Saturday, June 9th, 1962: my First Holy Communion day dawned. I greeted its long-anticipated arrival with excitement, tinged with a little dread. All would be good once the threat of the egg sandwiches was no more. A slight child for all of my seven years, despite my mother’s Trojan efforts to “build me up”, I would face the post-First Holy Communion, school-hosted breakfast with trepidation. Egg sandwiches were a staple at this obligatory event and I hated them.
My parents, sister and I walked to our nearby parish church for the ceremony. Although it was my big day, it did not require the attendance of my two other, much older, siblings. It was another age. There would be a simple family tea at home, later, to mark the day.
The Holy Communion ceremony was memorable. A sea of little girls dressed in white lace veils and satin dresses was dotted with little boys, wearing formal suits, in more muted colours. Hands clasped in prayer, fingers pointing heavenwards, we stood, sat or kneeled, on cue.
Well-rehearsed hymns
We processed slowly and with reverence to the altar to receive the Host, returning to our seats, now elevated and Holy. We sang well-rehearsed hymns under the strict direction and gaze of our teachers. Mass over, we decanted to the church yard and then moved, swiftly, onwards to the adjacent school hall.
Rows of tables, clad in white paper tablecloths lay waiting with sandwiches, ham and cheese, as well as the dreaded egg variety. Plates of buns, coated in icing, in colours of blue, pink and yellow provided a splash of colour among those of sandwiches. Jugs of diluted orange juice completed the spread. We First Holy Communicants were waited on by the nuns and volunteering parents. The rest of the adults stood chatting as they nursed cups of weak tea.
Plates of sandwiches were passed up and down the tables by our attentive hosts. We were encouraged to “eat up”. Suddenly, she was upon me, Sr Scholastica, a plate of the offending egg sandwiches in hand. They were duly thrust under my nose. Joy of joys, just at that moment, a saint appeared at her side, well actually, a parent, seeking her attention. Distracted, Sr Scholastica and her plate of sandwiches were whisked away. Phew, I had escaped!
Holy Communion Breakfast over, I skipped home elevated, on so many levels, to enjoy my special day.
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