My First Day of School, September 1953

Just after Labor Day in 1953, I went to school for the first time. I was enrolled in an overflow classroom of Upson School and it was located in the basement of the Lutheran Church at the corner of East 260th and Forestview Avenue in Euclid. The Baby Boom had started, and the United States was in for a dynamic growth spurt. One or two blocks south of the Lutheran Church was Upson School, a large brick edifice that had been there for ages. In one of the kindergarten classrooms in the big school was Beth Hodder, who I would meet 62 years later in West Glacier, Montana--the front door to Glacier National Park. Beth was my age and was also a Euclid native. At some point she found her way out West, married a forest ranger, Al Koss, and made her life in the mountains and forests of the American West. When I met Beth, she was hawking her children's book, set in the Bob Marshall Wilderness--exactly where my daughter Carolan worked. Beth's book is The Ghost of Shafer Meadows. And ironically, Carolan has also written a book set in this same Wilderness, authored with her cousin Megan Sanders Hartfelder, called "The Great Bear Surprise" (available on Amazon, Carolan and Megan's book).

My Mom walked me north on East 266 Street that morning to Oriole Avenue, then down Oriole to East 260th and the Lutheran Church, 8/10s of a mile. She gave me a little kiss and said goodbye and good luck--and then she left, never to walk me to or from school again--it just wasn't done much back then. Our family had one car, which my Dad drove to work, and Mom was at home with Denny, who was three years old, and baby Mary Ellen.

I was struck in that first hour of kindergarten by the fact that a couple of children were crying. I thought, "What babies!" Soon, school started--and I loved it. We might have had 12-15 kids in our class (which would contrast with my years at St. William's School, when we had 50-60 in a classroom in my early years). The teacher's name was Mrs. Ockunzi (I bet that spelling is off). I remember some of the kids in class--Billy O'Neal, a great and happy guy; Joanne (can't remember her last name, but she had carrot-red hair and lived in the F & S homes); Bob Ernst and Barbara S, who went to St. William's with me for 8 years. If I had the class photo in front of me, I could identify others.

I remember kindergarten as great fun: we had a band, and I got to play the triangle; we did finger painting; we sang and marched; and we even took a little nap. At the end of that first day, I walked the 8/10s of a mile back home by myself. I had just turned five. Now days, a National Guard battalion would accompany the kid home. That was not our world in Euclid in 1953!

Where Have All the Catholics Gone?

Catholics have been leaving the Church in droves for a long time now. At a recent mass at my parish church, St. Mary's in Painesville, Ohio, I asked my wife why the pews are so empty. It's like that almost everywhere we go (except last Sunday at the outdoor mass at Our Lady of Lourdes Shrine in Euclid, Ohio, where we attend mass in the summertime). This is such a contrast with church attendance in my childhood.

At St. William's in Euclid in the 1950s and 1960s, there were so many masses: 5:45 AM, 7:00, 8:15, 9:30, 11:00, and 12:15 PM. Later there was a Saturday mass and a Sunday evening mass. The church was so overflowing that there were two basement masses at the same time mass was held in the main church. And Catholics came to church no matter the weather (and I still do!). Even in bitter cold and snow the church would be full. Often people were standing in the aisles and in the back of the church.

So many things have happened in the past 50-60 years that have undermined the authority of the church. The sexual abuse of children, mostly by priests and religious brothers (really a very very small minority of religious--who have done enormous and lasting damage); physical and emotional abuse by some nuns in Catholic schools (again, just a handful were abusive, but I saw the beaqtings with my own eyes); changing conceptions of serious sin (we thought we'd go to hell for missing mass--no kidding).

There are other reasons--no one thing can explain the decline in church attendance. In many ways, the church has failed parishioners. Catholics have put up with bad liturgy and very bad homilies for the longest time--but now people are voting with their feet.

Secular society is often blamed for the decline of the Church. There may be truth in that idea, but I think it's mostly an excuse. Somehow the Church hasn't addressed the wants and needs of people for meaning. Personally, the over-focus on certain sins and the lack of focus on social justice has alienated me from some churches (that's why 10 years ago or so we left our Church in Chardon and started attending St. Mary's in Painesville. The first time there they mentioned their prison ministry, their work with the homeless and hungry, their work with Latino refugees and immigrants--and I was hooked. Four years ago we started actively participating in the Karpos Ministry to the Homeless and Hungry. This cemented our commitment to St. Mary's. We still put up with a lot of poor liturgies and homilies. But we have outstanding music and a vibrant parish life.

People want a deep engagement with the Truth, with the Corporal and Spiritual Works of Mercy. Our Catholic Churches have to offer this to people. We have to stop being so judgmental about divorce, about birth control. Sometimes the church needs to listen to the voice of the people. We have to give women a much bigger role. I still don't understand the arguments against women in the priesthood. I believe that will change some day, and we'll look back on the old days like we look back on slavery now.

One thing people don't realize is how much will be lost by abandoning the Church. Centuries, millennia, of culture, wisdom, goodness. That can't be replaced by things, by pop culture, by technology. Please don't abandon the Church. Instead, try to make it better. And to the Church: don't abandon the people! Make changes, and do it quickly before another generation of Catholics is lost.

What Lent and Holy Week Meant to me as a Kid

Parce Domine! Parce Populo Tuo! Ne in aeternum irascaris nobis! This was the Latin antiphon we would sing at St. William’s Church in Euclid during Holy Week when I was growing up in the 1950s and 1960s. The tune was ancient Gregorian chant; the antiphon was sung over and over, a response to a psalm reading. The effect was powerful and hypnotic—and unforgettable.

Somehow Christmas, especially the invention of a fantasy, commercialized Christmas, is bigger in the popular imagination; but for me as a child and adolescent, Lent, with the passion and suffering of Jesus and our own little personal sacrifices, was much more significant. It seems that it’s harder to commercialize sacrifice, suffering, agonizing death, and even Easter—the Resurrection.

The truth is that even as a kid I understood the suffering part, but couldn’t exactly imagine the victory of the Resurrection. That I could only grasp intellectually, not “in the deep heart’s core” (to use Yeats’ great phrase from “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”).

During Lent we would always try to give up something—and for most people, including me for many years, it was candy. But one year I promised to make the Stations of the Cross (i.e., say a prayer and meditate at each of the 14 stations of the cross) every day. It went well for about two weeks and then I missed a day. In my scrupulous mind, this was a great mistake, and I promised Jesus that I would say ten Stations of the Cross for every one I missed. And then I missed again, and multiplied my promise to Jesus—and now I was in debt for 100 Stations for every one missed. Pretty soon, my debt began to multiply geometrically, and I finally gave up—owing the Lord thousands, maybe tens of thousands of Stations. I tell you I am hopelessly in debt to the Lord, and there’s no paying it back! It was a lesson in my own fallibility, my own flawed will—and maybe, the mercy of God. It took a long time to grow out of my over-religiosity, my scrupulousness.

For some reason, my inner spirit is still deeply religious, but no longer in an orthodox or conventional way. Lent, and Holy Week, still speaks to my soul, my Spirit. With the aching earth and its Creation, I can still sing that ancient Latin antiphon, “Parce, Domine!” Save, O Lord! Parce Populo Tuo! Save your people! Ne in aeternum, irascaris nobis. Don’t be angry at us forever.

Thinking about Ash Wednesday (with two poems)

 To me Ash Wednesday is a day for serious reflection, a day full of memories. Some of those memories are expressed in the poems below. Both poems are based on my own experiences.

Ash Wednesday at St. William’s School

The immaculate

groomed children

play joyfully on the playground--

but odd

anachronism:

scandalous

ashes of death

in the sign

of the cross

on innocent

foreheads

remember

our mortality

the amazing sacrifice.

The marked innocents

forget the strange rite

with wondrous enthusiasm and energy

play like it’s any other day.

The Last Ash Wednesday (February 2003)

After teaching my classes,

I drive over to Kevin’s house

Where Mom now lives after moving from Euclid

Our family home for fifty-one years.

It’s getting harder for her to go out,

So I come to her house,

Burn last year’s palm fronds in the ash tray

And anoint her forehead with the Sign of the Cross.

I find myself unable to utter the ancient words,

“Remember, Woman, from dust thou art,

And unto dust thou shallt return.”

The words are too painful, too real,

The abiding dust

too close.

Then Mom anoints my own forehead,

Again leaving the words unspoken:

No one can ever know . . . .

After the little ceremony,

We both laugh, and Mom says,

“Let’s drink a beer!”

“Not on Ash Wednesday,” I tease.

“The hell with that!” she retorts.

“I’m old enough now to be above the rules!”

We both laugh, and I pop open two beers.

We drink to Mardi Gras and to Lent,

And to the ashes on our foreheads.

                                                             Bob Coughlin

                                                                        February 21, 2007

                                                                        Ash Wednesday

A Memory of Christmas 1960--Euclid, Ohio

Christmas Eve of 1960--I was 12 years old, in 7th grade at St. William's School in Euclid, Ohio. In my mind, that year, plus or minus a year or two, was the end of the Medieval Era. I know history books wouldn't give such a late date for that, but in my life, the life of my family and Church, that is around the time the Medieval Era ended. Catholic masses were still in Latin; all Catholics went to church every Sunday; all Catholics abstained from meat on Fridays; we were deathly afraid of mortal sin and the possibility of spending eternity in hell. So there were many, many negative things in the atmosphere.

On the positive side, for us Irish-Catholics at least, John F. Kennedy had been elected president, Pope John XXIII was pope, and had convened the Second Vatican Council, which threw open the windows of the Church and began a desperately needed reform.

Though we didn't know it at the time, we in the United States, and the whole world, were on the cusp of change, a very new and different world--in some ways better and in some ways worse.

On Christmas Eve, around 9:30 PM, I walked from my home on East 266 Street to St. William's for Midnight Mass. As a choir boy, I had to arrive early, in Sr. Muriel's classroom on the first floor of the old building. There we did our last practice and received instructions from Sister. She was a bit tense that night, anticipating the big moment.

Shortly before midnight we lined up in the hallway and processed, in the dark, into St. William's old church (which is now a gym and bingo hall). The church was packed to the rafters, and many people stood in the aisles and in the back. Fr. John Fleming and his con-celebrants processed in, led by altar boys holding up the processional cross. We moved to the choir loft, packed in there like sardines, along with the organist and the smaller men's choir. Then, for the next hour or so, we sang gorgeous songs, in English and in Latin, music that would make the angels weep. Gloria in Excelsis Deo! "When blossoms flowered 'mid the snow" (Gesu Bambino); Venite adoremus! O come let us adore him!

And then it was over. The boys processed, very tired by now, back to the classroom; we put on our coats, and headed for home. It was snowing, and I walked the mile home by myself, in the quiet snow, at 1:30 in the morning. It was peaceful and beautiful.

The next morning, I woke about 7:30 and we opened our presents. That year I got a pair of baseball spikes as my main present. We didn't get many presents--there were five kids, and very little money to go around. Right around 8:30 AM I arrived back at Church to sing the 9:30 high mass. There was less mystery than at midnight, but the mass and songs were beautiful.

Around 11 AM I was back home. With my brothers, Denny, Kevin, and Jimmy, and my sister Mary Ellen, we played with our Christmas presents. Later Dad took us to the North Chagrin Metro Park at Squires Castle, where we went sled riding (even one-year-old Jimmy went).

The world was about to change. Around the corner was JFK's assassination, the Vietnam War, the age of transistors and then computers. On the positive side, the Civil Rights Movement, the Women's Movement, the Anti-War movement. The Church would change significantly, then slip back into old ways. The Great Mandela of Time.

Remembering My Cousin Jack Fitzpatrick, Murdered 43 Years Ago at Higbee's Department Store, Waiting in Line with His Children to See Santa

Tommy Fitzpatrick, left, in Vietnam

Mary Finnegan Fitzpatrick

Jack Fitzpatrick

Forty-three years ago yesterday, December 21, 1971, my cousin Jack Fitzpatrick was brutally murdered while waiting in line to see Santa Claus with three of his four children. His wife, Mary Finnegan Fitzpatrick, was shopping nearby with their oldest daughter. Mary was near full-term pregnant, and their fifth child, Tommy, was born after his father's murder. Tommy was named after his uncle Tom Fitzpatrick, my cousin, who was killed in Vietnam two years earlier. The tragedy for my Uncle Al and Aunt Catherine Fitzpatrick was beyond comprehension--two of their children violently killed within two years. The ripples of this killing have not ended. Our family is still terribly bruised by this tragedy.

The murderer of my cousin was Tyrone Howard. In an amazing twist of fate, Tyrone's son is one of America's most famous actors, Terrence Howard. Terrence was two years old, and was there at Higbee's, when his father murdered my cousin.

Jack Fitzpatrick was about 12 years older than me, so my memories of him are somewhat skewed by that age difference. He was a kind of hero in the family. He was the oldest Fitzpatrick grandson of my grandparents, Jack and Margaret Ann Sullivan Fitzpatrick. He had been a seminarian, studying for the priesthood for a time at Borromeo Seminary in Wickliffe, Ohio. He was the first relative to ever graduate from college--from John Carroll University. He had been an ROTC officer, if I remember correctly.

I heard the news listening to a scratchy TV news program in Cincinnati, in my Over-the-Rhine apartment. I came back to Euclid, to St. William's, for the funeral, which was held on Christmas Eve. I can't forget Mary's inconsolable keening, and the family and community's deep deep sorrow.

Mary recovered from this tragedy and lived a good life, with many friends. She did a fine job raising her children. Her children have led good lives. My Dad helped Mary and her children a lot through all of this.

The Light shines in the darkness, And the darkness has not overcome it.

Wikipedia article on Jack Fitzpatrick's murder.

The Height of My Football Career--1957, St. William's

St. William's, Euclid, Ohio. Fall 1957. I'm in row 2, second from left.

I was a halfback and scored many touchdowns that 1957 season. I was so small no one could see me behind the linemen; and I was a very fast runner. The Coach is Mr. Rossa. I think I can name some of the kids in the photo: John Rossa in front row, second from left; to his right Frank Bowser; Dennis Pierce (?) or Tim Kraft (?) in second row on left; me to his right; the boy in row 2 on the right might be Bill Walsh.

Sr. Ruth Marie Behrend (OSU), My First Grade Teacher at St. William's, 1954-55

In one of the miracles of the internet, Tim Behrend, who has worked and lived in Indonesia and New Zealand, has sent me a photo of his aunt, Sister Ruth Marie Behrend, my first grade teacher at St. William's in Euclid. Sr. Ruth Marie is an Ursuline nun and she taught me during the academic year of 1954-55, when I was six years old. There were about 60 kids in our first grade class. These were the baby boom years, and there were lots of kids in Euclid, Ohio. Families were larger then, especially Catholic families. We had five children in our family, along with Mom and Dad, living in a one-bathroom bungalow on East 266 Street --our situation was made even more crowded when our alcoholic uncles, the twins Dick and Don Fitzpatrick, and Uncle Jack Coughlin, lived with us (they lived with all the relatives, until they were kicked out; and then they eventually came back--the cycle went on and on).

How did Sr. Ruth Marie handle 60 squirming little six-year-olds? Tim Behrend tells me that Sr. Ruth Marie herself had not even graduated from college at the time. It's possible she was only 20 years old or so when she had this heavy teaching responsibility.

I cannot say exactly what she did for me--that we can never know precisely. But between my parents, my wider family, and my teachers, I became a well-educated person and a person who passionately cares about justice and about the poor. Also, I became a thoughtful (though not mindless) Catholic-Christian. Some of that must be thanks to Sr. Ruth Marie and the Ursuline Sisters of Cleveland. They took on an impossible task and did a fine job with it. Thank You! Deo Gratias!

Sr. Ruth Marie Behrend, OSU (1950s?)

Postscript. For parts of my adult life, I have worked with the poor, and now the homeless and hungry. I wonder if my experience with my beloved (yet alcoholic) uncles, Dick, Don, and Jack, helped me to see the goodness in such people.

May 20, 1956. St. William's Church. Euclid, Ohio--First Communion

Fifty-eight years ago today, I made my First Holy Communion at St. William's Church in Euclid, Ohio. The church was on East 260th Street, about 1/3 of a mile south of Lake Erie. These were the years when the World War II vets had their families, and thus the baby boom. So there were lots of us making our First Communion. Here's a wild guess on the numbers: 200-250. I was among the shortest of the kids in my class and I was paired up with Randy Wohlgemuth, 4th in line. Our pastor was Fr. John Fleming, a man gruff on the outside, with a heart of gold and great goodness about him (when my Dad was periodically unemployed, Fr. Fleming paid our utility bills!). The boys wore white shirts and ties (I probably had a clip-on bow-tie). The girls were dressed like brides, with white dresses, white gloves, and a lace veil over their heads. The image would have made the angels weep. I was 7 years old, a month short of my 8th birthday. Everybody was about that age, 7 or 8. This was the halcyon era for children in Euclid, and really all over America. We were very carefully prepared for First Communion by the Ursuline nuns and lay teachers of St. William's. One of the nuns who prepared me was Sr. Ruth Marie Behrend. I have recently come into contact with her nephew, Tim Behrend, who lives in Indonesia and has seen my blog. I believe Sr. Ruth Marie lives at the Ursuline Mother House in Pepper Pike, Ohio. My second grade teacher was Mrs. Bartrum (Bartroom?). I am grateful for these nuns and teachers.

I can't remember too many details of that mass. It must have been a solemn high mass, with glorious singing (most of it in Latin). That was in the pre-Vatican II era, so the congregation didn't participate much. Interaction between the celebrant and the altar boys would have been in Latin. The Gloria and Credo would have been sung in Latin, as would the Preface, the Sanctus, and the Agnus Dei.

I was terrified when I approached the altar rail at communion time. The thought of the living Jesus coming into my mouth in the form of unleavened bread was almost as much as I could take. I thought I would faint or die or maybe rise up into the air (no kidding!). I'm sure other kids were also confused, and in some cases scared. My cousin Tommy Fitzpatrick (who died in Vietnam 13 years later) didn't (or couldn't) swallow the host that day.

After the Communion we had a family party (all our friends were actually relatives, so we were related to everyone at the party). My grandparents and aunts and uncles came to our little house on East 266 Street, and as they arrived, they gave me a card. Inside was a dollar, sometimes two. At the end of the party, I counted up all my loot. I had $18, more money than I had ever seen. At the party the kids drank "Little Toms" and played baseball in the yard. The adults drank beer (a little wine was also available--Tommy and I sampled it), smoked their cigarettes, laughed and told stories.

That was my big day, 58 years ago today. The happiest day of my life.

May 1958--Denny's First Communion. Euclid, Ohio.

The photo above was taken two years later, at my brother Denny's First Communion. The same folks would have been at my First Communion on May 20, 1956. Some of the people shown above: Jerry Fitzpatrick, Kay Coughlin, Grandma Cora Coughlin, Bill Coughlin, Bernice Coughlin Potter, Bill Brock, Grampa Connie Coughlin, Howard Classen, Jack Coughlin, Catherine Fitzpatrick, Maggie Brock, Julia Fitzpatrick Brock. Denny Coughlin is in front of Grampa Coughlin. Jill Potter Charske is in front of Grandma Cora. Annie Potter Anderson is obscured, just to the right of Denny Coughlin. I think Sheila Fitzpatrick is the woman in front, kneeling down. Jeannie Coughlin Struna might be in front of Kay Coughlin and just to the right of Jerry Fitzpatrick

Most Poignant Memories of the Vietnam Era: Tommy Fitzpatrick, Steve Shields, Kent State Killings

This is a response to question #2, asked me by my niece Rachel Sanders:

2. What are some vivid memories you have about the time? What do you consider to be the most important events? Why?

The most important events for me personally were, for the most part, not the most important events nationally. The first event that hit me like a ton of bricks was the death in Vietnam of my first cousin, Tommy Fitzpatrick. I grew up about a mile away from Tommy in Euclid and I went to grade school, St. William's, with him. Oddly, our extended family was so large and close that we hardly had friends outside the family. Tommy was killed in April 18, 1969 (http://www.virtualwall.org/df/FitzpatrickTM01a.htm). He was 21-years-old, his whole life ahead of him. His funeral was at St. William's and he is buried at All Souls Cemetery in Chardon.

Tommy in Vietnam (left)

A second vivid memory was the death in Vietnam of my Notre Dame friend and classmate, Steve Shields. Steve studied with me in Salzburg and Innsbruck, Austria. He was brilliant, fun, and funny. Everybody loved Steve. At Notre Dame Steve was in Army ROTC and became an officer after college graduation. After a period of training, he went to Vietnam as a helicopter pilot. Steve's copter was shot down in June 20, 1972 (http://www.virtualwall.org/ds/ShieldsSE01a.htm). I went to his funeral in Philadelphia and his military burial at West Point.

A third poignant memory for me was the killings at Kent State on May 4, 1970. I cannot express how terrible and traumatic that was for me. Kent State was located very close to my home in Euclid, Ohio, and so many friends attended there. Even my cousin Maggie Brock was there that day. This was a turning point in my life and I think a turning point in public approval of the war.

The huge demonstrations against the war were memorable and the My Lai massacre March 16, 1968) was one of the most significant events, but personally the combat deaths of Tommy and Steve, and the killings at Kent State were the most affecting.

Growing Up in Euclid in the 1950s--a Little Poem

God’s Gift to Women

                                    (for J.T. of Euclid, Ohio)

No,

It’s not me

(though in my most guarded

fantasies, perhaps) . . .

It was Tim O’Talty

The Elvis of St. William’s School,

Irish dandy,

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror,

Combing, combing, combing his golden locks

In that Jerry Lee Louis, Conway Twitty pompadour,

“Duck’s ass” in the rear . . .

Tim clicked his way down the waxed hallways,

Cleats on his heels and toes,

Saying, “Look at me!

I am some body!”

And he was,

A 1950s fantasy,

Our “cock-of-the-walk” - -

Goodness gracious,

Great Balls of Fire!

                        Bob Coughlin/February 4, 2014

50th anniversary of the March on Washington and "I Have a Dream" Speech

I was 15 when Martin Luther King Jr. gave his famous speech in the August 28, 1963 March on Washington--one of the truly great speeches in American history. I was a sophomore at St. Joe's High School. There were no black students in the student body of 2000 boys (at least that is my memory). There were no black people in Euclid (as far as I knew), a city at that time of 80,000. The only black people I knew were our garbage collectors in Euclid and the janitor, Rev. Bill Love (we called him "Bill") at St. William's School on East 260th Street.

Euclid now might be half black; the public schools in Euclid are majority black. And we have a black President of the United States.

Thirty years ago, August 28, 1983, I and my wife Linda were in the 20th anniversary March on Washington. It was stiflingly hot, 95 to 100 degrees, and we were in a great sea of people. We had come to Washington with a group from Berea College (which included Anne Weatherford, Loren Kramer, et al.). I remember watching the crowd--and then, incredibly, seeing my old Cincinnati friend Peggy Scherer in the crowd, marching with a group from the New York Catholic Worker, carrying a banner. What astonishing luck to find Peggy in the great crowd.

I'll never forget that March, hearing a recording of Dr. King's original speech, hearing Peter, Paul, and Mary sing as they had done 20 years earlier.

I wanted to be there, to be part of this great and messy movement for equality.

Poem Honoring the Retirement of Fr. Francis P. Walsh

Fr. Francis P. Walsh

I just heard that Fr. Francis P. Walsh, priest of the diocese of Cleveland, is retiring. Fr. Walsh is remembered very fondly by me and my brothers and sister for his years of service at St. William's in Euclid (1957-1962). My mother and father were also very fond of Fr. Walsh. Below is a poem I wrote some time back that mentions Fr. Walsh. The poem takes some minor liberties with historical fact:

Sr. Muriel’s Boys’ Choir—St. William’s Church, Euclid, Ohio, 1959

Solemn High Midnight Mass, near the end of an era

(one that would end in gunfire from a grassy knoll in Dallas,

In a hellfire of napalm and Agent Orange in Vietnam,

And a medieval Church damaged by patriarchy and the weight of time) . . .

There in that modest church on East 260^th Street,

In a working-class suburb of a city in its death rattle,

Right there, 28 boys led by an Irish nun of the Ursuline order,

Sang so beautifully it would make the angels weep.

In the hushed darkness of midnight, as Monsignor John Fleming

Processed into the church, with Fr. Walsh as deacon, and Fr. Praznik as subdeacon,

Behind a cross raised high and candles lit against the darkness,

The boys sang “Gesu Bambino,” in English:

When blossoms flowered 'mid the snows
Upon a winter night,
Was born the Child, the Christmas Rose,
The King of Love and Light.

The organist played softly as the boys’ voices soared:

The angels sang, the shepherds sang,
The grateful earth rejoiced;
And at His blessed birth the stars
Their exultation voiced.

And then the chorus, “Venite adoremus”:

O come let us adore Him,
O come let us adore Him,
O come let us adore Him,
Christ the Lord.

As Monsignor Fleming mounted the steps to the altar,

The church lights came on, and for the last time in the season, we sang “Adeste Fidelis.”

We sang it in perfect church Latin diction, following Sr. Muriel’s instructions for each syllable.

Fr. Fleming began the mass, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti . . . .”

Then, “Introibo ad altare Dei.”

Two eighth grade boys, in surplices and cassocks, responded,

“Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutum meum.”

The response was quick and natural—and not fully understood by the boys

Or the hundreds of people in the pews. In three or four years

This Latin would be obsolete, not to be heard again.

The medieval period, which stretched across hundreds of years,

Was ending. And yes, good riddance! Yet—

There was great beauty and pageantry there,

And to this little choir boy,

Mystery and power in the Latin,

The incense, the sincere prayers of so many of these people,

My friends and neighbors (so many of them now gone).

When it was over, about 1:30 a.m.,

I walked out of the church into the brisk, snowy night,

And walked, my 11-year-old self, the mile home,

Down East 262, to Forestview, to East 266, then home.

All was silence, that night so long ago, as I entered the dark house,

Past the darkened Christmas tree, the unopened presents,

Up the stairs to where Denny and I shared a room.

And I fell asleep, the last Christmas of the Medieval,

With “Gesu Bambino” dancing in my brain,

And hoping one of the presents under the tree was a pair of baseball spikes.

[Bob Coughlin. Chardon, Ohio. January 6, 2013]


My sister Mary Ellen sent me a photo of Fr. Walsh and his sister Maggie--from father's retirement party:

Fr. Francis P. Walsh and his sister Maggie

A Poem about Growing Up Catholic in the late 1950s

Sr. Muriel’s Boys’ Choir—St. William’s Church, Euclid, Ohio, 1959

Solemn High Midnight Mass, near the end of an era

(one that would end in gunfire from a grassy knoll in Dallas,

In a hellfire of napalm and Agent Orange in Vietnam,

And a medieval Church toppled by patriarchy and pederasty) . . .

There in that modest church on East 260^th Street,

In a working-class suburb of a city in its death rattle,

Right there, 28 boys led by an Irish nun of the Ursuline order,

Sang so beautifully it would make the angels weep.

In the hushed darkness of midnight, as Monsignor John Fleming

Processed into the church, with Fr. Walsh as deacon, and Fr. Praznik as subdeacon,

Behind a cross raised high and candles lit against the darkness,

The boys sang “Gesu Bambino,” in English:

When blossoms flowered 'mid the snows
Upon a winter night,
Was born the Child, the Christmas Rose,
The King of Love and Light.

The organist played softly as the boys’ voices soared:

The angels sang, the shepherds sang,
The grateful earth rejoiced;
And at His blessed birth the stars
Their exultation voiced.

And then the chorus, “Venite adoremus”:

O come let us adore Him,
O come let us adore Him,
O come let us adore Him,
Christ the Lord.

As Monsignor Fleming mounted the steps to the altar,

The church lights came on, and for the last time in the season, we sang “Adeste Fidelis.”

We sang it in perfect church Latin diction, following Sr. Muriel’s instructions for each syllable.

Fr. Fleming began the mass, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti . . . .”

Then, “Introibo ad altare Dei.”

Two eighth grade boys, in surplices and cassocks, responded,

“Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutum meum.”

The response was quick and natural—and not fully understood by the boys

Or the hundreds of people in the pews. In three or four years

This Latin would be obsolete, not to be heard again.

The medieval period, which stretched across hundreds of years,

Was ending. And yes, good riddance! Yet—

There was great beauty and pageantry there,

And to this little choir boy,

Mystery and power in the Latin,

The incense, the sincere prayers of so many of these people,

My friends and neighbors (so many of them now gone).

When it was over, about 1:30 a.m.,

I walked out of the church into the brisk, snowy night,

And walked, my 11-year-old self, the mile home,

Down East 262, to Forestview, to East 266, then home.

All was silence, that night so long ago, as I entered the dark house,

Past the darkened Christmas tree, the unopened presents,

Up the stairs to where Denny and I shared a room.

And I fell asleep, the last Christmas of the Medieval,

With “Gesu Bambino” dancing in my brain,

And hoping one of the presents under the tree was a pair of baseball spikes.

[Bob Coughlin. Chardon, Ohio. January 6, 2013]

Good Friday: "Parce Domine!"

Today we went to the Lourdes Shrine in Euclid, Ohio--one of the holiest and most beautiful places in Euclid and Greater Cleveland.The shrine features a replica of the grotto at Lourdes, France. It was built from Euclid Bluestone, quarried by early Euclidians, Irish, Slovenian, Czech, Hungarians, and others at the Euclid Creek quarry a mile or so away.

Linda and I lit candles for our family, then did the Stations of the Cross. Many people, ranging from little kids to old codgers, were on the beautiful wooded hillside path of the stations.

I thought of the old Latin chant we would sing over and over during Lent: "Parce, Domine! Parce Populo Tuo: Ne in Aeternum Irascaris Nobis." --"Spare, O lord! Spare your people! Be not forever angry with your people!" I can hear the tune in my head. I chanted it a thousand times as a child at St, William's Church in Euclid. I still chant it.

Top: the replica grotto, built of Euclid Bluestone. Middle: one of the stations on the wooded hillside. Bottom: Station XII, the Crucifixion.