Food for Thought
by Michael C. Keith
Genre: Memoir
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: Seeking charity from the Church.
_____________________________________________________________________
We do not quite forgive a giver. The hand that feeds us is in some danger of being bitten. – Ralph Waldo Emerson
The homey smells of the many Catholic rectories we visited during our vagrant meandering around the country filled me with envy and curiosity. Here was a place where real meals were prepared for its special occupants . . . God’s representatives. In the shabby rooming houses that my father and I spent most of our time during our long road odyssey, there were no sweet aromas of meals being carefully made. Occasionally the odor of an egg being fried on a hotplate drifted down the dimly lit and grimy hallways where we stayed. Far more common was the stale scent of cigarette smoke and cheap booze.
What did it look like in the rectory dining room? What goodies covered its table? I imagined mounds of hot dinner rolls surrounded by bowls of butter-laden mashed potatoes and platters of juicy meats as we stood, our stomachs empty, in the entranceway awaiting the appearance of the on-duty pastor––the one who dealt with unexpected arrivals.
Most of the time the priest knew what we were there for and would have a bill or two in his hand to give us. Occasionally, we would be asked into a sitting room and allowed to go into more detail about our plight. My father gave the same old story about how we were trying to get to a better place where he could get work and send for my ailing mother and sisters. He never said anything about his drinking, which was the principal source of our troubles. The priests would usually listen with caring expressions and then hand us what we were there to receive.
On none of those occasions, however, were we invited to break bread with the clerics, and that was one of my greatest disappointments. Because I was certain a heavenly feast would await us. The closest we ever came to tasting what was prepared in a rectory kitchen was a bag with a couple of sandwiches, and they were not anything special. In fact, I was quickly convinced that this parsonage had prepared the sandwiches well in advance to give out to the needy showing up at their door.
My father had a few harsh words about it. Not only did the meager sandwiches put him off, the lack of enough change to buy smokes further raised his anger.
“You’d think they’d give you a buck or two instead of this crap. God knows they got plenty of dough,” he’d said, refusing to eat what he thought a pathetic, if not insulting, handout. “They probably planned to toss this stuff out anyway, so why not give it to us instead? Makes them feel like they’re doing something for the poor.”
The contents of the brown bag tasted okay enough to me, no doubt because I hadn’t eaten anything else that day and next to nothing the day before.
“Slow down and chew, Mick. You’ll choke the way you’re gobbling. You can have mine. Imagine a church with all it has giving people on the skids old, dried up cheese sandwiches. Bet they eat steak every night.”
He was probably right, I thought. The rectory handing out the sub-standard morsels did have the aroma of something far better than what it provided us.
“Maybe even pork chops or baked ham,” I added, trying to imagine what it would be like to eat such scrumptious fare on a regular basis.
“That’s why they’re all fat,” said my father, handing over his rejected larder. “They eat like princes. Use the collection money to fill their cupboards with everything they like, while we’re offered rancid cheese on crusts of moldy bread.”
“It’s not that bad, Dad. You should try it. You need to eat something, too. You’re as skinny as me.”
“I’m fine. Got enough for a cup of coffee. That’s all I need. You’re growing. You need nourishment. We’ll have to try to get you some milk,” said my father, counting the few pennies, nickels, and dimes he’d pulled from his threadbare trouser pockets.
That night was the first time we ever had to sleep outside because we couldn’t find shelter. Fortunately, the weather was still mild in mid-October. When I awoke under the canopy of a sprawling oak tree, we quickly got onto the highway to hitch a ride out of the city that my father venomously referred to as a “shithole”.
“Need to get to a place where they give a damn for a father with a kid who need help,” he grumbled, lighting the leftover stub of a Camel.
Late in the day, we reached a town called Worthington, Minnesota, on our second trek out to the West Coast. I had never felt so hungry in my life, and my father’s mood was at an all time low.
“There’s a church. Maybe we can get some more shitty sandwiches.”
A rosy-cheeked priest, who introduced himself as Monsignor Finn, greeted us. It was the first time I had ever heard that title, and I figured we were in the presence of a really important church official, like a bishop.
“Come in, gentlemen. So what brings you to St. Luke’s?”
My father went into his pat speech, and the priest with the strange moniker listened to him intently.
“Indeed, the boy does look very thin. It must be very hard on him . . . and you as well. What is it I can do for you?”
“When I get working at the hotel in San Francisco, I can send for my wife and daughters, and we can be a family again. I’m not worried for me, but a child needs to eat and be sheltered, and we’re only halfway to the Coast.”
“Of course he does. You do, too.”
“Thank you, Father. If we could just get enough to continue our trip and fill our stomachs, that would be wonderful.”
“Well, I really can’t help you with the first thing, because we’re a very poor parish. But, I can surely address the second concern. Please, come into the dining room with me. It’s time for supper, and you’re welcome to join me. The housekeeper has prepared a fine meal, I’m certain.”
As the Monsignor led us from the sitting room, I could see that my father was not happy. I knew he was disappointed that no money would be forthcoming.
“Please, sit down. Mary will be bringing in the victuals any moment.”
My excitement was reaching a fever pitch as I anticipated the arrival of a lavish meal.
“Mary, we have guests. Please bring in a couple more plates,” called the priest toward the door that led to the kitchen.
“Yes, Father,” replied a soft female voice.
“There now, you’ll soon fill those empty tummies. When was the last time you ate, Mick?”
“Yesterday, Father. We had cheese sandwiches . . . I mean, I did. My Dad gave me his.”
“Now, that’s a very good parent who does that. You’re a lucky boy. Bet you’ll be glad to see your mother and sisters, too?”
Before I could answer, the housekeeper entered with a tray of steaming food. When she placed it on the table, I was overcome by disappointment. It was not what I expected.
“This being Saturday, it’s hotdogs and beans day,” announced the priest, festively.
Whenever we had any money and a place to stay that had something to cook on, hotdogs and beans was what we ate because it was a cheap meal. Despite this, I inhaled what was on my plate.
“Well, you sure are hungry, Mick,” observed our benefactor. “Think you could eat another dog, son?”
“Yes sir,” I replied, convinced I could consume several more.
“How about you, Curt? Another helping?”
“No, thanks. I’ve had all I can handle.”
Back out on the street, my father said nothing for several minutes and then he let rip.
“Just our frigging luck to get invited to eat in a church rectory on the day they’re slumming it!”
“At least we’re not hungry anymore,” I offered.
“Yeah, praise the Lord for that,” he mumbled sarcastically, sticking his thumb out at an approaching car.
Swearwords: A couple of mild ones.
Description: Seeking charity from the Church.
_____________________________________________________________________
We do not quite forgive a giver. The hand that feeds us is in some danger of being bitten. – Ralph Waldo Emerson
The homey smells of the many Catholic rectories we visited during our vagrant meandering around the country filled me with envy and curiosity. Here was a place where real meals were prepared for its special occupants . . . God’s representatives. In the shabby rooming houses that my father and I spent most of our time during our long road odyssey, there were no sweet aromas of meals being carefully made. Occasionally the odor of an egg being fried on a hotplate drifted down the dimly lit and grimy hallways where we stayed. Far more common was the stale scent of cigarette smoke and cheap booze.
What did it look like in the rectory dining room? What goodies covered its table? I imagined mounds of hot dinner rolls surrounded by bowls of butter-laden mashed potatoes and platters of juicy meats as we stood, our stomachs empty, in the entranceway awaiting the appearance of the on-duty pastor––the one who dealt with unexpected arrivals.
Most of the time the priest knew what we were there for and would have a bill or two in his hand to give us. Occasionally, we would be asked into a sitting room and allowed to go into more detail about our plight. My father gave the same old story about how we were trying to get to a better place where he could get work and send for my ailing mother and sisters. He never said anything about his drinking, which was the principal source of our troubles. The priests would usually listen with caring expressions and then hand us what we were there to receive.
On none of those occasions, however, were we invited to break bread with the clerics, and that was one of my greatest disappointments. Because I was certain a heavenly feast would await us. The closest we ever came to tasting what was prepared in a rectory kitchen was a bag with a couple of sandwiches, and they were not anything special. In fact, I was quickly convinced that this parsonage had prepared the sandwiches well in advance to give out to the needy showing up at their door.
My father had a few harsh words about it. Not only did the meager sandwiches put him off, the lack of enough change to buy smokes further raised his anger.
“You’d think they’d give you a buck or two instead of this crap. God knows they got plenty of dough,” he’d said, refusing to eat what he thought a pathetic, if not insulting, handout. “They probably planned to toss this stuff out anyway, so why not give it to us instead? Makes them feel like they’re doing something for the poor.”
The contents of the brown bag tasted okay enough to me, no doubt because I hadn’t eaten anything else that day and next to nothing the day before.
“Slow down and chew, Mick. You’ll choke the way you’re gobbling. You can have mine. Imagine a church with all it has giving people on the skids old, dried up cheese sandwiches. Bet they eat steak every night.”
He was probably right, I thought. The rectory handing out the sub-standard morsels did have the aroma of something far better than what it provided us.
“Maybe even pork chops or baked ham,” I added, trying to imagine what it would be like to eat such scrumptious fare on a regular basis.
“That’s why they’re all fat,” said my father, handing over his rejected larder. “They eat like princes. Use the collection money to fill their cupboards with everything they like, while we’re offered rancid cheese on crusts of moldy bread.”
“It’s not that bad, Dad. You should try it. You need to eat something, too. You’re as skinny as me.”
“I’m fine. Got enough for a cup of coffee. That’s all I need. You’re growing. You need nourishment. We’ll have to try to get you some milk,” said my father, counting the few pennies, nickels, and dimes he’d pulled from his threadbare trouser pockets.
That night was the first time we ever had to sleep outside because we couldn’t find shelter. Fortunately, the weather was still mild in mid-October. When I awoke under the canopy of a sprawling oak tree, we quickly got onto the highway to hitch a ride out of the city that my father venomously referred to as a “shithole”.
“Need to get to a place where they give a damn for a father with a kid who need help,” he grumbled, lighting the leftover stub of a Camel.
Late in the day, we reached a town called Worthington, Minnesota, on our second trek out to the West Coast. I had never felt so hungry in my life, and my father’s mood was at an all time low.
“There’s a church. Maybe we can get some more shitty sandwiches.”
A rosy-cheeked priest, who introduced himself as Monsignor Finn, greeted us. It was the first time I had ever heard that title, and I figured we were in the presence of a really important church official, like a bishop.
“Come in, gentlemen. So what brings you to St. Luke’s?”
My father went into his pat speech, and the priest with the strange moniker listened to him intently.
“Indeed, the boy does look very thin. It must be very hard on him . . . and you as well. What is it I can do for you?”
“When I get working at the hotel in San Francisco, I can send for my wife and daughters, and we can be a family again. I’m not worried for me, but a child needs to eat and be sheltered, and we’re only halfway to the Coast.”
“Of course he does. You do, too.”
“Thank you, Father. If we could just get enough to continue our trip and fill our stomachs, that would be wonderful.”
“Well, I really can’t help you with the first thing, because we’re a very poor parish. But, I can surely address the second concern. Please, come into the dining room with me. It’s time for supper, and you’re welcome to join me. The housekeeper has prepared a fine meal, I’m certain.”
As the Monsignor led us from the sitting room, I could see that my father was not happy. I knew he was disappointed that no money would be forthcoming.
“Please, sit down. Mary will be bringing in the victuals any moment.”
My excitement was reaching a fever pitch as I anticipated the arrival of a lavish meal.
“Mary, we have guests. Please bring in a couple more plates,” called the priest toward the door that led to the kitchen.
“Yes, Father,” replied a soft female voice.
“There now, you’ll soon fill those empty tummies. When was the last time you ate, Mick?”
“Yesterday, Father. We had cheese sandwiches . . . I mean, I did. My Dad gave me his.”
“Now, that’s a very good parent who does that. You’re a lucky boy. Bet you’ll be glad to see your mother and sisters, too?”
Before I could answer, the housekeeper entered with a tray of steaming food. When she placed it on the table, I was overcome by disappointment. It was not what I expected.
“This being Saturday, it’s hotdogs and beans day,” announced the priest, festively.
Whenever we had any money and a place to stay that had something to cook on, hotdogs and beans was what we ate because it was a cheap meal. Despite this, I inhaled what was on my plate.
“Well, you sure are hungry, Mick,” observed our benefactor. “Think you could eat another dog, son?”
“Yes sir,” I replied, convinced I could consume several more.
“How about you, Curt? Another helping?”
“No, thanks. I’ve had all I can handle.”
Back out on the street, my father said nothing for several minutes and then he let rip.
“Just our frigging luck to get invited to eat in a church rectory on the day they’re slumming it!”
“At least we’re not hungry anymore,” I offered.
“Yeah, praise the Lord for that,” he mumbled sarcastically, sticking his thumb out at an approaching car.
About the Author
Originally from Albany, New York, Michael C. Keith has paternal family roots stretching back to Clan Keith of Caithness and Aberdeenshire. A leading scholar in electronic media in the United States, he is the author of over 20 books on electronic media, as well as a memoir and three books of fiction. Much more about Michael and his publications can be found on his website: http://www.michaelckeith.com