Fire, brimstone and hard cash — Holy Communion day

IT'S that wonderful time of the year again â€â€ bouncy castle season. They're sprouting like mushrooms on the landscape heralding the arrival of First Holy Communion.[private] And in keeping with tradition, adults shake their heads, wonder what has become of sacred rituals and bemoan the fact that children seem more interested in the party than the ceremony. Shocking. Another sign that we have lost our way in this country. Another step towards a godless and hedonistic society. Next, the church will be cut out of the equation altogether and kids will worship Bacchus, the god of feasting and wine. No wonder the country is the way it is. Why, in my day making your Holy Communion was â€â€ well, to be honest â€â€ it was our initiation into the unscrupulous world of commerce and we took to it with gusto. If the baby Jesus or anyone else had got in the way of us reaching our projected profit margins on the big day, he'd have been trampled on. We'd no time for bouncy castles and the like, there was serious money to be made. Money changers in the temple didn't bother us. In fact, they could have come in quite handy for exchanging the dollars or sterling if you were lucky enough to get it in the post from relatives abroad. Some of us were operating offshore long before it became the norm. Avarice and greed didn't begin today or yesterday, you know. Back when I made my Communion in Castlebar, the day was anticipated more for the cash it generated after the formalities were dispensed with than for the sacrament itself. It's not that we were totally godless. We'd just learned early to separate God and Mammon. Naturally, we had heard about the bad boy who took the host out of his mouth, brought it home, stuck a knife in it, the blood came spurting out and he died in screaming agony that night, so we weren't likely to slip up on the spiritual front. I played my part like all the rest. No point, after all, in burning in hell when there was a piggybank to fill, and, more importantly, to spend. Not that it was easy money. We learned our catechism for the best part of the school year. Who made the world? God made the world, etc., etc. Some hard chaws would snigger and whisper, 'Johnnie McCormack and his men,' in answer to this question, McCormack's being local builders at the time. We'd all laugh but it was only out of kindness, as we knew these jokers would soon be sizzling in the depths of hell for making light of such a serious matter. We were big on hell back then, we hadn't yet experienced Fair City or being put on hold by an insurance company. Burning in a fire we could grasp, everyone who played with matches could, but the forever bit threw us. Was forever like waiting for Christmas or your birthday? Could anything conceivably be longer than that? As adults we learn that hell is other people but as children all we knew was that it was for other people. This allowed us to take delight in the tortures we'd imagine were suffered by really bold boys; the type of reprobates who didn't have to make up sins for their First Confession. I, of course, being pure of heart and mind had to make up a list of lies to tell at my First Confession, which indicates how holy I was. Pope Pius X, in his wisdom, decided in 1910 that a child reached the age of reason at seven or so. Quam Singulari , I looked it up. So before we could receive the Eucharist we needed to do penance. After penance came redemption and all the sweets you could eat. Theology is not so complicated when you break it down to basics. The little embryo Puritan in me saw sin everywhere, which only served to emphasise my own goodness. Looking at me in my new suit, Irwin's best, with a sharp crease down the short pants, a shirt laundered to spotless white by my Mammy, my red tie tied by my Daddy (no elastic in our house), a red sash, holy medal and rosary beads, I'm sure people wondered why I hadn't already been beamed up to heaven to join the rest of the angels. Little did they know what cold, mercenary thoughts I harboured behind that beatific smile. How could they know I was just in it for the money and taking them all for a ride. You see back then the tradition was that as soon as you arrived home from the Holy Communion ceremony you went out collecting. No euphemisms in Mayo in those days before we had our own Taoiseach. It was known to one and all as collecting and it was taken very seriously indeed. You brazenly knocked on your neighbours' doors and stood there in your finery until they paid you to go away. We didn't even rise to the subtlety of the protection rackets by offering an explanation for our call. Anyway, it should have been obvious from the light shining out of me that I was in a state of grace and representing the man above. If they had a problem with coughing up, then they could take it up with Him. I was but his humble representative on Earth. We guarded our collection turf jealously, but that didn't prevent poaching. The railway bridge defined my border on the town side but the presence of other Communion desperados further out the Ballyhean road left the frontiers in that direction undefined and as anyone who has studied geo-politics will understand, undefined frontiers lead to ugly border incidents and often to outright hostility. The trick was to get in first. Knock on as many doors as possible before the opposition beat you to it. I had absolutely no shame, why would I, being in a state of grace? While raiding in the Station Road area I even hit the Protestant Minister's house. I was ecumenical in my mendacity. Nice man that he was, he put his hand in his pocket. Within an hour of a band of raptor-like First Communicants descending on an area, it was scavenged clean of not only all spare coinage but good will as well. Once that tipping point was reached the field was left to the goody-goodies who took their spirituality more seriously and only wanted to reassure their neighbours that they too were saved and in the fold. These were commonly referred to as girls. Sharing the day with them and the nuns was just about tolerable but no way were they getting an equal share of the spoils. Feminism and equality came late to Castlebar. Once your collection was over all that remained to do was count the takings and head for Mrs Walsh's shop. In keeping with a Roman sacrament we gorged in the manner of a Roman feast. Stuff yourself until you were sick, hit the vomitorium and start all over again. No cheap ice-lollies on this day. It was choc-ices all round and keep them coming. By the time Confirmation came around, the goal was the same but the technique required a little more sophistication. This involved putting yourself discreetly in the path of victims who were unfortunate enough either to be related to you or to know your parents. Because of the sensitivity of the operation, paper currency donations suited better. Obstructing drunks could also prove profitable but because of the pledge ran the risk of ridicule. Sadly, this tradition seems to have died out. I've never had anyone knock on my door demanding money with sanctimoniousness. No, it's all bouncy castles and parental supervision today, parties with families and neighbours. Maybe it's time to return to fire, brimstone and hard cash. â€Â¢ â€Â¢ â€Â¢ Quote of the Week 'I'm not answering what I got for my Holy Communion money, my Confirmation money, what I got for my birthday, what I got for anything else.' â€â€ Bertie[/private]