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From the Pastor: I’m Old!
Get off the grass! Close the door, do you want to invite in every mosquito? Were you born in a barn? Get a haircut; you look like a girl! These are all stereotypical “old man” sayings. Yet I have been noticing more and more that I think just like I remember old people thinking when I was young. I remember old people complaining about the music, hairstyles, and clothing of the young people. I cannot stand most of what passes for music these days, nor can I, just like mom and dad (old people) when I was younger, name or identify a single top musician or vocalist today. I remember complaints by old people about boys' hair being too long. I have similar thoughts today when I see a man-bun (which is simply a ponytail the man is afraid to be seen sporting) or a half-shaved buzz cut on a woman. I think (usually to myself only) that this has been the groundwork for transgenderism. Men wearing earrings, for instance, though widely accepted, is not manly to me at all. Men’s tight slacks and jeans, in this old man’s opinion, make them look absolutely silly, as if they are wearing their wife’s or younger sister’s pants. Don’t get me started on women covered with tattoos, either. It’s no wonder nobody can tell Matt Walsh what the definition of a woman is! No, I know that I am not young, for only an old guy looks at the “stupidity” of the younger generation with the mixture of scorn and pity as I do with ever-increasing regularity. This realization came to mind this week when I re-told a story about a “van life” article that had me baffled at first, followed by the realization that I absolutely do not get this one particular thing about the younger generations. The “thing” I will sooner or later get to is something that immediately, to an old geezer like me, makes me think of such politically incorrect labels for the person in question that I cannot write them without facing immediate and drastic repercussions. (For those even older folks, “van life” is either like being homeless and living out of your vehicle, be it a car, van, or truck, or like camping (anywhere except for in a campground) full time in that same vehicle. People do all sorts of things to make this life as comfortable as possible, from building (or having someone else build) cabinets, beds, shelving, and, sometimes, bathrooms in the vehicle, to adding solar panels to run electricity for appliances, fans, computers, and other things needed for life on the road. It is much more popular in places where the temperatures are relatively cool in the summer and warm in the winter.) The article caught my eye because, in the opening paragraph, the author wrote, “I have been writing about van life for six years and I have never been in a van, truck, or camper in my entire life. So I thought it was time to see what it was like.” My current old man thinking went like this: “You can’t possibly be good at your job if you have never experienced any part of what you write about. How could anybody ever hire such an ignoramus? How much ‘expert information’ do you have to make up because you don’t know what the reality of such life is? How much do you leave out because you don’t know that it is important for those who actually live in a vehicle?” I can only imagine that today’s young men if reading the same lines, would think differently: “Cool. You get paid to bloviate upon a topic of which you know nothing! I want that kind of a job.” But it only got worse. The author got one of the van conversion companies he regularly writes about to loan him a built-out van for a week. Except that he then admitted that “I am afraid to drive. So I called one of my friends and talked her into coming with me on this adventure so that she could drive.” I had to go back to make sure that this was a man writing the article. Certainly, no man would write such a wimpy confession in a public forum—in fact, in the very publication that pays his salary—and not fear absolute ridicule and demands that he be fired immediately for being such a **** (this is where I cannot write any of the many descriptive words I would like to use). Doubtless, John Wayne was not his childhood role model. Heck, Pee-wee Herman was probably more masculine than whoever taught him how to be a man. I guarantee you that this guy still wears a face diaper while riding his bike between his permanent digs in his mother’s basement and the local comic book shop for a big night out on the town. I am not sure if spends his life playing video games, since the ones I hear of all feature violence and guns and I just cannot believe he would be able to handle anything like that. Lest you think I am being too harsh on him, later he admitted—without a trace of awareness of how **** (more must go unwritten) he was making himself out to be—that when they stopped for gas his female friend had to pump it because he didn’t know how! In my day (an “old man” statement if there ever was one) the men (who got their license as soon as they turned 15, not 25!) drove and pumped gas. That is quickly changing. But just wait, one day these **** guys will find themselves old, too, and will look askance at the young men riding on the back of Harleys while their biker babes take them to Daytona or Sturgis! With prayers for your holiness, Rev. Fr. Edwin Palka From the Pastor: Even More Excitement!
Last week I wrote about the excitement we had here at the parish with the water going out during our chant camp and with a visiting priest staying at the rectory. This week I have even more stories that are at least somehow connected to that week’s activities. As I mentioned, the visiting priest, Fr. Nick Ward, was in town to celebrate a family wedding. One of his sisters, Maggie, was marrying one of my nephews, Ryan. I am trying to figure out just how to describe the new family relationships this brings about. Maggie must now be my niece-in-law. Since Father Ward is her brother, he, too, is related to me, but how do I describe this family link? Calling him “the brother of my niece-in-law” is too much of a mouthful. Plus, people who saw him wearing a cassock might mistake that for that habit and think I called him a Religious brother. So I might have to clarify that he is her biological brother and also a priest by calling him “brother Father of my niece-in-law.” But then they may think that he is a Religious brother who was given the name “Father” when he took his vows. So perhaps turning that phrase around a bit and calling him “Father brother of my niece-in-law” would be better. But that sounds like “Brother” is Father’s last name. So at this point let me try something much more simple. A priest is called “Father” and this priest is now an in-law to me. So I will simply call him my Father-in-law! No, no, no, that would certainly confuse people. But the confusion in describing Father’s relation to me is only the beginning. There is also the confusing matter of Father’s father. Let me explain. The man who walked Maggie down the aisle at her wedding was dressed in black and wore a Roman collar. You see, her father is a Catholic deacon. (I think there were a lot of people on this side of the family who were a little bit puzzled by that sight!) Deacon Paul Ward is also now related to me as an in-law. Once again, something like, “the deacon father of my niece-in-law” seems too complicated and also might be misunderstood as if stating that the deacon’s last name is “Father.” Hmmm. Since the father of a niece is an uncle, through Maggie the deacon becomes my uncle-in-law. The father of a father is a grandfather so through Father the deacon becomes my grandfather-in-law. Combining those two relationships, since Maggie and Father are siblings (how strange that her brother is also her Father!), perhaps I can just describe him as my deacon-uncle-grandfather-in-law, which should make everything perfectly clear! Back to storytelling now and I’ll worry about relationships another time. After the rehearsal dinner, from across the parking lot, I could see that my car’s brake lights were on. How odd. Was somebody in the car stepping on the brake pedal? No. The lights were just on. I was sure that they hadn’t been on when we left the rehearsal and headed out to the restaurant, since I approached the car from the rear that time, too, and would have noticed, just as I did this time. The brake pedal wasn’t stuck. The activation switch under the pedal wasn’t frozen up. I couldn’t see any blown fuses. I didn’t want to drive with my brake lights constantly lit since any driver following me would never know when I was actually braking. But Fr. Dorvil, who had come with me, and I had to get home. So I tried taking the back roads to avoid causing an accident. And I found out how many roads are closed due to construction. Even Hanna was closed on the other side of the Interstate. Neither Google Maps nor Waze showed any road closures in the area, yet one after another intersection was cordoned off. Fortunately, we eventually made it home safe and sound but then had to disconnect the battery so that it wouldn’t be drained by the morning. The next morning, after my usual schedule of Mass, confessions, and adult Catechism class, I only had a short time to try fixing it before needing to get to the wedding at the Jesuit High School chapel. I used every tool I could find to twist, bang, pry, and smash as many parts as I could, hoping something would make the brake lights work properly again. Nothing worked, so I needed a ride. Fr. Ward had to get to the wedding very early, so he was gone already. I looked for Fr. Dorvil, hoping to catch a ride, but I couldn’t find him anywhere. Fortunately, Anders was grabbing some needed chant sheets from the office so I asked him to pick me up at the rectory when he headed out. Before he got there, one of our parishioners came to check out the car, diagnosed the problem as probably a bad break switch (the car is over 20 years old, so I suppose parts may start wearing out about now), and offered to disconnect it, go to the auto parts store, and replace it with a new one while I was at the Nuptial Mass. Yes, there are some wonderful people around here! Anders got me to the wedding early enough to still help get things set up. Poor Fr. Dorvil, who was around the whole time even though I couldn’t find him, waited patiently for me so that we could drive together since he knew that the car wasn’t fixed. But he managed to get to the wedding on time, too. And when I got back home, the brake lights were fixed, the battery was attached, and all was well with the world. With prayers for your holiness, Rev. Fr. Edwin Palka From the Pastor: Excitement for the Week
This last week was filled with all sorts of excitement. The first and most important thing was our Chant Camp. We have been holding this absolutely impossible week for a number of years now and proving that the impossible is not only possible, but so well received that not only do the youth come back year after year, but the adults (and not just parents) constantly want to join in on the fun. Why do I say it is impossible? Because that is what I hear all the time. “Chant? Latin? Tradition? No way! If we want to reach the youth we must give them guitars and generic Christian ‘praise and worship’ music from the ‘70s, ‘80s, and ‘90s. That’s the real classical music, the true tradition of the Church. Nobody under 87 will ever show up for a summer chant camp.” Don’t think I am exaggerating. Go to any diocese-wide or even parish-based youth group, holy hour, vocation gathering, or large Mass (in any diocese—ours is not unique) and you will not have silence, organ music, or Latin a cappella chant. You will have some old codger (like me but with a ponytail) strumming a guitar singing, softly and sweetly, Father, I adore You and encouraging everybody to close their eyes, raise their arms, and sway to the music, followed by Open Our Eyes, Lord and maybe Glorify Thy Name because they claim that that is what all children, teenagers, and adults really like. If there is a whole band, somebody will undoubtedly bring out her rainstick for a rousing edition, complete with full-body motions of wriggling fingers raised high and then brought down low, of Rain Down. There will be absolutely no time for silence, never a thought of using organ music, and certainly no Latin. There is no doubt in anybody’s mind that what Epiphany offered once again at chant camp would make children flee to the nearest protestant Vacation Bible School for something “relevant.” But, as before, we proved the naysayers wrong. It was a smashing success. Many thanks to all those who worked so hard to teach our obviously not-normal (thanks be to God!) young parishioners the beauty of Traditional Chant. I also had a nephew’s wedding on the calendar. His new wife (I assume the marriage took place on Saturday!) has a brother who is a priest in the Diocese of Steubenville, Ohio. He stayed at the rectory for the week and was able to spend time with his family before witnessing his sister’s vows of Holy Matrimony. How he managed to get time off to come here is beyond me. Look him up on the Steubenville priest page and you will see, “Father Nicholas S. Ward. Parochial Vicar - St. Ann, Chesapeake; St. Joseph, Ironton; St. Lawrence O'Toole, Ironton; and St. Mary, Pine Grove; Assistant Director of Vocations.” Yikes! I would never even remember how to get to that many parishes, let alone work at so many. Plus vocation director? Nope. It’s a good thing he is young, energetic, and holy! Tying those two things (chant and a visiting priest) together was an expected demonic intrusion, as the dark ones try to bring chaos wherever Faith is being strengthened. I was at the VA with my dad on Tuesday afternoon, immersed in incompetence that only a Federal agency can muster, when I got a text message: “No water in neighborhood for 4-6 hrs...pipe break across the street.” Yep. We had a chant camp with what seemed like a hundred children plus adults and no water for either drinking or flushing. Our great hospitality for the visiting priest no longer included showers or restroom facilities. At least this time it wasn’t the AC that went out! When I finally got home that evening there were papers taped to every door and sink of the rectory stating, “Precautionary Boil Water Notice, No Water. Your service was interrupted 6-6-23 from approximately 12:30 pm until approximately 7:00 pm. Blah, blah, blah... two consecutive days of satisfactory bacteriological water samples...” Fortunately, the water was already restored by the time I read it. I went around opening up the outside spigots to let the nasty, rusty water gush until clear. Then inside to do the same with the sinks, showers, and toilets. Then over to the school and church, following the same procedure. After everything was “fixed” I headed back to the rectory to find a can of food of some sort for dinner. But before I could even do that I got a message from the social hall that the handicapped bathroom toilet was making such terrible noises and was spluttering so violently that the water valve had to be turned off. And the kitchen faucets were not flowing. Back over to the church I went. There was, once again, nasty, rusty, or grey water at every faucet and toilet. I went back outside to open a hose nozzle and it wouldn’t even squirt. Opening up the outlet without the hose allowed me to hear sounds of air movement in the pipe, followed by an explosion of misty spray, alternating mist and air and spluttering nasty (the word “nasty” does not even begin to describe it), rusty water with full force for a split second, then pause, splutter, gush, pause, repeat. More than five minutes went by before the water came out full force without air. But it was still nasty. Ten minutes later it was still nasty. I opened up another spigot with the same result. Then inside to open every faucet. Nasty, nasty, nasty. Sploosh, woosh, splash, gurgle. Then the toilets. Yech! But after 20 or so minutes, water was running clear everywhere. By the time you read this, it should even be drinkable! With prayers for your holiness, Rev. Fr. Edwin Palka |
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