Branch Come Home Year

August 9-19, 2007

I Remember Midnight Mass

By: Marina (Power) Gambin

 

 

I grew up in the 50s in Branch, St. Mary’s Bay, a born and bred Irish Catholic, right to the bone. Church was a major part of my life. It was not a matter of being sanctimonious or flawless. The ceremony, protocol and customs of the Catholic Church were a typical part of my upbringing. I am sure there were times I went to church reluctantly under parental or teacher pressure, never hearing a single word of what was transpiring. Now, some fifty years later, I am so happy to have all that Catholic nostalgia stored in my memory bank.

 

As Christmas draws near, it is natural that my thoughts turn to Christmas Eve in Branch. Going to Midnight Mass was one of the highlights of the holy season. The mere fact that we children were allowed to stay up so late was a rarity. If some of us nodded off, that in itself, was a novelty, as sleeping in church was a no-no. (Only my father made a habit of that).

 

Although there was no electricity in our little community, our parish church owned a generator which we always called a “dynamo.” Hence, for our Christmas Eve services, we had a few electric lights. That commodity, along with the rows of flickering blessed candles, was quite the  convenience for it assured the congregation a chance to get a fairly good view of all the new winter coats that were being modeled for the very first time. Simpsons-Sears and Eatons had no way of knowing that lots of tiny outport churches gave them an abundance of free advertising. Going up through the middle aisle of the Branch church on Christmas Eve was as stylish in 1957 as some of the fashion runways in Paris.

 

Then there was the practice which we Catholics religiously referred to as “going to the rails.” I can still visualize the mixture of old and young, kneeling side by side outside the altar rails. Although this receiving of Holy Communion occurred at every Mass, I  particularly remember the Christmas one. Maybe the priest’s intonation of the “Corpus Domini  . . . ”seemed more intense on such a holy night or perhaps I just remember being filled with the excitement of the season. For whatever reason, my mind has clearly held onto the “swish-swish” of the reverend’s brightly-coloured Christmas vestments as he moved gracefully from one end of the rails to the other. I can still feel the cold touch of the plate on my chin as the altar boy dutifully kept up while the priest placed the hosts on our tongues.

 

Just so you will not think that the whole Midnight Mass event was unbelievably spiritual and devout, may I bring to your attention that Christmas in Branch was a time when liquid cheer was very common. It was not unusual for one or more residents to stagger into the place of worship, emitting a strong suggestion of Captain Morgan or Johnny Walker. Luckily, there was always a good sober Christian with the wisdom and guts to usher the revelers out of the public eye. These innocent little episodes always provided an entertaining diversion for us children, while some of the older female parishioners shot reproachful looks around the gathering.

 

The nicest part of the Mass experience was the ensuing walk home. After we had visited “the Crib” (which was never referred to as the Nativity scene), we assembled outside the church where there would be the joyous shouts of “Merry Christmas.” Children would be asking each other “What are you getting from Santa?” One old lady always cried out “Christmas box on you,” which seemed to highly amuse some younger folks. If there was a stopover at anyone’s house, you could be sure that Purity syrup and fruit cake appeared. But you had to have a drink of water first. God forbid that you should forget to drink water after “going to the rails.” If you did and someone found out, you would be scandalized.

 

Although some of the Christmas Eves in Branch must have been wet and foggy, the only ones I recall were always clear, crisp, cold nights, where you could see every star in the sky. As a small child, I was always scared to look up in the sky on the way home from Mass, for fear that Santa would see me not already in bed. I guess it must have never crossed my mind that maybe Santa was an Irish Catholic too and had to attend Midnight Mass, the same as me.