The secret Lorna not very many people know

The other day, as is my wont, I sent a “bread and butter note” to a friend for inviting us over for a meal, as I do believe in the grand Anglican tradition of sending thank you notes. However, I now use electronic cards — tastefully provided by Jacqui Lawson. Imagine my surprise when I chose a card, composed a thoughtful message, and then hit “send” only to find a red notification at the top of J-Law’s web-site that my planned recipient no longer accepts electronic cards.

Well, that set my back on my heels, not to mention plunged me into the morass of my hurt feelings.

I got to thinking does this person really receive so many cards on a daily basis that they are irredeemably clogging their inbox? Couldn’t my friend, like a few of my other recipients, just decline to open the card and quietly delete it?

Or are they receiving cards only from me and do not want to get them, but for some reason don’t want to tell me directly? Why would they not courteously let me know in advance!

Or is it all a mistake? Might they inadvertently changed a cookie or some other arcane mysterious inner working on their computer? Maybe they don’t even know the e-cards are being blocked.

Or maybe they just don’t want electronic cards and I shouldn’t take it personally? I try so hard to take the high road and be polite, sympathetic and endlessly forgiving when I really thoroughly enjoy being sarcastic, judgmental, superior, and hurt. Really, what is wrong with me?? Or what is wrong with that!

I suppose partly it is so easy to be witty and sarcastic, but it is not so easy to be witty and kind. I like being witty. Being witty is revenge in words and it’s often very funny (to me anyway).

So I say to myself and my significant other (who is the soul of patience and must think I am the worst person in the world), “When I get a paper card from my friend, maybe I’ll return it and write on the envelope, the recipient doesn’t accept paper cards anymore.” So there!

I won’t really do that, of course, just think about doing it. Why is it so important to me to access my sniffy little prissy self? I suppose recognizing I have an S.L.P.S. is a good thing. I can stand back from my little Slips and observe it/her/them without inflicting the results on others.

Maybe it’s good to balance one’s good behaviour outwardly to the world with a little dose of bad behaviour inwardly. A lot of my life seems to spent being a good, kind, sympathetic person when I really just want to say, “Oh, give me a break” and be as judgmental as all get out!

All this mental stewing  reminds me of St. Paul’s words to the Romans: “For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate.(7:15)” Except that in my case, I keep the thing I hate under wraps and don’t actually do it, but I do let it fester. 

However, in a sidebar to that on-line quotation was this one from Ecclesiastes 7, “All this I have tested by wisdom. I said, I will be wise, but it was far from me.” Well, that seems to sum me up even more accurately.

So I sent my friend a nice paper note with a nice message, and one day I’ll get up enough courage to ask them about what happened around blocking electronic cards. It will be the mature, sensible, kind thing to do!

( ... although possibly not as much fun...)

In which Silver goes to church

A couple of Sundays ago, Greg and I went to St. Alban's in Souris so that Greg could preside at the service that morning. It is such a wee tiny church.

 

 

 

Since we were early, I wandered around the cemetery looking at the gravestones.

 

 

 



Soon I was joined by a small tabby cat.

 

 

which seemed to know just here she was going.

 

 

Yes, off to church:

 

 

 

Greg was inside setting things up and generally getting ready.

 

 

 

 

No water for the wine! A human congregation member - the warden, in fact - feeling it would be inappropriate to get a glass of water from the restaurant right across the street went off to "the store"  for a bottle of same. Would that have been the Co-op, the variety store or the Save Easy?

 

 

Meanwhile, decisions, decisions: which pew to choose ...

 



Aha, right at the back - very Anglican -




But before settling in, some more exploration would be fun. If only the organist were here, we could play a duet:

 

or I could help Greg with the prayers:



It seems I am not needed in the chancel:





This seems to be a comfortable pew:

Nice service, great hymns, thought-provoking sermon, I enjoyed the service. Now home for lunch:

 

 

 

Apparently Silver the cat has been in the habit of attending church for quite a while. At a recent service, she joined the priest at the front, and he picked her up and lead the congregation in singing All things bright and beautiful. I am sure she enjoyed the impromptu serenade.

At this service, she visited each pew during the sermon and of course was patted by everyone.

 

 

Alas, her people are moving, so Silver will have to join another congregation soon. She will be missed.

 

But St. Alban's doors will be always open in case she want to return.

 

 



Sometimes liturgical innovations can go up in flames

This posting is a bit out-of-date because I wanted to include a photo, which I  didn’t get a chance to take until a day or so ago. So here  is my account of what happened at church last week:

I came to last week's service at St. James feeling more exuberant than usual. Maybe because the previous night's snow added a bit of excitement to the air or maybe because, according to the old calendar this was Stir-Up Sunday, but the day seemed special.

I got to church early: not a good thing since being early makes me bored and being bored usually gets me into trouble. After I swept the snow off the church steps and put the broom away, I felt invigorated. Instead of  settling into prayer in the back pew, I cast my eyes on a candle holder, which for several months had been sitting on the window sill of the West (actually north) Window. Eastern orthodox in flavour, having multiple crosses and three candle holders, it had unaccountably never been lit, despite having been donated by a parishioner presumably for that purpose.  

The back of the church could use a bit of cheering up.  And finally,  before Greg retired at the end of December and the opportunity was lost, I had the opportunity and the means to do something about it.  So, as it turned out, we had a service with the unusual addition of “smells and bells,"  incense and bell ringing being associated with a much higher version of Anglicanism than is usually found here in rural Ontario.

Anyhow, there were already three tea candles in the glass holders.  I had to find something to light them with. Greg got me the  official box of matches  (kept in a  plastic margarine container in the credence table by the altar). The candles were hard to light, but I persevered until the smell of wax pervaded the church (that’s the "smells" part).



Bell, books and candles



As the liturgy unfolded, I eyed  them from time to time. When we got to the Creed, the flames in two of the candle holders were about three inches high. By the Prayers of the People, an alto in the choir was making subtle eyebrow raisings in my direction. By the Passing of the Peace, they seemed like a small bonfire. Taking advantage of being up and about, I looked at them closely; the wicks were nowhere to be seen, and the wax was totally engulfed.

A parishioner in the  pew second to the back thought they should be put out. She was worried lest the heat  break the stained glass window. During a hymn, a warden and I had discussed whether the glass  candle holders might also be at risk of shattering.

So we tried to blow the candles out — no luck . We just blew the flames apart. She thought snuffing them with the phone book of Christian businesses would do the trick, but I didn’t thinking using anything paper was a good idea at that point.

The wax showed no sign of running out; the conflagration was really beginning to worry me. Aside from not wanting, on its own merits, to burn down the church, I did not want my main claim to fame as a clergy wife to be responsible for doing so.  I looked around and saw a small brass school bell further along the window sill — a great candle snuffer were it not for the clapper.

Very carefully I placed it over the flames both to snuff them properly and to prevent the bell from sounding.  Greg was saying the prayer of consecration as I was doing this and behold — or alas — depending on how high on the Anglican scale you find yourself, a little bit of chiming occurred. This would be the "bells" part — for anyone who has persevered this far and needs waking up. The flames were no more, but the bell handle was warm to the touch when removed after communion.

All's well that ended well, but I’ll resume my practice of arriving in the nick of time. I’m also going to get some of those battery-operated candles, as I really was well and truly taken aback by the persistence of the flames!

 

 

Why, despite everything, I like being in Toronto

Every year I read the horoscope for my birthday in the Globe and Mail. This year the offering for the 17^th of October suggested I must become very flexible around new ideas and, what is more, that my world is going to turn upside down in the coming year. Oh joy.
 

I read that prediction while I was in Toronto looking after my mother, who had been hospitalized with pneumonia. This unexpected event did change my plans, but I can’t say my world was turning cartwheels. However, I did experience several opportunities, during those 10 or 11 days, to roll with some figurative punches.

***

I am not a person who enjoys public displays, but sometimes one can’t avoid them. Even bad hospital food is better than none (and to give credit where credit is due, after the first ghastly offering in emerge, the other meals were not too bad even though the yellow beans were always underdone, according to Mum).  Anyway, when Mum was moved (the sixth of eight moves in the fortnight she spent in hospital) to a new floor just at lunchtime, I made sure her lunch would not be forgotten. It was successfully transferred to the new floor.

However, just as it was being delivered, a porter arrived and announced it was time for a CT scan. Fearing lunch would disappear if we left it in the new room, I took it with us on the gurney. I steadied the hot food on the flannelette sheets to warm up Mum’s cold legs and in my other hand I carried a carton of frozen dessert.

Soon we were nine floors down, outside the Imaging Unit, waiting for the previous patient to finish.  So in the very public hallway, I served up what I nostalgically call “yuck slosh” — the name my daughter gave to good old hamburger casserole and prefaced by the words “not eating that.” Mum, however, did eat it; after, she continued on to what had once been lime sherbet, but was now garish green foam. And not one of the many passersby gave us a second glance.

***

The next day at Toronto-Western, it was wait for the eye doctor all morning in a room decorated with only a cross -section of the glaucoma-afflicted eye, and then after lunch, undertake a surprise visit to the x-ray department. While there, a gurney, occupied by a comatose individual and accompanied by two policemen, arrived and was parked against the wall near Mum. It was busy in x-ray that afternoon. The men in blue (well, black, actually) looked out of place amongst the gurneys; no one else was fully clothed or standing (except for me) or carrying a gun.  

Noticing her age, the x-ray tech had asked for her secret for a long life, and she said, “Oatmeal porridge every morning.”  When one of the policemen heard she was almost 94, he said she reminded him of his grandmother who was about to turn 95. Then the two of them chatted about the merits of hot porridge — with milk and brown sugar — which he enjoyed for breakfast too.

Then the talk turned to haircuts. Mum’s shortish hair had been pushed up to the top of her head and looked like a Mohawk do. The policeman said his hair was a lot like hers and took off his hat to reveal a very short cut with a bit of a fringe on top. Mum looked at it, didn’t miss a beat and said, “Well you certainly got your money’s worth.”

***

I decided to stop spending a fortune on cab fares and to take the TTC to the hospital. I hesitated before asking for my senior’s fare on the 18^th of October, as I did not have my birth certificate with me as proof. However without a moment’s hesitation, the attendant in the booth gave me my five senior’s tickets for $8.75. Emboldened, I asked what if I had to use them where there was no attendant, and he said I’d have to use regular tokens. This seems so typical of the poor old TTC.

I was slightly put out by that and by the fact that he did not ask me for ID. How times change yet stay the same. I recall being asked for ID in drinking establishments long after I turned 21 and being miffed by that too.

***

Travelling by subway is cheap but crowded. I eschew stairs now that I am a senior, and since the elevator at the Bathurst station was closer than the escalator, I opted to take it. So did a choleric elderly individual in a red Roots bomber jacket and red running shoes. Muttering loudly to himself, he punched the up-button furiously while a small older (than me? maybe not) woman, dressed in black from head to toe, joined us. I glanced at her and raised my eyebrows slightly, and she gently reached over and patted my arm.

An older man approached, hesitated, then apparently decided valour was more important than discretion, since two members of the weaker sex had stayed put (for I have an annoying conviction that even those with mental difficulties ought to be polite and share space), and he got on too. We three huddled at the rear of the car, while Mr. Hot Head ranted incoherently in the front. Too late, I realized he had a cane. I suggested not making too much in the way of eye contact, and he must have overheard me because he raised the volume, though not his cane. I began to re-think some of my stupider convictions.

The elevator door closed with majestic slowness, and we rose like a vertical Anglican procession to the next floor. Mr. Hot Head scurried out to take his place (unchallenged) at the head of the line for the Bathurst streetcar. Then the woman, again wordlessly, gave me another comforting pat on the arm and we parted with a smile. And that is why I enjoy being in Toronto.

***

After a few days, I had to leave Mum to go home for a while. At Union Station, I was listening to the Agnus Dei from Bach’s B-minor Mass, as I sat in pre-boarding for the train to St. Mary’s. There was an overlay of voices other than the alto: “Last call for Train 66”;  “Do you want the elevator”; I depended entirely on the kindness of strangers to carry this TV here”; I’m going to wait until I have my two days off to do that”; “The train for Ottawa is now boarding at 5:45, not 5:30.”

It was a bit like that wonderful Simon and Garfunkel tune where Silent Night is in the back ground — only less grave. The wonderful music was a surreal juxtaposition to the bustle of the station, especially when the next cut on my random play list was the 20-minute Lamentations of Jeremiah. I am beginning to like travelling with my computer — the Zen state of waiting is entirely different from that provided by a book.

***

Then a minor embarrassment — or too much of a Zen thing.  Once I was on the train, I plugged in the electric cord for the Wi-Fi, got my mouse attached, then decided to listen to my music, so I got out my ear phones and put them on. Soon I was hearing Dream a Little dream of me, but it seemed rather distant.

I noticed the passengers in the seats in front of me were suddenly restless and shifting in their seats. Even I could sense irritation in the air. Then I realized I had neglected to plug the ear phones into the computer. No wonder the music sounded so far way. Ouch.

After what seemed like an eternity, I found the right port and plugged in the ear phones. All was right with the world again. I listened to Philip Glass, Healey Willan and 50s faves, and the woman in front of me contentedly resumed reading Scoop.

'Twas the night before Christmas

December 24th. The night before Christmas.  I've been to church at St. Mary's,  the little church in Brinsley, a four corners so tiny even people living around here don't know where it is. However this evening, there was a traffic jam with the United Church-goers at the end of the road. Not very often that happens - unless we schedule our bazaars on the same day at the same time!

This year we have had a skiff of snow and it is cold out, but one year, it was so mild the cattle were still in the fields after dark and you could hear them lowing - not mooing, but lowing, just as in the carol! They were noshing on turnips still in the field.
Speaking of which, I am going to have some more tourtiere and maybe some cheese... and if we have any more Lindt orange dark chocolate, yes, some of that... then hang up my stocking. I wonder what Santa/Greg will put in it this year...
I am not sure who besides a select few reads my blog, but in any case, Merry Christmas to you all and a prosperous new year in 2012!

Carving the Hallowe'en pumpkin

Thought I’d get in touch with my inner pagan this morning rather than going to church, so I decided to carve the pumpkin. The canvas awaiting my skills was a huge round specimen purchased for only $4.99 at our local Sobey’s. But after a 15-year hiatus during which I did not partake of this ritual, my carving skills were somewhat rusty. 

Note to self: It is a good idea to remove all the stringy bits before carving. They are hard to remove afterwards and the dangling bits can yield a somewhat snotty jack-o-lantern.

Even four-year-olds know this. Yesterday on the phone, my grandson told me he was using a spoon to scrape the inside; I should have filed this fact away for use today. Too late for the broad strokes of a spoon,  I ended up using a Tupperware lettuce knife for rear-guard  action on the delicate areas around the eyes and nose.

Also, I saved the seeds, and I separated them into two piles: one is for growing another crop next year (as grandson optimistically observed, “We won’t ever have to buy another pumpkin.”).

The other is for toasting. I first ate toasted pumpkin seeds a year ago at Hallowe’en at my son and daughter-in-law’s. They were really good; my son has a knack for baking them, and also, I might add, for making delicious pancakes. When my children were growing up, my pancakes apparently were heavy sodden challenges to their discriminating palates – usually because I felt I had to include things like apple bits to add to their nutritional value. I hope for better results with the pumpkin seeds.

The Internet provided the procedure for toasting the seeds. I removed the gushy bits to prevent their scorching and ruining the seeds during baking (recommended is 300 degees for 45 to 55 minutes).   Then I soaked them in salty water.  Thanks again to my grandson, who during our telephone chat wondered what that paper was that his other grandmother was using, I lined a baking sheet with tin foil. This should make clean-up a breeze.

But back to carving. I tried to find ideas for the face on the Internet. I wanted large doleful eyes, but alas, the one image I had seen on a previous search was, not surprisingly, nowhere to be found today. A piece of advice: Many small strokes with a small knife are better than hacking away with the butcher knife.  I accidentally lopped off an upper tooth (on the pumpkin's  face, that is) before I learned that.  The eyes look fine even though one pupil is attached by only a hairsbreadth of pumpkin flesh. The nose has character – like a boxer’s  – and although I eschewed doing ears, I did carve a couple of fetching eyebrows.

It was fun!  Instead of the creed and the various responses found in the Anglican ritual for worship, I recited the pumpkin poem.  Did not feel nearly guilty enough though...

And there is a candle that  fits – all is ready for tomorrow night!

Five Little Pumpkins

Five little pumpkins sitting on a gate.
The first one said, “Oh my, it's getting late!”
The second one said, "There are witches in the air.”
The third one said, "But we don't care.”
The fourth one said, "Let's run and run and run!”
The fifth one said, "I’m ready for some fun!”
 
Then Woooooo went the wind
And OUT went all the lights.
 
And the five little pumpkins rolled out of sight.