When I was seven years old I knew I was Catholic. I knew my grandmother was very Catholic. I was born Catholic, but she lived Catholic.
She always wore a dress and platform heels. But on Sundays, the dress was just a bit finer and the heels fancier. The styles were the same. Her everyday shoes were canvas and her Sunday shoes were silk. The every day dress buttoned down the front with a tiny flower pattern. She wore a full apron to keep it spot free. A buttoned down satiny one was donned on Sundays – no flowery pattern and no apron.
I was staying at her house and it was Sunday morning. The house was warm with the aroma of coffee and toast. But we didn’t have any because, communion.
She looked beautiful. Her round full face was powdered and her perfect lips were stained a matte red. She smelled of a mixture of apples and roses.
After fastening a small round navy blue hat into her soft curls, she grabbed what I can only describe as a white doily for me. She slipped the doily into her slightly elegant, but practical navy leather purse; a heavy structured square with a short armband. The middle gold clasp thunked as she snapped it shut. When her white gloves were slipped on and adjusted, she scooped her arm into the band of her purse, took my hand and headed for the door.
We waved goodbye to my grandfather. He wasn’t Catholic like me or my grandmother. His type of Catholicism meant he didn’t need to go to church. And he could have coffee and toast.
The church was a short two block walk. The churchyard took the entire second block. A railing type of black iron fence encompassed the entire property. The rails looked like upended spears with sharp spikes on top resembling spades from a deck of cards. No one could climb that without getting hurt. I wondered why someone would build a fortress around a church. But I also thought it fascinating like a castle, something from an old, old world.
We walked around to the gate in front. It was only open on Sundays and holidays. We stopped only long enough for my grandmother to secure the doily on my head with a bobby pin. The church was a large white wooden building. We ascended the stairs and walked quietly through the arched, shellacked wooden doors. Just inside it was musty and fairly dark with just a few dim lights and a couple of candles. The altar area at the far end was a different story. That was brightly lit with plenty of gleaming gold.
There were four oblong stained glass windows on each side of the building. The light varied from these depending on the direction of the sun. Also on each side were two or three statues of saints. In front of each of them was a grouping of votive candles. In front of the candles a place to kneel down and pray.
In the center, right behind the altar was a huge crucifix. When you entered through the middle door as we had, or you walked up the center aisle, you were supposed to genuflect as a gesture of respect. We did that and then my grandmother directed me to the left, to the first saint statue. He was on a pedestal so he looked like a giant. He seemed to be carved out of chalk and wore a brown and white robe that flowed down to his sandaled feet. One hand was down holding rosary beads and the other in a kind of high five position. His face looked down at the kneeler in front of him.
We knelt on that kneeler. My grandmother took what looked like a long piece of straw out of a box on the side and put it into one of the lit candles. When it caught fire, she moved it to one of the unlit candles and lit the wick. She then placed it, flame side down into a long metal cylinder next to the box. The flame went out. She dropped a couple of quarters into a little bank next to the cylinder.
She then made the sign of the cross. She put her hand to her head, then her chest, then one shoulder, then the other shoulder. I did the same thing.
In a flash she backhanded me so hard I flew off the kneeler and rolled to the middle aisle. In shock I looked up at her. She was as stunned as I was. I slowly walked back to her and reprimanding me in a loud whisper she said, “You never bless yourself with your left hand!”