For most kids having to go to church on Sunday is a chore. For me, it was never a chore, because it always meant having lunch at grandma's house. Grandma was a large woman of Polish descent who could cook like nobody's business. If I close my eyes, I can still smell the pierogi, golabki, and kielbasa that always greeted one's nostrils when entering.
The ritual was to walk to my grandparents house, smell that food, have a sip of grandpa's beer, and go to church. I really never paid much attention to what was happening during the mass. I was an altar boy for a number of years, but I was more focused on getting back to grandma's for that delicious food and more beer. I distinctly remember one Sunday when the four of us kids were in the front row of the church, horsing around, not paying attention, when suddenly, it was obvious we had missed the cue to sit. I could feel every eye in the place staring at us as we continued to elbow each other and laugh quietly, while the priest just looked at us with disdain. Being Catholic did have some advantages. I used to steal candy from the store across from the church, then go in and confess, so it was ok.
I really do miss those days. I miss grandma's delicious food, grandpa's sneaking of the beer and teaching me to play poker, aunt Betty's record collection (These Boots are Made For Walking was always on), and getting loose change to go get a treat at the corner shop when it was time to go home.