Note: The following essay was written by Joseph Blahnik, edited by Frederick J. Blahnik, and is excerpted from the autobiographical tome “A Family United Amongst Itself”.
Celebrating Catholic Confession (The old-fashioned way!)
By Joseph R. Blahnik
Okay, Readers, let’s first set the scene before we get going here on this true tale: Early spring–late March or fresh into April–circa 1965, a Saturday, middle of the evening, the rural Louis and Mary Blahnik household located near the town of Spring
Valley in extreme southeastern Minnesota, which in turn is the furthest north province in the United States’ agricultural midsection, various members of the Blahnik family are gathered in their unkempt kitchen enjoying a liquor-fueled good time.
Reeadyyyyy…….okay….…ROLL THE CAMERAS!!!!!
Jim had just taken Dad to Confession down in Spring Valley, which many of you probably already know is an ironclad obligation within the Roman Catholic Church during the Easter season. So in the face of Mom’s insistent previous “request”, spiritually lackadaisical Dad finally relented to her prodding and listlessly succumbed to this yearly duty. Oldest brother Jim was ordinarily Dad’s chauffeur for the short trek into Spring Valley, in light of the fact Dad could not drive himself owing to his major and permanent lower extremity weakness resulting from his heroic bout with polio in the autumn of 1950.
| “He (Jim) became uber-aggressive and oftentimes hostile after quaffing but a few drinks.” |
Anyway, some (Most?) years the contrite and newly sin-free pair would stop at a local bar to do a little “after Confession” celebrating with alcohol. Such was indeed the case on this particular day and Easter season; after pouring out their litany of accumulated sins to an eavesdropping priest ensconced in his darkened adjoining cubicle, the father-son twosome–now unburdened of all their indiscretions and thus in a cheerful frame of mind–made their regular tavern stop and hurriedly swilled several beers before heading for home. But bless their altruistic hearts; those two voluble rascals were still obviously touched by their brief brush with Christian principles and were feeling uncharacteristically charitable and thus bought and brought home with them plenty of strong “refreshments” from the Spring Valley Liquor Store in order that
| “…..Jim seemed to be feeding off his(Fran’s) anger…..” |
the rest of us in the Blahnik family could join in their pre-Easter bacchanal.
After we all drank a few beers and were starting to feel loose and pleasantly lubricated, I suddenly felt an irresistible urge to dance, and the radio in the kitchen of our house was serendipitously tuned to a good Country and Western music station. Consequently, I started dancing with younger sister Dorothy in the cramped quarters of our messy kitchen and was having a merry old time with the smiling lassie.
Little brother Fran was also helping himself to some of the beer that night……probably way too much as events later demonstrated! The reader must remember that he was just a young fellow back then–somewhere in his mid-teens–and not too big for his age either, so his alcohol tolerance level wasn’t very high. Keeping that thought in mind, Fran likewise had a troubling habit of getting mad and irrational quite easily after consuming only a modicum of liquor.
| I have never been drunk, but I’ve often been over-served.
—George Gobel |
My style of dancing could get pretty wild and uncontrolled back in those halcyon days of Elvis and Andy, and I recollect a semi-drunken Dad made a sarcastic comment with regard to my unconventional form. For some peculiar reason, this made Fran inordinately angry.
Now you have to understand that Jim fell victim to the same malady as Fran when it came to drinking: He became uber-aggressive and oftentimes hostile after quaffing but a few beers.
Hence the situation rapidly developing right then was an undeniably volatile one; Fran was already wild-eyed and pugnacious, and Jim seemed to be feeding off the little shit’s anger with each ensuing second as well. I could see Jim was on the verge of losing his temper and guessed that next he would probably do something outrageously stupid, therefore I started to get nervous.
REAL REAL NERVOUS!!!!!
In fact, I could tell my older brother was teetering on the brink of fisticuffs, so I decided to walk into the bathroom to allow the two ornery inebriates some time to settle down a bit and collect their bearings.
Did I say walk?
As soon as I headed off in the direction of the bathroom, Jim tore off after me with a furious, crazed look in his eyes.
Walk—–HELL!!!!!
| “I took off running like a scared rabbit then…..” |
I took off running like a scared rabbit then, with Jim hot on my heels bellowing unrepeatable obscenities in my general direction. I barely beat him into the bathroom and scarcely got its door locked
| “…..Jim had hauled off and in frustration punched the thick wooden door!!” |
behind me when I heard a thunderous BANGGGGGGGGGG on the other side of the door. Unable to get at me personally, Jim had hauled off and punched the thick wooden door in abject frustration!
I turned behind me to look and, incredibly–a big vertical split had materialized all the way across the panel embedded in the door’s upper half. Mom and the girls started screaming incoherently at Jim and Fran at this juncture, and the two embarrassed miscreants slunk off outside and sat in a car until things cooled down sufficiently inside the house and they sobered up a little. Given the fact it was early spring and the outdoor temperature was still fairly cold and the ruddy-faced partners in mischief hadn’t bothered to take jackets along with them, that process only took a New York minute.
Ultimately, a chagrined and contrite Jim did work diligently to fix the door he had disfigured in a drunken fit of rage, but that aforementioned ugly split remained in the door for as long as I can remember as stark testimony to Jim’s mercurial temper after imbibing too much alcohol.
And his hand?
Yeah, you know…..the one Jim clubbed the door with??
Well, he never broke any bones in it so far as I know, but I imagine it was awfully sore for many days afterward as a glorious, painful reminder to the bombastic buffoon of the unpublicized pugilistic skills which had enabled him to TKO that thick, wooden barrier with a single looping right hook …..[1]
[1] Original, unpublished composition by Joseph R. Blahnik from 2011
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