not the classes,     Nor their size,    It’s about the priests    Destroying lies.    Not the money,    Not the sports,    It’s about the priests    Saving the forts.    Not the alumni,    Nor their name,    It’s about     the priests     Who led and we came.   There is no unity    With perverse,    It’s about the priests    Universal, diverse.    There are no curves    Based on the class,    It’s about the priests    Confecting the Mass.    Of innocent souls,    There’ll be no heist,    It’s about the priests    Forging men for Christ!

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 101)

Kathleen jumped back into the tent the way teenagers do when good men “use their

words”.

“They’re killing me, Michael, I’m telling ya, these kids are killing me.” I went over to

the clothesline to get some dry towels for everyone to take to the beach.

Kathleen came back out in her one-piece suit looking beautiful, simply modest and

beautiful, like the sun and the moon, high in the sky for all to look up to. (Like her

mother.)

“Come on, you guys, let’s get out of here.” She squinted her eyes at us as she led the

other kids towards the campground road.

“I’m grilling Italian sausages for supper so work up a good appetite swimming.

Kathleen and Gregor, watch the younger ones,” Michael instructed.

Down the campground road they went skipping and running with Kathleen, who was

obviously sulking, throwing a pity-party for herself.

“Whata’ ya say we get this camp fire going so the Italian sausages are ready when the

kids get back.” Michael clapped his hands together and rubbed them. He loved playing

with fire. That’s why he married me.

Paddy was playing in the playpen just as happy as Larry so I grabbed my tube of

hemorrhoidal cream out of my toiletry bag on the picnic table and trotted over to the

truck.

“Michael, I need to dab some hemorrhoidal cream on my eyelid. I’m going to get in

the cab of the truck and use the rear-view mirror so I can see what I’m doing, then I’ll

open up those cans of Cheese Ravioli to cook over the fire. The kids just love that stuff.”

I yanked open the truck door and slid to the middle of the cab seat in front of the rearview

mirror.

I could see Michael in the rear-view mirror building the fire, also, happy as Larry. He

picked up the liquid fire starter and squirted it on the wood in the fire pit as I squirted

hemorrhoidal cream onto my finger. We were in sync.

Suddenly huge orange flames shot up. Michael ran to the picnic table and screwed off

the top of a plastic bottle filled with water but it wasn’t water, it was my Walgreen’s

prescription mouthwash.

The One-Eyed liberal-LION     AUTUMN BLOOD     Fall fall     Fall the leaves     As the blood-red Autumn     Sighs and grieves     For in the gentle     Blood-fed womb     Leaves are crushed     An Autumn tomb     “And the Word made Flesh”     For “excommunication”     But flesh wouldn’t say…     So exoneration.      Nor did flesh demand     Or articulate     Only “morally-bankrupt”     Not “excommunicate!”     So fall fall     Fall the leaves     The blood-red Autumn     Sighs and grieves     In the land of the blind     One-eyed man’s king     But on his head Autumn blood will cling!

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 102)

He threw it onto the fire and even MORE flames shot up! “St. Blaise!” I screamed, jumping out of the truck with hemorrhoidal cream smeared all over my eyelid. By the time I got to Michael he was already throwing soda and ice from the cooler onto the flames. “I shouldn’t have squirted on that liquid starter, but what the HELL was in that plastic water bottle?” he asked, trying to contain the fire with more ice-cubes from the cooler. I picked up the clear plastic water bottle from off the ground where he had thrown it down. “THAT, Michael, was my Walgreen’s very expensive prescription mouthwash.” I turned the bottle upside down shaking it to find there was not one drop left. “Now my gums are going to rot and I’ll have gingivitis along with poison-ivy-practically-leprosypopo by the time we get back to St. Louis!” I collapsed onto the bench, a broken woman. “How was I supposed to know that was mouthwash? For God’s sake, Maureen, it was sitting right there on the table in a plastic water bottle.” He continued rearranging the logs trying to calm the flames down. “I put my Walgreen’s very expensive prescription mouth wash in a plastic water bottle because it originally came in a glass bottle and I was trying to prevent an accident in case it got tossed around in the car and broke.” Is the whole world insane or is it just me? “Maureen, I’m sorry. I had to douse those flames and I thought that was water. You can get some more mouth wash in town.” He continued working with the campfire. “It has to be prescription wouth mash…and I don’t have the original bottle to get it refilled in. Don’t you understand?” There are three kinds of men who can’t understand women; young men, old men and middle-aged men.

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 103)

“‘Wouth mash’?” Michael acted like I couldn’t speak English.

“Oh, you know what I mean.” I stomped back towards the truck to dab the rest of the

hemorrhoidal cream on my puffy eyelid.

Men! You can’t live with them…and you can’t live with them, I was thinkin’, as I

tugged on the handle of the door once again on the driver’s side of the truck. It was

locked. I walked to the other side of the truck complaining and mumbling under my

breath about my Walgreen’s very expensive mouth wash. That door was locked too and

there was only one set of keys which were still in the ignition of the truck, which

was…Blessed John Lockwood!…locked up tighter than a bull’s ass in fly season.

I shot a glance at Michael the way a deer would as a man approached it in hunting

season. What was that little ditty my grandmother used to sing in situations like this?

Oh, yeah, “I’m gonna’ be wearin’ my ass in a sling.”

Year of the Priest –  Tradition IS Change     Babies every two, three years -     Teaching teens to clutch, change gears -     Double, subtract     When souls God sends -     Tradition means… Change NEVER ends!

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!
cont…Chapter 5
(Page 104)

“Get those Italian sausages out, will ya’, hon?” Michael called. “They’re in the small
cooler on the floor of the cab in the truck.”
“What truck?” I asked nervously, stalling for time. Our small cooler was in the truck
because it held most of our meat and we didn’t want to take any more chances with the
raccoons.
“Come on, Maureen, this fire’s died down and I’m going to put the grill over it. I’ll be
ready in a minute to start those Italian sausages sizzlin’.” He was humming a tune. He
was happy. He was relaxed. He was a fool! He should know better than to be happy and
relaxed when he’s with me.
My grandmother had another saying for times like this…”When the going gets tough,
the tough use…sex.”
“Sweetheart,” I cooed walking seductively over to Michael. “I’m sorry about fighting
with you before, over my mouth wash. Let’s not argue anymore.” I rubbed his back as he
placed the grate over the campfire. He stood up and put his arms around me.
“Well, well, this is nice. Make love not war?” He smiled, raising his heavy dark
eyebrows.
“Yes. But fighting with you does stir my blood you know.” I had him in the palm of
my hand as I ran my fingers through his thick, wavy black-Irish hair. Men – so easy to
“men”-ipulate.
“Make love not war. That’s why I married you. Now I can do both.” He pulled me
into him and started kissing my neck. I let out a sexy moan. I had to milk-moan this for
all I could, biding my time. I had to figure how to break into the truck before he realized
the keys were locked in it. Where were those damn raccoons when you need them?

Down Syndrome or UP?  PUMPKIN GOLD    -   On the edge of late September,     On the brink –     October morn.     A yellow flower blossomed,     A tiny pumpkin born.     Upon her family vine,     Umbilicaled at her birth,     Surrounded by soft sibling leaves     Glee-green with merry mirth.     And up above the father sun,     Who loves his wife, the earth,      Assures his warmth when dark clouds come -      Rain grace round pumpkin, a firth.     And sibling leaves will vine this firth,     Graced-drafts they’ll drink and behold,     God’s greatest gifts, the patient ones,     Father sun, mother earth, pumpkin-GOLD!!

 cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 105)

“The children are at the beach, the baby is quiet in his play-pen. Would you like to go

in the tent for a while?” I suggested, suggestively.

“What about the fire?” he asked.

“Silly, man, we’ll make our own.” I winked and growled like a tiger. (ooooh, I’ve

been out in the great-out-doors too long.) “You know, darling, a man who takes a lady

on a camping trip has one in-tent.” I purred and groaned and continued running my

fingers through his hair. He then pulled me into him again closer and harder. St.

Sexburga! He kissed me so long and passionately that I was smothering. I had to pull

myself away from him so as to catch my breath but his arms were steel around me and I

could barely move. (Michael, I never knew ya.) I struggled and wiggled but his embrace

was so powerful, I felt like his…his…slave. (You go guy!)

“Soooooo, what’s up pussy cat?” he asked, kissing my neck again taking advantage of

my delicate frailties. “Did you lock the only set of keys we have to the truck in the cab?”

He bit my neck.

“Michael!” I pretended to protest.

“Moms…Dads!!” The kids were back.

James came running, thrilled to snitch on somebody about something.

“Campion told me to stick this shovel up my butts.” He held up his orange plastic

sand shovel.

“WHAT??!!” Michael shouted letting go of me. I grabbed my neck, rubbing it so

there were no tell-tale signs of our lust.

“Campion, get over here!” Michael demanded as Campion was pulling up the rear

behind Nora, Bridget and Jack.

“Dad, dad.” Bridget was more than happy to fill us in on the details. “Those guys

were fighting over that shovel and I heard Campion say that to James, Dad, to ’stick it up

his butts’…butt, Dad, he did, Dad! Dad, he did, he really did, Dad. I’m telling the truth

Dad, he did, he really, really did…” We got the “Dad-did” details. Bridget smiled

sideways over at Campion, chompin’ at the bit to get him in trouble.

cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 106)

“All right, Bridget.” Michael pulled Campion over to him as he took a seat on the

picnic bench. “Campion did you say that to your brother?”

“Yes, Dad.” Campion cast his eyes downward, ashamed.

“You tell James you’re sorry right now!” Michael scolded.

“St. Deodatus of Nevers. Never, EVER, tell someone to stick ANYTHING up

their…ummmm…up their…ummmm…up their ANYTHINGS! Do you understand?” I

asked Campion.

“Tell your brother you’re sorry.” Michael demanded.

“I’m sowwy, James.” Campion apologized. “Next time, you can stick it up ‘MY’

butt.”

“WHAT?!” Michael and I screamed in unison.

“I said ‘MY’ butt, Dad, not ‘HIS’ butt!” Campion didn’t understand.

Michael turned Campion around to face him again.

“Campion. Not HIS ‘butt’, YOUR ‘butt’, or CHICKEN ‘butt’!” Michael looked up at

me for help. I shrugged my shoulders. I hated dealing with body parts.

Feast of BVM’s Nativity – THE NAZARETH MINES      When Rome was     Of the world –     And Master Moon     Was free –     And Mistress Midnight     Bedizened -     In show-star     Finery. A tiny sparkle     Caught, Miss Mistress     Midnight’s Eye -     And captured Master Moon,     Who paled     And gasped a sigh -     But Rome, still     Of the world,     Had doctors observe     Ceiling signs -     And missed the     Immaculate Diamond -     Debouching from     Nazareth mines.

Year of the Priest NOT Fr. McBrien!    IN THE CRADLES OF LATIN    Fr. McBrien –    In your suit and tie-silk    Thank heavens you’re old    Soon to die with your ilk.    For I’m Catholic Mother    Nursing legions breast milk    In the cradles of Latin    Where their souls you’ll not bilk!    http://tinyurl.com/kp8q7s

 cont…I AM WHAT, I AM!

cont…Chapter 5

(Page 107)

“Your body, Campion, is the temple of God. We have to respect that temple, our

bodies. We must try to please God, always. So, no more talk like that, okay?” Michael

spoke in no uncertain terms, very firm but very gentle.

The other kids were still snickering and giggling over Campion’s apology to James

about “HIS” butt. So being the good mother that I am and supporting their father I very

firmly, but very gently, said…

“St. Smaragdus! How would you kids like a smack?!” The children immediately

stopped smiling. The name “Smaragdus” has been known to do that.

“Okay, Dad.” Campion turned to James and said he was “sowwy”.

“James, what do you say to your brother.” Michael asked.

“I forgives you.” James said, a bit reluctantly.

“Campion and James, the Lord’s got His thumb on you.” I hugged them both.

“James, you can play with the shovel now.” Campion tried to hand the shovel to

James.

“I don’t want it.” James said pushing the shovel away as he turned to the little boy

standing next to him. I hadn’t even noticed that there were five other children standing

there, and they weren’t even ours.

“Who are you?” Michael asked.

“These are our new friends we met at the beach.” Nora explained. “They’re all the

way from ‘Thigh’ Land. They have five kids in their family. Can we go with them to the

playground, please?” Nora begged.

“‘Thigh’ land?” There are them body parts again. “I think you mean ‘Thai’ land, Nora.

What are your names, kids?” I asked.

Nora made the introductions. “This is Twee, Ling, Yi-Ying, Bong-Bong and

Herman.”

“Herman?” St. Hermagoras! Michael and I both looked startled.

 cont…I A