Latin mass but not in the good way

When I was a senior in high school, my dad got a job with a company that sent him to manage a hog farm in O’Neill, NE, over two hours from where we lived. So he got a tiny apartment to live in during the week and come home on the weekends.

To some, this might seem weird, but he had been traveling with his previous work weekly for years, getting home late Thursday or Friday, so it had become normal for us.

One weekend, my mom and I decided to drive up and spend the weekend with him in O’Neill. I think there were some sort of city festivities going on to make the trip a bit more exciting. One thing my parents were interested in was attending the Latin mass that was going on that weekend.

For me, growing up in the Catholic Church well after the Second Vatican Council, or Vatican II, (the conclave that changed mass from the traditional Latin to the language of the country where it was happening, it changed a bunch of other things, too, but that’s the one that matters to this story), I was excited to experience mass how it was when my parents were children.

Dad spent the morning before mass telling stories about being an altar boy and stumbling his way through mass in a language he didn’t understand. They had cheat cards for the altar boys so they knew when to respond and what to say until they got a new priest at their church who was old school and did away with the cards, demanding the altar boys learn the responses without assistance.

Since it was vacation, I didn’t bring my regular church clothes with me. Or maybe I just didn’t bring a nice coat. All I remember about my attire is that I was wearing pants and a bright yellow Wayne State College hoodie because it was still chilly in the mornings. We rolled up to the old, white church that looked like nearly every other country church built at the end of the last century. We noticed most of the men wore suits, or at least ties, and most of the women were wearing hats.

Strange but not alarming.

Until we got inside.

All of the women were wearing dresses or skirts and those who weren’t wearing hats had a scarf, handkerchief, or lacy thing on their heads.

This wasn’t just a special mass in Latin for the city festivities. This was an actual traditional Catholic Latin mass by a parish that didn’t recognize Vatican II.

For those who don’t know, it used to be required for women to cover their heads while in church. I’m not sure of the reason because this was well before me, nor do I know when that was done away with. It might’ve been also at Vatican II or just gradually went away. I have seen some women who keep to the tradition but it is largely not done anymore.

I have never felt more out of place at a Catholic mass before, and I’ve been to one in Mexico in gym shorts and a sweaty tee-shirt after touring Mexico City all day in June.

Dad worried the collar of his button-down shirt, wishing he had worn a tie, meanwhile mom and I sat there in pants with heads uncovered, me in my bright yellow hoodie. Dad suggested I put the hood up so my head was at least covered. I didn’t. I thought that would make me more obvious than keeping it down. Plus, Mom would still be bareheaded and we gotta stick together.

Dad was the only one of us who went up for communion since he was the only one “properly” dressed, but we made it through without being struck by lightning or glared at.

To be honest, I didn’t look around at the other petitioners so I don’t know if we got glared at or not. I just tried to be as inconspicuous as possible while looking like a traffic cone and avoiding eye contact.

Overall, it was an experience I’m glad to have had. I learned a bit more about the church I grew up in and what mass looked like when my parents were kids. After Vatican II, most churches pulled out the huge ornate altars that filled the front of the church because mass was to be more inclusive for the congregation (another reason for the language change). Now, the priest spends less time facing the altar and more time facing the parishioners and there's no need for the fancy when simple would do.

Super fancy altar

  

Simple altar of a modern church

I’m all for new experiences, but I usually like to be better prepared for them. Since our little adventure in the traditional church, I’ve learned that in a pinch, a tissue and a bobby pin make a great head covering when nothing else could be found, so do with that what you will.

Author’s note: If I’m wrong about any of the Vatican II stuff, please forgive me, I’m doing basically zero research and going off my spotty knowledge.

Rough Morning

I had a rough morning Wednesday.

Horrible cramps woke me up at 2:30 which is always pleasant. Ladies, you can attest. Once I finally fell back to sleep, I snoozed my alarms so much that I woke up a half an hour later than I usually do. That’s fine, still enough time to make it to work by 7. Left my apartment about six minutes later than I usually do but still in good shape.

Alfred, the day I got him and set off a
whole stream of mechanics visits

Got into Alfred, my car, and turned the key in the ignition.

Click.

Noooooo.

I turned the key again.

Click.

Took the key out, prayed to the car gods, and tried again.

Click. 

The lights on my dashboard came on, the alert messages scrolled through all their possibilities, the dome light was on, but the radio wasn’t working.

I cussed a few times, gathered up my stuff, and headed back into my apartment to figure out what to do next.

First thing: email my boss to let her know I would be late, if I made it at all.

Second thing: call Dad.

Yeah, I am a 34-year-old grown-ass woman whose first thought when shit goes sideways is to call her father. I’m not ashamed.

His response: “I can’t do anything about that.”

Me: “I know, just tell me what to do.”

I rolled through all of Alfred’s symptoms, all the while praying it was just the battery because I figured any other answer was going to be super expensive to fix.

He asked if the car was in park. Considering I’ve turned my car off without it being in park exactly twice before (shut up, it was years ago and I was young and dumb), I was hoping that was the answer. I went out and checked. No, that wasn’t the answer, car was in park. He suggested I try starting the car in neutral. No idea what that would do but Dad said to try it so I tried it. Didn’t help.

His diagnosis was that the battery was dead (thank goodness!). His advice: call AAA to get a jump and take it to Auto Zone, O’Reilly’s, or someplace like that and get a new one.

I checked opening times and every place opened at 7:30 am. At this point, it was 7:10 am and I decided to wait and call places to make sure they’d install the battery for me and how long it would take. I also researched battery prices to see how much this latest episode of Alfred breaking would cost.

7:35 arrived and I called the closest place, Auto Zone. Yes, they would install the battery for me and it would only take 10-15 minutes.

“Perfect! I’ll call AAA for a jump and be right there.”

Thank you, Mom, for the Christmas gift that keeps on giving.

Called AAA, the helpful lady said somebody would be out to me by 9:20 to help. Odd time but I’ll take it.

I wandered around my apartment for 20 minutes, trying to decide what to do to kill the 1.5 hours I had when my phone rang. It was the AAA service guy. He asked some additional questions about what my car was doing, I rolled through the symptoms again, and he said he’d be there in 15 minutes.

Hooray!

It was 8:00 by this time. I was an hour late for work, my anxiety was at an 11, and I was still praying to the car gods that it was just the battery. I texted my coworkers to let them know the situation and I killed the rest of the time by terrorizing Toothless and stalking the service guy on the GPS map they texted me.

When he was two minutes away, I gathered up my purse, lunch bag, and mask and headed out to my car. I popped the hood and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The crappy thing about living in an apartment complex is that GPS always takes people to the wrong entrance and they get lost, never to be seen or heard from again.

When I was beginning to despair of ever seeing the service guy, he finally pulled up, dug out all his gadgets, and got to work. I tried to be cool but one way I control my anxiety is by getting as much information as I can so, I asked as many questions about what he was doing and battery stuff in general as I dared. He was super nice and answered my questions, offered advice, and gave great battery post cleaning tips. (You can use Coke to clean the corrosion off your battery posts but don’t do that in the summer or you’ll get ants.)

My battery was in fact dead. It had a bad cell and that wouldn’t allow the starter to function. He offered to install a new battery for me for free, I’d just pay for the battery.

Did you know that AAA service people carry extra batteries in their trucks and will install them for you?? I had no idea. I wished I knew before Wednesday morning. I would’ve called them as soon as I hung up with my dad instead of wasting almost an hour for stores to open.

Yes, please and thank you. Put that sucker in there and save me a stop at Auto Zone.

So, he scrubbed the corrosion off the wires that connect to the battery with a wire brush, pulled out the old battery, and dropped a new one in there. He got everything hooked back up and told me to try to start up the car.

Click.

Nooooooo.

He looked around at the engine, trying to find the answer. Messed with the wires connecting to the battery a bit then told me to try it again.

Click.

“That’s the starter.”

My heart, my stomach, and my spleen dropped into my shoes at the three words I was hoping to not hear.

I sputtered out “You’re thinking my starter is bad, too?”

Him: “It sounds like it’s not turning over but even if it was going out, it should still start with a brand new battery.”

I was picking up what he was putting down. My old car, St. Jude, named after the patron saint of lost causes and desperate cases (the car was well named), had a bad starter that wrecked a new battery the day before Thanksgiving. In the snow. Good times.

If you don’t know, I have terrible luck with cars. Some is my own damn fault (RIP Minerva) but a lot of it is just bad circumstances. I’ve very familiar with cars not starting, cars just randomly stopping on the road, flat tires, blown tires, and the check engine light.

He pulled a can of something out of his truck and removed the wires on the battery, sprayed the posts and the wires with the stuff, then connected it all again.

“Give it another try.”

One more prayer to the car gods and I turned the key.

IT’S ALIVE!!!

Words tripped over themselves as I tried to express my gratitude to this car wizard and his magic spray can.

I then confirmed that the starter is, in fact, not bad, it was just a connection thing and he reassured me that I’m good to go.

I paid the good man, thanked him a million more times, texted my coworkers to let them know that I was headed to work, and set off.

Pulling out of my apartment parking lot, Alfred let me know that my left rear tire was low on air.

That’s it, ya’ll. I’m marrying a mechanic.

Quarantine Monster Short: Paranormal Prankser

 Sharon sighed in disgust as she took in the kitchen. Every cupboard and draw was wide open. “When did Peter start leaving the kitchen like this?” She glanced upward toward his second story office, shook her head, and started closing everything.

Three weeks into the pandemic lockdown, and it was the longest uninterrupted time she and her husband had ever spent under one roof before. All of the little irritating things he did were starting to increase in annoyance. Sharon took a few deep breaths to quell the rising anger, refilled her water bottle, and headed back up the stairs. “Peter, next time you open every cupboard and drawer in the kitchen, can you please close them when you’re done?”

“What?” Peter yelled through the open door but didn’t look up from his computer.

“Close stuff when you’re done in the kitchen.” Sharon repeated as she passed the doorway.

Peter jerked back when the overhead light went dark. “Hey!” He glanced up at the intact bulb, then over to the switch. There was just enough light streaming in from the hallway to see it in the off position.  “I don’t know what you’re talking about! Why’d you turn off my light?”

“What?” Sharon yelled from the bedroom.

“Why’d you turn off my light?”

“I didn’t touch your light!”

Peter rolled his eyes and slowly got out of his chair, stretching out the kinks with a groan and toddled over to flip the light back on. “It didn’t just shut itself off and she knows I can’t work in the dark. It hurts my eyes,” Peter muttered as he retook his seat.

The ghost in the doorway threw its hands in the air. “Come on! What do I have to do to get you people to react?!” It pulled the office door shut with a slam.

Peter jumped. “Dammit, Sharon! Why’d you do that?” he yelled.

“I didn’t touch your light! You don’t need to slam your door about it!” Sharon’s voice grew louder and faded as she passed the door and went back downstairs.

Peter harrumphed and put on his headphones, hoping some music would help him get some work done.

The ghost poked its head through the door to glare at Peter before following Sharon to the first floor. It watched her bustle around, moving laundry from the washer to the dryer, pick up forgotten dishes in the living room, and load them into the dishwasher before starting out. She pulled the trash bag out of the can and headed out to the garage.

Opening the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen hadn’t been enough to spook the humans. Peter and Sharon had always managed to blame the ghost’s tricks on each other but never confronted each other so they hadn’t figured out that it was something else causing the turmoil in the house. When they started spending all of their time at home, the ghost hoped they were finally going to figure out it was there but they somehow still managed to blame the other for the ghost’s pranks and it wasn’t happy about it.

The ghost wandered over and opened the dryer just enough to stop it but not enough that the door was visibly open. It also knocked the broom over so it fell across the garage door. Now, if somebody tried to come in through it, the broom would wedge against the washer and the door wouldn’t open. The ghost headed back to the kitchen, thinking that doing the drawer and door trick a second time might be enough to send Sharon and Peter over the edge. It also dumped most of the milk down the drain, leaving a tiny bit left in the carton, and put it back in the fridge.

The ghost strolled around the ground floor, looking for more tricks to play on the couple. When it couldn’t think of anything else to do, it headed for the stairs. Just then, Sharon tried coming back into the house from the garage. The door hit the broom and caught, slamming the broom into the washer with a lough bang.

“What the hell? Peter!” Sharon yelled.

The ghost smiled and continued up the stairs.

Peter walked through the ghost on his way to the kitchen and shuddered at the sudden cold spot the ghost created. He heard the banging coming from the laundry room and went to investigate. Seeing the broom across the door, he reached for it, right as Sharon tried opening it again, effectively pinching his fingers.

“Dammit, Sharon, hold on a minute!” He growled as she shook the pain from his hand. He cleared the broom and opened the door to glower at his wife who matched him glare for glare.

“Why’d you lock me out?” Sharon yelled.

“I didn’t lock you out! The broom was blocking the door. You probably knocked it over when you went out. Be more careful.” He stomped out of the laundry room. “Speaking of careful, I think you broke my hand.” He walked into the kitchen for ice and noticed everything open. “What’d you do in here?”

Sharon followed him in and her mouth fell open. “You opened everything back up after I yelled at you for doing it earlier?! Was this what you were doing while I was locked in the garage?”

“Why would I do any of this?” Peter asked as he shoved things shut on his way to the freezer. The no-slam cupboards and drawers denied him a satisfying slam, increasing his irritation.

“I don’t know! Why do you do anything?” Sharon screeched as she stomped up the stairs, only to discover the ghost had been busy.

There was toilet paper all over the upstairs, like somebody had grabbed the end of the roll and just wondered room to room, leaving piles and trails where they went.

“Peter!” Sharon screamed.

Angry grumbles accompanied Peter’s heavy footfalls on the stairs. “What now?” He stopped, just behind Sharon, his mouth hanging open at the sight. “How did you have the time to do this? You just got up here,” he marveled.

“I didn’t do this!” Sharon growled, turning on her husband. “You did! We can’t waste toilet paper like this. There’s a shortage! Roll this back up!”

“You think I did this?” Peter was stunned.

“Well, it wasn’t me! Who else could’ve done it?!”

“Finally!” The ghost crowed in victory as he slammed every door in the house shut.

The couple screamed.