Mother was sitting
across the Sheraton table from me poring over a printout from the Internet.
“Alfred,” said she,
“This astrology business is very complicated.
I was born on November 23, never mind the year, and that means I'm a
Sagittarius, and I was checking around and discovered that I was born under the
moon sign of Gemini and in the rising sign of Capricorn. That means I have a strong moral conscience
and can see through the hypocrisy of others.
Well, I hope that’s true. “What
do you think?”
I must admit that I was
taken aback. “Since when have you been
interested in Astrology?
“Well, Alfred, you want
me to become more religious, so I'm just looking around.”
I shook my head in
disbelief. “Mother,” said I, “my aunt
Marjorie was very big on astrology. It
became a family joke. My father, I
always called him Pater, would say ‘Now, Marjorie, you should make a practice
of reading your horoscope the day after; that way you can see just how
ridiculous it is.’ Marjorie once
retorted, ‘You are just saying that because you’re a Libra, and Libras are
gullible.’ That started a verbal battle
that lasted for months. The problem is
that there is a little bit of truth in everything, but that doesn't make the
whole thing true.”
Mother went digging in
yesterday’s paper and found her Astrology Word for the Day and read, “Even the
most stoic and solid of authority figures have off days. They've also made bad
decisions based on the best of intentions. Mention that before you start
confessing your sins. Even if their choice of entertainment for tonight is
undeniably the very last thing on earth you want to do, smile and say you'd
love to. Isn't it your turn? Just when you thought it was safe to come out,
friends are starting to take bids on how long you'll be able to manage the
balancing act you've been juggling. You've got a bone to pick with a higher-up,
but this just isn't the right time to pick it. Sit quietly and bide your time.
Give it two weeks.”
Mother
sat there for a few moments, her shoulders sagged and she looked somewhat
despondent. “Well, Alfred, I guess your
Pater was right, but I had so hoped that there was something that could make
sense out of things.”
I
busied myself with my pipe. I think that I've mentioned before that pipe smoking is not a habit, but a hobby. At the least it provides a temporary
dodge. This particular pipe is a rather
fine English Estate Ashton Old Church Bent Billiard. I tamped some Captain Black in the bowl, lit
it and drew slowly before replying. I
was stalling for time, and here is why.
Knowing Mother as I do, I knew that this was no time to get
preachy. She was already irritated that
I had had a spiritual experience and she, quite evidently, had not. Nor was it the right moment to give advice;
and direct advice was sure to backfire.
Fiddling with my briar gives me a little respite and time for an arrow
prayer.
Finally
I said, “Mother, it’s not for me to say.
Perhaps Grace can give you some direction.”
Somewhere
in the background we could hear the rich Scottish alto voice of Agnes singing, “As pants the
hart for cooling springs, so longs my soul for thee, O Lord.”[i]
Mother
listened for a few moments then brightened up, “I think I'll ask Agnes what she
thinks.”
Trust
Mother to find an alternative!
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