Today is like the Time of Jesus

Killing Jesus

What I suppose the typical Christian does not get in reading the Bible is the context for what is going on and the stories told.  The popularity of "Commentaries" over history suggests that this is true.

I am reading Killing Jesus by Bill O'Reilly and Martin Dugard and I think that as much as anything, the authors give us a context for the gospels and the life of Christ. The Roman Republic has been replaced by the Roman Empire and god-kings have come to rule it. Taxes perpetually impoverish the Jews and money goes to build Roman cities and line the pockets of officials and wealthy citizens.  The Jews have their rebellious men who are tortured and killed--crucifixion is used at times. 

Society is in bad shape. The kind charitable practices of the people are put aside.  For many, life becomes an "everyone is on their own" kind if venture. Yet, hope is out there in the Jewish community. For some, they  see hope in faith--a hope that many believe they will see the Jewish state rebuilt to its former glory.  Christ of course tells his listeners that a more important kingdom awaits the faithful.

Today, we face much trouble in our own world.  I think a lot of it comes from isolation and people working against each other when they should have common goals.  I often think about the significance of people who should normally be aligned with each other are at odds.  I am not a big conspiracy theorist, well not really, but I do wonder about whether people at odds with each other are actually encouraged to be at odds with each other, or is there some who encourage it because it weakens alliances that could make for a more powerful constituencies.

Brown and White eBook

I wrote a book called the Brown and White about my time in  high school in Chicago.  It is a story about a white boy going to a Catholic School that stuck it out in the city. I think for the most part, it is a funny book.  And I tried not to pontificate and just told my story.

When I got older, I realized that people with similar political interests were polarized with their own point of view.  We grew up as John F. Kennedy kind of liberals from working class families in what I called two bedroom homes with large four bedroom families.  Our parents went to war and came back to spartan conditions (there were severe housing shortages) and they struggled to make a go of it.  One earner families would lose everything with a few months if a dad was out of work. My father was laid off one year on Christmas eve by an auto manufacturer.  He waited 7-years to get a job as a Chicago Policeman and added two more jobs as he battled financial insecurity.

In some cases, families who were once removed from immigration status looked at the families that have moved "up north" for jobs as people to be shunned rather than allies.  People who had moved from the south saw these struggling families as much better off than themselves.  Essentially, the two groups grew to become enemies rather than allies.  My book essentially tells a bit of my family's story during the time.  It was something I could do and there are stories out there in large number of struggling blacks--that were best sellers and masterpieces at the time.  These were assigned reading for high school students and written by black authors. 

I was also surprised to learn many years later that back in Ireland, where the Irish battled oppression, it was the American Civil Rights leaders who they mimicked in their struggles.  People like Rosa Parks were inspiring Irish in Ireland in their struggles, but here in the states, the Irish Americans saw Civil Rights leaders as trouble-makers.  Huge numbers of homes changed hands and ironically, the white people who moved were called cowards--white fright had taken place.  And yet, as I like to point out, the people often moving were service men who were part of the "greatest generation." Now, many of the changed neighborhoods have changed again and are becoming Hispanic.   How does that work?  I don't know.

The irony is all this happened to people who have shared political interests, but they were often led astray.  Someone is going to come along and unite them and it will be hard to stop them.  But the small differences need to be overcome.  

In a sense, there is much going on today that is like the time of Christ.  Many people are given benefits while others in low and middle income pay for them. Social services are used heavily by some and not by others.  Some cultures expect government benefits and bend the rules to get them.  Others avoid benefits when they need them.  Some people still believe in Yankee Ingenuity and self-reliance. Jobs and employee benefits keep society going.

Brown and White Available as eBook on Kindle

The Brown and White

Forty plus years in the making, The Brown and White is a fictionalized memoir that tells the story of Collin Callaghan's freshman year at a Chicago Catholic High School. Collin is a white boy who is living in turbulent times in a changing city. He clings to his neighborhood and his family as he heads out each day with his classmates on the Brown and White, the ancient school bus driven by free-spirited Willie. Memorable characters abound as this story unfolds. Collin's loveable family, especially his Irish Catholic policeman father and his Irish immigrant mother face life together. Collin and classmates blaze their own humorous and passionate trail through the late 1960s. A unique cast of terrific teachers are there to see the boys through. Laughs and life meet readers head on as they travel on the Brown and White.

Kindle Edition.

Brown and White eBook about to Publish

Forty plus years in the making, The Brown and White will be on Amazon Kindle very soon. The Brown and White is a fictionalized memoir that tells the story of Collin Callaghan's freshman year at a Chicago Catholic High School.  Collin is a white boy who is living in turbulent times in a changing city. He clings to his neighborhood and his family as he heads out each day with his classmates on the Brown and White, the ancient school bus driven by free-spirited Willie.  Memorable characters abound as the right of passage unfolds. The story is also about Collin's loveable family, especially his Irish Catholic policeman father and his Irish immigrant mother who blazes her own trail through the 60s.

Brown and White Book Not Forgotten

From time to time I have posted portions of my Brown and White book on this site.  Meantime, I have been working to publish my authors' sports books under the Sporting Chance Press company.  I still hope to one day publish my Brown and White book as soon as I can figure out how to pay for it!

Publishing has been a very difficult field since I started my company in 2008. Thanks for sticking with me and following this blog.  You'll seen new posts on it soon.

Mount Saint Mom's Knitting

This is a small piece from a book I've written over 40 plus years that I call the Brown and White.  I look at it as a great Catholic story although a publisher I wrote one time called it "commercial fiction." I may not be promoting Catholicism in the work, but it is very Catholic in a visceral sense.  This part is based on my mother--who is now 97, and no longer knits or drinks, but she still is a great inspiration in both humor and human kindness.

Once I am off to Mount Saint Mary’s every day, my mother’s influence in my life wanes. I am 20 miles away with hundreds of other boys and a male faculty. When I get home, I eat and then hit the books. There is no walking home for lunch with my mother like grade school and most of the best stories from school are too rough to tell her. Life changed that fast.

Nevertheless, my mother is always trying in some way to make life better for me. She is not like some mothers looking to control me; she is honestly trying to make a contribution, even if it does not always work out so well.

I come home one day and my mother meets me at the door – she is overjoyed.

“I was talking to Mrs. Halloran on Talman and she told me that she has a neighbor whose son went to Mount Saint Mary’s and she has a school letterman’s jacket, you know the very expensive ones with leather sleeves. She says it is like brand new and the boy no longer needs it” My mother gloats.

“I don’t know Mom, wouldn’t this guy want his jacket even after he is out of high school? “ I ask.

“Oh no, this kid is on to Loyola University, he isn’t going to be wearing a High School jacket.” She returned.

“OK, Mom, but please let Mrs. Halloran know that I don’t want it if the guy’s mother is taking it away from him.” I said.

A week or so later on a Saturday morning, Mrs. Halloran is at the door delivering what looks like a brand new Mount Saint Mary Jacket. It is beautiful and it actually fits. It is dark brown with tan leather sleeves and it looks just like the new ones that some of my buddies have bought. I cannot believe my luck. I wear it around the house for a few minutes and then put it into a closet thinking about how great it will be to have it for Monday.

A short time later the phone rangs and as usual my mother answers.

“Hello, oh yes Mrs. Halloran he loves it. And thanks so much, we could have never been able to afford it.” My mother looks over at me and smiles while waiting for Mrs. Halloran to speak.

“Oh really,” my mother says as she gets this pained look on her face. “That’s awful. That’s just awful.”

I immediately know the too-good-to-be-true jacket is too good to be true. I make it easy on my mother and go over the closet and carry the coat over on a hanger and hand it to her. She looks half disappointed and half surprised that I have sensed what was going on.

“Well, all right then, I guess it can’t be helped. Well, no, we wouldn’t want it under those conditions.” She says and then hangs up the phone.

All the air is out of my mother’s sail when she says:

“Mrs. Halloran’s neighbor screwed things up. Her son had already promised the jacket to his girlfriend’s brother who is going to Mount Saint Mary’s next year. But, the good news is that she said she knows someone else who may have one.”

A few minutes later, Mrs. Halloran came over and took away the beautiful jacket. After she left, I said,

“Jeez Mom, maybe we should have taken a picture of me with the jacket. I could have cut out some letters on paper and pasted them on for the photo! “

She laughed a little, but it was a painful moment for both us. We both knew we’d never have the money for jacket like that. Life goes on and ten minutes later, it didn’t mean a thing. In my house material possessions were never a priority.

A few days later, my mother got another phone call from Mrs. Halloran.

“Hello, oh yes Mrs. Halloran. Oh really. Well that sounds nice, yes. Oh it does? Oh I see. Well thanks so much again. Yes, I’ll be home. Great. Good bye.

My mother turns to me and says:

“She got another one from someone else. She says it’s a little older than the other one, but still has plenty of wear.”

Before I saw the jacket, I knew what I was in for. When I saw the jacket the next day after coming home from school, I was surprised. It didn’t look like a jacket another student had worn while attending Mount Saint Mary’s, it looked like a jacket everyone who had ever attended Mount Saint Mary’s had worn. The dark brown that made up the body of the coat had a grayish hue to it, like it had been stored for a thousand years in a pyramid. The tan arms had so many wrinkles and deep creases that it looked more like elephant skin than leather. It was an ancient hideous thing and on top of everything, it was a couple sizes small.

But of course, it became my Mount Saint Mary’s jacket and I wore it all the time.

After successfully acquiring my jacket, my mother got even more ambitious in her determination to dress me for success at Mount Saint Mary. She knitted things for me.

One day, I came home from School and there was my mother, busy at work, knitting away. I had never seen my mother knitting, but there she was, having at it like nobody’s business. And again, I knew I was in trouble immediately because she had two big balls of yarn: one white and the other brown. What could she be knitting in Mount Saint Mary colors I thought.

“So Mom, what are you knitting?” I ask.

“Well I have a few things in mind, you’ll have to see, you’ll have to see.” She says.

“But, I didn’t know you could knit.” Says I.

“Oh, I did lots of it when your Father and I were first married, but I got awful tired of it, so I put it aside for 20 years or so.” She returns.

Well, she’ll be practicing on me no doubt I said to myself as I walked out of the room. I went to the back porch which was a heatless space that my brother and I had commandeered as a bedroom because of its proximity to the kitchen. I opened an old wooden wardrobe that my Uncle Ed had acquired from a hotel and I hung up my coat. Our house was tiny and amounted to a series of small rooms. The master bedroom was about the size of a walk-in closet and it was located just off the living room. The place was so small that if my father sat on his bed and left the bedroom door open, he could carry on a conversation with any of us sitting on the couch without raising his voice. A second bedroom was off the dining room and it was even smaller because a large chimney for the oil furnace ran through it.

Although our carpets were threadbare and our furniture was junk, my mother was a good housewife. The house was as always clean as a whistle, but she had no passion for baking, sewing, or any of the crafts that attract many women. What my mother liked to do best of all was curl up on the couch at night, watch TV with a book in her hand, sip on her beer and smoke a few cigarettes. She liked to watch sitcoms and dramas during the prime time hours. Most of the TV shows were so insipid that she could read her book and still keep track of the various show plots. She read through mysteries faster than Perry Mason could solve them. We respected the fact that evening was her “time off” as she called it.

So we were all surprised to see my mother take up knitting and continue it every night. It kept her hands so busy she couldn’t smoke or have her evening beer. We secretly thought that maybe a priest who was trying to be very practical had given my mother a knitting assignment as penance, but my brother reminded us that we had never seen my mother near a confessional. If she did go, I suspect she would have said to the priest, you tell me yours and then I’ll tell you mine.

At first, my mother produced a pair of white mittens, but I dodged a bullet when she announced that these were for my little sister. The mittens were actually very serviceable, but High School guys just didn’t wear mittens, so I was relieved. She handed them over to my little sister and said: “You are next Collin.”

“Lucky bastard” I thought to myself. I could feel my stomach turn with nervousness at the thought of what I might be required to wear.

Clickety click click, every night for hours; the knitting went on. During the second week, she started to pace herself a little so she could have a little beer as she worked. So the cadence changed to clickety click click sip sip, at times. A few days into that second week she worked in a few cigarettes. So the cadence changed to clickety click click, sip sip, clickety click click wooo aaah. My mother was a master at adaptability.

I could see my mother was making great progress on something long and narrow, but I wasn’t sure what it was. Strips that she would sew together for a blanket? One day when I came home she had switched to what looked like something much smaller and round so my theory on the blanket went out the window.

Finally, one day when I came home, my mother proudly handed me a brown beret and a long brown and white scarf: the perfect companions to my jacket. For a few seconds, I could see my entire life pass before me. I thought this is it, no one will ever see me as an acceptable “hard ass” any longer and I will not likely survive a day with this outfit. I looked into my mom’s eyes and I could see all the love she had put into the knitting and knew in an instant, that regardless of my fate, she had done great.

“Jeez Mom, this is really great stuff, really the best. This is perfect Mom.” I said and I meant it in a way. She looked at me and she put the beret on and lovingly wrapped the scarf around my neck.

Again, like the jacket, once the cold weather hit, I wore the scarf and the beret every day—they had grown on me that much. And for some reason because it was Mount Saint Mary’s, where the guys seem to think a little differently than the rest of the world, my outfit was just fine.

The only odd thing was that the scarf seemed to have a beanstalk sort of quality about it. In no time at all it started to stretch and grow longer each day I wore it. At first, I could wear it around my neck and it hung down to my belt. Then it got longer and I had to wind it round my neck once lest it extend too far down beyond my coat length. Then I had to wrap it round my neck two full turns. As the winter wore on, I was looping it around my arms under my coat and finally I had to wrap it a few times around my waste. As the length of the scarf grew of course, the width shrank. One day toward the end of the winter it fell on the floor outside my locker as I was getting ready to go home. Hanni, who had a locker next to mine, looked down at it and said:

“Jezus Callaghan, what the hell are you doing with a rope in your locker – going to use it to escape some day out the window during Latin Class?”

“No Hannie, I am going to lasso one of the Academy girls as we pass by them on the bus and get myself a date.”

Copyright Sporting Chance Press

This story is taken from The Brown and White. 

10 cc's of Mr. Happy

Practically everyone who attended Mount Saint Mary knew the instructor of Freshman English grammar and Literature, Mr. Henry, who we called Happy Hank. Happy was a sturdy-looking man in his 40’s with a pleasant face that bore a perpetual grin. Not a big goofy looking grin; one that someone might have who is holding a straight flush in a poker game. He was average height and weight, but he had huge rough hands that gave evidence of his handball playing prowess. Handball uses a very hard small rubber ball that you smack without much protection other than gloves that are as thick as plastic wrap. If you play, your hand either gets very tough and leathery or it falls off altogether.

In front of the class, Happy would bend his arms at the elbow and hold his hands up about the level of his neck with his fingers perpendicular to his palms. He would hold this pose for lengthy periods as he lectured. If his fingers were not bent, you would have thought he was demonstrating the size of a Muskie he had caught. Happy’s class was fairly normal and his lectures were routine. He had a good speaking voice and he managed to keep most kids awake. But he had two odd habits. His first odd habit was the manner in which he gave us a surprise quiz every other day. Right in front of us, Happy would transform from a flesh and blood teacher to an automaton who give us the following instructions without moving an inch:

OK, students now take a sheet of clean 8½” x 11” notebook paper out of your notebooks [pause]. Fold the top of the sheet down to the bottom in half [pause]. Take your ruler and run it across the fold to make it very neat and clean. Now take that half sheet and fold it over like a book [pause]. That’s it, make your corners crisp and neat – yes that’s it Mr. Dollar. Now once you have your corners folded neatly, rip the page at the folds so you create four small sheets of paper equal in size [pause]. Yes, Mr. Jenkins, that’s right. Now take one of the sheets and on the very top right corner, write you name, your full first name and last name. That’s right [pause]. But make sure it’s on the upper right corner Mr. Kobis, not the left corner. Directly under your name, write “English Grammar.” Now under “English Grammar,” write today’s date [pause]. Everyone knows today’s date? Well that’s good boys. Now over on the left edge of the page write numbers “1” through “10” down the page vertically. That’s vertically, Mr. Gilmartin, not horizontally.

At least twice a week, Happy would give us a quiz and he always worded his questions so each answer could easily fit on the small lines found on quarter pieces of paper that we prepared. He would go through the instructions each time as if he had never given them before. He expected everyone to get it right. Happy would stand there at the front of the room, the cadence of his words ever steady, the expression in his voice emotionless for this ritual.

His second odd habit would show up at different times during the class when you might not expect it. One second Happy would be in front of the room perched in his pose, holding his hands up high, and suddenly he would walk over to one of the students and peer down over him.

“Mr. Klemp, I see you are very tired today. I see your eyes are opening and closing. I see it is hard for you to stay awake. Mr. Klemp, you need some medicine. Class, Mr. Klemp needs some medicine. I’d say about 50 cc.”

Then Happy would put his left hand on Klemp’s left check and very quickly with exacting precision swing his right hand at Klemp’s right cheek. “Slap!” We never knew the total force of Happy’s slap because his left handle cradled the “slapee’s” cheek so his head would not fall off. But, by the sound of it, it was very wicked and generally, the “slappee” would have a case of watering eyes for the next five minutes or so. The red cheek would last perhaps a period or two.

Happy would tell you how hard he was going to hit you by the volume of “medicine” he was administering, although some of us secretly thought he was administering the same dose each time. Regardless of whether you were getting 50 or 200 cc, you got the message. This very quiet, nerdy teacher kept a very orderly classroom. You were never quite sure whether he was putting everyone on with this persona, or whether it was genuine. Copyright 2016, Lawrence M. Norris

This story is taken from The Brown and White.

Drill Instructors

The school’s mission was established decades before my class ever saw the old brick buildings. MSN had a reputation for taking all kinds of kids and making something out of them. It was a “no child left behind” or in the case of problem students a “no child left with a behind” philosophy. Most educators today would say that the methods used were certainly primitive by modern standards. Most MSM teachers had their own unique creative method of cruel and unusual punishment to foster discipline. It seemed to us that they dealt corporal punishment out unmercifully. But, for us, taking such medicine was a test of manhood that we were certainly willing to take. Like our dads, older brothers, and uncles, we wanted to make the grade more than anything else. We wanted to become men of Mount Saint Mary’s. The discipline methods were not just part of the school tradition; they were also a reason why parents were sending their kids to the school in the first place. If a parent didn’t know their kids would face such methods, they hadn’t done their homework.

While Catholics everywhere like to talk about how brutal the priests and nuns could be in the schools, in my experience it was the lay teachers who dished out the corporal punishment en masse. Most of the priests were much more kind and forgiving than the lay teachers. Nevertheless, each teacher whether lay or religious had his own unique persona with special stories that would become the living lore of the school.

Our Math teacher had the "Sabre," a narrow but thick black belt that he could wield like a Sword. His name was Karonska; we called him the Cossack. The Cossack sported a short military crew cut and was lean and angular with dark eyes and a long pointed nose. He looked like a Russian warrior and everything about him was no nonsense. He typically wore warn black leather oxford shoes polished to a spit shine. He perpetually sported black dress pants, a white cotton dress shirt and a dark colored tie. He never wore anything with stripes, dots, checks or patterns of any kind. His favorite colors were black and white. He was in his fifties, but he worked out every day with many of the other teachers and was in great shape. The Cossack was well-liked and good speaker, but he could be one mean guy when pushed. He seldom needed to use the "Sabre", but when he did, he was merciless.


In class one day an unorganized and undisciplined John Amoto was explaining to Mr. Karonska that his sister must have mixed up his homework with her stuff and taken it to her school. Suddenly the Cossack says, "hush! I think I hear your sister out in the hall. Why don't you go out and see if she has brought it for you?" John ominously walks out to the hall closely followed by Karonska who taking the “Sabre" off his pants. We heard the “Whack, whack, whack, whack” echo out in the hall. Back into the room walks Amoto bleary eyed and red faced.

Karonska announces, "Well John couldn't seem to find anything today so I helped him find his “behind.” Does anyone else need some help?" Needless to say, very few homework assignments were missed in Mr. Karonska's class.

Our Civics teacher had a sawed off wooden canoe paddle that he used to whack insubordinates. You would have thought that a paddle of that size would have been intimidating enough, but he drilled holes into the blade to cut wind resistance. His name was Jerry Patrick, we called him "Geriatric" because of his white hair. He was far from feeble though as he swung that paddle about as well as any member of the Oxford rowing team. He called the punishment he doled out “nautical nourishment.” We called it "ouch".

Another teacher, who taught science, was particularly menacing. He rigged up an electric chair in one of the labs. If he was particularly angry at someone he would have them sit down and put a few volts through their body. His name was Edward Sandals and we called him "Electric Eddie" or at times the more formal, "Commonwealth Edward." The electric chair, it turned out, had little current to it, but Eddie had it rigged up with extra wire and metal spools to make it look very nasty indeed.

Father Franz Stroussel was the Freshman Latin Teacher and although he was old and sickly, he was an institution at Mount Saint Mary's. A larger than life figure, Father Stroussel had taught students' fathers, uncles and older brothers. He was a tough old German priest who wore the full cassock or long brown robe worn by the more traditional minded Mount Saint Mary priests.

In grade school when the boys had an older nun for a teacher, some of the kids would victimize the poor lady to distraction. There were famous incidents in our grade school where the harassed teacher would leave the room in distress and return with an aspergillum, which is a device that the priest holds to sprinkle holy water to the congregation at times. She would stand at the front of the room and flail away with the device desperate to try to exorcise the demons present. Despite his advanced age, this was not going to happen with Father Franz. He knew his place as master of the class and he was going to make sure we understood ours.

Latin is a dead language, and the reason why it’s a dead language is not because it is no longer spoken, but because it is difficult and most current schools reserve the difficult for Math and Science, not language. In Latin, every word can have many different endings depending upon how it is used in a sentence. Such things as declensions and verb conjugations all must be understood and remembered. Working with Latin successfully means you must master a moving target of verb and noun endings along with grammar and vocabulary.

Before getting to the difficult study of Latin, Father Franz would begin each class with a lecture on his own personal beliefs. From Father Franz we learned that shoes and a good haircut made the man. The more ethnic you were, the more he liked you and that family was all-important. So if you never shined your shoes, your hair was a little long, you had a common American name and he didn't know anyone with your last name from the annals of Mount St Mary past, you were in trouble. On the other hand, if your name was O'Shannon or Flipovich, you had slick close cropped hair, a good pair of shoes and a father that he taught 30 years ago, you were in great shape.

Father Franz had a stout round dowel of wood that looked something like a drumstick that he kept with him at all times. He told us this was the "good wood" and he used it to emphasize points to our posteriors. He spoke with a slight German accent in a calm nasally tone.

His class consisted of constant quizzes on vocabulary and going over our translation homework on the black board. If you were having a difficult time with your board work, Father would come up behind you, grip your pants and pull them high ala a “wedgie” and then give you a few good whacks on the backside. For onlookers it was a very comedic sight, but for those who felt the good wood -- well, you got the message although it was not rip-roaring pain.

I struggled with Latin and although I loved the subject, it didn't come easy and I dreaded Father Franz's class. He was not the same teacher that he had been in his prime and at times he lost his composure. One day while I was at the board, I made a great error in a translation. The good priest tried to straighten my Latin translation out, gave up and then let the good wood do its work. I nervously smirked when he was administering the punishment and he got very angry at me. He dropped the good wood and slapped me a few times for good measure saying: "Here’s something to tell your grandmother!" In most of the classes if a teacher whacked you, it was something of a badge of courage to have survived it. That was not the case with Father Franz – most of us who got whacked were more concerned about the old boy’s stamina than about our posteriors. Father Franz gave us a sense of what the old days may have been like decades before we came to Saint Mary’s. Like other experiences, we took it in and processed it as part of the whole Mount Saint Mary education. Copyright 2012, Lawrence M. Norris