ith that quote from the Rev.
Richard C. Cipolla, this writer began a sojourn across country to the wilds of Portland, Oregon, to be the master of ceremonies for a Pontifical Mass at Holy Rosary Church.
The date of the Mass was June 29, 2007, and yours truly was going to have to do something he had never done in his heretofore 54 years – take an airplane.
Yup. With Fr. Cipolla’s words concerning the “cause” of the Traditional Mass, he knew he had me right where he wanted me, and he wanted me on a plane to Portland.
Have Cassock, Will Travel
Up to this point, my motto had been “Have cassock, will travel.” I had made trips up and down the Northeast corridor, done training sessions in New York City, Boston and Springfield, Massachusetts, and towns and hamlets in between.
This was the first time I’d been asked to go cross-country to do a Mass, and it was a bit of a mystery as to how my name – or my reputation –had come up, but not for long.
The invitation was issued on a dreary New England Spring day. I was in my office in West Haven, CT, and editing some copy for the weekly newspaper I run, The West Haven Voice.
When the phone rang, I thought it was another request for information on how to get an announcement run, or some such task.
Instead, the caller identified himself as Dean Applegate, the artistic director of Cantores in Ecclesia, a Portland-based group that runs the William Byrd Festival each August. Applegate asked if I was the same William Riccio that was interested in the Traditional Rites.
When he got his confirmation, he made his request: Could I come to Portland to organize a Pontifical Mass celebrated by then-Auxiliary Bishop of Portland Kenneth Steiner.
The Mass was going to be on the Feast of Ss. Peter and Paul at Holy Rosary, a Dominican-run church in that city.
Fear of Flying
The request took me by surprise, and the thought of taking a flight across country didn’t sit well with me. The idea of being in a sardine can for any time five miles above terra firma was not something I liked.
In fact, I had driven to Rockford and Indianapolis, both more than 1100 miles away, on separate occasions, to avoid taking the “big silver bird.”
I called Fr. Cippola and he had this sage advice. “Bill, either the plane will get there or it won’t.”
He was going to come along and had already talked to Dean and Beverly Stevens, a former parishioner.
With that in mind, and my head still swimming, I took the plunge – and hoped the plane didn’t do the same. “OK. Let’s do it.”
W
REGINA | 63