Uncle Harty, Altar Boy

We held a memorial service today for my father, followed by mass at Blessed Sacrament Church. One part of the mass will stand out for me above everything else that has happened over the past mash of days. It involves my uncle and aunt, both of whom were raised in their fully Catholic family with my father:

Before we precessed, and in earshot of Father Gaspar, my 78-year-old Uncle Harty started to tell a story of his own altar-boy days to one of the eighth-graders serving at today’s mass. I don’t know if he finished the story before we began our walk in, but the priest heard enough of Uncle Harty’s childhood mischief that he was on guard. And less than one minute into the mass — interrupting the opening prayer — the priest walked up to my snickering uncle in the front pew and told him to show respect in the church. Uncle Harty pulled himself together in his best just-been-yelled-at way, and the priest walked back up to the altar. “Well, he didn’t even let me get five minutes in,” my uncle grumbled to those around us, most of whom were fighting off contagious giggles. But what nearly sent me out of the church in wailing laughter was the comment from my 70-year-old Aunt Marcie, who thought she was speaking quietly enough for no one to hear: “He better watch out; we might come up there and kick his ass.”