Franken-Saints(Gerald R Gioglio) "Lord, save us from gloomy saints." -- Teresa of Avila --

Nope. I was not going up there. No thanks, I’ll pass, no way; ain’t happening.’ I’ll tell you what, get your Mama to climb those steps. I’m cool right here. That’s how strongly I felt about heading up to the mysterious, terrifying second floor of my Aunt Madeline’s house.

Madeline and Uncle John lived just a couple of blocks from us, so we saw them often. The mother of many grown children, she was a kind, gentle, loving and happy person and her husband loved kids and was hysterically funny.

Aunt Madeline was an incredibly pious person, perhaps a bit over the top. For example, she sure prayed a lot and blessed herself after every wayward, “Damn” or “Hell” that slipped from her lips. I also remember her gazing at statues with adoring eyes appearing as if she were ready to weep. Even as a little kid it seemed questionable to me; I mean, in my world nobody else did anything like this.

She also took naps on three kitchen chairs instead of a bed. Family members suggested with a knowing smile meant to shut kids down that she slept there because she “had a bad back.” Okay, but, in Catholic elementary school, I’m learning about curious and painful penitential practices some of the saints got involved in, and considering Aunt Madeline, I’m going, “hmmm.” I guess it beat kneeling on rice or flogging oneself with leather straps…but I mean, look, it seemed to me some of those ascetic saints gave a poor example by taking the whole mortification thing way too seriously.

Aunt Madeline’s place featured imposing displays of Catholicism. One way beyond the ubiquitous and agonizing Crucifix found in Christian homes. At her house you’d find pictures, icons and statues of untold numbers of saints strategically arranged all over the place.

For all I know, she accumulated these pieces over the years, collecting and displaying various saintly icons as one might collect any number of tchotchkes -–frogs, roosters, cows, collector plates. I wondered if my aunt was enrolled in one of those collector clubs—maybe run out of the Vatican--where they sent you “Saint of the Month” statuary; you know, complete with Certificates of Authenticity. As an astute collector of various kid stuff that might someday be valuable, I hoped she kept the boxes…

Then again, Uncle John, now late in life, worked part-time as a janitor for our parish. Perhaps he helped turn their home into a saint arcade by requisitioning church overstock. Who knew, but by any measure it was quite a display.

There had to be six or seven larger than kid-sized statues on the second-floor landing, right at the top of the stairs. There they stood, in various poses of melancholy, misery, piety and/or penance, hands beckoning, in two-finger blessings with thumb and ring finger circled, or else holding something significant to each. All of them looming over the staircase and glaring right down…at me.

From a kids-eye view these were some scary looking characters, downright menacing. Not one of them was smiling and I knew some had been martyred, so no wonder they looked upset. Like, I recognized St. Blaise standing there holding his candles. I knew him because the Good Sisters said he was the Patron Saint of Sore Throats. Apparently, he used his superpowers to save someone who swallowed a chicken bone. They also said he had been tortured and beheaded. I thought, that must be why he looks pissed enough to smack any and all young sinners, such as myself, upside the head with one of those candlesticks.

Now, I didn’t know what else was on the second floor and I was too frightened to find out. I imagined empty bedrooms turned into virtual saint museums, filled to capacity with statuary and icons. I mean, maybe there was the action figure of Michael the Archangel, sword in hand ready to decapitate the guy who twisted in agony under his boot. I’m thinking, “That could be me!”

Then again, maybe St. Francis of Assisi would be there, the guy who loved animals. You’d see him all over town in gardens and birdbaths usually smiling, surrounded by birds, rabbits, squirrels and fawns. Then I remembered, he could also be depicted looking serious and standing next to a hungry-lookin’ wolf. Freaking out I reasoned, “Wait, a wolf is bad enough, but that could be a werewolf.” A werewolf!

In any case, I knew those grim and hard-faced saints, aligned like guards on the second floor, scared the living hell out of me; there was no way I was climbing those stairs to cross their path. I mean, now it made sense, no wonder my aunt chose to sleep downstairs on three kitchen chairs! A bad back? Yeah sure. Penitential practice? Nah. She was as terrified of that staircase as I was.

But there was one problem; the only bathroom in the house was located on the second floor. I only lived two long blocks away, but that day I got it bad. I had to go. I’m talkin’ early onset overactive bladder syndrome. For immediate relief one had to brave those stairs and navigate past those sour saints. I’m weighing the odds, what could possibly happen…they are only statues…right? But what if they resurrected, ganged up on me and whisked me off to a place in Purgatory where you lived your worst nightmare for some good portion of eternity? You know, like having to watch endless replays of New York Yankee games—or worse, an eternity of radio and TV reruns of the Yankees defeating the Dodgers in several World Series? Lord, have mercy.

Standing there, shaking in my sneaks (AKA ‘sneakers’ in the 1950s) I remembered the Gospel story about Saint Peter who was challenged to walk on water, and tried to do it…until he didn’t. According to our priest, in his moment of fear Peter reached out for help. For the good Reverend, reaching out to the Lord was always a great idea. Well, this seemed to be a good time to reach out for Divine intervention. So, hoping Brother Jesus was with me I fearfully decided to give “walking on water” a try. Heart pounding, I cautiously, fretfully started up that eerie and foreboding staircase.

There were exactly thirteen steps. I’m thinking, “What was wrong with those carpenters, didn’t they know thirteen is an unlucky number?” But up we go, my legs as heavy as cinder blocks. Step 1, step 2, step 3…I’m thinking, ‘feet don’t fail me now;’ slowly, ever so slowly I hit the seventh step; under the pressure of my foot, it gives a bit emitting an otherworldly c-r-e-a-k--scaring the living bejesus out of me. Now I’m flashing back to the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz when he cried, “I do believe in spooks. I do believe in spooks.” I felt doomed, hopeless and condemned.

Gathering my wits, I keep going. I am not looking up at those saints. I focus only on the risers between the steps. Arriving at step ten I am now able to see over the landing. I look between the spindles of the banister to check my left flank so I’m not waylaid by spooks, werewolves, or unknown zombie-saints poised to spring an ambush. All clear.

I turned to scope out the other side. Eyes right I spy a tall, ancient, cast-iron radiator, ubiquitous in those days. Hanging just above it was a calendar, the top portion tacked in the center. But wait…what the heck! It was not stationary. The calendar was swinging left to right like a pendulum. No human was there to push it. Yet the calendar was swinging back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I am frozen with fear. Everything is in slow motion; my feet are stuck in place as if immobilized by quickly hardening wax from some of Blaise’s candles. I look again as I imagine the calendar morphing into a guillotine, ready to chop the head off any kid dumb enough to take the next few steps.

I’m like, “Brother Jesus this walking-on-water thing might be fine for your Apostles; but hold on a minute! Didn’t you nickname the guy who first tried it ‘Rock.’ And you know what? Rocks don’t float! So, okay, I’m reaching out again and you and I need to get the heck out of here. Now!”

Quicker than you could say “Jack Robinson” I turned and ran. My feet were flashing, my heart pumping, my bladder aching as I crashed down those stairs, out the front door, up the street and into the safety and security of my own home. Happy to still be alive, I ran to the bathroom for the long overdue, yet immediate, and aptly-named, “pause that refreshes.”

Some days later my adult brother came home for a visit. For the first time I felt brave enough to tell the story and ask if he thought I should get our priest to contact an Exorcist. Smiling gently, he says “Sounds scary, but here’s what really happened. The heat waves flowing up from the radiator made the calendar pivot on the single tack causing it to sway back and forth. Those saints had nothing to do with it.”

I was somewhat relieved, but skeptical. In any case, it seemed this time natural law trumped spiritual possibilities, even if I was too young to comprehend the part in the walking on water story where Peter was told “do not be afraid” and asked “why did you doubt?” Still, even though I failed the walking on water test, I was grateful for being saved from an eternity of insufferable Yankee baseball.

Moving forward, I grew bigger than those statues, less afraid, and learned the sometimes-enigmatic hagiography and life history of particular saints. Indeed, I was relieved to discover all the good they did in their lives, feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, educating, peacemaking. Heck, most saints have every reason in the world to be smiling on their icons.

But before I came to know this, I guess I was afflicted by some form of spiritual Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, because in childhood, I made it my business to never set foot on that creepy staircase again.

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