#9- Happy (late) Easter

Note: The following entry contains a lot of religious material. The author is writing merely to inform, not to convert. Any comments deliberately trying to start an internet holy war will be mocked mercilessly. Conversely, any comments trying to start a legitimate, peaceful, logical debate about the validity of religion will be met with respect.

Oh, Easter. You're like Christmas-- overhyped and over commercialized, but always welcome anyway. Especially since the last six weeks have been spent in fasting and abstinence due to Lent hanging over our heads. (Well, it has been for me anyway.) And, like Christmas, you always hold the promise of tons of candy, especially Starburst jellybeans. They're like Starbursts, only in jellybean form, so their easier to eat, but twice as delicious, and you don't have all those pesky wrappers to clean up afterwards.

Being Catholic, Easter is a big thing for me, it being the biggest feast in the liturgical year. When I was younger it also meant getting a new dress to wear to church, and only to church, and God help me if I ever get any kind of stain on it. Before I could drive myself anywhere, we were usually woken up at some awful hour of the morning to get all dolled up and go to church. Since I don't sleep well anyway (I refer you to post #6), waking up is even harder for me to do. As I grew older I realized, staying up is a lot easier than waking up. Earning my license began my rebellious tradition of going to Easter mass by myself, the vigil on Holy Saturday night. (For those not in the know, in ye olden days, it was traditionally accepted that the day ended when the sun went down, and the night was actually the start of the next day. Going to mass on Saturday night counts as going to Sunday mass.) The Easter vigil is actually a lot longer than the morning mass. It usually starts around 8:00 PM and, depending on the parish, can be anywhere from two and a half to four hours. There are usually about seven readings, then the Gospel, then the homily, all spliced with a ton of hymns being sung, and then the converts get their baptisms, confirmations, and their first Communions.

The first vigil I went to I was racing down interstate 5 trying to get to my friend R's parish, since they were celebrating their first Easter in the newly-built church (up until that point, they held masses in a community hall), and we were promised a huge fucking Easter bonfire. I got there just in time to watch the altar boys stack the wood and douse every piece with about half a can of lighter fluid each. After the fifth can, the pastor, Father Wallace (nice guy, really, but damn, he can talk for hours) came out to light the bonfire. A couple singed people later, we were all backing up to about 20 paces away from the fire, and we could still feel the heat from the fire, which was nice because Oceanside gets cold at night. And every year, they do a big bonfire, though thankfully not nearly as hazardous as that first one. The fire actually lasts the whole mass, which is pretty awesome.

The mass itself is about four and a half hours- like I said, Fr. Wallace likes to talk- the extra half hour being because of the converts getting their sacraments. The church has a huge, HUGE baptismal font, which is really cool, and folks get their choice of either leaning over and getting water poured on their heads or standing in the baptismal font itself and getting dunked and water poured on their heads. And Fr. Wallace does not spare the water at all, let me tell you. He gets a half-gallon pitcher to baptize them with, and the water is poured three times, so no matter what they do they get soaked. One year, this kid, who can't have been older than eight, actually did a cannonball into the fount. I never caught the kid's name, but he was awesome.

I do normally go to that parish for the vigil, but this past Easter I went to a different parish to support an acquaintance of mine, Crys, who was getting baptized. This parish was completely different- there was no bonfire in front of the church, just a small one inside on a torch, and 80% of the mass itself was in Spanish, which I don't speak well at all but I can read along with in the missals. There were two groups of people singing the hymns, one English one Spanish, and there was one guy in the Spanish singing group who was way too damn close to the microphone, which I guess was okay since it kept anyone from falling asleep. Also, out of the group of people I sat with (who had also come along to support Crys), I think I was the only Catholic there, so being the only one who knew the responses and when to sit, stand, or kneel was a little awkward. Also also, the mass was only two and a half hours. It was actually pretty cool, getting out of church before midnight.

But I think I prefer watching a ton of stuff burn while I celebrate the resurrection of Christ.

Warm Regards,

Liz.

#5- Happy Saint Patrick's day.

Being from a primarily Irish Catholic family meant never missing Saint Patrick's day. Of course Mom always made sure that we wore some form of green to school to ward off any pinches, and she continues to make sure all ten of her kids wear green to this day.

But, as the four oldest of us ten kids (I'm #4) spent most of our growing up in Virginia, we four had another reason to eagerly await March 17; during the night, we would be visited by an honest-to-God Leprechaun.

It was like Santa visiting us on Christmas-- no one actually saw him, but those presents weren't there the night before, so therefore he must have come and put them there. The Leprechaun didn't leave presents; he just left a fucking mess everywhere. And it was hilarious.

For some reason, he always dyed the milk green. Always. At first I thought it meant it was spoiled, but after Kid #1 drank it without immediately throwing up, we all drank it till our tongues were green. So every year we could look forward to green milk in our cereal, nice and festive. Then we would look on the ground and realize that he had left little green footprints that lead from the fridge to all over the house. Seriously, those footprints went everywhere. We'd find other things colored green, like the water in Mom's angel fountain, or the rosary around the statue of the Virgin Mary. Sometimes he'd leave chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil, sometimes he'd leave a note, but he always left that fucking amazing mess behind.

At school I learned quickly that no one believed in leprechauns the way I did. I was shocked to discover that not one of my classmates had a leprechaun visit their house. I must have been in a lucky house!

After suffering though the day's lectures we'd come home and always watch the same movie every year, Darby O'Gill and the Little People. (Actually a pretty good movie, I recommend.)

Then it happened; the year 1999. We moved to California, and the Leprechaun stopped visiting.
It's been twelve years now, and still no sign of a leprechaun.

I wonder sometimes if that smarmy little bastard still hangs around the old house. My guess is no, because we sold the house to a bunch of old people, and older folks don't like pranks too much.

So tonight as you all get drunk, be on the lookout. If, by any chance, you see a leprechaun through your drunken haze, tell him Liz says hi.

Warm Regards,

Liz.