Spanning seven decades from his 1940s childhood in Rochester, New York, to his retirement in Southern California, Sleeping with Lumbago documents the events and experiences of author Sam R. Culotta's life. He recalls his Catholic school days, his family's migration west, his teens, his military service, and, most notably, the dynamics of his Sicilian-American family.

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Sleeping with Lumbago

Often Humorous, Always Personal EssaysBy Sam R. Culotta

iUniverse, Inc.

Copyright � 2011 Sam R. Culotta
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-5060-4

And Then There Were Two..............................................1Justice..............................................................9Bunnies and Bass.....................................................16The Roots of All Evil................................................24Music's Willing Fool.................................................30Transcontinental Divide..............................................41Caution: Friends may be Hazardous to Your Health.....................50The Old Ways.........................................................56If Hired, I Will Not Serve...........................................64Security.............................................................76Guard Mount..........................................................82The Chicken Came First...............................................94Runner in the Night..................................................102Our House............................................................111Why Are You Being So Quiet?..........................................119Bury the Egg in a Secret Place.......................................131But, Baby, It's Hot Outside!.........................................139"Oh, Look, Honey!"...................................................146Is Mr. Sam Going to Decorate?........................................155It Was Quiet Here Once...............................................160Oh, Lucky Us.........................................................169Are We in Texas Yet?.................................................176Out of the Mouth of Dad..............................................191AARP Goes To Laughlin................................................202The Spinal Chronicles................................................210

Chapter One

And Then There Were Two

As father gives his homily, principal Sister Mary Aloysius, played by Meryl Streep, moves silently down the side aisle, her reptilian stare fixed on her intended victim, a young boy who has dozed off. As she arrives at his pew, she bends down her bonneted head and slowly turns toward him. With a brief whisper, she startles him into horrified awareness, issues a rebuke, and moves on. Her face is corpse cold, scrunched by her wimple; her skin is drawn so tight her cheekbones threaten to tear through. Her Gorgon's glare can turn the whisperer to stone, freeze the titter on the titterer's lips. The movie is Doubt, and Sister is inflicting her own code of justice. She is judge, jury, and executioner all in one. Her ability to inspire fear is awesome. Perhaps younger audiences don't get it, but I do. I remember the Sisters of Notre Dame, nuns from a Boston-based order, who were at least as intimidating and awe-inspiring as this fictional nun.

* * *

It was 1951 I was eleven years old and in the sixth grade at St. Michael's in Rochester, New York. During class, Sister Mary L., "the little lioness," told us we were going to undergo physical examinations this morning and directed us to proceed to the health office and follow the instructions of the nurse. We were clueless, but we lined up as instructed and filed out in an orderly manner, headed to the designated location where we were met by a nurse who separated us by gender, boys to the right and girls to the left.

We were accustomed to following instructions and would never dream of questioning authority in whatever guise it appeared. But there was a titular hierarchy: first was God, then our parents, then the priests and nuns, and then law enforcement, and so on. Of them all, we were most fearful of the nuns. To cross a nun was to offend God, parent, and country; justice was swift and certain, and there was no court of appeal since everyone else in our world shared a healthy respect for these "brides of Christ."

The room we entered was divided by foldaway screens that had been arranged in such a way as to provide a reasonable degree of privacy. After a turn or two, you came into a cubicle of sorts where a doctor sat. There was a small table to his side with various instruments that glinted in the milky light that filled the room, a mystical illumination that produced no shadows. There is nothing on earth as cold as a chrome or steel implement lying on a metal tray. Nothing produces more dread than that instrument being picked up and brought toward you by a doctor or dentist.

A nurse followed me in and read my name to the doctor. I figured she'd leave immediately, but she hung around to assist. Immediately I was made uncomfortable when the doctor had me remove my shirt. Other than at the beach, the only women I had ever been shirtless around were my mother and aunts. The nurse stood behind me with some sort of paperwork apparently meant to document whatever was about to happen to me. The doctor uncoiled the stethoscope from around his shoulders and proceeded to check my heart. As he moved the cold disc around to various parts of my chest, sides, and back, I listened for any signs of concern or disgust. His movements brought his face close, and I smelled a curious mixture of cigarettes, coffee and Sen-Sen.

Finished, he mumbled something unintelligible to the nurse who made a few notes and then resumed her dutiful pose. Next he chose from among his assorted weaponry a cylindrical gadget with a head on it that ended in a beak-like protuberance. This turned out to have a light in it intended for looking into my defenseless ears after the icy beak was inserted. More mumbling, more notes, followed by a penlight sort of thing that he shined in each eye and a dry stick with which he gagged me while telling me to say ahhh. My "ahhh" was more of an "Arghhh."

I was relieved when the doctor put his light and sticks away and shifted his position. I figured the worst was over. I was so very wrong, and not for the last time that day. "Lower your trousers, young man," he said. I just looked at him, dumbfounded, figuring either I had heard wrong or he was talking to someone else. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the nurse still standing there. It wasn't until he repeated himself that I realized it was for real.

Only my conditioned reflex to obey enabled me to overcome my terror and drop my pants. I suddenly remembered my mother's mantra about wearing clean underwear because you never know. He had me sit down and began tapping me here and there with a rubber hammer. At one point, he hit me under the knee, and my leg kicked out. Weird feeling, that. I was almost beginning to enjoy this when he told me to stand up and lower my underwear. I had no choice but to comply, and for the second time in my life I felt utterly ridiculous and totally embarrassed. (A year earlier, I had been railroaded by my mother into joining a gymnasium program with my godmother's son. One afternoon I ran naked onto a stage where mothers were gathered to watch their kids do floor exercises. I realized it wasn't the way to the pool and could only spin on my bare heel and run like a bat out of hell for the locker room, my ears buzzing with their collective laughter.)

Now, exposed to God and man (and nurse, as far as I could tell), I stood before this stranger who bent down to handle me in a place very few had ever handled me. Through my feelings of discomfort, I noticed that his head was balding on top, and this gave me perverse comfort...

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