V
vern_humphrey
Guest
I’ll tell you about the Latin Mass.
My parents were divoirced when I was about two and got back together when I was about 11. My Dad was in the oil exploration business, and we went with him on his next contract – to northern Peru. The town where we lived was “different” – there was electricity only 6 hours a day, there was no hot water (if you wanted it hot, build a fire), and during Cholera season, you boiled all your water and filtered it. The filters were too slow to keep up with our thirst.
When we arrived, one of ouir first outings was to find the church. What a shock! It was empty – no pews, kneelers, or anything like that. Mom explained you knelt on the stone floor.
The artwork was garish, frightening – of course it was Indian, and done by local craftsmen.
For our first mass, we found ourselves jammed in the church, back to belly. Most of the people were small – adults not much taller than I. They were barefoot and barrel-chested, and the women wore derby hats – often several at a time, stacked one on top of the other. Most of these people spoke indian dialects, not Spanish.
Here and there over the crowd, you’d see taller people, pure Castillians – who of course spoke only Castillian.
Then the Mass began, and everyone responded in Latin – from memory. I felt a lot better. I knew I was in my Father’s house.
My parents were divoirced when I was about two and got back together when I was about 11. My Dad was in the oil exploration business, and we went with him on his next contract – to northern Peru. The town where we lived was “different” – there was electricity only 6 hours a day, there was no hot water (if you wanted it hot, build a fire), and during Cholera season, you boiled all your water and filtered it. The filters were too slow to keep up with our thirst.
When we arrived, one of ouir first outings was to find the church. What a shock! It was empty – no pews, kneelers, or anything like that. Mom explained you knelt on the stone floor.
The artwork was garish, frightening – of course it was Indian, and done by local craftsmen.
For our first mass, we found ourselves jammed in the church, back to belly. Most of the people were small – adults not much taller than I. They were barefoot and barrel-chested, and the women wore derby hats – often several at a time, stacked one on top of the other. Most of these people spoke indian dialects, not Spanish.
Here and there over the crowd, you’d see taller people, pure Castillians – who of course spoke only Castillian.
Then the Mass began, and everyone responded in Latin – from memory. I felt a lot better. I knew I was in my Father’s house.