Mom has been the Veterans Domiciliary Church Organist in White City for thirty-five years, yet in March of 2009, due to government cut backs, Mom’s job position was dissolved. She was both shocked and mournful. She had heard rumors of the lay-off since January, but never thought it would come to pass. She depended on the income and was concerned about how she would manage to fill the financial void with her sales business. But far more than the monetary loss, she would greatly miss the people. Her Sunday church ritual had a dear place in her heart and there would be no way to replace it.Sunday services began at 8:30 a.m. in the Protestant chapel and ended with the Catholic Mass at 10 a.m. in the adjacent church. Mom set the mood with prayerful piano and organ melodies from classic hymns repertoire. In 1984, after her mother death, Mom made sure to play the “Prayer of St. Francis” every Sunday in memory of her beloved Mother.
She had a knack for playing and talking at the same time. Holding chord after chord, she never hesitated to chat with Veterans, who purposely sat in the front row or approached the alter railing to benefit from her quick smile and generous conversation. Mom was known for her enthusiasm and boundless energy, although she had be caught, by a daughter’s watchful eye, to take a few cat naps during the sermons…Mom always said she was praying.
Mom has seen many ministers and priests come and go; I remember candidly that Reverend Gilmer and Father Dino were favorites, although the pictured Father Felix may soon rank number one. When not “praying,” Mom would make a point to write down their jokes told during the sermon, she didn’t want to miss a single detail as she retold them on the phone to her children who lived out-of-state. The pastors have changed, the alter styles have changed, the hymns books have changed, and even the chapels have changed from two to one, but Mom hasn’t changed. With her Aqua Net smoothed hair, strategically matched accessories, perfumed wake and a gift of gab that would turn the blarney stone green; mom never missed a Sunday or a chance to connect to the men and women of the congregation.
I was two years old when Mom started her Sunday job. I would fall asleep Saturday night to the sounds of her practicing for the next morning’s services. The vibrations carried through the big, old house and lull me to sleep; it was a feeling of safety. My youthful mind knew that no ghosts or monsters of would drag me away to captivity with church music playing in the background. Sometimes I would hear Dad singing along with her – while he loved singing, this tenor addition was more to keep Mom on the beat; Mom tended to turn every hymn into an opera aria, taking liberties at will.On the way to the VA in White City, Dad and I would pass fields and fields of pear orchards. Those orchards have since been turned into the huge expanse of the Walmart, Olive Garden, and the Costco shopping center. I still remember the alarm and sadness of seeing hundreds of green trees toppled on their sides with fresh roots exposed. I never understood why anyone would do that, I guess, I still don’t.
Dad and I sat in the same place every Sunday; the right corner of the front, right pew in the Catholic Chapel. Sunday after Sunday, until I turned 18 and went to college, I watched my mother sit on the organ bench, sharing her gift of music, song, and friendship. Yet it wasn’t until later that I realized that Mom’s gift wasn’t confined to the pedals, stops and keys of the organ. Unlike many church musicians -- visiting with the people of the congregation was a natural extension of her personality and a personal delight. Even upon driving in and driving out of the complex, she would wave to Veterans walking along the sidewalk, or who where standing by the entry doors smoking a cigarette. When I got a little older, seeped in my own shyness and appalled that she would wave to someone she didn’t know, I asked her why she did that. She told me that a simple smile and a wave may help them feel not so lonely.
Some of the Veterans became good friends, one in particular was Fred. Fred was a five feet tall, bald, wore thick shaded glasses and was missing a few tips of fingers on both hands. His Sunday attire was a brown over sized sport coat that hit just above his knees and either grey or tan slacks. His voice held a hint of Loius Armstrong and his
laugh like him, was short and strong that draped over worn but polished brown shoes. When he found out that my Mom like to drink coffee in the morning, Fred made it his responsibility to serve her. As soon as Mom hustled down the aisle to the bench and pushed the red “on” button of the organ, he was there, at her side, with Styrofoam cup in hand, it filled with fresh black coffee. Fred was there some 10 years later when Mom made the switch to hot water and he never missed his cue.Now the Protestant service sings a capella and the Catholic Mass is serenaded by a well-meaning volunteer – who’s breathy voice carried through a microphone, simple bar- room piano chords and timid persona, only helps to idolize Mom’s legacy of contribution at the Veterans Domiciliary.
It was Mother’s sheer joy to be the organist/pianist for the people at the Dom for thirty-five years. The final presents of the music box, tapestry and patriotic art are given with the best intentions yet, the people in the congregation do don’t have Mom’s eyes of thirty-five years of devotion and will never be able to quantify her impact on those she met at the Domiciliary. From my humble perspective, I know she touched and healed many. While she may have not always kept a steady beat, the pulse of her ministry was conducted by heavenly Father himself, allowing Mom to share His unconditional love in a exuberant and bountiful fashion; showing all, among them, her youngest daughter, that there are no strangers in this world.
Presently, Mom attends a Catholic service in Ashland on Saturday evening. She says she enjoys the new perspective of sitting in the congregation; listening to the sermon along side everyone else, giving the cantor a run for his money and sleeping in on Sunday morning. We all know that late mornings are much more Mom’s style. But while Mom was never an early riser, perhaps keeping her Sunday mornings free of commitment is her way of honoring those precious thirty-five years of devotion; a Sunday ritual of loyal service and companionship that could not, and should not be replaced.
Love at first sight - Mimi sings to Rudolfo of her life as a simple women who embroiders beautiful flowers.
Marcello and Musetta have been reunited, only to have a fight scene outside the bar. Marcello believes Musetta is cheating on him. She chooses to fuels his insecurity my insulting him. Meanwhile Rudolfo and Mimi are saying goodbye.
Here I laughing at him in between the lines..." Oh, how I detest a lover...who starts acting like a (ha-ha-ha-ha) a husband!"
