For the first time in many a year, melancholia for the old days set in and I went so far as to consider attending church services on Easter Sunday, and heaven only knows there are a dearth of them in the rundown area of town where I reside in a small apartment. But the thought passed quickly and I ended up on Easter Sunday at a shopping mall watching the girls go by.

“The old man and his cat,” I have overheard neighbors describe me and that is not objectionable because it is my situation. And at my age there is little hope of anything beyond. Well, that is not exactly true because one day the gatherer of souls will rap on my door after which my ashes will set out to sea on the eternal voyage to forever.
Forgive me father for I have sinned…

During Easter Sunday morning during my formative years my two brothers and I served as altar boys in the cold and drafty old frame church in a place known as Fresno, MT, which is no more. And before Mass we were required to stand in line outside the confessional awaiting the dreaded moment that we would have to expound our sins to Father Warner who had previously admonished us:

Scrape your feet against the floor while you are waiting in line so you don't overhear the sins of the person in front of you.

And during the whispered enumeration of sins within the confessional we dutifully scraped our feet, but suddenly Father Warner would open the door on his side and tell us:

Modulate the scraping. I cannot hear the sins of the lad inside.

We tried to oblige but it was difficult to modulate scraping while wearing hand-me-down heavy work shoes with metal toes and soles cut from an old rubber tire.

My heart beat wildly when it was my turn, remembering mama's admonition that I was lousy with sin. I trembled as I sat on the bench, separated from Father Warner by only a gunny sack-like window. The confessional was musty and dark as I began to rattle off my sins. I could see the silhouette of the good Father's face but could not read his expression as I stammered:

I have said some bad words, Father, and had some bad thoughts.

This was always my opener and always held hands over my face so he would not recognize me, fearing he would consider me a rotten-thinking black sheep and shame to the parish.

Oh, the humiliation I endured describing how another boy and I scraped a tiny hole in the paint on the window of the dressing room of the high school girls' basketball team, stood on a garbage can and lustfully watched them undress.

How many times?

Well, maybe a couple of times.

How many is a couple of times, lad? Three or perhaps four?

I – I – don't know, but more than that, Father.

More than six, son?

Well, I guess yes. Maybe ten.

Finally having stammered and hem and hawed through this, I confessed that I had accidentally touched a few girls' breasts while playing a game we called Pum-pum Pull-away.

Are you quite certain that it was accidental?

Well, maybe not every time, Father.

How many times would you say you touched the girls' breasts? Maybe four or five? This, my lad, is the worst of sins. Would you say it was more than five or six times? Perhaps ten?

I – I – uh – maybe 20 times.

And what other grievous sins have you committed, son?

Wow! I knew the penance he'd stack on me would be heavy, but I had no choice but to relate yet another sin.
I – I – I stole a compact from the dime store to give Mama for Christmas.

That is very shameful son, trying to turn a bad deed into a good one.

Finally he wrapped up my confession by levying what he considered a fair penance, like maybe 20 Our Father's, 30 Hail Mary's, a dozen or so Apostle Creeds and maybe even the rosary. And then came the most blessed words of all:

Go my son, and sin no more.

I said my penance, or as much as I could during lulls in serving Mass with my brothers, and with a great feeling of elation now of being sin-free to the very core. And I would sin no more because it was so embarrassing admitting them.

And I didn't until that evening when somebody suggested we play Pum-pum Pull-away again with the girls.

Comments: Woody Laughnan, vallefox@accessbee.com