WHEN JESUS COMES AKNOCKIN…

I just keep on rockin.

Yes, be it God or the Son of God, he calls and I listen. Most of his calling has come through either my Mom or TLW (The Little Woman). I often think that God or Jesus has a special place for me. Hell. So, I try to worm my way out of it.

Mom was very adamant about religion; you went to church, confession and parochial school, and if you complained, you became an altar boy. I did all that and more. Not only did she have the backing of the Vatican, the school principle, my teacher and the priest, she also had a wooden spoon. Although I learned my cussing from my Dad, I couldn’t put it in practice until I was out on the street. Dad’s eloquence in Italian cursing inspired me and to this day, whenever I swear off, I think of dear old Dad. But Dad was never one for religion. He would give me money to put in the collections, then turn over and go back to sleep.

As I got older, my younger sisters join the “holy orders” that Mom issued. With four sisters, it looked like a training ground for the nunnery. They all went to parochial school, either in Brooklyn or later on Long Island.

My first Mass as an altar boy was served on a Sunday morning. After months of training and learning to pray in Latin, the Priest said; “I’m probably going to regret this, but you are ready.” He was a very holy man, named Father Walsh, kind, gentle and unsuspecting. He teamed me up with three veterans to cover any mistakes I might make. The church, St. Joseph the Worker in East Patchogue, NY, was an old mission church used in the summer, which turned into a full-blown parish. The church was filled with all my relatives. My Grandmother from Brooklyn, (who was auditioning for sainthood herself, along with Mom), and all my aunts and uncles, cousins and any neighbors I did favors for were all in attendance, along with the home grown convent of four sisters. My job that Sunday was to stand there, kneel there, genuflect there, and answer in Latin there, but DO NOT IN ANY CIRCUMSTANCE WAVE AND SAY “HI THERE!” To anyone I might recognize.

Things were perfect for Mom. The weather was bright, sunny and warm. All were in attendance that needed to be, and Mom’s halo was perched perfectly over her head, crowning her well-combed do. Dad by the time Mass had started, had his tie unknotted, was squirming around in his seat, looking more scared than I was, after all, his Mother was in attendance, and the four nuns sat quietly as good nuns would.

The priest was Father Jeremiah J. Dineen, pastor, and enforcer of his and God’s will. Make a mistake, and you will be serving at your own funeral Mass. He was not expected, but there he was, ready with contempt on his lips for any novice that morning. “WHAT IS THAT NOISE?’ “Sorry Father, that is my knees knocking together,”