The Confession

Is there a correlation between a lesson learned and the degree to which it impacts you? Secondly, do all lessons learned have value? At the time, I did not think everything through. Then, again, a seven-year-old never does.

I wouldn’t call myself angelic, but I was far from being a delinquent. I practiced the Catholic faith religiously: obeyed my parents, never lied (sort of), honored my God, did not steal anything (although the temptation was there), did not eat meat on Fridays, went to confession on Saturdays, and attended mass every Sunday. There was way more to being Catholic than what is mentioned, but there was only so much a boy could fit into each day. Besides, I had school, homework, piano practice, sports, chores, and family time required every week. Time with friends was also quite important. When I think about it, I rarely had any time to myself!

It was an interesting time being so young, living in Santa Clara Valley. It was a time when orchards were everywhere. Peach, pear, apricot, prune, and cherry trees flourished throughout the valley. My candy apple-red bicycle got me wherever I wished to go. Within five minutes from my home, I could be plucking cherries from the limbs of trees that overhung sidewalks along my route. No one cared. It was not stealing, so it was not a sin. In those days there was no crime snatching a pear, a couple of apricots or prunes while peddling my trusty Schwinn to the far edges of my world. My parents never worried about me bicycling a few miles from the house. It was rarely an issue about safety nor a concern about abduction. It was 1952, the post-war period, full of promises even for blue collar workers like my parents. To work hard was an expectation, not some type of curse. My grandfather, who took a chance in 1910 to venture from Sicily with his bride to the New World, was able to buy two parcels of land in San Jose. He worked in the fields, pruning the beautiful fruit trees, while my grandmom canned the fruit from those trees in one of the twenty-six canneries that dotted the town.

Yes, my world would change later when the orchards were plowed under to make room for Silicon Valley. The new, wall-to-wall cemented city eventually lost its character, paving the way for big businesses and Eastern investors to squeeze out small landowners like my grandparents. Gone were the orchards, whisking along the canneries with them. But until that day arrived, life was good, simple, and peaceful. If life was better somewhere else in town, I never knew it. How can you long for something if you do not know it exists?

My seven-year-old friends were an eclectic group. Nicknames were important to be part of our “cool” group. There was Junior, Shammy, The Roach, Dini, Gunner, and me, The Count. Not a bad one amongst us. Junior was pretty much non-descript, except for the glasses he had to wear. Of course he had to endure our ribbing, calling him “four-eyes”. That is about as mean as any of us could be. Shammy felt he was a tough guy, but The Roach was tougher. No one ever challenged him, not even Shammy. Dini was the best looking of the group. He reminded me of a young Ricky Nelson. While Gunner thought he was good looking, he seemed to be conceited even at the tender age of seven. Dini and Gunner were into swearing or at least they were spouting words I had never heard before. I often wondered if those two ever confessed “…using God’s name in vain…” We all went to the same Catholic school, so we were together for 7 hours a day, five days a week during the school year. The Roach got into the most trouble mainly because he teased girls during recess or lunch. Was that a sin too? The nuns who taught us were strict. Light corporal punishment was acceptable. I could tolerate what the nuns dished out, but it was a double whammy to also be punished more harshly by my parents.

My group of friends hung out together on weekends and part of our summer vacation. If we all got together at the park, we would play tackle football with a Pee Wee ball. Of course, if it were spring, we would play baseball. There was always trouble when we played baseball, arguing about who bats next or whether someone missed a tag or not, or if a ball was foul or fair. One time Shammy got really mad at me objecting to the way I caught a foul ball off his bat. He had brought the only ball to the park, and because he was so upset, he took the ball from me, got on his bike, and rode off. The rest of us just looked at one another. Dini swore a couple of words, then we too all rode off.

It was August, right before school started again. The summer sun’s rays blanketed the backyard, providing no relief from the heat. I was outside alone while my parents were inside, relaxing in the living room. I remember I was in the shed next to the garage. There was a pile of old newspapers in a barrel. I found a box of matches on a ledge not far from the barrel. I don’t know why, but I felt compelled to grab the matches. I regretted all of what happened next.

I started lighting matches, one at a time tossing them into the top of the barrel but blowing them out before any paper could catch fire. I got away with this for the first five times. But when I lit the next match and threw it into the barrel it slipped down between the paper and the edge of the wooden barrel. Within the next second most of the paper in the barrel was on fire! I ran across the driveway and opened the back door to the house. I yelled out that the shed was on fire! If only that were true because now part of the garage was in flames as well. My dad came running out while my mom got on the phone to call the fire department. He stood on the back steps looking at the fire consume the shed. Two electrical wires extended from the garage to the house. Fire began traveling along the wires to the house. My dad heroically jumped up and pulled the two wires away from the house, sustaining minor burns to his hands.

A fire truck arrived within the next two minutes. Neighbors began to gather at the sidewalk. A few even walked slowly down the driveway to get a better look. A second truck arrived moments later, causing the neighbors to scatter. Dark smoke billowed from the burning garage. Nothing was left of the shed. The firemen worked frantically to save part of the garage. But in the end only a few smoldering boards of charred framework withstood the fire, where once a complete two-car garage stood.

The fire crew remained for about an hour after all the flames were extinguished. The captain said a few words to my dad. A moment later he and the trucks left, leaving my mom, dad, and me standing and staring at the aftermath. We looked like three lost souls, the last three survivors who had witnessed the horrors of war. My dad smelled of charcoal, my mom wept, and, at that moment, I wished I was dead. Although my parents did not ask, I sheepishly told them how I started the fire, every painful detail. My mom could not stop crying. It was the only time I had not received punishment for something I did wrong. We lost more than a garage and shed. There were mementos stored in the shed from generations past. My dad had all his tools in the garage. It took him years to afford most of them. Now, none of them were usable.

This was the toughest lesson I had learned in my life because I had hurt others, the two most important people at that time--my mother and father. The next Saturday I confessed my sin. But what I was deeply sorry for was putting my dad’s life at risk. The thought of losing our home too would make my family homeless. My parents did not have the money to rebuild. It is a painful memory I carry even to this day, over seventy years later. Whenever I light a match or see a flickering flame, the nightmare returns.