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Virgin Martyr + Cowgirl and/or Lady Marine
by Beth Kane
One of the things that happens when your mother is the child of immigrants (my grandparents were from Ireland) is that you are pushed to excel in everything. When I was a kid, my sister, Sandy, was the answer to #9 in a quiz in The Quincy Patriot Ledger. The newspaper ran 10 questions per week on national and local events. Question #9 was something like "What North Weymouth teenager has won $50,000 in college scholarships?" I couldn't even learn the multiplication tables while Sandy was going to college on a full scholarship to major in math.
But there were other avenues for me. Catholic churches in those days always had building drives, and I was a born salesman. At various times in my elementary school years, I sold soap, candy, Christmas cards, and collected postage stamps to save the immortal souls of pagan babies. Proof of my success is attached. I wanted to grow up to be either a lady Marine because I loved the uniform or else a cowgirl because I liked ponies and the fringe on Dale Evan's outfits. I liked her husband, Roy Rogers, even better. I think he was my first love.
Later, I wanted to die a virgin martyr since the nuns made it clear you couldn't get much better than that.
Alas, I became an editor and the mother of three children. Such is life. Here's my picture taken in 1959 in South Miami, Florida, as Queen of St. Brendan's School carnival. I was crowned queen for collecting the most pennies for the building drive. Every day after school, my mother would drive me up to the Food Fair grocery store where I'd stand outside the door in my green and white school uniform (including the green beanie). The boy and the girl who collected the most money would each get a scholarship for the whole school year.
I hated doing it but had no choice in the matter. My mother would simply not take "no" for an answer. So, I'd smile sweetly when someone went into the store, and then move in fast when they exited.
"I'd like to be Queen of St. Brendan's Carnival. It's costs only one penny to vote." I'd say eagerly, "So will you vote for me?"
Only one man said, "You Catholics are disgusting beggars."
Everyone else gave me money. Mum counted it greedily every night and tried to find out from friendly parish priests if I was still in the lead.
I won ... but Mum was really angry when she discovered I had more than all of the other kids on the stage put together, so if we'd "split the pot" my brother, Richard, could have had the boy's scholarship. The guy in the picture is from a local radio show. Chuck Something-Or-Other.
I got the letter below from Father Barry for selling soap when I was 9 years old. I remember even now (exactly 50 years later) that it was FREEZING. They held the soap drive in November, and after school it got dark and cold very fast.
Wasting all day Saturday to sell soap was worse though. The good news was that on Sunday my mother said it was a sin to work. Mum said Sunday was the sabbath, so on Sundays I didn't sell soap, and Mum didn't lift a finger around the house. It was great. She'd have made a good Protestant just like my dad was before she made him convert. I've always suspected she picked up that word "sabbath" from him since it still doesn't sound very Irish Catholic to me.
P.S. On Sundays I dressed my cat, Nicodemus, in doll clothes or read books like The Happy Hollister Mystery series or The Little Maid books. My Favorite was A Little Maid of Fort Ticonderoga. Those little maids were always saving the day for General Washington and they did it wearing dimity dresses, silk bonnets, and kid slippers.
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