Old school picture

We grow, some of us like hot house flowers, but even the most protected among us have a desire to wander unattended in the wild. Little Billy peers into the camera self consciously,hair tousled, eyes smiling,mouth tight lipped,bowed upward into dimples,the shirt collar bent at the wings, tie knot slightly to one side,shirt wrinkled across the shoulders and chest. The picture must have been taken after recess, after a kickball game on a warm May morning, longer summer days beckoning, yet still out of reach. It is 1945. The headlines trumpet victories in battle after battle. No more ominous entreaties to stiffen our upper lips because ships are being sunk by submarines or kama kazi pilots. Victory is as close as the beckoning summer days. Victory will be ours before the tomato plants bloom in the victory gardens.

At the time I was an altar boy in church 365 days a year. I would attend morning mass with Aunt Marguerite on the days when I was not scheduled to serve. More often than not I would scurry up the aisle when one of the curates came in to celebrate his mass at a side altar. I fainted more than once from fasting on the days when there was a funeral mass after morning mass; on Holy Days when the service lasted hours I keeled over more than once.

Guilt was the glue that kept us in thrall; we were all marked with sin from birth.
Then, America was beautiful. I did not know what to make of amber waves of grain. In second grade when tall,gaunt,bespectacled Sister Mary Richard left the room-perhaps to pee- I stood on my desk and shouted the pledge of allegiance to the flag. Leo Goodwin turned me in when sister returned to the room in alarm.