Man the Cannons

On Lodge nights, my mother often descended the stairs like uncertain royalty.  She wore sequined evening gowns and a tiara, carried a small gold clutch, and her tiny, swollen feet were crammed into fancy slippers - hair done, nails polished, and makeup overdone, she would take my daddy's arm and sweep off into the night, a short and bulging little woman, reinforced with a few glasses of sherry and ready to take on the world.


She belonged to everything - Eastern Star, the Rebeckahs, Nashoba Valley - secret societies one and all with their rituals and rites and chains of command.  Beyond the dressing up part, I never understood their purpose but it was a long held family tradition and not to be questioned.  Even my daddy took his part seriously - he was a 32nd degree Mason, a master, past master, and past grand master - an Oddfellow and a member of one such cult that required a three cornered hat, a bright white sash, white gloves and a genuine sabre in a shiny black and gold sheath. Only this last, The Commandry, he once confided to me, made him feel a trifle silly, like an imitation Lord Nelson off to a great sea battle.  Don't be sacrilegious, Guy! my mother would snap imperiously and he would assume his solemn face for her but give me a discreet wink.  Man the cannons, he'd whisper as he kissed me good night, and be good.  And with a dramatic flair, he would don his black cape with  the gold tasseled fasteners, and take my mother's elbow.  Leave us depart, madam, he would tell her, for the night is still young and merriment awaits!  Try as she might, even my mother could not help but smile at this.


Needless to say, we were all expected to follow in these fraternal footsteps and uphold the tradition, but we were young and just learning that parental wishes, not to mention rules, could be resisted.  After a brief and thoroughly miserable incarceration in the Rainbow Girls, I hung up my white dresses and put away my white pumps forever.  My brothers were spared entirely once my grandmother had concluded they were not Masonic material and thus the tradition ended - not soon enough my brothers and I declared victoriously (but only to each other and only in private).


Looking for a lesson in this, I think there are several - about vicarious living, having expectations, issues of control and growing up - but possibly the most important concerned not taking yourself so seriously that you bypass the outright silliness of life.  It takes a brave man to wear a sword and plumed hat but it takes a man who appreciates the lighter side to wear a sword and plumed hat and dash into a corner market for a pack of Luckies.  


Even a bad childhood has its lighter moments.