I did something last Sunday I have never done before.

I have swine flu to thank for it, and I’m not especially happy about it.

OK, first things first. It’s not really swine flu anymore. It’s now properly being referred to as H1N1 flu. We wouldn’t want to cause any more problems for pork producers than they’re already facing.

I got a press release last week from the Pennsylvania Pork Producers Council reminding the media that the World Organization for Animal Health had renamed the flu H1N1, which is the correct scientific name.

As if that is going to make this thing disappear from the headlines.
Look, we’re as guilty as anyone. I heard from more than a few readers who were not exactly thrilled at our front page last week showing an image of the actual virus in connection with the first reported death in the country, of a Mexican child brought into Texas.

My critics might be on to something. It appears as if the situation is easing a bit, even in Mexico. There are still reports of confirmed cases popping up across the tri-state region, but even the World Health Organization is now wondering if this strain has the traits that would make it a real health concern. Most incidents in the U.S. have been mild, and its victims recover.

In other words, not all that different from any other strain of flu that strikes the country. We sometimes forget that flu kills 36,000 people in the U.S. each year. That’s as opposed to one from swine flu – excuse me, H1N1.

Which brings me to last Sunday.

I had a feeling something like this might happen. Last week I noticed an Associated Press story from Baltimore where the archbishop there suggested priests refrain from serving wine during the Mass as a precaution against swine flu concerns.

No problem. At least I thought.

I am Roman Catholic, the proud product of eight years under the firm tutelage of the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. I am also a former altar boy.

To say that I am a bit old-fashioned in my religious beliefs is putting it mild. What can I tell you? I’m a dinosaur. Just a little to the right of Attila the Hun. Nowhere is that more evident that in my faith. I’d just as soon the Mass was still recited in Latin. I can still remember most of the words from those huge, laminated cards we wielded.

I am not a big fan of many of the new-fangled, “enlightened” moves instituted by the church. The belief is that congregations should be more open, welcoming. I think they’re just turning off longtime stalwarts such as myself.

So when they announced at Mass last Sunday that they would do away with shaking hands as a greeting at the start of Mass, along with the sign of peace, that was fine by me.

But then they crossed the line. Maybe I was brain-washed by the nuns.
Maybe there was something in that altar wine. But the bottom line is, I have never joined my fellow Catholics in accepting Communion – which we believe to be the body of Christ – in my hands.

I still remember the panic instilled on an impressionable young altar boy when the wafer once became stuck to the top of my mouth. After all, you weren’t to ever dare touch it with your hands. You sort of had to fidget around with your tongue to loosen it.

Today, most Catholics accept the host in their hand, casually pop it in their mouth, and munch on it like a Grand Slam Breakfast.

Gone are the days when the Mass was halted and the holy oils were brought out should the unthinkable ever happen, a mishap that left a dropped host on the ground.

Last Sunday I clumsily took the host in my hand and then placed it in my mouth.

Imagine my chagrin when I returned to my pew, only to watch someone else still accept the host in their mouth.

It says here swine flu is overhyped, this year’s Skylab or Kohoutek scare. I plead guilty to being a member of the media and being part of those who foisted this thing off on an unsuspecting public.

Next Sunday I will return to taking the host in my mouth. What are they going to do, excommunicate me?

Next thing you know they’ll be allowing girls to serve as altar boys.

Must be the pig in me again. Or maybe it’s the swine.