Tag Archives: verona fathers

Help and Guidance

Posted on by Tony Edwards

I took my direction from Father Romano with true dedication and allowed the vision of my family to hurt me in the name of devotion to God.  Eventually, no matter how close I felt to God the images of my mother and sister, in particular, were too much to bear.  In
the middle of the night I left the dormitory and made my way to Romano’s room to seek his help and guidance.

It was the first time I had seen him without his glasses; he woke from his sleep and was happy to invite me in. In floods of tears I apologised for not being able to deal with the pain. Romano held me and comforted me, he assured me that the Devil was powerful and we could face him together. Romano then removed his top and took me to his bed where we remain entwined for what felt like hours.

Peabod’s God Squad

Posted on by Tony Edwards

Other young boys, like myself, were taken under his wing and looked to him for pastoral guidance.  This culminated in a small extracurricular group meeting regularly in the Chapel to pray and read psalms together. Romano would sit in the middle of the pew and on either side of him sat two or three boys.  In turns we were given psalms to read.  I struggled to read the complicated ancient text, but Romano was happy to ask others to pick up for me.  It was in this group that I first heard the term “flagellation”.

The humorous cynicism which pervades the culture of a Junior Seminary quickly led to Romano gaining the nickname Peabod after the cartoon character Mr Peabody and Romano’s followers being nominated as “Peabod’s God Squad”.  Only now am I able to smile when I hear this term.

Father Romano Nardo

Posted on by Tony Edwards

It was not until the arrival of a rather unusual Italian Priest at our West Yorkshire Seminary did I begin to feel a certain closeness.  Father Romano Nardo was unusual, not only as a Priest, but also as a person. This eccentric young man made an instant impression on me despite his odd appearance; he wore thick glasses, big glasses, actually, very big, thick glasses.

Romano was the first Priest of the Comboni order to offer an explanation for my unbearable homesickness. Pain, he told me was a route to God.  By accepting our pain, learning to live with suffering, we move ever closer to God.  As a rational adult I’m capable of offering counter arguments.  But in vulnerable adolescence the notion that pleasure is sinful and pain and suffering is spiritually uplifting resonated with me and I embraced his theological reasoning.

The Boys United

Posted on by Tony Edwards

It is football which brings back the most powerful memories. For many years I lost my interest in football.  More recently I have been attending games at Celtic Park.  I am not certain whether it is the hooped jerseys, the awful weather, the sheer tribal atmosphere or even the combination of all three which causes me to remember how much St Peter Clavers’ School Teams were viewed as outsiders and disliked by the other local teams:  and how our isolated position generated a unity, pride and determination for the Verona Boys to win.

If the Mirfield Boys and their often rebellious zeal were a comfort to me, then the Mirfield Priests who were often cold, distant and aloof were a poor substitute for the loss of my parents. Whilst, in general, I looked up to and admired almost all of the Comboni Fathers – after all they had not only been through the seminary process but had also served in the missions and witnessed unimaginable poverty and suffering – forming supportive relationships with my religious guardians proved difficult for me. A tall Irish Brother with Prince Charles ears once yelled at me for crying and yelled again the next day when he discovered I had wet the bed.  It was Father Cerea’s repetitive question, “Are you stupid, boy? Are you stupid boy?” that was the catalyst for my final departure from Mirfield.

I vividly recall how I enjoyed our irreverent jibe song when we all sang “Steni and Ched, two Fathers of Verona” to the tune of ‘Bonnie and Clyde’.  No serious harm was intended or implied in the words.  To sing it was not only fun, it was also an affirmation that we were the boys “united” and they, the Priests, were not part of our unique club.  They were our stern and distant superiors, but for the duration of the song at least we did not care.

Ordained by God

Posted on by Tony Edwards

In those days life seemed simple, everything was ordained by God. The seasons, the trees, reproduction, the fact that I was at Roe Head and my family was over 60 miles away on a Council Estate in Liverpool was all God’s will. I might not have liked it or even understood it but God had a plan and I was part of it.

Today my life is complicated by logic and reason; that is until I hear a choir sing Latin hymns. Last week my daughter sang with the Scottish Youth Choir in Perth Concert Hall. When the 60 strong girls’ Choir gave a glorious rendition of “Tantum Ergo” I was back in the Chapel with the stained glass window in front of me and the Conductor, Christopher Bell, had become Father Cerea. To this day I remain a sentimental fan of Choral music.  Although I insist on having an atheist funeral, if anyone could organise 60 boys from the ages of 12-17 with a voice range of mezzo  soprano to bass, then have them sing “Salve Regina” and, if possible please before I die, to hear it sung once more I feel sure would create a perfect happiness in me.

A Shared Sense of Loss

Posted on by Tony Edwards

My youngest child is fast approaching the age at which I left home and joined the Verona Fathers.  His beauty and innocence, his willingness to learn and hang on to almost every word of knowledgeable adults drags my memory back with painful speed to my own hopeful childhood.

In the late 1960’s the drive from Liverpool was across the picturesque A62, the lights of which could be clearly seen from the end window of our top corridor at Mirfield.  I would often stand there on a winter evening, my eyes following the meandering orange glow over the moors leading home, praying that my parents would feel the sickness I had in my stomach and, by some God-delivered message, they would make their way back to Mirfield and bring me home.

Only the comradeship and energetic playfulness of other Junior Seminarians prevented my depression from turning to despair.  For many years I have believed that the support, love and sheer rollicking enthusiasm for life that Mirfield boys had was the foundation of my lifelong belief in the need for a Socialist society.  In truth, the friendships I have sustained and the happy memories of the unity of the boys is more to do with a shared sense of loss than any higher noble spiritual or social meaning.  That was something I was to come across again much later in life.

He’s Hit an Artery!

Posted on by Kevin Deignan

Hi Degs again,

Just been away on the south coast for a few days, but now back to the grind stone. It reminds me of Mirfield, mucking out pigs, collecting hens’ eggs and even killing chickens for feast days.

Who can remember preparations for Parents’ Day?  All the corridors had to be cleaned, polished with big concrete bumpers, even hanging out three stories up with rag in one pocket and bottle of windowlene in the other!

Speaking of Parents’ Days, there was always that sense of excitement when families would come to visit, but also on some occasions a sense of disappointment when boys whose parents couldn’t make it would have to serve high tea to the lads with their families, as I did on several occasions. Then there was always the joy of helping father Wade with the vegetable garden, or when he was made bursar and, on his return from one of his several shopping trips, helping him unload his little van full of either food supplies or such strange, miscellaneous pieces of equipment as ex- MOD boxing gloves, javelins, medicine balls and gymnastics horses etc!  The following few weeks would then be taken up with groups of boys practicing boxing, but not quite with the marquis of Queensbury rules, resulting in several epic bouts!  One that sticks in my mind would be me and Brian Gardner.

The javelins were surplus to requirement as I can remember manufacturing spears out of kitchen knives and broom shanks, which resulted in Nicki Wilson getting a six inch carving knife through his leg!  A trip to the infirmary followed with Nicki screaming, “He’s hit an artery, I’m going to die!”

Hope this stirs a few memories, I will write a bit more when I get a bit of time.

Mirfield Memories

Posted on by Kevin Deignan

Hi, to those who know me I’m Degs to those who don’t I’m Kevin Deignan, ex seminarian old boy of Mirfield junior seminary. Having attended several reunions in the past I feel that it is time that I begin to put some thoughts and memories down in writing. These can be added to, criticised, commented on and if need be corrected, but hopefully enjoyed.

What I am hoping to achieve from this blog is to find out why our experiences at Mirfield created such a unique bond  that year after year people who have not met for several decades  come from the four corners of the UK, and even further afield, to reminisce and catch up. I am especially interested in people’s experiences from outside my year group and the experiences of those who were there at the last gasps of Mirfield.

I was recruited from St Patrick’s Parish in Felling, Gateshead in 1966/67. The promise of endless games of football, Duke of Edinburgh award schemes and a display of shields and spears persuaded me that this would be a good life choice. On receiving the vast list of things that I should be supplied with including: 12 pairs of underpants, several pairs of socks, sheets, pillow cases, plimsolls, football boots, scores of handkerchiefs etc. my Mother dispatched me with a least half the required amount!

My years at Mirfield were the transitional years from strict dress code and crocodile lines up to Hearts head post office and Robertstown shops where we were made to stand outside and enter two at a time to spend our weekly allowance to disappearing to Bradford ice rink on a Saturday night or hitch hiking to Bolton Abbey for the weekend. For those of us who occupied Mirfield at this time we will remember what a weird and wonderful, if sometimes slightly scary, experience this was. Academia was not my strong point and my 3 O’Levels of English, Biology and of course Religious Knowledge will testify to this. However, the life skills that I acquired whilst there have stood me in good stead. The teaching methods at times could be unorthodox but were always entertaining, who could forget Rory Hicks burning the skin off the palms of his hands whilst demonstrating that phosphorus will burn in oxygen, which is a chemical change and not a physical change! (Phosphorus once burnt forms phosphorus oxide). Mirfield made Hogwarts look quite tame if I think back at some of the things we used to get up to. It would be nice to hear from any ex old boys to share our tales of Mirfield. P.S. the film and book rights belong to me.