The very first house I can remember living in was a little saltbox house in rural Pennsylvania (so rural we didn't have running water!) It was about fifty yards from a water-powered cider mill. When I was 2 1/2 I was asked by the kindergarten teacher what my address was. I responded with the name of the property, as posted on the sign my parents put up. "Sister. my address is 'By a Dam Site.'" You know, death by apoplexy is not a pretty sight for a child of such tender years.
In retrospect, it's so nice to know that my punning ability rubbed off on my parents at such an early age.
I don't believe I've told this story before. Some years later I was an altar boy, but I only got to serve at one Mass. For you non-RCs, one of the high points of the Mass for the altar boy is pouring the wine and water into the chalice. You have two cruets, and you pour in the wine first. The priest raises the chalice slightly to click against the chalice to let you know that you've put enough into the chalice.
So here I was pouring away and the priest, Father Mulcahy, dinged the chalice against the cruet. I kept pouring, so he dinged it again. And again. I looked up at him, still continuing to pour, and said four little words that broke up the entire parish, "Say when, Father Mulcahy." The one and only time I got to serve Mass. My father told that story ever after, and my mother never went back to church!
TEd
