Catholic Carnival

Many years ago, I went to the Fall Festival at the Catholic Church with some friends of mine, brothers from a deviously wholesome family of Northern Italians. I went because I liked the boys and because I had nothing else to do. I expected a small affair with a few game booths and a table where the fried chicken and whipped potatoes were dispensed. That had been my experience with church related activities all my life, so I could not understand their enthusiasm for going. But heck, friends are friends, even if they are corny and like to spend their evenings playing Pictionary.

But I was wrong. What I remember now is just the swirl of sensation. A purple sky. Carnival rides, games of chance, a jazz band playing on a large stage in the distance, the lights of a giant Ferris Wheel hovering over the huge crowd, churchgoers carrying plastic cups of beer. I'd never imagined a church could be like this, my own being a dull, desultory duty of monthly fasts and boring testimonials of loving Jesus Our Lord. I have to admit, I was a little worried, this mixing in of foolishness with religion, but I was swallowed up in the raucous, medieval folly of it all.

By chance, I was driving by this particular Catholic Church on Friday and saw the lights and the streaming crowd, and I thought to go again. It was no disappointment. We rode rides until we were ready to puke, then drank beer and ate lobster (yes, lobster!) and shrimp and won stuffed animals and two goldfish (Bob and Dash) until we were too tired to go on.

Catholics. I can't understand why my parents didn't opt for that.