FIRST COMMUNION

It's amazing what people remember most about landmark events from their past. For instance, I remember that on the morning of my sixteenth birthday, I was the first person in line at the DMV to take the driving test (I passed. Parallel parking was a cinch). On the night of my high school graduation, Robert Kennedy was shot down. On the night of my college graduation I was shot down by Suzanne Huff. But the thing I remember most about my first communion was the fact that Theresa Bukowski threw up in church and they had to spread that green kitty litter on it so the entire church wouldn't stink. Sister Redempter told us that something like this might happen, so the boys were already betting which of the girls it would be. It kind of surprised me that it was Theresa. She was one of the honorary boys in 3^A at St. Helena's and I'm sure Vegas odds would have given 1000 to 1 against her being the one to blow chunks, but sure enough, just as she was getting ready to receive the body and blood, up it came, and everyone within striking distance from ground zero was ducking for cover. Had this been Delores Weeks or Daphne Dempsey, it would have been the ultimate in karmic justice, but Theresa was okay and I can't even imagine how humiliating it must have been. I caught up with Terry recently and she hasn't forgotten that experience. Who would?

Other than Terry's life scarring experience, First Communion went off ALMOST without a hitch. ALMOST.  Jerry Smith, one of the attending altar boys, pulled the paten (the plate they placed put under your chin in case the host dropped to the ground) away from Jimmy Bay's chin before the host was on Billy's tongue, and I guess it spooked him because the host didn't quite make it to his mouth but went tumbling end over end to the floor. Nowadays you would just pick it up and dispose of it in the sanctified sink, but back then you placed a cloth over it and it had to be scooped up with a gizmo that resembled a spatula. The festivities were delayed for about 10 minutes while other altar boys scrambled looking for the "Cloth" and the spatula. I half expected some hard hats to come in and jack hammer a hunk of floor where the host landed and send it off to the Vatican for display. But the best part of the whole day was that my dad, who was just a working stiff, took all of the family to lunch. We're talking me, mom, my brother, grandparents, and two sets of aunts and uncles. My old man must have been saving for years because we went to this fancy restaurant on Westchester Square. I can still remember what I had for lunch…chopped sirloin steak. I loved chopped sirloin steak and ordered it every time we went out to eat which wasn't very often. We didn't start going out to eat with any regularity until my dad went into the hospital to die and my mother and I went for Chinese food every Friday night before we did laundry. Egg Fo Yong always makes me think of my mom and dad. Anyway, we weren't five minutes into the meal when the Italian in everybody (except my mother) came out and arguments ensued ranging from someone not giving enough money as a wedding gift to Tupperware that hadn't been returned. But you know, that was what being an Italian Catholic family was like, at least for my family. And now, having received First Communion, I was officially one of the tribe.