The Age of Reason
If there is one sure way to wreck a chunk of a kid’s life, it is to tell them something that seems plausible, that may even be theoretically possible, but is totally untrue. Catch the kid at the height of their innocence, the kid with the wild imagination and the trusting face who has not been around long enough to fine hone their cold, analytical skills; a naïve kid just like I was.
At six years of age my knowledge of horticulture, and fruit growing in particular, was not very advanced. One fateful day I had the misfortune (as it turned out) to swallow a mouthful of apple pips and I shared this unremarkable (at the time) piece of information with a family friend who happened to be in our house at the time. Assuming a look of utter despair, the kind of look that says. “You know I would do anything to save you if I could, but I am powerless against the forces of nature,” she told me in grave yet magisterial tones that an apple tree would grow inside me. I responded casually, shrugging off bad news just as I had seen adults do; indeed, all that I was missing was a long drag from a cigarette. But the full gravity of the situation had already taken root and I just about managed to cling onto my rapidly diminishing sense of composure until I left the room.
From that moment on my world became black, my situation hopeless, and my future ruined before it had even begun. I took a grim and morbid interest in trees, wondering aloud how tall and wide they grew, and wondering silently how I would accommodate all the branches. I mentally pictured them growing out of my ears and down my nose. My prospects were indeed bleak and my little six-year-old mind was cracking under the pressure. After about a week I couldn’t take any more. I ran up to my mother, threw my arms around her, sobbed uncontrollably and told her the devastating news – that an apple tree was growing inside me. I cannot remember her exact words, but whatever she said it worked, and I could feel the weight lifting off me as she spoke. Life was good again, and I felt that I could cope with anything after recovering from such a horrific episode.
That was until a few weeks before my First Holy Communion. The outrageously devout nun who was preparing us for the sombre event was determined to move fear off the Richter scale in an effort to make us appreciate the extreme solemnity of the occasion. Since we were already well versed in the horrors of the underworld, she harnessed this knowledge to good effect. With squinting eyes and a puckered face she told us that if the consecrated host touched our teeth we would burn in hell for all eternity. As her eyes narrowed our eyes widened and the worry of accommodating the branches of an apple tree about my person now ranked as mere trivia. My new challenge was to become adept at the dental gymnastics required to avoid eternal damnation; but sure it would be grand, wouldn’t it? Sure I was going to turn seven the very week of my First Holy Communion and that was the age of reason and I’d be all grown up and capable of handling any spiritual emergency. But no; several weeks of practice with the unconsecrated host only compounded the fear and on the day of the solemn occasion the unthinkable happened. Yes, my baby teeth condemned me to that hellish inferno, but all was not lost. I remembered that other sacrament - confession, and I hot-footed it there as soon as possible after the event. The words of the kindly old priest seemed to imply a grave theological difference between him and the over zealous nun. My imagination took over again. He became a wizard (a rare phenomenon I’ll grant you), undid the spell, and let me get back to being a kid again.
This was originally broadcast on Sunday Miscellany RTE1 October 26th 2003. This is a slightly edited version.
© Copyright Berni Dwan 2003, 2015
If there is one sure way to wreck a chunk of a kid’s life, it is to tell them something that seems plausible, that may even be theoretically possible, but is totally untrue. Catch the kid at the height of their innocence, the kid with the wild imagination and the trusting face who has not been around long enough to fine hone their cold, analytical skills; a naïve kid just like I was.
At six years of age my knowledge of horticulture, and fruit growing in particular, was not very advanced. One fateful day I had the misfortune (as it turned out) to swallow a mouthful of apple pips and I shared this unremarkable (at the time) piece of information with a family friend who happened to be in our house at the time. Assuming a look of utter despair, the kind of look that says. “You know I would do anything to save you if I could, but I am powerless against the forces of nature,” she told me in grave yet magisterial tones that an apple tree would grow inside me. I responded casually, shrugging off bad news just as I had seen adults do; indeed, all that I was missing was a long drag from a cigarette. But the full gravity of the situation had already taken root and I just about managed to cling onto my rapidly diminishing sense of composure until I left the room.
From that moment on my world became black, my situation hopeless, and my future ruined before it had even begun. I took a grim and morbid interest in trees, wondering aloud how tall and wide they grew, and wondering silently how I would accommodate all the branches. I mentally pictured them growing out of my ears and down my nose. My prospects were indeed bleak and my little six-year-old mind was cracking under the pressure. After about a week I couldn’t take any more. I ran up to my mother, threw my arms around her, sobbed uncontrollably and told her the devastating news – that an apple tree was growing inside me. I cannot remember her exact words, but whatever she said it worked, and I could feel the weight lifting off me as she spoke. Life was good again, and I felt that I could cope with anything after recovering from such a horrific episode.
That was until a few weeks before my First Holy Communion. The outrageously devout nun who was preparing us for the sombre event was determined to move fear off the Richter scale in an effort to make us appreciate the extreme solemnity of the occasion. Since we were already well versed in the horrors of the underworld, she harnessed this knowledge to good effect. With squinting eyes and a puckered face she told us that if the consecrated host touched our teeth we would burn in hell for all eternity. As her eyes narrowed our eyes widened and the worry of accommodating the branches of an apple tree about my person now ranked as mere trivia. My new challenge was to become adept at the dental gymnastics required to avoid eternal damnation; but sure it would be grand, wouldn’t it? Sure I was going to turn seven the very week of my First Holy Communion and that was the age of reason and I’d be all grown up and capable of handling any spiritual emergency. But no; several weeks of practice with the unconsecrated host only compounded the fear and on the day of the solemn occasion the unthinkable happened. Yes, my baby teeth condemned me to that hellish inferno, but all was not lost. I remembered that other sacrament - confession, and I hot-footed it there as soon as possible after the event. The words of the kindly old priest seemed to imply a grave theological difference between him and the over zealous nun. My imagination took over again. He became a wizard (a rare phenomenon I’ll grant you), undid the spell, and let me get back to being a kid again.
This was originally broadcast on Sunday Miscellany RTE1 October 26th 2003. This is a slightly edited version.
© Copyright Berni Dwan 2003, 2015
