MY MOTHER,THE TRAVEL AGENT:"You're Going To HellIn A Hand Basket, Kid"
by Wendel James Potter
November 4, 2007
Sign Post on the Hand Basket Road
When Mom made travel plans for my future, they were not of the "3 Exciting Days, 2 Fun-Filled Nights" variety. No, the itinerary she ominously offered was of a prophetic nature and had a foreboding eternal slant to it.
Keep in mind that my mother was of the hardscrabble Irish old school of Roman Catholicism. As a matter of fact, the more I ponder it, I'm not certain Rome even figured into it. Dublin, Donegal, or Galway perhaps, but not Rome.
Her family's sentiment, along with the consensus of many of their Irish neighbors back in Iowa , and which was more than likely proclaimed over the rim of a beer glass, could best be summed up like this:
"The Church would be better off by a darn sight if it had a Michael Griffin or a Patrick O'Flaherty for Pope and with him sayin' Sunday Mass in a humble stone church in County Cork instead of a bloomin' basilica at the Vatican."
Still in all, you didn't want to spout too much negativity where the Pope was concerned, whether he be Italian or Polish or named Pius or John or Paul or John Paul or George or Ringo, the Roman numeral suffixes notwithstanding. Especially if you were sober and in your right mind.
After all, the Pope was still Catholic no matter how you cut it.
I was a Catholic through and through, baptized when I was four days old. I attended parochial school through the 8th grade and was an altar boy from 5th grade through my senior year in high school.
How my mom and her mother both wanted to see me become a priest. For a time I had even considered that path. But something got in the way: girls!
And eventually, the best girl in the world, the one I married.
As I grew into a free-thinking adult, I began to feel I was practicing my Catholicism more by tradition than by belief. This bothered me and gave rise to many questions regarding my faith. I began to fall away, as they say, from the Church.
Who better to discuss these Church matters with than my mother, the woman who, from the day I was born, nurtured my Irish Catholic roots (probably with holy water and Miracle Gro). I never asked her for advice. I merely told her what was on my mind.
For instance, I would mention that I felt it was not a mortal sin to miss Mass on Sunday, that the Pope had no authority and wore funny hats, and that going to confession was, in the Irish vernacular, a lot of blarney.
Mom would shake her head at such talk, click her tongue against her teeth, and stake out my destiny: "Gods! You're goin' to hell in a hand basket, kid!"
That became her stock retort whenever I lambasted the Catholic Church.
I guess this was her way of saying I was being blasphemous. She worried terribly about my soul and the souls of my siblings.
Mom didn't get a lot of joy out of life. She had endured a tough childhood on a poor farm. She was introverted and racked by a painful lack of self-esteem.
She loved us kids, I'm sure, but rarely if ever said so. But I know she prayed for us and asked the Lord to keep us on the road to heaven. The High Catholic road, no doubt.
I truly think Mom disdained this life on earth and left it to faith that there really would be a just reward in the hereafter. She hoped for it, for all of us.
So it was probably with a twinkling hint of her Irish sense of humor, and perhaps just a bit of trepidation, that she told me I was headed to hell in a hand basket. Or maybe she really did think that.
I didn't take her warning seriously. I still don't. But God love her for caring.
Meanwhile, I'm just going to crawl into that hand basket and hang on for the rest of the ride. I just hope it doesn't turn out that I'm full of blarney.
Copyright 2007 Wendel James Potter
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