Come My Love and Live with Me

I must confess that it’s been a difficult week, and difficult on two fronts.  Mother has not responded well to my new adventure in faith; but it has occurred to me that I should neither back down, nor make a pest of myself.  The result is that I have resolved just to stick to my normal pattern as best as I can. I usually rise and hour or two before Mother, make myself a cup of tea, and retire to my study with my Bible.

The second front of course is the frou-frou dog. Mother has named it Pippa. I thought it ought to be named Puddles, but I wisely kept my mouth shut. As it says in Proverbs, “Even a fool who keeps silent is considered wise.”

This morning Mother was out puttering around in the garden trimming the dead buds off the Dublin rose bushes that she had planted last fall, and I have taken advantage of the moment by going into the drawing room and sitting down at our Seiler 168 Virtuoso piano.  Admittedly I’m a little rusty, but an old Bill Kenney number from The Ink Spots had come to mind and I began to sing softly,

Come my love and live with me

Beside the ever chanting sea

We’ll live beneath the open sky

And share the simple things, that life as one.

I’ll bring you the gold of the dusk and dawn

We’ll speak of love eternally

For nothing else could sweeter be

As endless as the sky, our love shall never die

O come my love and live with me.

            I suddenly became aware that Mother had entered the room and had begun to sing along in harmony.  I was appreciative, after all she has been a little sensitive lately.

            “Alfred,” said Mother. “I’ve noticed that Pippa seems to have taken a shine to you.”

            “Well, harrumph!” said I, not knowing what else to say.  I didn’t want to point out that Pippa had fallen in with my morning routine and usually followed me into the kitchen for a morning biscuit and then settled down in the study with me.  It probably helped that I have stopped referring to it as the frou-frou dog.

            Just then the phone rang¸ and Mother picked it up and I heard her saying, “Grace, good morning.” Then, “Dinner at your house on Wednesday evening, how lovely, thank you, of course we’d like to come.”  There was a pause and then she continued, “It’s the same group we had dinner with at the Bistro?”

            Then a distinct note of coolness crept into Mother’s voice, and I heard her say, “You want us to bring our bibles?”  Mother’s face had that set iron lady expression that she had copied from Margaret Thatcher. 

Finally she put down the phone and stared at me, “Alfred, did you put Grace up to this?”

“Up to what? Mother,” said I¸ for in truth I hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about.

“Alfred,” said Mother, “Grace says it’s called a Care Group.  They get together once a week for dinner and a bible study and they pray together.  If it weren’t Grace Whittington, I would have said ‘No!’.  Whatever will I do?  I don’t like the idea of praying out loud at all.  That would be most uncomfortable. I like to keep my prayers between myself and God.”

My guess was that Mother seldom prayed, if at all.  It just wasn’t her type of thing. I considered the problem for a moment, then answered, “I’m sure that you won’t be pressured to praying aloud if you don’t want to.  After all prayer is a rather individual thing, and after all, it is the Whittingtons and we do like the Whittingtons.”

“Yes, well, Alfred, I suppose so,” said Mother. “We’ll just have to see.”

“In that day, says the LORD of hosts, every one of you will invite his neighbor under his vine and under his fig tree" (Zechariah 3:10).

The Frou-Frou Dog

What a horrible morning.  One would think that after one has surrendered one’s life to Christ Jesus last Sunday that things would be a little easier.  I was almost prepared for Mother’s negative reaction; surrender is not something for which she has natural empathy.  What I wasn’t prepared for was her next move.  Yesterday she went to Grace Whittington’s and came back with the threatened frou-frou dog, a Bichon Frisé. 

Well, the dog is not house trained, and Mother let it roam around freely last night.  Usually, in the morning, I swing my feet out of bed and slip on my red velvet Albert Slippers.  This morning was different than all other mornings.  I rolled out of bed and put my foot in a puddle of something wet on the Kermin carpet in our bedroom.  I looked around for my Albert Slippers.  One was a sodden well chewed mess across the room by my Louis XVI Armoire, the other was under the bed.  I could have wept in frustration. 

As was my early morning custom I went to the kitchen and 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 Irish Breakfast tea in the pot.  Then I looked around the kitchen and noticed an odiferous pile of something brown under the breakfast table.  By then I was fuming.  Of course I did the noble thing.  I got down on my knees and cleaned up the mess under the table; but I also resolved to have a firm word with Mother about the dog. 

After I calmed down I went to get a Royal Staffordshire mug from the cabinet.  Just as I lifted the mug, the dog waddled into the kitchen and tugged forcefully on my silk damask pajama leg and I dropped the mug on the floor and it shattered.  I am ashamed to admit that at that point I gave vent to a few choice gutter phrases.  I had quite enough of the frou-frou dog, and if the dog hadn’t fled at my outburst, I swear I would have kicked it.

The problem is not really the language, but the feeling of having lost control.  I felt terrible!  I was on my knees cleaning up shards of shattered china when it occurred to me that this was the second time this morning that I had been on my knees, and neither time had I been praying.  It was with mixed resentment and embarrassment that I pondered over the situation but it seemed clear, at the very least, that I was looking at an unlovely side of my nature that was of interest to my God.  It seems that I do not like to be thwarted or inconvenienced.  Ouch!

Becoming a Christian has some demands that I wasn’t prepared for.  Guilt over stupid stuff has a way of hammering at the inner man.  Oh, well, I knew the remedy, I just didn’t want to co-operate with the extended grace.  When I figured that out, I got down on my knees, right there in the kitchen, and prayed.  Having done that I felt better, but now the question arises, just how am I going to adjust to the frou-frou dog?

“For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin.  Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need” [Hebrews 4:15-16].  

Alfred’s Easter Celebration

Mother and I have always enjoyed sitting in our solarium.  On a mild afternoon like this it is particularly pleasant, and we had retired there for an afternoon rest with a small glass of Guffens Aux Tourettes "Syrose.”   Even though I find the quiet beauty of this spot restful, this afternoon I was a little uneasy. 

“Mother,” said I, “This has been a rather heady Easter Celebration,” I paused, waiting for a response, but Mother merely looked at me archly.  So I continued, “I’m so glad that our Jeremy and his Winifred were able to come to our Holy Week Messiah presentation on Wednesday evening.”

Mother pursed her lips and remained silent.  I know her well enough to know when a storm is brewing, and I had a feel for just what it might be.  Nonetheless I continued.  Sometimes a man just has to say what a man has to say.

“Mother,” said I, “Singing those words in my tenor solo made a deep impression on me.  ‘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.’  Why I felt like I was being personally addressed by God my Father.”

Mother heaved big sigh and shrugged her shoulders dismissively.  “Alfred, said she, “When I encouraged you to go to Church I didn’t expect you to go overboard.  After all the real point is all the new friends that we have met.”

“I know, Mother, that you feel that way, I know, but I do want to tell you what has happened to me.”

Mother set her jaw and her frown deepened.  Not to be deterred I continued, “Last Sunday when I offered to Father Goodfellow a case of Taylors 20 Year Old Tawny, his answer disturbed me.  You might even say that I found his words rather piercing.  ‘Just remember,’ he said, that this port wine of yours will convey the reality of the Blood of Christ.’”

Mother slammed the copy of the Atlantic Monthly that she was reading down on the table and stared at me.

“Well, Mother,” said I, “When I came to the communion service at our Maundy Thursday service I could hardly drink the port, excellent though it is.  I was deeply unnerved.  The final blow came at the very end of the service with the Solemn Stripping of the Altar.  I had never seen anything quite like that.  It left me devastated, and I knew that Christ had died for me.”

“Alfred!” barked Mother, looking shocked.

“That’s not all, Mother,” said I, “This morning we were singing that beautiful Palestrina hymn, ‘When the Strife is O’er, the Battle Done.  When we came to the fourth verse, ‘He closed the yawning gates of hell, the bars from heaven’s high portals fell,’ I knew in my heart of hearts that he had died for me.  Mother, I have surrendered my life to him.”

Mother looked at me with utter distress, “Alfred, you should talk to Jeremy and Winifred, they’re religious, they should be able to shed the light of pure reason on this.”

“I did, Mother, I did,” said I, “and do you know what Jeremy said?  He said, ‘Dad! How wonderful, I have been praying for you ever since I accepted Jesus as my Saviour last fall.  How wonderful!”

Mother looked at me wryly and said, “Well,” Alfred, “you’ll get over it, I’m sure.”

“For whoever is ashamed of me and of my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, of him will the Son of Man also be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy angels." (Mark 8:38)

Five Glasses of Port

Saturday evening after dinner, I said to Mother, “My original recommendations to Father Goodfellow really were too expensive, however I was reading the Wall Street Journal today and I saw a marvelous article on Port.  It is not lost on me that the Chalice we use on the altar at Church is tulip shaped and slightly flared on the edge; a perfect chalice for drinking port.”  I am amazed that all of the Wall Street Journal Port selections were under $50.00 a bottle, so I have resolved to sample each one of them.  After all, how bad could they be?   

Mother said, “Well, Alfred, that accounts for the five glasses of port that are sitting on our Chippendale coffee table.  Surely you don’t expect to drink that all by yourself?”

“Certainly not, Mother, I was rather hoping that you would help me sample each of the offerings before us.”

“Me? asked Mother, “how lovely.  I was hoping you wouldn’t leave me out.”

Mother and I sat for a while by our Chippendale table, sipping and savouring. The Graham’s Six Grapes Reserve was too sweet and fruity.  Neither Mother nor I really cared for the 1997 Dow’s Colheita Single Vintage Tawny.  The 2009 Croft Vintage was dense and sweet, but not really suitable for a Communion wine.  The 2000 Broadbent Vintage was admirable, but the one that really hit the spot was the Taylor Fladgate 20 Year Old Tawny. I must admit we had a merry time sampling each of the Port wines, and I resolved to recommend the Taylor’s to Father Goodfellow at Church tomorrow morning. 

This morning after our Sunday Communion service I waited looking for an opportunity to chat with Father Goodfellow.  I half expected to be rebuffed, after all, in a way it’s really none of my business, and I know it.  It just that that the pale yellow Angelica they are using is truly terrible, but I didn’t go there.”

Father Goodfellow immediately said, “Alfred, I’ve been thinking.  I have to admit that the Angelica wine we have been using has never been a favourite of mine.  It’s just that the parish has been using it for years.  Not only that, but the symbolism of a pale yellow wine conveying the image of the Blood of Christ doesn’t quite fit.”

“Blood of Christ? Said I. “That’s an uncomfortable image.”

“Nonetheless,” said Father Goodfellow, “that is after all what it is all about.”

With that I changed the subject, as well I should.  After all, blood.  And I made Father Goodfellow an offer, “Father, I have found a reasonable port at $40.00 a bottle, and it is certainly a deep red colour.”  I saw him raise an eyebrow at the mention of the price, so I immediately barreled right along, “I’ll make the parish an offer.  I will donate a case of Taylors 20 Year Old Tawny if you will allow the parish to try it out.”

Father Goodfellow fixed his eyes on me as he thought, then answered, “That’s a very handsome offer, Alfred.  If it’s that important to you I’ll let the Altar Guild know that we will try the Taylor’s port wine at our Maundy Thursday Communion service, but one condition.  Just remember that this port wine of yours will convey the reality of the Blood of Christ.”

 “Jesus said to them … Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day” [ John 6:53-54 ].

  

In the Garden Where I Love to Go

In the garden where I love to go

I see the hollyhocks all planted in a row,

Peach and apple blossom, hyacinth and golden bell,

The Lily of the Valley, the greater celandine and daffodil.

Nothing can compare with God’s great beauty rare

In this wild profusion of His glory, a sight beyond compare.

Come walk with me a little, while the gentle breezes blow

And share with me the beauty of His garden here below.

                   -         Alfred Montrose, Spring, 2013

            “Mother,” I said, “nothing quite affects me like the beauty of the springtime flowers, and it seems to there is special beauty this year in the early blossoming of the trees, the redbud and magnolia and the lilac.

           “I know what you mean, said Mother, “which is precisely why I chose our Royal Albert 1920 Spring Meadow Mugs for our tea this afternoon.  Why on each mug is a wild profusion of primroses, roses, violets, harebells and forget-me-nots.”

            I held my mug aloft in appreciation, and gazed at it, “I do love the subtle cream colored background and the 9-karat gold trim, although I must say, that as carefully crafted as these are they can’t compare with God’s beauty rare.’

            “Oh, Alfred,” said Mother, “you are so poetic!”

            I looked at Mother wondering whether or not there was not just a subtle note of sarcasm in her voice.  Of late she seemed to be a little annoyed with my pursuit of the tenor solo parts in the Easter Messiah program.  It may not be just my rehearsing; after all I do keep my study door closed.  Mother seems to have been bothered over my background research in Holy Scripture. 

            Yesterday, she actually said, “Really, Alfred.  Really! The Bible, Alfred!  Why don’t you stick to the Wall Street Journal?!”

            “I retorted, “Some familiarity with Holy Scripture is the mark of educated and cultured men.  It is as valid as reading Shakespeare.”  Mother wasn’t impressed.

            “Now, between you and I, leaving Mother out it for the moment, (a dangerous but necessary thing to do), leaving Mother out of it, as I said, there are some very disturbing things in the text.  Why at the heart of Handel’s Messiah is that passage from Isaiah,

Surely he hath borne our griefs,

      and carried our sorrows:

yet we did esteem him stricken,

      smitten of God, and afflicted. 

But he was wounded for our transgressions,

      he was bruised for our iniquities:

the chastisement of our peace was upon him;

      and with his stripes we are healed.[i]

Why that passage is unexcelled from a literary perspective, but from a personal perspective it is thoroughly alarming.  Nevertheless I have this deep conviction that in order to sing my tenor solo parts I really ought to find a way to interiorize the text.  That my friend is a dangerous thing to do; perhaps even more dangerous than leaving Mother out of the equation.

            While I was ruminating on these things, Mother, as was to be expected, changed the subject saying, “Do you know Alfred that our son Jeremy and his Winifred are coming for Easter?”

            “Wonderful, Mother,” I said, “That will be quite exciting.”  But privately I said to myself, “From our conversation at Christmas I know they will have some appreciation for what I'm struggling with.”  As much as I love Mother, I have a feeling that this is something that I have to work out for myself.

The Collect “For Joy in God's Creation:

O heavenly Father, who hast filled the world with beauty: Open our eyes to behold thy gracious hand in all thy works; that, rejoicing in thy whole creation, we may learn to serve thee with gladness; for the sake of him through whom all things were made, thy Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.”

---

[i]

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.