Grandmother and the Priests Read Online Free PDF

nor did they dally at ease with the thought. A lad knew, absolutely, if he had a vocation, and he pursued it under the most dreadful of circumstances, often without a penny in his pocket or more than the clothes that he stood in. He knew what the life entailed, and so from the very beginning he could have no doubts. A boy or youth with doubts, or hesitations, never became a priest in those days.
     
    It is no wonder, then, that their people reverenced and loved them, for they knew what these men were sacrificing for them because of their love of God and man. Few Catholics in those days, in England, Scotland or Ireland, were rich. If they were, their homes became oases of refreshment, temporary rest, and food, and what charity could be wrung from rich pockets. It was never a great deal, that charity, for men of substance who have never known pain, sorrow, hunger or homelessness are frequently hard of heart. What little money found its way into the offering plates came from hands scoured, callused and twisted by the most arduous work. Still, the homes of the rich Catholics were open to the priests, most of the time, provided the priests did not press too ardently for cash for a school or new bells or an orphanage or a convent, and used tact during the hour of possible extraction. It was a case of “I won’t look if you take anything from my purse, provided you don’t call my attention to it.”
     
    Grandmother had known priests all her life. As they possessed her own sense of humor, vitality, shrewdness and love for living, she remained fond of them. They also reminded her of her petted childhood, when there were always at least two priests at every dinner. She had respect for them, she who respected no other men. They knew how to survive.
     
    They were all aware of the dire state of her soul, the various members of the family usually keeping all priests up to date on the sins of ‘our Rose Mary’. Her house was open to them, and they came. There is not the slightest doubt that every priest, even while eating the best of dinners and drinking the best of whiskeys and wines in Grandmother’s house, was praying for her soul and her return to sanctity.
     
    So the priests came to Grandmother’s home, when they passed through Leeds, for though a lapsed Catholic and obviously living in sin in more ways than one, she was still the daughter of a Catholic family and had been baptized in the Faith. There was always the possibility that influence, patience and prayer would bring Grandmother back to the fold. They were also great gossips, bringing messages to Grandmother from Scotland and Ireland from her old friends and her relatives. They were also full of tales, for sagas were still being spoken and written in those clays.
     
    They drew the line, these priests, at staying overnight in Grandmother’s house, though with mirth leaping in her eyes she invariably invited them and described the comforts of fires, hot water, indoor plumbing and thick feather beds and fine linen. They would look wistful, while shaking their heads. Then, hours after dinner, and after many stories, they would depart for less sinful lodgings, huddled in their thin coats. “Ye’ll be knowin’ where to reach me,” they’d say to her hopefully, before leaving, envisioning sudden alarums in the night when the only help possible would be that given by a priest. But Grandmother was superbly healthy. “It’s not dying I will be this night,” she’d answer, with a toss of red curls, her own and supplementary others. “Never fear, Father.” They wanted to ‘fear’, but Grandmother never called for a priest. She outlived all those she ever knew. But still they hoped.
     
    Rose learned all these things over many years. But even as a young child, on her second visit to Grandmother’s house, and finally gathering that these ‘Romans’ were ‘wee ministers’, themselves, she wondered what in hell they were doing at Grandmother’s table. It was so