DelBloggolo: ALL IN A DAY’S WORK

Monday, October 20, 2014

ALL IN A DAY’S WORK

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Upon my elevation to: ‘most holy’ by joining the altar boys, there were certain schedules, and duties, not to mention monetary opportunities not to be missed, that presented themselves to yours truly. Mom had gotten overconfident that I was a sure thing and a shoo-in to Heaven once I put in my time, maybe even the priesthood. I was beginning to think that way myself: but had some reservations. Then I met this little gal in 4^th grade and decided, no, I don’t want to be a priest. Coupled with the notion that my job here on Earth, God’s Earth was to torture my sisters, no matter where or when, I totally came to grip with the fact that I was not so holy, and enjoying every moment of it!

Around this time I was scheduled by the priest to serve at a funeral mass, and started to think that maybe this whole idea of being in God’s service was not for me. I mean, a dead body in the same room as me! I didn’t think so, and relayed this bit of information to Jerry, my best friend. But Jerry had a keen analytic mind and a sharp business sense, along with knowing something I didn’t: someone paid you to serve at the funeral masses! Wow! Money! Then he laid another bombshell on me-they paid you to serve at weddings also! This was getting heady now, and I could see myself arriving at these things in a chauffeured limo.

Every morning before school started, I had to be up early and down at the church to serve daily masses. I’d get on my bicycle and pedal my way to the church, do my duty and return to catch the bus in time for school. Mom made sure I was up and at ‘em, bright eyed and bushy tailed. But come a Saturday or occasional funeral mass during the summer, I was ready at the crack of dawn, figuring how much I could make. Then one day I got my first call, a funeral mass.

Pedaling down to the church, I lay my bike down and go into the church sacristy and peer out into the rows of pews, and all I can see in my nervousness was the dark church with burning candles and some people scattered throughout the church. It was dark and foreboding, creepy and sad, and I was about to need a change of underwear!

I don a cassock and surplice and join up with an Jerry and the priest and we go out to the altar and stand at the head of the altar steps as the funeral procession begins the sad journey up the aisle with the coffin, heading straight towards me, my heart racing and my eyes must have been bulging, as all I could remember was my first grade teacher, old Miss Langon laid out in her box one afternoon as I stopped with my sister to say goodbye to her.

I remember the last time I was at a funeral Mass, my first-grade teacher, old Miss Langon had died, and I went to the funeral parlor with my older sister on our way home from Our Lady of Lourdes School one afternoon. I went to the Mass the next morning to make sure that she was indeed dead and wouldn’t be yelling anymore, besides, I had to go because the school made us go. She was a cranky old maid about 150 years old, with a grey bun and thing legs in floral dresses. She carried a ruler around with her like a cop carries a nightstick, but used it more often on little first-graders.

Fortunately, the coffin along with the parade stopped right at our feet as we turned and the service began. All through the service I kept glancing over my shoulder, making sure the coffin didn’t move and that the box was still closed.

Finally, the Mass was over, as they led the deceased away! A feeling of relief and gratefulness came over me that nothing happened to me. Then this man comes into the sacristy and has this very macabre look about him, and motions us with his index finger to come to him. This was it! I was going to meet my maker I thought. Compelled I moved slowly, almost quaking, as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a white envelope and handed a few bucks to me and my partner Jerry! I had arrived and I wasn’t dying just yet!