In second grade, I couldn’t decide who was more interesting—St. Mary or the One-eyed, One-Horned Flying Purple People Eater. My friend Skeeter and I sneaked into her big sister’s room and listened to that song on the record player. I can still recite the words.
Skeeter lived three houses down, in Yuma, Arizona, where we both went to C.W. McGraw Elementary. I can’t remember Skeet’s last name, but she loved “Purple People Eater” as much as I did. The problem was, she was Catholic.
The first time I was invited, my Methodist parents gave their reluctant consent for me to sleep over at Skeeter’s. The moment I walked into my friend’s living room, I’m sure my eyes bugged out and my mouth hung open. Skeeter’s dad sat in his recliner, a flimsy TV tray to one side, his footrest up and all pointing straight at a black and white television set.
But that wasn’t why I was so amazed.
On the tray sat a bottle of liquor with a real worm at the bottom. A scar ran right across Skeeter’s dad’s upper lip and it made him look mad all the time, so I kept my distance. But every time he took a swig from the bottle, I waited to see if he’d swallow that worm. My parents kept liquor bottles, but none had worms. I only knew that if Mom drank the clear stuff, look out—it could make her God Almighty mad before you could say please or thank you.
I was kind of scared to stay at Skeeter’s house, but I wanted to find out why Skeet was welcome to come to our stuffy Methodist church, but I was forbidden to go to Mass with Skeeter. I’d asked Mom why and all she did was throw her hands in the air and shout, “Hells Bells!”
Saturday evening at Skeeter’s went well enough if you don’t count the part where her dad lumbered out into the backyard, picked up an axe and chopped the head off a poor chicken. I watched it run in circles without its head and thought about saying I had to go home. Skeet convinced me to stay by telling me her sister had a couple of new records we could play and that she’d had another Mother Mary vision.
I really wanted to see what the big deal was, since we Methodists weren’t supposed to see much except possibly the backs of old people’s heads in the pew ahead. Skeeter and my other friend, Marcia Magdaleno, had wild stories about seeing angels and once Marcia claimed the Virgin Mary appeared on her breakfast toast. Mom warned me not to cross myself like a Catholic and said I was never to worship idols like they did, even if they were on toast.
Sunday morning, Skeeter’s mom woke us up before the sun was up. She wanted to go to early Mass. Skeeter and I had had a great time listening to the Purple People Eater, but we’d stayed up late. Before I knew what was happening, we were on our way to St. Somebody’s in the Desert Church.
Skeeter’s mom made me use a bobby pin to fix a lace doily on my head, and Skeeter’s sisters did the same. Her brothers got to stand around in white short-sleeved shirts, scuffing their black church shoes and punching each other’s arms.
We went inside and I could barely believe it—statues and pictures all over the place, sparkling with colors and shiny gold everywhere. Jesus was definitely there, and Mary too. My mouth hung open but this time it was to catch my breath. I’d never seen such beauty. The place even smelled good.
By the time I got home that day, I was still thinking about all I’d seen and heard. I wouldn’t tell Mom and Dad that I’d done the unthinkable. But I never stayed over at Skeeter’s house again. I accepted that my friend’s family was different from mine—although after that I had a terrible time eating chicken. I would’ve loved to hear all her sister’s new forty-five rpm records—she had “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” and the “Yellow Polka-dot Bikini!”
But I couldn’t go back, for fear that I’d never be able to resist the pull of the God I’d found at a Catholic church. I’d never stand firm against a place where Jesus looks at you from all angles and seems to be saying he’s in love with you. If there was a snowball’s chance that my toast might turn up holy, I knew I’d be helpless against God’s call.
When you’re a second-grader, life looks black and white, with a worm or no worm, chickens with heads or headless, Catholic or Methodist. Even the Flying Purple People Eater was no match for bottomless compassion I saw that day in Mary’s eyes. Her loving gaze has stayed with me down through the decades, helping me adjust my heart in ways big and small. That day at Mass, when no one was looking, I crossed myself.