Katie’s diary, who cares what the date is, 1922
Yeah, I totally know what the date is, but I kind of moved beyond the point of caring since our time will likely be shifting back into the future measurably soon…ya know? Okay, so I HOPE it will be soon.
Mick said I should document this incident, mostly because he found it hilarious. I’m not sure that it’s all that hilarious to get floor-kissing drunk in the back room of the local church on “Induction of the New Deacon” Sunday, circa 1922…but Mick did, so here we go. So it was also COMMUNION Sunday, right? And the new deacon was being installed, as I already mentioned, which tends to be a big deal in any denomination. Combine that with Communion Sunday, and you have quite the event. The entire town plus some out-of-county cousins were in attendance, and they typically didn’t make an appearance unless it was Christmas or somebody died. Well, we decided to make our own debut because, in this time, it would be weird for an upstanding married couple (where the wife is also pregnant with a future parishioner) to avoid church. Such avoidance could possibly mean that we’re heathens, atheists, or–even worse–socialists.
Not wanting to make any unnecessary waves, Mick and I embraced local churchitude and attended this particular Sunday. I happened to volunteer for communion-cup-filling duty and–mid-service–retreated to the little room behind the altar area to perform my helpful layperson deed. I went to town filling up little mini-glasses with what I believed to be grape juice. Except it wasn’t grape juice. It was wine. Wine that one of the local farmer dudes made on the side. Holy graciousful heavens, it was wine (and you’d think I would’ve figured that out, considering the fact that I counted myself a lay-vintner as well)!!
I sipped as I filled, still believing it to be grape juice, and couldn’t have been happier…literally, because it was actually high-octane wine that could’ve put moonshine to shame! By the time communion rolled around, I’d forgotten my name, my age, and the fact that I had any dignity whatsoever to the point that I’d exited the back room, walked into the front of the church, and proceeded to derail the pastor (who was in the process of ordaining the poor deacon) with a rousing rendition of “Bringing in the Sheaves.” What amused me later was how readily the congregation joined in with my impromptu singing…and how they didn’t leave when I asked why Slash wasn’t providing any enhancing accompaniment.
I suspected that Christine, the notorious preacher’s wife, had something to do with this present inglorious state of mine. As I was exiting the church in a most mortified of mentalities, she approached me clandestinely and said, “Honey, you were great. Last time I switched out the grape juice with the wine I burned down the whole church!”
So yeah, Christine had replaced the grape juice with wine. And nobody told me. Hell, nobody told them! But at least I didn’t burn down the church.
Diabloggical Me 