The way it still gets done in The Valley

St. Mary's Cathedral in Kingston was packed this steamy afternoon for the High Funeral Mass offered for Archibishop Francis Spence who died last week at 84. We decided to go down for it because Catholic gatherings of this magnitude don't happen often anymore. It did not disappoint. No fewer than 50 priests from all over The Valley prosessed in, preceded by 10 Bishops, an Eastern Orthodox Patriarch, 50 Knights of Columbus, 20 Knights of the Holy Sepulchre and the current Archbishop, Brendan O'Brien. It was very moving. And the music! Literally divine.

The wonder of a gathering of the Catholic clan is that no matter your rank today, everyone knew you "when". That's what makes it all such a comfortable and familiar tribal experience. Little old ladies from tiny, local hamlets button-hole lofty bishops and lecture them as if there were still in short pants. That old saw, "Once a Catholic, always a Catholic," sprang to mind. No one pulls rank because they can't. Oh yes, the procession is formal, hierarchical, proper and impressive; that's the ritual part. But the reception following sorts everyone out; that's the "democacy" part. Archbishop O'Brien is still just little Brendan from The Valley, whose parents half of the gathered elders knew well.

Basically, you can't be a "revisionist" at a Catholic wake. You can't pull the wool over anyone's eyes. Humility is forced upon everyone, with your Valley ranking prevailing. Just after telling "little Brendan" which end was up, the diminutive, old lady sitting beside me upbraided her hen-pecked farmer husband for getting her tea instead of coffee. "You got me tea instead of coffee," she complained. "But you always drink tea," he said, hoping that would do the trick, that she would leave him alone to enjoy the three pieces of cake he had piled on his plate. "Yes, I know I always drink tea, but today I said coffee, so take back this tea and get me some coffee." And he did.

There she sat, all decked out and resplendent in her best ancient hat, her finest antique suit, her hardly-darned thick stockings, tucked into well-polished, archaic black boots, ruling her invincible and unassailable roost. I just had to talk to her:

"You can't do anything right can you," I said to the husband, laughing. "No he certainly can't," the wife shot back. But then they both burst out laughing and so did I. "I have a hearing problem," he pleaded, to no avail. "I think you have a listening problem, not a hearing problem," I added. "That's exactly right," the wife said. "He never listens to a word I say." I bet he hears "breakfast, lunch and dinner" when you call them out, I added. "Oh my word! He certainly hears those words!" I assured her that I, of course, had a perfect husband. More uproarious laughing. "Oh I am sure you do! He looks like a real treat!" More screaming and guffawing. It was such a lot of fun. You can't take yourself too seriously at a wake like that. No one permits it.

On the way this morning, we stopped for lunch in Gananoque, a picturesque little town on the St. Lawrence. What memories flooded back! Memories of our trips with the kids when they were little, before we started going to the cottage. Back then we would rent an old-fashioned little cabin, crank up the coleman stove and make tea, hotdogs and corn-on-the-cob during a week that was idyllic -- as only a "roughing it" holiday can be.

Much later, one of our children went to Queen's for four years and it was such a treat to visit several times a year. As we drove home this afternoon, I realized this would probably be the last time I would visit Kingston, or Gananoque, or Brockville. The last time I would revel in The Ottawa Valley with all its delightful and unique enchantments. A huge wave of sadness overtook me. I will be leaving my roots here, but not what they nurtured.

Nevermind, the future beckons and I am ready for Calgary!