The first Catholics in town were pioneers. They had to worship in the empty store next to Ernie's hardware. It was only a parish then -- aptly named The Parish of Perpetual Hope. It was not an inspiring house of worship; in fact it looked as though it might be going out of business.
Hope paid off, however; now it's a solid brick chapel with a slate roof, a belfry, and a name of its very own -- Our Lady of Perpetual Devotion. While two priests and a sexton do not a cathedral make, it's a hell of a lot better than folding chairs and a reed organ. Even non-Catholics are forced to admit Our Lady of Perpetual Devotion is an architectural asset to the town, superior in many ways to the new firehouse and American Legion Post 738.
It is a unique characteristic of the Catholic Church to follow its people wherever they go. Although the men of the church consider themselves shepherds, they follow the flock. If you see a Catholic, dollars to doughnuts you will find a church nearby. Protestants and Jews, on the other hand, often travel miles to their nearest house of worship. This is not a hardship, because you'll find the majority of Protestants and Jews have automobiles, whereas many Catholics are penniless and must walk to church. Moreover, 'good' Catholics go to church every day. Some of them go to church before they've had their breakfast; others drop in to beg a blessing from the Almighty. Finally, there are those who scuttle into the confessional for a consultation with Father Stanley when their conscience keeps them awake.
Father Stanley Puchalsky was ordained as our Priest by Bishop Harshenfeld when Our Lady first opened its doors. He has seen us come and go. He has mispronounced, and occasionally forgotten, our names in the holy rite of matrimony, baptism, and even in the grieving room of O'Dell's Funeral Home. He will visit you in the hospital; he will stop by when you're making lunch or mowing your lawn. Regardless of your plans and obligations, he will sit with you and chat because he has nothing better to do.
He does something else a Priest is not required to do. He places bets for you at the state lottery. Some of us think there's a better chance of winning when you've got a man of the cloth punching your numbers. Unfortunately, 'Divine Intervention' is not infallible, but neither is no intervention, so we take our chances. About a year ago my number came up! ... $550! I figured my taxes and gave Father Stan the rest. That's a comforting thing about the Catholic Church: it doesn't ask where the money comes from, and the people who give it don't ask where it goes. I can assume that some of my winnings went to pay for the bell that summons us to early mass. Its brassy, bronze voice intrudes on the quiet of Christian and Jew alike and scatters the belfry pigeons to signal the seven o'clock Mass.
The seven o'clock Mass draws a small but devoted circle of the elderly and infirm. They are, on the whole, thankful to find themselves granted another day of living. It may be their last, and they want to get started as early as possible. Although Father Stan has a young Jesuit assistant, he prefers to kick off the seven o'clock Mass in the company of his old friends. One of his oldest and dearest is Florida Oregon.
It is wise to use assumed names to conceal the true identity of people in non-fiction. I am sometimes chagrined to find someone I've disinterred is still living and hell-bent on suing me for something I've said. But in the case of Florida, I am taking the liberty of using her given name proudly. She would want it that way -- none of this cloak and dagger stuff for Florida.
Florida is Sexton for Our Lady of Perpetual Devotion; she rings the bell for Mass on the dot ... you can set your watch. There's always wine in the chalice, wafers in the tray, and the collars of the altar boys are starched and spotless. Father Stan would marry her if she would have him. I don't know what the qualifications for sainthood are, but they must be pretty damn high if Florida can't go marchin' in. They're quite a twosome, and on balance I think I'd give the edge to Florida. She is irreplaceable. When Father Stan goes, someone will be in his shoes in a week.
I don't attend the seven o'clock Mass every day. I'm ashamed to admit there are days when it slips my mind entirely. At other times I am motivated by some personal indignity to write a nasty letter to the editor. Sometimes there is wash to be done, or maybe that damn squirrel has gotten in the bird feeder again. The way I look at it, the business of living is just as important as the business of preparing for an eternity with nothing to do. I have reached an understanding with my Maker in this regard. He knows I am not a holy man. I cannot walk on water and never in my long life has the Virgin appeared in my vegetable garden. Therefore, I assume I'm on my own. I shall live what's left of the rest of my life doing what I think is right to do. When I can no longer do so, I shall go to Him and give Him the keys to the old Biscayne along with my license to drive.
Father Stan does not accept my thesis. He goes by the book. So do the regulars of the seven o'clock Mass. It is a minority opinion I share only with Florida. She believes religion is the sugar that makes the bitter medicine of life more palatable -- it puts a sweetness in life it wouldn't otherwise have. When I do make an appearance, she nudges me as I pass through those expensive rosewood doors ... "How you doin'' sweetie ... everything cool with you?"
I embrace her...I've missed a day, and I regret that. But I'm here with her now. Here with Father Stan and the seven o'clock regulars, making sure God is keeping his part of the bargain. The old responses, the kneeling and the standing, the magic of the Holy Eucharist -- maybe it's a little more than sugar after all. It probably is, until such time as the squirrel gets in the bird feeder again.
Copyright 1997 Harry Buschman