Opium of the Masses

I loved being an altar boy. I thought it gave me power. I think it gave me status. It definitely kept my mother happy. I just loved it. It was, believe it or not some of the happiest years of my life. It coincided with my primary school years so it was largely uninterrupted by teenage angst, albeit punctuated with an impetuous spirit for doing the first mad thing that came into my mind.  

I was assigned, so to speak, to the Franciscan Friary  in Carrickbeg, the Waterford half of Carrick-on-Suir. These were the halcyon days of Catholic Ireland; copious masses hugely attended and a battery of priests, brothers and altar boys keeping the show on the road. The priests and brothers treated us extremely well. We all got on well with them and appreciated their commitment as much as we ignored their eccentricities and most of their sermons. There was a certain regimented and institutional feel to the job of an altar boy and it suited me more or less just fine. I loved the uniform. Rich brown soutans that had the same shade as the Franciscan monk's garb with about fifty buttons that you would tie right up to the top. You could wear a pyjamas underneath; this thing covered a multitude. For those of you unfamiliar with liturgical vestments it is    also known as a cassock. Google it and you'll get the picture. However, in case you're thinking, that's a bit plain, over the soutane/cassock we wore a surplice, which is a white tunic kind of fellow with wide sleeves and went down to the knees. When they were fresh back from the Friary wash department they were something to behold. The song could have gone..."the surplice's so white I gotta wear shades". Put it this way, you stand out from the crowd in that get-up.

The next highlight was the roster which tended to cover a month or so. The way it worked was: one Sunday you covered the eight o'clock morning mass, the following Sunday you oversaw the later nine-thirty mass and then a week later you were assigned to the eleven-thirty mass and weekly duties. Weekly duties meant you covered the Sunday teatime benediction and then for the week ahead you held the fort for the daily eight o'clock morning masses. This was a kind of graveyard shift but I revelled in it.
I'd always be there first in the mornings, about half an hour before mass would start and of course Brother Agnelis would have the church and sacristy open already. That man surfaced at a un-Godly hour. I'd say he never slept it out, never mind  had a lie-in. So, essentially you had  the place to yourself. We had a room which housed all the accoutrements, including  incense and charcoal and the thurible. What's the thurible I hear you ask? It's an ornate metal kind of pot and cover suspended by chains that's used to burn the incense at different ceremonies, especially at Benediction. It went into overdrive at Easter.
From our room an open door led into the celebrant's quarters which was right beside the church. There, the priest would have all his stuff. Suitable vestments, the various missals, the chalice etc. All the really important stuff. Just off that room the altar wine and the communion hosts were stored. Bottles of the stuff and hosts that lay in boxes lined with a lovely crisp paper. There were hundreds upon hundreds to a box. Of a winter's morning when I had cycled over I have to be honest and admit I did the odd time partake in a few hosts- unconsecrated I hasten to add- washed down with with a good slug of wine. I'll tell you it fortified the soul on a frosty morning and readied me for the fray. I told you I was impetuous!
Normally three or four of us would serve the mass. We would have to light the candles, place the chalice on the altar, ready the water and the wine into their little crucibles and put the patens out. The patens were the brass plates that were placed under the chin of the person receiving communion. Why, I'll never know, I mean there was nothing going to drip. Not from our side anyway. I'd say I've seen the roofs of half the mouths in Carrick with that job. You had to be very careful that you didn't clout someone on the chin with one of them. They could be quite fine and the last thing you wanted was someone reverently receiving communion and returning to their seat with a split lip.
I loved training in new altar boys. I was a right show-off. Teaching them how to genuflect was my specialty. Keep the back straight and whatever you do, don't slouch. Ringing the bell at various times in the mass was important. If you forgot there'd be dagger looks; and that's just from me. When mass was over, you quenched candles and brought back in all the implements that were used. We'd have to help the priest if it was needed. Generally, just tidy up to try and leave the place as you got it and off you go. All in a day's work.
Easter was a great time for an ambitious altar server. Especially if you didn't mess up on thurible duties. You had to light the little two inch diameter circles of charcoal and  place them in the cup of the thurible and sprinkle with incense. I can smell it as I write. Opium of the masses. Then there were processions at Easter and not forgetting the sojourn around the parish at Corpus Christi where you rubbed shoulders or surplices to be precise with our comrades from St. Molleran's. We in the Friary tended to look down at that lot. They had the privilege of serving at funerals and weddings; the Friary didn't do those. And their palms were duly crossed with silver. Greedy guts. However, we had the annual trip to Multifarnham in Co. Westmeath, home of the Franciscan training college. Over three or four days we were treated like princes. Access to sporting facilities and  generally just shooting the breeze. God we got up to some crack. And we got away with it. That's for another day. 
So, there you have that much, an overview of life as a Franciscan altar boy. And you might agree a good one I was too. I had my flaws but then who's perfect? It's an altar-ego after all.