IT'S A DAD'S LIFE:In Communion season children learn about faith – and briefly defy the recession
I BOUGHT a four-wheel drive, to do my bit to murder the planet you understand. I love it more than any other motor I’ve owned, being up high, all muscular and powerful, sneering at the Micras and Yarises and other badly named micro-cars, soothing my delicate ego with metal beast.
Moving to the country provided a window for such an indulgence, the two-mile drive to the school gate necessitating four wheel drive – for the kid’s safety of course. I love it, the big old pig of a thing.
It’s neither nimble or new. Has the turning circle of a biblical Ark and the front end of a disappointed pug. The grill swallows flies and sometimes seagulls, maybe a guinea pig or small dog.
What I’m most concerned about, though, is arriving home and finding the feet of an eight- year-old child protruding from its maw. They’re everywhere because it’s communion season. Little boys and girls in virgin white frocks and check suits with 1970s ties, lumbering around, more slowly than is usual due to the sacks of gold bullion they cart with them.
All these eight year olds defying the recession with their silk scarves and, ‘Yes, I do take plastic’ smiles. Parents lined up to the rear with energy drinks and encouragement, “Go on! Two more calls and you’ll have the holiday in Antigua. What? Time for the what? The church? Jaysus, we were on a roll.” My power steering for some reason tweaks towards them.
Hannah, the niece who raps like Eminem, took her wafer last weekend. I had great hopes for her grabbing the mic and rocking the party but she blessed herself and smiled serenely. The priest, however, was entertaining.
“How long have mobile phones been around?” “Forever,” the kids replied, you buffoon. “No, not very long. Neither have cars or trains or planes.”
This guy’s off his mallet say the kids to each other, wasn’t Moses tooling around in a Mondeo. “But the mass has been with us for 2,000 years. Isn’t that a long time?”
Yeah Padre, there’s cake outside so get a wriggle on, eh?
Down to the school for scones and jam and cream. This is more like it. Grace? What? Straight into the buns. The kids fuel up on sugar pausing only to stuff blue notes into purses and run the charity tax macro on their I-Phones. The cream is beautiful, thick and clotty.
It’s the elder’s turn next year, Grandad reminds me. I acknowledge we are up for the sham in 2010. This doesn’t go down well. He says that at least I’ll get a column out of it. He is, as usual, right.
The aforementioned future Communion maker had watched proceedings in the church closely.
“What’s it taste like?” she asks, “the ‘Body of Christ’?” I’m checking her with some hope for cynicism but there’s none. Damn your innocence!
“Like a bit off a stale cone,” I tell her. Her aunt, the mother of the star attraction, offers to bring her to the altar to witness what happens, but the elder’s not bothered.
Again, some hope rears its head, but it dawns on me that she realises there’s no cash to be made on this visit so is keeping her powder dry.
“You’ll be doing this next year. If you want. Only if you want. Do you want?”
“Of course,” she says.
I remember Communion boot camp. The priest with his tuning fork having us sing hymns and ‘love’ Jesus.
Months of preparation to wear a suit and instigate a bunfight. What a day.
Stepping out of the clothes only to sleep, before being paraded at mass once more the following morning, blessing ourselves relentlessly, getting guiltier by the minute and judging everything in sight because we knew we were now entitled.
The guilt/condemnation combination that built this country: “Let us pray. I love you, oh Holy Father and everyone and everything in the world you created.
“But aren’t them foreigners terrible and why would you go anywhere else, unless you’re baptising brown babies, when it’s all shotguns and crack whores? Yes, I love you, oh Holy Father.”
It’s better now. A friend recently reported his daughter’s communion priest had told them they’d have a great day and make a few quid.
This is the same friend who once said he’d rather nail his tongue (except it wasn’t his tongue) to a burning building than have religion in his house.
If he can accept the new ‘just a great day’ ideal then I have every hope for the elder’s spiritual development.
And last weekend’s communion party was a great day.