The Silver Spoon

Mother carefully put down her Crown Princess Pattern silver teaspoon on the edge of her saucer and took a meditative sip from her Royal Windsor teacup.  “Did you know Alfred,” said she, “that I have spent most of my life looking for the finer things?”

“You and I, Mother,” said Alfred cautiously, “have always been appreciative of beauty and quality.”

“Yes, but it has begun to bother me just a little,” said Mother.  “Don’t misunderstand me, I still love the finer things, but there is such a thing as a sense of due proportion.”

Alfred took a minute to tamp some Captain Black tobacco into his new Meerschaum pipe.  After all, as Alfred says, “Pipe smoking is a hobby not a habit, and a useful hobby at that; it gives one time to think before responding in tricky situations.”

            Mother continued, “I think it all began when I was very young.  Growing up in the Talliaferro family was often difficult, and I have spent much of my life trying to live it down.”

            “Now, Mother,” said Alfred, “you know that has never been important to me.”

            “Yes, but Alfred, it has been important to some others.  Why, just the other day Mildred Hutchins looked down her very long nose at me and said, ‘I hear you’re Italian.’  She somehow had gotten wind of cousin Angelo’s visit to our group at Grace Whittington’s.”

            “I’m surprised it took that long to get around,” replied Alfred.  “Usually juicy tidbits go down very quickly.  But I wouldn’t let it bother you.”

            “But, Alfred,” said Mother, “Mildred Hutchins is such a gossip.”

            Alfred looked up at Mother and said, “Mildred has a mouth that could launch a thousand slips.  One of these times she will bite off more than she can chew.”

            Mother began to laugh, “I guess it isn’t really that important.  What really is important is whether or not my preoccupation with the finer things is really a good for me.  When I made Jesus my King on Christmas Eve something very important happened.  I may have been born a Talliaferro, but now I’m a child of the King.  That puts everything in a different perspective.”

             “It does, Mother, it does,” said Alfred.  “For a start, love has always been more important than things to both of us.  We have always appreciated the finer things, but we have appreciated love more.”

            “That is true, Alfred, thank you, and I’ve always counted on your love,” said Mother. “That makes me feel a little better, but still . . .”

            “Further, Mother,” said Alfred, “There is nothing wrong with the appreciation of quality and beauty.  There is a verse in Psalms that says, “Worship the LORD in the beauty of holiness.”[i]  Father Goodfellow says that refers to the fine garments of the priests in the Old Testament.  Our son Jeffrey gave me an interesting book the other day.  Let me get it.”

Alfred bustled off to his study and came back with a book in his hand. “Listen to this Mother, ‘The celebrant of the sacrament of joy will appear in a beautiful chasuble, because he is vested in the glory of the Kingdom, because even in the form of man God appears in glory.’”[ii] 

            “Oh, Alfred,” said Mother, “That’s wonderful; and now that I have my King I have discovered something else; a sense of awe.  I am in awe that I am loved, and that really makes me want to worship Him in the beauty of holiness.”

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[i] Psalm 96:9 KJV

[ii] Alexander Schmemann, For the Life of the World

The Christmas Dinner

            “I am undone,” said Mother, “utterly undone!”

            It was Christmas Day.  Alfred and Mother were sitting at the dining room table with their son Jeremy and his fiancé Winifred who had come home for Christmas.

            Mother continued, “I had no idea that it was anything more than just a pretty Christmas  story.”

            She paused and looked at Alfred who said, “Tell me more, Mother.  Tell me more.”

            “Well,” said Mother looking around the table to make sure she had everyone’s attention, “everything fell into place at last Sunday’s service of Carols and Lights.  To see the whole story of the birth of Christ laid out from the beginning to the end made so much sense.”

            She turned to Jeremy and said, “You asked me to read the New Testament, and I did; not once but several times.  I could almost see Jesus walking along the shore of the Galilean Sea with his disciples.  Excuse me, but at times they seemed like such a bunch of dummies.  Then it occurred to me that I was a bit of a dummy myself.”

            There was a hush around the table as Mother bore witness.  She said, “I couldn’t sleep last night so I arose and came down stairs, got my bible from the kitchen and sat by the Christmas tree.  The fire in the fireplace had burned low and I stirred it up and put another log on the fire.  It must have been apple wood; such a lovely fragrance. It was so quiet and so very pleasant.  As I sat there with my bible, rereading the Christmas Story in Luke, I remembered Father Goodfellow saying, ‘This Christmas, let the Christ be born in you,’ and I thought, ‘Why not?’  Then I prayed, and I said, ‘Are you there?’  You see, I wasn’t really sure.  Then a marvelous thing happened.  I knew, I just knew that He was, and I said, “Lord Jesus, be born in me.” and suddenly I felt I was enfolded in His love and His love was all around me.  It seemed to have happened is a moment of time so small I couldn’t wrap my hand around it, but I knew.  I just knew!  I needed a King and now I have one.”

            Alfred bowed his head in silent thanksgiving.  Jeremy and Winifred looked at Mother and beamed.

            “Alfred,” said Mother, “forgive me, I’ve been such an ass and I’ve given you such a hard time, but now I know.”

            “Mother,” said Alfred, “It’s alright, I have often been an ass myself, but I love you.  I have always loved you.”

            “Yes, Alfred,” said Mother, “I know that is true; both the constancy of your love and that occasionally you manage to be an ass, but I love you too.  Now, Alfred, if you will start to carve the standing rib roast, I’ll go to the kitchen.  The Yorkshire pudding should be ready.

The Diamond Jubilee Tea Set

            It was late afternoon and Mother and Alfred were sitting in the solarium looking out over the devastation in the garden.  Last week’s winter ice storm had killed the roses and the blossoms hung limply from their stems; no longer white and red, but faded yellow and dull pink.  But that was not what was bothering Mother.

            She sat there looking at the High Tea provided by Agnes Findlay, the Scottish Housekeeper.  Not that there was anything wrong with the High Tea.  What can be wrong about home-made scones, Devonshire Cream, and Black Currant Jelly?  And there was certainly nothing wrong with Whittard’s Ginger and Black Leaf Tea!  No, it wasn't that.

            It was the tea cup.  Not that there was anything wrong with the tea cup, after all who could fault a 1952 Queen Elizabeth II Coronation Tea Cup with its marvellous orange gold bone china?

            Mother was holding the tea cup up and looking at the picture of the young queen on the inside of the cup on the opposite side from where a right-handed person would sip.  “That, Alfred,” said Mother, “seems somewhat disrespectful. Pouring tea in a cup right up to the Queen’s crown is just a little odd.”

            A funny look crossed Alfred’s face.  He was never very good at keeping Christmas gifts secret, no matter how hard he tried, not that Mother was very good at that either.  Alfred heaved a sigh, and said, “Well, Mother, I have a Christmas gift for you that I have had tucked away since November.”  With that he scurried off and came back a moment later with a large box wrapped with Lady Rose paper and presented it to Mother.

            “Oh, Alfred,” said Mother, putting down the tea cup.  “What have you done?”

            Alfred put the box down on the table in front of Mother and she gingerly unwrapped the box.  It was labelled, “Royal Collection. Queen’s Jubilee Tea Set” and Alfred had actually had the forethought to remove the price; which is a good thing.

            Mother slowly unpacked the box and loving laid out each item on the table.  “Oh, Alfred,” she said, “how lovely, how very lovely.”

            “Well, Merry Christmas, Mother!” said Alfred.  “I never could keep a secret very well!”

            “Nor, could I,” said Mother.  Then Mother Picked up the Diamond Jubilee tea cup and looked at it thoughtfully for a minute.

            “Mother,” said Alfred, “I wish we had elected Queen Elizabeth II for President.  We would have had a lot less fractiousness in this country.”

            “You know what I wish for? Alfred,” said Mother, “what I wish for, what I really need, is a King for me, just like in that Christmas Card from Grace Whittington, ‘He is King of Kings, and Lord of Lords.’”

            “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.”[Isaiah 9:6].

            

Jesus Calling

         Mother and Alfred were sitting at the Sheraton table in the solarium on a bright sunny November morning.  All the roses they had picked before the frost warning had long since wilted and had been moved to the compost bin; nevertheless they still beheld the myriad of fragrant roses still blooming outside the solarium windows.

            Mother held a small leather bound volume in her hands.  A look of mild consternation and amusement crossed her face.  “Alfred?” she asked, “How can this author title the book ‘Jesus Calling’ when it’s all her own ideas?”

            Alfred put down the Wall Street Journal he was reading and asked, “Where on earth did you get that, Mother?”

            “Agnes Findlay loaned it to me.  She thought I might enjoy it,” said Mother.  Then she paused and added, “How can the author title it ‘Jesus Calling’?  It’s obviously her own thoughts.”

            “Well, Mother,” said Alfred, “there are a couple of possible answers.  She might have titled it ‘Jesus Calling’ because that was what she heard Jesus saying to her.  The other possibility is that she thinks that what she hears also applies to everyone else.”

            Mother gingerly put the little leather bound book down in the very center of the Sheraton table and said, “That’s just it Alfred.  She doesn’t know everybody and she doesn’t know me.”

            “Quite true, Mother,” said Alfred.  “You are unique and somewhat complicated.”

            Mother eyed him suspiciously and said, “Oh?”

            “I meant that as a compliment,” said Alfred.  “If you weren’t unique and somewhat complicated I wouldn’t have been attracted to you to start with.  As for ‘Jesus Calling’, if the shoe doesn’t fit don’t put it on.  What might be perfectly fine for other people isn’t necessarily fine for you.”

            “Oh, thank you, Alfred,” said Mother.  “That puts my heart at rest.  I’ll just thank Agnes and return to the book to her.  After all I wouldn’t expect her to like ‘The Godfather’ just because I do.”

            Alfred laughed, “Tua Família? Now that’s something I’m sure Agnes wouldn’t like at all.”

            Mother picked the book up off the table and gazed at the title for a minute.  She said in a soft voice, “Jesus Calling?” She put it back down thoughtfully on the table and said,  “Jesus Calling.” “I suppose in a way he is.”

            “Yes, certainly Mother,” said Alfred, “in so many ways and each of them unique to each one us.”

“Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and eat with him, and he with me” (Revelation 3:20).   

The Butter Tarts

            “Ever since the advent of Agnes Findlay Mother has been doing a lot less cooking, but there is something about the holiday season that has Mother stirred up.  Right now she is in the kitchen baking butter tarts,” said Alfred to Horace Whittington on the phone. “Now, I love butter tarts and Mother tells me that she has a fine old Canadian Recipe and she is determined to provide us with a special treat.”

It was mid-afternoon on Tuesday and Alfred put down the phone and picked up his Edinburgh Crystal Sherry glass and took a sip.   “Very fine,” he thought to himself. I do enjoy a little Manzanilla Sherry from Andalucia.”

            Just then he heard Mother slam down a mixing spoon on the counter in the kitchen and give a small disconcerted moan.  That in turn was followed by some mild but colorful language on the part of Mother.  “So much for reading,” said Alfred, and headed toward the kitchen.

            Mother was standing there with a large Homer Laughlin mixing bowl and a look of utter frustration on her face.  “Oh, Alfred,” said she, “Whatever will I do?  The recipe is for 48 butter tarts, and I wanted to double the recipe, but I made a mistake.  I tripled the amount of vinegar instead of doubling it.  Math was never my strong point. ”

            “Well,” said Alfred, looking at the recipe on the counter, “Why don’t you add another 3 tablespoons of vinegar, then double the other ingredients.”

            “Oh, Alfred, do you think that will work?” said Mother.  She quickly began to add the necessary ingredients while Alfred watched..

            “Oh, Oh, Mother.” said Alfred, “you might have done it again.”

            “Alfred! I need some help!” said Mother.

            “Well, let me see what we can do,” said Alfred, looking over the recipe again.  Together the two of them began adding ingredients.  At last they stepped back and looked at the mixture.’

            “I don’t know Alfred,” said Mother, “We may have done it again.”

            “Well, Mother,” said Alfred, “let me get my calculator.” 

Very carefully Mother and Alfred, added, and added and mixed and mixed.  At last Mother said, “I think we have got it, but that seems like an awful lot of tart filling.  What do you think, Alfred?”

“Let me see,” said Alfred, punching a few numbers into his calculator, “That ought to make 384 butter tarts. That’s a lot of butter tarts! It’s a good thing you have a couple of extra tart pans and racks.”

Mother laughed, “That’s the first mistake I’ve ever made.  I hope you like butter tarts.”

“I do, Mother, I do, but even I couldn’t eat 384 butter tarts.  We will have to give some away.”

“I know,” said Mother, “Alfred, you can bring some to Choir Practice tomorrow night, and we can give some to the Whittington’s.”

“That’s a good idea, Mother,” said Alfred enthusiastically, “and I can bring some to the office; but even at that we will still have way too many left over.”

Mother paused, then she said shyly, “We could bring some to our new neighbours next door.  I really do feel rather badly about the reception we gave them when they first moved in.  I’m so glad that she didn’t get as badly hit in the rump with that load of rock salt as I thought she had.  Still, I’m mortally embarrassed.” ¹

“That’s a good idea, Mother said Alfred, “It’s time we were just a little more gentle in the way we treat people.”

"You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself." (Luke 10:27).

¹See episode 2, A Shot in the Dark http://motherandalfred.blogspot.com/

Cold Snap

“Well, Mother,” said Alfred, “the weather is supposed to turn and we are going to have a cold snap; the temperature is going down to 20 degrees tonight.”

Mother looked around.  Every vase in the house was filled with the last roses of the season.  White English Alba Roses and the pink David Austin Rose, the Red Veteran’s Honor and the Yellow Floribunda Rose, and so many more; all the beautiful roses spilling out from Mother’s Raffaello and Laleek Vases, each vase and bouquet of roses more beautiful than the next.  Many of the potted plants had been brought in and placed on the Caravan Chelsea Iron 5 Tier Baker’s Racks in the Solarium.  The effect was stunning and luxurious.

“It certainly does look cheerful in here, but it is also a little sad, said Mother.  “Just think about how the frost will wither the myriad of lovely blossoms and roses that we have had to leave outside.”  Then she brightened a little, “But, Alfred; while it might get cold, it’s just as likely not to get quite that cold.  The Dallas News Station weathermen have been wrong before; it seems that they spend half their time just living in hope that the weather will be exciting; sort of gives them some meaning for life.”

“Quite right, Mother,” said Alfred, “but at least we are set for the winter weather, if there is any winter weather, after all, it is Dallas.”

“Well, Alfred,” said Mother when the next morning came, “The worst that can be said is that the remaining pansies in the pots outdoors look a little limp,  but the roses have survived the cold snap splendidly.  If anything they seem to enjoy the cooler weather and their magnificent blooms are thriving in the moderately chilly air.”

“There is an analogy here, Mother,” said Alfred.

Mother looked warily at Alfred, “And what might that be?”

“It’s rather like love relationships,” replied Alfred.  “We know that Spring always follows Winter, and Summer always follows Spring.  The moderate days of Autumn are sometimes host to periodic cold snaps, harbingers of winter winds.  But in Autumn there are also days of halcyon warmth, of Indian Summer.  All lovers go through cold snaps, but if their basic commitment is sound, the warmth always returns.”

“You know, Alfred, that is rather beautiful when I think about it,” said Mother.  Some people would rather live in a moderate tropic zone where the weather if always 80, but I much prefer a change of seasons.  That’s one difficulty with Texas.  We could use a good hard freeze, not that one is desirable in love relationships.  But you know what I mean.”

“You are right, Mother,” said Alfred, “I think that there is something both suspicious and monotonous with relationships that never have ups and downs.  That’s what old Screwtape meant when he referred to the principle of undulation and wrote, ‘If you had watched your patient carefully you would have seen this undulation in every department of his life—his interest in his work, his affection for his friends, his physical appetites, all go up and down.’  That same principle applies to our love relationships, to our marriage, and to our relationship with God” [Screwtape Letters, Ch. 8].

“Well,” said Mother, laughing, “That is actually a relief.  Sometimes if things get too warm for me, I find myself cooling off immediately after.”

“Well, I know,” Mother, said Alfred, “Well, I know.”

“Why are you cast down, O my soul, and why are you in turmoil within me? Hope in God; for I shall again praise him, my salvation and my God” (Psalm 42:5-6).  

Impressionists: The Artists of Light

Mary Cassatt: Children Playing with a Cat

            It was after the Sunday morning service and Mother and Alfred were at home.  Alfred had retired to his study with a cup of Lapsang Souchong tea and the latest issue of the American Art Review.  He was gazing at a Mary Cassatt painting of Children Playing with a Cat.   “How beautiful,” he thought, “the way that the Impressionists captured light and managed to convey the beauty of creation.”

            Suddenly he became aware of undue noise emanating from the kitchen.  Mother was banging things around, slamming doors, and muttering to herself.  Pippa the frou-frou dog came scurrying out of the kitchen and took refuge under Alfred’s mahogany 19th Century Partner's Library Desk.

            “Oh, Oh,” said Alfred,” I thought Mother was unusually taciturn on the way back from Church. She’s obviously in a foul mood.”  He drank the last of his Lapsang Souchong and headed for the kitchen.

“Well? Mother?” he asked inquisitively, “What is going on?”

            “That Mildred Hutchins, what a witch!  She did nothing but complain about Father Goodfellow’s treatment of Ima Hatchett.  You know as well as I do what kind of trouble Ima was causing in the Choir.  You wouldn’t think that the Altar Guild was a place for complaining.  It quite spoiled my first day of serving on the Guild.”

            “The problem with Church, Mother,” said Alfred, “is that it’s made up of people.”

            Mother shook her head, “Well, you are absolutely right Alfred.  People can really spoil things for others.  If it wasn’t for Grace Whittington, I would have just dropped everything, quit, and headed home.  But Grace, bless her heart, just said, ‘Mildred, I don’t feel that way about it.’  But Mildred couldn’t take the hint and just continued grousing; but you know me Alfred, I’m not meek and mild.  When I got my breath back I said, ‘Stow it, Mildred! No-one wants to listen to you complaining.’  Well, Mildred was furious and went storming out, but not before saying, ‘You’re new.  What would you know about it?’ I’m still angry.  She’s an awful woman.  Isn’t there a verse in Proverbs that says something like, ‘A cheerful heart makes a good medicine, but a grousing spirit rots the bones,’[i] or something like that.  Even if it’s not there, it ought to be.

            “Mother, I quite understand,” said Alfred, putting down his tea cup on the counter. “I was just looking over my copy of American Art Review and it occurred to me that some artists see light and beauty, but others seen things bent and warped and paint parables of misery and darkness.  They must be very small and miserable inside.  Mildred must be a very unhappy miserable woman.”

            “What misery is, misery does,” replied Mother, “and I have no desire to be like her.  Seeing light and beauty is a decision, and as for me I want to be on the side of light.”

"The eye is the lamp of the body. So, if your eye is healthy, your whole body will be full of light,  but if your eye is bad, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light in you is darkness, how great is the darkness! (Matthew 6:22-23).

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[i] Proverbs 17:22  “A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.”