In 1983 I was 10 years old. We had recently moved to Bumfuq, Ohio - a small town out in the middle of a few corn fields and tobacco fields. Our parents, down to three kids from seven, decided they needed a change and picked the exact opposite of everything Connecticut when choosing a place to move to. Dirt roads, one gas station. Real hillbillies sittin' on broken down porches with their dogs. Pretty much every character from Deliverance, all right there - rebel flags 'a wavin'.
In Connecticut, just before we'd moved, I'd recently been promoted to the newly formed Talented and Gifted Education Program. They focused resources towards my artistic talents, stressing the importance of "The Arts" to my parents and how I would be offered special programs inwhich I could grow and devlope my gift. However, Ohio's school system had their own idea of T.A.G. My new "school" had 2 classrooms per grade and each room had their own PADDLE. I said paddle. Long piece of wood with a handle. I am not joking around here folks. Ever see a ten year old boy get pulled out into the hall by a former Vietnam Vet now History teacher who's pissed off about a rubber band flying past his head? "Grab your ankles boy!" still rings in my ears. His paddle had signatures of all the little boys he made cry. Nothin' a little chew at recess didn't cure.
I don't know if it was the isolation from society or her having entered her Fourties, but that year our Mom's baptist beliefs went a little deeper than the usual conversations with God she had a'loud throughout the day; "Jesus H. Christ Almighty! Who left this mess in the bathroom?", or "Jesus Christ where is my purse?".
We knew she believed in God, she just wasn't exactly a "practicing" Christian. She'd made it a point to baptize every baby in her own kitchen sink, and she did send my sisters off to Sunday school when they were small - even if it was just to get an hour of peace and quiet, but she really did try in her own way. She taught us about Heaven and Hell, and she'd told us not to listen to those crazy Jahovah's Witnesses. Catholics were wacky too, with all their voo-doo smoke and chanting and those confessional booths. She'd say, "I don't need an operator to God - I dial direct!" There was always a giant bible in the house, given to her by her Grandmother, that she cherished. There were a few paintings of Jesus here and there that she truly loved. Christmas she'd display a little manger scene - complete with plastic baby Jesus and a couple of broken donkeys.
Maybe it wasn't her mid-life crisis, or the solitide of the country that did it. Maybe it was just the fact that only 3 channels came in on the television. Whatever the reason, Mother had soon made a friend in Jesus via TV Celebrity Jimmy Swagart. He had the Holy Ghostest with the Mostest that year. He'd been on every magazine cover, interviews on 20/20 with Babwa Wawa and such. She'd say, "You know - his cousin is Jerry Lee Lewis!" I'm pretty sure she had the hots for him. His weekly sermon via the boob-tube had given her new spirit. She'd turn him up as loud as that old tv box would go and clean the house while she listened to him. Every now and then you'd hear her "MmmHmmm", like the black women did in those tent revivals behind our house out past the corn field. And oh how she loved to hear him sing! The dog's howling summed up everyone elses' opinion. How she liked watching his sweaty head singing and crying through that TV, I don't know why, but she sure did.
It was around this time she saw in the newspaper a Bishop of some kind was coming to the area. Normally, she could care less about a Catholic Priest of any kind - but this one was said to be a "healer". She was really excited about his visit and said we were going to go see him so that he could heal my eyes.
I'd had Amplyopia, or "lazy eye", since I was 4. The condition itself had never really been a problem, it was mostly just the teasing from other kids that bothered me. Kids were mean, that's for sure. But it was who I was - and I'd accepted it. The double-vision didn't affect me really, and I was still a good artist, so it hadn't held me back or anything. I think it actually saved my ass a few times in my new school, not even the Nam guy could hit a cross-eyed kid. Still, I was turning 11 soon, and that's around the time even a tomboy girl throws out the toys and starts to think about her looks and being "pretty". I'd wondered what I would look like if my eyes were straight and "normal".
I don't remember much about the trip or even where it was we drove to. After we parked the car and walked a bit, I remember Mom pulling me by the hand through a HUGE crowd of people! There must have been hundreds, all of them trying to get close to this priest like he was Elvis! He was walking inside the circle of people clockwise, making his way around and shaking hands, etc. I didn't think we'd ever get to even SEE this Healer Priest much less get to talk to him. But Mom was pretty determined. Probably not very Christian-like the way she plowed through those people - but she was going to get to him and that was that. I was pulled through a sea of people until finally she pulled my hand and whipped me out into the open center circle at just the right time - right in front of him.
There he was - this round, pale faced man layered in tons of fabric. Red, white, soft drapes of velvet cloth all over him. Kinda like Santa, without the beard. In my memory of the moment, everything was still and silent. There we were, the two of us in the center of a large mass of people. The light was bright like a spotlight down on us, like a scene from a movie when the heavens part and the light shines down through the clouds. Crazy cool light. Maybe it just seemed like that because my eyeballs were wide open like saucers wondering where the hell I was and what was about to happen.
All of a sudden he grabbed my face by the cheeks, and pulls me into a sort of head lock. I'm pretty sure he was hugging me, but sure felt like a head lock. He was holding my head against his body like a football, one hand over my eye. Clearly, we were having a moment. It seemed like a very long time. My head was halfway inside his robe, half way out. I could see the detailed embroidery of his cape. Nice gold thread. Very nice.
I could also see the crowd - hands up to their mouths, some of them kneeling and praying and others making the sign of the cross. "Jesus, Am I some kind of sacrifice?", I thought. I could feel him squeezing tighter, or maybe I was struggling to get free. Either way about a minute longer and I would pass out for sure. He let go, and handed me a card. Some kind of photo of Mother Mary, very pretty. I gave it to my Mother and stumbled away, back into the crowd. He continued walking and shaking hands.
I didn't feel any different. My eye was still crossed. I chalked it up to an interesting experience I would maybe write about someday, but not the healing holy squeeze I'd thought it might be.
A few weeks later my Mother got a call from our eye doctor. He said he'd like to do an eye surgery on me, mostly cosmetic, but it could help visually as well. Since this would be a "trial" surgery for him - it would be of no charge to my parents. Free. Free surgery that fixed my eyes.
Holy Squeeze!
