Sister Lawrence announces after morning prayers, "Our new church building is going to be consecrated in two weeks. Bishop Treacy, the bishop of our La Crosse diocese, will be here to sanctify the church. All altar boys must see me after class. I need to know what size cassock and surplice you wear." She turns to eye me. "Gordon, I don't think you've served as an altar boy yet, have you?"
"No, Sister."
Some boys smirk. (During lunch period on the playground, a brigade of them, including Eddie Matthews, Louie Narel, John Donegan, Cecil Salzman, Phillip Murphy, Barry Parmeter, Jim Balzer, and Johnny Kluge, whose father was killed in World War II, tell me, "You should answer the penguins as we do, with a, "No, Stir" or "Yes, Stir."
Louie Abler laughs. "That's stupid, Gordon. Don't listen to them."
"I agree," announces George Casey.
Returning to Sister Lawrence as she addresses me. "Would you like to be an altar boy?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?" Sister wears her beatific smile, but still insists I follow protocol.
"Yes, Sister." I don't seek another group sneer but fully expect it. I'm not let down.
I meet with the saintly nun after school is let out. She pronounces the Latin phrases I must learn to be a full-fledged altar boy. After she pronounces each group of words, I follow suit. "You're really good at this," she remarks.
"Thank you, Sister. I like learning new words each month in our Readers Digest magazine.
"The Word Power page?" she inquires.
"Yes, Sister. Anyway, Latin is easy to pronounce if I remember to sound out the vowels properly. Latin A's sound like our Ah's. E's sound like our long A's, and I's sounds like long E's."
"That's correct. You're an apt student, Gordon."
"Thank you, Sister."
"How'd you like to serve mass before classes next week in church? Louis Abler will help you."
Now, it's my turn to smile. "Louie's my friend."
"Yes, he told me." She is so comfortable that she prompts me to feel the same way. Unlike Mother, Sister Lawrence is 'steady as she goes'. There are no emotional outbursts from Sister Mary Lawrence, SSND, School Sister of Notre Dame.
"But are you sure I can serve? I mean it's awfully fast."
She smiles. I love that smile. "No doubt about it, Gordon. Next week, you'll serve at our morning masses in the church. The week after that, I expect you to serve in our convent's chapel." A moment later she added, "Alone, that is."
"Alone?" I needed to pee.
"The convent masses are at five-thirty."
"In the morning?" She nods. I breathe in a ton of air. "That's awfully early."
"Not for us sisters," she says, wearing a Mona Lisa grin.
So, Louie explains everything on Saturday in front of Turbin's grocery store and before mass on Monday. There's a full-length mirror in the sanctuary. I investigate what I look like, wearing a cassock. "I look like a priest," I tell Louie. Next, I put on the surplice, the white shirt-like piece over the cassock. "Now, I look like an altar boy."
"You nervous?" asks Louie.
"Yeah."
"Don't worry. When you ring the bells, give 'em hell," he says with a chuckle.
After mass, Monsignor C. W. Gille tells me, "This is the first time you served mass, right?"
"Yes, Monsignor."
"You did well although you don't have to ring the bells so loud, do you?"
Louie laughs when I tell him what Monsignor says. "Gille's the only priest who drinks all the wine from the wine cruet. And to top that, he uses the least amount of water. He's most likely nursing a hangover. Keep ringing 'em the way you did, okay?"
On Friday, serving mass seems almost second nature. I'm looking forward to serving in the Convent. "How do I find the chapel?" I ask Sister Lawrence.
"You must ring the front doorbell each morning. The nun assigned to answering the door will open the door, let you in, and lead you quietly to our chapel."
That's exactly the way it plays out Monday morning. The birds sing cheerfully as I ride the Schwinn to the convent, kick down the kickstand, and park the bike, minus both fenders and chain guard, alongside the concrete stairway.
I climb the stairs, hit the doorbell button, and wait. The tall, almost hunch-backed, Sister Julius pops open the door, waves me indoors, and leads me down some stairs. Shortly, I'm in an all-white, tiny chapel with an altar and everything. Sister points to the left of the altar where a doorway leads into a small room. "Father's in the sacristy," she whispers.
"Thank you, Sister," I whisper back.
"Good morning," Father Smith says aloud to me.
"Good morning, Father." He must think he's good looking. He either gazes in the mirror and pats his hair in place or cleans his finger nails with the file tip of one of those new-fangled fingernail clippers. His eyes don't meet mine, and his nails don't look dirty.
I put on cassock and surplice. I look around. I'm nervous. "Umm, Father?"
The priest digs under a nail but does not look at me. "Yes?"
"Where's the bell, Father?"
He points. My eyes follow the finger. Nearby on a small, white shelf, I see a teeny, tiny bell, shiny and silver in color, most likely chromium-plated. Although it has a long, thin handle, ten such bells might grow to be large enough to take the place of the church's three-bell affair.
Father harrumphs. I turn to him. Oops. He wears his biretta, the square black hat with three peaks and a black ball of yarn in the cap's center, just like those mother crochets for Crazy Annie's winter jibbers. Monsignor's biretta tuft is purple. Father Smith holds the chalice covered with paten and green silk cloth, matching the color of his vestments. I grab the bell. Father nods. I ring the teeny thing as hard as I can and lead the short, two-step march to the altar, Father Smith following. I kneel. The mass starts.
Later that afternoon, alone with Sister Lawrence, I'm shocked. She guffaws as loud as can be. "What's wrong, Sister?"
"Oh," she says, the part of her face I can see turns red. "When you rang the bell this morning, announcing mass, I thought to myself, "Now, we're awake." More guffaws.
"What are you talking about, Sister?"
Her body shakes with laughter. "All the nuns, including me."
"No, Sister."
Some boys smirk. (During lunch period on the playground, a brigade of them, including Eddie Matthews, Louie Narel, John Donegan, Cecil Salzman, Phillip Murphy, Barry Parmeter, Jim Balzer, and Johnny Kluge, whose father was killed in World War II, tell me, "You should answer the penguins as we do, with a, "No, Stir" or "Yes, Stir."
Louie Abler laughs. "That's stupid, Gordon. Don't listen to them."
"I agree," announces George Casey.
Returning to Sister Lawrence as she addresses me. "Would you like to be an altar boy?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?" Sister wears her beatific smile, but still insists I follow protocol.
"Yes, Sister." I don't seek another group sneer but fully expect it. I'm not let down.
I meet with the saintly nun after school is let out. She pronounces the Latin phrases I must learn to be a full-fledged altar boy. After she pronounces each group of words, I follow suit. "You're really good at this," she remarks.
"Thank you, Sister. I like learning new words each month in our Readers Digest magazine.
"The Word Power page?" she inquires.
"Yes, Sister. Anyway, Latin is easy to pronounce if I remember to sound out the vowels properly. Latin A's sound like our Ah's. E's sound like our long A's, and I's sounds like long E's."
"That's correct. You're an apt student, Gordon."
"Thank you, Sister."
"How'd you like to serve mass before classes next week in church? Louis Abler will help you."
Now, it's my turn to smile. "Louie's my friend."
"Yes, he told me." She is so comfortable that she prompts me to feel the same way. Unlike Mother, Sister Lawrence is 'steady as she goes'. There are no emotional outbursts from Sister Mary Lawrence, SSND, School Sister of Notre Dame.
"But are you sure I can serve? I mean it's awfully fast."
She smiles. I love that smile. "No doubt about it, Gordon. Next week, you'll serve at our morning masses in the church. The week after that, I expect you to serve in our convent's chapel." A moment later she added, "Alone, that is."
"Alone?" I needed to pee.
"The convent masses are at five-thirty."
"In the morning?" She nods. I breathe in a ton of air. "That's awfully early."
"Not for us sisters," she says, wearing a Mona Lisa grin.
So, Louie explains everything on Saturday in front of Turbin's grocery store and before mass on Monday. There's a full-length mirror in the sanctuary. I investigate what I look like, wearing a cassock. "I look like a priest," I tell Louie. Next, I put on the surplice, the white shirt-like piece over the cassock. "Now, I look like an altar boy."
"You nervous?" asks Louie.
"Yeah."
"Don't worry. When you ring the bells, give 'em hell," he says with a chuckle.
After mass, Monsignor C. W. Gille tells me, "This is the first time you served mass, right?"
"Yes, Monsignor."
"You did well although you don't have to ring the bells so loud, do you?"
Louie laughs when I tell him what Monsignor says. "Gille's the only priest who drinks all the wine from the wine cruet. And to top that, he uses the least amount of water. He's most likely nursing a hangover. Keep ringing 'em the way you did, okay?"
On Friday, serving mass seems almost second nature. I'm looking forward to serving in the Convent. "How do I find the chapel?" I ask Sister Lawrence.
"You must ring the front doorbell each morning. The nun assigned to answering the door will open the door, let you in, and lead you quietly to our chapel."
That's exactly the way it plays out Monday morning. The birds sing cheerfully as I ride the Schwinn to the convent, kick down the kickstand, and park the bike, minus both fenders and chain guard, alongside the concrete stairway.
I climb the stairs, hit the doorbell button, and wait. The tall, almost hunch-backed, Sister Julius pops open the door, waves me indoors, and leads me down some stairs. Shortly, I'm in an all-white, tiny chapel with an altar and everything. Sister points to the left of the altar where a doorway leads into a small room. "Father's in the sacristy," she whispers.
"Thank you, Sister," I whisper back.
"Good morning," Father Smith says aloud to me.
"Good morning, Father." He must think he's good looking. He either gazes in the mirror and pats his hair in place or cleans his finger nails with the file tip of one of those new-fangled fingernail clippers. His eyes don't meet mine, and his nails don't look dirty.
I put on cassock and surplice. I look around. I'm nervous. "Umm, Father?"
The priest digs under a nail but does not look at me. "Yes?"
"Where's the bell, Father?"
He points. My eyes follow the finger. Nearby on a small, white shelf, I see a teeny, tiny bell, shiny and silver in color, most likely chromium-plated. Although it has a long, thin handle, ten such bells might grow to be large enough to take the place of the church's three-bell affair.
Father harrumphs. I turn to him. Oops. He wears his biretta, the square black hat with three peaks and a black ball of yarn in the cap's center, just like those mother crochets for Crazy Annie's winter jibbers. Monsignor's biretta tuft is purple. Father Smith holds the chalice covered with paten and green silk cloth, matching the color of his vestments. I grab the bell. Father nods. I ring the teeny thing as hard as I can and lead the short, two-step march to the altar, Father Smith following. I kneel. The mass starts.
Later that afternoon, alone with Sister Lawrence, I'm shocked. She guffaws as loud as can be. "What's wrong, Sister?"
"Oh," she says, the part of her face I can see turns red. "When you rang the bell this morning, announcing mass, I thought to myself, "Now, we're awake." More guffaws.
"What are you talking about, Sister?"
Her body shakes with laughter. "All the nuns, including me."
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