Monday, April 6, 2009


So far this Lent, my sole religious observance has been to get out my Last Supper pillows. The cleaning lady lines them up in a row along the top of the couch, but I prefer to make different Apostle groupings. If I had thought of it, I'd have used some other fabric for the backs of these pillows, cut from a tapestry of the Last Supper. But I didn't, so now I have reversible Apostles.

In speaking with a member of the clergy the other day, I found out that those who have their feet washed by the priest on Holy Thursday always make sure their feet are clean before the service. What is the point in that? If my feet were going to be washed by a priest, I'd want to make it worth his while.

Speaking of feet, I spent Palm Sunday in Rockaway, walking barefoot on the beach. It was a clear, mild day, but the ocean was cold. Happy dogs ran along the surfline, until their unhappy owners were given tickets by a park ranger for not having them on a leash. Afterward, I went to the Wharf, where I could sit outside and have a beer and watch the sun set. It went down right in the middle of the Verrazano Bridge. Everyone sitting outside seemed to be speaking Russian.

Inside, on my way to the ladies' room, there was a guy at the bar whom I knew but couldn't quite place ... I said hello, he said how are you, and a second later I realized who it was: My mechanic! His family owns the Wharf. Little does he know that over the winter I found a new mechanic, in Manhattan, and got my motor mounts replaced.

1 comment:

Fullburn said...

I don't think the mechanic needs to know about the motor mounts, but I sympathize with the overflow of Holy Week guilt. I'm sure there's a way out of this that would include your priest and the mechanic's feet. Win-win!