Locomotive to the Past, George Schultz [snow like ashes series txt] 📗

around the corner (on St. Marys Street)—comprised the parish hall.

They’d built a rather large—and very substantial—stage, back there. Plus, the founders, of the church, had laid-in an abundance—of metal, folding, chairs. Pretty neat—for a rather-new, rather-small, church. The worship sanctuary part had, already, sported a full compliment, of conventional pews. The entire setup—was unlike anything Jason had ever seen. The church had been around—for almost 10 years, in 1942. They’d begun to talk about building a school—behind the church building.

Our Hero nodded—approvingly—as he’d looked around. He couldn’t know what kind of immense edifice, that the church would eventually grow into—as the decades would roll by. But, he was completely impressed by where the religious facility stood—and how it was configured—on that magical, magnificent, Sunday.

It was the service itself, however, that had out and out haunted Jason. Yes—haunted! It was that overwhelming, to him. He’d seen that “far away” look that his grandfather had gotten—whenever he would speak, so kindly, of “The Old Latin Mass”.

His young grandson had never been able to even come close—to understanding what was so special about the older, Latin, liturgy. Not even from Grandpa’s constant, highly-descriptive, almost-sanctified, chattering on, about the sacred procedures—from those memorable Sundays, of his childhood! (Even to the point, of the old man’s, rather-labored attempts at actually trying to sing some portions, of the remarkably-beautiful Gregorian Chants—which had been written over, literally, centuries!)

“The Mass today,” the old man had muttered—on numerous occasions, “it doesn’t have any pizzazz! It’s like going to the… oh, to the PTA meeting, or something! The Rotary Club! Whatever!” Our Boy had never heard a word—used so dismissively, as Grandpa’s “whatever”.

Masses are supposed to have pizzazz? Jason had always thought—to himself—in response. The “pizzazz issue”—and its monumental significance, to Grandpa—had caused him pause, on numerous occasions thereafter.

I didn’t think you went to church . . . for pizzazz!

Or attend—for “pomp and circumstance”, for that matter! The old man had, in addition, muttered, time and time again, about the lack of “pomp and circumstance”, in the “Community Mass”! Whatever that was! The youngster had never been quite sure—as to what his grandfather would’ve meant by that. By any of it.

On that earth-shaking Sunday, in January, of 1942, though, Jason was beginning to learn—what his mother’s father had meant. Was beginning to realize—almost exactly—what the old man had meant. There was, he was starting to understand! There was something—something special—about the “old” Latin Mass! A certain, indefinable, wonderful, something!

Maybe Grandpa Piepczyk was right! Maybe attending Mass—in the late 20th Century—was akin to attending the PTA meeting! Or The Elks Club!

Maybe that was the reason—part of it, anyway—Jason reflected, as he’d knelt, in that store-front church, on West Chicago. Maybe this is why—no one, in his entire family, seemed ever to go to church. Probably why no one in his family—ever attended Mass. God knows (He certainly does) that Jason had seldom gone to church. Had almost never attended Mass. Had—virtually—never attended Mass. Hadn’t—in years.

His mother, now. She had always—vehemently—claimed that she was a staunch, absolutely-devout, Catholic. Yet, as mentioned, Sheila had not been to church in—literally—years. Decades, maybe. Decades—for sure.

Well, he guessed, there might have been a wedding—or a funeral—in there, someplace. But, he couldn’t remember—even one such occasion. Other than some, highly-unlikely, far-fetched, special occasion—such as that—his mother had simply never gone to church.

Even in his new appreciation—of the old Catholic liturgy—Jason did not understand any, of the unique Latin incantations. He could see, though, where this Mass did represent—somewhat, anyway—what the “Dialogue Mass” was all about. The English-speaking service—that had been put in place, by Pope John XXIII. Well before Our Hero had been born.

And, he could see where these Latin prayers and chants—and even the various movements and locations of the priest—actually did reek of “pomp and circumstance”! Tons of “pomp and circumstance”! (Jason thought, however, that it would be terribly unholy of him—to proclaim that this ,new-to-him, Mass, was filled with “pizzazz”. Actually, though, it was an accurate description! Filled to the proverbial “rafters”!)

He’d filed out—with his two benefactors—feeling more moved, by a religious ceremony, than ever before, in his life! Well, he’d guessed, that really wasn’t saying much. He couldn’t, in reality, remember even one spiritual observance—that ever moved him. Even slightly. Certainly not like this one just had. Nothing close!

I see what you mean, Grandpa. I sure can see what you mean.

Once back, at that glorious house—hopefully his, for-all-practical-purposes, home—on Sussex Street, Jason was treated to a simply FABULOUS Sunday Morning Breakfast. (When recounting that remarkable repast, it has to be emblazoned in captioned, capital, letters.) He’d only thought that Susan had outdone herself, on those occasions—when she’d “whomped up” all those wondrous breakfasts, on Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday. Sunday’s meal was a true “J. Arthur Rank Production”—a rather popular expression, of the day. One used by Eric—often.

His landlady had prepared wondrously-delectable, succulent, waffles! Our Boy had never been especially fond of them. Especially as manufactured, at Mr. Clarkson’s fabled, storied, coffee shop. The mix that the restaurant had used, had always come in what looked to be extra-large milk cartons—and was, without exception, poured out onto one of the three always-gorpy-looking waffle irons, in the, less-than-spotless, kitchen. The result tasted, Jason had always thought, like cardboard. And that was giving those dandies “all the best of it”. (Lot of “cardboard-tasting” stuff, going around—in those “glorious” environs.)

Susan, on the other hand, was using some kind of probably-ancient waffle iron. One that simply gleamed—and was larger than any that Our Boy had ever seen. Even at the restaurant.

And this remarkable woman must be using some sort of “secret ingredient”. (“Ingreediment”—as Grandpa Piepczyk had always loved to say.) These delicacies were absolutely, flat-out, delicious. The waffles—along with a “ton” of bacon, toast, immeasurable precious butter, that always-delicious coffee, and an abundance of cinnamon rolls (that his hostess had also prepared, “from scratch”) were out and out magnificent! Exquisite! All of the feast—every crumb, of everything—was simply scrumptious!

As the three of them had sat there—“filled to the