Once in a while someone sends me one of their own writings that surprises me. This essay by Doug Houseworth, is one of those. Frankly, I’ve rarely laughed so hard. It’s a very well written piece with brevity, sincerity and most of all, humanity.
I think you’ll enjoy it. – daniel w. jacobs
Midnight Mass In Posen Michigan
A True Christmas Story
By
Doug Houseworth
July 1, of 1978 I married a wonderful Catholic girl from Posen Michigan. This is a Polish community near Lake Huron in the tip of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula. Susan came from a family of seven children and she was the only girl. Her father had always envisioned a traditional Polish Catholic wedding for her. Unfortunately, such plans came to an end when she fell in love with me. Not only was I protestant but also I had been married twice before. Even my mother felt sorry for her parents.
Our love prevailed and we were married at my house beneath a giant maple tree. It was a most informal affair and Susan’s family attended with great reservation. My entrance and acceptance into this good family was a fragile process. That year there were a few summer trips to the family cottage on Grand Lake near Posen, and in the fall a Thanks Giving dinner at their home. Things seemed to be going OK; then came Christmas.
I had only been inside a Catholic church on a few occasions and never to a midnight mass. Of course, we were invited. We got to my in-laws house early in the day and Susan’s father; Frank introduced me to what was apparently a Polish family tradition, one that I might add, was much to my liking. Drinking beer and eating an inordinate amount of Polish kielbasa was my idea of an afternoon well spent. We had a large, well-prepared dinner before Mass and if memory serves me, I would say a few more beers. The adventure of a new experience at midnight mass was just ahead.
Around 11:00pm, I began to notice some rolling pain in my abdomen. At first it wasn’t too bad. By midnight it became quite intense and I began to worry. The pressure was building. When we got to the church it was packed. At this point Frank became the director of seating and to my horror, not only were Susan and I separated but also our family group sat in the middle of a long church pew. I looked to the left and to the right; there was no easy escape. Frank and I sat next to each other in the middle of the pew.
The pain began to escalate and my thoughts turned to relief. The unpredictable standings, kneeling and sitting didn’t help much. At this point, the pressure was so great that I was afraid to move. I needed a plan. I ruled out the prospect of negotiating my way past the faithful, to the end of the pew and hopefully to the men’s room, without attracting attention to myself. It was too late! A process began, which I can only describe as a “farting meditation.” Never have I been so focused or clear minded.
There were two important objectives that began to emerge. These were silence and dryness. Trying to control odor was not reasonable. Besides, if odor were the only consequence, it would be impossible for one to say exactly where it came from. I reasoned that the combination of good sphincter control and alternately tightening and loosening my gluteus maximus, would allow me to control the release of gas. Should there be any sound, I could control it. The issue of dryness was an unknown, but it was a risk I had to take. There were a few intrusive thoughts of Frank telling his buddies that his new son-in-law messed his pants in church. But I stayed focused, taking things a step at a time.
I cannot say there was the sweet smell of success, but the first two goals were accomplished. A great volume of gas was released, with precise control, in complete silence and total dryness. I felt a brief sense of accomplishment, which was soon shattered by an exceedingly foul odor.
I was afraid to look at Frank least he suspect me as the source of this terrible smell. Without moving my head, I rolled my eyes in his direction. He sat stoically, looking straight ahead, seemingly absorbed in the sermon. The denial began to set in. I reasoned that since gas was lighter than air, perhaps it rose from my bottom up through my sports coat on up to heaven. Not only was it dry and silent, God and I were the only ones who smelled it. Yeah, that must be it!
This sequence of events repeated itself several times during the service. Each time I discretely looked at Frank and his expression never changed. Finally, the service was over and we all went home. Before going to bed, Susan, Frank and I were sitting in the living room. Susan’s mom, Marge walked in and said, “Well Frank, how did you like the service?” “Well, he said, the service was fine, but my God, that fat lady that sat in front of us, I thought I was gonna die. I never smelled anything so bad in my life.”
I laughed so hard I could barely breathe. Ten years later, I confessed my sin of compression to Frank. It was OK; we both laughed.
Doug Houseworth
