community, no one was gawking— or even looking in his direction. Incredibly polite and gracious people, these Irish.
In the front of the church, in the sanctuary at the left, or pulpit side, the visiting priest, who was conducting this week-long mission, was handing out hymn cards to the ushers, who were, in turn, distributing them to the congregation. On the other side of the sanctuary were the two men—one young, one middle-aged— who would lead
The priest was vested in cassock, surplice, and stole. From the style of his clerical collar, Koesler recognized him as belonging to the Redemptorists, the religious order founded by St. Alphonsus. Koesler recalled the analysis of a Detroit seminary professor, one Father Sklarski: “Alphonsus,” he had said, “yes, Alphonsus, boys; great man, great man. But if you read him too long, you’ll be putting on your pants with a shoehorn!”
Koesler tried not to laugh. The citizens of Gurteen obviously took their parish mission seriously.
There was no sign of the pastor, whoever he was. Koesler assumed that at least the tradition of the missing pastor was common to both the States and Ireland. Most parishes seemed to schedule a mission every other year or so, concomitant with which the pastor almost invariably went off on a “well-deserved vacation.”
Things gave every sign of getting underway. The Redemptorist was needlessly tapping the microphone to make sure it was on. People winced at the machine-gun-like clatter. On the other side of the sanctuary, the two singers were pulling at their ties preparatory to warbling.
“O.K. now, folks,” the priest announced, “we’ll just begin with our opening hymn.” Everyone fiddled with the hymn cards. “We’ll start by singin’ ‘Holy God,’ cause everyone knows ‘Holy God.’”
People were still juggling their hymn cards while, on the other side of the sanctuary, the two hymn leaders were alternately looking from the priest to each other to their hymn cards. But nothing was happening.
After a few moments, the priest quite patiently announced, “Now, we’re goin’ to start with number one on our hymn cards— ‘Holy God’ —’cause everybody knows ‘Holy God.’”
Again, the two singers frantically looked from the priest to their hymn cards to each other. Again, nothing happened.
Ever so patiently, the priest announced in his broad brogue, “We’re goin’ to begin with hymn number one, ‘Holy God’ — ‘cause everybody knows ‘Holy God.”‘
It was obvious, at least to Koesler, that the song leaders did not have the same hymn card as everyone else had. On Koesler’s card, “Holy God” was, indeed, hymn number one.
This time, the two singers consulted with each other, turned to their microphone, and began loudly and confidently to sing: “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound./That saved a wretch like me . . .”
And everyone joined in—’cause everyone knew “Amazing Grace.”
The hymn was followed by a lengthy sermon, during which Koesler suffered one of his patented distractions. He couldn’t recall whether the account was fact or fiction. But one Detroit parish was reported to have held a mission during which, on the final day, the visiting priest preached on Mary, the mother of Jesus. Reportedly, the priest got carried away and told the congregation that Mary was so powerful with God that at the end of the world, she would swoop even into hell and rescue the souls there.
Understandably, this caused considerable consternation among the parishioners. When the pastor returned from his well-deserved vacation, and was told what the missionary had supposedly said, he determined to clear up the matter.
So, the following Sunday, the pastor told his flock that the visiting missionary had been zealously carried away . . . that he had not intended to imply that at the end of the world Mary would rescue all the souls in hell . . . but only those who had been unjustly condemned.
Once again, Koesler barely succeeded in not smiling. St. Patrick’s people gave every evidence of taking seriously whatever their missionary was saying.
After the homily, a family group was called to the sanctuary, where they gave a demonstration of how to recite the family rosary. A simple maneuver that required minimal instruction. This was followed by a benediction and that evening’s mission celebration was concluded.
There followed a virtual stampede to Teach Murray, where the Wolfe Tones, an internationally famous and extremely popular group of Irish male singers and musicians, were scheduled to perform. Citizens of many neighboring towns had joined those of Gurteen for this concert.
When Koesler reached the pub, he could scarcely shoulder his way in. In fact, he would have been discouraged from trying to enter, except that, for the nonce, he lived there. Once inside, he found that Paddy O’Flynn had miraculously managed to save a seat for him in the rear near the stage.
“You’ll like ’em,” O’Flynn said. “The boys are among Ireland’s finest, especially when it comes to the rebel songs!”
Ordinarily, the Irish were so polite that even with a crowd this large, one still could converse in a normal tone. However, repeated testing proved the amplification system to be at peak decibel emission. As a result, people had to raise their voices to order drinks. O’Flynn, however, already had a Guinness on the table for himself and one for Koesler.
Most enthusiastic applause greeted the Tones, who plunged immediately into their first offering:
There was a wild colonial boy;
Jack Duggan was his name.
He was born and bred in Ireland,
In a place called Castlemain.
He was his father’s only son;
His mother’s pride and joy.
And dearly did his parents love
The Wild Colonial Boy.
“Is that a rebel song?” asked Koesler.
O’Flynn shook his head and grinned. “Ya haven’t heard anything yet.”
And he had not.
Next came the rakish “Rockon Rockall.” Everyone was invited to—and everyone did—join in the chorus, which concluded, “The natural gas will burn your ass, and blow you all to hell.” Then followed, in rapid succession, “The Boys of the Old Brigade,” “My Highland Paddy,” “Bold Robert Emmet,” “We’re on the One Road,” “James Connolly,” “God Save Ireland,” and on and on.
Three Guinnesses later, Koesler turned to his companion. “Paddy,” he said, “it’s been a long day for me. And I hope for some sightseeing tomorrow. So, I think I’ll just call it a night. But I thank you for making this day so memorable.”
O’Flynn raised his glass in salute. “God rest ya, Father. May ya be asleep half an hour before the divil knows y’er in bed.”
Koesler squeezed through the crowd to the stairs and went up to his room.
He couldn’t get over how cold it was. It had been cold ever since he had arrived in Gurteen, a damp cold. Was it the Irish weather in general—or a geographic peculiarity of this village in particular? Whatever, he was
He had brought two pairs of pajamas . . . and decided to wear them both to bed. Even so, he shivered under the covers. And in his head beat the inexorable rhythms from the pub below. He tried to recall how it had been when he had been a young lad going to sleep upstairs over the juke box in the Tamiami, with the Baker streetcar clanging and heavy trucks rumbling up and down Vernor. He had been able to sleep then; why not now?
He tried very hard. But, even so, shortly after the 11:00 p.m. closing time, he could hear young Tom Murray alternately shouting and pleading into the microphone downstairs: “Time, now lads! Are you right there now, lads? It’s way past the time! Time, please! We gotta go now, lads! You, there, Paddy; are you right there, now? It’s way past time!”
And on and on.
Finally, Koesler did fall asleep. But before he did, he concluded that his ease in sleeping through the din of Vernor had been attributable to young ears.
It made as much sense as anything.
