{"id":2357,"date":"2018-10-02T12:45:12","date_gmt":"2018-10-02T12:45:12","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.johnpaciorek.com\/?p=2357"},"modified":"2018-10-02T12:45:12","modified_gmt":"2018-10-02T12:45:12","slug":"john-pacioreks-book-if-i-knew-then-what-i-know-now-chapter-6","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/www.johnpaciorek.com\/?p=2357","title":{"rendered":"John Paciorek’s Book: If I Knew Then What I Know Now – Chapter 6"},"content":{"rendered":"

 <\/p>\n

CHAPTER 6
\nHome: Sweet\u2014Home?<\/p>\n

It will be nice to be home (I thought apprehensively), although the living conditions at 13432 Moenart would not have the comfort and privacy I had grown accustomed to as an eighteen-year-old bachelor. Roaming the \u201cworld\u201d for the past eight months, I enjoyed an uncommon freedom from the watchful eyes of caring and diligent Catholic parents. All my life (at least from third grade on), I felt an uneasy yearning to escape the fetters of parental supervision and the dogmatic practices of Catholicism.<\/p>\n

I unconsciously appreciated the cloistered protection that both afforded, but I felt restricted with a lack of individual freedom. The parochial school discipline, exacted by the nuns who guided my questionable educational progress, carried with it moral and academic suspicions. And my own parents reinforced the common code of corporal punishment for \u201ccrimes\u201d venial and mortal. Both adhered strictly to an \u201cold-testament\u201d admonition: \u201cSpare the rod, and risk spoiling the child!\u201d<\/p>\n

The psychology of that era, and those preceding it, must have been to \u201cburn down the barn to make sure you got rid of all the rats.\u201d The \u201cGod of mercy\u201d was conveniently lost sight of during trying times, like the \u201cInquisition\u201d and child-rearing. And where exactly did Christian philosophy (dogma) begin adulterating Jesus\u2019s practice of extolling highest virtue to children (Jesus\u2019s request of those field hands not to tear out the weeds before the wheat grew to maturity surely rings true here).<\/p>\n

I suppose there was some benefit, somewhere, in my parents\u2019 adherence to strict Church doctrine. But a child under its absolute enforcement would be hard-pressed to commit his own life to its rigidity and merciless extraction. I can\u2019t forget being slapped (on an almost daily basis) across the face or on back of the head by parents and teachers alike\u2014for simple acts of omission or using language and tones of voice that didn\u2019t sit right with the offended adult.<\/p>\n

It was not uncommon for me to be \u201cbludgeoned\u201d at school by a teacher who would afterward send for one of my younger siblings and give him or her a note to give to my parents. When my dad got home from work, he would remorsefully yet without hesitation administer another ration of what came to be standard procedure in a typical day in the life of a certain young Catholic boy. But I also can recall that on many of those occasions, the supervising adults would grimace slightly and then apply what seemed the mandatory response to their religious obligation. I believe they thought it was their duty to do what they did. (I didn\u2019t then, but I now feel sorry for them.)<\/p>\n

When\u2014and if\u2014I ever have kids, I hope the \u201cpsychology of the day\u201d will have instituted a more soothing means for reaching children, other than by \u201ccorporal punishment.\u201d It doesn\u2019t work! Especially if adults want to gain the genuine respect and appreciation of children and young adults that they proclaim to enlist\u2014and not \u201cspoil the child\u201d!<\/p>\n

My dad should have had sainthood bestowed on him, for all his self-sacrifice. The virtue he displayed while providing for his family of ten was truly commendable. (But nevertheless, because of the manner with which we related to each other, it wasn\u2019t so much respect but rather fear that got my divided attention.) He worked from early adulthood on the assembly line at the Plymouth\/Chrysler Plant on Mount Elliot Road, about two and half miles from where we lived. He didn\u2019t always have a car to get to work, but he never missed a day of work. When he was ill, there were no \u201csick leave\u201d and vacation days to recuperate. The health and welfare of his family were too important to miss work for any reason. I remember him walking the distance on repeated occasions in blistering, snowy conditions because the car wasn\u2019t functional and no bus routes were available to him.<\/p>\n

He always made sure that there was always enough good food available for Mom to prepare at mealtimes. At those harder times when we were \u201con Welfare,\u201d none of us kids wanted to go with him to pick up the groceries with \u201cfood stamps\u201d (for fear of being seen by someone we knew). I also remember seeing him waiting until the entire family finished a tasty, nutritious dinner before he sat down and finished what was left\u2014even if they were merely the scraps from off the plates we had left behind.<\/p>\n

He could hardly afford it, but he made sure that his children had a good Catholic school education. For some reason, he didn\u2019t want to send us to public school, even though it was free! Transfiguration was a prosperous Polish Catholic elementary school six blocks east of Moenart, on Syracuse Street. I think the church gave us a discount, since I recall Dad doing things for \u201cthem\u201d in his \u201cspare time.\u201d<\/p>\n

White School was the public elementary school\u2014right down the street from us on Moenart, on the south side of Luce, not even a quarter of a mile away from our house. (I sometimes wished I was going there. Then I wouldn\u2019t be forced to learn the Polish language, which most of the kids felt was meaningless, inferior, and difficult\u2014 especially for poor students who weren\u2019t even Polish.)<\/p>\n

One of the many things that we\u2014kids (at least to my personal recollection)\u2014 didn\u2019t fully appreciate at the time was the amount of effort Dad (Mom as well) spent on seemingly trivial things concerning us rather than focusing on his own personal needs. I can still picture me and my siblings kneeling down in the living room and
\nsaying aloud our evening prayers before we could go to sleep. Dad wanted to make sure we all knew the words and said them with conviction. From what I remember as a considerably long time, we said them together.<\/p>\n

Eventually, he had the notion that we might learn them in Polish as well as English. The attempt was futile, since we could barely say them in English, and that was only if we said them a hundred miles per hour, remembering the rhythm.<\/p>\n

We always started off our litany with eyes closed, in solemn reverence to the \u201csign of the cross.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIn the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost,\u201d as we uniformly performed the action with the right hand, from head to heart, to left shoulder, to right shoulder.<\/p>\n

Immediately after, we would recite the Lord\u2019s Prayer (Our Father, who art in heaven . . .), followed by the \u201cHail Mary\u201d (Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . .).<\/p>\n

In Polish, it would read, \u201cW imie Ojca I Syna I Ducha Swietego.\u201d The Lord\u2019s Prayer followed, \u201cOjcze nasz, kt\u00f3rys jest w Niebie, swiec sie Imie Twoje . . .\u201d And the Hail Mary, \u201cZdrowas Mario, laskis pelna . . .\u201d!<\/p>\n

Since I was the oldest, the initiating of this common ritual naturally fell upon me. Everything proceeded well, over the months that we participated in the nightly regimen. But if you can imagine the monotony that set in after weeks and weeks of this religious banter, you might wonder if something (anything) might have occurred that would have broken the monotonous stream of rhythmic cadence.<\/p>\n

One evening, at a moment when the proceedings were to begin, and we were settling into our kneeling positions, I somehow preemptively\u2014and apparently unconsciously\u2014began the \u201csign of the cross\u201d with a somewhat emphatic recitation of the numbers: 1, 2, 3 . . . But before I could finish \u201c3,\u201d Tom and Marilyn had busted out laughing, and I became deliriously conscious of the fact that I might soon be the recipient of a hard slap across the back of my head or face.<\/p>\n

As it \u201cmiraculously\u201d turned out, while my neck and shoulders were cowering to the right and away from where I presumed the blow would be coming, the eyes of my twisting head caught sight of what appeared to be a slight, momentary chuckle projected from the contorted lips of both my parents. It didn\u2019t mean I wasn\u2019t still going to be nailed, but it did offer at least a temporary reprieve from any retribution for an obviously sacrilegious, desecrating impropriety of scandalous proportion.<\/p>\n

After a few moments for all to regain the proper composure to continue, the prayers were concluded, and we all retired to what would be a \u201cgood night\u2019s sleep\u201d\u2014 all things considered. To what could I attribute such a heartfelt impulse of \u201cforgiveness\u201d? The gesture was hardly used in conjunction with disciplining children or students. So I must have unconsciously chalked it up to a previously unknown fact that, occasionally, \u201cGod has a sense of humor.\u201d<\/p>\n

As the days, weeks, and months passed, the ritual stopped. And we were permitted to say the evening prayers in the semiprivacy of our own bedrooms, of which there were three. Dad and Mom had one; Marilyn and Joan shared one; and Tom and I shared the other. When Bobby, Mike, Carole, and Jimbo came along, the comfort level was considerably strained with some inconvenient adaptations.<\/p>\n

Dad could be observed as a model of virtue, mostly by others, but sometimes even by me. I would hear relatives make mention of times\u2014in the not-so-recent history\u2014when Dad\u2019s generosity secured some relative\u2019s successful venture. It ultimately provided him and his family a well-established means of financial security.<\/p>\n

Uncle Zig and Auntie Annie lived a comfortable life, largely due to Dad\u2019s generous loan at a time when he was the only one working. He carried the burden of assisting much of his extended family. Those recipients of his initial generosity never forgot his unselfish gestures and always made sure our family of ten was never without the \u201cnecessities\u201d of life. And on special occasions, even a luxury or two!<\/p>\n

His virtue extended in ways I could hardly understand, especially at a time when our family was on \u201cWelfare.\u201d Somehow it was evident that my eight-year-old mentality didn\u2019t quite grasp how honesty was the best policy. When opportunities arose and a quick gain could be made if only I would deny the \u201chonesty factor,\u201d I would hardly abide with a policy to which my dad was a strict adherent.<\/p>\n

One cold winter evening, my dad was putting on his boots, which five minutes earlier he had taken off after shoveling the snow from off the walkway in front of our house. He had planned to spend the rest of his evening relaxing before going to bed. I thought it odd because there seemed no legitimate reason for such action. Plus, he had to get up earlier than usual the following morning, to walk to work since the family car was at Uncle Zig\u2019s Garage being repaired.<\/p>\n

He had been out earlier that afternoon, walking half a mile through the snow to Bazaar\u2019s Confectionary. He usually purchased his pack of cigarettes there, on Sundays, since nearer neighborhood stores were closed.<\/p>\n

(In 1953, it had not yet been established that cigarette smoking could be hazardous to health. In fact, it was encouraged to promote good healthy living. \"\"<\/a>As an eight-year-old, I tried it once. But when told by friends to inhale, I almost gagged in pain and never tried it again. And at seventeen cents a pack, even my dad could afford it. I can remember that he sometimes sent me, an eight-year-old, during the week to Bloom grocery\u2014the first street east of Moenart\u2014with a quarter to buy him a pack of Camels. \"\"<\/a>I would sprint from our backyard, through the alley, and be back in less than three minutes, with the Camels and eight cents change. Once, in a while, he\u2019d let me keep a penny to buy a thimble of pumpkin seeds.)<\/p>\n

It was later that evening, while counting the money he had in his pants pocket, he noticed a discrepancy in the amount that was there. When he initially left home and traversed the snowy terrain between our house and \u201cBazaar\u2019s,\u201d he had a $10 bill. But when he perused the contents of his pocket afterward, he counted $19.82, nine
\nteen dollars and eighty-two cents. (Bazaar\u2019s charged one penny more than the other stores for cigs.)<\/p>\n

The store attendant gave Dad $10 too much change. To my way of thinking, Dad just made a $10 profit on his cigarette deal. So I was more than a little annoyed when Mom told me he was on his way back to the store to return the extra money. I couldn\u2019t believe it! Who else would do that? I knew I wouldn\u2019t. If I had an extra ten bucks, I\u2019d be in heaven. At least temporarily! Obviously, I had not yet attained any apprehension of the \u201cmetaphysical\u201d dimension of life. By the way, the attendant gave Dad a free pack of cigarettes for his trouble.<\/p>\n

(I guess his \u201chonesty\u201d paid off when the true facts about smoking came out a few years later. Dad quit \u201ccold turkey\u201d and never had a problem with his lungs or his breathing before his death in 2004.)<\/p>\n

Next: Chapter 7 – New Revelations!<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  CHAPTER 6 Home: Sweet\u2014Home? It will be nice to be home (I thought apprehensively), although the living conditions at 13432 Moenart would not have the comfort and privacy I had grown accustomed to as an eighteen-year-old bachelor. Roaming the \u201cworld\u201d for the past eight months, I enjoyed an uncommon freedom from the watchful eyes … Continue reading John Paciorek’s Book: If I Knew Then What I Know Now – Chapter 6<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2357","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.johnpaciorek.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2357","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.johnpaciorek.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.johnpaciorek.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.johnpaciorek.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.johnpaciorek.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=2357"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"http:\/\/www.johnpaciorek.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2357\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2362,"href":"http:\/\/www.johnpaciorek.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2357\/revisions\/2362"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.johnpaciorek.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=2357"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.johnpaciorek.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=2357"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.johnpaciorek.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=2357"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}