Fish Fry Fantasia

I'm just going to admit this right up front: I'm kind of obsessed with nuns. The habit, the sensible shoes, the compulsory life-sized crucifix dangling mid-bosom. The sartorial excesses (pre-Vatican II) leave me breathless with schoolgirl envy. I can't account for this, but you can chalk it up to fetishism, I guess.

Here in America, that cloistered, uniformed breed of Christ Bride is increasingly rare. One is hard-pressed to identify a nun in a crowd of civilians. But it can be done. Most assuredly a Sister will be of a certain age (60-93), sport a silvery hair helmet, and choose an ensemble of colorful polyester prints to complete the no-nonsense unisex look. The last vestige of habit will be the enormous cross adorning the red and green dahlia print blouse. But there's something less tangible than clergy couture that allows one to spot a nun: It is the general bearing of the individual. The piercing eyes, the nervous energy, the gamma rays of celibacy that radiate outward and make one aware that there was never (or shouldn't have been, anyhow) any funny business going on under the layers of synthetic and/or habit-ized attire.

Of course one hopes there were lapses in chaste judgment behind the rectory just before Vespers. But perhaps these are just the musings of the impure.

You see, the mind reels - positively reels - when it is forced to consider all that goes into the making of a nun. A nun must have a vocation, or calling to do so. But who's calling? God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, ok. But here in the clinical world of feet-on-the-ground reality, we require some hard core evidence. What causes one to reject the status quo in favor of a commune of same-gendered (or, I should say, same-sexed...for gender is variable) peers whose sole purpose is to honor The LORD? They willingly choose to succumb to a regiment that entails, first, waking up at a ridiculously early hour to pray together and secondly that trinity of non-negotiable guidelines: compulsory celibacy, poverty and "obedience". To me this smacks of military service, and that's nothing for me. But at the same time, I truly admire the level of discipline a career in the God-Service-Industry requires. I guess on some level I'd like to drop out of society (I'm half way there anyhow), and allow Mother Superior to boss me around. I have trouble making decisions.

And that's why I agreed to man the Pizza Booth at the St. Mary's Friday Fish Fry yesterday- because of a Vatican II-style Sister from another mister. Sister Carol's her name, and parish fun is her game. I jest. She's a punchy ball of atomic energy who pulls our little town together through sheer force of will, God love her. Shortly after we first moved to this little town that time forgot on the margins of Lake Erie, she paid us a courtesy call. Apparently we were suspected Catholics. My beloved spouse, upon learning that she was a nun, high tailed it to the man-haven garage to fiddle with gas caps and pliers. I, on the other hand, was delighted. I now had a nun in captivity, and duly invited her into my home. We had a nice chat, and I learned that she had a fear of dogs (we have three), and had received her vocational calling at the age of five, when she and her sister used to "play church" with their Barbie dolls, instead of doing the usual assortment of perverse, orgified reenactments one is wont to do with dolls at that tender age. From that time on, she would call from time to time, or wander over for a visit while I pretended not to be home. And this week, she asked me to put my money where my mouth is: participate. I found that in spite of my generally anti-social nature, I could not, would not, say no.

And the fish fry itself? Oh, it was the usual sort of thing, held in the recreational center next to the church. A large old hall with terrazzo floors and an asylum green paint job. A 9 foot crucifix adorning one wall, and rows and rows of banquet tables lining the interior and waiting to accommodate fish lovers great and small. Of course not everyone loves fish, which is why we had a pizza booth. I, along with my partner in crime Rita, duly doled out pizza (cheese, for it was Friday, after all, and meat is a no-no) to the mostly 12 and under crowd. From my vantage point, I was able to watch as Sister Carol flitted hither and yon among the faithful parish members, schmoozing, maitre de'ing, ushering, matchmaking and casting a watchful eye on her flock as they crossed themselves and dug into their Perch. She was a force of nature, resplendent in her element of captive parishioners and I, for one, admire that level of commitment. Amen.