Finnegans Rule

 

                                                           Finnegans Rule

By Karen Iacovelli

We moved to East Northport Christmas Eve, 1952. Ours was one of the first houses in a patch of new cape cods that sprung up in the area of Dickinson Avenue and Catherine Street. We lived on the fringes, instead of the bowels of the neighborhood, probably because the fringe sold first. We fronted on Catherine Street and the glorious woodlands of Dickinson Avenue. Being boxed in by houses on all four sides would have lasting impact. Never would I live in anything that was completely surrounded by humans.

On one side, lived the Thornes, on the other the MacMasters. Up the street a bit were the Grunickes. Behind us lived the Schwartzes and the Jensens and the Lawsons. Between our familes and theirs, there were enough kids to fill a classroom. But there was one family that stood out from the rest---they were the Finnegans and stand out they did. They had enough kids for an entire school.

I can't really remember when they moved into the neighborhood, but word gets out when new kids make moves on the block. Your defenses were either up or down, depending upon their age or gender or both. In this case, there was something for everyone, because there were ten of them. Ten Finnegan kids. At least I think there were ten of them. Six. Eight. Didn't make any difference. And they were all about a year apart in age.

All in the same cape cod house. Their numbers were the talk of the neighborhood. I was maybe eight or nine, and didn't feel particularly threatened by anything just yet, so it was with eager curiosity that I went to their house looking for someone to plays dolls, marbles or trucks. My sister had already been recruited to baby-sit and help Mrs. Finnegan with the tribe. Where did they all eat? Where did they sleep? How many toys did they have? I couldn't wait to find out.

The kids shared bedrooms, but my favorite was upstairs. It was just how I imagined camp would be. It WAS camp! Lots of bunkbeds, dormitory style. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world and wanted to live just like them, or with them. It didn't make any difference. But I went home to my mother and begged for more brothers and sisters. Well, she said, They Must Be Catholic. We're not Catholic. We're Episcopalian. Now. I didn't even question what being Catholic had to do with having an unlimited supply of kids. It was simply a proclamation, sort of like the 11th Commandment: If You Are Catholic, You Have Unlimited Kids. 

So I knew I would never have four more brothers and sisters because we were not Catholic. It was then that it started. I began a serious pursuit of surveying which churches liked or didn't like kids. One of my early friends was Barbara Wallace. Her Dad owned Wallace's Stationary Store in East Northport. Another cool friend. She had a never-ending supply of Pez and pretzel sticks. She also lived above the store. She told me she was Jewish, which I wasn't sure what that was, but since she was an only child, I figured the Jews didn't like kids too much. That made me like her even more. Because I thought maybe her parents didn't.

What are you? I would ask my neighborhood friends. Presbyterian. Oh? How many kids in your house? Three. Hmmmmmm. Presbyterians were looking good. What are you? Methodist. How many kids? Two. Uh oh. Then there was my Lutheran buddy from school. She was an only child. Better get her together with Barbara. So, there it was. For kid friendly religions the Catholics won the gold star. Then there were the Episcopalians, Presbyterians and Methodists. Tied for last place was the Jews and Lutherans.

I lived believing this until, well, until I figured it out for myself. All of those years, I believed, I mean, Believed, that the Finnegans were the happiest, luckiest clan in the neighborhood. And I believed that Catholics liked kids more than any other religion. They had their own schools, to boot. It sure must be lucky to be Catholic. My mother's declaration that "they must be Catholic" tells me, now, more about my mother and father's private moments than I ever thought imaginable when I was eight. But something odd happened along the way of life.

I had multiple marriages. One was annulled by the Catholic church. The one that lasted is to an Italian Catholic, albeit a fallen one, but Catholic nonetheless. I went to a Jesuit law school. My girls went to Catholic high schools. I served on the board of a Catholic public policy center. I sit on the board of a Catholic-leaning bank. My sister married a Catholic and had four kids. My oldest brother married a Catholic and had two kids during the first three years of marriage. My youngest brother married a Presbyterian, and, you guessed it, had two kids. My husband and I have five children, one didn't make it, so there could have been six. Not all of the kids are mine by blood, but there are five Iacovelli siblings. Hell, this beat out the Episcopalians by a prime number.

So maybe the Finnegans weren't so, well, "carefree" after all. Maybe their occupation of the neighborhood was all part of some greater plan that would forever challenge a grown-up idea of what Catholics really did. Do Catholics like kids more? I wondered then, and I have been wondering ever since.