Reminiscence

Independent of our labours in the Northern Rivers dairy farming community, and in common with a great percentage of it, we were practicing Catholics. Never paid professionals as the clergy, we only ever played in the amateur league. Sundays were the sacred days on which we went to the game, err, mass at Goolmangar church where we were lucky to have our own field and coach. Now as disparaging as this may sound, I and many of our 'flock', I suspect, did find this spiritually uplifting though not necessarily for its religious context.

For my own part and in spite of my position as vice captain of altar boys, second only to Hugh, I don't recall ever having experienced anything resembling a religious experience. Five to twelve words into any sermon my brain ceased to collate or comprehend, and all my energy became focused on remaining awake in my exposed position where it would be embarrassing and possibly dangerous to collapse in sleep.

On the other hand this social encounter, unique in a week of work school and bus, was exhilaratingly packed with potential. All of Catholic West Nimbin Road or at least all of that from our northern neighbours, the Bolands, were here gathered for a social event that lasted well longer than the mass and sermon. All the peers were gathered here with their elders and idols to swap gossip, observe growth and show off new clothes with scant reference to the recent religious experience. Sunday papers, The Sun Herald and licentious Mirror were on hand with their commix to be lustfully devoured but best of all was the opportunity to practice flirting.

Compared to the hard week, this was a bacchanal and the most remarkable thing about it was that those who had taken communion, that is the majority, were sustained by no more than a cup of tea since midnight Saturday. This seemingly arbitrarily devised rule of penance, not unlike the no meat on Friday one, was the seed for a great deal of anguish. This was a small community where there were no strangers. As I already said most took communion so it was easy to note those who didn't. Amongst them you might find the excuse of an inappropriate Murphy's pie after the dance at the Riverira the night before or someone recovering from poor health who would be foolish to go without sustenance almost to midday. There was probably also the odd hard core recalcitrant sinner who declined as custom rather than exception and lived with the reputation.

How many then were there like me, not so much living in guilt as gambling the odds that I could get to confession before dying with this mortal sin and being condemned to eternal hell fire. Yes I broke my fast and more than once. It was too much for this growing lad to milk a hundred cows, feed a dozen calves, wash all that machinery and then present for altar duties, a performance event, possibly swinging smoky censers certainly staying alert to ring bells to wake others without sustenance.

Milo was my favourite, straight from the tin, a spoonful could turn to a mouthful in seconds behind a mothers back and who could notice that missing. Powdered milk was another favourite and as long as I didn't have to talk for the five minutes it took for saliva enough to make it swallow I'd be OK.

That's the thing about sin. If you never commit it you can go through life never imagining it. Once you do commit you start looking around and wondering.

Postscript:
Now after almost a year I have worked up the moral courage to present the next chapter in my memoirs at; http://rokstump.blogspot.com. Please go there and see if you can find anything remotely defensible in the adventures of this classic Aussie Male during mid sixties to early seventies.