Altar Boy

Altar Boy

Growing up in a Catholic family, it was expected that on Sunday morning I would show up in slacks, white shirt, clip on tie, sport coat and shoes shined; standard uniform for church. My sisters wore a dress, white gloves and hat. My escape route for the dress code was to become an altar boy.

For some reason my parents thought I would be an excellent candidate to serve at the altar. At the time I was not a particularly religious person and the thought of having to perform on a Sunday morning send shivers of fear down my spine. Why couldn’t I just sit in the pew with everyone else?

Learning to be an altar boy was no easy task. First of all, you had to have the right attitude. My attitude was an issue the nuns were trying change. I had become the class clown and there was no clowning around at the altar. It was serious business to be that close to the sacred. The nuns knew how to slap that smile right off my face.

Then there was the Latin language. I had a hard-enough time speaking proper English minus the swear words I picked up from my non-Catholic friends. I was given a little book with all the altar boy responses to memorize. Giving it my best shot, I mumbled through those unintelligible phrases. That’s where I learned to fake it.

There was one benefit to being an altar boy. When the mass was over, and the priest wasn’t looking, we could finish off the left-over wine that remained in the cruet. Usually there was only a drop or two left, but it was enough to whet my appetite for cheap wine.

Those days are long gone. Little did I know that in the grand design of life I would graduate from altar boy to priest. The Latin I had to learn back then I didn’t need as a priest because everything was in the native tongue. One thing that hasn’t changed is my taste for cheap wine.

I chuckle when I think of what those nuns would think of me now!