I hope you are all very well, and I wish you all the best in 2025.
Here is a link to my new website, which is dedicated to encouraging social dancing among Catholics (and other people of good will). Click on "Blog" at the right-top corner for the latest writings. And here is an update about how Benedict Ambrose and I are doing.
Sincerely,
Mrs McL (Auntie Seraphic)
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When I saw the taxicab pull away at 3 AM I felt relief that it had found us and then, unexpectedly, I fell into a pit of loneliness. My brother was on his way back to Montreal.
Si tu vois mon pays,
Mon pays malheureux,
Va, dis à mes amis
Que je me souviens d'eux.
Nulli had stayed a week, but it felt like a weekend at most. The hours flashed by, even though we were both working half the time. Two or three times, Nulli was the one who broke off, went downstairs to the shed, got out the ramp and went to meet Benedict Ambrose and his electric wheelchair at the street. He put the ramp and the wheelchair away and watched his brother-in-law's uncertain steps up the staircase. He stood by as B.A. shakingly twisted himself around and dropped into his house wheelchair. I hope Nulli wasn't too distressed. I am constantly distressed.
B.A. doesn't feel great about it either.
The flat was affordable to buy and cheap to run and has lovely views and neighbours. But it is crammed with books and furniture, the relics of pre-cancer days, and I trip over the wheelchair in the hall. When it comes to real estate, the FIRE (Financial Independence Retire Early) movement fights over "Rent or Buy?" It's a gamble either way. But when we bought a first floor flat, we hadn't had the slightest indication Benedict Ambrose would develop spinal tumours. It's like having bet on a horse who, mid-race, was beamed aboard an alien spacecraft.
Do we sell?
It's a question I try not to dwell on, as moving house is famously one of the most stressful activities there is, and we have enough stress to be getting on with. If the tumours are shrinking, why is B.A. so tired? Will he recover from coming off steroids? Will he ever walk again? What will my own blood test reveal? And then there's work. How has Pope Francis betrayed the faith this morning? In what manner has Donald Trump now thrown social conservatives under the bus? Should we actually publish this particular essay? And then there's B.A.'s work. Will he make it through probation when he feels so sick?
Do we sell?
Asked if I had any questions for B.A.'s oncologist, I asked her if we should sell. She took this in her stride, and it occurs to me that many of her patients, lacking family ties, probably turn to her as we would turn to B.A.'s siblings or cousins, if he had had any.
She said in short that we should not hurry to sell but that we should not hesitate to buy something that we liked, should it be on the/have a ground floor.
The subtext is that Benedict Ambrose may never balance/stand/walk any better than he does now, or he may balance/stand/walk better than he does now, but medical science cannot say. Recovery from nerve damage is still one of the great unknowns, etc.
I think about the horrid gimcrack new builds in our area, which we might afford (until they fell apart), and the lovely well-constructed old bungalows, which we couldn't. A ground floor flat would put us at the mercy of the noise of People Upstairs, which B.A. really hates and I have never experienced. I think about the solid Toronto houses I have lived in and mentally follow B.A.'s electric wheelchair. Nope--steps. Nope--steps.
Do we sell?
Update: It occurs to me that we could just rent it out and take a lease on something suitable. There's actually no good reason to go through the agony of selling-and-mortgage-finding-and-buying. Except that rentals are unlikely to have grab bars in the loo. Maybe this could be negotiated with the landlord.
When I saw this question on Slate (or, rather, Slate's paid-for Facebook post), I immediately assumed that the writer would be sneered at. I was pleasantly surprised to discover the advice columnist actually sided with her gentle reader--until I saw that this response was from 1998. The 2024 update was not so chummy.
Dear Prudence,
Granted, I am not young, but I am not a fuddy-duddy either. Are you reacting to all the blue nail polish, body piercings, spiky hair, and nose rings? Sometimes the young salespeople are so strange looking it is distracting. Am I nuts and just out of it?
—Thanks,
Fussy or Normal
Original Response:
Dear Fuss,
Prudie—not young but not a fuddy-duddy, either—couldn’t agree with you more. Often feeling like a lobotomized dowager, Prudie blanches when she sees some of the young people, frequently wondering how it is possible that they think they look appealing. There is hope, though. When they grow a little older and get serious about becoming employed, the green hair and atavistic piercings disappear. Alas, we seem to be stuck with the odd-colored nail polish–purple, blue, and green being Prudie’s unfavorites.
—Prudie, wistfully
From: Dear Prudence (Sept. 5, 1998).
Advice From the Future:
Dear Fuss,
Today, you and Prudie would indeed be called fuddy-duddies by the majority of generations. While I hope that in the intervening decades, you’ve come to embrace colorful hair, piercings, and tattoos a bit more than at the time of your letter, I understand if you’re still resistant to them. There are still many folks who struggle with these modes of expression being so common and, in some cases, so visually “loud.”
It’s not for me to police your likes and preferences when out and about in society. But what I find inspiring about the way we more freely adorn ourselves today relates precisely to Prudie’s reply, in which she wonders how it is that today’s young people think they look appealing. The adults I know who dye, ink, and pierce themselves do not do it to “look appealing” (to others, it is implied); they do it because it pleases themselves. We are amidst a cultural awakening, still gaining force, in which we are getting smarter about valuing ourselves regardless of the opinions of others. We are pushing back at dress codes that police women’s bodies rather than men’s behavior. We are removing appearance codes from the office and judging employees instead on the quality of their work. We are not perfect by any means, but we are a lot more inclusive of the many ways to be in the world than we were 30 years ago. Were you writing to me today, Fuss, I would encourage you to focus on that fact. Green hair is a small price to pay for a society that is moving toward making space for everyone. —Allison
"It's not for me to police your likes and preferences---but."
The part about being "amidst a cultural awakening" sent a chill down my spine, as does "a society that is moving forward, making space for everyone," for these are euphemisms and misdirections. In my experience, "making space for everyone" means excluding tradition-minded Christians.
If a society is so atomized that people present themselves with no thought for how their appearance affects others, there is no society, not really. There are bodies moving through space, often plugged into electronic music devices, ignoring other bodies, except the most sexually appealing or physically frightening. There is no "we," except the "we" of the pink-haired mutilated people, snarling at the past behind the safety of their computer screens.
"You look very smart," said an elderly man in a wheelchair at Tesco.
This was directed at me as I was buying goodness knows what just before going to a funeral. I had put an unusual amount of thought in my clothing, so as to convey respect for the deceased and her loved ones. Not too much black, as I was not family. Not too long a skirt, as I didn't want to stand out. I was wearing a black knee-length dress with navy tights, coat, gloves and hat, and richly coloured scarf to tone down my sartorial gloom. At Tesco I wore black flats; at the funeral I wore navy court heels.
However, as the deceased was in the arts, it was not a huge surprise to me when a younger woman with Crayola hair and a multicolour-striped skirt got off the bus at the crematorium. Oddly, I was grateful to the clownish striped skirt (background colour black), for it signalled that I was in the right place at the right time. At the same time, of course, traditional funeral clothing would probably have sufficed for that.
And I cannot help but remember the insult, uttered in a 1987 film, "In time you'll drop dead, and I'll come to your funeral in a red dress." One day this threat will make absolutely no sense to viewers in the Anglosphere because they will no longer share a common understanding of what is appropriate for important rituals. Among the majority, there will be no "we," no crowd of darkly clad mourners, and no folk dress.
Hello, dear readers! This is just a quick note to direct you to my beautiful new website-under-construction. It is called Mrs McLean's Waltzing Party, and its web address is https://tradcathsocialdancing.co.uk/ If you look at the top right corner, you will see the friendly word "Blog."
As yet we haven't put in a comments box, but that will come along after the tremendous fuss occasioned by my article over at "Tradition & Sanity" has died down.
I love to visit the specific buildings in which my ancestors and their families lived. On All Soul's Day I visit the cemetery (wet, untidy, depressing) where my Edinburgh great-great-grandfather lies. His widow was buried in Canada, whence she and their children emigrated. I can't pass their old home without thinking of them all and of my grandma, too. When she was small, her mother took her to Edinburgh for a year or two while sorting out some family business. And when she grew up, my grandmother married into another family from the east coast of Scotland. Various quirks of East Coast culture, some quite passé, were trained into my mother and then into me. And then I married into the remnants of a family from the east coast of Scotland, so here I am, watching the northern morning sunlight light up the trees along the river.
I love living in Scotland, and I love the Scots although some aspects of contemporary Scottish life were a shock. Having grown up worried that Quebec nationalists would break up Canada, I was stunned to find myself among Scottish nationalists longing to split the United Kingdom. The crude language and nudity permitted on British TV were another surprise, as were the minuscule outfits and skyscraper heels on young ladies on Princes Street, even on cold, rainy winter nights. Homeless Scottish youngsters begging on the street blew my mind. Despite their clothes and their coarse language (which I couldn't understand), they had faces like children from Toronto's top private schools. (Of course this says more about 1980s Toronto than 2000s Edinburgh.)
I also loved living in the attic of a 17th century house with 18th century additions and going, every Sunday, to a 1900 wooden flat pack church which was meant to be the temporary solution to the Catholics in the area having only enough money to buy the house and the land. The congregation was smaller and more Scottish in 2009 although the university had long provided a steady stream of foreigners. There was a goodly handful of English people, too.
"Canadians are not foreigners," trumpeted an Englishman. "You're British born somewhere else!"
The Edinburgh TLM community provided me with another set of ancestors: the elderly Scottish ladies who prepared, presided over and cleaned up after the After-Mass Tea and the elderly men (English and Scots) who also connected us to the history of the TLM's survival in Edinburgh. I pray for these four women and two men during every Sunday Mass, so I think of them often, too. As I've written before, I wonder what the tea ladies would think of my changes to the After-Mass Tea and if they are quietly exulting to see how much the community has grown.
Tradition is not only books but people--specific people. It is not only liturgy but culture, a specific culture. There are immigrants who want to live in Scotland as though there were no Scots, no Scottish culture, no Scots ancestors to pray for, no past to plug into--just opportunities to exploit and riches to plunder. I met that kind of immigrant often enough in Toronto: "I like Canada, but I don't like Canadian people." "Canada didn't have a culture until we got here." I loathe that attitude, and I'd wipe out my foreign accent if I could.
The Canadian philosopher Father Bernard Lonergan, SJ, was re-expressing St. Thomas Aquinas when he said "Only the concrete is good." What he meant was that there are real, specific things and real, specific people to whom to pay attention. Ideas are just ideas, thoughts just thoughts: an excellent thing for Lonerganians overly excited by the Master's thought-structures to remember.
It is something the young have to learn, too: that the world--that is, God's Creation--is what it is and not what we imagine about it or what we want it to be or what random strangers say it is.
It is so sad to see the young imprisoned by their imaginations. They say things like:
"All the boys I know are dumb."
"All the girls I know are crazy feminists."
"The world is too horrible to bring children into."
"Maybe I'm sad because I was born in the wrong body."
"I fall into sin when I dance, and therefore everybody else does, too."
"I really like this author, so everything he says is true."
"Canada/Scotland/England/Australia has no culture of its own."
"This man frightens me, but if I get off the elevator, somebody will think I'm racist."
"I read a book about this, so now I know everything I need to know about it."
These are all lies. These are just fantasies preventing their captives from grasping reality, and as such they are evil. Very evil.
Only the concrete is good.
Dr. K mentions in our collaborative piece Matt Platt's "A Different Drummer," which I recommend to everyone's prayerful reflection. It certainly strengthened my belief that good dances for Catholics should not be watered down with "discos"--that is, the use of contemporary recorded Top 40 music and the return to the usual flailing about once the waltz or reel is learned. However, if you are a huge fan of popular music recorded after 1955, be wary of grinding your teeth as you read.
As I pour time and treasure into my social dancing project (a dedicated website is in development), I cannot help but be a little sad that my husband can only look on from his wheelchair. As I told him yesterday, he doesn't have cancer scares; he has unpleasant cancer surprises. His current cancer surprise has been beaten back with chemotherapy, but the shrinking tumours are leaving much nerve damage in their wake.
Fortunately, Benedict Ambrose (as he is called in Webland) in not entirely paralyzed below the waist; he can still stand up and remain standing for short periods if he hangs onto something. If he has a railing on either side he can lurch up and down short flights of stairs, watching his feet to make sure they are doing what he wants them to do. B.A. can also, as we learned on Saturday, inch along a balcony walkway if he has only a single rail to hold. His neuro-physiotherapists call this move "The Crab Walk," which sounds like it could have been a dance popular in 1919.
This Sunday's journey to and from Mass provided us with many opportunities to reflect that Edinburgh was not built with wheelchairs in mind. Considering the number of Scotsmen who lost limbs during the First World War (let alone the Second), it seems a shame it is only very recently that city planners began to think very seriously about making the kerbs (curbs) of pavements (sidewalks) wheelchair-accessible.
That said, we had a lovely ramble around a local nature reserve on Saturday afternoon--I in my hiking boots and B.A. in his electric wheelchair--and enjoyed the bright, hot sunshine and the view of the Firth of Forth. It may have been the short Scottish summer's last hoorah; Sunday was windy, chilly, and grey, and today is rather damp. But Saturday was the kind of day you would not want to be anywhere in the world but right here.
After our idyll among the wildflowers, thistles and stoats, consuming croissants from a shop and coffee from a thermos, we went home for a rest and to prepare for a friend's birthday party. We had been extremely pleased to be invited--so much so that it took a while to remember that the friend and her husband live (like us) a the first (second) floor. Well, it took me a while. So belatedly we had to work out how many stairs there would be, and how many railings, and whether I should push B.A. there in a pushchair, or fold and carry his self-propelling wheelchair down our stairs and up theirs, or trot along contentedly behind his electric wheelchair and trust to his ability to crab-walk along the outside walkway.
B.A. opted for the electric wheelchair, so I got it and its attendant ramp out of their hiding place, and B.A. flapped carefully down our stairs. We encountered friends on their way to the supermarket for more supplies as we rolled/strolled down the street, and our pleasure in the thought of the party increased. (I was even debuting a new pair of high-heeled shoes, for at last I have found a brand that doesn't hurt.)
However, when we got to our friends' stairway, the real work of the day began. Oh, the stairs, flanked by railings were no problem, and I soon found a place to stash the heavy (and valuable) chair out of the sight of the road. However, the balcony is a long one for the semi-paralyzed, and during every moment of his Crab Walk, I was terrified that B.A. would simply topple over onto the cement paths below.
It is not the least of the Lord's mercies that B.A.'s spinal troubles began when we were still relatively young and after I had spent two years or so working out in our local gym. Even wearing high heels, I could provide B.A. enough support to get through our friends' door and along their hallway to their sitting-room and, at last, a sofa. The same held true when, some hours later, we made the return journey, this time flanked by a half-dozen friends. Fed up, B.A. told me to stop hanging onto his jacket as he made his perilous-looking Crab Walk, so I left our friends to watch his feet, scurried to his wheelchair and drove it to the bottom of the staircase.
Our host, looking rather harrowed (if I'm not just projecting) offered to go home with us and help B.A. up our stairs, but I demurred with thanks. The principal cause of B.A.'s mobility problems is a scrambled connection between his brain and his spine, but his brain seems to have worked out and become comfortable with our own staircase. What was new and scary was crab-walking a distance much longer than the ballet bar set up in our hallway, not to mention working out what to grab for balance on the route along our friends' elegant corridor. And, indeed, B.A. had no trouble getting up our stairs, even if, once he reached his self-propelling chair, he made a bee-line for bed.
