Memory turned memoir
I recently finished reading a memoir. The author had written about his Christmas memories. Humorous as it was, it still brought back my own memories of my childhood.
When I attempt to remember anything of my childhood years they don’t come without really thinking for a long time.
It will take me many posts to get it all out. When I started thinking about the task before me one thing came to mind. My wife has told me plenty of times that she knows very little too nothing about me. She did help me when I was pursuing an annulment in our church. Even then that was limited to past marriages mostly.
My birth certificate states what hospital, what state, what town and date. Of course my parents are listed along with weight and other vital information. From then till when I recollect anything is not till early school years.
It seems as though most memories of anyone’s Catholic education back in the 1950’s are stories worth telling. Mine is no different then others. Nuns were our teachers. In those years they wore a full habit as seen in films of that period. Yes, children obedient are under their authority in the classroom. There are few memories from those first two years. The one memory that stands out is when in second grade I asked to use the restroom but, was told I would have to wait. Waiting didn’t happen when I crapped my pants. Funny as it sounds, it was probably one of my most embarrassing moments ever in early childhood.
During those years we lived in suburb of Cleveland, Ohio. Willowick , Willowby, Wickliff all are suburbs of Cleveland. We lied in Willowick according to my mother. Cleveland being on Lake Erie wasn’t any place we ventured to. There is one time that stood out. My father took us to a Cleveland Browns football game one winter. All I can remember was how damn cold it was and that it was snowing. Summertime was much more enjoyable no doubt. One summer my father invited people over to our place for a clam feast. Cold beer kept in tubs of ice, fresh raw clams, everything else was what guests brought with them.
Throughout my childhood it is hard to remember my father and I having a close relationship. It must have been that he and his father didn’t have one either. His father from what I had learned was a railroad worker who spent time after work in saloons in Chicago back in the thirties and forties before his death in nineteen forty five. Later I will bring this up again. My own father’s occupation had us moving every three or fours years as required by his employer. Just today when I started this post I could only remember three friends from our years in Willowick, Ohio.
Going through old family photos will surely help me remember more before proceeding on to the next chapter of my childhood.