It was on a good Friday,
and all in the morning,
They crucified our Savior,
and our heavenly King.
And was not this
a woeful thing
And sweet Jesus,
we’ll call him by name.
From "the third hour" until "the sixth hour." From sext to none. From noon until three in the afternoon. Scripture tells us that our Lord was dying on the cross at this time, culminating in the words “Consummatum Est” (“It is finished”).
+ + +
When we were kids growing up in Ohio, we would either go to church for Stations of the Cross or some related devotion, or if we were at home, Mom would turn the radio off, and we were told to be quieter than usual. Thus did we mark the consummation of the ultimate act of sacrificial Love, that of the Bridegroom for His bride.
PHOTO: Gail Deibler Finke
Elsewhere in Cincinnati, a venerable custom of over a century and a half still takes place on this day.
In December 1860, a Catholic church was completed on a bluff atop Mount Adams, overlooking the central city from the east, and dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary. Since the hill was too steep for a horse-and-buggy, there were a series of wooden steps built as well, leading from St Gregory Street near the river, all the way to the church entrance. The following spring saw the start of the War Between The States, and Immaculata Church became the site of devout Catholics praying the rosary for peace while climbing the steps to its entrance.
Even today, the tradition continues, as every year on Good Friday (a day when it invariably rains), an estimated ten thousand pilgrims climb the 85 steps -- the wooden ones having since been replaced by concrete -- leading to the entrance. The procession begins at midnight, with the parish priest's blessing of the steps, and continues for twenty-four hours.
The legacy of “St Mary’s of the Steps” can be found at the parish website.
Finally, and for what it's worth, the New York Stock exchange closes on this day. Even in the heart of Mammon, some things are still sacred, don't you think?
When I was growing up back in Ohio, the Village of Milford had its own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."
This might seem remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later is still more or less dominated by) Methodists, as opposed to us "Catlickers." Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- would never go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw the so-called yule log ceremony, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.
(Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. It was even outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern colonies, on the other hand ...)
These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:
“Many recycled trees are sent through a wood chipper and are used as mulch.”
They have got to be kidding. Is nothing sacred anymore? Why celebrate the glory of the season when you spend the rest of the year spreading it on your lawn and walking all over it?
Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we will celebrate Epiphany on the traditional day all along. Tomorrow the lights that are traditionally left on all during Christmastide, will finally be shut off in the evening and taken down. They will be put back in storage along with the decorations, waiting for the season to return.
Last of all, for those years when we have a live tree, it is sent to its final resting place.
Joy, health, love and peace
Be all here in this place
By your leave we will sing
Concerning our King.
Our King is well dressed
In silks of the best
In ribbons so rare
No King can compare.
We have traveled many miles
Over hedges and stiles
In search of our King
Unto you we bring.
We have powder and shot
To conquer the lot
We have cannon and ball
To conquer them all.
Old Christmas
is past
And we bid
you adieu
Great joy
to the new.
It was on a good Friday,
and all in the morning,
They crucified our Savior,
and our heavenly King.
And was not this
a woeful thing
And sweet Jesus,
we’ll call him by name.
From "the third hour" until "the sixth hour." From sext to none. From noon until three in the afternoon. Scripture tells us that our Lord was dying on the cross at this time, culminating in the words “Consummatum Est” (“It is finished”).
+ + +
When we were kids growing up in Ohio, we would either go to church for Stations of the Cross or some related devotion, or if we were at home, Mom would turn the radio off, and we were told to be quieter than usual. Thus did we mark the consummation of the ultimate act of sacrificial Love, that of the Bridegroom for His bride.
PHOTO: Gail Deibler Finke
Elsewhere in Cincinnati, a venerable custom of over a century and a half still takes place on this day.
In December 1860, a Catholic church was completed on a bluff atop Mount Adams, overlooking the central city from the east, and dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Since the hill was too steep for a horse-and-buggy, there were a series of wooden steps built as well, leading from St Gregory Street near the river, all the way to the church entrance. The following spring saw the start of the War Between The States, and Immaculata Church became the site of devout Catholics praying the rosary for peace while climbing the steps to its entrance.
Even today, the tradition continues, as every year on Good Friday (a day when it invariably rains), an estimated ten thousand pilgrims climb the 85 steps -- the wooden ones having since been replaced by concrete -- leading to the entrance. The procession begins at midnight, with the parish priest's blessing of the steps, and continues for twenty-four hours.
The legacy of “St Mary’s of the Steps” can be found at the parish website.
Our meditation for Good Friday is a photo montage with the imagery of the cross by Terri Rogers.
Finally, and for what it's worth, the New York Stock exchange closes on this day. Even in the heart of Mammon, some things are still sacred, don't you think?
When I was growing up back in Ohio, the Village of Milford had its own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."
This might seem remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later is still more or less dominated by) Methodists, as opposed to us "Catlickers." Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw the so-called yule log ceremony, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.
(Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. It was even outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern colonies, on the other hand ...)
These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:
“Many recycled trees are sent through a wood chipper and are used as mulch.”
They have got to be kidding. Is nothing sacred anymore? Why celebrate the glory of the season when you spend the rest of the year spreading it on your lawn and walking all over it?
Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we will celebrate Epiphany on the traditional day all along. Tomorrow the lights that are traditionally left on all during Christmastide, will finally be shut off in the evening and taken down. They will be put back in storage along with the decorations, waiting for the season to return.
Last of all, for those years when we have a live tree, it is sent to its final resting place. (Well, maybe next time.)
Joy, health, love and peace
Be all here in this place
By your leave we will sing
Concerning our King.
Our King is well dressed
In silks of the best
In ribbons so rare
No King can compare.
We have traveled many miles
Over hedges and stiles
In search of our King
Unto you we bring.
We have powder and shot
To conquer the lot
We have cannon and ball
To conquer them all.
Old Christmas
is past
And we bid
you adieu
Great joy
to the new.
It was on a good Friday,
and all in the morning,
They crucified our Savior,
and our heavenly King.
And was not this
a woeful thing
And sweet Jesus,
we’ll call him by name.
From "the third hour" until "the sixth hour." From sext to none. From noon until three in the afternoon. Scripture tells us that our Lord was dying on the cross at this time, culminating in the words “Consummatum Est” (“It is finished”).
+ + +
When we were kids, growing up in Ohio, we would either go to church for Stations of the Cross or some related devotion, or if we were at home, Mom would turn the radio off, and we were told to be quieter than usual. Thus did we mark the consummation of the ultimate act of sacrificial Love, that of the Bridegroom for His bride.
PHOTO: Gail Deibler Finke
Elsewhere in Cincinnati, a venerable custom of more than a century and a half still takes place on this day.
In December 1860, a Catholic church was completed on a bluff atop Mount Adams, overlooking the central city from the east, and dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Since the hill was too steep for a horse-and-buggy, there were a series of wooden steps built as well, leading from St Gregory Street near the river, all the way to the church entrance. The following spring saw the start of the War Between The States, and Immaculata Church became the site of devout Catholics praying the rosary for peace while climbing the steps to its entrance.
Even today, the tradition continues, as every year on Good Friday (a day when it invariably rains), an estimated ten thousand pilgrims climb the 85 steps -- the wooden ones having since been replaced by concrete -- leading to the entrance. The procession begins at midnight, with the parish priest's blessing of the steps, and continues for twenty-four hours.
Finally, and for what it's worth, the New York Stock exchange closes on this day. Even in the heart of Mammon, some things are still sacred, don't you think?
When I was growing up back in Ohio, the village of Milford had its own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."
This might seem remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later, is still more or less dominated by) Methodists, as opposed to us "Catlickers." Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw the so-called yule log ceremony, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.
(Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. It was even outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern colonies, on the other hand ...)
These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:
“Many recycled trees are sent through a wood chipper and are used as mulch.”
They have got to be kidding. Is nothing sacred anymore? Why celebrate the glory of the season when you spend the rest of the year spreading it on your lawn and walking all over it?
Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we will celebrate Epiphany on the traditional day all along. Tomorrow the lights that are traditionally left on all during Christmastide, will finally be shut off in the evening and taken down. They will be put back in storage along with the decorations, waiting for the season to return.
Last of all, the dying tree is sent to its final resting place, in the years that we actually have a live tree, which is the case this year.
Joy, health, love and peace
Be all here in this place
By your leave we will sing
Concerning our King.
Our King is well dressed
In silks of the best
In ribbons so rare
No King can compare.
We have traveled many miles
Over hedges and stiles
In search of our King
Unto you we bring.
We have powder and shot
To conquer the lot
We have cannon and ball
To conquer them all.
Old Christmas
is past
And we bid
you adieu
Great joy
to the new.
It was on a good Friday,
and all in the morning,
They crucified our Savior,
and our heavenly King.
And was not this
a woeful thing
And sweet Jesus,
we’ll call him by name.
From "the third hour" until "the sixth hour." From sext to none. From noon until three in the afternoon. Scripture tells us that our Lord was dying on the cross at this time, culminating in the words “Consummatum Est” (“It is finished”).
+ + +
When we were kids, growing up in Ohio, we would either go to church for Stations of the Cross or some related devotion, or if we were at home, Mom would turn the radio off, and we were told to be quieter than usual. Thus did we mark the consummation of the ultimate act of sacrificial Love, that of the Bridegroom for His bride.
PHOTO: Gail Deibler Finke
Elsewhere in Cincinnati, a venerable custom of more than a century and a half still takes place on this day.
In December 1860, a Catholic church was completed on a bluff atop Mount Adams, overlooking the central city from the east, and dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Since the hill was too steep for a horse-and-buggy, there were a series of wooden steps built as well, leading from St Gregory Street near the river, all the way to the church entrance. The following spring saw the start of the War Between The States, and Immaculata Church became the site of devout Catholics praying the rosary for peace while climbing the steps to its entrance.
Even today, the tradition continues, as every year on Good Friday (a day when it invariably rains), an estimated ten thousand pilgrims climb the 85 steps -- the wooden ones having since been replaced by concrete -- leading to the entrance. The procession begins at midnight, with the parish priest's blessing of the steps, and continues for twenty-four hours.
And finally, for what it's worth, the New York Stock exchange closes on this day. Even in the heart of Mammon, some things are still sacred, don't you think?
When I was growing up back in Ohio, the village of Milford had its own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."
This might seem remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later, is still more or less dominated by) Methodists, as opposed to us "Catlickers." Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw it, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.
(Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. It was even outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern colonies, on the other hand ...)
These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:
“Many recycled trees are sent through a wood chipper and are used as mulch.”
They have got to be kidding. Is nothing sacred anymore? Why celebrate the glory of the season when you spend the rest of the year spreading it on your lawn and walking all over it?
Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we will celebrate Epiphany on the traditional day all along. Tomorrow the lights that are traditionally left on all during Christmastide, will finally be shut off in the evening and taken down. They will be put back in storage along with the decorations, waiting for the season to return.
Last of all, the dying tree is sent to its final resting place, in the years that we actually have a live tree, which we didn't this year -- but that's another story.
Joy, health, love and peace
Be all here in this place
By your leave we will sing
Concerning our King.
Our King is well dressed
In silks of the best
In ribbons so rare
No King can compare.
We have traveled many miles
Over hedges and stiles
In search of our King
Unto you we bring.
We have powder and shot
To conquer the lot
We have cannon and ball
To conquer them all.
Old Christmas
is past
And we bid
you adieu
Great joy
to the new.
It was on a good Friday,
and all in the morning,
They crucified our Savior,
and our heavenly King.
And was not this
a woeful thing
And sweet Jesus,
we’ll call him by name.
From "the third hour" until "the sixth hour." From sext to none. From noon until three in the afternoon. Scripture tells us that our Lord was dying on the cross at this time, culminating in the words “Consummatum Est” (“It is finished”).
+ + +
When we were kids, growing up in Ohio, we would either go to church for Stations of the Cross or some related devotion, or if we were at home, Mom would turn the radio off, and we were told to be quieter than usual. Thus did we mark the consummation of the ultimate act of sacrificial Love, that of the Bridegroom for His bride.
PHOTO: Gail Deibler Finke
Elsewhere in Cincinnati, a venerable custom of more than a century and a half still takes place on this day.
In December 1860, a Catholic church was completed on a bluff atop Mount Adams, overlooking the central city from the east, and dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Since the hill was too steep for a horse-and-buggy, there were a series of wooden steps built as well, leading from St Gregory Street near the river, all the way to the church entrance. The following spring saw the start of the War Between The States, and Immaculata Church became the site of devout Catholics praying the rosary for peace while climbing the steps to its entrance.
Even today, the tradition continues, as every year on Good Friday (a day when it invariably rains), an estimated ten thousand pilgrims climb the 85 steps -- the wooden ones having since been replaced by concrete -- leading to the entrance. The procession begins at midnight, with the parish priest's blessing of the steps, and continues for twenty-four hours.
Our meditation for Good Friday is a photo montage with the imagery of the cross by Terri Rogers.
+ + +
This morning I will go to church and pray the Lauds of Tenebrae for Good Friday. Then at noon, Saint Rita's will have the Presanctified Liturgy of Good Friday for those devoted to the "extraordinary form." I will go again for a third time to pray the Matins of Holy Saturday.
+ + +
And finally, for what it's worth, the New York Stock exchange closes on this day. Even in the heart of Mammon, some things are still sacred, don't you think?
When I was growing up back in Ohio, the village of Milford had their own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."
This might seem remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later, is still more or less dominated by) Methodists, as opposed to the "Catlickers." Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw it, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.
(Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. It was even outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern colonies, on the other hand ...)
These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:
“Many recycled trees are sent through a wood chipper and are used as mulch.”
They have got to be kidding. That kills the holiday magic right there. Why celebrate the glory of the season, when you can spend the rest of the year spreading it on your lawn and walking all over it?
Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we will celebrate Epiphany on the traditional day all along. Tomorrow the lights that are traditionally left on all during Christmastide, will finally be shut off in the evening and taken down. They will be put back in storage along with the decorations, waiting for the season to return.
Last of all, the dying tree is sent to its final resting place -- in the years that we actually have a live tree, which we didn't this year in favor of being out of the country -- which as has been noted, is another story.
Joy, health, love and peace
Be all here in this place
By your leave we will sing
Concerning our King.
Our King is well dressed
In silks of the best
In ribbons so rare
No King can compare.
We have traveled many miles
Over hedges and stiles
In search of our King
Unto you we bring.
We have powder and shot
To conquer the lot
We have cannon and ball
To conquer them all.
Old Christmas
is past
And we bid
you adieu
Great joy
to the new.
“With the robe of joyfulness, alleluya,
Our Lord hath this day clothed His soldier, Laurence.
May Thy faithful's joyous assemblage clap their hands
More cheerfully than they have heretofore.”
(from the Mass of Saint Laurence, Old Sarum Rite Missal, 1998, Saint Hilarion Press)
+ + +
Today the Church celebrates the Feast of Saint Laurence. He was archdeacon of the church of Rome in the third century. When the Emperor Valerian had Pope Sixtus II and six other deacons executed in AD 258, Laurence (also rendered in English as "Lawrence") was left in charge.
Now, back then, for a deacon to be left in charge, this actually meant something, inasmuch as deacons were responsible for the temporal goods and charitable works of the local church. On August 6, Laurence met with Sixtus in the latter's prison cell. The boss laid out the plan; no, we're not leaving forever, you're joining us in four days.
Laurence saw this as a good time to come up with a plan of his own.
Laurence distributed the funds of the local church among the crippled, blind, sick, and indigent of the city. When arrested by the Emperor, Lawrence was commanded to produce the goods. Laurence produced what he called the "true treasure of the Church" -- you guessed it; the crippled, blind, sick, and indigent of the city.
The emperor was not amused.
Legend has it that Laurence was martyred by being roasted on a gridiron. It is also said that, at one point, Laurence told them when he was done on one side, and could be turned over. Modern scholars have suggested that the determination of this method of torture is probably a misreading of the original accounts.
Anything to take the fun outa this, huh, guys?
And so, Laurence is pictured holding a book of records, a money purse, and/or a gridiron. His image is generally found on one of the "deacon's doors" with the iconostasis of any Greek Catholic (Byzantine Rite) or Eastern Orthodox church.
Laurence is also the patron saint of cooks. Not to mention librarians, libraries, lumbago, paupers, poor people, restauranteurs, Rome, schoolchildren, seminarians, Sri Lanka, stained glass workers, students, tanners, vine growers, vineyard owners, wine makers (whew!), and ... me!
That's because I was named for my uncle, Lawrence Rosselot (pronounced "ROSS-uh-low," from the province of Alsace in France, so the "T" at the end is silent), my mother's brother, who died in a farming accident before I was born.
Finally, beginning on or about the eve of his feast, and continuing through most of the week, one may look up into the night sky (at least in the northern hemisphere) for a spectacular meteor shower known as “the burning tears of Saint Laurence” which may be viewed by the naked eye.
Sure, you missed the one last night. But as mentioned before, you've got most of this week to see some action. Especially if you go to a place out in the country where there are no city lights to be found.
It was on a good Friday,
and all in the morning,
They crucified our Savior,
and our heavenly King.
And was not this
a woeful thing
And sweet Jesus,
we’ll call him by name.
From "the third hour" until "the sixth hour." From sext to none. From noon until three in the afternoon. Scripture tells us that our Lord was dying on the cross at this time, culminating in the words “Consummatum Est” (“It is finished”).
When we were kids, growing up in Ohio, we would either go to church for Stations of the Cross or some related devotion, or if we were at home, Mom would turn the radio off, and we were told to be quieter than usual. Thus did we mark the consummation of the ultimate act of sacrificial Love, that of the Bridegroom for His bride.
PHOTO: Gail Deibler Finke
Elsewhere in Cincinnati, a venerable custom of more than a century and a half still takes place on this day.
In December 1860, a Catholic church was completed on a bluff atop Mount Adams, overlooking the central city from the east, and dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Since the hill was too steep for a horse-and-buggy, there were a series of wooden steps built as well, leading from St Gregory Street near the river, all the way to the church entrance. The following spring saw the start of the War Between The States, and Immaculata Church became the site of devout Catholics praying the rosary for peace while climbing the steps to its entrance.
Even today, the tradition continues, as every year on Good Friday (a day when it invariably rains), an estimated ten thousand pilgrims climb the 85 steps -- the wooden ones having since been replaced by concrete -- leading to the entrance. The procession begins at midnight, with the parish priest's blessing of the steps, and continues for twenty-four hours.
Our meditation for Good Friday is a photo montage with the imagery of the cross by Terri Rogers.
+ + +
This morning I will go to church and pray the Lauds of Tenebrae for Good Friday. Then at three in the afternoon I will visit the stations for the Way of the Cross (and only because I probably won't get away with spontaneously chanting "Crux Fidelis" if others are there). I will go again for a third time to pray the Matins of Holy Saturday.
+ + +
And finally, for what it's worth, the New York Stock exchange closes on this day. Even in the heart of Mammon, some things are still sacred, don't you think?
When I was growing up back in Ohio, the village of Milford had their own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."
This is remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later, is still more or less dominated by) Methodists and not "Catlickers." Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw it, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.
(Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. It was even outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern colonies, on the other hand ...)
These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:
“Many recycled trees are sent through a wood chipper and are used as mulch.”
They have got to be kidding. That kills the holiday magic right there. Why celebrate the glory of the season, when you can spend the rest of the year spreading it on your lawn and walking all over it?
Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we will celebrate Epiphany on the traditional day all along. Tomorrow the lights that are traditionally left on all during Christmastide, will finally be shut off in the evening and taken down. They will be put back in storage along with the decorations, waiting for the season to return.
Last of all, the dying tree is sent to its final resting place -- in the years that we actually have a live tree, which we didn't this year in favor of being out of the country -- which as has been noted, is another story.
Joy, health, love and peace
Be all here in this place
By your leave we will sing
Concerning our King.
Our King is well dressed
In silks of the best
In ribbons so rare
No King can compare.
We have traveled many miles
Over hedges and stiles
In search of our King
Unto you we bring.
We have powder and shot
To conquer the lot
We have cannon and ball
To conquer them all.
Old Christmas
is past
And we bid
you adieu
Great joy
to the new.
It was on a good Friday,
and all in the morning,
They crucified our Savior,
and our heavenly King.
And was not this
a woeful thing
And sweet Jesus,
we’ll call him by name.
From "the third hour" until "the sixth hour." From sext to none. From noon until three in the afternoon. Scripture tells us that our Lord was dying on the cross at this time, culminating in the words “Consummatum Est” (“It is finished”).
When we were kids, growing up in Ohio, we would either go to church for Stations of the Cross or some related devotion, or if we were at home, Mom would turn the radio off, and we were told to be quieter than usual. Thus did we mark the consummation of the ultimate act of sacrificial Love, that of the Bridegroom with His bride.
PHOTO: Gail Deibler Finke
Elsewhere in Cincinnati, a venerable custom of more than a century and a half still takes place on this day.
In December 1860, a Catholic church was completed on a bluff atop Mount Adams, overlooking the central city from the east, and dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Since the hill was too steep for a horse-and-buggy, there were a series of wooden steps built as well, leading from St Gregory Street near the river, all the way to the church entrance. The following spring saw the start of the War Between The States, and Immaculata Church became the site of devout Catholics praying the rosary for peace while climbing the steps to its entrance.
Even today, the tradition continues, as every year on Good Friday (a day when it invariably rains), an estimated ten thousand pilgrims climb the 85 steps -- the wooden ones having since been replaced by concrete -- leading to the entrance. The procession begins at midnight, with the parish priest's blessing of the steps, and continues for twenty-four hours.
Our meditation for Good Friday is an instrumental photo montage with the imagery of the cross by Terri Rogers.
And finally, for what it's worth, the New York Stock exchange closes on this day. Even in the heart of Mammon, some things are still sacred, don't you think?
When I was growing up back in Ohio, the village of Milford had their own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."
This is remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later, is still more or less dominated by) Methodists and not "Catlickers." Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw it, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.
(Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. It was even outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern colonies, on the other hand ...)
These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:
“Many recycled trees are sent through a wood chipper and are used as mulch.”
They have got to be kidding. That kills the holiday magic right there. Why celebrate the glory of the season, when you can spend the rest of the year spreading it on your lawn and walking all over it?
Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we will celebrate Epiphany on the traditional day all along (which, thankfully, falls on a Sunday, lest the bishops worry too much about inconveniencing the huddled masses into attending the Masses). Tomorrow the lights that are traditionally left on all during Christmastide, will finally be shut off in the evening and taken down. They will be put back in storage along with the decorations, waiting for the season to return.
Last of all, the dying tree is sent to its final resting place -- in the years that we actually have a live tree, which we didn't this year ... but that's another story.
Joy, health, love and peace
Be all here in this place
By your leave we will sing
Concerning our King.
Our King is well dressed
In silks of the best
In ribbons so rare
No King can compare.
We have traveled many miles
Over hedges and stiles
In search of our King
Unto you we bring.
We have powder and shot
To conquer the lot
We have cannon and ball
To conquer them all.
Old Christmas
is past
And we bid
you adieu
Great joy
to the new.
Christmas trees are as American as cherry pie, and as German as sauerbraten.
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We always had a tree in our house growing up in Ohio, except for 1968, when the ornaments were suspended by red ribbons from the top edge of the front window, and our presents were found in a big cardboard box that morning.
We can only speculate as to why.
In those days, the end of the year was a busy time for Dad at Procter and Gamble, with all the yeoman's work he was doing for the big year-end meeting. And in the few years before his MS was diagnosed, the stress of working for a living was taking quite a toll on him. When these things happen in our lives, something has to give. And maybe this time it did, just this once. But we'll never know for sure.
PHOTO: Paul Alexander at the annual Saint Nicholas Day Pageant, Epiphany of our Lord Byzantine Catholic Church, December 1989.
I lived in the house where I grew up until moving to the DC area thirty-eight years ago this month. With very little furniture (or much of anything) in an efficiency apartment, I might have gone that first year without a tree.
PHOTO: Paul Alexander pays his respects to "Father Nicholas," Epiphany of our Lord Byzantine Catholic Church, December 1989.
I married a Byzantine Rite Catholic in 1982, and our remembrance of the Birth of Our Savior, as Pope John Paul II would have said, breathed with both lungs. We began the celebration on the sixth of December, the Feast of Saint Nicholas, an important one for Eastern Catholics. In keeping with eastern European custom, our tree was not put up until Christmas Eve, when the decorating began as the sun was setting, and the meatless "Holy Supper" was about to begin. We would end the celebration exactly one month later, on the sixth of January, the Epiphany, or "Little Christmas."
When our once-ostensibly-happy home fell apart in 1990, I moved to Georgetown. It was the end of the world as I knew it, but my basement studio had a two-foot-tall artificial tree, suitably decorated, as if to suggest that hope would breed eternal.
PHOTO: 3114 N Street, Northwest, Georgetown, DC, where the author lived in the early 1990s.
In 1994, I left Georgetown for the Virginia suburbs. Moving to the suburbs at all was my first mistake. My second mistake was moving into a group house with three other guys, while approaching the age of forty, and having a son visit every other weekend. They were all okay, except maybe for an unscrupulous landlord whom we later sued to get our security deposits back. I'm still waiting for it. (Patrick Nelson, I know where you live.) But while I was there, I offered to decorate the tree. One of the housemates, besides being an underdeveloped alpha male who ridiculed my listening to Gregorian chant recordings, was crestfallen to learn that I decorated the oversized houseplant rather than obtaining a more conventional evergreen.
It looked pretty sharp, actually.
PHOTO: Home altar of Chez Alexandre without the Christmas tree, Arlington, Virginia.
In the eleven years that I had the good sense to move back into town, within walking distance of everything, and without roommates while in my forties, my basement studio -- that's right, I spent a total of sixteen years living in people's basements -- always had a Christmas tree, if only the usual two-foot-artificial variety. When I finally bought my own townhouse (again) in 2005, the practice would continue, although some years I was sent a real one.
PHOTO: Christmas tree replacing the home altar of Chez Alexandre, from 2005 to 2016, Arlington, Virginia.
Over time, Chez Alexandre was graced with more lights, and was introduced to a cross between a Chinese lantern and Mexican piñata, direct from the Philippines, known as a "parol." And the sixth-to-sixth schedule was expanded to begin with the First Sunday of Advent, beginning with the tree itself, followed by the full monty of decorating just nine days before the feast, and still ending with what was now called "Tres Reyes." For the longest time, the mini-tree itself would replace the home altar in the living room.
In the mid-1980s, I was invited to a Christmas reception at the Vatican Embassy. They had a number of magnificently decorated trees, one of them graced only with miniature Nativity scenes. For many years, I have building a collection of little creche decorations of my own. Then last year, I got a taller tree; still artificial, but at least five feet tall, already pre-lit, and proudly occupying the landing of the stairs. It is only now that I can display the full array of Nativity ornaments, inspired by or originating from all over the world, from South America to Southeast Asia, and places all around and in between. I make a few exceptions to the rule for sentimental reasons. The guitar is one indicator.
VIDEO: The present Christmas tree of Chez Alexandre, Arlington, Virginia, since 2017. The ancient German carol "O Tannenbaum" performed by the United States Army Band Chorus.
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As the tree follows us through the years, it tells the story of ourselves, and of our lives. Its evergreen branches are a sign of hope when all is cold and dark, with the promise of the Light that is to come.
But still, it all comes down on the sixth of January.
It was on a good Friday,
and all in the morning,
They crucified our Savior,
and our heavenly King.
And was not this
a woeful thing
And sweet Jesus,
we’ll call him by name.
From "the third hour" until "the sixth hour." From sext to none. From noon until three in the afternoon. Scripture tells us that our Lord was dying on the cross at this time, culminating in the words “Consummatum Est” (“It is finished”).
When we were kids, growing up in Ohio, we would either go to church for Stations of the Cross or some related devotion, or if we were at home, Mom would turn the radio off, and we were told to be quieter than usual. Thus did we mark the consummation of the ultimate act of sacrificial Love, that of the Bridegroom with His bride.
PHOTO: Gail Deibler Finke
Elsewhere in Cincinnati, a venerable custom of more than a century and a half still takes place on this day.
In December 1860, a Catholic church was completed on a bluff atop Mount Adams, overlooking the central city from the east, and dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Since the hill was too steep for a horse-and-buggy, there were a series of wooden steps built as well, leading from St Gregory Street near the river, all the way to the church entrance. The following spring saw the start of the War Between The States, and Immaculata Church became the site of devout Catholics praying the rosary for peace while climbing the steps to its entrance.
Even today, the tradition continues, as every year on Good Friday (a day when it invariably rains), an estimated ten thousand pilgrims climb the 85 steps -- the wooden ones having since been replaced by concrete -- leading to the entrance. The procession begins at midnight, with the parish priest's blessing of the steps, and continues for twenty-four hours.
When I was growing up back in Ohio, the village of Milford had their own way of disposing of old Christmas trees. They would be collected and taken to some field at the edge of town, stacked in a big pile, and "Twelfth Night" would be celebrated with the lighting of a bonfire dubbed the "yule log."
This is remarkable when you consider that Milford is a town first settled by (and more than two centuries later, is still more or less dominated by) Methodists and not "Catlickers." Of course, my parents -- may God rest their souls -- didn't go for that sort of ribaldry, so I never actually saw it, but I would always read about it that week in the local rag known as The Milford Advertiser.
(Here we note that Protestants in the northern states did not celebrate Christmas until well into the 19th century. It was even outlawed by the northern colonies in the early years of European settlement. The southern colonies, on the other hand ...)
These days, I imagine people would have a hard time penciling it in between trips to soccer practice and PTA meetings. In fact, since leaving the Buckeye State to seek my fortune elsewhere, I learned that the town has yielded to other priorities, as in this little gem I read a few years ago, from the county's Office of Environmental Quality:
“Many recycled trees are sent through a wood chipper and are used as mulch.”
They have got to be kidding. That kills the holiday magic right there. Why celebrate the glory of the season, when you can spend the rest of the year spreading it on your lawn and walking all over it?
Meanwhile, here at Chez Alexandre, we will celebrate Epiphany on the traditional day all along. Tomorrow the lights that are traditionally left on all during Christmastide, will finally be shut off in the evening and taken down. They will be put back in storage along with the decorations, waiting for the season to return.
Last of all, the dying tree is sent to its final resting place -- in the years that we actually have a live tree, which we didn't this year ... but that's another story.
Joy, health, love and peace
Be all here in this place
By your leave we will sing
Concerning our King.
Our King is well dressed
In silks of the best
In ribbons so rare
No King can compare.
We have traveled many miles
Over hedges and stiles
In search of our King
Unto you we bring.
We have powder and shot
To conquer the lot
We have cannon and ball
To conquer them all.
Old Christmas
is past
And we bid
you adieu
Great joy
to the new.
We've seen the ads for Ancestry.com and other similar products, allowing us to discover what we never knew about where our ancestors came from, and what makes each of us what we are today. (Some people are more surprised than others. You remember Kyle, don't you?)
In the years before the internet made the job much easier, my family had been rather thoroughly researched on both the Alexander and Rosselot (pronounced ROSS-uh-low) sides. This piece recounts them both, leading to at least one interesting discovery.
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In 1988, I, along with several generations on my mother's side, received a large spiral-bound book called "The Henry Rosselot Family History." It tells of Pierre Henri Rousselot his wife, the former Francoise Bermont, and their six children, migrating to America from Belfort, Alsace, France, in 1838. They arrived in Cincinnati, and in search of farmable land, went east into Clermont County, settling near the town of New Boston (now Owensville) in the surrounding township of Stonelick. Their descendants spread throughout the northern part of the county, and farther east into Brown County.
Saint Philomela Church, "the little church in the valley" established in 1839, and the parish of many of the Rosselot clan who settled there.
In January of 1900, Henri's great-grandson, Walter James Rosselot, was born in a log cabin just east of Newtonsville, Clermont County. Dropping out of high school shortly after his freshman year began (as the story goes that he found it lacking in intellectual stimulation), he continued his education on his own. His first date with Frances Gertrude Evans was in 1919, at a crossroads of Brown County known as Vera Cruz, at the little Holy Ghost Church. They married in 1923 at nearby Saint Patrick Church in Fayetteville, Ohio. In what may have been unusual twist those days, our high school dropout won the heart of a college graduate. "Gertie" had graduated from a two-year "normal school," or teacher's college, affiliated with Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, and was teaching at a one-room schoolhouse near Vera Cruz. After renting in two other places, they eventually bought a farm in 1925 at the edge of a valley near the East Fork of the Little Miami River.
The Evans family originated from just north of Johnstown, Pennsylvania, and were predominantly Methodists. Among those who migrated to Ohio, some converted to the Catholic Faith, others did not. Among the branches comprising the latter, settling in southern Clermont County, Ohio, was one born with the name Hiram Ulysses Grant. He was later and better known as Ulysses S Grant, the great Union general in the War Between the States, and later the 18th President of the United States. This was always a part of the Rosselot family folklore, and subsequent research in recent years confirmed it.
So, this writer is an indirect descendant of an American President, making every fifty-dollar bill in circulation a kind of family memento.
But ... that's not the interesting discovery. This gets better.
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The commune of Hannonville-sous-les-Côtes as it appears today.
In 1961, I was given a pamphlet entitled "The History of the Andre Alexandre Family." While the narrative is rather sparse, we learned that my great-great-grandfather came to Ohio around 1840, from France, a little town north of Verdun in the Lorraine province (the Meuse department in Grand Est in north-eastern France) known as Hannonville-sous-les-Côtes. He first went to Cleveland, and worked on the railroad, finally settling in Darke County, in west central Ohio, where many from his part of France, even the same town, had already settled. It was there, in a region known today as the “Land of the Cross-Tipped Churches” he met a young lady from his former hometown, one Marie Couchot. They married in a little church named for Saint Louis in North Star, Wabash Township, a few miles from the birthplace of Annie Oakley. From there, at least eight generations of progeny have grown to the present day.
Nearly twenty years ago, my cousin Angela Alexander served with the Air Force as part of the peacekeeping mission in Bosnia. It was during her various occasions on leave that she journeyed to other parts of the continent, and eventually to the United Kingdom. It was there that she learned that the Alexandre line was descended from Scottish highlanders, more precisely Clan Donald of the Isle of Skye among Na h-Eileanan a-staigh ("the inner isles") along the western coast of Scotland. They fought with the Jacobite rebellion for restoration of the Scottish crown, and independence from England. When the cause was lost, many of those of Clan Donald had sufficient means to find exile in France, the result of their alliance with "Bonnie Prince Charles" and a mutual disdain for the English. Much of this part of our heritage was lost to the mists of time until the present.
Now we get to the really good part.
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One of Andre's sons, Albert, married Ann Katherine Grilliot (originally "Grillot," pronounced "GRILL-oh," before some idiot at Ellis Island inserted a typo), and they eventually bought a farm elsewhere in Wabash Township.
In my encomium to my father, written six years ago, there is related a bit of family folklore.
Annie Kate's mother was a woman named Marie Anne Aubry, a family that originated elsewhere in Meuse, in a town known as Herbeuville. It is from here, that our lineage can be traced back to King Louis XIV, also known as Louis the Great, also known as "The Sun King" who ruled France from 1643 until his death in 1715, as well as his grandson, Louis XVI, who reigned from 1774, until his overthrow in 1792 in the French Revolution, and his execution the following year. By extension, this links our family to the House of Bourbon, the rightful claimants to the French throne, currently in the person of one Prince Louis Alphonse of Bourbon, Duke of Bourbon and Anjou, who would assume the regnal name of Louis XX.
So, not only is this writer descended from a President, but also from royalty!
Of course, we'd probably just call him "Cousin Louie" if he shows up at reunions.
As if that were not enough, our lineage through the Aubry-Grillot line has been traced all the way back to Charlemagne (Charles the Great), born in 742, who ruled as King of the Franks from 768, King of the Lombards from 774, and Emperor of the Romans from 800, until his death in 814. Under his rule, much of Europe was united, enabling the rise of Christendom in the Middle Ages.
Further records have traced our lineage as far back as 600. Our ancestors held title to lands in the provinces of Burgundy, Brittany, and Normandy, all at one time separate realms, until brought together under a united France as the centuries came and went.
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So, what to make of all this?
When I was a little boy, and first heard I was descended from the French, it sounded glamorous, as some Americans might grow up imagining the French to be. I drew pictures of myself riding in a horse-drawn carriage, imagining that I was the lost Dauphin, awaiting the entourage that would rescue me from my dull existence, and return to me the crown and scepter that were rightfully mine. It was then that Grandpa Alexander told me the awful truth, that his own Grandpa and Grandma were poor. Andre was a wagon-wheel maker with a shop in North Star, who spoke very little English. His children, on the other hand, spoke very little French, having already acclimated themselves to the new world, and certainly having forgotten a long-buried heritage, only to be uncovered by a descendant more than a century later.
Paul David Alexander, posing with a fellow cast member, on the set of a remake of George Orwell's Animal Farm.
Then there was my son, Paul, to whom I first broke the news. Judging from his announcement in social media, he didn't take it in quite the way I expected.
Just found out I'm a descendant of the House of Bourbon on my dad's side, so I have to behead myself now.
I'm also descended from Jacobites on my dad's side. My forefathers gave zero f***s about my leftist cred.
It's tough to be a card-carrying socialist, only to discover that you're descended from the very flower of the bourgeoisie. Imagine no longer being invited to all the right (or should I say left) parties. I only hope he can move on with his life.
In recent years, I have managed to make the acquaintance of a number of aficionados from the arcane world of Catholic Monarchism. There are the usual congratulations, of course, and one of them telling me simply to "enjoy it." (Obviously I already am.) One of them told me of more than one account, of friends discovering they were descended from some figure of history. All this (and the potential invasion of privacy) is possible through the magic of DNA testing.
My siblings are finding out along with the rest of you, dear readers. They probably think I'm just showing off. Then again, I also wonder how my “Cousin Hiram” would react. Maybe this proves that we really are all descended from Adam and Eve, don't you think?
Or don't you?
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This writer extends the most heartfelt gratitude to his cousin, Angela Alexander, of Fairborn, Ohio, for her years spent in genealogical research. It is her tireless efforts that have contributed greatly to this account.
It was on a good Friday, 
PHOTO: Gail Deibler Finke
