Good Friday

It always seems to rain on the day Jesus died.

In grade school, we would have off on this day. I wouldn't have to put on my stifling suit jacket and tie. The grey wool trousers could rest in the closet until Monday morning. And with the coming of warmer weather came me dreading the time when the suit jacket was no longer necessary. By the time I was eight, my natural tendency to avoid any kind of athletics had caught up with me. I wore glasses as a result of reading all the time. And my baby fat was multiplying exponentially -- to the point where it could no longer be considered just baby fat. It was, in fact, too much eating fat. My days and nights of pizza, stromboli, pierogies, fried dough and raw pasta (yes, you heard it here, raw pasta) had caught up with me. My black suit jacket provided a shield against the fat, or so I thought. In just my white shirt sleeves and tie I was vulnerable, easy to defeat.

With Mom at work, Good Fridays would be spent at Gram and Pop's cooking and reading. We strictly honored the no meat on Fridays during Lent edict. So that meant fish for Mom and Dad, Gram and Pop and Uncle Al. And pizza for me and my brother. It was my job to roll out the pizza dough and then when it had risen (much like the Saviour) and rested (like God on Sundays) I would top it. Not like that.

Of course after rolling the dough out, while Gram watched her soaps, I would go in and pick off tiny pieces of the raw mass and eat it. It was salty, chewy and delicious. I would then pour a big glass of coke and go back to whatever book I was reading. Sometimes I would help Gram bread the fish but I found that to be boring, especially if I was deeply engrossed in Christopher Pike. PS: Why have none of his young adult books translated to the big screen?

On Good Fridays Catholics aren't supposed to talk for an hour (usually between the hours of two and four -- pick one). Instead they're supposed to sit and reflect on the passing of Jesus (we were taught to bow our heads every time we said his name) and what his ultimate sacrifice meant to us. Well, to me, it meant I couldn't talk, read or watch TV for an hour. It meant sitting on the front porch with Gram one hand in mine the other with a cigarette, Isis the German Shepard/Husky mix curled at my feet, and the people on the street walking by.

It was quiet time.

Now there's too much quiet time. I forget, sometimes, how impossible it was to shut me up most of the time. As I got older I started to think that I didn't have anything worth saying.