It’s been a great Life these many decades and it seems that for the following chapters the best has been saved until last as I write stories of my journey from my family home in Chicago, Illinois to here, my casita on the Gulf of Mexico in Estado Yucatan Mexico.
If these true tales and experiences seem disjointed . . . Well, they are. At least in my mind. But if the reader discerns any unifying pattern, please let me know on my Instagram account, because for the life of me, I’ll be damned if I can find a pattern.
Each however, held significance for me I figure, as it has popped up quite serendipitously in my memory. And these experiences have shaped me for better or worse, leaving me either richer or poorer, but by Grace, very young between my ears, with a vivid graphic memory, and in good health.
My first thought at this writing was of Mr. Benjamin Hadley. Mr. Hadley was the Choir Director at St. Clement’s Roman Catholic Church where I attended grammar school. Mr. Hadley is notable in my memory for 3 reasons.
One, he was Lutheran and serving in a prominent Roman Catholic parish of the Archdiocese of Chicago. Two, with his tall physique, slick black hair, rugged good looks, and black framed glasses he was a ringer for Clark Kent.
Three, he gently, but firmly threw me out of choir.
I was an altar boy, but also signed up as a choir boy. This was our first exposure to the patriarchy . . . only boys were allowed in choir or to serve at the altar.
We had choir practice in the auditorium of the school. At the first practice Mr. Hadley told us that we could not practice properly if we were eating. That sure made sense to us, especially after he had us singing endless choruses of “O’s” up and down the scale and he was very persnickety about making sure every pair of lips were forming perfect “O’s”
On occasion he would single a boy out to do solo O’s. At the third practice, he singled me out. Unfortunately, I had saved the Hostess Snowballs from the breakfast my mother packed for me. If you went to Holy Communion at the morning daily Mass you could bring breakfast and eat it at your desk.
Now I was methodical in eating Snowballs. I stripped the marshmellow coconut covering from the crème filled chocolate cake center . . . using my prehensile tongue to loosen the covering from the cake and eating the marshmellow first . . . and at that inauspicious moment . . . damn if I wasn’t called upon to solo O.
I came out marshmellow muffled. Just couldn’t carry it off without blowing pieces into Jerry Parker’s hair sitting in front of me. No second chance. I was out. Thus ended what would have been an illustrious career rivaling, I’m quite sure, the most talented Italian castrati.
