The Girl and I decided to go downtown this afternoon and explore. After a visit to the library, we wound up at Springwood Cemetery in downtown Greenville. It was there; we were there — why not?
I couldn’t remember if the Girl had ever been in a cemetery before. I recalled a visit to a cemetery in Rock Hill, but she stayed in the car.
“But I’ve been in a cemetery in Poland,” she assured me.
We quickly learned this cemetery was different, really a cemetery worth visiting. It wasn’t one of those modern graveyards with flat grave markers to make mowing easier. This cemetery had worn stones and wrought iron fences.
And a number of plots for unknown Confederate soldiers.
The past is truly never too far away when you’re in the South. Those of us from the South face a lot of stereotypes as a result, not all of them completely unearned. I’ve never had much of an accent at all, let alone a southern accent, but I still felt somewhat out of place during my two years in Boston. As we walked around, words from that modern, proud redneck band, Drive-by Truckers, came to mind:
You think I’m dumb, maybe not too bright
You wonder how I sleep at night
Proud of the glory, stare down the shame
Duality of the southern thing
I can’t say I’ve ever been proud of the glory, but I’ve done my share of staring down the shame.
Perhaps that’s the modern southern thing?
Whatever the case, I didn’t have long to settle on those thoughts: we were soon walking down Main Street (literally), weaving in and out of fellow Greenville-ites also out to enjoy the warm Saturday, snapping pictures here and there. The Girl has begun requesting pictures — and posing — so I willingly complied.
I wanted to walk all the way down to Falls Park, but with K and the Boy back home, we decided to head back.
I go to Mass tonight alone because K has already been in an effort to keep our sick son in the house as much as possible. The entrance processional is a rousing hymn complete with drum accompaniment. The tell-tale “tat-tat-tat” of the high-hat cymbal gives it away before the full beat begins, and I realize what has happened: I’ve inadvertently come to a youth Mass. Sure enough, when the lector approaches, he’s wearing jeans and a tee-shirt. The rat-tat-tat of drums continues at times when it seems it really shouldn’t, like the Sanctus and the Agnus Dei. During the consecration of the host, I begin to wonder if the altar boy will ring the altar bell: “Perhaps the percussionist will give three good crashes on the cymbal” I think. Mercifully, that doesn’t happen, but by then, it’s too late. Despite my best efforts to focus on why I’m at Mass, I’m irritated and feeling that I’m almost physically having to resist the urge to march over to the drummer, rip the drumsticks out of her hands, and walk back to my seat. I feel I’m at some Benny Hinn camp meeting rather than Catholic Mass, and that eats at me.