Ran across a melancholy post from Steve Daley, a former parishioner at St. Vincent's. God love you, Failed Talkers! If you read this, please pray for us and all those young and old people still within walking distance of St. Vincent's.
From Steve's post:
St. Vincent’s was within easy walking distance of our house. My maternal grandparents lived within sight of it, on Onondaga St. My grandfather, Paul Lovette, spent large chunks of his retirement pulling weeds from the lush lawn that surrounded the church. It was for him an act of faith.
My sister Maribeth and I would often walk the block to our grandparents’ house for lunch on a school day, a tableau worthy of a TV sitcom in the lower-middle-class America of the early 1960s. And a very sweet memory.
I was an altar boy from the 5th grade through my freshman year of high school, back in the days when the Latin Mass was in vogue.
I can recite some of those prayers in Latin, in the same way I can still smell the incense that pervaded the Lenten services and Midnight Mass on Christmas and the funerals, including the funerals of both my parents.