Zoot!

“Well, I don’t know, Mother,” said Alfred looking down at his new Zoot Ultra Kalani 3.0 running shoes. “I know I need to exercise, but when I get right down to it, it’s very hard to start.”

“A man, must do, what a man must do,” said Mother unsympathetically. “I’m going to Gloria’s Golden Spa instead. You won’t catch me wobbling around the streets.”

“You know, Mother,” replied Alfred, “My Pater was never much for exercising; I always addressed him as Pater, which as you know is Latin for Father. He always said, “If God intended man to exercise He’s have given man better knees.”

“Excuse me for saying it, Alfred,” said Mother, “but your Father wasn’t exactly the paragon of physical perfection.”

“That is really unkind, Mother,” said Alfred huffily.

“Well, it’s the truth,” said Mother. “Any man who thought that a cigar and shot of John Jamison a day would keep the doctor away, isn’t destined to be a model of athleticism.”

“Too true, Mother, too true,” said Alfred. “But I do wish he had lived longer. I remember his one foray into physical conditioning.  General Mountebank at the Officers Club had recommended the Royal Air Force Dynamic Tension Exercise System to him, not that General Mountebank ever exercised himself.  Pater wrote off for the booklet and began a program of exercise. It lasted for about a month, and Pater lost interest in it and it went by the wayside.”

Alfred stood up, stretched, attempted to touch his toes, then headed for the door. Twenty minutes passed. Mother took another sip of Earl Grey tea, and turned to the International Section of the morning paper, and muttered, “You would think that nothing happened in the world that was more important than the World Cup.”

The front door slammed. Alfred came in and stood by the front table, puffing and blowing. “Mother,” he said, “Pater had a point. Man’s knees aren’t made for running; nor for that matter, man’s lungs. I might have to give up smoking.”

Mother raised her eyebrows, but said nothing, which for Mother was an accomplishment.

Alfred, picked up a Special Reserve Churchill Cigar and regarded it wistfully, then put it back down unlit. “You know Mother,” said he, “my health might be more important than small pleasures. But it’s very difficult to come to the point. This morning as I was reading the Psalms and I received a bit of a jolt. “The years of our life are seventy, or even by reason of strength eighty” [Psalm 90:10]. That is not something I usually like to think about.

Mother put the morning paper down and regarded Alfred thoughtfully. Finally she said, “Alfred, sometimes one needs to walk before one starts to run. Perhaps what you should do is get a physical trainer?”

“Now that’s an idea, Mother,” said Alfred, “But what about you?”

Mother quickly picked up the paper, opened it, and hid behind it, muttering. It was her morning for muttering. “Alfred,” said she, “I’m younger than you.”

“Yes, I know Mother; you have reminded me of that more than once, but after all what’s good for the gander is good for the goose.”

“Therefore lift your drooping hands and strengthen your weak knees, and make straight paths for your feet, so that what is lame may not be put out of joint but rather be healed” [Hebrews 12:12-13].

Bloom Where You Are Planted

“It seems to me, Mother,” said Alfred, “that I had just no idea of the amount of turmoil there was in the Episcopal Church when we first joined St. Fiacre’s.”

“That’s the truth, Alfred,” said Mother, “nor had I expected the turmoil that has been caused by people like Ima Hatchett and Moana Crutchley. Gossip and backbiting is really tiresome. I might complain about them to you, but that’s safe. I’m not going to compound the problems by joining in the fracas.”

“Well, Mother,” said Alfred, “I don’t really find them easy to deal with either. The press and the internet just love to pick up negative stuff and run with it. Have you ever noticed the artificial excitement of news commentators when they are puffing up the next juicy tidbit?”

“Alfred,” said Mother, “It just goes to show: Never do anything wrong on a slow news day. Sure enough you will end up hitting the headlines.”

Alfred replied, “The complainers in the parish and the commentators on larger church affairs are all cut from the same bolt of cloth. It’s a power thing. Sometimes they are right, and sometimes they are wrong; but whether right or wrong they just stir up fears and stress in those who listen to them.”

“What can we do, Alfred? What can we do?” said Mother.

“Put things in perspective, Mother,” said Alfred. First, as for those on the parish level, whatever we do, we can’t give them credence. If we don’t like what they are saying we can choose to ignore it, or when the time is right just say ‘I don’t feel that way about it.’ If we play the game with them, they win, and we only end up being upset.

“There’s really nothing new under the sun,” said Alfred, picking up a book from his desk. “I was reading Alfred Plummer’s, The Church of England in the Eighteenth Century, the other day. Listen to what he has to say, In 1771 some clergy petitioned Parliament in England because they wanted to abolish the traditional teaching of the Church. Edmund Burke, a member of Parliament replied,

“These gentlemen complain of hardships: … They want to be preferred clergymen of the Church of England …; but their consciences will not suffer them to conform to the doctrines and practices of that Church.  … They want to be teachers in a Church to which they do not belong; and it is an odd sort of hardship.  They want to be paid for teaching one set of doctrines, whilst they are teaching another.”

“Our parish is named after St. Fiacre, the patron saint of gardeners,” said Alfred, “Instead of pulling up our roots to go look for better soil, we should work on cultivating our own spiritual garden and bloom where we are planted. There has always been stress in the Church because the Church is made up of people. But the poet John Donne put things in the right perspective when he said,’ The Scriptures are God’s voyce; the Church is His eccho.’ The denial of the authority of Holy Scripture leads to confusion and spiritual despair.

“Everyone who comes to me and hears my words and does them, I will show you what he is like: he is like a man building a house, who dug deep and laid the foundation on the rock. And when a flood arose, the stream broke against that house and could not shake it, because it had been well built” [Luke 6:47-48]. 

Murder Will Out

           “You know, Alfred,” said Mother, “I really love reading English Mystery stories, certainly Agatha Christie and her stories about Hercule Poirot, and the inimitable Miss Marple. On a more erudite level I enjoy reading the Lord Peter Wimsey stories by Dorothy Sayers. Lately I have discovered P. D. James and her detective Adam Dalgleish.

The odd thing is that the Church of England forms the background for each of these writers. Not only that, but they breath the very air of England. But there is something about each of these mystery writers and their stories that leaves me a little unsettled.”

“Why is that, Mother,” asked Alfred?

“Well, Alfred, it’s this. Often you can tell just who is going to be murdered. You might not know who the murderer is, but to borrow a word from one of these mysteries, you can tell who the “murderee” is going to be, you know, the one who is about to be murdered. I find myself thinking, ‘That person is so nasty and troublesome they really deserve to be killed; and sure enough they are.”

“I know what you mean, Mother,” said Alfred, “but that raises a moral question. Is it right to say Mr. X is such a bad fellow that he ought to be done away with? But then, on the other hand, Mr. X really is a bad fellow who is destroying the lives of others and making everybody else miserable.”

“That is exactly my point, Alfred,” said Mother. “I’ve been reading ‘A Certain Justice,” by P. D. James. The murderee is a brash obnoxious woman who is just nasty to everyone. When she is murdered I think, “Well, she won’t cause any more trouble, and there is no end of people who have a motive to murder her. On the other hand I’m aware that someone will have to pay for murdering her. It’s odd. It seems to be an act of justice that she is killed, but at the same time someone will have to be hanged for it.”

“One of the benefits of these stories, Mother,” said Alfred, “is that each of these writers has a strong sense of moral accountability that not only affirms that there is right and wrong, but that justice ought to be done. I might point out Mother, that accountability is not very popular today. We have quite a few people who are of the opinion that a savage murderer ought to be treated with mercy, and perhaps even be paroled back into society.”

Alfred continued, “Jesus, Himself, embraces the law and at the same time makes us look deeper at its meaning.”

"You have heard that it was said to those of old, 'You shall not murder; and whoever murders will be liable to judgment.' But I say to you that everyone who is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment; whoever insults his brother will be liable to the council; and whoever says, 'You fool!' will be liable to the hell of fire Matthew 5:21-22].

“Ouch!” said Mother. I guess that means that I had better lighten up on the antics of that magic mouth Moana Crutchley! Murdering her with my mouth really only makes me upset. ”

Alfred sighed, “You are probably right Mother. When she starts her stuff, I suppose that the appropriate thing to do is ignore it, or tell her forthrightly, but kindly, that we disagree with her.

“Not only that, Alfred,” said Mother, “but I think I had better add her to my prayer list instead of getting angry.”

Summer Is A Coming In

Summer is a-coming in

Loudly sing cuckoo

Groweth seed and bloweth mead

and springs the wood anew

Sing cuckoo! [Anon. 13^th C].

            “There is something delicious, Mother, about early summer,” said Alfred. “The trees are alive with a thousand shades of green; green with hues of yellow, purple, red, and even hazy blue in early morning. The roses are already in full bloom, the Grandiflora and the Granny Grimmets in glorious color.”

            “Right you are, Alfred,” said Mother. “Do you remember the old poem Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May by Robert Herrick?”

            “Ah, yes,” said Alfred, “but to you remember what it actually says?”

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old time is still a-flying:

And this same flower that smiles to-day

To-morrow will be dying.

Mother laughed, “Certainly, Alfred, but do you remember what it applies to? It’s advice to young virgins to get married before they age and the bloom is off the rose. Neither of us are young and I suspect that for us the bloom is already off the rose.”

“Mother,” said Alfred, “There is another way of looking at it.  There is an old saying, “Yesterday is a cancelled check, and tomorrow is only a promissory note, and all we really have is today.” In the day we have we should stop to enjoy the roses. There are so many things in this wonderful world. Too often people focus on the glum and even frightening things.”

“That’s a shame, Alfred,” said Mother. “When there are so many things to rejoice in, not only in the flowers of the field.”

“Nor the forests green,” said Alfred.

“Nor the lofty mountains capped with snow,” answered Mother.

“Nor the mighty rolling ocean waves,” answered Alfred.

There are other wonders to rejoice in,” said Mother. “There is the beauty of young lovers holding hands in the park, and the laughter of little children.”

“Yes,” said Alfred, “and don’t forget the beauty of old well weathered love that has withstood the ravages of time.”

“There are so many beautiful things, Alfred,” said Mother. “We should make it a practice to enjoy beauty wherever we find it.”

“Yes, said Alfred, “We should make it a conscious point to revel in the beauty of the world around us.”

“Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things” [Philippians 4:8].

Alfred’s Memorial Day

            The air in Alfred’s study was blue with the fragrant smoke of Captain Black from his English Estate Ashton Old Church Bent Billiard. Mother came in fanning the air with her copy of Southern Living magazine.

            “What is going on, Alfred,” said Mother? “I thought you had given up smoking for Lent.”

            “You are right, Mother. I did,” growled Alfred, “but Lent is over.”

            “Surely that’s not all,” said Mother. “What else is going on?”

            “Well Mother,” said Alfred, “Memorial Day is this Monday, and I was thinking of my uncle Ainsley Montrose. You never knew him, and I barely did. It was late in 1941 and the newly constructed Rainbow Bridge at Niagara Falls had just been completed. Uncle Ainsley flew his Mustang fighter plane under the Rainbow Bridge and a family legend was born. Unfortunately Ainsley didn’t make it through the war and he was lost somewhere over Germany. A lot of good men have died defending our country.”

            “Has there ever been a time when there wasn’t a war going on somewhere,” asked Mother?

            “Not really,” answered Alfred, “and most of the time in the last few centuries it seems like we have been involved in whatever scrap is going on anywhere in the world. That’s really nothing new. Jesus said, ‘You will hear of wars and rumors of wars. See that you are not alarmed, for this must take place, but the end is not yet’ [Matthew 24:6]. There is such a thing as right and wrong. The trick is, not to be on the side of what is evil in the world. It’s not as simple as just defending one’s country; it’s more complicated. What we need to defend is the cause of truth and justice. It’s not just who oppresses us, but who oppresses our neighbor; especially when he can’t defend himself.”

            “A lot of people really don’t think that Christians should be involved in conflict in other parts of the world,” said Mother, “but it seems to me that if we don’t fight terrorists overseas we will end up fighting them here anyway.”

            “You are quite correct Mother,” said Alfred. “The poet John Donne said,

No man is an island, Entire of itself, Every man is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manor of thy friend's Or of thine own were: Any man's death diminishes me, Because I am involved in mankind, And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.

“For rulers are not a terror to good conduct, but to bad. Would you have no fear of the one who is in authority? Then do what is good, and you will receive his approval, for he is God's servant for your good. But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword in vain. For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God's wrath on the wrongdoer” [Romans 13:3-4].  

“Mother,” said Alfred, “I do like bread.” He cut a thick slice of bread from the warm and fragrant loaf of honey whole wheat bread on the table. “There is nothing quite s0 satisfying to the taste as a slab of fresh bread smeared with Pure Irish Kerrygold Butter. Add a dollop of Follain Gooseberry Jam and you have a fair treat fit for the kings or the pixies.”

Mother looked up from her copy of the English Garden Magazine and said, “Alfred, I think you are quite right.” She put her magazine down, looked at Alfred and said, “Share and share alike!”

Alfred cut another generous slice of honey whole wheat bread, slathered some Irish butter on, and added the required dollop of gooseberry jam, before saying, “It wasn’t always this easy to get a tasty loaf of bread. Before the beginning of the last century the breaking of bread was a time consuming task for the woman of the house.”

Mother interjected, “Thank goodness those days are past! I would rather putter around in the garden than in the kitchen, and I so appreciate having Agnes Findlay as our housekeeper. That has been absolutely marvelous; it gives me more time to putter where I want to putter.”

“You are most welcome Mother,” said Alfred, “and I must say that I hadn’t bargained on a housekeeper who was a wonderful baker. Why, I remember when my own mother began to buy bread from the baker who came to the kitchen door of our home. Down the walk he would come carrying a wire basket laden with a choice of white bread and brown bread, crumpets and Eccles Cakes.  Now the crumpets and Eccles Cakes were quite fine, but the bread left a lot to be desired. It was made from chemically bleached flour in a sanitary factory, and it tasted like chemically bleached bread. That is to say, it had hardly any taste at all.”

“I know what you mean, Alfred,” said Mother. “My mother would go to the Italian bakery near our house and come home with a loaf, or two, of pagnotta. It was very good bread, but when she didn’t do that she came home from the grocery store with a loaf of Bond Bread. Even though Bond Bread sponsored Hopalong Cassidy it was still tasteless compared with the pagnotta.”

“That reminds me, Mother,” said Alfred, “Talking about tasteless, I’ve been thinking about the little round crackers that we get for communion. The best that can be said is that when the priest’s breaks the host at the Fraction it makes a satisfying snap. Other than that it’s not really a taste treat.”

“Since I began serving on the Altar Guild, I’ve discovered a few interesting things,” said Mother. “I’m sure the basic reason is practicality, especially when you consider that communion bread should be made of fine white flour, pure water, yeast, and salt. Those are the same ingredients that you find in the Bible. No yeast, no whole wheat, no honey, no oils. The emphasis should be on what it represents, not on whether or not it would be good with Irish butter and gooseberry jam.”

“Well, Mother, “I suppose you’re right, but still!?”

“I know! I know, Alfred,” said Mother, “but from an Altar Guild perspective a loaf of honey whole wheat would be very hard to manage, and you would have crumbs all over the place.”

“The Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said, "This is my body which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me” [1 Corinthians 11:23-24].

Trenching Celery

            “Well, Mother, trenching celery may be the best method of growing celery,” said Alfred, “but how deep does this trench need to be?”

            “According to Medwyn’s of Anglesley,” said Mother, “the trench needs to be 12 inches deep and 18 inches wide. We will need a trench about twenty feet long. That Stewart Thermostatic Seed Propogator we purchased has given us a lovely array of seedlings.”

            “That is a lot of digging, Mother,” said Alfred. “Let me see the illustration again.” Alfred looked over the illustration and the directions carefully “Oh, I see. We are to plant the seedlings on a bed of mulch and manure in the bottom of the trench, as the young plants begin to grow we add more soil. Then three or four weeks before harvest we completely fill the trench and build the soil up around the celery. That seems awfully complicated.”

            “That is supposed to keep the celery stalks from turning dark green and reduce the amount of stringy fibers,” said Mother.

            “You do know, Mother,” said Alfred, “that when the celery begins to ripen, that there will be an awful lot of celery. I certainly hope that you do love celery.”

            “I do, Alfred. I do,” said Mother, “but not that much. When the celery is ready, we will certainly eat some of it; but I have a plan for the rest of it. I was looking for a way to serve the Lord by serving others, and I thought that giving it away at church would be a novel idea. And it’s something that you and I can do together.”

            Alfred laughed, “You mean my brawn and your brains?”

            “Exactly,” said Mother. “and there is something else that I’m going to do. With each bunch of celery I’m going to give a tub of homemade crab and cream cheese filling for the celery. I thought that would be rather special.”

            “Do you have any idea who you are going to give it to?” asked Alfred.

            “Certainly I’m going to give some our Bible Study group at the Whittingtons, and to our Organist Choirmaster William Weaver, and of course some to Father Goodfellow, and the Altar Guild, and if there is enough, I’ll give some to any visitors that we have in Church that Sunday.”

            “Have you thought, Mother, of giving some to Moana Crutchley.”

            “Yes, Alfred, I have thought about that. She might complain about it, but I thought that I would give some to her and let that be her problem.”

            “Mother, that’s commendable,” said Alfred.

            “Well, Alfred,” said Mother, “at our Bible Study at the Whittington’s last week we were looking at 2 Timothy, and one verse just stuck in my mind, “The Lord's servant must not be quarrelsome but kind to everyone, able to teach, patiently enduring evil” [2 Timothy 2:24].