Looking Back to the 60's: Going to Church on Sunday

Going to church in our house was a big deal.  My mom had six kids that she somehow had to corral into the car to get us to St. Charles Church in North Hollywood.  I didn’t like going to church. It was a rude interruption in my daily Pacoima Court activities, but somehow, we all managed to get there, albeit on the late side.

When I was young, I remember correlating church with ice cream. I can’t remember whether my Dad gave us ice cream before or after our stint in church, but it was a jolly move, and certainly inspired us to attend church on a fairly regular basis. Nothing like Pavlov to get us motivated.

As we got older, and my Dad was out of the picture, my Mom was in charge of getting us into church, and I’m sure it wasn’t easy. Back then, if you were divorced, you couldn’t participate in many of the church rituals, like communion, etc.  But I’m sure my Mom believed if we attended church, it would instill good values into us, and make us better people down the road.

Mind you, my mother always ran late.  Getting to church on time was next to impossible, so we’d be stuck in the chapel, where the other latecomers would congregate.  I don’t know if I was allergic to all that incense, or whether there was simply not enough ventilation, but more often than not, I’d pass out during the service, and they’d have to take me outside and give me smelling salts to wake up.

Then, I’d be ushered back inside, where we’d take communion, and have to suck on those cardboard tasting wafers. They’d always get stuck on the roof of my mouth, and I remember you weren’t supposed to chew them.  After that, they’d pass the basket around for contributions.  I wish they had simply let me stay outside so I could count the cars going by, and enjoy the fresh air.

When Teresa and I were in our teens, somehow Mom got us to church on time to sit in the main area. As the organ music swelled in the background, a man came sauntering down the aisle with a full beard.  Mind you, beards were not fashionable at the time, and when I looked at my sister, we both began laughing. 

Laughing is not sanctioned in church.  I looked at my mom, and she began to snicker as well, knowing that the site of this Santa man was a real riot for all three of us.  She shushed us as best we could, but seeing that guy that was one of the most enjoyable times I’d ever spent in church.

I must have gone to confession soon after.  I don’t know if laughing at someone was a mortal or venial sin, but I felt better getting it off my chest.

I’m still not a regular churchgoer.  I really prefer to be outside in nature and count my blessings among all the living creatures.  But I did learn respect for a higher power because my mom took us to mass, even if I hated being there at the time.