And when October goes…

A favorite ballad from decades ago, sung by Barry Manilow, is “When October Goes,” which has a haunting melancholy about it, as he recalls his blissful younger years. His scattered memories dance with the dimming of autumn, which parallels the dusk of life. It reminisces of youthful joy, mirroring the fiery blaze of October.

“The children running home beneath a twilight sky … the same old dream appears … I should be over it now, I know … it doesn’t matter how old I grow… how I hate to see October go.”

Another long-ago memory that’s as clear as if it were yesterday are the crisp fall days, when we briskly walked into our Catholic church with our parents, dressed like they were going to a wedding. My mother wore a special perfume on Sunday, her auburn hair up in a French twist, a tailored wool suit, patent high heels. Dad was in his black gabardine suit, squeaky leather wingtips, thin tie, with his slicked wavy hair shining with Dixie Peach. My brother wore a boy’s suit, bow tie, and dress oxfords, I had tight braids and Mary Janes, white leotards, and navy-velvet puff-sleeve dress with pull-back red bow.

A familiar entrance hymn – I still love the “Holy, Holy, Holy” – rolled on the immense pipe organ as we headed to a pew, and watched the procession of priests and servers onto the splendid white marble altar — with its spectacular engraved-gold tabernacle, six huge candles in crusted gold bases, and a half-dozen gorgeous yellow, orange and red flower arrangements. Though my brother and I didn’t understand all the Latin, we knew when the priest was ready to speak in English for his homily.

We stiffened upright to hear. With no toys, snacks, books, or other distractions with us, we focused on him, and kept uncharacteristically quiet. If not, Dad’s eye would spell out what was waiting.

Our pastor’s grandfatherly voice boomed in authority, with new stories and lessons even for us as kids, and his magnificent tone embraced us in paternal reassurance that God was always with us. Even invisible angels were there. Monsignor had a holy mystique, and we loved him as our shepherd. Though he never turned the heat up to a cozy level, we always felt secure in that cool gothic church, which reminded us that under holy watch everything was in order.

After what felt like an eternity of kneeling, Mom and Dad walked toward the altar for Holy Communion. As much as we wanted to see it all up close, we remained in the pew still kneeling. We watched as neighbors and nearby relatives processed by, trying to catch their eye.

Just recently, we joined a parish which has more Latin Masses than English ones, and it all came flooding back. It’s like venturing back in time –crowded but quiet, the old Catholic hymns bring tears, and we lose ourselves in the Mass’ majesty.

Faith of Our Fathers, holy faith, we will be true to thee til death.

CHRISTINE VALENTINE-OWSIK is Legatus magazine’s editor.