Religious Musings #2

When I think about my early religious experiences, I don’t think about God as much as I think about ritual. Like the hat my Grandmother wore to church, a wide black velvet headband with lace circling around and a flowered pin on top. It covered half of her hair. She wore gloves to match and a sturdy wool dress.

And myself, dressed in a butterscotch dress with black plaid, patten leather shoes and knee socks. My hair hanging neatly in two thick braids.

I remember sitting at the breakfast table before church with the ceramic cow pitcher of milk and glasses of orange juice on the table. Puffed Wheat with teaspoons of sugar. This was the table that had been set before bed that night. Bowls turned over backward on their plates, tea cups, two spoons, a fork and a knife set at each place, ready for the morning. And the starch white sheets that I slept in, the open window next to the bed, blowing the lace curtains as I slept.

I remember walking up the aisle at church and kneeling before the altar, waiting for the wafer and sip of wine. The confusing books that we used, I couldn’t follow - maybe I wasn’t able to read, or even when I was, couldn’t figure out what page was which. I remember darkness, an old New England stone church with poor lighting and musk in the air. I don’t remember what was said but I remember leaving, the foyer with large stain glass windows from ceiling to floor, cascading rainbows and sunlight as I walked out the doors, holding Grandma’s hand, and down the steps. We’d go back home and wait for my parents and siblings.

I remember the Sunday dinner, roast beef with mashed potatoes and peas. She sprinkled paprika on top of a butter pad which melted a hole in the mountain before we even sat down. Grandpa would stand at the head of the table with his electric carving knife and proudly pass around plates. If there were a lot of people, we’d sit at the kid’s table. But mostly it was just us, so adding a leaf to the table sufficed. That was a big deal, adding the leaf and taking it off at the end of the meal. One of the many rituals that made up the day.

Then we’d be on our own. Usually I’d be in the office with an old can, faded brown paint and black lettering. There’d be broken crayons and pencils in there. I could sit at the roll top desk and black seat and draw. The seat was wooden, and spiraled, I liked to spin around, make it go up and down. Sometimes my brother would join me, and we’d lay stomach down, on the floor making pictures. Or we’d go to the enclosed porch, painted lime green from head to toe. We’d sit on the metal glider, looking out the screens at the street. I can still hear the squeak as we rocked back and forth.

Sometimes I’d go back through the glass doors into the house and up the steep staircase. In the guest room, I’d look out at the other city houses, connected by clothes lines. In the sewing area, I’d play around in my grandmother’s trinkets. She had dozens of cans, boxes and jars filled up with old buttons and other sewing things. It was fun to just sort or play with.

There was a tiny attic just outside that room, the door was shaped like a triangle and I’d have to hunch down to get inside. We’d hide in there, looking at old boxes, some filled with books and my mother’s toys. No one would come looking for us, and we’d leave when we were ready.

Eventually, we’d go watch television, the large TV in the living room, usually football and toward seven, Lawrence Welk would come on. That’s when we knew we’d be going home soon. That’s when Sunday was over, the long drive through Cambridge and back to our town, religion and ritual tucked in our pockets like my Grandfather’s handkerchief, waiting until next week to bring out again.