I'm a product of Catholic schools and constant devotion to prayer

As a Catholic kid, I never thought it was unusual in the mid-1950s watching pregnant mothers walk into Christ the King Church on Sundays accompanied by a brood of youngsters.

She might be carrying a toddler that is still being breastfed and making quite a scene since she wants no part of that strange place.

Had my mother not suffered several miscarriages in the 1930s, there would have been at least seven of us little buggers.

My parents finally hit the jackpot with my sister, Barb, in 1939.

I have no recollection of when old Father Driscoll baptized me in 1944. He was like the Grinch who stole...