William Wigglesworth was a story about a small boy who had lost his little dog. The whole book was about William asking people, “Have you seen my dog?” No one could find the dog. Finally, he met a man who had a big house filled with dogs. Was William’s dog in there? You turned the page and there was a double spread of a whole house filled with dozens of dogs. It would take me a while to find it, but there, in one corner, was William Wigglesworth’s little dog! I read it again and again: loving a dog, losing a dog, searching for the dog, and meeting many people.
I want to speak as a competent instructor and counselor. I do not want to be condescending toward the old memories, but neither do I want to create a “pilgrimage for crows.”
Reading William Wigglesworth was sweet, like “going home.” You find your lost relationship with Him after many lifetimes and adventures. The soul finds shelter in a corner of Krishna’s house.
There was a family down the block named the Foxes. Their mother sold and traded comic books as a way to make money. All the kids on 76th Street in Queens used to trade comics and sit on the front steps for hours reading. You would read one and then pass it to someone else and take theirs: Superman, Batman, Wonderwoman, Little Lulu, Archie …
Even up until the last minute on the day our family was moving away from Queens, I was still sitting reading comic books.
Someone said, “You moving today?”
“Yeah. This is our last day.” We went on reading, and then I gave the Foxes some of my comic books and they gave me some of theirs.
Reading Srimad-Bhagavatam can become easy if you are in the right mood. Today I was in the right mood. Myself and two other devotees are taking a break from our preaching and travels. We are in a secluded part of Ireland where the only sound is the wind and the surf. Sitting on the floor, I hold the book and I am thankful. I am reading in the Fourth Canto, “The Kumaras speaking to Maharaja Prthu.”
You have to relax, preferably in good company, as we did on the front stoop in Queens. Read Srimad-Bhagavatam the way you used to read comic books, with leisure, with friends, fully absorbed like a child or a devotee of Krishna. Srila Prabhupada says that reading is as good as active service.
Another book was Reg’lar Fellas in the Army. It was a series of panel cartoons about kids playing that they were in the Army. One kid wore a kitchen pot as a helmet and he carried a walkie talkie made of an empty can with a string. In between the panel cartoons, there were full-page photos of U.S. Army activities: tanks, planes, soldiers. One was a photo of an infantryman charging with his bayonet forward. It looked like he was coming out of the picture to stab you, and the caption said that he was “in the finest tradition of the American military man.” I used to reread it often, Reg’lar Fellas. The idea was that you shouldn’t be a sissy. When you grow up, you too can be in the Army. My father sent that book home, and my mother wanted me to read it.
My mom and dad wanted me to be a regular fellow. That is why they got me that book, and that is also why my dad sent me two pairs of boxing gloves from his ship in the Pacific. I am trying to get to the bottom of this memory but I can’t. Maybe later it will make more sense. Otherwise, let it go into oblivion, the boys with their kitchen pot helmets and their play-military headquarters made from orange crates, and their dog tagging behind them . . . me leafing through the over-sized, hardbound book again and again in our apartment in Queens, gone and never to return again exactly like that. Reading Reg’lar Fellas was my participation in the Great Events of World War II. But as Srila Prabhupada writes, warning me:
The whole material creation is a jugglery of names only; . . . The buildings, furniture, cars, bungalows, mills, factories, industries, peace, war . . . [are] of no more significance than the babble of sea waves. The great kings, leaders and soldiers fight with one another in order to perpetuate their names in history. They are forgotten in due course of time, and they make a place for another era in history. . . . those who are fixed in perfect reality are not at all interested in such false things.
—Bhag. 2.2.3
I had a book called Tell Me About God. It told how God created the trees, the land, and everything else. Another book was called Tell Me About Jesus. It had nice illustrations. We had a Christmas book with carols in it, and I remember sitting on the couch singing those hymns aloud to myself. I was partly enjoying my own singing and partly knowing that they were “holy” songs. It made me feel angelic, like the holy angels in the book, to sing those carols. My mother walked by and appreciated my singing. I played it up for her too, and kept on singing, “O little town of Bethlehem, how still we see you lie . . . ”
This Christmas book had the story of the fir tree by Hans Christian Andersen, with wonderful pictures. There was a little fir tree, and he was dissatisfied with his life in the forest. When he grew up, he was chopped down, decorated for the holiday, and then thrown to the fire. Before he died, he told the mice in the attic, “I should have been satisfied with my lovely life in the forest.” There was also the story of a boy who had nothing to offer to Christ. “What shall I give Him? I don’t have gold, I don’t have a lamb. I know, I’ll give Him my love.” I loved that Christmas book and read it again and again, especially the illustrations.
We also had a big Catholic Bible in our house, but I never saw anyone reading it.
Srila Prabhupada often commented on the importance of the first influences upon a child, especially for Krishna consciousness.
Srila Jiva Gosvami remarks in this connection that every child, if given an impression of the Lord from his very childhood, certainly becomes a great devotee of the Lord like Maharaja Pariksit. . . . Maharaja Prahlada also advises that such impressions of a godly relation must be impregnated from the beginning of childhood—otherwise, one may miss the opportunity of the human form of life, which is very valuable, although it is temporary like others.
—Bhag. 1.12.30
Krishna conscious parents deliberately bring a child into the world to give it a spiritual education. Often this appears to them to be a thankless task. After carrying their child before the temple Deities of Radha and Krishna for years, and holding the infant up before the Tulasi, worshiping and chanting with them, the children often grow up to reject their upbringing, usually as teenagers. But it is likely that persons brought up in a devotional home will remember it again sooner or later, at least before death.
My own upbringing was secular. Religious obligations were fulfilled just by attending church on Sunday. My mother forced me, so there was no question of not going. If I missed even one Sunday Mass, it was a mortal sin. My mother, sister, and I would walk together to St. Clare’s church through the Village, the ladies wearing their 1950s dresses and hats, and me in my dress-up clothes. After Mass, Sunday morning would be spent reading the funny papers, lounging around or playing, and in the evening, we would watch the Colgate Comedy Hour on TV.
In our house, we never spoke of an afterlife. Who would bring up such a topic? If I ever did ask a religious question as a child, it was answered in one or two sentences by my mother, usually followed by a cynical joke about the “freeloader” priests from my father.
My impression of religion, therefore, was that it was a part of family and social life. It was important in its own way, but definitely limited to a small compartment. Neither was it particularly joyful. But my superficial roots in spiritual life do not sadden me. I am simply happy that I met Srila Prabhupada. My childhood misadventures with religion seem to me like humorous tales in someone else’s life, like watching a TV situation-comedy. Upbringing is important, but whether you have spiritual training or not, you can still receive the mercy of the Supreme Lord whenever you meet His merciful representative.
In The Nectar of Devotion, Srila Prabhupada states that according to Rupa Gosvami, bhakti is a process continued from one’s previous life. “No one can take to devotional service unless he has some previous connection with it. “But,” Srila Prabhupada writes, “even if there is no continuity, if only by chance a person takes interest in the pure devotee’s instruction, he can be accepted and he can advance in devotional service.”
That Christmas book was nice. It gave me some warm, joyful moments and a hint of spiritual peace where “the silent stars go by” in the sky of Bethlehem. It was a spiritual inkling within me, and it may have helped me in some small way to pay attention when Srila Prabhupada began to sing.