Alfred Twiddles His Thumbs

Cold Pork Pie

            “It is not good for man to be alone,”[i] said Alfred reflectively; the problem being that Mother had gone away for a three day personal retreat with Grace Whittington at Magnolia Blossom Spa.  The Scottish housekeeper Agnes Findlay had left Alfred, at his request, with a lovely slab of cold pork pie, some sweet gherkin pickles and a generous slice of Cheshire Cheese.  Alfred carried his tray out to the ornamental iron table in the back garden and provided himself with a bottle of Guinness.  Pippa the frou-frou dog was lying at his feet under the table. 

Truth be told both Alfred and Pippa were moping because Mother had gone away.  Alfred sat back in his chair with his elbows resting on the arms of his chair and his hands slightly raised in front of him with the tips of his fingers touching.  He looked down.  “Oh, no!” he said aloud.  He was actually twiddling his thumbs.

He thought to himself, “I really don’t do ‘alone’ very well. ‘ It’s not good for a man to be alone’, and it is certainly not good for me to be alone either.”  He reached down under the table and gave Pippa the last piece of Cheshire Cheese, took up his tray and headed for the kitchen.

Alfred had a long standing habit of rising before Mother and generally treasured a time of solitude at the beginning of the day.  In the last few months he had begun to read from the Book of Psalms along with a reading from the Old Testament or an Epistle, and always a reading from the four Gospels.

That was all well and good but Alfred was not a recluse and he needed company, particularly Mother’s company even more than he needed those early morning times of solitude.  He went into his study, picked up the phone and dialed the number for Horace Whittington.  It rang and rang and rang, and in the end he put the phone down, sat down in his Churchill Barcalounger, turned on his Samsung UNF3000 television and idly scrolled down through the selection of available programming. 

He frowned, “No matter how excellent the TV, it is still the same old programming.”  He finally settled on a PBS program on Royal Palaces.  He watched for a few minutes, then turned it off again.  It only made him think of Mother.  Just the kind of program she loved.  He called Pippa and ambled back out into the quiet of the garden.

It was there that a very unusual thing began to happen.  He felt a presence, not just any presence, but the Presence of Him who had died for him and rose again. The night sky with its myriad of stars shone brightly in the garden.  The garden seemed packed quite full with love as Love Himself came and filled the very place where Alfred and Pippa stood together.  Love in all His warmth and freshness came filling the very air that Alfred breathed; and as he breathed, that Love above all other loves, entered in.   It was strong hands upon his shoulders.  He was enfolded, loved, calmed.  

He thought of that line from the Book of Psalms, “You strengthen me more and more; you enfold and comfort me.”[ii]  It was good, very good!  But he still missed Mother.  Thank goodness she would be back tomorrow afternoon.       

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[i] Genesis 2:18

[ii] Psalm 71:21 BCP

Sing to the Lord a New Song

From the other room Alfred hears the voice of Mother raised in song, “Sing to the Lord a new song,* for he has done marvelous things.”  He picks up his Namiki Falcon fountain pen and begins to inscribe a sonnet in his Moleskin notebook; which for Alfred is much wiser than rushing in where angels fear to tread.

Is This the Sound of Singing That I Hear?

Is this the sound of singing that I hear?

A sweet melody lights upon my ear;

Melodious notes floating in the air,

Oh sweet joy now joyous beyond compare.

How I tremble lest I should dissemble

And by too ready hope disassemble

Pulling petals from the rose ere it may bloom

In my eagerness to try its sweet perfume.

How patiently we must meekly stand and wait

While grace alone determines another’s fate.

To surrender even now my own true hope

And not intrude beyond my proper scope.

For my eager heart might too rashly act,

And kill the blossom by a lack of tact.

Having so far restrained himself, Alfred sat back in his chair, tamped some Captain Black into his Meerschaum pipe, lit it, and blew one perfect smoke ring in the air and thought of Biblo Baggins sitting on his bench outside Bag End in Hobbiton.  Then he recalled the advice of Gildor the Elf lord to Frodo, “It is not wise to meddle in the affairs of wizards.” It occurred to Alfred that it really wasn’t wise to meddle in the affairs of the Spirit of Grace either; especially where Mother was concerned.

Agnes Findlay appeared at the door of his study with a tea tray and a small plate of McVities Digestive Biscuits, “Ach!” she said, “I dinna ken, when I’ve heard the Missus quite so happy.”

“You are right, Agnes,” said Alfred, “But I dare not spoil the mood by being over inquisitive.  I’ve discovered that it’s sometimes better to let things rest a while before intruding.”

“You’re right about that, Colonel,” answered Agnes.  “It’s like making tea.  It takes patience.  First you measure the tea, one teaspoon for each cup and one for the Brown Betty, then you start to bring the water to a boil, swirl a little in the bottom of the Brown Betty, pour it out, and while the water is just coming to a boil you pour it in the pot.  Then you wait.”  Too much haste and you will spoil the tea.”

“So right you are Agnes,” said Alfred.  “Sometimes we spoil another’s mood by rushing in before due time.”

Mother appeared at the door humming “Jesu, Jesu, Fill Us With Your Love,” then she broke off saying, “That was a wonderful choir hymn sing and party here last night Alfred.  And Father Goodfellow’s wife Cecilia is a dear.  Grace Whittington and I had such a lovely talk with her after the hymn sing.  I’m so glad we joined the parish.”

“Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good, for his steadfast love endures for ever.” Psalm 136:1

           

Live and Let Live?

Lalique Jamaique Ashtray

“You know, Alfred,” said Mother, “There are two things that are very important to me; being right, and having everything right around me.”

Alfred looked up suspiciously at Mother and thought to himself, “I wonder where Mother is going with this?”  Before him was his collection of fine pipes, a Lalique Jamaique Ashtray, his Rodgers Rosewood Chancet pipe knife, and a small pile of chenille pipe cleaners.  Alfred always thought pipe smoking was more of a hobby than a habit.

He put down the Ashton Bent Billiard Briar pipe he was cleaning and said, “Yes, Mother, but life isn’t always that simple.”

“Yes, I know, Alfred,” said Mother, “and that is why I have made a new resolve.  I have decided to live and let live.”

“Well, Mother,” said Alfred, “that’s very handsome, but it seems to me that it’s easier said than done; at least I find it so.  The ‘live’ part is easy and I think we do that rather well, although there are times when I wonder if we don’t do it too well.  But the ‘let live’ part is very difficult.  Just how do you mean ‘let live’?  That flies in the very face of the need to have everything right around us.”

“Well,” snapped Mother, “Anyway that’s my resolve, and I mean to keep it.”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand me,” said Alfred.  “I think it’s a fine resolve and even one that I might embrace myself.  Sometimes I find it difficult putting up with our dog Pippa.  I found her wandering around with one of my Red Velvet Albert Slippers in her mouth this morning.”

“Oh, say it isn’t so, Alfred,” said Mother laughing.”

“It certainly is so,” huffed Alfred. “I paid $235.00 for them and I don’t want Pippa chewing on them.”

“Alfred,” said Mother crossly, “that’s not the worst thing that could happen.”

Alfred thought for a minute then said, “There seems to be another problem with your resolve.  By ‘let live,’ do you mean we have no responsibility for others around us?”

“No, of course not Alfred,” said Mother.  “It’s just that I have resolved not to let little things bother me.  Everything doesn’t have to be perfect.  Sometimes good enough is good enough.”

“Mother, that’s quite a step,” said Alfred, picking up his Damiano Rovera briar and gently reaming out the bowl with his pipe knife.  Then he finished by running a chenille pipe cleaner through the stem. 

“That’s better,” said Alfred, tamping some Captain Black tobacco into the bowl and lighting it up with a sigh.

Mother watched as some sparks flew up from the pipe and faded in the air.  A fine white ash descended gently to the table top.  Mother pursed her lips, then finally blurted out, “Alfred, I know that’s a very fine pipe, but I can’t help thinking that pipe smoking is a very nasty habit.  Just the other day I threw out one of your Golden Fleece dress shirts.  One of the sparks from your pipe had burnt a hole right in the front pocket, but I said to myself ‘Live and let live!” but it did annoy me, and just look at that mess in the ash tray.”

Alfred looked at Mother and raised his eyebrows, “That is unfortunate Mother, I will try to be a little more careful; but it so very difficult for either of us to ‘live and let live.’’

“Alfred.  Enough!  I don’t want to talk about it anymore!” said Mother.

“Surely there is not a righteous man on earth who does good and never sins” (Eccles. 7:20).

The Niceties of Tea

A Tea Field in Uganda

“Now, that is a fine cup of tea, Mother,” said Alfred,” what kind is it?”

“That is Taylors of Harrogate Yorkshire Tea,” said Mother, “that they also make Yorkshire Red and Yorkshire Gold Tea.  Both are similar to this one, but this is their standard tea.  Even though it is not the most expensive, it is the one best suited for our water,”

“I couldn’t help noticing Mother, that you always pour your milk in the cup before the tea, whilst I always pour it in after the tea; that make you a pre-lactarian, and me a post-lactarian.”

“Oh, Alfred, said Mother, “it probably doesn’t make any difference.  Mildred McCauley pours the milk in before the tea because she doesn’t want the hot tea to crack the china cup.  Just between you and me, I think she had better buy better tea cups.  I commented to Mildred that she was obviously a pre-lactarian.  She looked at me indignantly and retorted, ‘I am not!  I’m Church of England!’”

“Oh Mildred,” said Alfred laughing, “What would she know about tea?  If you ask her what time it is she would probably answer, “Wednesday.’”

“That reminds me Alfred,” said Mother, “that Peter Goyle made an odd reference the other night at Bible study.  I thought he was talking about tea, but I think I might not have heard him correctly.’

“What did  he say, Mother?”

“Well, he made some remark about Calvinists arguing about Prelapsarian and Postlapsarian points of view.”

“I know, Mother, I know,” replied Alfred, “then he got off on Supralapsarianism and Infralapsarianism.  Peter can be quite tiresome at times.  I have no idea at all what he meant.  Horace Whittington can be quite witty.  He turned to Peter and remarked, ‘Peter, do your best to eschew obfuscation![i]’ then he changed the subject.  Good thing to!  I like Peter, but really!  He has a great deal of left over Presbyterianism in him.  But I did ask Horace later what Peter was referring to.

“Horace said, ‘Prelapsarian and Postlapsarian are obscure ways of referring to the Fall of humankind, which in that terminology is the ‘lapse.’  I noticed, Mother, that you have been reading C. S. Lewis’s book Perelandra.  That story is set in a world where the Fall hasn’t happened, that’s a Prelapsarian world, if you like.”

“Good grief, Alfred,” said Mother.  “Did Horace say anything about supra-whatever-on-earth-it-was that Peter was referring to?”

“Yes,” said Alfred, “He said don’t worry about it unless you’re planning on arguing with Calvinists.”

“Humphh!” said Mother, “Most people are too argumentative anyway.”

“That is simple proof,” said Alfred, “that the world we live in is Postlapsarian, after the Fall.”

“Well,” said Mother, “That’s all a little too complicated for me.  All I know is that it would be hard to argue with whether or not The Fall ever happened.  You know I dabbled in Christian Science, but it didn’t seem very scientific to me, after all, everywhere I look I see signs of sin, sickness, and self-centeredness.  It’s sort of like the Fall of Adam and Eve divided the world into pre-stupid and post-stupid.”

“Mother, I agree with you,” said Alfred, “Although I rather like the medieval idea that if Adam didn't eat the apple Mary would never have been our Heavenly Queen.”

“Therefore, just as sin came into the world through one man, and death through sin,…  so death spread to all men because all sinned … But the free gift is not like the trespass. For if many died through one man's trespass, much more have the grace of God and the free gift by the grace of that one man Jesus Christ abounded for many” (Romans 5:12-15).  

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[i] Eschew obfuscation = avoid confusing terms!

Cherry Ripe

Cherry ripe, cherry ripe

Ripe I cry

Full and fair ones

Come and buy

Cherry ripe, cherry ripe

Ripe I cry

Full and fair ones

Come and buy.[i]           - Robert Herrick

Alfred could hear Mother warbling in the kitchen, “Cherry ripe, cherry ripe;” an old English song sung to a melody composed by the 19^th century composer Charles E. Horne.  In her day Mother had a fine mezzo soprano voice, but now in her seniority her voice was deeper, but perhaps that was just because it was long since she had done much singing.

            “Well, well, well,” said Alfred to himself, “I wonder what’s up?  It’s been ages since I’ve heard Mother sing, and I must say it is very pleasant to hear.”

            Mother came bustling into the solarium wheeling the Paalman Tea Cart laden with her Royal Doulton Tea Set, some McVitie’s Digestive Biscuits, and a cheery china cherry bowl filled to the brim with bright red Regina cherries.

            “I’ve been thinking, Alfred,” said she, “That it is just going to be wonderful to have the Choir over for an old fashioned hymn sing in mid-October.   Not only is our Choirmaster William Weaver going to be in attendance, but Father Goodfellow is coming and he’s bringing his wife Cecelia.”

            “That is good news, Mother,” said Alfred.  “I couldn’t help but overhear you singing Cherry Ripe in the kitchen.  Have you given any thought to joining the choir?”

            “Well, Alfred, I had, but you know when I was young I sang Soprano, although I was a little more comfortable in the Mezzo Soprano role, however I’m not sure that I would enjoy singing Alto at this stage in my life.  After all the Choir doesn’t need another Ima Hatchett competing with the sopranos and I think the choir is probably better off without me.”

            “Are you sure you wouldn’t consider it Mother?” asked Alfred.

            “Alfred, quite sure, but I do have something else in mind.  Grace Whittington has just joined the Altar Guild, and she says they are looking for another person.  I’ve never done anything quite like that before, although I did take a course in floral design years ago.”

            “The Altar Guild, Mother? I say,” said Alfred, “that’s quite a step Mother.  What is involved?”

            “Grace tells me that the Altar Guild is divided into four teams, one team for each Sunday, That means we would serve once a month.  We would set up the Altar before the service, and take care of everything after the service is over.  Grace and I would be on the same team.  There is an Altar Guild training day on October 19^th.  There is even an Altar Guild Prayer.  I tucked it away in my Prayer Book.”

            Mother hurried out of the room and returned a minute later, and said, “Alfred, listen to this,

O Lord Jesus Christ, who didst accept the ministry of faithful women during your earthly life; We pray you to accept and bless the work that this altar guild undertakes in the care of your sanctuary. Grant us a spirit of reverence for your house and worship, your Word and Sacraments, and preserve in purity and holiness our own souls and bodies as living temples of Your presence. Amen.”

            “That sounds wonderful Mother,” said Alfred looking somewhat mystified, but silently he said to himself, “I wonder what’s going on with Mother?”

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[i] Robert Herrick 1591-1674

Fall Colors

“Mother,” said Alfred looking up from the notebook he was writing in, “this is the first day of fall, even though it doesn’t feel like it.  It’s still in the 80s and it’s going to be in the 80s all week.”

“Oh, Alfred, at least it’s not over one hundred degrees.  We sometimes have to take what we get.  I’ve had just about enough of summer this year.  What I miss ‘though is the fall colors.  It’s so beautiful in New England this time of year.  Even now the leaves are beginning to turn and a month from now it will be peak foliage season in New England.”

“Mother, do you remember those wonderful fall hymn-sing evenings we used to have at our church in Massachusetts when we were first married?”

“Alfred, I do,” said Mother.  We would gather at the home of Mac and Wendy Parsons and sing some of those fine old hymns.”

“Yes,” said Alfred, his voice tinged with excitement, “and after the hymn sing we always had cider and donuts.  Those were halcyon days!”

“What would you think, Alfred, if we invited the choir over to our place on a Sunday evening in October.  I bet our Organist-Choirmaster William Weaver would enjoy playing our Seiler 168 Virtuoso piano.”

“Mother, that’s a wonderful idea.  Let’s do it!  I’m sure by then the fall crop of fresh cider will be in the stores once more.”

            “Alfred,” said Mother suddenly, “what on earth are you writing?  Every time I’ve  looked over at you, you seem absolutely absorbed in something and you must have erased as many words as you have written down.”

            “Well, Mother,” confessed Alfred, “I’ve been trying to write you a poem.  Would you like to hear it?”

            “Oh yes, Alfred,” said Mother.

            Alfred began, “this is called, Autumn Winds,

When autumn winds come knocking at my door

They carry with them crispness in the air,           

And all the beauty of the leaves so fair     

Tell the inner beauty of she whom I adore.

In autumn love’s true springtime sings once more

But sings with a richness beyond compare

Taught by our tears and things we had to bear.

Autumn’s bounteous harvest of glad amour        

Is richer far than springtime’s budding love,

And glows with the warmth of a golden light

That flows from the heart of heaven above,

For autumn’s love is fraught with Love’s delight.

I would not trade this love for springtime love.

Early love can’t compare with autumn bright.

            “Oh, Alfred, how sweet of you,” said Mother, with a little catch in her voice.  You know it’s true, I wouldn’t trade our time-tested love, for the love we had at the beginning of our marriage; not for all the fall colors and cider and donuts in the world.”

“Drink water from your own cistern, flowing water from your own well.  … Let your fountain be blessed, and rejoice in the wife of your youth, a lovely deer, a graceful doe …  be intoxicated always in her love” (Proverbs 5:15-19).

Whom Do You Trust?

“Whom do you trust?  Not ‘Who’ do you trust?” said Alfred.  “The Rolling Stones were being grammatically incorrect when they belted out the song ‘Who Do You Love?’"

“Really, Alfred, do you need to be so pedantic?” asked Mother as she set out her Royal Doulton Periwinkle Tea Set.

“Mother, it was drilled into me at Wilfred Choate School. ‘You’ are the object of my affection, not the subject of my affection.  ‘Whom’ is used for the object, ‘Who’ for the subject.  I just like to get things correct.  Besides that, the question was, ‘Whom do you trust?’”

“Alfred, are you talking religion again?” said Mother with a note of warning in her voice.

Alfred actually looked surprised, “Well, not really.  Although I suppose one could view it that way.  I was thinking about the new manager I hired at the store.  I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there is something funny going on with her accounts.”

“Oh,” said Mother, “Grandfather Talliaferro used to say, ‘You can only trust blood.’”

“Trust blood?” said Alfred, “You mean people like your cousin Angelo?”

“No, I certainly wouldn’t trust Angelo, he walks on the shady side of life and sometimes he is more than a little scary.  Grandfather Talliaferro also said, ‘We even have to keep an eye on the family. There’s the family, and there is blood.  Blood is deeper than family.’”

“I think I know what you mean Mother,” said Alfred.  “There is a proverb that says, ‘A man of many companions may come to ruin, but there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.’”[i]

“Take for instance our new next door neighbours, the Walkers,” said Mother, “Would you trust them?   Hubert Walker was unable to sit for months after his wife Mildred accidently shot him in the rump.”

“Well,” said Alfred, “she also had a tad of discomfort from the peppering of rock salt you gave her with that lupara shotgun that belonged to your Grandfather Talliaferro.”

Mother quickly said, “But Alfred, she was shooting her pistol out in the front yard.  Hardly trustworthy people!”

“I know, I know, Mother,” said Alfred, “You can only trust them to be themselves, and stay as far away from them as you can.”

“That’s just it!” said Mother.  “You can’t trust everyone. There are only a few people that you can trust with everything.”

Alfred looked thoughtfully at Mother, then finally asked, “Whom do you trust?  I mean personally, not just as a general question.”

 “Whom do I trust?” said Mother, setting out the last Royal Dalton cup and saucer.  “I think I might be able to trust Grace Whittington.  She surprises me.  When cousin Angelo in his sharkskin suit came to our Bible Study, I half expected that would be the end of our relationship with the Whittingtons.  But instead she just let me know that her family also had their own difficult people.  That’s why I invited Grace and Horace to tea this afternoon.  Grandfather Talliaferro would say, ‘Test them out to see if they ring true.’”

 “Oil and perfume make the heart glad, and the sweetness of a friend comes from his earnest counsel” (Proverbs 27:9).

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[i] Proverbs 18:24