The Folk Mass (or “Sacrae Liturgiae Catholica in Discrimine rursus”*)

“Come on, people, now, smile on your brother…” filled the airwaves in my kitchen yesterday morning.  Now that brings back memories of an uncertain period in my life.  1969 was a good year if you were a folk musician, and the Grassroots had by then joined other rockers, like Bob Dylan (only ever depressing with his lyrics) and Joan Baez, all hoping to cash in on the implications of the Catholic Church’s revolution.  Pope John XXIII had sent shock waves across the Catholic world when he rolled out “Vatican II” in 1959.  With this extreme modernization of the Church, communities began to examine from a new angle their own bridges, wondering how troubled indeed were the waters flowing beneath.  Social justice was top of the list of causes to be taken up in the 60’s and 70’s.  People in that day, yes, hippies, if you will, allowed their disaffection to shape their worlds, at least the part of it over which they felt they could exert some control.  Enter the folk mass.

Bishops, cardinals, and monsignors may have grumbled, but they couldn’t argue that a restlessness was consuming their congregations.  For most parishes, compromise was the only solution if numbers meant anything; high mass in Latin could go on, and for the bongo aficionados, a “vernacular” mass was added to the limited menu.  

I welcomed the alternative.  I wouldn’t characterize my response to the folk mass as pleasure, per se, but acceptance.  I had never enjoyed the Latin mass, although it’s doubtful that enjoyment was one of its objectives.  As many years as I attended Latin mass with the inscrutable Monsignor Meehan presiding, I could never crack the code; those words just rose and fell around my ears, and taunted me with their secret meaning.  And the droning, oh, the droning; wake me up when it’s over!

So, I rode that boat ashore, right over to the Parish Center, a grand-sized building recently constructed to accommodate the baby-boom generation.  This is where I make a full disclosure.  I didn’t love Folk Mass; I loved, however, the promised honey-glazed donut that was the reward for sitting there (and sometimes standing and swaying to the music).  There were other advantages, too; the mass ran about 10-15 minutes shorter than the version over at the church proper, you could carry the tune and sing the lyrics more easily, you could play along with “the band” with your own acoustic guitar (if you so chose), and your attempts to track who was there and who was missing were less easily detected due generally to the more restive atmosphere. As you might conclude, I may have missed the real point of it all.

The absolute worst experience at Folk Mass was the day that I had just swung my gaze back to the front of the hall, (clearly just checking the flock).  Sister Julia Francis was standing right in front of me with a tambourine in her outstretched hand.  I shook my head vigorously as if to convey the obvious, which was, No, you’ve got it all wrong!  I have no sense of rhythm!  Please, I beg you, take it away!  As I tried to impart silently all these panicked thoughts to her, she calmly stood there until I took the tambourine from her.  Needless to say, Allelu that day lacked a certain percussive brilliance. (I learned that day not to sit in an aisle seat.)

Unsurprisingly, the liturgical wars are still being waged in earnest, and although Pope Benedict made up lost ground during his tenure by, among other things, promoting the Latin mass, our new Pope espouses a much more liberal ideology, one that naturally embraces a customized approach to mass.  Fit the shoe to the foot, in other words.  (I reject the logic that if only Latin mass were to be offered, your greatly shrunken congregation will reflect a more pure following.  It's just snobbish).  There has been fallout, to be sure, with a more permissive culture. The purveyors of ermine capelets ranging around St. Peter’s Square today, for example, are bewailing the loss of high-stylin’ Benedict, primarily because priests, bishops, etc. nowadays prefer to rock (if only to enjoy the financial savings) the laid back, nylon-sporting fashion choices of Francis.   In response, the traditionalists who would disparage Frank’s embrace of Folk Masses and all that they imply, mutter about how Michael can take his f-in’ boat and row it elsewhere; clearly, it’s not welcome ashore.

*“Sacrae Liturgiae Catholica in Discrimine rursus” means, I think, “The Catholic Liturgy is in Danger again”, but my Latin is, well, you’ve figured that out.

Anna Mary Katherine

Anna Mary Katherine

Opening her eyes, she saw that she was ringed with as many concerned faces as could fill the close space surrounding her.  She was looking up; they were looking down.  But it was the closest face, that of the choir director, that wore the greatest look of concern.  In a panic, Anna scrambled to sit up, wildly grasping the lower edge of her dress and tugging it down in an effort to cover her long, slender legs.   Mr. Gildea gently urged her to stay where she was, so that’s what she did, a shy (yet embarrassed) smile beginning to form.

It wasn’t until the 70’s that I learned how my Nana May first met Papa Joe.  Nana was easy for me to be around, and when it was just the two of us, she opened up and was able to talk about herself, which both satisfied my curiosity and made me feel special to her.   When my family was around, all you could hear were their voices; they’re a vocal lot, and their deep and powerful voices tend to muffle all other sound. 

Nana was a sensitive and gentle soul with a cautious manner; I think that her sense of reserve arose from being talked into things that she in truth wanted no part of, of being taken advantage of too many times.  I remember one such occasion soon after I got my driver’s license, when I decided to pop over to her house at 1777 South Street, certain that she would be home. There was a woman waiting at the door when I arrived; she seemed pleasant enough, maybe a little too cheerful. I told her to wait while I entered the house.  I found Nana May in the “Winter Kitchen”, far enough away from the door not to be seen, but able to observe the woman at the door.  She signaled for me to follow her into the bathroom, where she told me that she was avoiding this particular unwanted guest, a Jehovah’s Witness who had been trying every which way for several months to “bring her into the fold”.  Nana's faith, strengthened by a Catholic education, was unshakeable; even so, the discomfort and disingenuousness that Nana felt during each visit failed to outweigh the distress that she knew she would feel by sending the woman away permanently.  I was no help in any real sense; I told the woman that my grandmother wasn’t home.  If I could go back in time, I would be a better advocate for Nana May, I would be stronger, and send away that determined Jehovah’s Witness and all other unwelcome interlopers.

I’ve always wanted to know how couples met.  (My brother, Tom, for example, met the love of his life, Marea, when she walked into the bicycle shop where he worked, I think in Cambridge, Massachusetts.  Upon seeing her for the first time, he commented to himself, with unbounded confidence, that he was going to marry that girl.  I love stories of boy-meets-girl or girl-meets-boy and it’s instant and everlasting love-love-love!)  Anna Mary Katherine was a teenager when Mr. Gildea first arrived at St. Mary’s High School in 1914 to assume various professional responsibilities.  It was at this time that the two at least became aware of each other’s existence.  

While it was true that Nana May only ever indulged her passions quietly, or at least privately, she loved to sing.  She sang as a member of her high school choir, even performing at her graduation. She sang for St. Mary’s Church in Lynn, and in churches in every city and town in which she lived.  And she sang as she did housework.  In her later years, her voice wavered, but the musical output never did.  To this day, I can never listen to an Ave Maria without automatically recalling Nana May’s impassioned rendition.

When I had reached the age where love and romance were consuming concepts, and every one of my friends seemed to be in a “relationship”, (or at least holding hands that broadcasted, hey, look here, we’re together,) I had to know how Nana May first met Papa Joe.  Adjusting her eyeglasses as if doing so would bring the past into better focus, a playful smile overtook her face as she re-examined those early days.  He presented as a freshly scrubbed college graduate of slight stature and serious mien when he first raised his conductor’s baton (professionally, for he had been leading groups musically since he was twelve years old,) and paused confidently before establishing the tempo, before shaping the sound.  And every time that his hands gave expression to the music, he was mildly aware of the earnest young singer who dutifully followed his lead.   That Anna’s heart had slowly begun to keep its own crazy-in-love beat remained a mystery to him.  Falling secretly in love with her choir director, she wondered for what seemed like years how she might personally draw his attention, yet her reserved nature prevented her from making any bold moves.  Passing out at rehearsal had never been part of the plan. . . but, clearly, history asserted itself that day.  Nana would say that it was all part of God’s plan.  And I would have to agree that at least He had her back!  There is always great comfort in that.

Blueberries

Blueberries

One of the best features of my grandparents’ grounds, was the blueberry patch behind the house. There were more than 400 bushes. Summer on the Farm was an exciting time of year. . . at least at the beginning of picking season.  To this day we Gildea cousins can easily summon the sound of those first berries hitting the metal bottom of the Maxwell House cans.  Skilled pickers, as we were, were delivered early to the patch in order to get the work done before the heat of the day made the whole thing a sweaty affair.  Sweat management was relative to the blueberries, not the pickers.  You knew to handle the berries as little as possible; one hand tenderly held the branch still, while the thumb and either the index or middle finger of the other gently rolled each berry from its cluster.  You didn’t drop the berries individually into the can, which was suspended by a jute cord around your neck, the cord growing increasingly irritating as the day wore on.  Instead, you accumulated a bunch in your hand and just short of them becoming a teeming and testy crowd, you dropped the bunch into the can.   There were 5 cent cans, 10 cent cans, and 25 cent (gallon) cans.  Until the height of the season, I found it more useful to work with the smallest (5 cent) can, and repeatedly dump it into the 25 cent can, which I would leave at the beginning of my row.  Chris was a great one for creating mischief in the blueberry patch.  He always managed to be out the back door and sprinting to the best-producing section of the patch before I had even selected my cans.  Naturally, the legal language governing behavior in the blueberry patch was ever-evolving, with new amendments added regularly.  Chris bested me with his “territoriality” claims at every turn.  I don’t think I ever was allowed access to the best bushes. . . unless I was picking alone.  He would be sauntering back up to the house, casually windmilling his filled 25 cent bucket; I, on the other hand, would be viewing the contents of my cans with the usual disappointment. 

The back room off the summer kitchen was where the sorting took place.  I most likely wasn’t allowed to perform that responsibility until I had reached the most awkward stage of life - puberty.  No one is fit to learn a new skill at age eleven or twelve, so my first stabs at it were failures; the criticism was that I overhandled the berries.  I was too aggressive when shaking them in the screened boxes that served to sift out the stems and small leaves.  Frankly, I shook the shit out of them, as I was determined that my eye would pick out every last interloper.  In picking out the dreaded “mummy” berries (whose spores can spread disease), as well as the green unripe ones, my fingers didn’t move with the delicacy required.  With practice, however, I did become very adept; eventually I could manage the whole process with great confidence, even delivering to stores, such as Caswell’s in Middleboro.  It is my eternal shame that when I was finally old enough and skilled enough, I didn’t step up and help more when the demands of the Farm began to outstrip Papa Joe’s ability to keep pace with them.  Why did I think once I reached age 15 that holding hands and kissing David were more important things to do than helping my grandparents?

Side note:  Chris was a perfect foil in my growing up years.  Since I am closest in age to him, I took him more seriously than was ever good for me.  His intrigues most likely arose from the simple pleasure of witnessing my predictable outbursts and meltdowns.  I played the victim especially well.