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
