An embarrassing - and costly - moment.

Byline: Frank Lepore

COLUMN: Frankly Speaking

I am quite certain we have all had a few embarrassing moments in our lives. As I reminisce, I can recall more than a few, but even in early childhood, an incident still remains vividly in my mind.

I'm not certain of the situation today, but I do recall that when I was about 8 years old, it was deemed to be quite an honor to achieve the rather elevated status of being selected as an altar boy for any Roman Catholic Church. During the 1930s (that long ago), it was rather a competitive situation.

Since I was enrolled at a small Roman Catholic elementary school with all nuns as teachers, we were constantly being exhorted by these nuns to "join the ranks" of altar boys as a certain path to salvation. As an impressionable youngster, I religiously accepted the challenge.

The truth is that my aunts and uncles residing in the area were constantly encouraging me to strive for the priesthood. Even then, I knew my shortcomings and very early forgot about this possible vocation. My parents knew me best and threw cold water on this possible goal.

But, becoming an altar boy was a challenge. Somewhat shy, I figured that as an altar boy, I might seem to be somewhat heroic to the girls in my district ... well, at least to the Catholic girls. True it wasn't akin to being the varsity football quarterback, but I figured it must mean something.

At that time, a prospective altar boy had to learn certain phrases in Latin. Actually, I never knew what the Latin responses meant, but foreign languages always came easily to me so this was no problem. Later in life, I even became a Latin teacher.

From a potential pool of about 20 boys (no girls allowed - discrimination was in vogue) eight were selected, and I made the grade. There was one real drawback. We were told to purchase cassocks and surplices and be prepared for duty in three months. And I knew our destitute family could not afford such accoutrements.

My uncles and aunts came through. They chipped in enough funds to buy the necessary cloth material. A couple of the aunts stitched it all together and my outfit was complete. I knew I was only a few steps from heaven. Could any of my female classmates resist me now? (They all did ... easily.)

I even understood my father's reaction to it all. I loved my Dad, but I knew even then that he was a complete Agnostic or atheist at heart. The economic depression had taken the heart out of him ... literally and had truly crushed him. He had faith in nothing. His view of the Italian Pope summed up his attitude: "He's not starving, is he?"

In any case, it wasn't long before my best friend and I became the first and second altar boys. We were in constant demand by the nun supervisors and parents to serve at any major wedding or funeral. We were even picked to carry the cross at processional. It was like being selected for an All-Star team. Alas, the girls still didn't notice me. How fickle they can be. None even asked if she could peek under my cassock.

Of course, the best part of such action was that for late morning affairs during the week, we were permitted to leave our academic classes to serve in the small chapel that was part of the school. Unfortunately, it was at one of these affairs that my early embarrassment took place.

It was at the conclusion of a fairly large wedding held, as usual, on a Saturday morning. The service having been completed, the priest and we two altar boys were leaving the altar. The priest was behind us altar boys, holding the chalice and striding along. The church organist was happily playing away and it was a gay scene.

The custom then was for the groom to slip each of the altar boys a gratuity - anything from a quarter to a dollar as the boys were leaving the altar. This groom must have been a millionaire. He gave each one of us a dollar bill. What a take.

Unfortunately, I dropped mine reaching for it with my greedy paw. Now, one must remember that during those economic times, someone (like my Dad) if he was lucky enough to be working, would earn $50 for the week. Thus, $1 was a gigantic sum.

My eyes lit up when I saw the dollar. I stooped over to pick up my dollar before the priest grabbed it. He had his head up in the air - he should have been watching where he was going. His knee struck my rear end (it hurt) and I toppled over. The priest didn't fall, but he lost control of the chalice filled with (holy?) wafers.

Was I embarrassed? You bet I was. Even though my actions were the hit of the total ceremony, I knew I was in for it. The priest, an elderly gentleman, laid me out in spades when he reached the sacristy.

"Your greed is a grievous sin," he shouted.

I think he wanted my dollar.

Frank Lepore is a freelance columnist who was born in Clinton and lives in Sterling.