ON THIS DAY

ON THIS DAY。。。 

20/23 May 2014

Osaka, Japan

My grandmother was a religious lady who went to church on Sundays. She attended a Catholic Church in New Orleans, not very far from her house. The old church bell would toll the hour, and could be heard from her house.

 When I came to stay with my grandparents,  my grandmother would take me with her to Mass. 

I have to say that, to a three-year-old, especially one who's all over the place like I most assuredly was, taking me anywhere took some doing; she certainly had a handful! I was a toddler, just three years of age when I first went with her.

Telling me to stay still and be quiet was like telling a duck not to swim! In those toddler days, what perplexed me no end was that adults spent so much time and effort teaching me to walk and to talk, only to turn around and tell me to sit down and shut up! 

In their defense, I was "into everything", and that's an understatement! The world was so big and wide and interesting to me,  and I always had to look and go further beyond the pale, often much to the chagrin of my family.

My grandmother was a very sweet and kind lady, but when we'd go to mass, no foolishness was allowed. I was in total agreement with that, until I learned that the stuff I DID, was foolishness. 

So I was on my best behavior when there, and, in fact had lots to do, such as gazing at the sights all around me, looking at the religious pictures in my grandmother's missal, and trying to pay attention to the activities in front of the church. 

I particularly enjoyed the part of the mass when these men would come down the aisles with baskets with extremely long handles. They'd pass among us, collecting money, and my grandmother would give me a few pennies to put in, so I wouldn't feel left out.

Then I'd get to help her close her huge purse, and when the clasps connected, it did so with a loud "BOOM!" that echoed all over, and sounded like a bomb going off. This was true for the least little sound - the bumping of a shoe against a pew, a cough, a sneeze - all added to the strange litany of sounds of that place.

St. Rose was cavernous, and therefore all sounds reverberated against the stucco walls. In addition to the variety of noises, whenever the priest spoke, all I could hear was gibberish - and that's when he spoke in ENGLISH!!

I had no way of knowing that most of the time the priest - as well as the parishioners - were not speaking English, they were speaking LATIN!! It all sounded the same to me. 

Here I will modify that statement by saying that there was a time or two at church when my hearing seemed to work just fine: it was all mumbles until the priest turned to the people and said: "ON THIS DAY..." What he REALLY said was "Agnus Dei," but it sounded like he was saying "on this day."

I perked up: I actually understood something!!! What followed was more mumbles. Then once again, as clear as a bell I hear:"On this day..." - and then "mumble, mumble, mumble." 

"HEY!" I thought, "What HAPPENED on this day?"

More mumbles, than once more, "On this day," followed by the usual nonsense.  

What the priest was actually saying was:

"Agnus dei qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis."(Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.)

"Agnus dei qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis."

"Agnus dei qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem." (Lamb of God....grant us peace.)

  

Years later Latin Masses were discontinued, and the local languages of the people were used. 

Decades passed before I found out what was actually being said in that Hall of Mumbles. 

I returned to attend masses with my family many years later, delighting to see once again the familiar sights and sounds that surrounded me as a small child.

Happier still, I finally found out what happened "on this day.

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                MY FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF CHURCH

At the entrance to the church itself, just inside the doorway on either side, were bowls of holy water. We'd dip our fingertips into the water and then make the sign if the cross. This was the first of my senses that would experience my trip to church.

                   I remember vividly going into St. Rose de Lima Catholic Church and bring awestruck by the sheer SIZE if the place. I thought that a few GIANTS  could conceivably enter into this cavernous place, and walk around without bumping their heads on the ceiling, it was so tall!

　　　　　　　　

Then there were these beautiful stained glass windows all about. I was fascinated at how the sunlight gleamed and sparkled - awestruck at its beauty!

On every wall around were paintings, and seemingly every nook and cranny of the place not taken up by multicolored glass or artwork was crammed with statues and  gimcracks.

Then, there were these lights hanging on chains all the way from the high ceilings. That was something like I had never seen before.

In one of the very few parts of this edifice not dedicated to the aforementioned acoutrements was a grotto-like place with large racks of candles, in various stages of consumption. 

The flickering light of so many candles gave a different aspect to this otherwise dimly-lit corner of the church. They also gave the church a pleasant smell. Added to the occasional whiff of incense, smell, too, was another sensory experience. 

I watched curiously as my grandmother lit one or two of the unlit tapers, saying a silent prayer as she did so. This, she told me she did to pray for her family members who had died. 

I took that part very seriously, even though any concept of death was understandably unknown to me at that tender age. 

What I did notice was there were several places - bronze boxes inserted into the very walls of the church - where one might put money. My favorite was a little coin-sized slit into a metal square below the words: "POOR BOX."

I would usually ask my grandmother for a penny or two to insert into it, hoping my little contribution might help some poor people.

The altar was this huge, ornate construction that made no sense to me. It was obviously of great importance, since the priest usually turned his back to us and prayed toward it. I suspected that God himself might even dwell behind that façade.

Whenever the priest did something like bow or hold up the Host or wine chalice, an altar boy would ring a set of bells.

I particularly remember fondly the huge church bell atop the steeple. It not only called the faithful to mass, but also announced the hour. 

It was not some electronic circuitry that could be activated by the turn if a switch. It was a real, metal bell whose deep, rich tone was a constant background sound that I recall throughout my life. 

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BACK TO THE OLD NEIGHBORHOOD 

When I grew up and moved back into the old neighborhood for a few years, I had the pleasure of taking my children to mass at St. Rose, just as my grandmother took me. In fact, all three of them were baptized there, and my grandparents were present at those baptisms. 

It was great to sit there as an adult with small children of my own, in the very pews I myself sat in when I was their age！

Throughout my growing up, I never heard the organ at St. Rose. There indeed was one but it fell into disrepair. 

A man I knew kindly donated his time and expertise, and lovingly restored the organ. I thoroughly enjoyed hearing that magnificent sound and beautiful music echo through those lofty halls that were already full of so many memories

The sights, sounds, smells, and experiences I had attending church with my grandmother as a toddler remain with me as some of the sweetest memories of my youth and childhood. 

The church has now closed, sad to say, and so it is unlikely I will ever see the place again. But the memories remain, and, Like so many, many other happy memories, these, to, have gone to join the swelling ranks of things that I look back upon.