After Mass

Sometimes, when my little baby sister was not having a good Sunday morning, my Dad and I

would go to Mass at St. Margaret's by ourselves. There was no such thing as a noon Mass. But the 10:00 Mass did last until about 11:30 a.m. On our walk back to our flat, we would take a right turn and go up Lafayette to Grandma & Grandpa's house. We would go through the gangway to the back porch, because we knew by this time Grandma would be in the kitchen off the porch making Sunday dinner. She would offer me a drumstick from the mounds of fried chicken she was making, or a little bowl of spaghetti (who ever heard of pasta) with homemade meat sauce. Of course, I never refused either of them.

Grandpa Joe would always come to the kitchen to see Dad and me. Like clock-work, after they

shook hands, Grandpa Joe would ask, "You don't want a drink, do you?" My Dad would

answer, "If you're having one, I might as well have one, too." So, Grandpa Joe would go into the cabinet below the sink, and fetch a bottle of whiskey. The sink didn't have a real cabinet under it like today's do, but it had a few shelves behind a fabric "skirt." Then Grandpa would ceremoniously go to the white, built-in cabinet across the room. It had a glass door separated into several panes. He'd open the door slowly and get the shot glasses down. Then he would

slowly pour an even amount of whiskey into each shot glass, replace the cap on the whiskey,

and offer one of the glasses to my Dad. He waited until Grandpa Joe picked up his, and then

in unison, they drank their shot of whiskey. Then again, as if it was scripted, Grandpa Joe would ask, "You don't want a beer chaser, do you?"