To Climb an Apple Tree

"SANDYYYY!" broke through the summer haze. High and reaching, I heard it again, "SANDYYYY!" as I tried to concentrate on the lecture of Father Quinn about how he was tired of telling me not to climb the church apple trees.

"What if you fell and broke your arm? What then?" I nodded, trying not to show how distracted I was, but I could tell I wasn't the only one distracted. A faraway look came into Father Quinn's eyes and his next words were a puzzled, "Who's calling pigs in the middle of Chicago?"

I raised my hand up under his nose and offered, "My Grandma Katie's calling me."

"For the love of Mary, I thought I recognized that voice but I wasn't sure. You better run along now, Sandy, and don't let me catch you climbing the apple trees or anything else for that matter. At least, not on church property."

"You got it, Father."

"Peace preserve me, I hope so."

"Bye!"

"Go with my Blessing child."

I took off at a run, my Keds slapping the ground beneath my feet. This wasn't the first lecture Father Quinn had given me. One time, he had caught me climbing onto the roof of St. Francis school. It was pretty cool how his face could match the color of his hair. I was waiting for him to tell me I wasn't welcome on parish property ever again, but he never did.

Not even when I broke one of the rectory windows with a baseball. It was an accident, and I think he got that.

The rectory, church, and school were on the same city block surrounded by residential homes and little old ladies who, never fail, walked to church every Sunday under the lush canopy of elm and oak their heads covered in pretty flowered hats. I would watch them from the spare bedroom at my Grandma Katie's house. She lived across the street from St. Francis and didn't like me sitting on the porch in my nightgown. So I would watch from the spare bedroom window while she listened to Billy Graham on her old Sears television set.

"Sandy, I thought I told you not to leave the porch without telling me first." My grandma stood on the top step, her hands knucling her hips at the apron belt, "I worry so..."

"You always worry," I interrupted her. "I was just across the street."

"At the church?"

"I was talking to Father Quinn."

"Damn, cannibal. How many times have I told you not to go over there, it's not a playground."

"I like Father Quinn, he's nice."

"Because he lets you get away with murder with all that smells and bells nonsense. Inside," She moved aside and pointed to the door, her curlers shook with the sharp movement, "Breakfast is on the table."

"I'm not hungry."

"It's oatmeal."

I wrinkled my nose, "That's what you feed the cats."

"A little goes a long way," As I walked past her she took a swipe at my backside with her hand, "Next time it'll be a switch from the apple tree out back."