They ran more to shipping and mercantile work and it was whispered that it was the family fool who went into the church. My dad's family were also true believers but the only one who'd considered going into the church was my grandmother, because she was 30 when she'd raised the last of her orphaned siblings and thought nobody'd want to marry her. The local priest arranged her marriage, instead.
My own memory of Lent was being deprived of candy, at least at home. By the time I was 10, I knew it was bullshit so if another kid shared, I ate. My dad gave up alcohol and my mother said he was like a bear with a sore head for the duration. I do know the tension at home decreased markedly after Easter church when he'd pour himself a large bourbon on the rocks. I never saw my mother give anything up, I suppose she thought her life had enough privation year round.
Fortunately, they knew better than to send me off to a convent school. My mother had gotten kicked out of one at the age of 12 and they knew the apple hadn't fallen far from the tree.
I've been a disappointment to them, a pretty much lifelong apostate and heathen, having realized at ten that I had been afraid not to believe but really didn't buy a word of it. My mother once asked me if I'd gotten anything out of a Catholic education and I replied sure, that hypocrisy was the key to getting along in life. She was smart enough to laugh and tell me that was the best lesson.
They both died unbelievers, my mother finally having read the bible and emerging angry at all the lies she'd been told. I don't know what nudged my father over the edge, he was on his deathbed and I wasn't about to grill him on it. I just know that they both died free of the fear of judgment and hell fire and I'm grateful for that.
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