It’s Not Raining Inside

The other morning I was standing in the foyer of our home looking out the door at the rain and humming to myself my own version of a childhood poem. 

The more it rains

(Tiddely-Pom)

The more it goes

(Tiddely-Pom)

The more it goes on raining

(Tiddely-Pom)

And nobody knows

(Tiddely-Pom)

How wet my toes

(Tiddely-Pom)

How wet my toes are growing

(Tiddely-Pom Tiddely-Pom Tiddely-Pom Tiddely-Pom)

I know very well that the original version was about snow, but we don’t get much in the way of snow where we live, just cold, wet, miserable rain.  I happen to like weather, all types of weather.  That is a useful taste to have particularly where we live when we can have winter, spring, summer, and fall, all in one week.  Mother doesn’t like weather.  She would like to live all year around at a perfect 72 mild and sunny degrees.

Mother came into the foyer, looked at me with that look of approaching storms, and said, “Alfred, don’t be silly.  It’s perfectly miserable out there.”

To which I replied, “Yes, Mother, it’s a cold, wet, rainy, miserable day, but considering the alternative, which is having no weather at all, I rather like it.  After all, it’s not raining inside.”

            “Well, I don’t like weather,” said Mother, “Give me sunshine and gentle breezes every day. Which reminds me Alfred, you looked a little stormy yourself when you came back from choir practice last night.  How did it go?”

            “Oh,” said I, “winter, spring, summer, fall, all rolled up in ball.  I don’t know what to think.  I like weather but I’m not so sure about the Choirmaster William Weaver.  Little Billy Beaver is just a little bossy.”

            “Now, Alfred,” said Mother, putting on her sunny best, “Just give him a little bit of time, after Choirmasters are supposed to direct the choir.”

            “I know, Mother,” but I’m not sure I can endure being bossed around every week by Billy Beaver.  For some reason I find him quite annoying.”

            Mother herself can be a little bossy and annoying.  I would never tell her that.  More than my life is worth!   

Mother said, “The problem with you Alfred is that you have spent much of your life bossing other people around and you just don’t like it when somebody else tells you what to do.  I have noticed, Alfred, that when I tell you what to do, you often find a way around it.”

            I recognized that we were approaching the Rocks of Charybdis and I immediately steered clear.  After all Mother does a pretty good imitation of Scylla all by herself.  The question was, just how to extricate myself gracefully.  Generally speaking, backing up, is a good thing to do when you might be caught between the whirlpool of  Charybdis and rock of Scylla .

            “Mother,” said I, “You might be right.  I’ll give it a few more weeks, and then we’ll see what happens.”

            Mother wasn’t one to let things easily pass and she replied, “Alfred!  It would help if, for a start, you stopped calling the Choirmaster ‘Billy Beaver!’”

“We ask you, brothers, to respect those who labor among you and are over you in the Lord and admonish you, and to esteem them very highly in love because of their work. Be at peace among yourselves.”  (I Thessalonians 5:12)

Hospital Corners

Mother insists that we make our bed with hospital corners.  All of us who served in the military were well schooled in the fine art of bed making.  When you look at the bed, the fold on the top corner sheet and blanket at the edges of the bed should be at a perfect 45 degree angle.  One must admit that it does look quite tidy.  But it has a major drawback.  A properly made bed is uncomfortable, pinning down your toes and feet and making it difficult to maneuver.  I have found that the proper procedure for getting into a bed made with hospital corners is to scoot down as far in the bed as you can and force the sheets upward with your feet and legs at a 45 degree angle thus loosening the sheets.  At the very least that provides you with a modest leg press exercise.

I have found a solution that Mother seems to have tacitly accepted.   Her side of the bed is the side most visible from the bedroom door.  When I make the bed I make her side of the bed in the correct manner, hospital corners and all.  But on my side I merely fold the end of the sheet firmly under the mattress and let the side hang down quite comfortably.

The first time I did that Mother walked from one side of the bed to other considering the arrangement and said, “Well, Alfred,” I see what you have done.”

Too which I responded, “Harrumph!” which is a fairly safe way of avoiding discussion.

We let the matter of bed making drop.  Accordingly I prefer to make the bed myself.  If perchance I fail to do so, of course I will find that Mother has made the bed with hospital corners on both sides. To which my only answer is “Harrumph!”  Oh well, one can always resort to another leg press exercise.

At breakfast the other morning Mother said, “Alfred, there are some things in life that are negotiable, and there are some that are not.  You have your little habits and customs, and I have mine.”

I looked at Mother suspiciously.  I almost wanted to respond “Harrumph!” but one does need to be careful, so instead I said inquisitively, “Yes, Mother?”

“It’s the cigar, Alfred.  I don’t mind you smoking in your study when you have the ventilation fan on, but please don’t smoke in the rest of the house.”

“But, Mother,” said I, slightly offended, “It’s an Arturo Fuente Rosado Magnum.”

“Magnum, indeed,” huffed Mother, “It’s still a cigar, and not something I want to smell mingled with mignonette potpourri in the living room.  I like the ambrosial fragrance of mignonette, but I don’t care for the odor of cigars.”

“Very well, Mother,” said I, “I take your point,” With that I retired to my study and shut the door.  After all, an Arturo Fuente Rosado Magnum ought to be enjoyed in peace.”

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­Alfred has been reading St. Paul, and finds him quite a challenge. “If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all” (Romans 12:18).

On the Turning of the Year

            “Well, Mother, you certainly outdid yourself this Christmas.  I am absolutely thrilled with the Victoria 7-in-One Stereo that you brought me for Christmas,” said I, as I rummaged through my old collection of records, “Oh, look! Guy Lombardo and the Royal Canadians singing Auld Lang Syne.  Do you remember their first New Year’s Eve TV special with Robert Trout reporting from Times Square?”

            “Oh, Alfred, It’s been a wonderful Christmas. I’m so glad that Jeremy brought Winifred, she’s a lovely girl.  By the way, what were they talking about with you in the study the evening before they left?  It seemed so very serious.”

            “Well, Mother, I’m not sure what to make of it.  They asked me if I had accepted Jesus as my Saviour.  What an odd question.  Of course I was baptized; isn’t that the same thing?’

            “Don’t ask me Alfred,” said Mother, “How would I know.  I go to Church for the people; I don’t know about the rest of it.”

            “In any event Mother, I did enjoy their visit.  Jeremy said that they will be coming back for Easter.  Winifred said another odd thing, ‘Every Christmas leads to Passion Week and Easter.’  She really is serious about her faith, and Jeremy is just as enthusiastic. By the way did you see that fine historical piece that the Rector posted in the bulletin today?  It is an 18^th century prayer by Dr. Samuel Johnson.  Let me read it to you.”

            A Prayer for the New Year

O LORD, Length of days does not profit me except the days are passed in thy presence, in thy service, to thy glory.

Give me a grace that precedes, follows, guides, sustains, sanctifies, aids every hour, that I may not be one moment apart from thee, but may rely on thy Spirit to supply every thought, speak in every word, direct every step, prosper every work, build up every mote of faith, and give me a desire to show forth thy praise, testify thy love, advance thy kingdom.

I launch my bark on the unknown waters of this year, with thee, O Father, as my harbor, thee, O Son, at my helm, thee, O Holy Spirit, filling my sails.  Guide me to heaven with my loins girt, my lamp burning, my ear open to thy calls, my heart full of love, my soul free.

Give me thy grace to sanctify me, thy comforts to cheer, thy wisdom to teach, thy right hand to guide, thy counsel to instruct, thy law to judge, thy presence to stabilize. May thy fear be my awe, thy triumphs my joy.

            “Somehow, Mother, that stirs me.  I think I just might join the choir.”

            “You know Alfred, that means Church every Sunday,”

            “I know, Mother, I know, but perhaps it’s time we became more serious about our faith, After all we aren’t getting any younger.”

            “Alfred, that’s wonderful.  You do have a fine tenor voice,” said Mother rifling through our old collection of records. “Oh look, Alfred,” Fats Domino and Blueberry Hill. Put it on and we’ll sing it together.

            “I found my thrill, On Blueberry Hill / On Blueberry Hill / When I found you. / The moon stood still / On Blueberry Hill / And lingered until / My dream came true.”

            “Mother, you are still my thrill.”

            “Alfred, and you are mine.  You always have been.”

           

           

           

The Long and the Tall of It

I do love a little nog with a splash of brandy and a small plate of Christmas sugar cookies on the side.  I added a second splash of brandy in the nog and Mother remarked,

            “I don’t mind you getting into the Christmas spirit Alfred, just don’t let too much of the Christmas spirit get into you, even if it is Rémy Martin.”

            “Yes, Mother,” I sighed, “I was just ruminating on the Lessons and Carols service yesterday.  I had forgotten what a pleasure it was to sing some of the old Christmas Carols.”

            Mother put down the Smithsonian magazine she was reading and said, “God does answer prayer.”

            “How so?” said I, cautiously.

            “You asked for a short sermon, and you received one.”  With that Mother buried her face behind her copy of the Smithsonian magazine again.

            I could feel her smirking behind her magazine.  If you don’t think that you can feel someone out of sight smirking, you don’t know Mother.  Defiantly I added a third splash of Rémy Martin to my eggnog.

            “Ah,” said I, sotto vocé.   “That’s more like it.”

            Mother lowered her Smithsonian, eyed my glass suspiciously, and said, “That was quite a compliment that you received from Grace Whittington yesterday.”

            “Oh. Oh.” said I to myself.  I could feel a faint flush rising to the tips of my ears; but it might have been the brandy?

            “Well, Alfred?” said Mother, “I had almost forgotten that you had a very tolerable tenor voice.  I remember years ago Father Phineas Lofty at St. William of Ockham’s telling you that tenors were God’s gift to choirs.”

            “Harrumph!” said I, which was my way of not answering, but Mother was not to be deterred.

            “Grace said you ought to join the choir.  They have sopranos and altos, baritones and basses, but they really could use another fine tenor.” 

Mother looked at me expectantly, and far be it from me not to change the subject.  “Do you know Mother, Jeremy and Winifred are coming in tomorrow?”

“Yes, Alfred,” said Mother, “The room is all set for Winifred.  It will be a pleasure to have our son’s lady friend visiting with us; but as I was saying, the choir really could use another tenor, and I wouldn’t mind a bit sitting with the Whittington’s.  It really seems so long ago that you sang in the choir at St. William of Ockham’s.”

I felt like I was being shaken by a large playful Afghan hound.  I tried another tack, “I think we ought to take Jeremy and Winifred to the Petroleum Club for dinner one night.  I think Winifred would enjoy the view.” 

“Alfred,” said Mother, “Every time I have mention the choir, you change the subject.  “I think that the problem is that you are afraid of commitment, and that’s the long and tall of it.”

I took another sip of my nog before saying, “You mean the long and the short of it.”

For a moment Mother didn’t answer, then, “That’s three times Alfred!”  Then Mother raised her Smithsonian magazine again and I could feel her smirking.  Then softly Mother began to hum, “Good King Wenceslas looked out, on the Feast of Stephen.”

“As each has received a gift, use it to serve one another, as good stewards of God's varied grace: whoever speaks, as one who speaks oracles of God; whoever serves, as one who serves by the strength that God supplies in order that in everything God may be glorified through Jesus Christ. To him belong glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen” (ESV 1 Peter 4:10).

Cultivating Culture

Mother and I have had a very comfortable week cultivating culture.  Every evening we have been faithfully watching BBC News, and not only that we have whiled away a few pleasant hours watching Edward Petherbridge and Harriet Walter in the Lord Peter Wimsey Mystery Series by Dorothy Sayers.

“You know, Alfred,” said Mother, “BBC has a much better coverage of international news than our stateside news organizations.”

“Quite right, Mother,” said I, “and not only that, their command of the King’s English is impeccable.  Why after a few evenings of close attention to their speech patterns I have been able to brush up on my own accent.”

“Yes, Alfred,” said Mother, who was very excited, “and what we can’t glean from BBC News, we can certainly reap from Lord Peter Wimsey.  Such a lovely man, and such a lovely accent.”

“You know, Mother, years ago I learned so much from old Father Phineas Lofty.  He had spent five years in England as a student, but he grew up in New Jersey.  He had such a lovely English accent.  I once asked him why he still had an English accent although he had only lived in England for a few years in his youth.  He laughed and reverted to his New Jersey accent and said, ‘I if sounded like this, who would listen to me?’  Marvellous sense of humour, but he was quite right.”

“Not only that, Alfred,” said Mother, “He was so finely tuned to the members of his parish that he was never gauche, never confrontational.  Such a sweet man.”

“That, Mother, is precisely what is bothering me about going to Lessons and Carols with the Whittingtons.  I’m really not in the mood to sit through another sermon.  If the Whittingtons hadn’t offered to pick us up on their way to Church this morning I think I might just have given it a miss.  Going to Church on Christmas eve with our son Jeremy and his Winifred would have been quite enough Church for one Christmas season.”

“Don’t worry,” said Mother.  “With Lessons and Carols, if there is a sermon it’s bound to be short, and even if it’s not I’m quite looking forward to lunch with our group after service; besides that the Whittingtons are picking us up in their Aston Martin Lagonda.”

“Our group, Mother?” said I.

“Well, you know what I mean, Alfred, the Whittingtons and the group from Church.”

“Oh,” said I, but privately to myself, “I’m afraid, Mother, that I do know what you mean, and I’m not sure that I’m ready for that kind of involvement.”  But, you know it wouldn’t do to say that aloud to Mother.  When she gets a bee in her bonnet, best to leave it alone and hope that it just buzzes off by itself.

“Jesus came and said to them, ‘All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me.  Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age’” (Matthew 28:18-20).  

Red Velvet Albert Slippers

            I rose early as is my want, donned my imperial paisley dressing gown, neatly tied my ascot, slipped into my red velvet Albert slippers and headed for the kitchen.  Generally I rise before Mother.  She likes to lie abed, seldom rising before nine in the morning.  This morning was no different.

            Once in the kitchen I took down the Brown Betty teapot from the cabinet, filled it a quarter full of hot water from the electric kettle, swished it around, and placed several teaspoons of Lapsang Souchong in the pot.  I find a good strong tea very bracing in the morning.  I also prefer my morning cuppa in a Royal Staffordshire mug, not a dainty cup.

            This morning I had a lot on my mind.  Business has been dreadful the last few years and only by some careful scrimping and planning have I been able to come through the downturn without laying off valued employees.  Well that’s not entirely true.  I did fire, Henry Widdershins, that lazy oaf; but only because he was so thoroughly ineffectual.  Oh, yes.  I also was able to grant Ophelia Martin an early retirement.  Those two things helped retain the balance of my employees.

            Part of what is bothering me is a business proposition.  One of my suppliers informed me that a whole load of cashmere sweaters was about to drop off the back of one of his trucks.  “Would I be interested in a bargain price on those sweaters?”  Of course, unspoken, was the fact that his insurance would pay for the purloined shipment.  Years ago I wouldn’t have hesitated.  After all, business is business.

            That is the problem with reading the Bible; sometimes business isn’t just business, sometimes its theft, and now it bothers me.  To tell the truth, I find that quite annoying.  A conscience is an embarrassing thing to develop.

            Well, I’ve been reading in James.  I like James; he rather straightforward and tells it like it is.  Obviously when the crunch is on, one has to do the right thing, “faith without works is dead.”[i]  I don’t know if I have faith, but at least I can try to do the right thing.

            Now don’t whisper a word of this to Mother, but I actually prayed for the first time this morning.  After all James said, “If any of you lacks wisdom let him ask God who gives generously to all without reproach, and it will be given to him.”[ii]

            Well, I was sitting there mulling all this over when Mother came in.

            “Good morning, Alfred,” said Mother eyeing the open Bible on my lap curiously.

            “Yes, Mother,” said I.  “I know that things have been very difficult economically at the store, but I have decided to give all of our employees a Christmas bonus this year.”

            “Very nice, Alfred,” said Mother.  “That is a very charitable thing to do.”

“The King will answer them, `Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brethren, you did it to me.”[iii]

           

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[i] James 2:26

[ii] James 1:5

[iii] Matthew 25:40

Cream Tea

Our antique English Regency table was draped with fine linen and this afternoon Mother had selected her Royal Doulton Old Country Roses teapot with matching cups and saucers.  The faint aroma of Darjeeling wafted up from the pot.  On the table was a plate of warm scones, a small dish of rhubarb ginger preserves, lump sugar, and a dish of Devonshire clotted cream.  How lovely!

Mother smiled benignly at me and nodded in the direction of an envelope propped up against the Royal Doulton sugar bowl.  “Guess what, Alfred?’ said Mother, “We have a letter from our son Jeremy.”

For those of you who haven’t been introduced to Jeremy, I have to tell you that he is a fine boy, but he has a mind of his own.  We have a very good school here in Dallas, but no, nothing would do but that he had to go to a college in New England.

Mother said, “What are you waiting for?  Why don’t you open it and read it?”

I took my gilded Davidoff cigar knife and delicately slit the envelope open and began to read, “Dear Mum and Dad . . .” Jeremy is so informal.  I always addressed my Father as Pater; the Latin word always seemed more fitting, but Jeremy is Jeremy.  I won’t go on to tire you with the details of the letter, all patter for Pater, but of course he thanked me for the check, and a handsome check it was; but let me get to the startling news.

He said, “You know Winifred and I have been dating for a year, and if you don’t mind I’d like to bring Winnie home for Christmas.  Her parents will be in France over the holidays.  She is quite excited about meeting you both.”

“Oh,” Said I to myself; and the tiniest little cloud like Elijah’s cloud rising from the sea, began to rise on the horizon of our holiday.

Mother said with obvious satisfaction, “Well, at last, after all we do have a guest bedroom.  Does Jeremy say how long they will be staying?”

“Jeremy says, ‘We will be arriving on December 18^th and returning on the 27th.  We want to be back for the New Year’s Eve service at St. John’s.  Winnie and her family are quite keen on going to Church, and I have to admit that I’ve rather enjoyed it.”

“Well,” said I, “Mother, going to the Carols and Lights service is one thing, but next they will be expecting us to attend Church with them on Christmas Eve.”

Mother rapped her knuckles on the table, “Alfred!  It’s Carols and Lessons, not Carols and Lights!  Besides that, attending Church on Christmas Eve with your son won’t hurt you.”

That little cloud on the horizon suddenly began to darken, but I knew better than to argue.  One rap of the knuckles is enough.

 “I fled Him, down the nights and down the days; I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears I hid from Him”[i]; but the Hound of Heaven ever follows after.  

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[i] Frances Thompson, The Hound of Heaven