... ..the church of St. Herb ....February 23, 2005   I am eight years old.  The church in which I kneel is grotesquely modern.  The priest is in a Vatican II groove and, though I am only eight, I have chosen a side.  I prefer my priests facing away from me.  And I miss the Latin.  I feel most holy when I strain to understand. My father isn't kneeling.  He's a Protestant and not a particularly good one.  This is not to say he isn't a good Christian; he is.  The man lives the Golden Rule.  He lives the Diamond-Encrusted Platinum Rule.  But my father marches to the beat of a different drummer and, right now, that's Gene Krupa.  So I stab the Naugahyde kneeler with my bony, eight-year-old knees and my father sits and smiles as though awaiting The Rapture. I lean forward to steal a glance at my Roman Catholic mother.  Roman.  I wonder if there is any other brand.  Through the black net veil, I see her eyes are closed.  She is moving her lips, but I cannot hear what she is saying.  I suspect her of Latin.  Meanwhile, my two sisters play Rock, Paper, Scissors.  They forgot their veils so my mother has made them bobby pin folded Kleenex to their hair.  I shake my head in disapproval. As always, our pew smells of licorice.  It's the herbsaint my father ritually sips before leaving home for church.  I look back at him and watch his crow's-feet fan.  Running my eyes across his cheek, I spy a wired earpiece.  From experience, I know the wire disappears beneath his suit at the shoulder and connects the earpiece to a transistor radio concealed in an inside pocket of his coat.  My father's expression tells me the Cardinals are winning.  previous..|..current..|..archives..|..1st quarter index..|..next

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