David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen © In the 1950s and 60s the Recreation Department in Dubuque, Iowa offe...

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen

David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen: Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen © In the 1950s and 60s the Recreation Department in Dubuq...

Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen

Confessions of a Non-Catholic Heathen ©

In the 1950s and 60s the Recreation Department in Dubuque, Iowa offered summer playground activities at most schools in the city. Kids were allowed to attend these playgrounds in the mornings and then return again after supper. There were games like tetherball, ping-pong, horseshoes, foursquare and hopscotch. There were numerous contests, track & field competitions and of course baseball. Kids of the two religions mixed together during those summer months. There were the Catholic kids and then everyone else lumped together and known as non-Catholic.

I was one of the minorities and was a non-Catholic. I was a Lutheran kid with long family ties to that theology. My great grandfather was a theologian who came from Germany. He taught every course at Wartburg Seminary in Dubuque. The library at Wartburg is named after him. His interpretations and writings were followed by Lutheran confirmands in America for over seventy years. My grandfather was a professor at Wartburg for some forty years. My grandfather was a religious bigot. He detested Catholics. But then, that was the way things were in those days. The priests and nuns disliked non-Catholics. So because of religion there was a whole lot of dislike going around town back then.

Despite the Catholic clergy indoctrinating children to stay away from the non- Catholic kids, nobody listened. Unlike some of the adults, we mingled together and played together. That is until the fall each year when we attended different schools. It didn’t seem to bother my Catholic friends when the nuns walked the neighborhoods looking for kids from their parish playing with “heathens”. If they were caught mixing with us there could be hell to pay. We all called the nuns “Crows.”

Sacred Heart parish was the largest and poorest parish in the diocese. During post WWII the school connected to the Church had the largest enrollment of students anywhere in the Midwest. When the bells of Sacred Heart rang at noon everyone knew the Paul Harvey program was on the radio. Those bells could be heard throughout the North End of Dubuque. When the bells rang one chime at a time with a long gap between, that meant somebody died. They would chime to tell us the time of day or when Mass was beginning or ending. I always liked those bells.

Between the ages of about eight and twelve I would sneak into Sacred Heart to steal stick matches. I needed them to light the cigarette butts I had found in the gutters. Many of us kids smoked at an early age. It made us look tough.

There was a table up front with lots of candles and matches in the church. Mostly red candles – if I remember correctly. As a kid I figured they kept those candles lit to help keep the place warm because there sure were lots of them. I’d walk in big as you please just like I owned the place. Then I’d make the sign of a cross like I had watched my Catholic friends do before every attempt to hit a baseball. It didn’t make a lick of sense, but I figured I had better try to fit in somehow. I didn’t want to get caught behind enemy lines and have some old crow beat me with an oak pointer that had a rubber tip on the end. Oh yeah, I heard the stories from my friends. I think I’d take a beating any day from my old man rather than get attacked by a mean, pissed-off spinster dressed up in way too many clothes. I always assumed they were mad because they were hot from all those garments. I know I get cranky when I’m hot.

The inside of Sacred Heart was a mysterious place to a non-Catholic Lutheran boy. It was huge. Sometimes there was a priest preaching way up front. I could barely hear him when I entered by mistake. I miss-judged the bells and thought mass was over. In reality, it had just begun. He was rambling in a melodic chant. It was like he was trying to sing. I figured that was why there weren’t many people at mass that weekday summer morning. That guy was an awful singer.

I always plundered for matches during the weekdays. And when I entered by mistake while mass was happening, I listened to the priest jabbering to those followers of the faith. I sat way in the back. I needed to get to that front table and was forced to pretend I was a religious zealot. We sure did sit, stand and kneel a lot. I thought it was an exercise routine those Catholics developed. I called it “Catholic calisthenics.” I kept waiting to do some “Papal push-ups” but that never happened.

Catholics had a secret code when they spoke. Well, at least the priests. They preached in a foreign language. It was one I had never heard on the playground. I always wondered if the priest was telling everyone to look at the Lutheran spy in the back. I think they called it Latin. None of my friends spoke Latin, so how the heck did they know what was being said? Oh yes, they all knew the code. Surely that must have been it.  And so I waited patiently for the end of service. The entire time nervously anticipating that I might be revealed as a Judas among them.

The church had these little voting booths with curtains in the back. I assumed they must have had a lot of elections there because every time I snuck in, I saw people coming and going from the booths all the time.

I used to think Catholics didn’t take many baths or wash their faces. Whenever my escapades took me behind enemy lines I’d see people sort-a washing themselves from a big wood tub that held water. They did that after they voted. And then there were those small water containers on the wall. People would clean their foreheads with that water when they entered the church. I never did see any soap.

I also noticed how they must have been a forgetful bunch. As a kid, sometimes my teacher would pin a note on my coat so I wouldn’t forget to tell Ma something. Well Catholics had their own method to remember stuff. They used a string of beads to keep track of things. And then they kept repeating the same thing over and over. Each time they did that, they would move another bead up the string. I smiled in wonderment as even I could remember something if I said it out loud two or three times. And I was only eight years old. I think us Lutherans must be smarter than Catholics. Well, at least we have better memories.

Now in the 1950s and 60s it was a common site in our neighborhood to have doilies on the ends of the davenport. Mothers thought they decorated the armrests and often these were hand made. For some strange reason the Catholic women put these doilies on their heads when they went to mass. I figured they just wanted to show off their crocheting skills. I had a name for that also. I called them the “Doilies’ Dolls.” I made up lots of names for stuff back then. Why, sometimes I snuck into Sacred Heart even when I didn’t need matches. I was just looking for another good story.

There was another strange custom I observed about Catholics. It didn’t matter if it was ten below zero, raining or stifling hot, those folks stood in long lines down East 22^nd Street every Saturday night. They were going to vote. They had to do that before they could go to mass on Sunday. Well at least that’s what I figured. I saw them while I sat on the limestone wall across from Huey’s Confectionary Store smoking another cigarette butt. I remember thinking one time that I hoped they weren’t going to light a bunch of candles because I stole most all of the matches the day before.

Then one day a Catholic friend straightened me out on the whole deal. They weren’t voting. They were confessing inside those booths. Now that was really strange to me. I was told they had to remember all their sins and then tell the priests. They had major and minor sins. Why they had so many different kinds of sins it was no wonder they had to use those beads to keep track of them all. Maybe Lutherans don’t have better memories after all. There sure must have been quite a few people in my neighborhood with anxiety disorders. Trying to remember all their sins and the guilt of committing them must have been tough. No wonder their parents all drank so much beer.

When my friends would return to the wall after confessing they weren’t allowed to cuss. They had to be pure the next day before communion. Well, me being a thinking-type of kid I had a plan. I figured if the Catholics had rituals then I could start one of my own. So my goal was to get my friends to cuss after confession. I knew about anxiety disorders and wanted to help share the gift with my counterparts. I figured it would just drive them crazy if they committed a sin by cussing. I enlisted the help of my fellow heathen non-Catholics. We would taunt and tease our little buddies verbally. Sometimes we would hold them down on the grass and give then “red bellies” by slapping their stomachs with our hands. Sometimes we even had to resort to the infamous “snake bite” on the forearms. We’d sit on top of them and one guy would twist the forearm skin until a scream of, “Stop it you sons-a-bitches,” could be heard inside Meyer’s Tap across the street.

We’d let him go and howl in laughter rolling around on the lawn. While we shoved each other and slapped one another on the back, our Catholic friend would then let go with a litany of cuss words that lasted over thirty seconds. Our laughter just increased. I think cussing was a minor sin. I’m not sure.

One time my friend told me he lied to the priest. He was required to report exactly how many times he cussed. Exactly. He couldn’t remember so he lied. That too was a sin. So he used a sin to cover a sin. As I said before, there sure must have been a lot of guilt being a Catholic. I told my friend to carry one of those string of beads in his pocket to help him remember. He just looked at me.

When I was fourteen I tried to get Mary Lou Spiegelhaus to commit a minor sin. I wanted to get into her bra. I had heard that was only a minor infraction, so I assumed she would accommodate me. Nope. The crows had her convinced to join the nunnery when she became of age.  Nuts. I heard years later Mary Lou had a shotgun wedding. I think the events that led to that event surely must have been a major sin.

And so it was in the North End of Dubuque. Kids played with one another all the time regardless of what the authorities told us how wicked our friends might be.

Amen. Amen.

David Nelson Nelson