Together, we'll jomple our pope, burn in our bishop, and all the clergy...

Growing up Catholic, I always wondered what happened after the people filed into line and walked to the front of the church.  I had my theories, of course; but my family usually sat in the back so it was difficult to see.  Either way, I was desperate to find out what went on up there.  And whatever it was they came back chewing on, I wanted in on it.  One time I even stage whispered to my older sister, "Bring me back one!"

She didn't. 

I found the mass to be an early morning, tranquilizing sequence of familiar yet puzzling words.  After spending so much time listening, I knew precisely which order they were to be recited in.  Some unknown part of my subconscious knew, for example, that a bell was supposed to ring after the priest said,

"Do this in memory of Me."

Ring-a-ding-a-ding!!!!

One Sunday somebody dropped the ball and didn't perform the ring, so I took it upon myself to do it for them, in my loudest voice: "Ring-a-ding-a-diiiiinnnnnggggg!"  My parents were very proud.

I'd memorized the mass, although most of it was rather hard to decipher.  For instance, when the Priest would say, "Together, with John Paul, our pope; Bernard, our bishop; and all the clergy...", what I actually heard was: "Together we'll jomple our pope, burn in our bishop, and all the clergy..." 

It would be years before I'd figure that mystery out.  (Jomple our pope?  Burn in our bishop?  It sounded violent.) 

Our priest at the time was a kind looking man named Father Sweeney.  I can still hear the soft, sing-song of his voice saying: "The Body of Christ..."

"Amen."

"Good, dear."  This was Massachusetts, of course, so in reality it sounded more like: "Good, Dee-yah."

In our spare time, Sissy and I would often reenact this holy scenario for fun.  ("The Body of Christ," "Amen," "Good, Dee-yah.")  Our mother would always look concerned.

My First Holy Communion was a most solemn event.  I have virtually no pictures from that day, which is strange, seeing as my father was the photographer hired for that occasion.  Back then he would sometimes work photography gigs on weekends to earn extra income.  He worked weddings, graduations; my father took beautiful photographs. 

There were no beautiful photographs taken of me that day.  (What's that adage about the cobbler's daughter having no shoes?  Or the sommelier's baby never having enough Riesling?)  As you may notice in the picture above, I was very much into the habit of sticking out my pointy finger.  This was one of many "habits," as we came to call them.  But that's a post for another day...

After the ceremony, I kept my white First Communion dress on, naturally, but I also decided to add a pair of gray corduroys and traded in my dainty white shoes for dirty white high tops.  It was a daring, edgy ensemble.  I looked hot and I knew it.  I'd also just gotten bangs cut, the act of which definitely marked the beginning of my "awkward" years. 

And I digress.  On the day of my First Holy Communion, we had a party and everyone gave me cards with money stuffed inside.  This was my first true taste of riches and I liked the way it felt, I liked it very much indeed.  Fives and tens and twenties, oh my!  Thanks, Jesus!

During this time I entertained lofty notions of becoming an author.  I would write mysteries, perhaps; about a group of child detectives.  I was obsessed with Louisa May Alcott and her novel Little Women, and I very much wanted a fountain pen so I could write my own masterpiece, old fashioned style.  When I counted up that money I knew immediately what I'd put it towards: I would buy myself a roll top desk.  I had grand visions of myself, sitting at that desk, fountain penning the next great novel of our time. 

This was also around the time I wrote to Louisa May Alcott and asked her for an autograph, and also some advice on how to get published.  I never did hear back from her.

My parents humored me.  I don't know what they must have thought when their seven year old daughter asked to spend her First Communion money on a piece of furniture.  All I know is, one day my father came home and began assembling my desk.  He stained it a warm brown color and gave it a coat of polyurethane to make it shine.  I still remember the way it smelled after the paint dried.  I loved everything about that desk, and I loved my father for making it happen.

That December, my friends really came through for me: for my birthday, I received a gold colored desk lamp, a desk pad, and my good friend Melissa even got me that fountain pen, complete with a whole bottle of blue ink.  It was...breathtakingly beautiful.  One of my better birthdays, if I remember correctly.

To this day that desk remains my most beloved piece of furniture.  I'm typing on it now, in fact.  Some kids wished for Cabbage Patch Dolls and trips to Disney.  I wished for fountain pens and a book deal.  I wished for petticoats and a lacy parasol.  I wished Louisa May Alcott would write me back, goddammit. 

Comments

[Sissy]

You would have crapped yourself if Louisa May Alcott visited you in spirit form! Who are you kidding?!

[Sissy]

Please I am terrified of what is happening with Grandma's face in that picture. Just crop her out for Heaven's sake. It looks like you burned her with acid.

[Weinerdog]

Always my fav pics of you!

[the odd broad]

Mommy didn't want me to put Grandma's face on the world wide web. And so we blurred her. I agree, it's all rather frightening.

[Mortimer Snerd]

Sarah, I still remember how proud you were of that desk! As in, you wouldn't let me sit at it. Or (gasp!) write on it, unless it was on top of your ink blotter. LOL And I still hear Fr. Sweeney's voice at communion, too! Isn't that odd?!

[the odd broad]

Dollface! Er, I mean, Mortimer...what a little monster I was to not let you sit at my desk! LOL