There’s only one day of the year when it’s OK to mention the word “fat” in connection with people. The other 364 are off limits because the word is derogatory toward those of us carrying extra pounds.
Fat Tuesday signifies the beginning of Lent in the Christian world. Otherwise known as Mardi Gras, it’s a day of feasting before the 40 days of fasting begin. Fat Tuesday is also known as Shrove Tuesday, Carnival Tuesday or Pancake Tuesday depending upon where it’s being celebrated.
In years gone by, churches ruled with an iron fist and people were serious about their religion. They didn’t want the temptation of consuming forbidden foods during the Lenten season. In an attempt to lessen the lure of the prohibited, they ate whatever was in the fridge or pantry that might cause them to sin. That’s another thing that was real when I was a kid. According to our priest, occasions to sin lurked around every corner. Constant diligence was mandatory in the struggle between good and evil.
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I’ve never been to New Orleans, and it’s the one place I wouldn’t want to be today. After all that Catholic indoctrination, I’m a stick in the mud. I’d stay in my hotel room and try to ignore the revelry going on outside my window. Here’s why. I’m too stupid or too scared to make any connection between a solemn Ash Wednesday and the preceding day of glorifying food, booze, beads and prancing through the streets in ridiculous costumes.
I just don’t get it. It’s too large a mental leap for me to take. One day I’m stuffing myself with all the rich food I can find and finishing off three meals with thick slices of king cake. Then I’m encouraged to dance half-naked down Bourbon Street. The next day I’m standing in line at church and piously awaiting my turn for the priest to stick his thumb in a pot of ground ashes and make the sign of the cross on my forehead as he warns me, “Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shalt return.”
Those few words were drilled into my head as a youngster. I recall being released from school to attend Ash Wednesday services at my church just down the street. Those of us who were Catholic returned to our classes with a black smudge on our forehead. If I had bangs, my smudge might be partially hidden. If not, I had to endure the humiliation of a cross signifying I was merely dust and my humanity was only a charade.
My uncle, the late Vernor Larson, owned a taxi in Sault Ste. Marie. For many years, I have picked up Saturday night drunks and drove them home. Then he picked them up Sunday morning and drove them to church. I have never favored any particular religion. Mom explained he couldn’t make the connection between drunkenness and worship or between debauchery and Christianity. Old-timers might remember my uncle. He was extremely tall and known as “Slim” by the locals.
So what does Uncle Vernor have to do with Fat Tuesday? Nothing. I’m merely using him as an example of how difficult it is for non-church goers to understand our obsession with today’s feasting and merriment and tomorrow’s Ash Wednesday. But do as you will. Eat, drink and be merry for you know those dreaded 40 days are here come midnight.
— To contact Sharon Kennedy, send her an email at authorsharonkennedy.com. Ella Kennedy’s latest book, “The SideRoad Kids: Tales from Chippewa County,” is available from her, Amazon, or Audible.
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George is Digismak’s reported cum editor with 13 years of experience in Journalism