18 April 2009
260
R. Linda:
I apologise ahead for using phonetics on the speech of me mates and Father Farrell. But they talk the way they sound here, and so . . .
This morning I was down at the rectory at St. Patrick's as a volunteer to help put the Easter cross and purple robe that drapes it away. The cross be heavy and big so it takes six men to handle the thing. We took turns throwing the robe on and heaving the cross over our shoulder and smiling for the mobile phone camera, only to be caught by Father Farrell who was not liking our antics. We all acted ashamed and apologised profusely, but Father would have none of it. We were given penance right then and there and ordered to the altar where we were to kneel and recite 150 Hail Marys. Then once we were all done, in unison we were to go back and drag the cross to storage under Father's supervision. I have to tell you I felt transported back to Ireland to when I and a few other altar boys got caught taking a nip of the altar wine, for which we were dismissed from the altar service forever. I remember Father O'Brien making us kneel at the altar to pray while he sat in the pew behind us regaling us on the depredations of the drink.
Only this time it be Father Farrell of the deep voice and Boston accent that was not regaling us on taking inappropriate pictures, but instead be regaling us on Irish marriage and how it be that all six of us were of Irish heritage and between us we had 25 children (which be a good thing in the eyes of the Church because that meant more members and maybe a few new priests to carry on the good work). I had to look from me right to me left thinking me buddies didn't get out much they were busy in the bedroom and then I remembered, they were three of us Irish and the rest Irish American. This made me wonder which ones did more in the bedroom and I had to think it was the Irish Americans because the three of us were more than like in the pub doing the drinking the other three weren't. But then I thought that be pretty fair, they do the act and we do the drinking. Well balanced group we be. But I didn't know that one of our lot wasn't Irish at all, but Scottish, one Connolly, who put a finger in the air in protest and turned to Father and said, "I donae noo how this kinn be that ye think having 25 bairns (children) among us is goud when the church is expounding on abstinence one moment an the rhythm method the nixt. I wish I noo which it was."
We were stock still at this breach of Catholic etiquette, listening to the overwhelming silence from behind us.
"Aah you a priest thah Connolly that celibacy is an issue?"
"No, but the recent edicts coomin' from Rome are enough ta confuse a goud Catholack, donya think Fathah?"
Uh oh, I thought this isn't good. With more than a heavy silence behind us Connolly decided to push on anyway.
"Well then Fathah, if I noo one thing aboot celibate priests it is that there be noon. So, there shouldna be a celibacy vow in the first place."
We all wanted to cross ourselves as if finished and get the hell out of there. But no, we were knowing we still had a bunch of Hail Marys to finish, but God in heaven the five of us silent Irish wanted to pray to be someplace else instead of praying for penance. If Connolly didn't shut his gob we'd be doing more than 150 Hail Marys, we'd be there at the altar for life! It figures the Scottish never could keep quiet.
The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Dalton on me right had groaned and put his face in his hands. McQuigly on me left was staring front and centre, his eyes near bugging out of his head. We three knew that Irish priests were a hard lot and had each of us some terrible experience of being smacked upside the head for some indiscretion, either imaged or real.
"You're not 100% on that Connolly, but you ahh patlly right in that thah has been some hankie-pankie going on through the yeahs." Father said in a voice we did not expect. It was calm and contemplative. I looked at Dalton as he brought his hands down and stared into space in disbelief.
"And yer roight Fathah even our sainted St. Peta was married and there were Popes who begot Popes and it screwed it all up for the rest of us," offered McQuigly much to me chagrin.
Dalton's hands came up over his face again as he shook his head that his fellow countryman had joined in the dangerous discussion going on. I sighed and closed me eyes and continued on me Hail Marys hoping that was the last of it, but it wasn't. Another voice piped up, it was Bryan Mahoney, who single digitly (I don't mean a finger either) could claim he was the proud father of nine of the twenty five children between us.
"I find it hard to understand why looking at one's wife with a twinkle in one's eye constitutes adultery in the Catholic Church Father. I have a beer or two at Murray's and I come home feeling . . . frisky . . . and there is the wife and well I have to put on a blindfold not to look at her with lust Father. What's up with that?"
There was utter silence and I chanced to look back and there was Father Farrell his elbow resting on his knee, his hand in a fist hitting his forehead in frustration, the other hand pressing keys on Dalton's mobile phone.
"Did ya know boyos that in Ireland the eight letter word for sex be spelled m-a-r-r-i-a-g-e?" This from McQuigly which brought unintended chuckles from the rest of us.
I chanced another glance at Father and he was still in the same posture, only his chin was resting on his fist as he slowly shook his head at McQuigly. He caught me glance and said, "Gabriel O'Sullivan, what have you to say in all this, eh? You must have an opinion being a repatah and writing about fallen women and all that populate the Boston slums, what was that tem you used on the miscreants, fallen men was it?"
Me heart went still, me breathing stopped, me hail Marys fizzled into thin air and I felt a cold sweat on me brow. Fallen women? Worse, fallen men? Oh my God, Father must have read me piece on unmarried pregnant women at a Catholic women's shelter in Boston. It was written in a sympathetic manner and I touted the fact that the men that had impregnated these women, were nowhere to be found and that they should man-up and take responsibility. It wasn't something the Catholic Church would find fault with, it was a piece that the Catholic Church could hold up and say, "See this, these women are fallen women and they did not practice abstinence as dictated by the Church." I had placed much of the fault on the 'fallen men' though, I even called them that.
"Just what is a fallen man, Gabriel?" Father Farrell persisted. "If I listen to you six, you are all good, righteous and upstanding men, as aah all men, isn't that so? Do explain what a fallen man is Gabriel please."
The good Father was putting it all on me for having the balls to take a peek at his reaction to all the bombast that was going on around me. It was his way of turning the tables and I don't know if he thought by picking on me, the conversation would become intelligent, but I was not going to throw me mates to the fire, and so I would continue the idiocy. I would not be cut from me own kind and be the outcast that would become known as Father Farrell's toadie, Gabriel.
"A fallen man is . . . is . . . is a non-existent entity Father. You can't find any historical references on the group, but that said, there be much recorded history of fallen women who were impregnated by mysterious airborne sperm I'm told."
That brought outright laughter from the men on either side of me and a huge silence that did not bode well for yours truly behind our kneeling bodies. I could hear the sounds of Father getting up and I fully feared he would hit me upside the head, but that didn't happen.
"I think you aah all fallen men for making fun of the Cross. I think you aah overly concerned with selfish needs and don't do nealy enough praying. I'll let you go this time, get the Cross put up and then not a word out of any of you on this. I heah anything more and you'll be back heah saying not only 150 Hail Marys but 1,000 Our Fathas. Now go!"
We scrambled to get up almost falling over each other, nodding at the Reverend Father as we legged it back to where we left the cross and robe. We repaired to the storage room in grinning silence. Once we had the cross and robe put up, we high-fived each other and went our separate ways, feeling like we had got away with something big. And actually we did. No penance, but Father was now convinced he had at least six over sexed idiots in his church who had no brains whatsoever, who had no respect for the Church and it's edicts, and who he would probably use in the future for manual labour and get good sermon material out of. In a way he had won, he had erased all the pictures from the mobile phone as we were kneeling at the altar, but then did he? Come to find this evening, our smiling faces be gracing his computer as a screen saver, and worse he has drawn demonic mustachios on all of us. He won't forget us Dalton told me. I be not sure I want to see the inside of St. Patrick's for a very long time.
Gabe
Copyright © 2009 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
I apologise ahead for using phonetics on the speech of me mates and Father Farrell. But they talk the way they sound here, and so . . .
This morning I was down at the rectory at St. Patrick's as a volunteer to help put the Easter cross and purple robe that drapes it away. The cross be heavy and big so it takes six men to handle the thing. We took turns throwing the robe on and heaving the cross over our shoulder and smiling for the mobile phone camera, only to be caught by Father Farrell who was not liking our antics. We all acted ashamed and apologised profusely, but Father would have none of it. We were given penance right then and there and ordered to the altar where we were to kneel and recite 150 Hail Marys. Then once we were all done, in unison we were to go back and drag the cross to storage under Father's supervision. I have to tell you I felt transported back to Ireland to when I and a few other altar boys got caught taking a nip of the altar wine, for which we were dismissed from the altar service forever. I remember Father O'Brien making us kneel at the altar to pray while he sat in the pew behind us regaling us on the depredations of the drink.
Only this time it be Father Farrell of the deep voice and Boston accent that was not regaling us on taking inappropriate pictures, but instead be regaling us on Irish marriage and how it be that all six of us were of Irish heritage and between us we had 25 children (which be a good thing in the eyes of the Church because that meant more members and maybe a few new priests to carry on the good work). I had to look from me right to me left thinking me buddies didn't get out much they were busy in the bedroom and then I remembered, they were three of us Irish and the rest Irish American. This made me wonder which ones did more in the bedroom and I had to think it was the Irish Americans because the three of us were more than like in the pub doing the drinking the other three weren't. But then I thought that be pretty fair, they do the act and we do the drinking. Well balanced group we be. But I didn't know that one of our lot wasn't Irish at all, but Scottish, one Connolly, who put a finger in the air in protest and turned to Father and said, "I donae noo how this kinn be that ye think having 25 bairns (children) among us is goud when the church is expounding on abstinence one moment an the rhythm method the nixt. I wish I noo which it was."
We were stock still at this breach of Catholic etiquette, listening to the overwhelming silence from behind us.
"Aah you a priest thah Connolly that celibacy is an issue?"
"No, but the recent edicts coomin' from Rome are enough ta confuse a goud Catholack, donya think Fathah?"
Uh oh, I thought this isn't good. With more than a heavy silence behind us Connolly decided to push on anyway.
"Well then Fathah, if I noo one thing aboot celibate priests it is that there be noon. So, there shouldna be a celibacy vow in the first place."
We all wanted to cross ourselves as if finished and get the hell out of there. But no, we were knowing we still had a bunch of Hail Marys to finish, but God in heaven the five of us silent Irish wanted to pray to be someplace else instead of praying for penance. If Connolly didn't shut his gob we'd be doing more than 150 Hail Marys, we'd be there at the altar for life! It figures the Scottish never could keep quiet.
The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Dalton on me right had groaned and put his face in his hands. McQuigly on me left was staring front and centre, his eyes near bugging out of his head. We three knew that Irish priests were a hard lot and had each of us some terrible experience of being smacked upside the head for some indiscretion, either imaged or real.
"You're not 100% on that Connolly, but you ahh patlly right in that thah has been some hankie-pankie going on through the yeahs." Father said in a voice we did not expect. It was calm and contemplative. I looked at Dalton as he brought his hands down and stared into space in disbelief.
"And yer roight Fathah even our sainted St. Peta was married and there were Popes who begot Popes and it screwed it all up for the rest of us," offered McQuigly much to me chagrin.
Dalton's hands came up over his face again as he shook his head that his fellow countryman had joined in the dangerous discussion going on. I sighed and closed me eyes and continued on me Hail Marys hoping that was the last of it, but it wasn't. Another voice piped up, it was Bryan Mahoney, who single digitly (I don't mean a finger either) could claim he was the proud father of nine of the twenty five children between us.
"I find it hard to understand why looking at one's wife with a twinkle in one's eye constitutes adultery in the Catholic Church Father. I have a beer or two at Murray's and I come home feeling . . . frisky . . . and there is the wife and well I have to put on a blindfold not to look at her with lust Father. What's up with that?"
There was utter silence and I chanced to look back and there was Father Farrell his elbow resting on his knee, his hand in a fist hitting his forehead in frustration, the other hand pressing keys on Dalton's mobile phone.
"Did ya know boyos that in Ireland the eight letter word for sex be spelled m-a-r-r-i-a-g-e?" This from McQuigly which brought unintended chuckles from the rest of us.
I chanced another glance at Father and he was still in the same posture, only his chin was resting on his fist as he slowly shook his head at McQuigly. He caught me glance and said, "Gabriel O'Sullivan, what have you to say in all this, eh? You must have an opinion being a repatah and writing about fallen women and all that populate the Boston slums, what was that tem you used on the miscreants, fallen men was it?"
Me heart went still, me breathing stopped, me hail Marys fizzled into thin air and I felt a cold sweat on me brow. Fallen women? Worse, fallen men? Oh my God, Father must have read me piece on unmarried pregnant women at a Catholic women's shelter in Boston. It was written in a sympathetic manner and I touted the fact that the men that had impregnated these women, were nowhere to be found and that they should man-up and take responsibility. It wasn't something the Catholic Church would find fault with, it was a piece that the Catholic Church could hold up and say, "See this, these women are fallen women and they did not practice abstinence as dictated by the Church." I had placed much of the fault on the 'fallen men' though, I even called them that.
"Just what is a fallen man, Gabriel?" Father Farrell persisted. "If I listen to you six, you are all good, righteous and upstanding men, as aah all men, isn't that so? Do explain what a fallen man is Gabriel please."
The good Father was putting it all on me for having the balls to take a peek at his reaction to all the bombast that was going on around me. It was his way of turning the tables and I don't know if he thought by picking on me, the conversation would become intelligent, but I was not going to throw me mates to the fire, and so I would continue the idiocy. I would not be cut from me own kind and be the outcast that would become known as Father Farrell's toadie, Gabriel.
"A fallen man is . . . is . . . is a non-existent entity Father. You can't find any historical references on the group, but that said, there be much recorded history of fallen women who were impregnated by mysterious airborne sperm I'm told."
That brought outright laughter from the men on either side of me and a huge silence that did not bode well for yours truly behind our kneeling bodies. I could hear the sounds of Father getting up and I fully feared he would hit me upside the head, but that didn't happen.
"I think you aah all fallen men for making fun of the Cross. I think you aah overly concerned with selfish needs and don't do nealy enough praying. I'll let you go this time, get the Cross put up and then not a word out of any of you on this. I heah anything more and you'll be back heah saying not only 150 Hail Marys but 1,000 Our Fathas. Now go!"
We scrambled to get up almost falling over each other, nodding at the Reverend Father as we legged it back to where we left the cross and robe. We repaired to the storage room in grinning silence. Once we had the cross and robe put up, we high-fived each other and went our separate ways, feeling like we had got away with something big. And actually we did. No penance, but Father was now convinced he had at least six over sexed idiots in his church who had no brains whatsoever, who had no respect for the Church and it's edicts, and who he would probably use in the future for manual labour and get good sermon material out of. In a way he had won, he had erased all the pictures from the mobile phone as we were kneeling at the altar, but then did he? Come to find this evening, our smiling faces be gracing his computer as a screen saver, and worse he has drawn demonic mustachios on all of us. He won't forget us Dalton told me. I be not sure I want to see the inside of St. Patrick's for a very long time.
Gabe
Copyright © 2009 All rights reserved
