Once again a Saturday but there was no bicycle riding. Instead, a trip out to Garfield to see my sister-in-law, Elaine. It was a good visit, I don’t think we’ve seen each other since the spring. Summer passed and there was no visit.

Garfield is the town next to Lodi which is where I grew up. And the part of Lodi is across the street from Rochelle Park, and a quarter mile from Saddle Brook. Since I went to Catholic school, St Francis de Sales, I had very little contact with a lot of people from Lodi.

I did not go to Lodi High School. No, my parents were told there were too many drugs there. So I went to Paramus Catholic which was a Boys’ High School then, separated from the Girls’ High School, by a dense wall, maybe a yard thick.

There were drugs in Paramus Catholic, probably more expensive drugs. I didn’t touch them since I was ‘punk rock’ and rugs were for hippies, and also I was a terrible student and drugs would further tank my sinking grades.

It wasn’t easy being a gay closeted teenager in a boys’ high school. Since all the boys in my class were roughly the same age, we were all going through a time of raging hormones. I never showered after gym class for four years. I would occasionally spy a student at his desk with an erection that was quite an eyeful

On the social medias I am part of a group all about growing up in Lodi and there is very little I have in common with the other members. St Francis school was far enough from home to have me bused to. I rarely saw my classmates out of school. Maybe at church when my parents would go.

I think the going to church ended when I was about 8 years old. I was in third grade. It was a chore I suppose to get up on Sunday mornings. When they had Saturday evening services for those who did not or could not attend Sunday services.

In fifth grade, the priests visited my classroom and asked the boys if they wanted to be altar boys. The majority of the boys raised their hands and I did not. My older brothers were altar boys and I did not want to have to get up on a Sunday morning.

Plus the image of my mother ironing another cassock, this time for me seemed to be offputting, the poor woman deserved a relief from her ironing however slightly. But it was more about sleeping in. We still went to church for a while but not as frequently.

I couldn’t fall asleep on my mother’s arm as I used to and found the stories being told over and over were quite dull. Eventually, we went to Sacred Heart church in Rochelle Park which was a little bit closer than St Francis. That was more modern compared to St Francis church.

It had a statue of Jesus in what looked like a glass elevator.