DAY TO NIGHT – DARKNESS TO LIGHT

The Eagles' Nest, The Women of the Rathskeller Inn

Photo by JF Martin on Unsplash

CHAPTER 10

1963

Regardless of the power and magnitude of light, it cannot dispel all darkness. I have been familiar with darkness since I was young, both the darkness of a room with no lamp and the darkness inside a person with a damaged psyche. I’ve had to learn to live in both worlds simultaneously.

As I approached my tenth birthday, I navigated both worlds, making decisions independently that I had no business making most of the time. Adults had all the power and made all the decisions, leading me to believe that if I acted like an adult, regardless of my age, I might arrive there sooner. If I were a grown-up, I would have absolute power and could leave whenever I wanted. If I were candid, I only wanted to be a kid and have more time with my mom. But dad was gone; mom was never there. I couldn’t grow up fast enough.

My mom attempted to enroll me in the local Catholic grade school in my third-grade year, after we moved to the big house. The priest in charge of accepting children into the scholastic rigors of the school told her he didn’t want “her kind” in the church. Mom asked him precisely what he meant, and he replied that a separated or divorced mother raising children without a husband was not something the Church condoned. Mom, being who she was, told him to “go to hell and that he was in the wrong profession.” The priest was eventually transferred, not because he was cruel, but because transferring priests from one parish to another was a customary practice in the church. A new pastor was appointed, and by the time I was in fourth grade, I was enrolled in the Catholic grade school.

As a Catholic school student, I was required to attend church every Sunday. My cousin and I would often go alone, sometimes with our best friend. She could belch on command and made going to church fun! At the end of each week, Sister Seraphina ushered us to St. Thomas on Fridays. The church was located a block away. There, we could confess our sins and receive absolution. She explained that everyone needed God’s forgiveness, and that God’s forgiveness could only be obtained with the help of a priest. A priest was our direct line to God’s ear and His compassion. I needed His compassion.

Sister Seraphina went on to explain that should we miss our weekly confession, and should we die, heaven would be out of reach. I needed God and his compassion. At nine, based on what the nuns taught me, I was sure I lived in a house of sin.

One day during religious studies, the Sister who taught the class informed us that if God wanted to change a person’s life or circumstances, He could do so. Emphasizing her point by snapping her fingers, she said it would be that quick. My eyes widened to think that God was that powerful! She assured us that if He did decide to do such a thing, we would not remember who or where we were beforehand. We wouldn't even miss our parents. I wondered. Why wasn’t he taking care of that for me?

Being a good Catholic and living in the big house were at odds. The adults in my life did not follow the Church's edicts. My mother was separated from my father and owned a tavern. My family regularly communicated with their dead relatives and periodically visited a psychic in Sandpoint. Foul language from aunt Lolly was common, four-letter words … especially the big “F” word … were as ordinary as “the.” Not unironically, drinking was not a problem. Everyone drank, even the priests.

I was confused. Every week, when I entered the confessional, I repeated the same list of sins. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I said bad words (never confessing the words were learned from and uttered by my aunt), I disobeyed my mother, and/or I used the name of God in vain, etc.” One day, the priest who was my direct line to an all-powerful God said, “Is this Candace George?” I replied, tentatively, “Yes, Father.” I had been exposed.

He was not supposed to identify me. I had been assured that the priest did not know who was on the other side of the sliding door with the black screen. He was there as a messenger, to pass on to God what I confessed, deliver me from my sins, and give me some prayers to say at the altar before I left. I considered him a telephone operator with a direct line to the source. Instead, I felt exposed and humiliated.

I froze. I felt my face flush and become hot. I wanted to be a good Catholic, and if I was sent to confession every week, I needed something to share, even if it were a lie. I wonder what he would have done if I had told him about the problems in my home life. He informed me that if I just kept repeating sinful behavior, I would never get to heaven. That day, I kneeled at the altar for a good hour, repeating 10 Our Fathers and 20 Hail Marys for my contrition. I don’t remember one single confession following that harrowing event.

It was frighteningly dark in the narrow closet with its small sliding door, which the priest controlled. Relief poured through me as I stepped out of that darkness and into the light that poured into the church and through the stained glass windows. The colors from the images welded into the glass sparkled throughout the sanctuary. Bathing in that light felt warm and welcoming, unlike the priest, even though my knees hurt kneeling at the altar. I prayed that Jesus would work a miracle and take me away.

Life was like a quiet sanctuary during the day when the sun shone and there was light. I did as I pleased and had unlimited access to Pepsi, potato chips, and pizzas. I had my bike, roller skates, and my best friend. I had my books: Heidi, Black Beauty (the story about the horse, not the pills), and Raggedy Ann. The stories gave me hope and courage. I stayed in the light as much as possible. In the daytime, before the Rathskeller opened, we kids could even play the pinball machines or choose songs from the jukebox, a glimpse into the fun being had by the adults across the alley from where we lived.

But the darkness was always there, waiting for me.

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By the Spring of 1963, the 1,000-square-foot beer garden that sold pizzas was outgrowing its space. Intimate with its shuffleboard, jukebox, and cozy environment, it was busy most nights and packed on weekends. The Rat Club, created by Bill Holstein and Mark Brighthup, had taken off; everyone wanted to be card-carrying members of the Rat Club. Teams were formed for Shuffleboard tournaments. The losing team had to buy beer for the winners, but more importantly, the winning team won bragging rights. Pizza was a novel food that locals had never experienced. When the Troika introduced it to the community, it became the rage. Since Rathskeller was the only place in town to get this prized new dish, the flat, delicious discs covered with a secret cheese recipe, sausages, pepperoni, and other tasty toppings flew out of the kitchen like invading alien saucers in a sci-fi movie.

There was no hard liquor, only beer, and no old farts hanging around telling stories about the war, or the hardships of the Depression. It was a time when young, exuberant men and women approached adulthood, looking to the future with optimism, never dwelling on the past, and enjoying their newfound freedoms. Bill Holstein and Mark Brighthup became the face of The Rat Club. The sketched images for t-shirts and the Stein artwork. It became apparent to the owners that if the place was to be successful, it was important for the young customers to feel it belonged to them. The owners gave them a lot of freedom to do just that.