Things that happened during mass
My Dad, Martin Gaiser, was raised in a Catholic family. He and his siblings attended a Catholic grade school and high school. The Gaiser brothers were also altar boys, something that would repeat itself with my generation. More on that in a moment. Otherwise, Mary, my Mom, converted to Catholicism even before meeting Dad. That’s because she was previously engaged to another guy, who was also Catholic. League rules required Mom to convert so she could marry. She took lessons from a priest to learn all the said rules. Then the engagement to the first Catholic guy broke off. Afterwards, she met Dad. The magic happened quickly, I’m thinking partly due to the fact she’d already gone through spring training with the priest.
Mom and Dad tied the knot in March of 1951, and quickly got busy begetting. After all, that was the church’s prime directive for married couples at the time. People the earth with little soldiers for Jesus. And they did just that, having Tina, Tom, and me, all within three-and-a-half years. My younger brothers Ted and Terry would follow in short order, with my sister Annie arriving a few years later—one of heaven’s surprises, as they like to say. It was more like Roman roulette, as in begetation sans birth control.
Like his childhood, Martin wanted his kids to have a Catholic education. This despite the fact that we couldn’t afford it. But traditions run deep, so we initially attended St. Anthony’s school in South Texas before moving to New Mexico. Then the oldest three of us were ensconced at Queen of Heaven School in Albuquerque, under the tutelage/iron rule of Dominican nuns. Part of our curriculum was attending mass every day before lunch time. When I got to fourth grade, I became an altar boy, just like older brother Tom before me. My induction into the ranks involved learning all the mass responses in Latin. It took me weeks to memorize all the lines, only for the results of Vatican II to be announced—which included the mass now being said in English. So much for dominus vobiscum and et cum spiritu tuo. Soon Ted and Terry would join the altar boy ranks. No doubt Tom and I taught them the ropes, which included the priests never to be caught alone with. Yes, even then we knew which ones were pedophiles.
For the next three-plus years, I did the altar boy gig innumerable times. The priests would soon learn the Gaiser household was located less than ten minutes from the church. Which meant many an early phone call when the scheduled help didn’t show. “Martin/Mary, nobody showed up. Send a couple of your boys down to do mass pronto.” We’d be roused, dressed, and out of the house before we knew what happened. And all this without coffee, which is astonishing.
A few memories of serving mass remain. First, early on before construction on the new church was finished and mass was being said in what would become the parish hall. One late spring morning I was on the altar doing my best for team Rome. I remember it being hot, and feeling sweaty and light-headed. The next thing I know, I was lying on a bench in the sacristy behind the altar and mass was over. Fr. Baca was lightly smacking me on the side of the head. “You passed out,” he said. “It happens sometimes when it’s hot outside. Drink some water. You’ll be fine. It’s only a flesh wound.”
I also seem to recall at least one time when all four of us Gaiser lads were serving the same Sunday mass, which was a recipe for disaster. Ted and Terry were across from us on the aft side of the altar kneeling next to each other. I think Ted was the one who had to ring the bells during the quiet part when the priest consecrated the big host and chalice of cheap hooch. But when Ted went to ring the bells, it came off as a pathetic clanking sound. In seconds, Terry started to bust up. Tom and I immediately gave him the eye. But it was no good. Within a minute, all four of us had the no-breathers.
There we were on the altar in front of the entire congregation, shoulders quietly going up and down, with a contorted grimace on our faces. Thankfully, whatever priest was saying the mass had his back to us and was busy with the proceedings. Saved by Vatican II and the move to having the priest face the congregation. Otherwise, we would have been severely chastised. Maybe we were after the fact. I can’t remember.
Getting the no-breathers in mass was not unusual. I once heard it called the “giggle loop,” where you initially find yourself giggling, then laughing uncontrollably, at the worst possible time in the worst possible place. As in during a funeral service—or during mass. Per the latter, I can’t count the number of times when one or more of us siblings would get the no breathers while sitting together during Sunday mass. Or at least when we boys weren’t quietly smacking each other. But think about it. Putting six of us next to each other in church didn’t exactly make for pious behavior or silent worship.
I even recall laughing during Mom’s and Ted’s funeral masses. The former because the mariachi band Mom had requested played like they were at a kegger. The latter because of seeing Ted’s cremains in the beautiful triangular wooden receptacle with the Grateful Dead skull logo emblazoned on the front. I don’t think either Mom or Teddy would have minded us yucking it up during their services. I’m sure they understood that it was a way for us to deal with the grief of losing them a month apart.
Mass was on the way out by the time Tom and I got to high school. Ted and Terry weren’t far behind. That didn’t stop Mom from sending the four of us to church on summer Sunday mornings. Somehow, the four of us made it out of bed, got dressed, and left in time for the 11:00 service. But we had other plans. First, we’d stop at church to pick up four copies of the bulletin. Then we’d drive a few blocks over to a nearby Denny’s. There we’d hoover a huge breakfast of eggs, bacon, and pancakes, washed down by a massive quantity of coffee. We’d also devour the bulletin and memorize the topics of the readings and what the priest du jour would be espousing during the sermon.
Once back home, Mom would grill us on the particulars. Unlike witnesses to a crime who all give police the same story, our strategy was simply to disagree with each other and argue about everything. In no time, Martin, who was watching TV, would bark at us to shut up. And we would, eventually dozing on the living room floor or even going back to bed.
Years later, I asked Mom if she remember the four of us going to church together. I ended up confessing about the Denny’s routine. “Oh, I knew then,” she said. “How did you know” I asked, a bit taken aback. “The four of you smelled like bacon grease,” she said. Case closed.
Finally, in thinking about various things that have happened in conjunction with a mass, I have to mention that many moons ago, Carla and I went out for the first time. A few days before, she and I played a rehearsal for a gig at a local church. It was for a performance of Haydn’s Mass in a Time of War. I’m listening to it at the moment as I write this. And while the Kyrie isn’t causing me to feel the need to ask for mercy or forgiveness, it’s reminding me about that rehearsal so long ago. And talking to the cute violinist who had a locker next to me at school in the music department. I ended up having coffee with her after the rehearsal. She asked if I wanted to go see a movie with her a couple of nights later. I said yes. It’s the single best decision I’ve ever made. The rest is not only history—it’s magic. And yes, some begetting is part of the story.
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