Reverend Edward H. Brady, Pastor, St. Cecilia's Church, Los Angeles, CA, 1919-1953
I came across a memorial card of Father Brady the other day. It brought back a lot of memories. This blog is probably more for family, since it is a part of my and my mother's history.
At 43rd and Normandie, St. Cecilia's Church and School were serving a second generation of families when I entered first grade in 1937. Father Brady had been Pastor from the time the facilities were constructed. My mother had attended the parochial school from 1919-1926. She began school at eight years of age because of polio as a baby and poor health. She was almost 15 when she graduated from the eighth grade. A scant eleven years later I began school there.
My grandmother, Episcopalian at the time (she had been Methodist and Baptist at one time or another growing up), had supported the parish from its inception; and, because she wanted a good education for my mother and then for me, as she raised me, she made sure that she had $5 a month for tuition.
Mother loved Father Brady, but disliked (probably a mild word) the St. Joseph of Carondelet nuns who staffed the school. Only Father Brady "understood" her. I, on the other hand, also loved Father Brady, but found the nuns, with few exceptions, wonderful! It may have been because my mother hated school, the discipline, the constraints. She was an excellent student when she wanted to be, but managed to be confrontational and, I guess, uncooperative. I loved school and study, trying my hardest to please. Docility was my middle name.
Mother didn't make it through high school. Gramma enrolled her at Saint Mary's Academy, Crenshaw and Slauson, which I would also attend, but she quit after her freshman year. She was sixteen and legally could do so. She wanted a career on the stage. She had studied ballet for years, was extremely talented, sang and acted as well. She certainly left an impression on the nuns, even for the short time she was with them. In high school and college I had some of the same teachers, who had very definite memories of my mother. In college, the head of the music department, Sister Celestine, when I disagreed about something or other, looked at me and said, "Don't snap those big brown eyes at me - just like your mother!" Whew!
But I digress! Back to Father Brady. He had definite ideas about the Faith, morals, behavior of children AND adults. Women were forbidden to wear trousers in church. It was uncommon in those days, anyway. Father was fond of saying it was "an abomination before God," and "Women shall not wear men's clothes and men shall not wear women's clothes.... Deuteronomy." If he saw a woman in church wearing slacks he personally led them out the door. This was a problem during World War II. Women worked in the defense plants. Many wore slacks of necessity. So, when they had to go to work directly after Mass, they rolled up the pants legs and wore long coats to cover them. Father was unrelenting.
He was a fire and brimstone preacher. He felt strongly about the wages of sin and would shout from the pulpit and pound it with his fists. He was Irish and felt strongly about a lot of things - loudly! There were times when he grabbed the pulpit with both hands and rocked the thing. Sometimes we thought he would topple it. The pulpit wasn't exactly light. It was solid wood, probably oak, as I try to picture it.
Father Brady's fondest wish finally came true when I was still in elementary grades. The parish debt was retired. Father soon had enough money to beautify his beloved church. The result was a gorgeous, huge, circular stained glass window, marble altar, altar rails and pulpit. One Sunday, when Father was particularly incensed, about something, he brought his fist down on the marble pulpit. An audible gasp came from the congregation. Father didn't make a sound. He must have been in agony. An eternity seemed to go by; but he continued his sermon and finished Mass. I don't remember if he was wearing a cast after that. I do know that he never again pounded the pulpit.
The boys' and girls' playgrounds were separate, a broad concrete walk, shaded by big trees, divided the two areas. Every day at lunch hour, two of the eighth grade boys would run down to the school basement and bring out Father's rocking chair. He sat rocking, facing the boys' yard, calling to various ones, commenting on basketball shots, talking to all who approached him. There was always a nun supervising the girls' side. None was needed for the boys. There were two priest assistants who were usually young; and one or the other took part in the boys' games, always in cassocks. That attire was de rigeur in those days, anyway. Even if the assistants weren't there, Father Brady's presence was all that was needed.
When the first bell rang in the morning, everyone stopped talking, stood quiet until the second bell. Then we lined up, silently, by class. We first pledged allegiance to the American Flag, then to the Papal Flag. A record player was at the ready and some Sousa March played over a loudspeaker as class by class we walked up the stairs to the building. At the end of lunch hour, the bells rang again for the line up and return to classes. Father Brady always stood on the landing until the last child was in the door. His ever present cane would give a little whack to this one and that one, boy or girl, randomly picked. When he chose me, he always said, in a loud voice, "Gloria in excelsis Deo," as he gave me a swat.
I think I will continue this tomorrow. Father Edward Brady was a loving father to "his children" as I hope to relate.
10/21/11
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