Even though my dad was a Methodist minister, as a kid I had few friends who were Methodists. Maybe because my parents did not wish to look as though we were playing favorites, none of us developed close friendships from within our various church populations. They did have friends who were other pastors and their wives, and a few parishioners from previous towns who kept in touch for decades.
My friends came mostly from the neighborhood. And especially in Attica, New York, when I was between second grade and fifth grade, most of the kids in my neighborhood were Catholic. My best friends lived the closest - Ann Marie and her little sister Betty and Peggy and Donna. They all went to the parochial school and I went to the public school. We had loads of fun riding our bikes, roller skating on the dangerously bumpy sidewalks, playing with our stuffed animals, and always trying (and failing) to gather enough lumber to build a tree house or a raft.
 | ||
| Two Catholics and a Methodist (Me with Betty and Ann Marie) |
 |
| Two Catholics and a Methodist (Me with Peggy and Donna) |
A slightly younger girl from the next block also became my friend. I do not remember her name but she had a white cat named Salty. One afternoon when I was in the third grade, this girl decided (for some unknown reason) to take me on a private guided tour of her Catholic church. She boldly opened the huge front door, dragged me into the hushed sanctuary where she eagerly showed me the stations of the cross, the confessional booth, the altar, the flickering votive candles, the gold decorations, and the beautiful yet startlingly gruesome statues. She was breathless with excitement and I was silenced by awe. Then, as a grand finale to this afternoon's activity, then she proceeded to show me all around the priest's private dressing room (the sacristy) behind the altar.
This magical room contained many glowing dark wood cabinets with drawers and drawers full of vestments - pristine white satin robes, miles of lace and golden embroidery. She opened each and every drawer - showed me every candle, where the communion wine was kept, and the wafers. And the chalices and candle holders. I was quite overwhelmed and impressed with all of this beautiful bounty.
But now, all these many years later, I can only imagine if the priest had caught us in there. He would have had a coronary. We were fortunate that we never encountered another soul during our little tour. And I don't think I ever recounted this adventure to my mom and dad. I am sure they would have been mortified.
I decided it would be only fair to return the favor and take this girl on a tour of my church. After all, my dad was the minister - I knew every nook and cranny in that gigantic old building. When I asked her if she would like to see my church, she recoiled in complete horror. She told me my church was a "public" church (not a "parochial" church) and she was sure she would be struck by lightning if she ever dared step foot inside such a blasphemous edifice. She and I pretty much stopped being friends after that - I am sure her parents forbade her from hanging out with me to avoid the risk of eternal damnation.
On another occasion, a group of us kids were given tours of the various churches in town. This was part of the new Ecumenical efforts by various denominations. When we entered the Catholic church, a nun yanked me out of line and asked me to cover my head. The other girls were pulling out lace-trimmed hankies for this, or even little hats - but I had nothing suitable. So the nun grabbed a facial tissue and slapped it onto my head. All I remember is being dismayed that these weird Catholics thought a rumpled Kleenex on my head was more suitable in their God's eyes than my own freshly washed hair.
