As a child I remember the first time I heard a higher calling. It was my Mom calling my brothers and I to dinner in that sometimes screechy, ear-popping voice of hers. Had she auditioned, she could have landed a voice-over gig as a cartoon scarecrow.
In fourth grade I heard a different calling. Okay, so no one actually called me. I just knew I was eligible to become an altar boy at our local church. That’s what good Catholic boys did, especially those of us who attended Catholic school. You learn a few Latin responses (yep, that’s how old I am), don a snappy, full-length black and white Zoot suit and, with any luck, you get to ring the chimes during Mass. All good stuff, not to mention excused school absences for 9 AM weekday masses and funerals.
One of an altar boy’s duties was to attend the Stations of the Cross service every Friday afternoon during Lent…another “get-out-of-jail -arly” card. What we weren’t supposed to do was cause a ruckus. I’m still searching for that memo.
In its absence, I crossed the line into altar boy purgatory on one such afternoon in seventh grade. This service started like any other. The best of the eighth-grade altar boys headed to the upstairs chapel to kick off the service with our parish priests. The rest of us, some fifty or so strong, were relegated to the obscurity and gloom of the downstairs chapel, there to park out butts and keep our mouths shut until called on to join in the action.
I meant to abide by that plan. I didn’t set out to cause a disturbance. But fate intervened, as it often does, and laid before me the low road to hell. (Too melodramatic? Hang on, I’m not done.)
You see, while mostly minding my business, I discovered an innocent looking whistle sitting next to me on my pew. Innocent my ass! It was practically begging me to pick it up and wail on it. Okay, so maybe I didn’t exactly need encouragement, but that whistle, to this day, was every bit as guilty as I of what came next.
First, this wasn’t your head-coach-type whistle designed to scream “shut the hell up.” Nope, this was a little cylindrical thing with an opening on top, a rotating blade in the middle, and an open bottom to amplify and vent the sound. The sound it made was a cartoon-like whirring with alternating ascending and descending notes.
My first blow was soft and measured; you know, just testing it out. That produced a chuckle or two. That’s when I decided to give the little guy a workout deserving of the occasion. So, like Magic Dick – the former J. Giles Band harpist – I wailed like crazy while solemn worship took place just one floor up. Louder whistling, louder laughter. More prolonged whistling, riotous laughter. Yes sir-eee Bob, a virtuoso was born right then and there.
After about five minutes of crowd pleasing, one of the upstairs altar boys showed up requesting the honor of my presence with the big cheese himself, Father Martin Keane. He had demanded to see “the boy with the whistle.”
Truth or dare time. Should I play dumb even if it meant hiding my adorable little noise maker? Or, man up and take one for the team? It turned out to be a no-brainer as the entire altar boy ensemble spun around and laser beamed me with their accusing eyes.
Hey, so what if I made a mockery of the Stations of the Cross and caused the entire congregation to look around in waves of wonder, amusement, and disgust. Later I heard that “disgust” won the day.
And yes, I did get fired from altar boy service but was back on duty within a week after my good friend Steve intervened on my behalf. Was I sorry? Maybe a little, but only for getting caught. By the way, if anyone finds my lost whistle, could you kindly return it? I wasn’t through performing.