Brian Doyle

Another great thing about being an altar boy was getting to the church early, before everyone except the ostentatiously devotional railbirds who actually competed to see who could be there first kneeling at the rail fingering their rosaries and pretending to be lost in meditative reverence but . . . . Continue Reading »

I will start out politely, with the traditional As-salaam-u alaykum, peace be to you, and I will even use the title you have given yourself, and I will try to keep this note brief, for I can only imagine the press of your days, what with trying to manage a nascent state, and a fractious staff, and . . . . Continue Reading »

If you have to sneeze on the altar do so quietly and turn Your head away from the Holy Sacrament. Please carry A handkerchief in the pocket of your trousers. No jeans. Wear good shoes. No sneakers. Arrive 30 minutes early Minimum: 5 minutes early is 25 minutes late. The bells, As a crucial part of . . . . Continue Reading »

In our family, we went to Mass every blessed Sunday of the year, and here and there you would have to go to Mass during the week because of funerals or weddings or Days of Obligation or Masses to Open the School Year or Masses in Memory of the Faithful Departed. So by the time I was fourteen years . . . . Continue Reading »

You know what I remember first about my daughter being born? Weirdly, not the miracle of it, or the bruised tender extraordinary Courage of my wife, or the eerie alien glare of the birthing room, Or the cheerful doctor chatting amiably as she hauled out our girl, But my daughter staring at me, from . . . . Continue Reading »

What is the best poem you ever wrote in your whole life?I ask a friend of mine, aged six, and she thinks about this For a whole minute, looking down in the grass for . . . . Continue Reading »

Or here’s a story. One time when I was an altar boy A missionary priest arrived at our parish to conduct A retreat. He was sort of famous and even us cynics Among the altar corps were interested. Competition Arose as to who would be his go-to server; we drew Straws for it and someone joked . . . . Continue Reading »

Of course we remember everything that ever happened to us.Sure we do. We can easily make a concerted effort to forget,And successfully forget from Levels One through Eight, butYou remember, somehow—at the cellular or molecular levelPerhaps, where shame and embarrassment are in cold . . . . Continue Reading »

Here is my dad in Manila. He is twenty-three years old.He is a master sergeant. His task is to read photographsAnd maps and charts and interviews with local plantersAnd residents in areas which the armies of the AllianceWish to liberate from the armies of the empire of . . . . Continue Reading »

Our children, now lanky teenagers and just past The part where it’s all about them, are hilariously Interested about such odd parental phrases as the Cat’s pajamas and punching a clock and Captain Kangaroo and bomb shelter. Every other day . . . . Continue Reading »