Good luck charms.(Post-publication caution: This was written tongue-in-cheek, and possibly should not have been posted in the first place, but I'll leave it up...for now.)
>..
I have lost my fava.
Say what? you ask.
I have lost my blessed fava bean, and now shall be penniless forever.
(You know there’s a story behind this, so grab a cuppa and I’ll tell you. I do have a fava stone, but it isn’t the same. Besides, that’s a story for another time; not much of one, but a family joke.)
When I was a young teen, in New Orleans, there were two pre-Easter “holy” days in the city: March 17th and March 19th, St. Patrick’s Day and St. Joseph’s Day, respectively. These celebrations were held (no surprises here) at St. Patrick’s on Camp Street, and St. Joseph Church on Tulane. These celebrations were not like Mardi Gras, by any means, but were something to see, for sure.
Participants in the St. Paddy’s parade frequently started the day with Mass at St. Pat’s where they expressed their gratitude for being, one, Catholic, and, two, Irish. They then went out and consumed huge quantities of fermented beverages to sustain them during the long march in the parade. Lots of good Irish fun and frivolity, and ecumenism – for on St. Patrick’s Day, not only was everyone Irish, they all were Catholic, too.
Two days later, at St. Joe’s on Tulane, the Italian segment of New Orleans had their own day of thanksgiving, when they praised God that they were, firstly, Catholic, and, secondly, not Irish.
(What is it about us Irish that makes others glad not to be us? It’s the same here in Hanover, where the German settlers pushed the Irish to the edge of town, to what is now McSherrystown, enclave of the Irish and their multitude of descendents. However, in the almost 200 years since the founding of this town, everyone lives pretty much where the heck they want, Catholic or not, and Irish or not. Besides, at least once a year, everyone is Catholic, and Irish. But, I digress.)
I don’t recall much about the St. Patrick’s Day celebrations at his namesake church, but I have strong, vivid memories of the Saint Joseph Altars on the steps of his namesake church. They were beautiful; feasts not only for the nose and mouth, but for the eyes, as well. (My gosh, I am drooling just thinking about them.) But that doesn’t even begin to explain their hold on me. Their magic had to do with living in poverty circumstances, when food was scarce, and not much to shout about when we did have it. Don’t get me wrong; my entire life has not been one of unrelenting deprivation, but when those times came, they were harsh and left scars I carry to this day.
The first time I passed St. Joseph’s Altar, I thought I must have died and gone to heaven. I was riding in the back of my Aunt Geraldine’s car, and I yelled out, “Look! Look at all that food!” After she recovered from the fright I caused, she explained that on St. Joseph’s Day, the parishioners made an altar to the saint on the steps of the church and laid out all kinds of foods which were blessed by the priest, then divided among the parishioners and given to the poor. The altar was their way of remembering a time of prolonged drought and severe famine in Sicily, when it seemed the drought would last forever, and the townsfolk were on the verge of starving. They had gone through all their stored foods and most of their livestock. The situation was so dire, they had begun to eat the same foods they fed their cattle and pigs.
When it seemed there was no hope left, they gathered to pray to Saint Joseph for mercy and a blessing. (St. Joseph, the step-father - so to speak - of Christ, is the patron saint of fathers everywhere, the protector of the family providers.) The rains came, the crops flourished and the peoples of Sicily – none of whom were Irish, I’m betting – gave thanks to St. Joseph by building an altar of thanksgiving to him, laying upon it some of the bounty of their harvests.
What does this have to do with fava beans? The food the Sicilians fed to their livestock was fava beans, not normally considered food for humans. At almost every St. Joseph Altar, in addition to the breads shaped like a ladder and hammers (St. Joseph was a carpenter, you know), you will find dried fava beans. They, too, are blessed with the rest of the feast, and are much prized and sought out by those who celebrate the miracle of Saint Joseph’s day.
The story goes that if you keep one of the beans with you at all times, in pocket or purse/wallet, your pocket/purse/wallet will never be empty. Another version is that you will never be hungry again. Either one works for me, but I stick with the first version because it is the one I heard when I attended my first altar, finally, five years ago.
I am neither Italian, nor Sicilian, nor Catholic. I am just an aging little Irish kid who treasured her fava bean for the story it carried with it, and the promise that I would never be broke or hungry again.
Say what? you ask.
I have lost my blessed fava bean, and now shall be penniless forever.
(You know there’s a story behind this, so grab a cuppa and I’ll tell you. I do have a fava stone, but it isn’t the same. Besides, that’s a story for another time; not much of one, but a family joke.)
When I was a young teen, in New Orleans, there were two pre-Easter “holy” days in the city: March 17th and March 19th, St. Patrick’s Day and St. Joseph’s Day, respectively. These celebrations were held (no surprises here) at St. Patrick’s on Camp Street, and St. Joseph Church on Tulane. These celebrations were not like Mardi Gras, by any means, but were something to see, for sure.
Participants in the St. Paddy’s parade frequently started the day with Mass at St. Pat’s where they expressed their gratitude for being, one, Catholic, and, two, Irish. They then went out and consumed huge quantities of fermented beverages to sustain them during the long march in the parade. Lots of good Irish fun and frivolity, and ecumenism – for on St. Patrick’s Day, not only was everyone Irish, they all were Catholic, too.
Two days later, at St. Joe’s on Tulane, the Italian segment of New Orleans had their own day of thanksgiving, when they praised God that they were, firstly, Catholic, and, secondly, not Irish.
(What is it about us Irish that makes others glad not to be us? It’s the same here in Hanover, where the German settlers pushed the Irish to the edge of town, to what is now McSherrystown, enclave of the Irish and their multitude of descendents. However, in the almost 200 years since the founding of this town, everyone lives pretty much where the heck they want, Catholic or not, and Irish or not. Besides, at least once a year, everyone is Catholic, and Irish. But, I digress.)
I don’t recall much about the St. Patrick’s Day celebrations at his namesake church, but I have strong, vivid memories of the Saint Joseph Altars on the steps of his namesake church. They were beautiful; feasts not only for the nose and mouth, but for the eyes, as well. (My gosh, I am drooling just thinking about them.) But that doesn’t even begin to explain their hold on me. Their magic had to do with living in poverty circumstances, when food was scarce, and not much to shout about when we did have it. Don’t get me wrong; my entire life has not been one of unrelenting deprivation, but when those times came, they were harsh and left scars I carry to this day.
The first time I passed St. Joseph’s Altar, I thought I must have died and gone to heaven. I was riding in the back of my Aunt Geraldine’s car, and I yelled out, “Look! Look at all that food!” After she recovered from the fright I caused, she explained that on St. Joseph’s Day, the parishioners made an altar to the saint on the steps of the church and laid out all kinds of foods which were blessed by the priest, then divided among the parishioners and given to the poor. The altar was their way of remembering a time of prolonged drought and severe famine in Sicily, when it seemed the drought would last forever, and the townsfolk were on the verge of starving. They had gone through all their stored foods and most of their livestock. The situation was so dire, they had begun to eat the same foods they fed their cattle and pigs.
When it seemed there was no hope left, they gathered to pray to Saint Joseph for mercy and a blessing. (St. Joseph, the step-father - so to speak - of Christ, is the patron saint of fathers everywhere, the protector of the family providers.) The rains came, the crops flourished and the peoples of Sicily – none of whom were Irish, I’m betting – gave thanks to St. Joseph by building an altar of thanksgiving to him, laying upon it some of the bounty of their harvests.
What does this have to do with fava beans? The food the Sicilians fed to their livestock was fava beans, not normally considered food for humans. At almost every St. Joseph Altar, in addition to the breads shaped like a ladder and hammers (St. Joseph was a carpenter, you know), you will find dried fava beans. They, too, are blessed with the rest of the feast, and are much prized and sought out by those who celebrate the miracle of Saint Joseph’s day.
The story goes that if you keep one of the beans with you at all times, in pocket or purse/wallet, your pocket/purse/wallet will never be empty. Another version is that you will never be hungry again. Either one works for me, but I stick with the first version because it is the one I heard when I attended my first altar, finally, five years ago.
I am neither Italian, nor Sicilian, nor Catholic. I am just an aging little Irish kid who treasured her fava bean for the story it carried with it, and the promise that I would never be broke or hungry again.
(c) 2009 Martha McLemore
PS: Well, baa-a-a-a-a, do I ever feel sheepish. I found my fava bean right where I put it several weeks ago, in the other change section of my same old wallet. I'm so embarrassed. What in the world is the matter with my brain today? BAA-A-A-A, indeed.
5:37pm
21 comments:
I learned a lot from this post..I knew nothing about the Irish or Catholic celebration..and the fava beans..though Joseph is one of our prophets in Islam too. That's one nice belief; keeping the fava beans in your pocket..I will do the same too if someone tells me it saves me from hunger. There's some verses from our holy book that my dad said will help me to prevent poverty if I constantly read it..and I do it all the time! And he hanged some verses on my wall too..he said for the same intention!
Here's hoping anew fava beam comes into your life - maybe on an xmas list for your daughter?
Dear HLiza and ArtSparker:
Thank you for your kind responses. As noted at the bottom of this post, I have since found my bean.
HLiza, what role does Joseph play in your religion?
ArtSparker, I would do better, I think, to ask for a better functioning brain, although a spare fava bean is a good idea.
:)
So, you thought you didn't have a bean, but it turned out you did.
Zhoen: Yes, my lucky bean is right where I left it. I'll soon have to start leaving sticky notes around the house to remember things.
:)
You are a gifted storyteller, Crow! Glad you found your bean!
"What is it about us Irish that makes others glad not to be us?" Oh the temptation. But I'm a Brit and for the sake of the Good Friday Agreement I must remain silent. And here's another antipathy you've tossed in front of me following your previous allusions to squash (from which I do not distinguish cucumber, courgettes, pumpkin, zucchini, marrow). That ecumenicism. Unaware of the date in a Pittsburgh bar I was served green beer for free and turned it down. My reasons were aesthetic, cultural and historical but they too must accompany me alone to the grave. There is tranquillity in the Emerald Isle at the moment and long may it prosper.
M-L: Yes, I will sleep better and the world will continue to spin on its axis because I have recovered the magic bean.
Oh, dear...that reminds me of a vulgar song my brothers brought home from Boy Scout camp one year about beans.
:)
BB:
HA!
I hoped to get a rise out of you and you, beloved friend, did not disappoint! Your opening sentence elicited the best laugh from me I've had all day, and this has been a day full of guffaws, giggles, knee-slapping chortles and tears of joy running down my cheeks.
While I understood the Irish desire for independence, I never, ever approved their tactics...nor the Brits' either. I, too, hope Ireland, all of it, prospers in its peacefulness.
I intended no insult regarding squashes, but likely misunderstood what you meant when you wrote you can't be living with them.
Or, was it my question about why you're of two minds regarding American independence?
And you know I'm only teasing about the Stilson, right?
:D
what a great celebration; and I am delighted to be Irish, even though I agree that some might claim it's not their fondest wish. Glad you found your favas..
Harlequin: Well, we can't all be Irish, but I'm glad some of us are. It's tough work, needs tough, resilient people - such as yourself.
:)
Barbara Tuchman is said to be a populariser of history; my view is she knows history and writes vividly and truthfully. I trust her implicitly. "The March of Folly - From Troy to Vietnam" concentrates on occasions where government folly has persisted long after the point where the original aim has ceased to be beneficial to the country concerned. In consecutive chapters she boxes the ears of the British government (for losing the US as a colony) and the US government (for getting involved in Vietnam - a process which she persuasively dates back to 1945). It is not my place to scratch open the scars of Vietnam but perhaps I am entitled to comment on the monumental sequence of cock-ups that led to the separation of Brits on both sides of the Atlantic. Received wisdom says that if George III and his Parliament had behaved like rational human beings instead of dilettante, absentee landlords given to passing laws that could never be enforced (and then repealing them) the transition from colony to independent state might have happened without bloodshed and humiliation. Tuchman more or less supports this view but goes on to show why the bloodshed and humiliation happened. As I read her account with growing indignation at events and growing admiration for her understanding of the way our government works (or, in this case, failed to work) I felt it would have been unfair if the Brits had emerged from this farrago unscathed. They didn't deserve to and unfortunately a lot of their soldiers had to die to make the point.
There is one further matter that needs clarifying for US readers. Since you are all supposed to be robustly anti-colonial many date Britain's decline as an empire builder from this time. Not true. A hundred years later Britain had a far greater empire than if it had just retained the US. This fact tends to get lost in contemplation of the immediate post-war years when our empire was meeting the prediction for all empires and it was all ending in tears.
Why was I in two minds? In the past I'd supported the idea of a US-UK relationship that resembled UK-Canada. Now I don't. None of the motormouths operating in Westminster at the time (with the exception of Burke - an Irishman!) deserves to have emerged from this bout of amateurism covered in anything other than - well, it's a four-letter word but the Scots give it more bite by adding a final e.
Glad you found your fava bean... now all you need is a nice chianti...!
BB:
Thank you for taking the time from Hatch & Company to answer my queries. I haven't read any of Tuchman's books, but I went to Amazon to find her. I read a few pages from "The First Salute," her book on the American Revolution, and added it to my wish list. I like the way she writes.
There are a couple of points in your response I'd like to address, but I'll have to come back after work to do so. I'm about to hit the shower and then go to work, plus I need to mull over my ideas, to sort them out, and that likely will take most of the day to do properly.
Steve:
...and a nice, well-fed English liver. Got one to spare?
:D
We could all use a little poverty and perhaps too, a little fear even, to keep us appreciative and humble. Giving as well.
Glad you found your bean! Wonderful share.
xo
erin
erin: a little poverty goes a long way, I think, but a brush with it is likely good for the soul, as you suggest.
Went to visit you Wednesday evening and was blown away - again - by the excellence of your writing. Please tell me you have a novel in the works?
:)
BB: I wrote too long a response and Google rejected it here, so I have made it a post. I apologize for that.
Martha
Joseph just like what you said was Jesus's stepfather. We believe in many prophets; who spread the belief of God and good moral. He is just like Moses, Jesus, David and Mohamed to us. We believe Jesus in one of the prophets too..God's messenger. Not wanting to compare with what you believe..just answering your question. Hugs!
I've been coming here almost every day and reading your writings, Martha, and the comments. The back and forth, (I've even read the long response you posted that was too long for the comment section, but I'm commenting down here on the whole thing.)
All I want to say is that my name is Joseph. I was named after my Grandfather on my Mother's side, and he was named for the Saint. On St. Joseph's Day, when I was still living at home, I'd get my cheeks grabbed and pinched. My Mother made me cream puffs on March 19th.
I am Italian, Scicilian Italian from a place called Termine Emerace, I was brought up Catholic. Some tell me once a Catholic, always a Catholic. Maybe that's the way it is. In any event, I remember enough to be all those you write about when you said, "I am neither Italian, nor Sicilian, nor Catholic." I AM all those things. And I married an Irish German girl.
Just wanted to tell you about myself. Your spat or whatever it is with BB is your business. I must say, it makes me a little uncomfortable as I just don't like to be around conflict, but it is your business.
Hope all passes by the wayside when it is suppose to.
Peace.
Dear Joe (Spadoman):
I didn't think BB and I were having a spat. I intended, and I hope he took it to be, good natured ribbing.
It was a joke in my old New Orleans nighborhood that on March 19th, all non-Irish Catholics, no matter what their original nationality, probably went to church to thank God they weren't Irish. This was no slur against anyone, but a long-standing joke founded in the early history of New Orleans, before the Louisiana Purchase.
I meant no ridicule of any group, not even those from whom I am descended. I found the story of the fava bean comforting, which is why I treasure the one I have.
This is the second time, Joe, that you have chastised me for what I write in my blog. The first time I removed the post you found offensive, for I try always not to hurt others. I'm sorry you were offended by what you found here, then and today.
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