Luck Was a Stranger: A Memoir

PART I

MY LIFE IN IRELAND

1

OF BIRTH AND CHASTITY

Some people are born, and some are issued, but regarding my entry into the world, I am rather perplexed, as my good mother never tolerated nor condoned any reference, or even the slightest allusion to sex in any manner, shape or form. So, I’ve come to the conclusion that she believed all her children, of whom she had eight, were born through some virginal process.

I was born just about five minutes after the midnight hour on Whitsunday morning, June fifth, 1927.

Whitsunday is a very special day, commemorating the day the Holy Ghost, the Sanctifier of Souls, descended from heaven, on the apostles, who were hiding in the upper chambers of a safe house, after the death of Christ.

The apostles, who were cowering in fear, were invigorated by the Holy Ghost, and were given the power to speak in diverse tongues as they set off to evangelize the world. That was the dawn of Christianity.

A prayer said on Whitsunday, going back over two thousand years, confirms the importance of this occasion—

Grant we beseech thee, Almighty God, that the splendor of thy glory may shine forth upon us, and the light of thy light, may, by the illumination of the Holy Ghost, confirm the hearts of those who have been born again, by thy grace, through Christ our Lord, in the unity of the same Holy Ghost, for the truth of the Lord remaineth forever.

Whitsunday is described in the Bible as thus,

There came suddenly a sound from heaven, as of a mighty wind coming, where they were sitting, and they were filled with the Holy Ghost, speaking the wonderful works of God in diverse tongues.

After my birth, the doctor discovered that I had a strangulated hernia, a dangerous condition which cuts off the normal circulation of blood to the affected intestinal area, creating an obstruction, leading to gangrene and, eventually, death. At that time, such a malady was incurable.

Doctor Walter Mooney, the local general practitioner in Kilbeggan, County Westmeath, Ireland, where I was born, told my mother to prepare for my coming death. I experienced great difficulty partaking of any kind of nourishment or liquid. Under such great stress and pain, no relief was possible.

My mother was one who had great faith in God’s power, and could never be put off by an obstacle, even death. So she gave the doctor a salutary lecture in faith, hope and God, telling him his own life could be up for grabs, if it were God’s will, and God would be the final judge in those matters. With that, she dismissed the doctor from the room and he made a hasty exit.

As a matter of pertinence, my father was the wealthiest man in the locality, and at one time had much land, about the size the Central Park today, besides being the Managing Director of John Locke and Company, whiskey distillers in Kilbeggan.

My father was not a very religious man, but he did enough to keep his foot in the door of heaven. He was a very intelligent man, dictatorial, personable and ambitious to the extreme. He came from very humble origins, but he and his five siblings did remarkably well in spite of their frugal circumstances. I always loved, respected and admired him, and still miss him, his having been dead now for forty years.

Now, when the doctor left the room after my mother’s rebuke, she got down to business. She told God that, if he would spare my life, she would dedicate my life to him and his blessed mother. In a short while, I began to make progress, without any medication or therapeutic manipulation, and soon, I was completely healed. And seventy years later I am still going strong.

My mother told me the whole story when I was able to understand it, and I was always appreciative of her faith; it was certainly stronger than mine.

As for the doctor, he died in 1940, aged 57 years, and both my mother and I were at his wake and funeral.

I don’t wish to be smug, but I did get a certain satisfaction, viewing his corpse rather than he viewing mine. Does God move in mysterious ways his wonders to perform?

It was spoken of in church circles, even if somewhat mutedly, at that time, that anyone born on Whitsunday, whose mother had a firm belief and faith in God, would become an exemplary priest, or a person of some note at some time in their life.

My childhood was uneventful. I basked in my mother’s affection and assiduous care, and I waxed and grew strong, achieving the very satisfying status of the apple of my mother’s eye.

To make sure that I never became immorally tainted, she watched me like a hawk, and, while bathing me, spoke glowingly of chastity, and even broke her silence about the X-rated body parts, telling me never to touch them to seek pleasure, as God was watching me night and day, and all the times in-between.

This caused me untold sadness and worry, as I did not know whether offending God or my mother was the worst. Both of them were judgmentally severe, but I never figured out the extent of the judicial anger of God or my mother. The only thing I knew was that I didn’t want to disappoint either of them.

My mother was leading me to the priesthood even at an early age. But with chastity rather dubious, I was getting erections, although unsought and unwanted. I did not realize the pull of sex was a force of nature, a normal part of sexual development, and the maturing of a normal male, a fact that my mother never enlightened me to, as sex education was verboten and sex was considered, to some extent, a damn shame. Unfortunately, there it was: sex, a divine and human mistake. I guess my poor mother never understood sex. She, like all the women of that period (no pun intended), regarded as only breeding machines, got nothing out of sex except pregnancy. The husbands were just studs blessed by the church, and almost told to Go to it, bud! They kept breeding and copulating til’ they ran out of ammunition, or the woman happily reached menopause.

The priest smiled at the incessant breeding and mass throngs of cherubic children, two thirds of who were destined for export to the ancient enemy, the son of a bitch country, England! If you were poor, you got short shrift, and the bums rush from all and sundry, and you had to survive on what nature gave, as no church or other Irish institution taught you anything, except how to be a bloody idiot. It was a terrible tragedy and caused more suffering psychologically than any war ever fought. I’ve gotten a little ahead of myself, as I’ll have more to say about these matters later.

The emphasis on chastity, the regular unwanted erections, and God and my mother always watching, was rather worrisome to say the least, and nearly led to tragedy.

I wanted to comply with my mother’s wishes, and her desire for my priestly vocation, and I also wanted to get God off my back. I thought an erection was sinful, no matter how involuntary, so I felt I had to take drastic action against the offending phallus, to rid or curb this immoral turpitude. Then, one Sunday, a priest gave a sermon on scandal; he railed and condemned this woeful transgression, and hollered, Cut it out (the sin) and cast it from thee! Well, when I heard that, I felt I had found the remedy, and I took the priest at his word, literally.

I went home, got a large, sharp kitchen knife, went outside to the shed, put my penis on a piece of wood, raised the knife to behead the incorrigible monster, and remove the instrument of sin for good. However, something stopped me, like a bolt from the blue, and I could never understand, to this day, who or what prevented this mutilation. A thought came to me that day, that my sexual limb would be of use and service to me at some future time. I was eight years old at that time, and I did not realize the significance of this, but today, I have a good wife, three children, and three grandchildren, who are a great source of happiness to me, and now they are the apple of my eye, but not in the same manner as my good but misguided mother regarded me.

At this time, I occasionally played tricks on my mother, which were of a harmless nature and were a source of immense fun for me. This was due to my prankish disposition rather than any perverse intent on my part. I would hide something, which I knew she was about to use. When she searched all over for the hidden object, and failed to locate it, I’d suggest she pray to Saint Anthony for his heavenly help. He was very popular among the Irish for his talent in locating lost property, but really it was the people themselves who found the misplaced item, and superstitiously gave credit to St. Anthony.

My mother would pray for about five minutes, which I thought was a bit long, considering that I had the whole thing set up. Then I’d get the supposedly lost item and place it where my mother would find it. When she found it, there were prayers of thanksgiving for the favor received. Then she’d tell me about the power of St. Anthony, who never failed to answer prayers. I was dubious about the navigational ability of the Saint, as he never guided my credulous mother to the object I had hidden. I always got a monetary reward from my mother when she found the lost item. I did not feel guilty, as I increased the Saint’s standing and prestige in my mother’s estimation. I believed it was a fair deal; I got the money and the Saint’s reputation was greatly enhanced, and my mother got her property back, not to mention the amount of effort I put into the project.

On such occasions, my mother always gave me a little extra money to light a candle in the church, and to say a Hail Mary or two in honor of St. Anthony. Well, I headed straight to the nearest candy store and bought candy with the candle money. However, it should be noted, I did say a Hail Mary before eating the candy. Afterwards, I was nervous about going to hell for eating the illicit candy, so I went to confession. The priest was not one bit pleased. He warned me that I stole God’s money, which he had intended for his church. He gave me four Hail Mary’s as penance. When I had stolen apples, he gave me three Hail Mary’s as penance; I guess stealing money meant for the candles which brought the light of God to the dark church was worse than stealing apples from the priest’s garden. Luckily, the priest didn’t know the stolen apples were his. I never told him, as I did not want any real trouble. It took some care to maneuver around my mother, God, the priest, and the devil and not get clobbered. I always prayed to St. Anthony to find a way to protect and save me from getting caught.

We children were like miniature marauders, roaming the countryside, seeking out undefended apple orchards for our raids. Even the pastor’s garden was not immune. We pilfered his fruit while he was engaged in haranguing the parishioners about their shortcomings and evil tendencies, unaware of the juvenile thieves stealing the choicest fruits in his garden.

On occasion, we sold him his own apples, as we heard he was color blind, except when it came to money, so he was unable to distinguish or recognize the color of his own fruit. Anyway, we sold him his best apples cheaply, so we felt he got a bargain. We never told him the apples we stole were his, as that was far too risky. We never really intended to deceive him; we just wanted money for candy.

However, he soon began to notice that his apples were disappearing from the trees. So, one Sunday, he gave a severe lecture to his parishioners, his flock of sheep, who were more like wolves, for stealing his apples and for the financial loss he incurred. He said he came to the conclusion that it was adults who were the apple stealers, as no little boy could scale the eight-feet high walls surrounding his garden. We were very glad that he suspected the men of the parish. We used to scale the walls by standing on one another’s shoulders, and on the other side we used a rope.

His Reverence was very disappointed with the men of the parish, noting that they were regular communicants. How could they receive the body and blood of Christ and then steal his apples? This was beyond his comprehension.

Don’t you know, he said, how Eve tempted and seduced Adam in the Garden of Eden with a stolen apple, and look what happened to Adam—he had to marry Eve, the worst wife in history, and any man who steals the priest’s apples will have a cantankerous woman for a wife as punishment.

Needless to say, stealing the priest’s apples ceased, as we did not wish to be married to some squawking women later in life.

There was a farmer who had an orchard about a mile from the village. It was subject to pilferage on a regular basis, so the farmer decided to fence it off and, for added protection against apple stealers, he placed a nasty long-horned bull in it.

This was a formidable challenge for us to gain possession of the apples without being gored or killed by the wicked bull. The fact that the owner of the orchard was Protestant was an extra incentive to deplete his apple crop; the pastor and his flock of Catholics would keep a closed eye to the whole larcenous scheme. It was most encouraging for us to know it was no sin to steal Protestant apples.

We figured out a plan to outwit the bull in his capacity as a security guard. We went to the orchard and two of us went to the far opposite fence. I teased and coaxed the bull to come to us. This he did and we taunted him to keep him at the fence. He snorted, bellowed and pawed the ground in anger. In frustration, he began to make his way to the other side of the orchard where our other friends were, up in the trees. We whistled, warning them of the approaching bull. They jumped from the trees and escaped through the fence, with the bull in hot pursuit. We got some apples this way, but not a sufficient number for our efforts.

We realized we had to devise a new plan, more effective and less dangerous. So on our next foray, we brought a short length of narrow rope. At the orchard, we enticed the bull to the opposite fence and coaxed him to come right up to the fence. We slipped the rope through the ring in his nose and tied him securely to the fence. Thus, with old Ferdinand immobilized, we proceeded leisurely to the nefarious activity of apple thieving. We filled our bags, feeling proud that we had fulfilled a very successful mission.

Some days afterward, the apple farmer went to the cops and demanded that they find the vagabond thieves who not only stole his fruit, but worse, humiliated his bull, which was a very proud animal. We were under suspicion, but that’s as far as it went. Neither the farmer nor his bull got any satisfaction. The fact that it was a Protestant farmer and a Protestant bull no doubt influenced the lack of attention by the cops in attempting to locate the perpetrators.

2

HEARING CONFESSION

Sex and love-making in the village of Kilbeggan was strictly furtive, backstairs and underground. Between the sexes, venary matters were never discussed. It was a prudish, non-verbal exercise. Nevertheless, communication was made through body language: assorted gestures and eye contact.

The men of the village were proficiently expert in interpreting the carnal signals emanating from a buxom peasant girl. They, when sexually ripe, were sensual, warm, responsive, erotic and would make Cupid and Venus the essence of mediocrity. It’s amazing, where nature is suppressed or inhibited, various other facets come to the fore to neutralize such obstacles.

Sexual instincts will not be denied, and, seemingly, the church, papal and hierarchical absolute rulers disregarded the power of sex in the Biblical command, be fruitful and multiply. There is an old Jewish maxim to that same affect, It is easier to guard a sack of fleas, than a girl in love.

Those church princes ignored the power of sex, and thought that by saying a few innocuous prayers, it would go away. They never even could control sex in the church itself; its history proves that, and as of today sex is very much alive in the church.

Dates were usually made at dances, sports fixtures and other outdoor events.

The term to ride in Ireland is to screw. Knickers are panties. Company keeping is to go steady. And a woman who is a good ride, is good at sex, and usually promiscuous.

At a dance, a guy would usually visually size up his quarry, ask her to dance, and proceed to use the touch and body language route, placing a knee slowly and gradually as close to the woman’s crotch as possible. If the woman responded positively, and gave the eye (as eye contact was very important, you deduced a lot from it), you knew she was receptive to your probings and you could, if you wished, ask her for a date without being rebuffed.

If she did not respond to your approach favorably, she, being aware of your shenanigans, would give you a thump where it hurt most.

It took a certain technique and practice before you mastered the necessary skills to elicit a response from your dancing partner, without offending her, but it was a lot of fun, really, and some women took it in great part. Then there were the nymphomaniacs who took on all and sundry. Locally, they were known as bicycles, in keeping with the term to ride.

I was always rather impish and a gadfly of some standing, and on confession night, between seven to nine p.m. each Saturday, all the saints, straights, homosexuals, sinners, hypocrites, fanatics, pedophiles, peccant lesbians, a rather motley crowd I would say, invaded the church, seeking solace and forgiveness from his reverence, the Forgiver, who was judge and jury. Executions were not allowed, as that business ceased in Rome in 1699. So, at least your life was spared when you went to confession, which is your passport to heaven.

It was my custom to go early to St. James Church in Kilbeggan to get a seat nearest the confession box each confession night. I took this chore seriously, as I had intended to go into the seminary after my high school. Foreign missions were my intended goal. This gave me a chance to get my feet wet, to judge the spirituality of the parish and know who the sinners were, so that I could pray for them. I’m glad the forgiver in the confessional never knew what I was up to, or I wouldn’t be here today.

My objective was to listen in to the various doings and concoctions that wafted from the confession box, while pretending to be engrossed in saying the rosary. I had my two ears open wide for any sound issuing from the sacred minister of penance or the sinful penitent.

The church was in total darkness, save for a few flickering candles.

The lighted candles, it was believed, were to guide the devil out of the church and show him the door. Apparently, his eyesight wasn’t that good, but he knew where the souls were. It was also believed that he hung out in the church during confession time.

Well, I often thought he could find a better place to hang out, as the church was old, damp and dirty, and he was used to the heat.

His Reverence pulled back the slide and said to the sinner already in place, My dear child, how long is it since your last confession?

Penitent Woman: Just one week, Father.

Priest: Did you commit any serious sins since your last confession?

Penitent: Well, I did some company keeping.

Priest: Was it with one or more men?

Penitent: No, just the one man. Priest: Would you please get to the point? Penitent: Yes, Father, I will, but he gave me some chocolates… Priest (Raising his voice): Get to the point. I’m not interested in sweets or chocolates or candies! Penitent: No, I mean, yes, Father. We were embracing and he was holding me terribly tight and my knickers fell down and he took advantage of me. Priest: Did you give your consent? Penitent: No, I couldn’t, ‘cause he was holding me too tight. I couldn’t speak. Priest: Did he violate your body? Penitent: No, he wasn’t violent. Priest (Raising his voice still higher): Did he enter your body? Penitent: I don’t know. Priest (Almost shouting): How in the name…why do you not know? Penitent: ‘Cause I had my eyes closed; I couldn’t see. Priest: OK, gee…did you get pleasure from it? Penitent: I don’t remember. Priest: Did you ever have sex before, violate purity? Penitent: Yes. Priest: When? Penitent: About five years ago, but I didn’t like it. Priest: Until you are ready to confess your sins and show sorrow and admit your guilt, I cannot give you absolution. So, please leave this confessional and pray to our Blessed Lady for help and also to St. Jude, the patron saint of impossible cases, and when you are ready, come back, and I will hear your confession.

This was a ploy many women used to avoid responsibility for their peccadilloes and out of fear of the priest. Sex was regarded as one of the most heinous sins outside of murder. Also, women were vastly more guilty than the men. The priest always blamed the women, and the men got off easy. It all started with Eve in the garden, seducing Adam. It was all the woman’s fault.

It is my considered opinion, as a former seminarian, that the reason for all the hysterical reaction to sins of the flesh was the clergy’s vulnerability and inability to cope with it.

I’ve often seen them in church giving sermons, vicious tirades against impurity, which showed forth their own fears of the carnal vices. It wreaked havoc on the sex lives of the married parishioners.

It was something to see. Such an organization, which could do so much good, but being enmeshed in so much stupidity.

There was very little illegitimacy allowed to develop, as shotgun marriages were in vogue, and you did not dare to disobey the clergy.

Condoms were little known, except for those who went to England, Pagan Land next door to Ireland, so the clergy branded it.

If you were caught with a condom, or a banned book or paper, it could lead to trouble.

Homosexuals, when caught, were charged with gross indecency and sentenced to five years in jail, and the full five years had to be served!

They used to dump their criminals on England. The Brits did not seem to mind as long as Ireland did not create trouble, politically or otherwise, for England.

Many criminals got a lesser or suspended sentence if they agreed to go to England. It was a masterful way to get rid of our criminals, and get our own back on ungodly England.

3

SOME WORDS ON LINEAGE

The village of Kilbeggan is situated in the center of Ireland, on the main Dublin-Galway highway, 56 miles west of Dublin, the capital of Ireland, and 89 miles east of Galway, a unique city, known as the City of the Tribes.

The appellation Kilbeggan means Church of Beccan, founded by Saint Beccan as a bastion of learning, scholarship and religion, about the year 500 A.D.

The inhabitants of this village, about 600 strong, were a conglomeration of Danish, Norman, Viking, Saxon and Celtic lineage, although they will only acknowledge their roots as pure unadulterated Irish Celts.

They were of a very virile stock. I myself am of Saxon origin. The Saxons were a fierce, warlike people, who captured and settled in the South of England about 550 A.D.

Thank God I’m not warlike or aggressive; I’m just a peaceful, quiet man.

The land is rich and well watered by the River Brusna. Most of the land was owned by considerably less than a majority, my father being the biggest landowner.

These landowners employed the local peons at a minimum wage equivalent to $5.00 a week, for 60 hours of back-breaking drudgery.

The government, on the advice of the church hierarchy, determined the meager stipend of the landless peasant.

The church did not approve of giving those sin-prone aspirants excess monetary recompense, in order to lessen their libido and their fitful and capricious tendencies, and to make them more amenable to Rome Rule.

In spite of the injustices and deprivation, I was very happy. Why not? I was hurting none, as my father was the richest man in the parish. Of course, as I matured and grew I took a different attitude.

The local elementary school was something else again. It was a place of torture and punishment, where the unfortunate children were beaten incessantly with a big stick by those brutal, sub-humanoid jerks called teachers. The shrieks, yells and cries of the attacked children were quite audible if you were near the school.

Every time you failed to answer the teacher’s question, you were beaten up. I feel the lousy pedagogues just wanted an excuse to beat kids up.

What was the reason for this kind of criminal behavior?

Again, the Roman Catholic Church was to blame—those teaching monsters were trained under the auspices of Holy Mother Church and schools were managed by the parish priests, who believed in strong, painful discipline in order to curb the deleterious effects of concupiscence, or inclination to evil, and the sexual desires of the young school boys, to save their immortal souls.

I never witnessed anything like it, except what I saw in High School later.

I defy anyone reading this narrative to deny that those horrendous and cruel practices ever happened. It was God-awful and diabolical.

4

OF FAIRYLAND AND FAITH

When I was a very young boy, my siblings and I were enormously fascinated by the other Valhallas beyond the grave: heaven, hell, spectral abodes, Fairyland, Fantasyland, eerie tombs, pits of fire, the dungeon of the devil. The habitats of ghosts, spirits, fairies, leprechauns, elves, wizards, witches, cashapoukas, and Billy Winkers, who had a horse’s head, human torso and a donkey’s tail. He was an independent operator and could not be trusted.

We invented our own world of those mischievous wonder-beings, and when transported to those celestial circles of visionary utopian, fanciful regions, our fantasies became real, and we were spellbound by the enchantment of the bewitching attraction of the magic land.

Fairies were discarnate spirits, who were neither man nor ghost. They were beings somewhere between man, devil and angel, who could communicate with the dead, and could become visible or invisible as the occasion warranted it. They could be either good or bad, and it was essentially important to know the difference.

If you were forcibly taken to Fairyland, or even went there voluntarily, you seldom returned, and if you did, you died soon afterwards, left mentally confused so that you were unable to divulge the secrets of the elfin Valhalla.

A fairy woman might take a mortal as a spouse, or vice versa. That sometimes led to complications, especially when the mere mortal did not fully integrate into fairyhood, and that meant death.

The leprechaun was an ancient man of extremely dwarfish stature, of unknown origin or parentage (he was probably made by magic), who wore a tall hat, buckled, shiny shoes, and green clothes. A millionaire shoemaker with a crock of gold hidden somewhere near the end of the rainbow. He could be heard tapping rhythmically with his magic hammer, making beautiful little shoes for the denizens of the nether worlds away beyond the clouds. He was a master craftsman.

Everyone sought to capture him, driven by an overpowering greed, but none ever caught the wily sprite.

The word leprechaun is derived from the Irish word, lu-chorpan, meaning little body.

In my imaginary world, I had a lot to contend with, to avoid that hairy scarum crowd.

During my teen and adult years, I was immersed in the religious and spiritual aspects of the gnome and goblin world. The priests encouraged that divine pursuit, often speaking in harsh terms of the devil and glowingly of saints and so-called good people, as long as they were at least outwardly pious, even though they might be double-dealing hypocrites. They were often lauded, even when they did not deserve it.

People who were of dubious disposition and poor got short shrift into the next world. They had to meet their fate as best they could, whether they were to be scorched or burned according to the dictates of