Remembering Sister Bambi, this is a funny story.

MICHELE M BENDER
For The Tribune-Democrat

For thirteen years I sold refreshment tickets at our three annual summer church festivals.

Most folks purchased $5 or $10 worth at a clip, but others expressed concern about being “stuck” with unused tickets after the event.

“You’re never ‘stuck’ with them,” I’d assure my customers. “The tickets are good from festival to festival and year to year. We’re church,” I’d add. “We do ETERNITY!”

Apparently, I was wrong.

At 11:59 July 21, my St. Rochus Church was “suppressed” (that’s the word the diocese used).

My grandfather, an immigrant from Croatia, helped build St. Rochus. My dad, all his brothers and Aunt Sis attended the Rochus school.

You always believe your church will be there for you.

Father Charlie led our flock with faith, wisdom and humor. Church secretary Joann dazzled us with her awesome multi-tasking competence. Music Dude directed our choir for 8 years. I called Father and him “The Righteous Brothers” because they brought us “blue-eyed soul.”

I first volunteered as a cashier at the fish fries. We’d been serving haddock for

30 years, but weekly someone would inquire, “What type of fish is that?”

I begged Joann, “Just once, let me answer. ‘Today, we have a squid special, and for children, peanut butter and jellyfish sandwiches.’ ”

Our famous homemade desserts highlighted the fish fries for many people. One lady fretted over the rich, tempting goodies.

“Don’t worry,” I smiled. “Father always blesses the desserts. It neutralizes the calories.”

Next, I started to help out at the rectory office.

“When you work at a church,” Joann told me, “strangers think you’re a nun. I love jewelry and always do my nails, but still some new delivery person will say ‘Thank you, Sister.’ ”

One afternoon, a man arrived looking for Father. Joann took the fellow’s name and number. Then he began to ramble on, describing his problems in detail.

Poor Joann listened politely as I continued with my tasks. Every time I moved, the guy stared at me. He gave me the willies.

Finally, he left. “Michele,” laughed Joann, “that fella was checkin’ you out! There’s your next husband!”

“Joann, if that guy ever comes back and asks anything about me, you tell him I’M A NUN!”

When Father returned, we told him the tale. “If you’re a nun, you need a name,” he reasoned. “How about Sister Bambi?”

Joann howled. “What order do you belong to, Sister?”

“The Sisters of Peroxide,” I answered.

Back then, we had two nuns in residence. One day I met them in the courtyard. “Hey, Sister Bernadette, Sister Wilma!” I called.

“Hey, Sister Bambi!” Wilma replied with a wink.

St. Rochus, I will miss you.