Passing the good word

So we would walk to church every Sunday. Hail, rain, wind or shine. And it often rained. Which meant we would feed into the church, dripping wet or simply, heavily damp. Sitting like wet church mice in a row, listening to the sermons and partaking in the prayers and songs. I was always surprised how those good ‘Catholics’ with whom we shared the pews in the church, as we slowly steamed dry from our walk there (if we were lucky enough to get a seat near one of the gas heaters that is), would nod their heads sagely to the preachings of the priest. Listening to him talk about good Christian values and raising praise to the God almighty. Delivering a sermon that would make them think hard about how they lived their daily lives. And then, when it was time to leave, they would walk out to their cars, thanking the priest for the sound advice, smiling and caring, before hopping in, then driving past our family heading slowly back home. Some lived no more than a door or two away from us, but would simply stare as they drove past, heading home to their ‘Christian’ household.

Occasionally one or two would stop to offer the girls or my mother a ride home. But I could count those instances on one hand.  Generally we would be left to trudge back through the rain, or sleet, becoming more and more the ‘drowned rats of the valley’. I often calculated in my head around what time many of those who drove past us would have arrived home and what they would be doing. I know two kms should not be considered very far, about three thousand steps, but as I mentioned we were small children and some were smaller than others. Their five or six thousand steps could slow us down considerably.

I recall it was often the small conversations that made the journey pass, as each of us walked with another. We certainly talked about all sorts of things, and generally we were happy. Occasionally we sang as we walked. My older sisters had good voices and they were easy to listen too. I think I learnt the words to ‘California Dreaming’ while walking backwards and forwards from church.

There were times that our father joined us in going to church, but I seem to recall he stopped going some time before I reached my early teens. I remember trying to raise that as an argument for not going myself. I believe the term ‘heathen’ was used by my mother in the counter argument, whether that was myself, or my father I cannot recall.

It was also a challenge for my mother taking several small children into the hallowed space of the church. Particularly when there were choirs involved.

(Continued tomorrow)