Priestdaddy | Patricia Lockwood
Patricia Lockwood is in her early thirties, her husband needs some very expensive surgery on his eyes and in order to come up with the money to pay for it, they move into her parents' home.
Um, rectory.
Because Patricia's father is a Catholic priest.
Yes, he is. Greg Lockwood comes up the ranks first as a Christian convert on a submarine, then as a Lutheran minister, and eventually, when he longs to be embraced by the Catholic church, he gets special dispensation from the Pope to become a married priest, complete with five children.
That part of the story is strange enough. But now that she's back under his roof, Patricia realizes that her father is a walking anecdote and she commits to writing down as many of his absurdities as she can, hoping to eventually shape a memoir from the chaos.
What starts as sitcom fodder develops into a deeply personal and painful account of Patricia's childhood growing up in the church, and a number of decidedly unfunny things that happen to her along the way.
But in the end, Patricia's story is about how well her father has loved her. And that is a most happy ending indeed.
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Have you ever heard of an old movie called The Red Balloon? Shot in 1956 on the grey streets of Paris, the short film tells a simple, fantastical story of an apparently sentient helium balloon who takes an inexplicable shine to a young boy and spends the movie following him around and attempting to be friends. It's a sweet, sentimental post-war metaphor for rising dreams of hope and light.
In some ways, The Red Balloon is a lot like Priestdaddy.
'When we came home later, my father was wearing his most transparent pair of boxer shorts, to show us he was angry, and drinking Baileys Irish Cream liqueur out of a miniature crystal glass, to show us his heart was broken.'
Now please imagine that a band of drunken chimpanzees gets hold of The Red Balloon's helium tank, figure out how to distort their voices by huffing the helium, and take turns quoting lines from Monty Python as they laugh themselves silly. Incomprehensible mayhem ensues.
And these boozed up chimps are also a lot like Priestdaddy.
"What did those people teach you?" [my husband] asked me one night, mystified. "What exactly do Catholics believe?"
I'd been preparing my whole life for this question. 'First of all, blood. BLOOD. Second of all, thorns. Third of all, put dirt on your forehead. Do it right now. Fourth of all, Martin Luther was a pig in a cloak. Fifth of all, Jesus is alive, but he's also dead, and he's also immortal.'"
I'd been preparing my whole life for this question. 'First of all, blood. BLOOD. Second of all, thorns. Third of all, put dirt on your forehead. Do it right now. Fourth of all, Martin Luther was a pig in a cloak. Fifth of all, Jesus is alive, but he's also dead, and he's also immortal.'"
So what I'm saying is that Priestdaddy is perhaps a book for a certain type of reader.
The type who enjoys a madcap romp through the delightful peculiarities of family life.
The type who delights in words that swashbuckle and pirouette across the page, behaving in ways that have never before been attempted.
The type who adores a metaphor, the more outrageous and inventive, the better.
The type who is not afraid to stare into the eyes of the church and see it for what it is.
The type who is willing to sober up now and again to consider some remarkably hard truths, like rape, child abuse, and the patriarchy.
“This is about the moment when I walked into the house, and [my parents] were there, as they had always been there, as they would not always be. This is about how happy they were when they saw me, how the sun rose in their faces, how it was another day.”
Priestdaddy is a book for the type of reader who wouldn't mind watching those besotted chimps squeak out "There are some who call me... Tim"and collapse on the floor in merriment.
And I feel most fortunate to be one of them.
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Hey! Wanna read more about the books I've read in 2022? Check these out:
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For a full list of books I've read in the past few years, click here:
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