newsman Bill Hendrick as Uncle Max? We’ll just have to take that leap of faith and hope the audience goes along for the ride.
“‘Oh, George…’” Iva Lou reads from the script.
I can’t take it another second, so I correct her. “It’s
GAY-org. GAY-org.
”
“Honey, I don’t care if he’s gay or hetero, I’m the Baroness Von Love Interest, and the Captain’s gonna know it before the final curtain.”
Slick patches of gray ice cover the curves of the road as I drive up to church. I slip the Jeep into a low gear to keep from sliding. My mind keeps wandering back to the disastrous read-through. I will light every candle in the sacristy this morning in hopes that some showmanship will grip my motley cast as rehearsals continue.
Sacred Heart Church sits on top of the hill in the southern section of Big Stone Gap, above the train tracks (“the southern line”; hence the name) and the WLSD radio station. WLSD doesn’t stand for dropping acid; rather, the letters represent the counties (Wise, Lee, Scott, and Dickenson) that can hear the programming from the radio tower that blinks above Big Stone Gap like the Eiffel Tower.
I’ve bought radio ads for the Mutual Pharmacy since I can remember. They run them during the afternoon music-marathon programs, which are called Pop Corn, since the DJs play pop and country music.
There was a little bit of controversy when Sacred Heart Catholic Church moved from Appalachia to Big Stone Gap. The church in Appalachia was a small, sweet blue clapboard building next to the railroad tracks on the edge of the Powell River. Roman Catholics in these parts have always been a very small but diverse group. You had sons and daughters of immigrant coal miners who came to make their living: Polish, Czech, Italians (who returned to Italy as soon as they saved enough money), and then the converts who, for whatever reason, decided to become Catholic despite the low cachet of such a move in these mountains. You could count the converts on one hand. When our ranks grew to a hundred or so in the 1970s, the church hierarchy decided to build a mod new church and rectory in Big Stone Gap (respectful of their Appalachian roots, they saved the bell tower, which now adorns the roof ). Today the bells are ringing for a memorial mass held in honor of Nonna.
There are lots of cars parked outside Sacred Heart. I’m surprised, but Fleeta reminded me that lots of folks remember my grandmother from her visit to Big Stone Gap. The cars of some prominent Protestants are parked alongside those of our members. There was a time when a God-fearing Baptist wouldn’t set foot in a Catholic church. Those days are over. People around here are generally happy if anyone goes to church regularly at all—wherever you go is fine with them.
I pull in to a parking space. My husband is waiting for me outside the church. I left home early this morning to make an emergency delivery up on Skeen’s Ridge. Jack waves to me. Once again he’s wearing a suit—this is a world record. It’s the fourth time this year, and I’m counting because I like it.
Papa is having a memorial mass said in Italy today, so Nonna will get a double boost on her journey to heaven (not that she’ll need it—but to be on the safe side, it’s better to have two masses than one or none). The one thing the Catholics get right is praying for the dead. When we pray for them, we honor their lives while helping them move up the afterlife’s angelic food chain. For example, if loved ones are stuck in purgatory, a few prayers may give them the pass out of there and into heaven.
Father Drake, our serene pastor who delivers meaningful homilies with a gentle countenance, has placed a picture of Nonna on the lectern (Jack must have brought it—I didn’t think of it). As we begin the mass, I am swept into the words and ritual that have meant so much to me through the years. I would never say I’m a religious person, but I am a
“‘Oh, George…’” Iva Lou reads from the script.
I can’t take it another second, so I correct her. “It’s
GAY-org. GAY-org.
”
“Honey, I don’t care if he’s gay or hetero, I’m the Baroness Von Love Interest, and the Captain’s gonna know it before the final curtain.”
Slick patches of gray ice cover the curves of the road as I drive up to church. I slip the Jeep into a low gear to keep from sliding. My mind keeps wandering back to the disastrous read-through. I will light every candle in the sacristy this morning in hopes that some showmanship will grip my motley cast as rehearsals continue.
Sacred Heart Church sits on top of the hill in the southern section of Big Stone Gap, above the train tracks (“the southern line”; hence the name) and the WLSD radio station. WLSD doesn’t stand for dropping acid; rather, the letters represent the counties (Wise, Lee, Scott, and Dickenson) that can hear the programming from the radio tower that blinks above Big Stone Gap like the Eiffel Tower.
I’ve bought radio ads for the Mutual Pharmacy since I can remember. They run them during the afternoon music-marathon programs, which are called Pop Corn, since the DJs play pop and country music.
There was a little bit of controversy when Sacred Heart Catholic Church moved from Appalachia to Big Stone Gap. The church in Appalachia was a small, sweet blue clapboard building next to the railroad tracks on the edge of the Powell River. Roman Catholics in these parts have always been a very small but diverse group. You had sons and daughters of immigrant coal miners who came to make their living: Polish, Czech, Italians (who returned to Italy as soon as they saved enough money), and then the converts who, for whatever reason, decided to become Catholic despite the low cachet of such a move in these mountains. You could count the converts on one hand. When our ranks grew to a hundred or so in the 1970s, the church hierarchy decided to build a mod new church and rectory in Big Stone Gap (respectful of their Appalachian roots, they saved the bell tower, which now adorns the roof ). Today the bells are ringing for a memorial mass held in honor of Nonna.
There are lots of cars parked outside Sacred Heart. I’m surprised, but Fleeta reminded me that lots of folks remember my grandmother from her visit to Big Stone Gap. The cars of some prominent Protestants are parked alongside those of our members. There was a time when a God-fearing Baptist wouldn’t set foot in a Catholic church. Those days are over. People around here are generally happy if anyone goes to church regularly at all—wherever you go is fine with them.
I pull in to a parking space. My husband is waiting for me outside the church. I left home early this morning to make an emergency delivery up on Skeen’s Ridge. Jack waves to me. Once again he’s wearing a suit—this is a world record. It’s the fourth time this year, and I’m counting because I like it.
Papa is having a memorial mass said in Italy today, so Nonna will get a double boost on her journey to heaven (not that she’ll need it—but to be on the safe side, it’s better to have two masses than one or none). The one thing the Catholics get right is praying for the dead. When we pray for them, we honor their lives while helping them move up the afterlife’s angelic food chain. For example, if loved ones are stuck in purgatory, a few prayers may give them the pass out of there and into heaven.
Father Drake, our serene pastor who delivers meaningful homilies with a gentle countenance, has placed a picture of Nonna on the lectern (Jack must have brought it—I didn’t think of it). As we begin the mass, I am swept into the words and ritual that have meant so much to me through the years. I would never say I’m a religious person, but I am a
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