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Some may come and some may go
We shall surely pass
When the one that left us here
Returns for us at last
We are but a moment's sunlight
Fading in the grass
Come on people now
Smile on your brother
Everybody get together
Try to love one another
Right now
-- Chet Powers, recorded 1966 by The Youngbloods
Altar boys were given schedules for serving mass which included the 6:30 a.m. mass for the nuns in the chapel of Pomona Catholic High School on Holt Avenue. You entered the chapel from the east side of the building, down a shadowy path between shrubs and hedges before the first signs of daylight. I was 11-years-old and rode my bicycle to get there from my home in Kellogg Park some five-miles away.
It was a straight shot down Valley Boulevard which merged with Holt Avenue, the main drag in town, at an intersection known as five-points. My bike had a battery-powered light that cast a circle of visibility on the road that was otherwise dark, the shoulder strewn with stones, broken glass and debris, especially at the edge of town where I was coming from.
There were few cars on the street at this hour.
Father Murphy was the most popular priest of the St. Joseph’s parish. He was tall and handsome with dark hair and swarthy complexion. I was familiar with his brother Bill Murphy, also tall and dark-haired, who coached sports at St. Joseph’s Grammar School.
The story I heard was that Bill had suffered a “nervous breakdown” and that’s why he was a little strange. He seemed to always be breathing heavily and sweating. He was a nice man and really liked me because I was a fast runner. That was his criteria for sports: speed. He would line up all the kids at St. Joseph’s by grade on the football field for races. The winners would be marked for track and football.
Father Murphy was more sophisticated. He organized an annual fiesta at St. Joseph’s that included carnival rides, a barbecue dinner and entertainment. One year his star guest was Kim Novak, an attractive blonde movie actress. Another year folk-pop singer Burl Ives was the headliner. Bill Murphy told me that he had a date with Kim Novak.
“Kevin,” he said, his eyes happy and aglow. “I have a date with Kim Novak. She said she would go out with me.”
I didn’t know what to think, but it seemed unlikely that the beautiful actress would go on a date with him. But he was convinced. I just shrugged, thinking it might be possible. Why would he say that if it wasn’t true? Or if he didn’t “believe” it was true. Faith, we were taught, always had an element of doubt that made it more spiritual.
The altar boy would assist the priest with putting on his vestments in the sacristy, a staging room for the mass. Father Murphy might ask me how I was doing in sports or something, but there wasn’t much conversation between us. It was still pretty early in the morning. The sacristy presented a solemn atmosphere with a hint of the aroma of red wine, which was kept in the cupboard.
I heard about some altar boys sneaking sips of wine. I wasn't really interested.
Nuns had a particular odor that came from their woolen gowns. I associated their scent and the swishing of their robes with discipline and order, which could mean an unexpected knuckle on the head if you weren't paying attention. They were lined up in the chapel pews facing the altar for their special morning mass.
Part of my job was to light the candles on the altar and I tried not to look at the nuns when I walked into the sanctuary where mass would be said. I surreptitiously perceived rows of pointed black habits and heavily starched white face masks that exposed vague facial features that I didn’t want to identify.
I probably knew at least half of them from my classes. The others probably taught at the high school.
I also knew they were judging me and any false move could mean trouble. This was a private affair for them and my job was to serve, including reciting prayers in Latin in response to Father Murphy.
With the mass underway, I knelt on the step facing the altar. Father Murphy stood with his back to me, his decorated purple vestment hanging down from his high shoulders like a Mexican poncho. The small chapel was silent and I believed he was deep in quiet prayer. His body, from his head to his legs, began to sway as if it were a palm tree bending in the wind.
The more I watched him sway the more worried I became. I was afraid he might faint and fall over. I had witnessed people faint before during mass, and be carried out of the church by male ushers. There were no ushers in the chapel.
He seemed to be taking more silent time than usual, just standing there facing the altar.
To me, each tilt of his body indicated possible collapse. What would I do then?
I wondered if the nuns were aware of his swaying. What would they do? The entire scene became quietly ominous and I was in the middle of it.
My concentration was fixed on the subtle swing of Father Murphy's tall frame with Jesus nailed to the cross looking down at us. He, the Son of God, no doubt saw panic on my face. I wondered what Father Murphy’s face showed. Were his eyeballs rolling back in his head?
"Jesus, please don't let Farher Murphy fall over," I prayed.
I was close enough to touch him. If he did fall, it would be right next to me.
The nuns maybe didn’t notice what I saw. Perhaps because he was so handsome, some had the hots for him and were fantasizing sexual relations with him, or struggling with their consciences for entertaining such impure thoughts.
Temptation lurked everywhere, especially in church where you were supposed to be thinking about God. It's funny how when you're not supposed to do something, that's when you think about doing it.
After what seemed an interminable silence, Father Murphy slowly turned gracefully toward us. His every move seemed measured and imbued with holiness. I could have heard a feather land on the floor it was so still as we waited and watched.
He spread his hands and said:
“Dominos vobiscum.
To which I replied: “Et cum spiritu tuo.”
I was greatly relieved to hear the Latin words tumble by rote naturally out of my mouth.
“The Lord be with you.”
“And with your spirit.”
For that moment, all was saved.
From Silence of the Oranges, a working title memoir © 2020 Kevin Samson
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