Things we don’t think about anymore. For as long as I can remember, my mother belonged to the Catholic Women’s League. Every Saturday night, trays of date squares and lemon meringue pies were delivered to the church basement for special occasions, weddings and funerals.
In the summer, mom grew avenues of gladiolus. Known as the funeral flower, gladioli were a mainstay placed on both corners of the altar in milk glass vases, fresh for morning mass. Folk would comment they were the freshest, most fragrant blossoms and perhaps, they were her ticket to heaven but it didn’t matter to us kids.
Curly-cue kiss curls and polished Mary-Jane’s could not foretell the behind the scenes mêlée of our one-bathroom household. Sunday morning, the main goal between mum and dad was the acquirement of one perfectly-new one dollar bill ready – for the days offering. Just a few years into my dad’s employment 50 cents evolved to a whole dollar so it had to make a difference.
Some weeks, the dollar was the last thing on anyone’s mind. When the stores all closed my parents scrounged dressers and emptied pockets for their hard earned donation. Plugging in our iron, my mother wedged out the creases and folds of our family’s donation for the brothers up the road.
To think of the years: sweat and tears, monetary donations, food prep and planting cutting and displaying of flowers.
The payback was strong bonds of faith and lifelong friendships built to last. Those connections travelled throughout our mother’s lifetime. The oft repeated phrasing of ‘who’s your father’ segued to ‘who’s your pastor’ all became the basis of a second generation’s beliefs. Inflation improved my parent’s donation to two dollars a week, year after year all crisply placed in their sealed envelopes as proud offerings of one’s faith and trust.
When my mother passed away, my siblings and I attended her parish to make the arrangements. We were met with a new priest who said we were not allowed to use their platform to speak about our mother. The statement landed with stunned silence. In elaboration, we were told that a resident priest was part of an investigation into historic abuse allegations. Fearing the public using their podium to speak at random on the matter, the parish and Diocese decided not to allow anyone to speak during services.
Having just come from the funeral home, we were all pretty numb. Things not normally funny – became so. I could only think of the hundreds if not thousands of date squares and lemon meringue pie my mother baked for this, her last recognition. But what could we say, we acquiesced. That Friday I watched as my sibling was permitted at the very last moment to get up there and say our mother was a Good Catholic. The priest nodded. We’d been had.
Perhaps the collective spirit of our mother shone that day when we exited the church. As her cherry wood vessel passed under the arms of twelve of her dearest friends; the women of the Catholic Woman’s League smiled at us through their tears.
There was a time when my mother and I drew closer from printed reports in local papers into Cornwall’s dark history. That just because a thing happened and nobody talked about it, didn’t mean it wasn’t devastating to someone.
Nothing tastes as sweet as a bit of sugar on the tip of your finger when it’s the connection between groups and families of parishioners that holds a thing together.
In my mother’s own light there is no place to hide. With a bit of research one could find the truth. For the shame of it, out comes the iron. Erase the creases. Years roll by and people forget. A generation dies off and folk stop planting gladiolus.
Lisa Gray 2026, all rights reserved.
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