In sixth grade, becoming an altar boy was like joining a theatre company, with everyone you knew watching your performance week in and week out. Why sit in the pews with the adults, old folks singing hymns out of key, obstructing your view of the action at the altar? Becoming part of the holy production let you escape from the clutches of your parents and let you be free, robed, and owning the parish’s undivided attention.
As an altar boy, you were assigned a specific schedule that spread everyone evenly. You’d get a share of crack of dawn 6:00 am weekday masses, when just a cluster of people showed up, as well as some prime time Sunday showdowns at 10:00 am, where the pressure was on and the house was packed.
Easter Sunday and Christmas Day were like the Super Bowl. So many people would show up that the pews would be filled and some would have to stand in the back. Rare devices like the solar monstrance and evergreen advent wreath were thrown into the mix. The biggest and most badass event was Christmas Eve midnight mass. Most of us weren’t even allowed to stay up that late, let alone celebrate the birth of Jesus! Unfortunately, I never got that call of duty.
The sacristy was like the locker room before the big game, a chamber reserved for priests, altar boys, and those guys that collected money in straw baskets attached to a long handle. You’d show up and put on your robe, tied together tight at the waist by whatever colored rope belt was on the schedule. The priest was usually sitting, deep in thought, twiddling his thumbs. He’d run over any special plays that he wanted to run that day. I remember there being a closet of boxed wine, but we weren’t allowed in there.
After costume change, you’d strike a match and light this three foot candle lighter, that had a large wick encased in brass, and then proceed to walk the forty yards to the altar, all the while cupping the flame with your hand. Sometimes there would be legions of faithful already in the pews staring as you’d clamber up the carpeted steps to the altar to then light a series of candles. I don’t think my parents even trusted me with fire at that age, but there I was, fractions away from torching the altar cloth. Occasionally, the flame would blow out and you’d have to walk back to the sacristy to start all over, hoping the cute girl you dug didn’t see your error.
On Sundays, there were two or three altar boys per mass. Weekdays were usually just one. At the start of mass, we’d all line up at the sacristy door and the priest would nod to the organist to start playing. The tunes came barreling and everyone turned towards us. One altar boy would have to carry this large wooden staff with a crucifix on top, leading the way. I always hated this, as my feet would hit the staff or I’d accidentally pounce it into the floor. At the altar we’d line up and genuflect, and the the altar boy carrying the staff would have to smoothly place it on a wall mounted brace that never seemed to have a firm grasp. The staff swayed a bit in the groove, leaving me in utter horror.
The rest of the mass was a series of adrenaline rushing maneuvers that were all based on perfect timing:
- Becoming a human desk to hold a padded bible while you faced the priest and he read the Gospel
- Ringing bells at just the right moment while kneeling and acting like the carpeted concrete wasn’t tearing your knee caps apart
- Holding the shiny communion catcher at just the right spot for every person that came forth, especially those old timers that preferred to receive it by closing their eyes and having the priest stick it on their tongue, as opposed to by hand
One day after lighting the candles, I forgot to check that the tabernacle key was on the altar. The tabernacle was a decorative lock box behind the altar where all the unblessed wafer hosts were kept and returned to after communion. It was an early weekday mass, and there were only about forty people there. I was just trying to stay awake, sitting on the firm altar boy chair, when I noticed the priest staring at me. He made motions with his hands, as if he was turning a key. I didn’t know how to communicate with him. He was a good twenty yards away. Do I shout? We never had to talk during mass, so it seemed impossible. I extended my hands from my hips, jaw dropped, and then pointed towards the sacristy. I could run to the sacristy and get the key, I thought, but I had no idea where it was, as it was always just sitting on the altar. The priest made a gesture with his hands, brushing me aside, and nodding while looking at the mound of crispy wafers.
I wasn’t aware that the priest HAD to put the unused host back during the mass, and apparently he wasn’t allowed to leave the altar to go get the key. I think he had to remain on the multi-platformed zone, or else there’d be some kind of violation. And that’s when he stuck his hand into the communion chalice and began eating leftover hosts. And, boy, was there a lot! It was as if someone had dumped a bag of Baked Lays in there. The lapel microphone on his robe captured the crispety crunchety ultra dry communion feast as the crowd looked on in puzzlement. All that I kept thinking about was my Dad telling me to “Eat ‘em up, yum yum!”, something he’d say while I stared at a plate of tepid lima beans. “Come on, Carl, eat ‘em up. Pretend you’re a good boy. Pretend you like it.” I sat there as time stood still, robbing everyone of about two minutes, biting my bottom lift to hold in jolts of laughter, bobbing about like a detached buoy floating away.
Eat ‘Em Up Yum Yum
In sixth grade, becoming an altar boy was like joining a theatre company, with everyone you knew watching your performance week in and week out. Why sit in the pews with the adults, old folks singing hymns out of key, obstructing your view of the action at the altar? Becoming part of the holy production let you escape from the clutches of your parents and let you be free, robed, and owning the parish’s undivided attention.
As an altar boy, you were assigned a specific schedule that spread everyone evenly. You’d get a share of crack of dawn 6:00 am weekday masses, when just a cluster of people showed up, as well as some prime time Sunday showdowns at 10:00 am, where the pressure was on and the house was packed.
Easter Sunday and Christmas Day were like the Super Bowl. So many people would show up that the pews would be filled and some would have to stand in the back. Rare devices like the solar monstrance and evergreen advent wreath were thrown into the mix. The biggest and most badass event was Christmas Eve midnight mass. Most of us weren’t even allowed to stay up that late, let alone celebrate the birth of Jesus! Unfortunately, I never got that call of duty.
The sacristy was like the locker room before the big game, a chamber reserved for priests, altar boys, and those guys that collected money in straw baskets attached to a long handle. You’d show up and put on your robe, tied together tight at the waist by whatever colored rope belt was on the schedule. The priest was usually sitting, deep in thought, twiddling his thumbs. He’d run over any special plays that he wanted to run that day. I remember there being a closet of boxed wine, but we weren’t allowed in there.
After costume change, you’d strike a match and light this three foot candle lighter, that had a large wick encased in brass, and then proceed to walk the forty yards to the altar, all the while cupping the flame with your hand. Sometimes there would be legions of faithful already in the pews staring as you’d clamber up the carpeted steps to the altar to then light a series of candles. I don’t think my parents even trusted me with fire at that age, but there I was, fractions away from torching the altar cloth. Occasionally, the flame would blow out and you’d have to walk back to the sacristy to start all over, hoping the cute girl you dug didn’t see your error.
On Sundays, there were two or three altar boys per mass. Weekdays were usually just one. At the start of mass, we’d all line up at the sacristy door and the priest would nod to the organist to start playing. The tunes came barreling and everyone turned towards us. One altar boy would have to carry this large wooden staff with a crucifix on top, leading the way. I always hated this, as my feet would hit the staff or I’d accidentally pounce it into the floor. At the altar we’d line up and genuflect, and the the altar boy carrying the staff would have to smoothly place it on a wall mounted brace that never seemed to have a firm grasp. The staff swayed a bit in the groove, leaving me in utter horror.
The rest of the mass was a series of adrenaline rushing maneuvers that were all based on perfect timing:
- Becoming a human desk to hold a padded bible while you faced the priest and he read the Gospel
- Ringing bells at just the right moment while kneeling and acting like the carpeted concrete wasn’t tearing your knee caps apart
- Holding the shiny communion catcher at just the right spot for every person that came forth, especially those old timers that preferred to receive it by closing their eyes and having the priest stick it on their tongue, as opposed to by hand
One day after lighting the candles, I forgot to check that the tabernacle key was on the altar. The tabernacle was a decorative lock box behind the altar where all the unblessed wafer hosts were kept and returned to after communion. It was an early weekday mass, and there were only about forty people there. I was just trying to stay awake, sitting on the firm altar boy chair, when I noticed the priest staring at me. He made motions with his hands, as if he was turning a key. I didn’t know how to communicate with him. He was a good twenty yards away. Do I shout? We never had to talk during mass, so it seemed impossible. I extended my hands from my hips, jaw dropped, and then pointed towards the sacristy. I could run to the sacristy and get the key, I thought, but I had no idea where it was, as it was always just sitting on the altar. The priest made a gesture with his hands, brushing me aside, and nodding while looking at the mound of crispy wafers.
I wasn’t aware that the priest HAD to put the unused host back during the mass, and apparently he wasn’t allowed to leave the altar to go get the key. I think he had to remain on the multi-platformed zone, or else there’d be some kind of violation. And that’s when he stuck his hand into the communion chalice and began eating leftover hosts. And, boy, was there a lot! It was as if someone had dumped a bag of Baked Lays in there. The lapel microphone on his robe captured the crispety crunchety ultra dry communion feast as the crowd looked on in puzzlement. All that I kept thinking about was my Dad telling me to “Eat ‘em up, yum yum!”, something he’d say while I stared at a plate of tepid lima beans. “Come on, Carl, eat ‘em up. Pretend you’re a good boy. Pretend you like it.” I sat there as time stood still, robbing everyone of about two minutes, biting my bottom lift to hold in jolts of laughter, bobbing about like a detached buoy floating away.