100.

Week . . . ummm . . . Three Hundred and Thirteen? Yeah, definitely lost count on that one. Saint Clare Chapel (Wyoming/Hartwell)

10:00 Sunday morning mass.  St. Clare Chapel at the convent of the Franciscan Sisters of the Poor. Remember me? Your friendly local church tourist?  Okay. Okay. So it's been a while since my last post . . . a while as in "two and a half years."  TWO AND A HALF YEARS?!?!  Good lord.  That's . . . awkward.
      
Truth is:  1. The remaining churches on The List aren't exactly around the corner any more.  Factor in a 45-minute drive to a church, a one hour mass, and 45 minutes to drive home, and well, The List takes a backseat to other priorities.  2.  I developed a strong affinity to one particular church close to my home. Other than saying that said church is not the parish I'm registered with, said church shall remain nameless.  In short, for these past few years, you can find me at mass there almost every weekend and often during the week.  It's small, it's reverent, it's nice.  I was never "looking" for a church when I started this whole thing, but ironically, I found one, and now, well, I hate to leave it - but leave it I did this past weekend. 

When I left off in February of 2013, I had visited 99 churches. NINETY-NINE, and that 99 has been hanging over my head taunting me ever since. Thus, this past Sunday became the day to jump in the Mighty Honda Odyssey (one last time before it's imminent departure, by the way) and take this thing into triple digits.  Mission accomplished at St. Clare Chapel.   

Built in 1895, St. Clare Chapel is located on the grounds of the convent for the Franciscan Sisters of the Poor - 35 acres on the border of Hartwell and Wyoming.  It's peaceful and quite lovely there, what one might expect for the home of a religious order but definitely not what one would expect given its location. The 10:00 mass on Sunday is open to the public, i.e. yours truly, and the chapel is located only 25 minutes from my house; ergo, this was the perfect opportunity to break 100.  

The chapel itself is quite pretty - baby blue walls accented with white arches, painted angels floating in the dome above the altar, large mosaics (I think - hard to tell from a distance) of both Saint Francis and Saint Clare. Sidenote:  The image of Saint Francis had the letters "P" and "J" at the bottom; the image of Saint Clare had the letters "F" and "T."  What's up with that?

It was a nice mass.  An older priest kept things going at a brisk pace, so much so that by the closing prayers, he was putting in his two cents before the congregation had finished saying theirs. Music, on the other hand, was a bit of a shocker.  The organist was quite good at just that - playing the organ, but his vocal style was . . . different.  As the first lines of the opening hymn were sung, I initially thought that we were speaking the words rather than singing them.  It's hard to describe, so I'll just take the high road and stick with "different."

It was a fairly well-heeled crowd at St. Clare Chapel and slightly reminiscent of those attending mass at Saint Anthony's Friary on Colerain Avenue, although  I'm still not sure about the guy in the brand new denim overalls over a golf polo. Whatever. Meanwhile, for the first time in all of my visits, I was called out for sitting in one of the regular's seats.  Yes, I'm sure I've done it before, but this week, I was actually called out on it! I was politely asked to move over for an older couple, and yes, they were most definitely regulars - this guy knew EVERYONE and spent every minute before mass socializing with them.  It was one of his friends behind me who had asked me to move.  Oh, I didn't care a bit - they were a sweet couple - the woman unable to make the walk to receive communion, the mister bringing it back to the pew for her.  Cute.

I don't know how many sisters reside at the convent.  I immediately met one sister outside taking her dog for a walk.  Inside, there were maybe a dozen or two in attendance at the mass. Several took active roles - lectors, communion distributors, etc., but most were simply in the congregation. The left side of the chapel was comprised of individual chairs, rather than pews, and it was there that many of the older and infirm sisters could be found.  They didn't stand; they didn't kneel; they sat, but I like to think they participated in the mass just as actively as the rest of us.  One sister had a blanket on the chair in front of her - clearly, that was her "regular seat." I saw a nursing aide help bring one sister in.  I'm not sure if the others had required similar assistance as they were already there when I came in.  Maybe they're just there all the time - after all, no one seemed to be leaving when mass was over.  The walkers and rollators (or "little engines that could" as my children refer to them) were double-parked.  The sensible shoes were running rampant.  A few wore their habits, veils bobby-pinned in place.  When in line to receive communion, I caught a glimpse of a few sisters at the front wearing headphones (over their veils) to better hear the mass. Man, I love these ladies.

I was rather dismayed to recently read an article in the local newspaper putting the number of parishes in the Archdiocese of Cincinnati at 211 (plus an additional 47 in the Covington diocese).  Dang. Here I thought I was doing so good hitting 100! Nonetheless, the St. Clare Chapel was the perfect place to make my 100th church visit.  Ironically, the "Centennial Barn" can be found on the same grounds, a beautifully restored barn used for various events and, quite frequently, wedding receptions.  I'll definitely be back for mass at St. Clare Chapel, and as for the blog, I'll probably be back here too.  To be honest though, finding myself fairly content on Sunday mornings and without that "99" hanging over my head, it might very well be another two and a half years.

ATTENDANCE: Minimal, but comfortably full for the size of the chapel.

DURATION:  40 minutes.

Funerial

Week One Hundred and Eighty-Three - Holy Cross (Latonia)

4:30 Saturday afternoon mass, Holy Cross.  When we left Holy Cross, the clock said 5:35, but it seemed so much more like, oh, I don't know, 7:35?  8:35? Surely my husband and I had just spent what I'll call FOREVER in there.  Sigh.  Let's start at the beginning . . .
   
Even then, I should have known things were taking a nose dive as we made the drive south on Covington's Madison Avenue - behind a TANK bus the whole way.  There sure are a lot of bus stops on Madison.  A few zigs and a zag later, however, we did manage to find Holy Cross Church.  I purposely picked Holy Cross in an effort to keep My Husband the Heathen interested in any architectural details that might come with an old church as well as to spare him from another weekend of suburban piety.  You know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men.  Suffice it to say, I ended up apologizing to one very patient husband.

Holy Cross has an innocuous parish website listing only the bare-bones details, i.e., no church history. (I do love the comment on said website, however: "Holy Cross ministers do not accept email."  Ouch.)  Luckily, the Kenton County Public Library came to my rescue.  Holy Cross Parish was founded and a church built in 1890 when the German Catholic residents of Latonia found St. Augustine's Church to be too far away and too hard to reach in bad weather.  (Hold on.  These were the German Catholics?) In 1908, with a rapidly growing population, an even newer church - the existing church - was built.  Okay.  Cool.  Sounds good, and things did, in fact, look pretty good as we parked outside of the church.  And then we went inside. 

I still don't know what's happening at Holy Cross Church.  A large random swatch of blue with decorative detailing occupies an equally random section of the high ceiling.  I'm not sure if it was going up or coming down.  One side of the church sports bright blue walls.  What the . . .?  Are they renovating?  Are they "trying things out" to see if they like it?  I'm confused.  Large stained glass windows are nice, but I'm not sure if all of them even matched.  Maybe it was just the lighting.  An area marred by what appeared to be smoke damage could possibly be explained by the library article's mention of a fire that did significant damage to the church . . . in 1990.   Maybe not. Truthfully, I can't say I remember much more about the interior of Holy Cross because, in spite of its potential, it was just so . . . so . . . blah.  Unfortunately, the same was true of the mass. 

A visiting priest - a notably tall drink of water - seemed like a nice man.  Unfortunately, this nice man took his homily to a whole-nutha-level.  He first covered commonly-asked questions about Lent for a good ten minutes and then moved on to a second topic, the subject of which I can't recall - or ever did know, for another ten or fifteen minutes.  At this point, the troops were already growing restless, but when he said, "Now let's talk about today's gospel,"  I swear I heard a collective groan go up from the congregation.  Oh lord.  After yet another fifteen minutes of straining to make out the monotonal, hard-to-understand-because-of-the-echo-in-the-church words of this nice man (to be read with gritted teeth), we finally, mercifully stood for the creed.  Am I being too harsh?  Ask the several people who left mid-homily.

It was all so melancholy at Holy Cross.  Each of the hymns was even sung like a dirge.  Oh, I know, it's Lent and everything, but this was just so . . . sad.  The only good thing about attending mass at Holy Cross?  Coming home and crossing it off The List. 

ATTENDANCE:  Less than half

DURATION:  One hour and five minutes

Flight Path

Week One Hundred and Eighty-Two - Mary Queen of Heaven (Erlanger)

4:00 Saturday afternoon mass, Mary Queen of Heaven.  And we're back . . . well, at least, for a while.  In spite of enjoying my travels over the past three years, it's getting more and more difficult to schedule a visit to the remaining churches on The List - most of them aren't exactly around the corner.  It is also with great reluctance that I must admit I've found a church that I've grown quite fond of.  Not just the church, but the mass, the priest, and the very convenient schedule.  Because I don't play favorites, I'm not going to name my new favorite, but I will toss out this bit of irony:  Now that I've finally settled  into a fairly consistent routine at a local church, I've also learned that this same parish will be merged with another parish . . . in July.  Are. You. Kidding me. I might be back on the circuit much sooner than I expected.

I was on the circuit last weekend.  A lazy Saturday set the stage for a drive to Erlanger, Kentucky and Mary Queen of Heaven Church.  They have a "world-famous" fish fry there.  Mary Queen of Heaven occupies a nice flat parcel of land just west of St. Henry High School and just east of the airport.  My husband and I took a few wrong turns finding the church, but we still managed to arrive in time, although later than we might have under ideal circumstances.  As a result, we may have gotten not only the last parking spot in the lot but the last seat in the church.  To be fair, there seemed to be another event going on at the parish, boys' basketball, no doubt, which may have accounted for the strain on parking, but I didn't expect the church to be quite so full, especially with a 5:30 Saturday afternoon mass not far behind. They have a famous fish fry during Lent. 

I suppose the size of the church may be somewhat to blame for the crowding.  Surprisingly, for what appears to be a fairly sizeable parish, it's not a very big church at all.  It's also not very fancy.  Their famous fish fries start this week.  Truthfully, the only thing I remember is what My Husband the Heathen termed the "poor man's stained glass windows."  No intricate details here, just solid panes of colored glass.  I can't say they were particularly attractive, and one really has to wonder why they even bothered.  Fish fry, fish fry, fish fry.

Kudos to a visiting priest from Mount St. Mary's Seminary for his excellent homily on God's sacrifice of His son.  After 52 years, it really gave me a new way to look at the core of my faith during this Lenten season.  Did I mention they have a fish fry?

Mary Queen of Heaven is a harmless enough church.  If I would happen to be in Erlanger again at the right time, I might stop in for mass . . . or, perhaps more importantly, a fish sandwich.

ATTENDANCE:  SRO

DURATION:  One hour

Pulling Teeth

Week One Hundred and Sixty-Five - Blessed Sacrament (Fort Mitchell) 

4:00 Saturday afternoon mass, Blessed Sacrament.  If I were to live in Northern Kentucky, I think I'd like to live in Fort Mitchell.  I've always said that, and after my brief time there this weekend, I still believe it.  It's a well-kept neighborhood, the homes are beautiful, and there's a feeling of ease and security there.  Aaaahhh.  For the Fort Mitchell Catholics who are already there, the go-to parish is clearly Blessed Sacrament, located at a prime location on Dixie Highway.  If I lived there, however, I sadly report that my parish of choice might not be Blessed Sacrament.

Entering Blessed Sacrament, I noticed a predominantly golden hue to the interior.  Not a bad thing, but upon closer inspection, it isn't gold.  I don't know what it is. There is an odd color scheme to the church and an overall odd decor that didn't win me over.  Six angels lining the the walls of the sanctuary immediately brought to mind the decor of Saint Peter in Chains Cathedral and its hieroglyphic-ish murals - the angels at Blessed Sacrament appear to be part of that same troupe, and the oddities didn't stop there.  Large columns flank the sides of the church, the top of each adorned with an assortment of church symbols . . . as well as X's and O's.  Hugs and kisses?  Tic-tac-toe?  I didn't get it.  The arch of the sanctuary sported what My Husband the Heathen called "caution tape."  I decided it was something more akin to a checker cab. Yellow and black checks.  I didn't get that either. 

Much of the church is a peach color, so I'm still having a hard time determining why everything looked so golden.  I could attribute some of it to an  impressive, although somewhat neon, tabernacle which, in combination with the stars on the domed ceiling behind the altar, creates an appearance of a small city all its own.  Fairly cool.  With some imagination, you could even see the Taj Mahal . . . which it actually may have been . . . given another issue all its own - the celebrating priest.

Standing no more than five feet tall - if that - this gentle man may have grown up in the shadow of the real Taj Mahal - he was Indian.  (Interesting to come across a second Indian priest in Northern Kentucky. What's up with that, Covington?)  Okay. I have no issue with his nationality.  I have no issue with his barely decipherable accented speech - it keeps me on my toes trying to understand what he has to say (although, in all honesty, I missed about half of it).  I do have an issue with his sloooooow, monotone manner of speech.  Ooooooohhhh. Myyyyyyy.  Gooooooddddd.  Soooooooo sloooooowwww.  His leadership in prayer threw the cadence of the whole congregation off.  It was genuinely hard to participate.  Look, I'm sure he's a nice man, a holy man of God, but . . . oh lord, it was painful.  Thankfully, a female soloist saved the day, leading the music with one of the best voices I've heard over the past few years.  Very, very nice.    

Not surprisingly, it was nearly a full house on this Saturday afternoon.  Lots of families. Lots of coming and going.  Lots of late arrivals.  I've always thought of Blessed Sacrament as the St. Ignatius of Northern Kentucky, but the reality of Blessed Sacrament threw me.  This weekend, I found the only real similarity between St. I's and Blessed Sacrament to be the liturgy of the mass, but then again, I guess that's all that really matters.

ATTENDANCE:  Comfortably full

DURATION:  One very long hour.

Holy Smoke

Week One Hundred and Fifty-Eight - Saint Lawrence (Lawrenceburg)

 



5:30 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Lawrence.  And I'm back. Oh, I'm sure some of you are probably asking yourselves, "What happened to weeks 147 through 157?!  IS EVERYTHING OKAY?"  Well, at least, that's what I'd like to think you're asking, but yes, everything is fine, and the answer to your first question, in a word, would be "summer." 

The List, while still chocked full of unseen churches, poses quite a challenge these days.  Any outing to a yet-to-be-visited church isn't exactly a hop and a skip down the road; it's more like a two and a half to three hour outing.  Not a problem for me and my husband in our autumnal return to empty-nesterdom, but when the kids are home for what amounted to be a very, VERY short summer, I'm certainly not going to ask them to give up their valuable time to indulge their mother's liturgical whims.  Likewise, I'm not giving up my valuable time with them by leaving them behind to indulge my liturgical whims.  Bottom line:  there are a dozen or so Catholic churches within ten minutes of our house.  We spent our summer mass times at those, especially base camp, St. Ignatius. But now, it's just me and the mister again, and oddly enough, it was that very mister who asked me last week if The Tour would be resuming soon.  Yes, it would!  And so begins "Year Four" of The Tour. 

YEAR FOUR?!?!?!?!

 

Good lord.  Ths is getting ridiculous.  Let's go to the tote board: I've been to 96 different churches, 11 of them in Kentucky, 3 in Indiana, the remaining in Ohio.  I honestly don't have a favorite church, although several have specific aspects that I really liked and do remember.  There are a few churches that I will not by choice return to.  In the words of Foghorn Leghorn, there's just something "eeeeee" about them.  I have a sneaking suspicion, however, that if, in fact, I did revisit churches that I initially liked or disliked, my second opinion could very well be distinctly different from my first.  With that said, where were we . . . ?  Ah. Indiana. 

As we made our way into Indy on Saturday afternoon, it was all my husband could do not to pull into the Lawrenceburg Speedway.  Thankfully, he had already made his annual pilgrimage to "the track" a few weeks ago, fulfilling some primal need for mud and noise, and continued on to our more peaceful destination - St. Lawrence Church.  His first comment once inside the church, however, was about the long, narrow decorative arch surrounding the crucifix, something to the effect of "Is that supposed to represent the racetrack?" I scooted down a bit to avoid the imminent lightning bolt.

I can't say I was much better in the reverence department though, especially when I noticed the statue of Saint Lawrence at the front of the church.  He was holding what appeared to be . . . a grill rack.  "Patron saint of grill masters?" my husband asked.  Giggle.  Actually . . .

It's an interesting story, if a bit gruesome.  Saint Lawrence died a martyr's death . . . a slow, cruel death.  He was tied to an iron grill over a slow fire, so that his flesh roasted little by little.  It is said his love for God was so strong and God gave him so much strength that Lawrence was able to joke, "Turn me over.  I'm done on this side!"  I couldn't believe this part of the story, but several resources give the same information.  So that was, in fact, a grill rack in his hand - which still strikes me as kind of bizarre, and Saint Lawrence is the patron saint of chefs . . . which, I suppose, includes "grill masters." 

With the present day church built in 1867, I expected the interior of St. Lawrence Church to really be something.  It isn't.  Whether the result of some modern day renovations or restoration following any of several floods from the nearby Ohio River, things are pretty plain, so plain that there's really nothing to comment on.  The stained glass windows are nice.  The arched ceiling is nice.  A statue of the holy family seems to take the place of individual statues of Mary and Joseph which are absent.  I did notice a small painting of a dove, the Holy Spirit, on the ceiling, high above the altar.  I thought that was pretty cool, a hidden treasure.

I liked the celebrating priest here.  Although a poor sound system made it difficult to comprehend his words at times, his relaxed style projected a true paternal presence.  My husband and I exchanged nervous glances when he, rather than the servers, lit the altar candles before mass with what appeared to be a flame-thrower.  Could have burnt the whole church down. 

Overall, mass at St. Lawrence was pleasant enough, and amazingly, I spotted a family I knew across the aisle.  Small world.  Small Catholic world.

ATTENDANCE:  Three-fourths full

DURATION:  50 minutes

                    

                   

                   

                             

                   
 

 





M. Night Shyamalan

Week One Hundred and Forty-Three - Saint Aloysius (Shandon)

4:30 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Aloysius.  I've found some interesting things - besides churches - on these liturgical outings, and this week I hit the mother lode.  After deciding that I wanted to sleep in on my rainy Mother's Day, my daughter and I headed west on Saturday afternoon to Shandon.  I wasn't particularly excited about visiting the church there, St. Aloysius, but I always like taking a drive in the country, so I was looking forward to this.  What we discovered made it all the better, but more on that later.
                       
St. Aloysius sits on a large flat parcel of land in a quiet section of Butler County, Morgan Township to be exact, and it's pretty much what I expected.  I can't recall the exact date on the cornerstone, but I think it's something in the 1980's.  I was surprised to see additional information above that cornerstone indicating that the parish had originated in 1878.  I can't imagine that many Catholic folks in that area of town back then, but then, I can't imagine that many folks, period, in that area of town back then.
                 
St. Aloysius is a surprisingly large church and a particularly wide one.  There is a lot going on there but without a common denominator.  There are a few stained glass windows and a few clear paned windows, the clear windows notable because they are on either side of the altar, which provided us with a nice view of the gathering rain clouds outside.  A fairly large wooden cross is perched on a rock fountain from which water gurgles and flows.  A painting of Mary, rather than a statue, is surrounded by votive candles.  Couldn't find Joseph.  A large projection screen, thankfully rolled up, hangs to the side of the altar at the ready.  This particular weekend, everything was draped in metallic fabric - the crucifix, the altar, the pulpit, a nod to the Easter season, I presume.
             
What was most noticeable though was the overriding choice of color, GREEN . . . sea foam green.  Not sure why you would choose sea foam green for the walls of a church or any walls for that matter, just as I'm not sure why the tabernacle area off to the side was an even more vivid shade of green . . . lime green.  Wow. 
                   
The young man leading the hymns and playing piano seems like a nice guy, but he might be trying a tad too hard.  His vocals were so loud that they were often muffled in the sound system.  Take it down a notch, buddy, both in volume and enthusiasm.  This isn't a revival.

Now to the good stuff.  This was definitely an interesting drive, the highlight being the discovery of what could easily have been the set for "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre."  No, seriously. . . it looked exactly like it.  A desolate intersection a mile or so down the road - another locale that had definitely appeared in a horror flick or two - didn't ease our nerves.  Turns out, while we had, in fact, stumbled across a creepy intersection, more importantly, we had also discovered an abandoned Shaker village.  Situated on Oxford Road, we passed a Shaker cemetery, two lone Shaker dwellings situated in the middle of nowhere, and additional Shaker buildings farther down the road.  It all went by so fast on our way to St. Aloysius that, on the way back, we made a point of slowing down and even stopping to take it all in - along with a few photos!   

I came home and immediately started researching. What I found was an abundance of information on the White Water Shaker Village of southwestern Ohio, existing from 1824 - 1916. Today, a faithful group of volunteers are working to restore the buildings, with the intent to offer docent-led tours to the public someday. Apparently, more than twenty original Shaker buildings are still standing in the area. I had no idea that Shakers ever lived in this area, and now, I'm fascinated.  Check out www.whitewatervillage.org for more information and additional photos.

Was it creepy? Well, although a random tumbleweed or circling vulture would have really been the icing on the cake, I do remember, at some point, saying, "We . . . aregonnadie," and the overcast skies and subtle breeze definitely set the mood for Blair Witch.  But was it fascinating? Without a doubt. With the history of  the village now understood, we are even planning a return trip . . . but I think we'll bring Dad along next time.

ATTENDANCE:  Almost half full
  
DURATION:  One hour

Six-Pack

Week One Hundred and Forty-Two - Saint John the Evangelist (Deer Park)

11:00 Sunday morning mass, St. John the Evangelist.  Happy to report that half of the collegians are home for the summer.  This past Sunday morning, with Tonto now in the passenger seat, I set out on Cross County Highway for the booming metropolis of . . . Deer Park.  Destination:  St. John the Evangelist Church. 
 
We found St. John with no problem but only because of its sign.  Take a gander at Ansel Adam's photo up yonder.  Seriously, does this look like a Catholic church to you?  And is it just me, or is there a jack o'lantern face at the top of that wall?  Finding the front door would have been equally as challenging but was accomplished uneventfully via the "Follow the Regulars" rule. 

Truthfully, being in the 'burbs and all, I didn't really expect a lot, so I wasn't disappointed in what I found at St. John.  There was a lot of St. Vincent (Kenwood) here, courtesy of the stained glass windows of red, orange, and yellow hues flanking the altar.  Wood paneled walls concealed an unusually large number of confessionals (What happens in Deer Park stays in Deer Park?), and a semi-circular arrangement of pews hearkened memories of any number of churches I've been to.  Speaking of said pews, a quick interjection: I don't like open-backed pews, which these were.  There's something too . . . "park bench" about them, something too . . . "tent revival." 

Music was a mixed blessing.  Two young girls "led" the singing, although their whispered vocals didn't really get 'r done.  On the plus side, a trumpeter had me from the get-go.  He was excellent and alone made the visit worthwhile . I was most troubled by the servers, two grown men.  One of them was sporting gym shoes and bare legs, i.e. he was wearing shorts under his alb.  A grown man.  When sitting next to the servers' table, he leaned on it like he was sitting at the kitchen table, draped all over it.  A grown man.  Worst of all, while the celebrating priest was delivering his homily, this GROWN MAN, seated behind the priest in view of the entire church, took the opportunity to peruse the First Communion program that had been distributed to everyone.  I. Couldn't. Believe it.   

Speaking of First Communion, it's that time of year, so it was no surprise when my daughter and I walked into St. John's only to find just that - a small group, four girls and two boys, dressed to the nines, ready to receive Jesus for the first time.  They were put through their paces via a steady stream of somewhat painful participation on their part - the reading of the petitions, the offertory procession, and an uncomfortable performance on the steps of the altar as they struggled to make it through all of the verses of "Let Us Be Bread."  At the end of the mass, they also managed to combine their First Communion celebration with a mini-May Crowning as each child placed flowers before a statue of Mary.  It was a nice gesture, albeit a rather comical one when the woman in charge brought out the statue - dangling it at arm's length, carrying it by the head.  Come on, lady, it's the Blessed Mother.

There was a lot that was awkward at St. John, including several moments in the mass itself.  After the Lamb of God, part of the congregation was kneeling, part was standing, and a few were sitting.  The same thing happened during the distribution of communion.  The final blessing included a prayer sung by the priest and repeated by a fraction of the congregation.  Hands were raised, not in the "one-hand-palm-extended" style, but in a two-handed "don't-look-at-me-I-didn't-do-it" style.  Granted, there may have been a number of guests in attendance for the First Communion celebration, visitors like myself who weren't familiar with the St. John routine.  I'm just not sure there was a routine.

ATTENDANCE: About half full

DURATION:  One hour and ten minutes

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.

Gesundheit

Week One Hundred and Thirty-One - Saint Louis (Batesville)

 

5:00 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Louis.  The schedule was empty, the weather was clear, and the tank was full.  Time for a road trip.  Batesville isn't exactly around the corner, so I think this may be the westernmost edge of The Tour.  It was a pleasant drive though, and the church was easy to locate - another small town landmark. 

St. Louis Parish dates back to 1868.  Today, it is one of the largest and most influential parishes in the Archdiocese of Indianapolis.  There's a lot of history in-between there, and it would appear that most, if not all, of it is documented on the church's website.  I'm sure it's fascinating if you want to take the time going through it.  I didn't, but I couldn't resist skimming for highlights - and there were a lot of them.  German was the spoken language in the church and school until 1887, when a gradual - and what was surely considered radical - conversion was made to English.  Pot-bellied stoves were replaced with a furnace in 1894.  I particularly liked this bit of information about the "sitz versteigerung" or "pew auction":
  
"A quaint custom that was retained during these years was the so-called "Sitz Versteigerung" or "Pew Auction." On the appointed day, usually right after Christmas, the church bells would be rung and the parishioners would gather to claim a seat or seats at a price. Certain places in church were more desirable, especially the middle aisle from the center on back Side aisle pews were lower on the scale. It was a matter of prestige to advance, if possible, from the side aisle to the middle aisle. One's standing in the community was measured by how much was bid to obtain .a certain seat. Rivalry could develop about holding on to your place or bettering it if possible. Spirited bidding often resulted, or someone with a bit of impishness in them could "run the price up" on a seat they did not want but which they knew someone else desired very much." (www.stlouis-batesville.org)
    

How can you not love that?  I had never heard of such a custom, but it explains a lot about the brass numbers I've seen on pews so often, including this weekend, at St. Louis.  What I didn't love was reading about the church renovation in 1962.  You know this church had to be a looker in her day, so I found it sad to see the results of that "renovation" - a ceiling covered with acoustical tiles, walnut paneling lining the entire nave, concealed lighting.  I like a church that looks like a church, not a family room. 

Truth is, there really isn't a whole lot to look at at St. Louis.  Things are pretty . . . beige . . . and boring.  Thankfully, someone had the sense not to mess with the altar, however, because this one is a beauty.  A soaring white and occasionally-gilded monster, it includes a number of statues fitted into small alcoves worked in among the spires.  Among all the goings-on of the altar is also the tabernacle, a small white nondescript door.  It's like a secret compartment. Interesting.

The house was full for this mass, but apparently singing doesn't run in the Hoosier blood.  Granted, the two or three individuals leading the congregation didn't exactly whip the crowd into a frenzy - who knew "How Great Thou Art?" could be sung as a dirge - but it was deafeningly silent during the hymns, one might even say borderline embarrassing.  The "choir" had such promise too in their nice blue robes.  They were trying, so I'll give them credit for that.  It just would have been nice if everyone else in this "large and influential" parish tried just as hard. 

ATTENDANCE:  Comfortably full

DURATION:  50 minutes

Barnum and Bailey

Week One Hundred and Thirty - Saint Henry (Elsmere)
 

4:00 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Henry.  First thing my husband says as we're leaving St. Henry's church?   "Those kids behind us were SO BAD!" He had a point, a point I can't wait to elaborate on, but since this blog is called "So Many Churches . . .", I suppose a few words about the church are in order . . . although the whole visit was really overshadowed by the demons behind us.  They really were SO BAD.  Focus.  Focus . . . God knows I couldn't focus IN CHURCH.

Deep breath.

Elsmere, Kentucky.  Can't say I've ever been there.  Seems nice enough, but I can't say I'll go back either, only because I don't foresee a reason to return, including a return visit to the local Catholic church, St. Henry.  St. Henry seems to be quite the landmark in Elsmere, located curbside on Dixie Highway.  You can't miss it.  A decent-sized church, this one was built in 1936 to accomodate a growing congregation.  The parish itself dates back to 1890, the history of which includes the ubiquitous church building that burned to the ground, this one, in 1899.

The exterior has a good look to it, but the interior is whole 'notha story.  There's a lot of yellow here.  Lemon yellow . . . an odd contrast to the purple painted around the windows.  True, the purple nicely complements the the stained glass it surrounds, but add to that a large wall of deep salmon behind the altar, and, well, things get a little weird.  This salmon-colored addition comprises the third wall of what my husband called "the box." The church has a nice domed sanctuary going for it, and, for some reason, this three-sided "box" was constructed right in the middle of it.  The majority of the open space around the altar was lost.  It's not attractive, and, as far as I could tell, although it does support a large crucifix, it serves no purpose.  Not sure why the original walls didn't suffice.  My husband didn't get it, and neither did I.

It was a good-sized crowd at this particular mass, and it became readily apparent that nearly everyone there knew everyone else.  There was a lot of waving going on.  Cute.  I'm gonna go out on a limb, however, and say the celebrating priest wasn't a local.  This young man, as he even mentioned in his homily, was from South India.  His heavy accent was exotic enough to keep me mildly intrigued, but the additional syllable in every word also caused me to miss a lot of what he said.  The big question though - how does a young man from South India wind up as a Catholic priest . . . in Elsmere, Kentucky?
     
Ok.  Now then. I love kids.  I really do. I highly recommend them.  I have a few of my own.  However, the kids in the pew behind us at this mass nearly sent me, my husband, and, I dare say, everyone around us over the edge.  When the circus rolled in during the second reading, I immediately knew we were in trouble.  Frankly, I don't even know what exactly was behind us.  It started with a constant hum (and "hum" really seems too mild of a word) of whispers and giggles but quickly progressed to chatter and laughter.  The movement was non-stop.  One of the younger ones dropped a Hot Wheels toy on the floor TEN times.  I counted.  My husband later confessed that, had it fallen his way, he had plans to kick it to the other side of the church.  I love him. 

The hymnals were a constant source of entertainment; in fact, for some reason, judging by the outbursts of laughter, they were a RIOT.  Who knew? When I knelt, my feet were kicked I-don't-know-how-many times.  At one point, a spitting contest was brewing.  Yes, you read that right.  Spitting.  Wish someone would have told me St. Henry had a splatter zone; I would have brought my rain slicker.  Where were the parents, you ask?  Oh, they were there, laughing and playing and talking.  After communion, dad was engaged in a full-volume conversation with someone behind him that lasted until the end of mass. 

Call me an old grump, but it really was ridiculous.  This family got nothing out of the mass, and neither did those around them.  I suppose sitting in the back of a church has its risks - "lively" children, being one of them, but this weekend's fiasco was inexcusable.  Two words, people: Why. Bother.  
      

ATTENDANCE:  Almost full

DURATION:  One hour

East Side West Side

Week One Hundred and Twenty-Eight - Resurrection (Price Hill)
 

4:00 Saturday afternoon mass, Resurrection.  This week's church visit was something of a milestone for The Tour.  For one, I actually made it to mass this weekend, but more so, it completed my visits to all of the Catholic churches in Cincinnati's Saint Lawrence Deanery.  For all practical purposes, that means absolutely nothing, but it does give one a sense of accomplishment.  Unfortunately, finishing the Saint Lawrence leg at Resurrection Church in Price Hill was also about as anticlimactic as they come.

Resurrection Church is deceiving.  The outside of the church looks quite new, prompting my husband to say just that: "What's this new church doing in the middle of Price Hill?"  Well, while we were definitely in the middle of Price Hill (we arrived to find a Cincinnati policeman questioning someone in the church parking lot), there was nothing new about this church, except maybe the brick facade of the building.  I still don't get it, and I can't find an explanation anywhere, but the first hint that this wasn't a new church came quickly - at the front doors.  They've seen better days . . . and so has the rest of the church.  The tiled floor is broken and stained.  Paint is peeling.  Water damage is evident.  Looking up to the balcony after receiving communion, I noticed a large gouge in a wall.  Not sure what happened there.  Complicating matters, the decor - what little there is - is awkwardly dated.  Scuffed wood paneling lines the walls.  Lighting resembles . . . drum set high hats.  And behind the altar is a floor to ceiling painting of Jesus, staff in hand, wearing a multi-colored caftan . . . to match the multi-colored wall surrounding him.  Sigh.

I counted total attendance at no more than 40 individuals, several of whom served in various capacities during the mass - lector, eucharistic minister.  Amazingly, I recognized one of those in attendance as a former parishioner of St. Ignatius.  Small world.  Music was . . . off-key . . . consistently.  And the celebrating priest was . . . unique.  I'll stop there.

While I like to root for the underdog, I have to wonder why a church like Resurrection is still operating.  They even have a parish school, although I can't imagine what the student enrollment is.  Saint William and Saint Lawrence are within walking distance of Resurrection, as is Holy Family Church, which lies the same distance on the west side of Glenway Avenue as Resurrection lies on the east side.  Hmmm.  Is that the issue?  Is Glenway Avenue some unknown, unspoken "great divide" in Price Hill that I don't know about? 
                   
I think that's the problem - I don't know what's going on at Resurrection.  Maybe if I did, my feelings would change, but for now, the whole experience was, to put it bluntly, unnerving, and as much as I hate to say it, I don't plan on returning any time soon.  To be honest, I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

ATTENDANCE:  Almost non-existent

DURATION: 55 minutes

A Wagon Wheel Christmas

Week One Hundred and Twenty-Three - St. Ignatius of Loyola

3:00 Christmas Eve mass, St. Ignatius.  Well, here goes nothing . . .

'Twas the day before Christmas, and all through the house,
Every creature was stirring, except for the mouse (because the cat had killed the mouse two nights earlier - true story).
The girls were still primping, while the boys tied their ties.
It was nearly one-thirty!  Time for three o'clock mass at St. I's!

Down the road they did travel, just a mile or so,
Looking forward to the chaos of the matinee show.
The Odyssey purred as they pulled in the lot
'Til Dad squealed the tires to nab the last spot.

The church was a vision in Christmas-toned hues,
While the visitors sprinted and haggled and wrestled for pews:
"That's my seat!" "I want it!" "Why can't we all fit?"
"Where's Grandma?" "Where's Grandpa?" "There's nowhere to sit!"
Several rows had been saved for the religiously late,
But our gang got a seat! - It was Christmas Eve fate!

The children were lined up at quarter past two
For their "piano recital" which started on cue.
They tickled the ivories . . . some more than others,
Temporarily blinded by their photo-snapping mothers.

'Twas a sigh of relief when the bells tolled at three
For the entrance procession led by Father Saint G.
He led with "MY FRIENDS . . " and then started to pray,
Desperately trying to put Christ back into this Christmas Day,
But the crowd was distracted; they lined the church walls.
The children kept busy with trucks, books, and dolls.
The doors were propped open to let in a breeze,
When the temp in the church reached one hundred degrees.
A lost lectionary caused an awkward delay,
And a few screaming children drew looks of dismay.
"And also with you" could be heard loud and clear,
From the "faithful" who make it to church once a year.

After that, things went well through the final "Amen."
Joy to the world!  It was only four-ten.
As one mass let out and another poured in,
The annual Monfort Heights gridlock kicked in.
Nothing says Christmas like honking your horn,
There would be no silence here on the night He was born.

Truth is, it was perfect, making memories so dear,
(And so, I'll just end this ridiculous nonsense and say . . . )

Happy holidays to all, and I'll see you next year.
 

ATTENDANCE:  Do you have to ask?

 

DURATION:  One hour, ten minutes

Secrets

Week One Hundred and Twenty-Two - Holy Family (Price Hill)

 

4:00 Saturday afternoon mass, Holy Family.  Until I started this little project, I had never even heard of Holy Family Church, but this weekend, I pointed the mighty Honda Odyssey towards Price Hill and was delighted to discover a real treasure.  This is a church truly unlike any other I've been in. 

You won't find Holy Family Church on any of the main drags in Price Hill, that is, not on Glenway or Warsaw Avenues.  The church, the parish school, the rectory, and the gym encompass an entire block bordered by Hawthorne, West Eighth, Price, and Grand in a fairly residential neighborhood.  The original Holy Family Church was dedicated in 1884.  The current church, however, was built in 1916 at a cost of $175,000.  You won't believe what 175 grand got you a hundred years ago.  The building itself is impressive, but the artwork within is beyond comparison. 

In the dome above the altar, four stained glass windows represent the "four great sacrifices of the Old Testament" - Abel, Noah, Isaac by Abraham, and Melchizedek (I didn't know either) .  Additional windows in the church depict the five joyful mysteries of the rosary as well as other events in the life of the holy family.  Artwork completed eight years later, in 1924, includes an incredible series of paintings and trompe l'oeil - almost all of it on the huge dome above the main body of the church.  It was amazing just to sit beneath the dome.  Paintings of the twelve apostles along with the Apostles' Creed surround Christ the King at the center.  Between the center dome's columns, the eight beatitudes are included above portraits of eight additional saints.  Beautiful. 

I couldn't help but admire just about everything here.  The marble columns are adorned with gilded cherub faces looking down on the congregation.  There are symbols and references to countless doctrines and practices of the church everywhere you look.  The online history of Holy Family describes several things that I missed - the four cardinal virtues depicted at the corners of the center dome, the seven sacraments over the sanctuary dome, and paintings of the crucifixion, resurrection and ascension around the altar.  Two paintings at the front of the church have me stumped, however - one of a ship and one of what looked like . . . well . . . Alcatraz.  Curious.  The altar itself, although beautiful with its traditional white spires, was almost dwarfed by the magnificence of the rest of the church. 

The crowd at Holy Family was a mixed bunch as was the "choir."  One young girl, a few older women, a middle-aged man or two, and a white-haired senior gentleman provided adequate leadership for the hymns but a more notable amount of enthusiasm.  Judging by her animated singing, for one of the choir ladies, this was clearly the highlight of her week.  When the organist added her own personal touch to the closing song, "making it her own," it was both funny enough to make my daughter and me laugh but charming enough to keep us smiling.  We kept reenacting it for the rest of the night.
 
I couldn't be more sincere when I say, if you have a chance to visit Holy Family, do so because it really is something.  My Husband the Heathen hesitated about joining me for mass this weekend, but I promised him that it would most likely be "an oldie and a goodie."  We weren't disappointed.
    

ATTENDANCE:  One-fourth full

DURATION:  50 minutes

Make It Work

Week One Hundred and Twenty-One - Saint Ann (Hamilton)
 

5:00 Saturday afternoon mass, St. Ann. For some reason, everytime I think I know where I'm headed for mass, my plans change at the last minute. Exhibit A: This Weekend. With every intention of heading to Kentucky, I somehow ended up in Hamilton.  I know, I know.  Cue the jokes.  Anyhoo . . .  
     

My husband and I found St. Ann Church with little difficulty as it, like every other establishment of any worth in Hamilton(!), lies on Pleasant Avenue.  The few times I've been to Hamilton have always been via the same route - north on Hamilton/Pleasant Avenue. It's a drive that cracks me up everytime, mainly because of its countless small businesses. It's so much fun just to read their names aloud, and seeing that the "DOG KENNEL" I had passed on other trips was, in fact, actively selling Christmas trees this time really made the trip.  
     
St. Ann's parish was organized in 1909 to serve a growing population in Lindenwald, just south of Hamilton.  The current church, the second for the parish, was consecrated in 1938, and it really is beautiful.  The rich, warm interior colors of the church are possibly the best I've seen.  Indiana limestone dominates the structure, but even more impressive woodwork can be found everywhere - the back of the altar (the "reredos" - who knew?), the organ screens, the side chapels.  The tall, narrow stained glass windows at St. Ann really aren't my style, but these particular windows are striking in the predominance of blues, greens, and grays.  The stations of the cross are carved into one-inch slabs of limestone and blend in beautifully with the walls to which they are affixed.  An incredible amount of detail can be found on the ceiling.  Only after reading the online history of the church did I find out that this detail is, in fact, the Apostles' Creed.  As I approached the altar to receive communion, I was struck by the beauty of the sanctuary - a black and white tiled floor, ornate carpeting, and, oh-that-woodwork.  It's . . . well . . . breathtaking. 

Fortunately, the beauty of the church wasn't dampened by a ho-hum mass.  I had high hopes for a big, bad organ in the balcony of St. Ann, but no such luck.  At this mass, it was a standard upright and hymns I had never heard of.  Apparently, no one else had heard of them either as there was very little participation during the mass from the congregation.  A rosary being prayed before mass got a bigger response. 
  
The celebrating priest bore an uncanny likeness to Tim Gunn, a likeness I couldn't ignore for the duration of the mass.  I adore Tim Gunn, but thankfully, this priest's mannerisms only mimicked Tim when it came to adjusting his wire glasses.  How odd, however, to hear a voice other than Tim's coming out of a body that so closely resembled his.  

"This worries me . . . "

ATTENDANCE: Two-thirds full 

DURATION:  55 minutes