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From the novel Westlake Village by Harry Buschman
© by Harry Buschman
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Our Lady
Our hearts swell with pride when we walk by Our Lady of Perpetual Devotion. Even non Catholics grudgingly consider it to be the architectural gem of the community, superior in many ways to the firehouse and the American Legion Post 738.
The first Catholics in town were a minority and they worshipped in the empty store next to Ernie's hardware. It was only a parish then -- The Parish of Perpetual Hope. It was not an inspiring house of worship, in fact it looked like it was going out of business.
It is a unique characteristic of the Catholic Church to follow its people. Wherever Catholics put their roots you will find a church, while Protestants and Jews often travel miles to get to theirs. There's a good reason. If you examine the neighborhood closely you'll find that Protestants and Jews have automobiles, whereas many Catholics are penniless and must walk to church. Moreover, good Catholics go to church every day. Some of them go to church before breakfast, others drop in to beg a quick favor from the Almighty. Finally, there are those who must duck into the confessional for a heart to heart when they suspect they've done something wrong.
Father Stanley Puchalsky was ordained as our Priest by Bishop Harshenfeld when Our Lady first opened its doors. He has seen us come and go. He has joined many of us in matrimony and mispronounced our children's names at christenings. He will visit you in the hospital, he will stop by when you're mowing your lawn .... and he'll sit with you and grip your hand tightly when silence and understanding are the only answers.
He does something else a Priest is not required to do. He places bets for you at the state lottery. Some of us think there's a better chance of winning when you've got a man of the cloth in your corner. Unfortunately, Divine Intervention is not infallible, but neither is no intervention at all, so we take our chances. About a year ago my number came up! $550! I figured my taxes and gave Father Stan the rest. That's another thing about the Catholic Church; they don't ask where the money comes from, and the people who give it don't explain how they got it, nor do they ask what the church does with it. I can assume that some of it went to pay for the bell that summons us to seven o'clock mass and shakes the pigeons out of the belfry and sends them off on their day.
The seven o'clock mass draws a small but devoted circle of the elderly and infirm. They are, on the whole, thankful to find themselves granted another day of living. It may be their last and they want to start off on the right foot. Although Father Stan has a young Jesuit assistant he prefers to kick off the day in the company of his old friends. One of his oldest and dearest is Florida Oregon.
It is sometimes wise to use assumed names to conceal the true identity of people in non-fiction. I am often chagrined to find somebody I've maligned is still living and hell-bent on suing me, but in the case of Florida I am taking the liberty of using her given name proudly. She would want it that way -- none of this cloak and dagger stuff for Florida.
Florida is Sexton for Our Lady of Perpetual Devotion, she rings the bell for mass on the hour .... you can set your watch. There's always wine in the chalice, always wafers in the tray and the collars of the altar boys are starched and spotless. Father Stan would marry her if he could. I don't know what the qualifications for sainthood are, but they must be pretty damn high if Florida can't go marchin' in. They're quite a twosome and on balance I think I'd give the edge to Florida. She is irreplaceable. When Father Stan goes, someone will be in his shoes in a week.
I don't attend the seven o'clock mass every day. I'm ashamed to admit there are days when it slips my mind entirely. Sometimes I feel compelled to write a nasty letter to the editor -- sometimes there is wash to be done, or maybe the Goddamn squirrel has gotten in the bird feeder again. In short, the business of living seems to me just as important as the business of preparing for an eternity with nothing to do. I have reached an understanding with my Maker in this regard. I am not a holy man, I cannot walk on water and never in my long life has the Virgin whispered in my ear. Therefore I assume I'm on my own. I shall live what's left of the rest of my life doing what I think is right to do. When I can no longer do so, I shall go to Him and hand Him the keys to the old Biscayne along with my license to drive and let Him take it from there.
Father Stan does not agree with such hedonistic philosophy; he goes by the book. So do the regulars at the seven o'clock mass. It is a minority opinion I share only with Florida. Florida believes religion is like candy -- it puts a sweetness in life it wouldn't have otherwise. When I do make an appearance, she nudges me as I pass through those expensive rosewood doors .... "How you doin'' sweetie .... everything cool with you?"
Voicelessly and helplessly I embrace her .... I've missed a day, and I regret that. But I'm here with her now. Here with Father Stan and the seven o'clock regulars, making sure God's keeping his part of the bargain.
©Harry Buschman 2002
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