Confessions of a Free Range Prolapsed Catholic

Fifty Four years ago when I was 19 and Triple L was 23, we were married. It was a long day. That long day had been preceded by a couple of weeks of fear, panic, horror, rage, anger, but never fear of what was about to happen!

In other writings, I have described my traditional catholic upbringing, as placing our family, firmly, to be the equivalent of the Kardashians in the latter half of 20th century. In the diocese where my Mum and Dad married and raised their 6 children and scattered among my mother’s family we were abundantly blessed with vocations to the priesthood and religious life as my parents prayed for every night . I was child number four. The first three had received “the call” and responded in the positive. Next cab off the rank was me. If there was one thing that I could not bear the thought of, it was the sight of my mother putting on her sunglasses at the end of the visiting day at various monasteries, convents and seminaries while imbibing in afternoon tea .She hid behind those glasses until the following morning. We prayed the rosary all the way home.

In 1969 I became a student at the Conservatorium of Music in Newcastle and Newcastle Teachers College. It was a four year scholarship. Triple L and I met at a dance having been spurred on by his ex, my best friend. I was in sixth form. That’s another story! It was at the end of a dance ( NOT CATHOLIC) that my Mum who had arrived to pick me up , discovered me and Triple L holding hands at the back of the auditorium ! I was in my second year at the Conservatorium. She stopped the car at the bottom of our street, and quizzed me like a chief investigator in a murder trial. Fortunately she stopped short of collapse when I answered “No” to the question “and is he a Catholic?’ Well the cat was out of the bag and eventually permission was given for us to “date”

Two of us at the Con took up the cello! For another student, cello was her principal study. I had loved the cello. I imagined “ The Swan” by Saint Seans becoming my signature solo! One of my most significant teachers (a nun of course) was a cellist and I wanted to learn to play it too. The story of why I never learned to use the bow but I could pluck with great dexterity (double entendre not intended) is another tale to tell. By the time the “cellists” had finished our second year of study, we were all pregnant!. !971 was a big year for unmarried mothers! “ Too young to be married” was hot on the charts!

The Orange and the Green in real life is what Gary and I were!! That was not without its hurdles either! Telling the in laws was a challenge. His Nana would not enter the church because she had promised her husband, on his death bed, she would never enter a catholic church because he was a Mason. His Nana had raised Gary after the death of his mother in 1951 – before I was born! Gary was nearly 3. His Aunty, a committed Methodist quizzed us as to “and why are you getting married?” My response was “because we love each other”.

March 23rd 1971 I had a piano lesson in the morning at the Conservatorium, third floor of the Cultural Centre. I told my teacher I was getting married that evening. End of lesson I had my hair done in the hairdressers near or in the Civic Arcade. An “updo” with gold braid threaded through it. I had made my dress but had been more than ably assisted by a good friend of Mum, Marie who put the finishing touches on it. Ecru – not white. From The Roxy in Hamilton,I hired a bouquet of artificial flowers. I was a bit disappointed about that but was not keen to make a fuss. My bridesmaid had a gorgeous red velvet gown

We hired a bouquet of red and white artificial flowers for her too. My graduation from high school shoes still fitted and I was pretty pleased with myself.

Mum’s best friend, mother of eleven, organised food. Their enormous black car had been polished to within an inch of its life, her husband was the driver of the bridal car. Gary’s car “Bridget” BBL908 ( a Vauxhall Velox second prize winner in the Newcastle show!) was transport for the bridesmaid driven by Gary’s brother, and “best man” . Dad wrapped my arm around his elbow, the “Trumpet Voluntary” started, played by my sister on the electric harmonium and off we went. My Dad’s grip was palpable strength and support. My “little brothers” were altar servers. My Redemptorist priest Uncle concelebrated with my brother as chief celebrant. We had permission to have a Nuptial Mass even though Gary was from the Orange Team and I was under 21.

My matron of honour’s parents lived in a beautiful BHP residence in Mayfield. That was the site of the reception. Rushed in its preparation, it had all the official touches! Magnificent cake! Great food! Speeches. Toasts. Telegrams! All my uncles and Aunties were there, my close friends from the Con, Cousins, friends, and of course a fantastic, prolongued singalong courtesy of Mum.

Came the time to leave. Going away outfit was a two piece , purple woollen pantsuit with a pink blouse. It was pretty late when we had a bit of a drive to the “Colonial Motel Inn” ( I think) in Shoal Bay. Crossing the harbour on the punt was the quickest way to get there. The best man had been threatened with everything short of death if the car was mucked around with in any way. The crowd gathered round to farewell us, Gary turned over the engine….nothing…. several times. The best man ( a mechanic) lifted the hood. My brother (first born, member of a religious order at the time) came around to the front of the car, put his hand on the hood and his arm around the shoulder of the best man and said “If you do not fix this now, I am going to bring the hood down on your head!” Things were quiet for a split second and then the distributer cap was fixed up (whatever that meant) and we were off!

The drive to Shoal Bay was a bit scary. Fog had moved in by the time we crossed the harbour but we got there. It was a lovely modern (for 1971) room. We were exhausted. At seven months pregnant I had been suffering night time leg cramps for a bit. I think we were asleep before we hit the pillows. There was a sort of low mantle shelf around the wall. of the room. I woke up in the middle of a full on leg cramp, screaming in pain. The Bridegroom leapt out of bed and knocked himself out in his desperate attempt to ensure I was not dying or giving birth!

We returned on April 26th. I went back to my harmony lecture on Tuesday 27th and announced, to my lecturer that I had changed my name over the weekend and life went on!

We moved into Gary’s Nanna’s house. We had already started the process of finding our “forever home” and were waiting for finances and contracts to be settled. I remember sharing my misery about not having finalised the sale of the house with my Dad. He listened to my regret that these very first days of our marriage had to be shared with a woman who was probably then, as old as I am now, before the arrival of our first child. My Dad’s response? “Time alone is very important but there is nothing that will make you happier of feel more love than after your children arrive. That’s when you become a family.” We moved into our home on June 18th 1971. Our wonderful daughter Patricia Grace named after both her Grandmothers and her paternal Great Grandmother was born on June 25th 1971.

My wise and wonderful Dad was right!