The Greatest Hits of Middle School
A Memoir of Buddies, Girlfriends, Bullies, and Catholics
“Oh, you’ll find out. Boy, will you find out!”
This ominous statement, tossed my way by my cousin Sam during our final balmy picnic of summer, was half-warning and half-taunt. He’d approached me after the apple bobbing and said, “Hear you’re going to sister school next month.”
Continue reading “My Year in Sister School: Part I, The Crime”
IN WHICH I see too much and not quite enough
After blessing our home so expertly, Father Berube became the eager recipient of that Catholic middle-class beneficence those who once dispensed it now call “priest adoption.” Back then it was known as “welcoming a priest into your home.”
Priest adoption occurred more often than you’d think. Our family friends the Woodburys adopted a priest before they’d moved to Danvers, but he didn’t last.
Continue reading “Surrounded by Catholics, Part II: We Decide to Adopt”
Every Danvers Catholic kid I knew swore by everything Father Berube said. About anything. The reason why was . . . complicated. Oh, so complicated.
“Now you're getting older, your body's starting to change” said Dad. “Any questions?” “How do you stop getting hard in church?” I asked. “Don't be ridiculous. That never happens.” “I just heard . . . in school. Some of the guys . . .” “It doesn't happen if you're Catholic. You know all about impure thoughts by now.” “Yeah, but . . .” “You just got confirmed for chrissake.” “Not sayin' it was me.” “Then who? Better not be that Channing Johnstone character.” “I'm just asking, what if it happens? What are you supposed to do?” “You say a prayer or something." “What prayer?” “Any prayer!” “But what if some girl’s sitting in the next pew and . . . and looking real pretty . . . and things get out of hand and suddenly you gotta get up and take communion?” “How the hell should I know? Ask Father Berube.” from “Questions I Tormented my Dad With”
IN WHICH we are truly blessed.
I never did ask Father John Berube that question, but it wasn’t because I didn’t trust him. He was eminently trustworthy. Every Danvers Catholic kid I knew swore by everything he said. About anything. The reason why was . . . complicated. Oh, so complicated.
Continue reading “Surrounded by Catholics, Part I: Blessings on Everything”
Dating at thirteen is never what you expect: a mishmash of guesswork and lucky moves.
Diary Entry, May 8, 1961[1]
IN WHICH I learn not quite enough about love.
On the playing field of girlfriend getting, my best friend Steve scored a touchdown his first try. Continue reading “First Girl”
IN WHICH I learn the Facts of Life. Twice.
Dad picked the wrong time and place to explain The Facts to me. The time, well that’s complicated. I’ll get to that. But the place . . .
Had I known I’d be writing about Steve, my first adolescent friend, I would have carried my Brownie Hawkeye camera around with me more.
IN WHICH I learn one way of dealing with a bully.
The solution to three years of Dickie Shears whaling on me was right in front of me and I wasn’t getting it.
There had to have been something about me that attracted these hoods.
You may not believe what I’m about to tell you, and I wouldn’t blame you. I have trouble believing it myself, nearly sixty years later.
Continue reading “Bullyland, Part III: Fists Don’t Fail Me Now”
IN WHICH I learn the subtle side of conflict.
Paul Dabuse was the toughest kid in the seventh grade and I knew this because I once saw him fight. It was enough to brand him in my brain as someone I didn’t want to mess with. Continue reading “Bullyland, Part II: Up a Notch”
Chris Montez1 had it right. “Any old dance that you wanna do.” When I was 13 at Holton-Richmond Junior High2, attending class in wooden desks with dried-up ink wells, I used to go to the school dances that happened third Friday each month. They were called “mixers,” because that’s what the girls and boys were supposed to do. Mix with adults gaping on. Of course not many of us did. The concept of a sock hop, with minimal supervision and an outta sight disk jockey, was yet to be in Danvers, Massachusetts.
Continue reading ““. . . the Twist, the Stomp, the Mash Potato too . . .””
