Sacred Smoke

It was nasty cold on Christmas Eve, 1957. Cold that made my ten year old bones rattle.

I didn't want to go out, but I had no choice. Our parish was celebrating our first Christmas Eve midnight mass in the new church. It was going to be packed. The girls' chorus and the altar boys had reserved seats in the front pews. Parents and family members and neighbors had to fend for themselves.

Plus, it was a solemn high mass with processions and singing and incense. That meant a long time to stand if there was an overflow.

I had to arrive an hour early. I was only in 6th grade and surprised when selected to be one of the servers. Maybe it was because I was a serious kid who had been serving mass for two years. I also knew all the Latin responses.

The church was jammed. The church boiler was set to high. The grand ceremony began.

I remember bits and pieces of that night 68 years ago. In particular, I remember the heat. People were shredding scarfs and opening coats. Ushers opened side windows slightly.

I especially remember the incense. Lots and lots of incense. Frankincense and myrrh spooned onto a hot coal in a censer to bless the altar and offerings with sacred smoke.

I began to feel woozy. At some quiet point, I exited the altar. I rushed, unseen, down steps toward the school. An usher appeared and crushed a cotton capsule near my face. Ammonia fumes jolted me. He cracked open an exterior door. Frigid air burst in, clearing my head.

Against his wishes, I slipped quietly back onto the altar.

Afterwards, I told my parents I was OK. They didn't know what I was talking about. As far as they knew, I never left the altar.

Mark Twain wrote: "I've lived through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened."

Copyright © 2025 by James Hugh Comey

 

Vespa: A Nimble Wasp

In grade school, I walked my bicycle up a long sloping road after CYO football practices. I was tuckered out from wind sprints and play drills, tackle practice and more wind sprints. I often imagined how grand it'd be if I could sit on the bike, and it'd power itself up that long grade, my weary legs beneath me.

Fast forward 20 years. My brother-in-law was selling a 1969 two-stroke 305 Suzuki Scrambler motorcycle. He wanted something bigger. I wanted to tuck my legs below me and go up and down long sloping roads.

Over 50 + years, I've owned a dozen bikes. A Honda, Suzukis, Triumphs, BMWs, each a little bigger, each more powerful. I trekked to Canada and the Pocono and Blue Ridge Mountains. I mostly favored shaded country roads.

I rode with a small cohort of guys. We ate hoagies on plastic milk crates outside Wawa stores while we talked about open roads and life.

Those guys? Dead now or unable to ride.

Me?

Last summer I decided to return to my biking roots. The roads in Central PA, especially near the Susquehanna River, are devoid of rhyme and reason. They also lack shoulders should you have to suddenly pull over because a tiny hornet flew under your jacket. Dodging horse droppings around blind corners are an unexpected treat.

My last bike, a BMW R1200 R nineT Pure, weighed close to 500 lbs with a full tank. Constant shifting in traffic and rarely getting out of third gear on the local roads was getting tiring. And I didn't need 110 horses to pass Amish buggies.

The word nimble started to bounce around my head. Was there a much lighter machine? One that could give my arthritic clutch hand a rest? Was there a brand known for ease of use with a solid reputation?

A 2024 Vespa GTS 300 Sport scooter now sits in my garage. It's agile, gets 70+ mpg and will go 75 mph. It's a nimble wasp that turns on a dime that makes me smile every time I take it out. (Vespa is wasp in Italian.)

Now, if the 90 degree, high-humidity temps will just settle down, I'm off ridin'.

Copyright © 2025 by James Hugh Comey