What goes around....

In my Random House computer dictionary, there are ninety-one definitions of the word TURN. The closest to my story is No. 70, "a single revolution, as of a wheel." As you read further, you may find that definition No. 85 is closer to the truth: "an attack of illness or the like."

The "turn" I am referring to is the device in cloistered monasteries and convents that shields the visitor from the monk or nun, but permits one to pass notes or small objects in and out. I'm sure that there is a fine Latin name for the device, but I will call it the turn.

As more and more changes come about in the church, I, for one, hope that we retain the turn. There are some things that we should not change. For years I have pushed for changing the liturgy to make it more meaningful to the congregation. I welcomed the use of English in the Mass. I reveled in the use of guitars. I bought into the demise of confession in those little dark boxes. I like some, but not all, of the Protestant hymns we started singing. I had a little trouble with "modern dance" in the aisles, but generally I am impressed with the improvements. But I insist that we hold the line on changing the turn. I hope the following stories reveal why.

Some stories about the turn are worth only a chuckle. Not too far from our home in Massachusetts is a Cistercian monastery that specializes in preserves and Christmas cards. One year my wife went there for some cards. She viewed the selection in the lobby, rang the bell, and asked for a hundred cards. She heard an "Oh," then heard much shuffling behind the barrier. Shortly thereafter the turn rotated, and box after box of cards came tumbling out. It seems that the nun thought my wife wanted a hundred boxes of cards. Eventually my wife returned all but ten boxes, the hundred cards that she wanted. If cloistered nuns are allowed to chuckle, I'll bet that story went the rounds.

Other stories have a more sinister turn: My friends, who for this story will be called John and Helen, live in the Boston area directly across the street from a convent of cloistered nuns. The solid brick wall of the convent is high and studded with shards of glass to discourage unwanted visitors. The grounds are further protected with a fierce dog who barks threateningly even at someone with the nerve to pass by on the same side of the street. It seems that John XXIII's aggiornamento is truly dead here.

One fine summer day, my friend John and two of his boys were fixing the porch roof of their house that faces the convent. While they were working, their cat, Murray, leapt onto the convent wall for a stroll. Immediately the dog awoke from a doze, barked, and charged the wall. John says that the attack was so fierce that, for a moment, he thought the dog would scale the wall, the street, and even the porch roof.

Murray, who John though t was a little developmentally handicapped, but whom Helen loved, instead of leaping safely to the street, jumped into the convent yard in an attempt to escape. Wrong move! Instantly there broke out cat squeals, more barking, and general pandemonium.

Helen heard the commotion and ran across the street where she confronted the turn and rang the bell.

The following conversation took place:

A voice said, "God be with you. May I help you?"

Helen said, "God be with you, too, Sister. I think that your dog is killing my at."

The voice said, "Yes, I believe that is rue. Please wait a moment."

Then, after about four minutes, the turn rotated and delivered a shoe box to Helen.

In the shoebox was the dead cat.

It had suffered a turn, "an attack of illness or the like."

Back to my main point. Please rise in evolt if the Vatican tries to do away with he turn. Stories like this need to continue to be told.

Francis E. "Gene" Moore, the father of eight, is a retired chemical engineer om Attleboro, Massachusetts.