Ima Hatchett Gets the Hatchet

“You need to understand, Alfred, that wasn’t the first time that Ima kicked the hornet’s nest,” said Horace.

We were sitting at the Sheraton table in the solarium.  Horace and Grace Whittington had joined us for Sunday brunch; a brunch wonderfully prepared by Agnes Findlay, our Scottish housekeeper.

“Oh,” said I, biting into an Eccles Cake. “Mmmm, that’s wonderful, the Eccles Cake, I mean.  Agnes does a marvelous job.  She’s quite talented.  But about Ima Hatchett; I was stunned by the action taken by our Rector Father Goodfellow.  I never dreamt that a priest would not only remove someone from the Choir but also tell them to leave the Church.”

“Let me tell you a story,” answered Horace. “There was this farmer who was bringing his new wife home to the farm for the first time.  His large dog came racing out of the barn barking, bearing his fangs, and lunging at his new bride.  That’s ‘THREE’ said the farmer in exasperation, then went to his house, came back with his Winchester rifle, and shot the dog.

His new wife cried out, “Oh, no!  Why did you do that? The dog didn’t mean any harm.”

The farmer fixed his steely eye on his new wife, and said, ‘That’s ONE.’”

Mother burst out laughing, “I’ll have to remember that Alfred.  Very funny!”

“The point is,” said Horace, “Ima had several warnings from Father Goodfellow.  That wasn’t THREE, but more like SIX or SEVEN.”

“It was just the momentary shock,” said I.  “As a retired Colonel and as a successful businessman I have always understood the nature of command and the requirement of discipline in any organization.  It just hadn’t occurred to me that a priest would.”

“That,” said Horace, “is because the title ‘Rector’ actually is a Latin word meaning ‘ruler”.  He has the authority and the responsibility to take care of all of us.”

“Thank goodness,” said Grace.  “It has been very difficult putting up with Ima’s behavior over the past couple of years.  She really has stretched our Christian charity to the snapping point.  More than once I have had to restrain myself.  One never quite knows what to do with people like that.”

“Well,” said Mother, “I think better of Father Goodfellow for dealing with it.  I had obviously made the mistake of thinking that he was too meek and too mild to deal with people like Ima.  It makes me feel rather secure knowing that he is actually in charge.”

“Now, Mother,” said I, “That’s probably because you didn’t really like Ima to begin with.”

“That’s ONE,” said Mother with a sly smile.

“I’m just glad that you gave Grandfather Talliaferro’s shotgun back to your cousin Angelo,” said I.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­ “I appeal to you, brothers, to watch out for those who cause divisions and create obstacles contrary to the doctrine that you have been taught; avoid them.  For such persons do not serve our Lord Christ, but their own appetites, and by smooth talk and flattery they deceive the hearts of the naive.” (Romans 16:17-18). 

            

The Devil’s Corner

            “What a night!  What a night!  Who could have thought that a Church Choir could get itself so tied up in knots?”  said I to Mother.

I had comeback from our Thursday evening Choir Rehearsal, donned my Le Noeud Papillon red velvet smoking jacket and my matching red velvet Prince Albert slippers and we were sitting at the Sheraton table in the solarium enjoying a mug of E. Guittard Grand Cacao Drinking Chocolate

“Mother,” said I, “Choir lasted an inordinate amount of time this evening, wrestling with, of all things, the recent music selections.  It seems that Ima Hatchett has a burning desire for us to sing BUT THE LORD IS MINDUL OF HIS OWN by Felix Mendelssohn.  That of course is an alto solo, and Ima is an Alto.  What particularly has her incensed is that the soprano section seems to get an unfair share of the music selections.  According to her, ‘Nobody likes the Music!’”

“Remember, Alfred,” replied Mother, “that Ima Hatchett objected to the lead soprano’s ear rings.  If it’s not one thing with Ima, it’s another.  She seems to have a deep need to be the star of the choir.”

“Yes, Mother, you are quite right, but this time she has gone to the extent of circulating a petition for the removal of our Choir Director William Weaver.  Not only that, she has declared that she is going to bring the feeble leadership of Father Goodfellow to the attention of Bishop Portly in order to resolve the problem.   Frankly, I was annoyed, and said so.  That started a heated discussion between several choir members who supported Ima, and the rest of us who thought that the whole thing was rather silly.”

I put down my Kirkham English Rose mug and continued.  “Throughout all this our Choir Director William Weaver was a model of decorum.  I am embarrassed to say that I used to call him ‘Beaver Weaver’.  I think that was most unfair of me at the time, but I have learned a few things since then.”

“Well, Alfred,” said Mother, “how did William Weaver handle the situation?”

            “Mother,” said I, “He listened most patiently, accepted the petition from Ima, and said he would convey it to Father Goodfellow; then he put us to work.  But Ima will not be satisfied with that.  I expect that she will be very busy over the phone. ”

I continued, “The next things that William Weaver did was handle the situation with Handel and instructed us to get out our copies of the Messiah.  For the next half hour he kept us busy reviewing some the pieces we had sung for Easter.  The next piece he presented us with was an old classic by Stainer, ‘For God So Loved the World. ’ I could hear Ima muttering about that being old and worn out.”

“But that’s a lovely piece, Alfred,” said Mother, “I have always enjoyed it.  Every time I hear it, it stirs something within me.”

“Yes, I know, Mother,” said I, “It was one of those wonderful pieces of music that nestled in my subconscious and it wasn’t until last Easter that I finally understood what it meant.”

With that Mother looked away.  “Alfred,” said she, “I know it’s late, but would you like to watch a Dorothy Sayers mystery with me?”

“Warn a divisive person once, and then warn him a second time. After that, have nothing to do with him.  You may be sure that such a man is warped and sinful; he is self-condemned” (Titus 3:10-11).  

Mother on a Rant

            Mother has been on a rant for most of this week.  Even Pippa, the frou-frou dog, has spent most of her time hiding under the dining room table.

            As for me I must admit to a certain degree of cowardice, not that under most conditions I am a coward.  Being under fire in a Vietnamese jungle is qualitatively different than being under fire from Mother on a rant.  One is only bullets, the other is a firestorm.  The result is that I have spent an inordinate amount of time puttering in the garden trimming several varieties of roses and pulling weeds.  I have a fondness for the simplicity of the Carpet Red Rose, one of the new varieties of shrub roses.

            What set Mother off on a rant was her conversation with Agnes Findlay, our Scottish housekeeper.  Agnes is no wilting rose herself and is not easily cowed; not even by Mother.  Agnes is very direct.  Originally I had suggested to Mother that she talk to Grace Whittington knowing that Grace would be more gentle, but Mother is Mother and she will do what she will do and there’s no doing anything about it.

            Some of what transpired slipped out at breakfast this morning.  I was spreading a little Wilkin and Sons Tiptree Rhubarb and Ginger Conserve on my buttered crumpet this morning when Mother interrupted my reverie with a sudden outburst.

            “Jesus as personal Saviour!” Mother muttered with emphatic disgust. “That’s perfectly fine for people like Agnes Findlay!”  With that she savagely speared a slice of Lorne sausage with her fork before continuing, “After all what should I expect from an uneducated Scottish housekeeper?”

            I looked cautiously across the table and perceived that Mother was not looking in my direction, but was directing her remarks to the Dualit Toaster on our breakfast table.  The toaster was happily oblivious.  With that I decided that being, at least in appearance, oblivious was the wisest course of action.

            Mother rapped sharply on the table with her knuckles and said, “Alfred!  I have decided to try Christian Science.  I think that Mary Baker Eddy was right.  There is no evil, and disease is all in your head.”

            I looked up to see Mother staring impatiently in my direction.  I replied, “Well, Mother, then what do we do with some of those people that your cousin Angelo does business with?  It seems that things are a little more complicated than Mary Baker Eddy might think.”

            “Alfred!” snapped Mother, “If I wanted your opinion I would have asked for it!” and with that she stormed out of the room leaving her piece of Lorne sausage untouched on her plate.”

I sat for a few minutes pondering and decided on a two-fold course of action.  I reverently ate her piece of Lorne sausage, and retired to the garden to trim the roses.  What occurred to me, was a line from that Frances Thompson poem, The Hound of Heaven.   In his poem he speaks of the discomfort of being pursued by God.  “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 then, “Halts by me that footfall: / Is my gloom, after all, / Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?”  It’s a difficult thing to be pursued by God.  I should know!

With that a sharp thorn pierced my finger and I immediately I thought of Mother, “Every rose has its thorn; but I do so love roses.”

 “Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence?”- Psalm 139:7-8  

The Briar Pipe

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!

---

[i] Psalm 42:1

The End of the Matter

                It was late afternoon and I was sitting in the solarium looking out over the garden.  A light drizzle was falling from the sky and a fine mist was glistening on the garden flowers and foliage.  The afternoon sun slanted through the edge of the clouds casting fingers of liquid light and illuminating a patch of flowers here and there throughout the garden.  I have always loved afternoons like this and we have far too few of them in the Dallas area and I treasure every one of them.  I was enjoying a small glass of Pouilly-Fume, that dry white wine, when I heard voices from somewhere in the house.

            Agnes our Scottish housekeeper had answered the door, “Oh Mr. Horace, how good to see you.  Colonel Montrose? To be sure, he’s in the solarium.  You can go right on through.”

            A minute later Horace arrived in the solarium followed by Agnes, who, clever lady, was carrying an extra heavy cut crystal wine glass for our guest.

            “Horace, welcome.  What bring you around this afternoon?”

            Horace took the offered glass of Pouilly-Fume gratefully and sat down opposite me, took a sip, then answered, “I’m not sure how to ask this, but I think I really would like to know.”

            “What is it?” I said, curiosity nipping at my heels.

            “Well,” he said, “You know my Aston Martin Lagonda was rear-ended and the other driver tried to claim on my insurance?  At our bible study Angelo had offered to ‘fix’ the problem and I said ‘No.’ My insurance agent called this morning and said the claim had mysteriously been dropped.       Do you know if Angelo fixed it?  It would be embarrassing if he had.”

            I thought for a moment before replying, “If Angelo was doing you a favour and expected you to do a favour for him in return, he would have let you know.  It’s like a contract in a funny sort of way.  As it is Angelo didn’t say anything, so I wouldn’t worry about it.  If it was Angelo, he would be embarrassed if you challenged him.  By the way, I followed up with Angelo because I was concerned about what he was going to do with the lupara.  An Sicilian shot gun isn’t really a toy.”

            Angelo had laughed and said, “Nothing you need worry about.  My father had it mounted on a marble plaque with grandfather’s name and dates.  It’s hanging on the wall above his fireplace.”

            We sat there for a few moments savouring the unusual flavour of the Pouilly-Fume, before Horace said, “Sometimes we just worry too much about what others might do with what we give them.  One of the lessons I’m still trying to learn is letting go of my own tendency to control.  It’s one thing in business where some things really need to be controlled, but it doesn’t work very well with family and friends.”

            “You are quite right Horace,” said I.  “I would be an absolute goose if I thought I could control Mother.  That’s one place where the only options are surrender or negotiation.”

            Horace laughed, “So right you are.  It’s the same with Grace.  Both of us fell in love with strong minded women; that’s why we love them.  And come to think of it even in business, wise negotiation becomes extremely important, especially where surrender isn’t an option.”

 “Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding.  In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.  Be not wise in your own eyes; fear the LORD, and turn away from evil.” - Proverbs 3:5-7   

The Briar Pipe

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 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.”

            Mother listened for a few moments then brightened up, “I think I’ll ask Agnes what she thinks.”

            Trust Mother to find an alternative!

The Sicilian Cousin

Cousin Angelo

           Even for Mother it was rather an elaborate breakfast; a damask linen table cloth, our Crown Princess Silver, and our Royal Dalton Primrose china. And what a spread! Papaya with lime wedges each carefully wrapped in small squares of cheese cloth and secured with a neatly tied piece of fine white string, shirred eggs, bacon and breakfast sausages, and toast.  Mother was not looking at me, nor had she said a word.  She sat there with the New York Times carefully elevated.  In short she was hiding.

            Know I knew what the problem was.  Angelo!  Her Sicilian cousin!  He had actually changed his mind and came to the dinner and Bible Study at the Whittington’s last night.

            Apparently what he had said to Mother was, “Anything for a laugh!”

            You can well imagine that I had some trepidation, but I will say that our group was most hospitable.  The only sticky moment was when Horace Whittington asked for prayer regarding a recent accident.  Someone without insurance had rear-ended his Aston Martin Lagonda and then tried to claim against Horace’s insurance.

            Angelo, always ready to grant a favour said, “You want I should to talk to Carlo Civello about ‘dis?  I can get it fixed.”

            “No, thank you,” said Horace; but let me make you an offer you can’t refuse.”  How about coming to Church with us on Sunday?”

            For a moment Angelo just looked stunned, then he muttered, “What do you think I am?”  Then he burst out laughing and said, “That’s a good one.  I’ll have to tell Carlo.”

            Horace was grinning from ear to ear, “Hey, we’d like to invite Carlo also.”

            Angelo was quick to say, “Nah, that won’t work, Carlo is Catholic.”

            Then Horace began laughing, and everybody, including Angelo began laughing; that is, everyone but Mother.  She was mortified.

            I looked across the breakfast table at Mother who was still hiding behind her New York Times.  “Now what will I do?” I asked myself.

            Just then the phone rang and Mother threw down the Times in exasperation and went to answer the phone.  I heard her say, “Oh, good morning Grace,” then she walked into the dining room where I couldn’t hear her.  About twenty minutes later she came back, looking considerably more relaxed and sat down.

            For a few minutes she busied herself with her papaya, then she looked up and said, “Well, Alfred, I suppose it’s going to be alright.  Did you know that Horace Whittington has a cousin who spent some time in jail for embezzling?  Grace said, ‘Don’t worry! Every family has its characters; and I’m glad you brought your cousin Angelo.’”

            Jesus said: “Whoever receives you receives me, and whoever receives me receives him who sent me” (Matthew 10:40).