A Wedding, a Journey and a Party

During the papacy of Benedict XVI, I thought we were in an ecclesiastical restoration. In fact, I spoke about it with a capital-R: the Restoration. For obvious historical reasons, I stopped talking this way. However, now I am not so doubtful. The cleaning and reconstruction work has not stopped. You can catch a glimpse of the workmen flitting past in the dark of night, and you can wake up before dawn to the sound of hammers. Behind closed doors, women pick out the stitches of torn lining and add new embroidery to old chasubles. 

A WEDDING

On Saturday we were at a traditional Catholic wedding in our little wooden church. There was an accident on the highway, and so the bride, bridesmaid, and their father were very late. However, the organist was excellent, and some of us had brought our beads. When I passed my beads to my husband, I read Good Music, Sacred Music, and Silence: Three Gifts of God for Liturgy and for Life by Dr. Peter Kwasniewski.  

I also whipped out my handkerchief, for there suddenly appeared with the 20-something MC and Thurifer, who were garbed in black cassocks and white cottas, a tiny altar boy in a red cassock and white surplice. Although one of "our boys" began when he was about 12, I have never seen a small child serving at that particular altar, let alone this particular sprig of a young and growing family. And as the veteran Thurifer gazed down at him, and the hulking  MC pointed at this and that, the blond moppet solemnly placed his wee right hand on his small chest.   

It was unprecedented and delightful and promised future victories. His appearance made social sense, too, for it came to light that two of his sisters (also very small) were flower girls. They, like the bride and the maid of honour, wore white and flowers in their hair. I don't remember if they had sleeves: the bride and MOH, both slim tall girls, had long translucent sleeves. The mother of the bride had a splendid navy blue hat. The father of the bride, like a satisfactory number of the guests (but not the groom, who is English), wore a kilt. 

The choir alternated Gregorian chant with Mozart's Mass in B-flat Major. As most TLM lovers will know, the wedding service itself was short but fiercely solemn, and the Mass itself began afterwards. Of course, the readings and prayers were about matrimony, and there was the traditional long prayer over the bride, but Mass was directed firmly towards Almighty God. Well, so are reverent Novus Ordo Nuptial Masses, as B.A. and I have cause to know. But there is nothing like a TL Nuptial M, which is why so many young Catholics have chosen one, and no doubt why it is being so savagely suppressed.

The bridal party went out to Widor's Toccata in F, so I stayed behind for the last thrilling notes, and emerged to find sunshine (there had been torrents before and during the Mass) and happy guests milling about in the carpark. Rides were found for those who did not yet have rides, and off we went to the countryside. (B.A. and I had packed sandwiches for the journey, a top wedding tip I offer to all of you.)

The bride's parents are the fortunate and hospitable owners of a large house with ample grounds in Fife. Naturally the reception was there, and naturally they had hoped the weather would be fine and not, you know, off-and-on flooding. Happily, they had rented an enormous marquee and had it set up in a paddock. After we squeezed about the house drinking champagne and scarfing savoury pastries, we went out to the great tent to eat our very Scottish supper: mixed seafood-and-salmon platter, deconstructed Chicken Balmoral, and strawberry pavlovas. Delicious. 

Benedict Ambrose and I were surrounded by TLM-loving Catholics from all over Scotland, England, and France. A German diocesan priest shouted witticisms from beside my right hand neighbour, one of Fr. Tim Finegan's flock. (The male-female-male order of our table was thrown into disorder by a car breakdown and lateness of a French couple.) At least twice, I recognized complete strangers when they mentioned the names of their children. I introduced myself to one French family because I know their married daughter. Really, it was like a gathering of the clans or, even, the gathering of one clan, or (dare I say) tribe. And hand on heart, there was not a dress in the tent St. Pio of Pietrelcina would have condemned. 

The bride's father, clearly relinquishing a solid third of what he most dearly prizes in the entire world, gave the best father-of-the-bride I have ever heard. The groom exulted in saying "My WIFE" at least three times in his own speech. The best man, who was French, threatened to give his speech in French (which would have been nice for the many French guests) but sadly stuck to English and told the traditional stories against the groom, who laughed heartily. The bride gave no speech.

(That reminds me that I want to write a post about authentic wifely obedience and how it so flies in the face of everything contemporary women [and men] in the West are brought up to do, say, and think that it is both a problem and a challenge. However, I will need to read and think a lot more.)

After the supper, there was a ceilidh. We moved the tables and chairs to the sides of the marquee as the musicians tuned their musicians and fussed with cables. The Gay Gordon was a massacre, but from what I could see from the outside, the Dashing White Sergeant turned out very well. I was outside because I was looking for the taxicab that would whisk my husband and I to the railway station in time to catch the last train. Unfortunately, it had left already, so our hostess asked one of our people who is also a Pioneer (that is, perpetual abstainer from alcohol) to drive us. With great panache Pat sped up hill and down dale and around sharp corners and through the night until he got us safely to the station. But then, as Benedict Ambrose and I were racing for the opposite platform, Pat called us back: the last train to Edinburgh had been cancelled.

A JOURNEY 

It is no joke to be stranded in the Scottish countryside on a showery August night, let me tell you. Fortunately I had a warm hat and overcoat, but B.A. the cancer patient did not. After some consultation of my phone, B.A. and I decided to take the last train to Dundee and find either transportation or lodging there. So off Pat went back to the wedding, leaving B.A. and I in enough privacy to have a massive row about what train we would take the next morning. 

I felt rather badly about this, as it is unseemly to have a marital spat while the wedding ceilidh you've recently danced at is actually still going on. However, I was very tired and had a dance party to host the next day, and tickets to a dance to sell. Nevertheless, we stopped quarrelling by the train arrived. That was a very good thing, as when we got to Dundee we discovered there was no room in the first inn, and then no room in the second, either. 

Fortunately, we told the second night manager that what we really wanted was to return to Edinburgh, and he pointed to a bus a few metres away that would take us to Edinburgh Airport. Amazed at our luck, we rushed out and got onboard. At Edinburgh Airport, we caught a bus to the city. We arrived at Princes Street five minutes before the night bus to our neighbourhood. Thanks to that, we were in bed at 2:30 AM. 

A PARTY

I got up at 8 AM, drank some coffee, and went to Tesco. I then made 3 dozen chocolate chip cookies because in my philosophy it is deeply shameful to host a private party without home baking. I also made sandwiches for B.A. and me, as Sunday Mass was at noon, the dance party was at 2:30, and it would otherwise be a long time before we saw protein. 

You already know about my dance parties. But to recap, I rent the hall, press invitations upon the Flower of the TLM community (and our childless married couples and mother-chaperones), find the instructors among us, and generally bring the waltz back into fashion. Last Sunday I was too ill to go to Mass, so I gave the invitations to B.A. to give to a trusty dance lieutenant. She did a good job, for 17 people attended and--oh joy!--once again we had almost exact numbers of men and women, which is no assured thing in our male-dominated TLM community.  

The first hour was dedicated to the Viennese Waltz, which is so much more challenging than the official (or English) Waltz that my left knee ached afterwards. Then there was a break for coffee and cookies. The second hour was given over to Scottish country dancing, taught by an authority who dismissed mere ceilidh dancing as something anyone can do. This boded ill for poor us, I thought. However, we succeeded at the Dashing White Sergeant, improved at the Reel of the 51st Division, and very much enjoyed Strip the Willow. Then we put the hall back together, washed the dishes, and removed cookie crumbs from the floor in 10 minutes flat. 

Between dancing and cleaning,  I sold the first ticket to a dance I am organizing for the end of September. It went to a Glaswegian, and I hope this fact shamed all my Edinburgh guests into privately vowing to bring their £20 notes next Sunday. Happily, I have hired four musicians, and so although we can have Strauss, I will ask the musicians to match the tempo to the dancers' abilities. 

And I do think we are going to have to do to basic footwork on the Waltz again---but that is a worry for September's dance party. For now I will delight in the memory of our waltz instructors--a Classics PhD and a Physics PhD--dancing together to illustrate what the Viennese gentleman's and lady's feet are supposed to be doing. As both scholars are solidly masculine men, this could have been rather funny, but naturally we were all too intimidated to take out our phones.