| ROSIE AND ME |
| Sunday in the park with Rosie |
| In the distance we heard our church bell summoning the faithful. It had been my suggestion to skip Sunday school. It had been an idle thought but one on which Rosie had pounced. We were eleven years old and thought ourselves to be sophisticated. Life had so much to offer. We didn't want to spend this spring morning imprisoned in a musty church basement, listening to the braying of the embittered Miss Woods, and stumbling through dreary hymns that seemed to be carefully chosen to curb our youthful enthusiasm. "Hot damn," said Rosie."Let's do it. "I had a few reservations. "We'll get caught." "Doing what?" said Rosie. "Not going to Sunday school," I said. Rosie looked at me with pity. " We can't get caught NOT doing anything, can we?" It didn't sound right. Rosie sometimes played around with words like that and I always got confused. I tried another objection. "Miss Woods will tell our folks that we weren't there." "Miss Woods doesn't talk to our folks," said Rosie. This was true. My Mom and Dad never went to church, neither did Rosie's Mom and Rosie' s grandmother went to the chapel at the other end of town. "God will be mad," I said. "He' s got plenty of people visiting him today," said Rosie, "He'll never miss us." "We won' t go to hell, will we?" Rosie said that she was positively sure that this wouldn't happen and so we went to the park and played on the swings until an ice cream cart came into view. "Rainbows keep falling on my head" I sang. "Rainbows can't fall on your head," Rosie pointed out. I laughed. "I mean raindrops!" "Come on," said Rosie. "Let's buy an ice cream with our collection money." "Rosie," I protested. "That money is for the poor." "Do you have any money?" she asked. "No." I admitted. My parents had never heard of an allowance. "Well then," said Rosie. " If you haven't any money, you must be poor." "Yes," I agreed. "I suppose I am." Everything we did that morning filled me with a delicious sense of guilt but I did miss Rosie's weekly confrontation with Miss Woods. Rosie read the bible more than the average eleven-year-old did. "Which is it, Miss Woods," she would ask. 'Turn the other cheek' or 'An eye for an eye'?" Then "If Adam and Eve were the only people on earth, who did their children marry?" Miss Woods became flustered and tried to keep to the planned lesson. She always referred to the Book but Rosie claimed direct communication with God. It was many years later that I realized that it was not a coincidence that His opinions were a reflection of those held by Rosie. We walked over to the pond. A clutch of fathers sailed toy boats, while their small boys ran wild in a field of daisies. Rosie wondered where the little girls were. They are probably helping their mothers with Sunday dinner," I said, satisfied that this should be so. Rosie did not agree " Why can't the daughters go to the park?" she stormed. "Let the boys pod the peas and set the table." I thought that Rosie had some strange ideas. We heard the tennis pavilion clock chime. There was time for a walk through the rose garden before we made our way home. In the rose garden we met my Aunt Connie. " What are you doing here?" she said. " You're supposed to be at Sunday school." My heart almost stopped. A piece of scripture thundered through my brain: Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Rosie looked a little stricken. "We've cooked our goose now!" she whispered. And then I stared at Aunt Connie's hand. It was tightly clasped by a man who was not UncleArt. Uncle Art was round; Uncle Art was bald and slightly smelly. This man was tall and romantic and he smiled down at my Aunt Connie with an expression of melancholy rapture. As Aunt Connie pulled her hand away our eyes met and it was established that neither Aunt Connie nor I were going to mention this meeting to anyone. Rosie didn't know my Uncle Art so she was relieved when I explained. She said she would save for future occasions the three excuses she had been concocting: that it had all been my idea that we were obeying God's will that the devil had made us do it. copyright 2001 Brenda Ross |
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