Sunday Mornings

Never Fun

“Let me go!” I cried as my two younger brothers grabbed me, preventing me from getting out to the car. If I didn’t make it in time, our crazed mother would drive away without me.

The two idiots laughed in unison. Not because they themselves wouldn’t be in trouble, but that the trouble would now be shared three ways.

Sunday mornings were never fun. Every week, tension within our household crackled like a crazy summer electrical storm. My mother had married my father with an agreement that their offspring would be brought up Catholic. My dad didn’t have religious beliefs, besides the conviction that he never wanted to go to church, especially not a Catholic one. My mother had given up on him, yet her regular angry mood every Sunday let it be known that she didn’t like it. Whereas my dad absolutely loved quiet Sunday mornings without us.

Our mother would scream, “If you kids aren’t ready in five minutes, I’m leaving without you!”

To counteract any guilt he felt, my dad would yell, “You four sure as hell better accompany your mother to church, or you’ll be in hot water with my belt!”

The ticking clock of time always seemed to speed up, making getting dressed almost impossible. In the mad rush, I would sometimes forgo an undershirt or slip and fling my dress over my head. I’d grab my hat and coat and hightail it to the car. My three siblings did likewise, unless of course they moved too slow, only to see our mother peal out of the driveway in a huff.

Once in church, I could relax. Since the mass was in Latin, I spent the time spacing out and enjoying the colorful stain glass windows. The depictions of Christ being tortured sparkled in the sunlight. The Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus glowed, as all the barn animals gathered round, chewing their cud. Plus there were lovely marble statues of saints and women’s flowery hats to admire.

During the English intermission from Latin, Father Steiger would give his weekly sermons. As his gravely voice droned on, all the red blood in my mother’s body would surge up into her round face. On the drive home, she complained to us four kids that the priest was a complete idiot. “Week after week, he has the gall to claim that all sin in the world is caused by women. He’s always going on and on about how evil Eve was and how she tempted poor naive Adam, causing the exile from the Garden of Eden. Like all men are complete saints. While the unfortunate nuns in this parish have to cook and clean and wait on that miserable old man hand and foot. I tell you, that priest is a useless toad!”

Then to help break the tension, we’d go to the nearby bakery, so my mother could relax with a donut or two. Thus we made it through another stressful Sunday morning. My mother would eventually calm down and force us to repeat the same insane routine the following Sunday.

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