Nevermore

Week One Hundred and Forty - Saint Thomas More

12:00 Sunday morning mass, St. Thomas More.  Well, if nothing else, now I know where Withamsville is, and it's out there, that's for sure, on the east side of the east side of 275, but no worries - with nothing on the schedule, it was a good day for a drive. 

Funny, I expected St. Thomas More to be a small church, not just because of its location but probably because I had never heard of it before. I was wrong.  Although the parish was established in 1950, the current church, lovingly dubbed the "Cathedral in the Cornfield" at the time of its construction, was built in 1961.  Although I wouldn't call it a cathedral, St. Thomas More is a much larger church than I expected, one clearly built for a growing congregation, but the early 60's?  Oh no ... 
                  
I've seen this church - or various elements of it - in other churches built around the same time.  A wooden ceiling rises to a point above the center aisle, a certain "mustard-toned" hue dominates everything, and there is brick, lots and lots of brick.  Unfortunately, the heating registers that line the walls had given off enough exhaust over the years to leave those brick walls with quite a bit of dirt and grime.  The stations of the cross are small and inconspicuous and oddly reminded me of the stations of the cross in St. Ann's Church in Groesbeck where I grew up.  There are a lot of crosses at St. Thomas More - crosses built into the brick walls, crosses in the linoleum tiles, crosses on the lights, crosses here, crosses there, crosses crosses everywhere.  From a distance, the altar looked dated, but I have to admit, that I was more impressed with it as I approached to receive communion.  It was much prettier up close.  So there is that.

Today, St. Thomas More is a parish of over 1500 families, and quite a few of them were at this mass.  It was a mixed crowd - families, singles, older couples, including an older couple in front of us.  They seemed nice and, just to clarify, they were very nice, but the woman had a notable steely-eyed glare that she used on quite a few occasions.  When her husband did the classic "sit-kneel," she pulled it out, and I had to smile as he quietly assumed a full kneeling position.  She took my hand in a death grip at the sign of peace.    

A few other members of the congregation had my husband and I talking on the way home.  We couldn't help but notice the pick-up truck parked in front of us with the large Nascar sticker on the back window.  The Nascar sticker really wasn't the issue - the fairly obscene . . . no, the definitely obscene bumper sticker was.  Not sure about the Christian values on that one.  As we exited the church to return to our car after mass, another older gentleman was sitting in his car working a wad of tobacco out of a pouch (or would that be a "chaw of tobackey"?).  Do people really still do that? I didn't see any cornfields close by, but I can't deny that the stereotypes were running rampant.  It's out there, that's for sure.
   
ATTENDANCE: Comfortably full

DURATION: One hour

De Sales Corner

Week One Hundred and Thirty-Nine - Saint Francis de Sales (Walnut Hills)

  

11:00 Sunday morning mass, St. Francis de Sales. FINALLY, back on the trail! I had every intention of going to mass on Saturday afternoon, but a string of thunderstorms throughout the day had the dog stuck to me like glue. As a result, things were postponed until the next morning and ultimately included a change in venue from my original plan.

  

This week, my husband and I ended up in Walnut Hills at St. Francis de Sales Church. This is a good one. Built in 1878 with “gray hill limestone,” St. Francis church is a blend of “middle German and French Gothic” architecture. “Middle German” architecture. Really, must we be so condescending? I love these details . . . and I have no idea what any of them mean. But whatever they mean, the end result is reputedly one of the best examples of Gothic architecture in the city. Shows how much I know. In 1973, the church was placed on the National Register of Historic Places.

   

The church, including the organ, was completed at a cost of $200,000. Mind-boggling, isn’t it? The history of the church indicates a renovation in 1999. I don’t know what said renovation involved, but I’m happy to see that . . . well . . . I can’t see it. The interior of St. Francis is everything you would expect. A few details, including the color scheme, aren’t exactly to my taste, but it’s all there – the ornate decor, a soaring, ribbed ceiling, incredibly beautiful stained glass windows, and a spired, white marble altar that spans nearly the entire width of the sanctuary. The altar was a gift in 1887 from parishioners, Joseph and Agnes Klein. To recognize their generosity, statues of Saint Joseph and Saint Agnes flank the altar. I didn't actually see Saints Joseph and Agnes, but I do like the story - it definitely speaks to a different time. The stations of the cross are worth a trip alone. These things take the prize for the largest stations in any church I’ve been to, and not only are they HUGE, they’re beautiful. A comment was made during mass that the stations were “finished,” and an invitation was extended to take a look at them. I don’t know what the story is there, but the result is really something. Part painting, part sculpture. I’ve never seen anything like them and had a hard time taking my eyes off of them.

   

I particularly like the story of St. Francis’ bell, “Big Joe,” a bell we did hear toll several times during our visit. Big Joe got its nickname from Joseph Buddeke, a parishioner and the largest donor to the project. Built in 1895, the cost was between $12,000 and $15,000. The equivalent cost today would be roughly - wait for it - $600,000. Big Joe is the largest church bell in the United States as well as the largest free swinging bell ever poured in the country. (The Millenium Peace Bell in Newport, Kentucky, is larger but was cast in France.) It weighs 35,000 pounds and stands (hangs?) 7 feet tall and 9 feet in diameter. The clapper alone weighs 640 lbs. This is one big-ass bell. Pardon my French Gothic.

  

“Big Joe” occupies the entire main floor of the church’s 230-foot high stone steeple. History maintains that it took 14 horses to haul the bell up Gilbert Avenue to the church. From the church’s online history, you’ll find this dramatic account:

  

“It was rung for the first time in early January 1896. Witnesses said its E-flat peal could be heard throughout a 15-mile radius. It rattled nearby buildings and shattered windows in the neighborhood ... It was installed, it swung, and all of Walnut Hills nearly jumped out of its collective skin. The earth trembled, windows nearby broke from the concussion, and tiny bits of cement were seen falling from between the stones of the church tower."

  

E-flat peal. Kills me. Whether fact or fiction, after just that one ringing, the parish reportedly decided that Big Joe could never swing again. Since then, it has only been rung with a hammer from the outside of the bell. Another great story, but I can't help feeling kind of bad for Big Joe.

  

The church’s website boasts that St. Francis de Sales is known for its “warmth and welcoming spirit.” Other than the dreaded “meet and greet” at the beginning of mass, I can’t say I exactly felt an exorbitant outpouring of warmth and welcome, but there was definitely a relaxed and comfortable vibe here. The celebrating priest, a likeable man, seemed very casual about the whole affair, but in a good way. I found it interesting that, rather than taking a seat on the altar, he sat in the first pew with the congregation. Because the servers remained seated on the altar, I can’t say it was for a lack of chairs. Rather, I’m theorizing this was a gesture on Father’s part to include himself as part of the congregation, rather than opting for a special “reserved seat.” That’s my theory anyway, and I think it’s a good one, both in concept and in practice.

   

The neighborhood, although in the midst of a desperate stab at revitalization, is still sketchy at best, so I have to admit, I was surprised by the number of people at this mass. All was well though, and I wouldn’t hesitate to return. Mr. Wonderful, true to form, took me home via the “scenic route.” I swear, it must take him back to his urban city roots or something because he seems to derive some perverse pleasure in consistently choosing the most questionable driving routes. We drove down streets and through neighborhoods that are among the worst in the city. True, he had an ulterior motive, wanting to show me something specific, but seriously, did we have to take the Brush With Death Tour to get there? Next week, I'm thinking of heading out to the country where the most dangerous thing we might run into is a traffic jam at the local Creamy Whip.

    

ATTENDANCE: About half full

   

DURATION: One hour and five minutes

Time Flies

Weeks One Hundred and Thirty-Three, Thirty-Four, Thirty-Five, Thirty-Six, Thirty-Seven, and Thirty-Eight And Yes, You Read That Right

Never fear, good people - I’m back!  As predicted, The Tour bypassed the month of March (okay, okay – and a bit of April).  In that time, however, I was, first and foremost, able to thoroughly enjoy a series of spring breakers returning home from their respective higher institutions of learning.  Ironically, I think it’s harder seeing them leave after the short visits than it was seeing them off to college the first time. 

Because we weren’t going to be at full complement for Easter, we had our own Easter Sunday celebration a few weeks early.  Hey, Easter changes its date on the calendar every year anyway, right?  In spite of much initial resistance to my idea, I won out.  The whole gang came home, and we enjoyed a day of absolutely beautiful weather, attended mass together, shared Easter baskets, and ate a delicious meal or two, making it one of our best Easters ever.

On the last weekend of March, I had every intention of visiting St. John the Evangelist in Deer Park . . . until I stepped out of the house to leave for mass.  There, on our back walkway, stood a perfect Pembroke Welsh Corgi.  No ID tags.  Now, you have to understand a few things:  First, I love animals.  Second, I love dogs.  Third, I adore corgis, so clearly, this was a win-win-win situation.  Our house is well-known in the neighborhood as the Home for Unwanted, Lost, Orphaned, and Injured Animals.  I’m sure there’s a “Safe Haven” sign somewhere on our house – one that only animals can see, thankfully.  Cats, dogs, even a parakeet have made their way here, so I’m not complaining – finding a lost soul makes my day, but to find a lost corgi on my back step was beyond my wildest dreams.  Any plans for mass went out the window, and before you knew it, this little guy was making himself at home in our living room, even helping himself to our own dog’s toys.  Oh, of course, I knew I couldn’t keep him, and after a few hours and several dozen phone calls, I was able to reunite dog with owner . . . reluctantly – and I say that on behalf of my own sentiments as well as the dog’s welfare.  Sigh.   

More recently, with the possibilities for our “real” Easter Sunday mass wide open, I opted out of the carnival atmosphere found on the home turf for the most sincere church I could remember, and I think I succeeded – St. Anthony Friary.  As you may or may not recall, this wasn’t my first visit to St. Anthony (“St. Francis is my Hero,” October, 2010), and frankly, this week definitely wasn’t my last.  I like this little church.  The Franciscans run a clean, well-kept establishment, and, as mentioned in my previous post, it’s hard to ignore the fact that the individuals who attend mass here want to attend mass here.  It makes a difference, and it’s nice.

It was SRO at St. Anthony on this Easter Sunday, but no one seemed to mind.  Everyone seemed happy and polite, and the weather was ideal.  It was close to perfect leaving mass, as the bells tolled the “good news” of Easter Sunday.  Easter has always been my favorite holiday, and it’s moments like this that remind my why.