Ron Kelley

God On the Tin Roof

Posted: Wednesday, February 01, 2012

by Ron Kelley

Fletcher Hills was a small, growing community not far from San Diego that was populated with eight hundred square foot, WWII barracks that would soon become homes for middle class families. So it was no surprise that the original local Catholic church consisted of a leftover, rickety structure. It was the remnants of a small hanger on a small, abandoned airport. I remember the open rear of the church used to let the cold blow in during the winter and the tin roof would shudder from the wind and bang a loud rat-a-tat whenever it would rain. I always liked the sound of rain, but when we were here for mass each Sunday, it seemed more like an unassailable reminder from God that one should keep His words revered. I remember shivering while looking around to see if He was coming in through the creaking spaces in the walls. However, He didn’t while I was there. During catechism classes, I learned that some of those valued words were, “Thou shalt not steal.”

This was not on my mind initially one day one summer, when I was nine-years-old. I had nothing in particular to do, so I went into the small, local market. I stopped in an aisle that had a whole shelf full of packages with colorful and delectable looking candy that seemed so resplendent. Candy bar choices from which I could rarely purchase anything as I got a pittance of an allowance and had no job. I nervously looked around to see if anybody noticed me and what I was doing—a sure sign that I was anticipating some “sin.” I knew that my mom had always raised me to be honest. I also knew that if I did anything that was dishonest, I would have to go to the church (the one where God often spoke by pounding down on the tin roof) and “confess” to the priest—something I dreaded. But the candy wrappers were so tempting and I knew the treat inside was so good. On the rare times—Halloween excepted, of course—one of us kids got a candy bar, we had to share it and there was never a whole bar to eat.

I slipped one big, double bar Mounds with Almonds, in my jeans pocket and quickly walked out the door before I thought anyone would realize one package was missing. I tried not to look at any adults and attempted to “act normal.” I feared tremendously that someone would yell, “Stop! What have you got in your pocket?” Those words would have made me tremble, but the discomfort would be short and over with unless they went to my parents. I didn’t consider how they would react, but assuredly, that behavior would have been rebuked strongly. As it happened, only outside did my trial eventually start.

I don’t remember a lot about eating the candy bar, mostly that it seemed like an awful lot of something rare and wished I had some milk to wash it down. Even so, it was gone within half a block. But I remember that many times for the rest of the week, and even when I went to bed, and all day Saturday, I dreaded facing the priest and confessing my “sin.” Alas, that time came and I remember that he told me to say an extra three Hail Marys. I also had to go back to the store and give them the fifteen cents for the candy bar. And apologize.

The sound of God on the tin roof is still in my mind. I never shoplifted again.

Ron Kelley
The journey for Ron Kelley isn't over yet. Some may have wished it were, but now he's got it in his head that he's got some things left to say.

At one point or another, he's been (not in any particular order) a teacher, hiker, biker (motor & pedal), skier (down & across), jeeper, ATV rider, photographer, canoeist, sailor, cowboy action shooter, Marine, plumber, painter, ride operator, tour guide, bus driver, carpenter, and on and on. Nowadays, writing short stories and poems fill parts of the days in western Colorado or western Arizona.

Frequently, he wonders how he had time for all that stuff.
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Top-level comments on this article: (1 total)
» left by Kathleen
from Arizona 95 days 5 hours ago.
Good read, Ron. Keep it up!
» left by Ron Kelley 95 days 3 hours ago.
8 fans.
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Kathleen,

Thanks for the comliment.

Ron
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