For Whom The Church Bell Tolls

I watched as several boys of about 9 years-old recently walked by the front of my house. One of them stopped, pulled out a phone and announced that his mother texted him that he has to go home. It didn’t surprise me that he had a cell phone since more and more youngsters carry phones. No, I was just surprised how convenient it was for mom to text message her kids.

My neighborhood in the 1960’s operated on two precise units of time measurement – the sun and the bells of St. Thomas The Apostle Church.

How much time kids got to play on school days was based on how fast they could get home, get changed out of the school uniform and meet back at the park which was adjacent to the school and church. The day’s activity would be based on the current sports season – football in the fall, basketball in the winter and so on. The pick-up games included all those kids who could get back to the playground before sides were picked. Late comers may or may not get into the game depending on their popularity and skills.

One big variable in the after school race to play was mom. Working mothers were still a novelty in our neighborhood so they were home each day and kids who hadn’t raked leaves or cleaned their room would be snared by moms. Even a 20 minute chore was enough to blow the whole afternoon. Games ended when the church bells rang at 5 or 6 o’clock. Picking a football squad required extra strategy when half the team might go home for an early dinner. The 6 o’clock dinner kids, including me, squeezed an extra hour of play but the rosters were limited.

The church bells rang every hour and could be heard for blocks away. When the bells chimed, I had 5 minutes to be home for dinner. It was that simple and I tested the system many times.

Sunset was the other limiting factor of course. Touch football games in the late fall would be played until the ball was almost invisible. Clever quarterbacks would toss the ball above the streetlights and it would reappear somewhere down the street. The local park called Vasser Field only had tennis court lights and their glow was just enough to dimly light a basketball court in the winter. There were only a few rules for after school play around the neighborhood. Listen for the bells, watch the sunset, stay clear of high schoolers who smoked cigarettes and hide if any nuns come by. Nuns were usually looking for a few strong men as they would say to carry groceries or move plants around the convent. Once asked by a nun there was no way a Catholic School boy could say no. An easier strategy was to hide in the wooden fort.

Unlike today’s hovering parents, mothers rarely came to Vasser Field. In fact, when one showed up we knew a kid was in trouble for something like missing a piano lesson or stealing fifty cents from his brother. Kids would walk right off second base and head towards the gate when their moms showed up – arguing was pointless.

One afternoon though, I got hurt playing football and there was my mother. Someone had texted her (just kidding) run home and told her I was hurt. I should have been embarrassed but instead I was grateful. Sometimes you just need mom.