Young Man of the Cloth

PROLOGUE

    One night before bed when I was in the third grade, I asked my mother if I could be a priest and something else at the same time. She told me my Uncle Bob was a priest and also a physics teacher, whatever that was. I wanted to be a priest and a doctor. I knew that priests and doctors both helped people. I had always enjoyed helping people and had made friends with a number of elderly people in the neighborhood, visiting and doing chores for them. I thought that by being a priest and a doctor I could do the most good for people.
    I grew up in a family where all of my relatives were Catholic. The one exception was my Uncle Charles, whom my Aunt Bea married, and who was somewhat suspect because of his lack of any identifiable religion. Most of our family functions revolved around religious feasts. We would all go to Mass and then enjoy the rest of the day with each other. For many years, my father went to daily Mass before going to work.   
    Two of my uncles became priests and there were a number of nuns who would show up at family functions, described as cousins once removed in some manner. My Uncle Bob was my father’s oldest brother.  He was the only one in my father’s family who did not have a hot temper or was quick to criticize anyone who acted contrary to his expectations. He was even tempered, the voice of reason, when others became hotheaded and was able to diffuse anger with humor. He was intelligent and had written two books, Behold the Man and The Constant Cross. He was an important figure in my life, having married my parents, baptized me and given me First Holy Communion.
    My Uncle Dick, one of my mother’s younger brothers, was a man of peace. I knew he had been in World War II in Europe.  He rode in a truck with a rifle, stopped for a battle, got back in his truck and moved on to another battle. He was the last person you would expect to have been in a war. He never talked of his war experiences and was as calm and peaceful as his father, my grandfather. The two things I remember him bringing back from Europe were a German luger, his one souvenir of the war, and a stuffed Scotty dog for me which was my constant companion for years. I could always sit quietly with him and he would be interested in whatever I had to tell him. Teresa, a woman across the street, waited for him to return from the war so she could marry him. When he returned home and thought about his life, he headed for the seminary and the diocesan priesthood.
    I attended two Catholic grammar schools. Holy Rosary preceded our move from the city of Rochester to the suburb of Greece and St. Charles followed. I was in fourth grade in 1951 when we moved. All of my teachers were nuns who imbued us with faith before facts.
    One day in fifth grade, I was assigned the male part in a story we were reading aloud. Rose Marie was assigned the female part. I had never taken much interest in girls before but enjoyed reading with her. After school, I walked her home and stayed for milk and cookies. It seemed strange, but nice, that neither of her parents were home from work yet.
    We could sit talking with each other for hours about not much of anything. We also tried kissing but nothing more. We stayed friends off and on over the next few years until eighth grade, but could not have been said to be dating.
I spent much of my time riding bikes with my friend Gene from across the street. My brother Bob joined us when he got old enough to keep up with us. I was also in scouts and enjoyed our camp-outs, with the exception of one winter camp-out in January in tents. I thought my toes would never warm up again. I especially enjoyed camp Massaweepee in the Adirondacks.
    My father went along as one of the leaders one year. He did not fit in well with the other leaders, especially when they got around to drinking beer after we were supposed to be asleep. That camping trip was the time I felt closest to him. I worked for over a week to pass the swimming test so I could go on a canoe trip and finally did pass it at the last minute. My father and I piled our packs in the canoe and set off for Beaver Lodge, which involved paddling to one end of Massaweepee Lake and then portaging to the next lake. We paddled on to a camping spot where beavers had been busy building dams. They were not in evidence until the next morning and then only if we got up early enough. I had no awareness of how many other scouts or leaders were in the group for that trip. All I knew was that I was off on an adventure with my father who, for once, was not preoccupied with where I had left a tool he was looking for.
    The pastor of St. Charles Parish, Monsignor Robert, seemed like a somewhat distant, crusty version of a God we did not wish to upset. The assistants or curates tended to come and go while the pastor seemed to stay forever. The assistants were gentle, kindly men who took an interest in us boys in ways I wish my father had. They seemed to be there for anyone who needed them. They also listened with interest to things that excited or concerned me. They were spiritual men but also quite human. They were capable of enjoying themselves and having fun. They were paternal and understanding rather than punitive. I liked their easy manner, calm temperament and openness.
    Occasionally one of them would ask what I might like to do with my life. I admitted that being a priest had crossed my mind. When I thought about them, I could imagine being like them in the future and much preferred their personalities to that of my father. I think my decision to join the priesthood was based more on identifying with them and the ideal of being able to help people, rather than on a strong attraction to religion.
    As school went along, I decided to try out to be an altar boy. We had classes after school, learning how to pronounce the Latin prayers we would be required to memorize and recite during Mass. It took quite a while to master and, even then, I did not really know what I was saying for the most part, concentrating on getting the pronunciation right. I was finally put into the rotation, serving at Sunday and weekday Masses. I enjoyed serving at funerals since they were usually during school hours and at weddings, where it was customary to give the altar boys a tip.
    Serving Mass was the one big responsibility I had outside my home. I began to become dependable for regular Masses, also filling in if someone did not show up. I got to know the assistant priests and they got to know and rely on me.
I also identified more with my two uncles, who were priests, than I did with my father, my other uncles or my friends’ fathers. I suppose the bottom line in my choice of the seminary was that I saw it as a place where I could become the kind of person I wanted to be, without my father’s harshness appearing from nowhere when I least expected it.
I was about as involved with church as others my age and memorized my catechism lessons, although I did not always understand the questions. As long as we knew the answers, there didn’t seem to be much concern about what the answers meant.
    By the time I reached eighth grade, I had pretty much decided on the seminary. There was a diocesan seminary in Rochester but I chose instead to apply to Holy Cross Seminary in Dunkirk, where I had visited my Uncle Bob several times while he was stationed there. I was born in Dunkirk and many of my relatives still lived there. My impulsivity and knack for upsetting my father made Dunkirk seem a place of refuge and peace for me as well.
    I managed to get promises of a letter of recommendation from Monsignor Robert, probably based more on input from his assistants than on his personal knowledge of me, and one from Sister Juliana, the principal of St. Charles School where I attended.
Then something happened in eighth grade which almost brought my whole plan to a crashing halt. One day on the way home from school, a friend of mine and I were teasing a girl who lived near us. For some reason I could not explain, we tied her hands behind her back with her scarf, although we had no intention of hurting her or doing anything else to her. She panicked and started to run, slipping on some stones and scraping her face.
    The two of us, as well as our parents, were summoned that night before Sister Juliana at the convent to face the girl and her parents. It was a venue more daunting than any court or police setting could have been. We were commanded to explain our actions and what we were thinking. We had no logical explanation, since neither of us had planned what happened or considered the consequences.
    My estimation in Sister Juliana’s mind plummeted. She threatened to withdraw her recommendation which would mean the end of my seminary plans. We were assigned various punishments and many hours of work at the school through the end of the school year and into the summer. Over the course of the work, Sister Juliana and I got to know each other and even became friends. I could not recall ever having a nun for a friend but it happened, and, in the end, she wrote the letter and I was accepted to Holy Cross.
    I went for an interview with several priests at the seminary. Most of the discussion centered on my Uncle Bob and how much he had contributed to the Passionist Order. There did not seem to be any question that I would be accepted. I was given a list of things to bring and was expected to be at the seminary right after Labor Day.
I spent the last couple of weeks organizing my clothing and marking them with my name as I had done when I went to scout camp. Several of my friends were quite curious about the seminary, but there was not much I could tell them. I had only seen it briefly and did not really know much about it yet.
    About a week before I left, I ran into Rose Marie coming down the street on her way to Cramer’s Pharmacy. We had seen each other off and on since fifth grade, and I had not told her I was definitely going to the seminary, although I suppose she knew I was thinking about it. I told her I had decided to go the seminary and would be leaving soon. I probably would not be able to see her again since I would be a seminarian. I was excited about the adventure and only realized later that she had looked sad and that I would miss our long talks.
    The day finally came when I loaded all the required clothing and other effects into a steamer trunk, which had been in the family for many years. We got it into the back of the car, but just barely.  It didn’t allow the trunk lid to close, but we managed to tie it down.
    We set out for Dunkirk the day before Labor Day, driving along Route 33 through Batavia, which seemed to take forever. My father avoided the thruway, refusing to pay the toll on principle. We visited with both sets of grandparents, and other relatives who were around for Labor Day, gathering in the evening on my grandparents’ porch for old family stories. Late at night, my aunts and uncles laughed in the parlor as my brother and I whispered in our beds upstairs...