I almost made it out the door on Sunday morning.
I woke early and dressed quietly in the dark then carrying my shoes; I tiptoed across the bedroom so as not to wake my wife.
The cats knew what I was up to. They blocked the hall, eyes larger than soccer balls. Each demanded an extra handful of chow to ensure their silence.
Despite my best efforts, I only made it to the screen door before my wife called from the bedroom, “Are you going to church today?”
“Not sure,” I mumbled, “thought I’d walk Scooter.”
“Okay,” she said in a tone that said it was definitely not okay.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“It’s entirely up to you,” she said.
In a pig’s eye, it was.
‘It’s up to you’ is one of those things that means the precise opposite – but I knew I would go. I knew it from the very first time I skipped church as a kid.
My buddies and I were all raised strict Catholics which meant we despised anything having to do with religion.
On Sundays we would hang out on a retaining wall behind the church, waiting for the final note of the opening hymn before rushing inside – and after that, the rest of the day was pure hell.
In our neighborhood, Sunday was a day of ritual. First there was church, followed by family breakfast and then visiting, which meant spending an afternoon gagging on the scent of stale potpourri while a great-aunt droned about her surgeries.
So there we were lingering in the looming shadow of the rest of the day when the singing stopped and the click of the priest’s microphone echoed throughout the church. My buddy Stan shrugged in resignation and slid off the wall but instead of going into church, he headed across the parking lot.
Walt yelled after him, “Missing church is a mortal sin.”
His little brother added, “You’re going to hell!!”
Stan stopped and turned around. “But ask yourself,” he said, “are you going to let me go there alone?”
That was a pretty heavy question for a couple of ten year olds.
“Think about it,” he continued, “after the first mortal sin, you’re screwed for eternity which means you’re pretty much free to do anything you want for the rest of your life.”
“Like what?” Walt asked.
“Hop trains,” Stan said.
It sounded a whole lot more fun than church.
A few blocks away, the Milwaukee Road cut a deep ravine through our neighborhood, which hid the tracks from the prying eyes of parents, but best of all, the rails climbed a steep grade, forcing the engines to lumber along for over a mile.
It was the perfect place to hop a train and if you have never done that, trust me, there is no greater thrill than racing after something as big and indifferent as a boxcar.
We didn’t have long to wait before the low rumble of a heavy freight shook the ground and a single headlight swept around the bend at the base of the cut. We slid down the bank and onto the gravel, then as the train rumbled past, we angled out like an echelon of geese, each picking a car to hop.
Stan ran at the head of the pack. He paced himself to his car and with it pounding up behind him, he grabbed the rung of a ladder and swung up.
Walt followed.
He was shorter than Stan but used the momentum of the car to swing himself onto the ladder. My turn was next, but the train was too almost much for me. I lost hold with one hand and flapped like a flag in a high wind for a few breathless moments before catching the ladder with both hands.
Then we heard a scream.
Walt’s little brother had vanished under the train. An instant later he shot out, spinning somersaults onto the gravel. One by one we bailed off and ran back down the grade. By the time we got to him, he was hyper-ventilating with fear but he was okay. Walt tried to calm him down but the kid just kept screaming louder and louder.
“Shut up,” Walt yelled, “you’re okay.”
Holding out the arms of his white shirt, his brother cried, “No I’m not, I’m all dirty.”
There was an inescapable truth to the dirt that was impossible to explain away. The stains of the railroad ballast told an unmistakable story. His parents would know where he was and what he was doing rather than being in church.
We were all screwed because Walt’s parents would surely tell our parents and we would all get the belt, but Walt spoke up, “You guys were never here. No one is going to say you were. Remember that.”
That’s the kind of group we were. We did things like covering for each other. It is what bound us together and has kept us together over the decades.
My wife and I do not have that kind of relationship. She would never hop a freight train nor skip church. She attends regularly – out of obligation.
She does a lot of things out of obligation.
She never forgets a birthday and always has a card. The card is always signed and enclosed in a matching envelope. The envelope is always signed too and she never forgets to give a present, often purchasing it months in advance. She even visits great-aunts who drone on about their surgeries amid the fumes of stale potpourri.
And she does all these things out of the same sense of obligation that told us we could not let Stan go to hell alone and why Walt and his brother took their lumps to protect us.
Obligations are what bind people together.
The way I figure it, if I could go to hell for my childhood friends, I sure as hell could go to church for the best friend I ever had, so standing there with my hand on the latch of the front door, I called across the house, “Alright, I’ll be back in time.”
“In time to shower and shave?”
She was pushing her limits on that one.
But I said, “Sure, that too.”
Almost Iowa 
Sigh, and make the sacrifice. Or make for the tracks. It’s all about choices, not compulsions. (Dropped by thanks to Bonnywood Manor post) Have a good Easter.
I loved this one! You’re right, there are many different kinds of obligations, just as there are many different ways of showing love and support. Happy Easter to you and your family!
Great post, Greg. Sound like the experience of a misspent youth to me. I can identify, although we were rewarded for going to church with a pepsi and a Tarzan comic book, and, at that stage of my life, I would do just about anything for Tarzan. –Curt
I could picture everything. The unrepentant kids raving for the train. The heart-stopping fear as the younger brother falls. The relief as he pops up uninsured. Then the sinking recognition that now someone has to face the parents for reckoning. A nice encapsulation of a moment from childhood. I loved reading it.
I am glad you liked it. I enjoyed writing it.
Obligation vs Love – not always opposing parties, but often enough for me, that I thank you for the reminder.
True story – reading, enjoying, smiling, then I hear the train whistle as the ONR pulls into Cobalt. How’s that for synchronicity?
There is something about the lonesome moan of a train whistle in the distance that still raises my pulse. I love trains. I always have, I always will.
Good one! Been there, done that (not exactly hopped the train), got the t-shirt mentioned above. 🙂
Our church was huge. Upstairs held over a thousand and downstairs held half that. The first service was a 6:00 am and services began on the half hour until noon. The thing was, we would send a scout into an earlier mass to take note of the sermon, so that when we skipped church, we could survive the grilling of our parents.
Parent: Did you really go to the 8:00 am mass?
Us: Sure.
Parent: What was the sermon about?
Us: The purity of the Blessed Virgin.
Parent: What did the priest say about it?
Us: I dunno.
Parent: Okay.
This comment is almost as good as the post. 🙂
“In our neighborhood, Sunday was a day of ritual. First there was church, followed by family breakfast and then visiting, which meant spending an afternoon gagging on the scent of stale potpourri while a great-aunt droned about her surgeries.” Oh, how I can relate to this! So much visiting with family as a kid and it was so boring. But how I miss it now! Lovely piece full of love and reminders of what is important. Happy Easter!
I still shudder at the memory of those visits – but now visiting is a big part of going to church. When the weather permits, after church the families gather in clusters on the steps, sidewalk and lawn to visit. Sometimes we stand there gossiping, joking and imparting wisdom for the better part of an hour.
We do a lot of visiting after church, too. Sometimes that lasts longer than the service. It is important to have community when you worship. No, wait. I think it’s vital.
Good one, Greg. I was a little surprised by the ending. The decision to be back in time and the basis for the decisions seems far too rational for Almost Iowa.
It does seem rational, doesn’t it? I will have to work on that. 🙂
“if I could go to hell for my childhood friends, I sure as hell could go to church for the best friend I ever had,”
Now THAT’S sweet…make sure she sees that. 😉
Actually, I hope she doesn’t see that. She might get other ideas. 🙂
But they might be fun ideas…just sayin’.
“My buddies and I were all raised strict Catholics which meant we despised anything having to do with religion.” Oh, so familiar. Great story, Greg. I miss those days of being wild kids. It’s amazing we all survived. 🙂
Being wild exposes kids to risk, which means they become accustom to risk and are therefore more likely to take risks and better handle them later in life.
I don’t regret most of the dumb things I did as a kid. It was a blast and the trips to the hospital were worth it. 🙂
Proud owner of the T-shirt: “I survived Catholic school.” You have one too, right?
I didn’t survive. 🙂 🙂 🙂
😦
Aww, what a sweet ending.
It is. I do sweet from time to time. 🙂
The Catholic Church really does get some things right. I suspect this might be why they call those Days of Obligation holy.
Me to waiter: I’ll have lasagna.
Her: No, you won’t.
Me: Why not?
Her: It’s Holy Week and Friday.
Me: So?
Her: So you can’t have meat on Friday during Holy Week .
Me: The pope says that it don’t apply to seniors.
Her: Yeah, that’s what the pope says, but I am telling you something different.
Absolutely wonderful, and proof positive that the Church can survive almost anything –including its popes.
Great story. Makes me wonder how it is that so many kids make it into adulthood.
I have to flip that on its head and wonder how so many kids can survive smart phones and helicopter parents. Last year, my wife and I were at her company’s annual dinner and the couple across the table from us told us how they would not let their pre-teens go near the freeway…. because “child abductors” lurk there. This is a town of 17,000, a hundred miles from any urban center.
When we were kids, we would wake up on summer morning about 7:00 am, grab a bowl of wheaties and head out the door. We would not return until supper. We would bike, bus and walk all over the city, sometimes even out of the city.
It was glorious – and yeah, it was risky.
My cat Frank will follow me into hell if I asked, grateful I rescued him years ago. Of course, I don’t ask that……or do I? He doesn’t like life on the road as much as Fred dog, but obliges, usually. That’s love.
This idea of a cat following anyone anywhere was something I would not have believed a few short years ago – but then Twiggy showed up and dropped a couple of litters. Her children follow us everywhere. Whenever my wife and I go for evening walks, we have an entourage of cats and even Skunk, the alpha male, will follow Scooter and I on our daily seven mile walk, though he only goes two miles before turning back.
Yes, at times in my life it’s been tricky sneaking out on my own 🙂
I think Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn would welcome you into their posse. You were lucky though. I got arrested by a federal railroad marshall for crossing the tracks to the corner store across from my apartment building. Trespassing. Dozens of people did that all day getting a paper and coffee or a six pack and some cigarettes . Wrong place, wrong time.
It sounds like the marshal needed an arrest to show he was doing something. 😦
Yeah, it’s the right thing to do
It is, it is also the safest thing to do.
😂
I love it! And “if I could go to hell for my childhood friends, I sure as hell could go to church for the best friend I ever had” is such a wonderful ending. Maybe just a quick shower!
Yeah, but do I really have to shave? Lord knows how I hate to shave.
That’s what makes the story more engaging. They were skipping church—but the value were already instilled in them.
It is what they call love.
Heck, if it really came down to it, I would shave if my wife asked. I would do that despite how much I hate to shave – but don’t tell her I would.
This is probably one of my favorite posts of yours. So good!
This is my favorite part:
His little brother added, “You’re going to hell!!”
Stan stopped and turned around. “But ask yourself,” he said, “are you going to let me go there alone?”
It is an odd take on true Christian love, that one person would sacrifice themselves for another. I guess that is what this Easter week is all about – even if it is told from the perspective of naughty little boys.
“Shut up,” Walt yelled, “you’re okay.”
Brotherly love at its finest, right there.
All that was missing was a smack across the head. I should have included that.