A Little Tipple

The other day Mother and I were enjoying a little tipple, and I said to Mother, “There’s nothing like a fine glass of wine and a small plate of assorted cheeses.” I remarked, ‘that the communion wine at our church is absolutely dreadful.  It is appallingly sweet and too fruity.  I asked Millicent Ordinarius, the Altar Guild Directress, what kind of wine it was, and she said, it was “Angelica Altar Wine - Mont La Salle which is approved by the Most Reverend John T. Steinbock, Bishop of Fresno,” obviously, not that he knows anything about wine.

“You have enough fine wines in your collection, Alfred, to be a sommelier in your own right.  Why don’t you make a suggestion? “said Mother.

“You are quite right, Mother, “It says somewhere in the Psalms, “Lord give me wisdom and good taste”. The average person wouldn't understand the nuances of fine wines; why I was talking with a Burgundian vinter yesterday and asked him why they don’t acknowledge on the wine label that a Bourgogne Bland is actually Chardonnay.  How do they expect the general population to understand what they are buying?  Not that most Americans would care!  Imagine! They prefer cult wines like California Cabernet Sauvignon!”

With that I went to my wine custom wine room, and I must say with modest pride that it holds over five hundred bottles, and most of them are very fine wines.  I know that some of my wines are out of the question for a parish church.  Take for instance the 2009 Domaine Romanee Conti (DRC) burgundy at $ 12,900 a bottle; or perhaps a Bordeaux’s such as the 2005 Lafite Rothschild or the 1996 Latour.  But perhaps, a d’Yquem 1989 at $ 389 a bottle. Or even a J.L. Chave Hermitage 1999 at $325 a bottle.  That is the greatest vintage Chave has produced since 1990.

I said to Mother today, “How really very embarrassing!  Millicent Ordinarius as good as told me to mind my own business, that is unless I wanted to start washing and ironing the linens.  She really is a Vin Ordinaire!  Then she referred me to Father Goodfellow.  It was most discouraging.  He pointed out that the parish budget wouldn’t allow for a wine that was even $50 a bottle.  He upset me dreadfully.’

“Well, you know, Alfred, “said Mother, “the Priest is not there to shake everyone’s hands; he’s there shake everyone up.”

“That’s a horrible thought, Mother.  I thought the Priest was there to comfort the comfortable, or something like that.  I remember St. Paul saying something like. “The time is coming when we will have itching ears and gather teachers and preachers to encourage us in our lives.”

 “That sounds like another Alfred Montrose translation again! said Mother, Why don’t you look that one up and see what it really says; or perhaps even better, ask Father Goodfellow.  He would probably appreciate a spiritual question from his flock for a change.

“Well, I guess we don’t go to Church to drink fine wines,” said I.  “After all, it is the opportunity to sing a tenor solo that really keeps me coming to Church.”

“As for the rich in this present age, charge them not to be haughty, nor to set their hopes on the uncertainty of riches, but on God, who richly provides us with everything to enjoy.” 

1 Timothy 6:17.

Alfred Rehearses the Tenor Solo

“Mother,” said I, “I have so enjoyed listening to some of our old recordings on the Victoria 7-in-One Stereo that you brought me for Christmas.  Why just the other morning I was listening to that fine lyric Scottish tenor, Kenneth McKellar, singing “ Flow gently, sweet Afton.” “Did you know, Mother, that McKellar was one of the finest lyric tenors to sing the tenor parts of the Messiah?”

“How could I have missed that, Alfred, you’ve been listening to his recordings all week long.”

“It makes me glad to be a Scot, Mother!  Background is so very important, and the Montrose name goes back to Clan Graham.  Why the current chief of Clan Graham is the 8^th Duke of Montrose.”

“I wondered why you have been wearing your clan tartan tie all week, Alfred,” said Mother.  “I am quite proud of my own illustrious family history.  As you know my grandfather  Antonio Talliaferro was an important member of the clan of Don Calò Vizzini.  Don Calò owned the Belici estate through his close association with the owner, the Duke Francesco Thomas de Barberin.  Although of course grandfather never referred to it as a Clan, but rather as La Familia.”

            “Listen to this, Mother,” said I as I put on another recording by Kenneth McKellar.  The beautiful strains of McKellar’s voice wafted over us, “Where'er you walk Cool gales shall fan the glade.”

            “Is that Handel, Alfred?”

            “Good for you Mother.  It certainly is, and listen to this,” said I, as I put on a second recording. “This is McKellar singing some of the tenor solo parts of the Messiah with the Royal Opera House Orchestra under Sir Adrian Boult.  It’s absolutely marvelous; but I must admit the words leave me a little unsettled.  Do you think it’s all true?”

            Again the four walls of my study are filled with the glorious tenor voice of McKellar singing,

            “He trusted in God that He would deliver Him; let Him deliver Him, if He delight in Him. . . . Thy rebuke hath broken His heart; He is full of heaviness. He looked for some to have pity on Him, but there was no man; neither found He any to comfort Him.  Behold, and see if there be any sorrow like unto His sorrow.  He was cut off out of the land of the living: for the transgression of Thy people was He stricken.”

            “How horrible, Alfred,” said Mother. “It can’t be true.  Tell me it’s only a story.”

            “Oh, Mother, how I wish it were only a myth.  If it’s true, it will upset all of my life.  Why everything I hold dear may turn out to be only folly.”  With that I took off that McKellar recording, and put something cheerful on instead and McKellar bounced around the room singing, “The Waggle o’ the Kilt.”

            “Well, Alfred, that won’t do.  It too harsh a contrast with his Messiah tenor solos.  You know you have to sing those very parts in our Easter Messiah.”

            “I know, Mother, I know, but the words have really just left me unnerved.”

            “Alfred! That is not at all like you.  After all, they are only words.

“For good news came to us just as to them; but the message which they heard did not benefit them, because it did not meet with faith in the hearers.” (Hebrews 4:2).

All Mother and Alfred stories are written by Canon Rob.  You may enjoy checking on YouTube for the music.

Alfred Receives a Shock

Mother has found that over the years that Royal Warrant holders of the British Royal Family are generally the best purveyors of goods for the family.  Mother always makes a point of looking for the Royal Warrant holders seal and the words, “By appointment to Her Majesty the Queen.”

            This afternoon at tea-time Mother and I were enjoying a cup of Taylors of Harrowgate Yorkshire Tea, of course Taylors is registered as a Royal Warrant holder.  Mother had chosen her Paragon Royal Albert teacups for today’s tea.

            I said to Mother, “I have become aware that a Royal Warrant does not always guarantee quality.  Take for instance the Parker Sonnet Sterling Silver Fountain Pen in my collection.  It’s a beautiful pen, but it doesn’t write very well.  On the other hand my Namiki Emporer’s Treasure Fountain Pen, not only looks fashionable, but it is also a pleasure to write with.  Of course at $6,000.00 it ought to write better than a Parker Sonnet.  It just goes to show that you get what you pay for.

            “You are quite right Alfred,” said Mother, “take for instance my Chanel handbag.  I just love its soft leather.”

            “Well, Mother,” said I, “I’ve been thinking; I’d like to add another pen to my collection, perhaps a Conway Stewart Windsor¸ or a Krone George Washington Limited Edition Fountain Pen.  The original cost is $5,900, but Fahrney’s has it on sale for $4,130.00.”

            “Oh, look, Alfred, the mail just arrived.”

            Mother came back with a letter from our new parish and I carefully opened it with my William Henry pocket knife.  You can imagine my distress when a pledge card fell out.

            “Mother,” said I, “I’m appalled.  Look at this!”

            Mother picked up the accompanying letter and perused it, “Look, Alfred.  It is signed by Claude Whittington.  I had no idea he was the Chairman of the Stewardship Committee this year.”

            “Well,” said I, in a huff, “he certainly didn’t waste any time sending this out.  We’ve only been there two months.”

            “A pained expression crossed Mother’s face.  She is quite good at pained expressions!  “But Alfred, the Whittingtons are our friends.  Whatever will we do?  I’d hate to be embarrassed by not responding.”

            “Mother, if I didn’t have a tenor solo coming up on Easter, I swear I would just leave the Church!”

            “I know, Alfred, I know, and I have just agreed to serve with Grace Whittington on the Hospitality Committee.  It would be so embarrassing to just drop out.”

            “Well, Mother, I think we’ll just have to bite the bullet and sent them at least the price of that Krone George Washington fountain pen I have been looking at.”

            Mother pondered that for a few minutes and then replied, “Make it a silver bullet Alfred!  Send them the twice the price of your Namiki Emporer’s Royal Treasure Fountain Pen.  It’s not as though we can’t afford it; and after all, we don’t want to be embarrassed.”

“Each one must give as he has made up his mind, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver.”  2 Corinthians 9:7   

Alfred’s Ash Wednesday

            “Ash Wednesday! That just scares the pants off me, Mother,” said I. “Religion is alright up to a point, but really; let’s not push it too far.”

            Mother looked up from the morning paper and nodded, “I have to agree with you Alfred.  I like my church like the limbo, and I don’t mean the hell place. I like my church like the limbo, so low you can’t get under it.  Never mind all the fuferall.”

“Fuferall, Mother?”

“Oh, you know, all that extra stuff.  I didn’t mind the pancakes last night, but I rather prefer crepes with strawberries and a sugared almond glaze.  And can you image? Ashes? On my forehead?  Good gracious! It will spoil my makeup.”

“Oh, well, you can always wipe it off after, Mother.  That’s not what bothers me.’

“Yes, Alfred,” said Mother, expectantly.  “If it’s not the ashes, what is it?”

“Mother, it’s the whole thing.  I know that we have to go through Lent in order to get to Easter, and I even have figured out that the cross comes before the resurrection.  After all I have been listening to Father Goodfellow; and I am so looking forward to signing that tenor solo on Easter.  Do you know, Mother, what the priest says when he put the ashes on your head?”

“What, Alfred?”

“He actually says “Remember that thou art dust and to dust shalt thou return,” that seems to me to be just plain rude.”

“Well, tacky, certainly,” replied Mother, “but knowing you, I suspect that’s not all that is bothering you about Ash Wednesday.”

“Well, Mother, you are quite right.  It’s this whole emphasis on penitence.  I imagine it really tires God out.  I can hear him saying, “Every time I try to talk to someone it's "sorry this" and "forgive me that" and "I'm not worthy".

“Alfred!” said Mother, “Really!  Where do you get these ideas.”

“Mother, I always thought I lived a good life, I’ll get there, and it’s rather disturbing to discover that is not the case.  Father Goodfellow, Oh, by the way, can you imagine?  His first name is Earnest!  Anyway Father Goodfellow, is saying that we have to ask forgiveness for the things we’ve done wrong, as if I could remember them all!”

“That really is the point, isn’t Alfred.  Whatever have we gotten ourselves into?  Well, stiff upper lip, and all that.  We will just march on through it, but Alfred,” she paused.

“Yes, Mother?”

“Try not to make faces.  After all you are up in the choir in front of everyone.”

 

Saint Guinefort's: A Mother and Alfred Story

Saint Guinefort’s Episcopal Church

Sometimes there is just no telling what Mother is up to.  Why, just the other evening I was sitting in my Chesterfield wing chair reading the Wall Street Journal when Mother came in fanning away the smoke from my Alec Bradley Special Reserve Churchill Cigar and announced, “Alfred, I know that you are just getting involved in the choir, but there is something that I just wanted to ask you.  Please do say, ‘Yes.’’’

 “Yes, Mother? said I, “What is on your mind?’

Taking heart, Mother continued, “There is a new Episcopal Mission called St. Guinefort’s starting in Park Hills. I thought that we might look into it.  It could be a very rewarding experience.”

“And why is that?” I replied.

“Well, said Mother, “They use the 1928 Book of Common Prayer.”

“But, Mother,” said I, “Switching churches is not a simple matter.  There is our group with the Whittingtons and the Wilsons.  I thought you were enjoying them.  Not only that, our Choir Director William Weaver is hinting that I might have a solo in the Easter music program.  I would certainly not want to miss that.”

“I know,” said Mother, “but the article on St. Guinefort was very interesting.  They are naming their new Mission after a 13^th Century French Saint.”

“St. Guinefort?” I asked, “I’ve never heard of St. Guinefort.  Who is he”

“Well, Alfred,” answered Mother, “St. Guinefort was a thirteenth century greyhound who was martyred after protecting a child.  The nobleman who owned Guinefort mistakenly thought it had killed his child, but it turned out the dog had been only protecting the baby from a viper.  After Guinefort was buried French peasants began praying to St. Guinefort for the healing and protection of their children.”

“Really, Mother,” said I with some consternation, “French peasants?  That’s not much of a recommendation.”

Mother smiled a sly smile, “Perhaps you’re right Alfred.  Changing churches is a big challenge, and I have gotten used to the new Book of Common Prayer.  At least the service seems shorter.”

When Mother remained in the doorway of my study fanning away smoke, I knew that something else was on her mind.  “You, know Alfred,” said Mother, “The story of St. Guinefort is a very charming story, even if it is a little sad.  Perhaps, Alfred, we could get a greyhound?  They are such lovely animals.”

Mother has a time worn technique she calls, “Ask for the Moon, when you really want only a small star or two.”

“Mother, said I, “We don’t have enough room in our backyard for a greyhound to run.”

“Alfred,” Mother said, “I thought you might react that way.  Grace Whittington’s sister has a Bichon Frise that has just had a litter of pups, and I thought that might be just the thing for us.”

“Mother,” said I, quite alarmed. “A frou-frou dog?  Say it isn’t so!”

“Well,” said Mother, “Grace is dropping off our frou-frou dog tomorrow morning, and I think that naming it Guinefort would be a fine way to honor the saint.”

“O all ye Beasts and Cattle, bless ye the Lord: * praise him, and magnify him forever.  O ye Children of Men, bless ye the Lord: * praise him and magnify him for ever.” ~ Benedicite, Omnia opera Domini.”

Rhubarb Pie

            I quite enjoy Eccles Cakes; that flaky English pastry filled with currants and a generous sprinkle of coarse demerara sugar that creates a sweet glazed crust.  I’m not entirely sure but it may be the demerara sugar that is the attraction.  One of my very favourite desserts is rhubarb pie in a short crust pastry with a generous sprinkle of coarse sugar crystal glazing the top.

            I said to Mother, “There is something about the tartness of the rhubarb and the sweetness of the sugar that I find quite delectable,” but there are times when I should just leave well enough alone. 

“You have been quite a slice of rhubarb pie yourself lately Alfred,” said Mother, tapping her silver spoon on the side of the Regency sugar bowl and looking at me rather pointedly.

I knew I was in trouble and I instinctively turtled.  Do you know what turtling is?  That is when you are abruptly faced with an unexpected danger and you reflexively try to shrink your neck and your head back into your shirt collar; and at the same time you defensively raise your shoulders.  Well I turtled, and I waited for the blow to fall.

Mother continued, “At one moment you seem all sweetness and light, and the next moment you are calling our Choir Director “Beaver Weaver.”

“But Mother,” said I, “I’m not the only one who is having difficulty with the man.  Why, just the other day our lead Alto, Ima Hatchett, was complaining about how unfair it was that she wasn’t being given better parts to sing.  Not that she is a Soprano; but that shouldn’t make a difference.  And she was quite adamant about the fact that the other ladies in the choir shouldn’t be wearing earrings when they are performing.”

Mother tapped her teaspoon on the sugar bowl once again to secure my undivided attention, “Tell me, Alfred, would it happen to be the lead Soprano’s earrings to which Miss Hatchett is referring?”

“Well, yes, probably,” Mother, I replied somewhat abashed.

Mother sat thinking for a moment and then asked, “Are the earrings gauche, or are they actually in good taste?”

“Well, even though they are diamond, they are not ostentatious,” I replied.  “Perhaps Tiffany Metro; not that I noticed.  I just thought it was a matter of principle.”

“Whose principle?” asked Mother, glaring at me.  “If I were you Alfred I would add another heaping spoonful of sugar to the rhubarb pie, and not fall in with the likes of Ima Hatchett.  Her problem is that she has never been married and obviously our Choir Director William Weaver has never given her a tumble.”

“Mother! said I.  “I am quite shocked at your suggestion.”

Mother looked across the table at me and said with a sly smile, “Take it from me, Alfred, the truth will out.  It has a way of doing that.”

 “For nothing is hidden except to be made manifest; nor is anything secret except to come to light.   If anyone has ears to hear, let him hear” (Mark 4:22-23).  

Casual Friday

            “Mother,” said I, “I will never forget the day my father taught me how to tie a Half Windsor and a Full Windsor tie knot.  I remember how kind he was.  He stood behind me, reached his arms around me, and I watched in the mirror as he tied the tie in front of me; first the Full Windsor, then the Half Windsor.  I can still recall the fragrance of Caron Pour Un Homme[i] which he wore.  It was a defining moment in my childhood because it taught me that it is important how things are done and I could see that importance as the knots took shape.  And that is not all Mother, I also knew at the core of my being that I was loved.”

            Mother looked at me quizzically, “And what are you driving at Alfred?”

            “Well, Mother, it’s this.  One of the younger men at our store requested that we have a Casual Friday when our employees could dress in sport shirts and jeans.”

            “Yes?” said Mother.

            “Well, Mother, I looked at his tie and I realized that it wasn’t even tied with a Four in Hand Knot but just a simple once around the hoop and dunk the end in the hole; and I realized that his father never showed him how to tie his tie, not that his tie was in good taste to begin with.”

            Mother looked at me expectantly and said, “And…?”

            “Well, Mother, I have decided to have Perk Up Fridays and I am actually going to teach our younger men how to tie their ties.”

            “Alfred,” said Mother, “what wonderful idea.  Rather like looking one’s best on Sundays.”

            “Yes, Mother, that’s what gave me the idea.  I was looking across the Chancel at our priest, the chalice bearers and acolytes and thinking how very fine it was see them in vestments and not in street clothes.  They were actually dressed as though they were doing something special, and it was at that moment that we began to sing Schubert’s Sanctus, “Holy, holy, holy Lord, God of power and might, heaven and earth are full of your glory,” and I thought to myself, so that’s what holy means.”

            “Well,” said Mother, softly laying her silver teaspoon by the side of her saucer, “you have quite surprised me Alfred, but it raised another issue.  What about the people in the congregation?”

            “Well, Mother, I guess it’s like our customer base.  You may not like the way they dress but don’t try to tell them what to do.  You won’t make any sales that way.”

            “Alfred,” said Mother, “You are incorrigible! Whatever will I do with you?”

            “Well,” said I, “you might start by passing the sugar.”

Worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness, O come let us adore Him.”  The Book of Common Prayer.

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[i] Alfred has decided to carry Caron Pour Un Homme in his store.  As an old classic cologne it has Top Notes of Lavender, Rosemary, Bergamot, and Lemon.  Middle Notes of Clary Sage, Rose, Rosewood, and Cedarwood, and Base Notes of Vanilla, Tonka, Musk, and Moss.  He may decide to make it available for internet sales.