I was just on Facebook this morning, the purveyor of all things true and accurate (I’ll wait until you stop choking) and I saw a video of a young Michael Keaton doing stand-up comedy. Yes kids, Batman was a comedian before he became a dark, brooding superhero and Academy Award nominee. His bit was about coming from a large, Irish Catholic family. It took me back to my days serving my time, incarcerated in my own large Irish Catholic family. Been trying to figure out an escape plan but I think I’m trapped until they carry me out feet first.
I grew up just outside Chicago in a very Catholic area where it just wasn’t the Irish having big families, even though we dominated the category. Our family had eight children, and we were one of the small ones. I remember the half Irish, half Italian family a few blocks away that had, let me recall, 28 children (that number could be off a bit, but it seemed like it) and you couldn’t walk down the street without running into one of them. I went to a Catholic grade school with about 600 students and I think they all came from 10 families. It seems that each grade had a student from the same family. Some two. That was the Ryan family who had three sets of twins then four other children. Now-a-days, they would have a reality show called, “Keepin’ Up With The Ryans.” Back then it would not have seemed unique because a block over, there would be a family with four sets of twins and six other kids.
There was a problem for kids from large families. Having so many of us in the same school at the same time, if one of the older ones got in trouble, it would filter through the family ties and the different grades, eventually getting to one of the younger family members who hadn’t developed the “don’t rat on your brother” filter, who would then run home to tell mom and dad. Unfortunately we couldn’t resolve the problem like Michael did with Fredo in the “God Father II.” Or maybe we did. Who knows how many are out in the backyard, if you know what I mean. There were so many of us, would our parents really miss one or two?
It is fair to say our house was crowded. My parents provided a wonderful home for all of us, in a great neighborhood and we always appreciated it, but sometimes, the way the sleeping arrangements were laid out didn’t always seem fair. We had four bedrooms in our house. My parents took the one bedroom on the ground level, leaving the three upstairs for us children. At one time it was divided like this. My oldest brother had a room to himself, my two sisters shared a room, and three of my brothers and I had to share a room. When my youngest brother was born, my parents kept him in their room.
Why didn’t my older brother have to share a room? I understand keeping the only two girls together, but sharing a room with three of my brothers didn’t seem fair. There was a double bed and a set of bunk beds stuffed into this small space. It was so tight, the beds were pushed up together and to get out, you had to travel across the double bed to get to floor space. It was annoying when a small body landed on top of you from the top bunk, usually thrown by one of the older boys. After a year, the baby of the family was moved into my oldest brother’s room. The rest of us couldn’t be happier with that karma.
Our family vacations were also very tight. My dad would load up the station wagon with everything we needed for our trip and then try to figure out how to fit in 8 kids. I’m sure a couple were tied to the top of the car with the lawn chairs. We went to a lake in west central Michigan and today the drive from the Chicago area takes about three to four hours. Back then, before four lane super highways, it was a good eight hour drive. We were kids going on vacation. We were excited, so we adapted. My mom, dad and the baby were in the front seat. No car seats, no seat belts, just the strongest restraint in the world to hold the baby back in case we came to a sudden stop – my mom’s arm. Anyone who rode in a car before car seats were required, knows how fast and strong your mom’s arm is when protecting you in a car. I don’t think mothers have that superpower anymore considering that the small ones are strapped in car seats in the back like Hannibal Lecter being transported from one prison to another.
Three to four others of my siblings would be in the middle seat, depending on size, and the rest sat in the “way back,” (what we called the seat in the back of the old station wagon) usually lying on top of a pile of things my dad packed for the trip. Hard to believe, those were the prized seats. You’re far enough away from dad in case he wanted to swat you for doing something stupid.
My siblings and I grew up in the 50s and 60s and it was a different time. In the summer, my mom would shoo us out the door in the morning and tell us to be back in time for dinner. She never asked where we were going or what we were doing. Our job was to get out of her hair while she took care of the latest baby that had arrived. It could be seen as my parents trying to thin the herd. Survival of the fittest. I noticed them counting heads at dinner and sometimes looking disappointment.…I could be wrong (most likely).
There was a rail yard down the street from where we lived and of course it seemed like the perfect place to play. My oldest brother and his friends would take old railroad ties that were scattered around and build a fort out with them like giant Lincoln Logs (for those born in the last 30 years, google it). We would all climb all over the fort, not worrying that it might collapse and probably kill a couple of us. We would also run into Hobos. Yes, I am old enough to remember Hobos. They would come to houses near the rail yard, and many moms would make them something to eat. Back then, Hobos were romanticized homeless people. They were left overs from the Great Depression and unlike the homeless of today, they would always move on with the next boxcar. They wouldn’t do too well today considering most trains are carrying cargo containers, unloaded from ships from Asia with nowhere to hide. If Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger or the Weavers were alive they would have a hard time singing songs about the vagabonds of the rails. Again, if you are under 50, google the names. You’ll learn something.
My dad created the two minute warning and it was stolen by the NFL. I need to sue for infringement. After being out all day playing, getting dirty, and exploring, when it was time for dinner, my dad would step out on the front porch and let out a loud, shrill whistle (without using his fingers) and that meant you had two minutes to get home because dinner was on the table. If you were late, no dinner and straight off to bed. No excuses. My dad’s whistle was very loud and hard to miss. Kind of like those air raid sirens that would go off when we were young. After I got drafted into the army out of my Chicago home, I’m pretty sure I heard my dad’s whistle while I was in basic training…in Tacoma, Washington.
I didn’t have a room to myself until I went into the Army. In Basic Training I shared one room with about 30 people. No problem, just like being at home. About a year in I was assigned a private room for the first time. It was wonderful and weird. The quiet was amazing and the quiet was unbearable. I always slept with chaos surrounding me but I got used to it. When I was discharged, I went back to rooming with my two older brothers until I got married, then I spent the next 47 years sharing a room with the wife…that is until tonight. Sorry honey, I know I should never have answered that question about how your butt looked in those jeans.
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