Catholic families, when I was growing up, celebrated the
traditional church holidays as well as the mile-marker sacraments such as
Baptism (or Christening), First Communion, Confirmation, Marriage. In a big family, such as mine, this involved
a lot of celebrations throughout the year.
These celebrations hold some of my most treasured memories.
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My First Communion Party, May 1950. Sander Street
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Our celebrations revolved around food, like most other
families’ parties. And beer and pop. The kids, the cousins, had a blast. We ran and played, grabbed cookies and sipped
pop, without the adults paying us much
mind as long as they knew where we were.
They were busy catching up.
These Dean Family parties were the best times for all of us. My father and his four siblings teased and joked while Grandma smiled proudly over
her five grown children, still close to home, and her growing herd of grandchildren. Life was good then.
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A Christmas Celebration with Aunt Clara and the Mertz and
Berding Cousins. |
My fifth-grade Confirmation celebration was one of those
parties, but even better because it included
my mother’s famly too, the Joneses.
My cousin, Marilyn, Uncle Buford daughter, was my Confirmation
sponsor. Uncle Buford was my mom’s only
sibling.
The sponsor didn’t really have to do anything,
just stand behind you as you knelt at
the communion railing, as the Bishop came down the line, slapped you on the
cheek and said your Confirmation name.
You had to have picked a saint’s name to be confirmed.
I remember pouring over lists of saints’ names for several
weeks before the grand event. I thought about “Ramona,” after my Dad,
Raymond.
Seriously, there was a St. Ramona on one of the lists the
nuns gave us.
Mom said, “No, you
will not.” She obviously didn’t care
much for that name. Dad liked it of
course.
I cannot tell you how many girls in my class chose “Mary.” The ones whose name were not already
Mary. I was always a noncomformist, so
I wanted a “special” name no one else would choose.
Mom reminded me of my long departed grandmother’s name. Cecile.
Mom thought that was a pretty name.
I looked it up, and there was a St. Cecila, the patron saint of music.
Except my maternal grandmother’s name was “Cecile,” not
Cecilia. Close enough, we decided. Cecile it would be.
It made sense, seeing
as music was a huge part of my life. And
it made my mother happy. Not having her
mother around like other young women raising families always hurt Mom. She missed her mother. Dad said choosing Cecile was a good
thing. I don’t think he really cared
about “Ramona.”
Most of all, since I had no memory of my Grandmother Cecile—having
died before my first birthday—her name would be part of me forever.
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| St. George Church...Cincinnati.org |
Confirmation was an evening ritual inside the low-candle-lit,
cathedral-like church. I almost felt like I was going to a special
party in my brand new, black suede,
first-time-ever pumps—shoes with no straps!
And nylons, which I’d only the Easter before been allowed to exchange
for white cotton socks.
Grandma had bought me,
on one of our shopping trips downtown, a navy blue satin, circular skirt with
an iridescant-like sheen to it. We’d
found it on a sale rack in Shillitoe’s Bargain Basement. I wore a white frilly blouse and felt like a
movie star.
I guess Confirmation was sort of like a debut, at least for
the girls. We got to dress almost like
adults.
Aunt Vera had shampooed and pin-curled my hair early that
morning and brushed it out after I was dressed.
It wasn’t my favorite hairdo, but I had poker-straight hair and my
mother and grandma both wanted it curled.
Aunt Vera was the Pin-Curl Queen.
She fastened the tiny spirals as tight as she could, and your scalp
finally became numb after hurting for hours.
When we arrived at church that evening, I remember being
proud beyond words of my cousin Marilyn.
She was tall and beautiful, and mature.
She was older than me and my classmates.
The only dark spot on my confirmation coming-out, was when
the Bishop came down the line and stood in front of me, and lightly slapping my
cheek, pronounced me “Cecil.” Without
the “e” on the end. Cee’-sul!
Like a boy’s name. Emphasis on
the Cee.
And Marilyn heard it.
The girls kneeling on either side of me heard it. Next day the whole class had heard it.
Mom said some people had called her mother Cecil because her
name wasn’t Cecilia, and they didn’t
realize the “e” on the end was
there for a purpose. It should be
pronounced Ce-seel’, accent on the second syllable.
It didn’t make it any better that my dead grandmother had to
bear such disgrace, but I decided to look down with contempt on anyone not
learned enough to know how to pronounce a simple name. A beautiful lname.
Finally one of the nuns informed me that the Bishop had
pronounced the Latin version of Cecile.
I don’t think that was true.
Eventually the teasing died down as it usually does, and I
still liked my Cecile name.
When I began doing family history in earnest, I liked my
name even more when I wrote about my Maternal Grandmother Cecile Leeds. I hope she knows I am proud to have her name.
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| My Maternal Grandmother, Cecile May Leeds |
