The Joy and Hope of Eggs

Today is going to be a good day: at 7:30 this morning there were eggs for sale in Tesco. Normally I buy six medium free range eggs at a time, but there were only large free range eggs in boxes of 12, so I did not dither. I firmly seized two boxes. There were also some cleaning products on the shelf, so now we are fully armed against the Vile Germ.

I keep meaning to not go to Tesco, where crowds gather, but then, like a grocery junkie, keep going back. Yesterday, though, it was B.A. who went  after our daily walk (more anon). He came back with mackerel, tender-stem broccoli, pre-packaged pannacottas, bread, chocolate digestive biscuits, and a Canon 5150 printer. Yes, we finally have a new printer. It was on sale, and it's not like B.A. can print things at work anymore, being at home.  

Every day I call up my parents on Skype to enliven our solitudes and to make sure they aren't out picking up the Vile Germ in Canadian Tire or wherever. Apparently my father was at the BANK the other day. The BANK.  Courage or recklessness? I will have to consult Aquinas. They seem cheerful and resilient, and Dad consumes the news more than ever. I keep asking my mother about the garden, and it keeps being Toronto in March, so of course she's not in the garden.

I think garden thoughts a lot. I now have two new gardening books: Fruit and Vegetables for Scotland and Veg in One Bed. As soon as I can get my hands on some lumber and a drill or B.A.'s extremely handy colleague who fixed our oven, washing-machine, and front door, I am going to build  a raised bed. Our houseplants are thriving, so this is not a foolhardy endeavour. Besides, this feels like wartime, and in wartime you plant a victory garden. Well, the British plant victory gardens. I have an American friend who just wants to buy a gun.

We have no need of a gun. The weapon of choice in the neighbourhood is a knife, and we have plenty of knives in the kitchen. We also have a screwdriver we keep by the front door although I am not entirely sure why. I think it's for repairs. Incidentally, I am so, so glad we were firmly rooted in cold reality when we had suddenly to buy a flat and did not attempt to get a bigger mortgage for a grander abode.

I'm prone to anxiety, so occasionally I read the latest calming books about Maximum Happiness and other such desirable emotions, and one of them recommends writing lists of 20 things you're grateful for. Then you write 20 good things about yourself, and then you write 20 good things about your "partner" as the person you share a bed with is called in the UK. You're supposed to read these lists everyday, which I don't do, but I appreciate the wisdom of the advice, especially in Times of Trial, like the one we are now all in. This morning I rushed off to Tesco feeling doomed to infection, but then there were eggs in the big egg-cage, and I was so grateful they transformed my day.

Well, now I shall online shop for garden supplies before heaving myself out of my chair to scrub my own kitchen and bathroom, the humanity.

The Last Mass

Yesterday was the feast day of St. Joseph. I made traditional Italian zeppole di San Giuseppe before getting down to work. I began work early, for I had obtained permission to knock off at five to go to Mass. It would be the last public Traditional Latin Mass approved by the Archdiocese, for the Scottish bishops have now suspended all public Masses because of the coronavirus.

Fortunately for my state of mind, I had just finished writing an article about Trump's announcement of the use of the malaria remedy hydroxychloroquine to treat Covid-19.  I was feeling hopeful and even took Benedict Ambrose's announcement that the 17:20 train had been cancelled in stride. 

"Call a taxi," I said and arrayed myself in, more or less, the blue outfit I wore to Polish Pretend Son's 2018 wedding. Not the hat. It was too cold for a straw hat. Instead I wore my "Russian" bearskin (teddy bearskin, really) hat, the one that makes me five inches taller. And I also wore my late friend Angela's pearls. I'm so glad Angela was not sick in the time of coronavirus. 

I dabbed on rose perfume, put on my "outdoor" gloves and got into the taxicab before B.A. The driver, who had been at home with his wife all day, was garrulous. The taxicab smelled of bleach. Business is terrible, we were assured, which is why our driver had been at home, waiting to be called out instead of looking for fares that simply aren't there. He had just bought his taxicab, so this is a bit of a worry, but he was more grateful than worried, having bought the least expensive car he could. He told an amusing story against Uber: apparently a young lady was recently kicked out of an Uber car after she sneezed and had to take a proper cab after all. 

The fare was £25, which is a lot for poor Mr. and Mrs. B.A., but we enjoyed the seeing the sun set over the Scottish National Gallery of Modern Art One and also, as B.A. pointed out, its Neon announcement that "Everything is going to be alright." Then we kept a metre's distance from our fellow TLM devotees as we exchanged remarks about the pandemic going into the church. 

Well, what can I say about Mass? It was the Feast of St. Joseph, our priest wore white and gold. There were three young-man servers as well as John the Middle-Aged M.C. Silent Stuart, who is always the thurifer, was thurifer to the bitter end. There were Euan and Sam. They came out of the sacristy, processed down the Epistle side of the church and then up the central aisle. Mark (the Other Mark) sang the choir parts, and at one point his wife Annabel (a brilliant soprano) added assistance. 

There were none of the missals (left to us in Fra Freddie's will) or a Whyte Sheete for St. Joseph's Day, so if we didn't have our missals (I think I left mine in Father's house chapel) we had to rely on our Latin. My Latin is generally good enough for the Gospel, if not the Epistle. There were between 35 (my count) and 38 (Mark's count) of us altogether. Only eight of us were women; we seemed to be mostly young men--and a hitherto unknown dog. The dog sat by the back doors and occasionally complained.

In his homily, Father struck a cheerful note, assuring us that he would continue to say Mass and that he would pray for us as always. We could be confident that we would still receive all the graces that we would have had, had we continued going to Mass. However, I still though longingly of the 18th century, when at least the laity could have sneaked out into the countryside and found Mass awaiting us in the heather. (Possibly some delightfully fanatical Polish priest will row up the Firth of Forth and there will again be Mass in the heather.) 

After Mass, we all prayed the "Prayer in Times of Epidemics" from a new Whyte Sheete Father asked us to take home.  Then Other Mark began to sing a hymn to St. Joseph, which he (and at least one other young man) read from his smartphone. The chorus, which eventually we all learned to sing, is as follows:

Dear St. Joseph, spouse of Mary

blest above all saints on high,

When the death shades round us gather, 

teach, O teach us how to die, 

teach, O teach us how to die.

Apropos, no? I felt a bit sad again and had to remind myself of splendid hydroxychloroquine, second cousin, surely, to the good old Gin & Tonic. Also, the way to die, if you can manage it, is probably cheerfully, giving as little trouble to those around you as you can: very C.S. Lewis/G.K. Chesterton/the Queen. Or so I said to B.A. as we walked towards the dreaded bus stop in the gloom.

Some outraged local readers may wonder why they didn't know there was a 18:15 TLM for St. Joseph at the church yesterday.  One answer is that I found out through Facebook from Other Mark, so if you don't use Facebook you were out of luck. I was so burdened with cares that when I was thinking of people who ought to know, I thought only of an Austrian physicist--possibly because I knew he could walk there and would not be tempted to take a germy bus.  UPDATE: Another answer is that it was on the FSSP website, which too few of us read.) 

I am now fanatically anti-bus and got on a double-decker one last night only because, like B.A., I couldn't bear the thought of another £25 taxicab ride. A man four rows down coughed shallowly into his coat at intervals. For awhile I thought it was the young Pole beside his wife/girlfriend three rows back and looked with horror at his reflection in the window as he greeted an equally Polish pal, shook his hand, and the pal immediately put his shaken hand on a bus pole. Teach, O teach us how to die. But it was the chap behind him, after all.

"Trzymaj się," the maligned Pole said to his friend when latter went downstairs to alight in Portobello. Take care.

"Trzymaj się!"

Take care, everyone. My gloves, as per my sister-in-law's instructions, are going back into a 9:1 water-bleach solution.  

The Swans

B.A. and I are lucky enough to live across the street from wooded riverbanks. On the other side of the river is a Victorian factory that has been converted into offices. It has a working clock tower. Thus, we have a flat with a lovely view.

Yesterday I took a break from worrying about Covid-19 to hang up a load of laundry in our dining-room/office/guest-room, and while draping clothes over the radiator, I looked through the window and saw two swans in the river, nibbling at the opposite bank.

I had never seen swans so far up the river, so I called out to B.A. to have a look.

It was a lovely moment, really.

Yesterday we also went for a country walk, the country being a 15 minute walk from our door, and after lunch we spent hours in the garden. In the midst of a health pandemic, the question uppermost in my mind is, "If you have to stay away from people for two weeks, what would you like to do?"

Fortunately for the family finances, I work from home all the time, so there's no change there. And it's spring, so working in the garden is not only pleasant but necessary. Our nearest neighbours, whose gardens are in much better shape, came outside to cheer on our efforts. Going for country walks is one of our favourite shared activities. Because of all the pilgrimages I've been on in the past few years, I now associate long walks with the rosary, so we get in some prayer together, too.

I like talking to my parents on Skype, so I've been doing more of that.

I don't like washing my hands to song anymore, alas, as I have developed what looks like contact dermatitis on the backs of my hands. They itch. Even when they are not red they itch. Naturally I am not keen to go to the local medical clinic, so I'm self-medicating with Vaseline Intensive Care lotion and diaper rash cream. At some point I will consult with Dr. Sister-in-Law. Ma Belle Soeur is not keen on B.A. and I taking public transit, by the way. We are going to reduce our public transit time as much as we can.

My personal opinion on what the Catholic bishops should do for the next few months is what the Polish bishops have done: dispense the elderly, the ill, the children, children's caregivers (I'd add, the caregivers of the elderly), and the merely frightened from their Sunday obligation to assist at Mass while at the same time having more Masses, in part to have smaller congregation, and in part to obtain the grace of more Masses. This is a good opportunity for Catholics, especially Catholic clergy, to be true witnesses to our faith in Christ and hope for heaven, while at the same time not risking sending the vulnerable there before time.  It's also a great time for bearing our discomforts cheerfully, as the superior form of penance, so I will try to think of my itchy hands as a good thing.

I do think, however, that the elderly should be ordered by the bishops to STAY HOME. I suppose the suspension of Sunday Masses by various dioceses (including the Archdiocese of Toronto) may be inspired by a fear that the elderly will keep on going to Mass, and keep on putting themselves and each other in danger of an untimely death, if there is still a Mass to go to. This reminds me that this would also be a good time for Christians to show who we supposed to be by checking in with our elderly neighbours, friends, and family to make sure they have enough food, are staying safe, and are not going squirrelly of boredom and loneliness.

Blogpost in a Plague Year

Before my trip to Poland there were at least 16 women in my barre class. This Tuesday there were seven. Today there were five. The teachers clean the whole club between classes.

"That way twenty people touch everything instead of a hundred," one said. 

She thinks we are all going to get the coronavirus anyway. We better not all get it anyway. It's horrible for the elderly and those with "underlying conditions." My husband might still have an "underlying condition", and I read somewhere that people with cancer should not expect to be intubated. I saw my husband intubated, and it was horrible for him. Thankfully he can't remember.

Before we went to Poland I bought a family pack of toilet paper and as many tinned goods as I could carry, in case there was panic-buying while we were away. There was no panic-buying, and last week there was even still hand-sanitiser in the stores. I bought two pocket-sized plastic bottles of it. 

Yesterday B.A. came home from a class he taught to say that someone had seen him hand-sanitising and exclaimed, "Where did you get it?" So today I went to the local Boots, and sure enough, there was none on the shelves. The young lady behind the counter told me that there will be some available at 9 AM tomorrow---"And by 9:05 it will all be gone." 

The advice from the government is that hand-washing with soap and water for 20 minutes seconds is better than hand sanitiser anyway. I've been using it every time I've alighted from a bus. I use the bus to go to the health club and to Italian class and, with B.A., to church.  I'm not nervous about the club, Italian class or church, but I am nervous about the bus. 

Before I got on the bus to Boots and home, I went to a Sicilian pastry shop and bought some cannoli. B.A. and I celebrate St. Joseph's Day with some fanfare, but it occurred to me this morning that the pastry shops might be closed by March 19. Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we---will be under quarantine?

How mediaeval it is to actually ponder sudden death from an invisible disease that we or other people all around us may be harbouring unawares.  

Anyway, we wash our hands, and I've washed the doorhandles, and we have our little bottles of hand sanitiser. We won't receive Holy Communion on our hands (not really a germ-free option, anyway), so we probably won't receive at all at Sunday Masses until Easter, if the proper method is banned. We have holy water at home--the extra-strength, FSSP version. 

B.A.'s mum works in a retirement home in Dundee, but it's on "lockdown" she texted. We're not sure if that means she can't get out or she can't get in. 

My mum's April walking tour of Provence has been cancelled. She can come here, if she likes, but I'm starting to think that might not be a good idea. She might be trapped here. She might be at the bottom of the NHS treatment list.   

I read about the spread of coronavirus as soon as I get up and about an hour before I go to bed.  I wrote three articles about coronavirus yesterday. 

I'm worried about my sister-in-law, the doctor. I'm worried about my dad. 

"Stay away from young people," I told him.

I think about how lovely it is to breathe deeply and easily.

Update: An alternative to the "Happy Birthday" handwashing song, sure to be familiar to everyone my age:

:-D

The University Likened to an Orange

The question of the utility of a university education came up after Mass today, and as the situation did not include the youngster going into debt or any other evil, I found myself vigorously defending Academia.

I encourage all gifted, intellectual teenagers to consider the University to be a kind of orange. The orange has a very attractive appearance, and it is true that many student mistake the beautiful and aromatic rind (scores of handsome young members-of-the-opposite sex, the parties, the booze, the drunken dancing on the quad at midnight with your best pal Trish) for the fruit (see below). However, it is the fruit that counts.

The fruit of the University consists of its glorious resources: the lectures, the libraries, the language labs, the science labs, the gardens, the concerts, the plays, the practice rooms, the recordings, and the experts--both the older, experienced experts, who are professors, and the doctoral candidates who, despite their disheveled appearances, know more about (at very least) their thesis topic than anyone else in the world.

There are also the clubs, and I think these should be considered resources, too, if they involve some sport or skill, like debating or chess.  Clubs that involve your philosophy or religion will be not just a resource but also a haven. I cannot imagine any Catholic, let alone a traditional Catholic, attempting a social life at the University without recourse to Catholic Chaplaincy or the Newman or some other place where likeminded Catholics gather.

Young people who share your core values are going to be your lifelong friends, and they are also the also the people with whom you are going to share wine and nachos (I'm thinking of the UK, where the drinking age is 18) at midnight while sharing what you've learned or arguing whether or not phenomenology is incompatible with Thomism. These late-night debates are, by the way, your part of the aromatic orange peel. The peel does have its place, just as orange zest has its place in cookery. In fact, let's call these intellectual and spiritual friendships the zest.  With God's help, you can avoid the inedible white part--the hangovers, drama, mortal sins, and cultural Marxism--completely.

But don't forget what the orange is for: the fruit. Go to University with a clear goal in mind, whether to prepare for future medical studies, or to equip yourself for teaching Latin and Greek to homeschoolers, or to become completely fluent in two Modern Languages. The University has laid out a banquet for you: go in and eat it all up.

P.S. When I was an undergrad, people would sigh "I still don't know what I want to do" as if this were not deeply shameful. Know what you want to do when you go to uni. Adjust your plans later, if you must, but don't go in expecting to be entertained.

Tongue Freeze

Polish chateau

*Update (Friday): I finally had the courage to check, and I DID get the prefix right. "Abrenuntio" is "Odrzekam"in the Obrzędy Chrztu  and that's exactly what I said. So ha, ha, ha clueless young man at the champagne reception and hooray for me!

Update 2: I concede that 'Wyrzekam' is more colloquial, but that is not what is written in the Obrzędy Chrztu

***

Now that I am at home, I can recollect in emotional safety the linguistic successes and failures of our recent trip to Poland.

My biggest problem is panic. Panic really is the mind-killer. I am perfectly capable of having good basic conversations in Polish in my sitting-room or in a cafe with my tutor, but put me in the dining room of a Polish chateau, and suddenly all Polish evaporates from my brain.

I thought of coming up with a calming phrase that would make me relax but would also fit in naturally at the beginning of a sentence. A good one would be Nooooo, which just means "Yes" or "Well." However, my guaranteed brain calmer, which can only be used with strangers, is "Czy Pan/Pana mowi po angielsku?" This is the polite form of "Do you speak English?" and it is brilliant in its way because if I give my interlocutor the chance to speak English, I do not feel bad about any mistakes I'm about to mistake. My Polish is literally better than his or her English.

There is also a calming philosophy which is that a conversation is successful, no matter how many linguistic mistakes are made, if it gets the job done. Thus I began our Polish trip with three successful conversations: one involving the purchase of train tickets for four adults, one obtaining a coffee and pastry for Benedict Ambrose, and one learning that eventually we would have to take a shuttle bus from one train station to the next.

However, my next conversation, which was addressed to a large number of Polish Pretend Son's very real relations, was rather less successful because my Polish evaporated before I could say that I was very glad to see them all again and delighted to meet my goddaughter.

As I wrote yesterday, my most important Polish job, which was to present and represent my goddaughter to the Catholic Church was, amazingly, successful, although I think I may have got a prefix wrong.* [See above.] Afterwards I understood most of PPS's toast to the Matka Chrzestna, which was rather nice.

Then it was English, English, English, except for the refrain of Szła dzieweczka during the folk music extravaganza that took place between the roast goose course and the flaming wild boar.  Oh, and we were made to sing drinking songs, but we were given the lyrics to read, so that was easy.

Once back in the big city, I was able to order food and drink po polsku and also to voice my regret that I could not help a stranger find the address he was looking for. (My parents take great pride in fitting in well enough everywhere they go [Europe, Australia, USA] that people ask them for directions. Well, I was in that position on Tuesday morning.)  The most important  of these conversations took place when it was past noon, and it was raining, and we were starving, and all of a sudden here was a milk bar with tables free. Czy Pani mowi po angielsku? Nic nie szkodzi. Dla mnie pierogi ruskie, i dla męza kotlet schabowy. I piwę i wodę mineralną. Dziękuję.  

But that is all very A1 level stuff, and I read at a B2 level, so I really would like to be able to talk to PPS's friends and relations in Polish without having a tongue freeze. I went to the library and took out books on confidence. However, it seems from my test scores that I already have lots of confidence, so that's not the issue. The way forward may be to practise speaking to PPS's friends and relations, so I have an appointment to speak to one on Skype next Monday evening.

Matka Chrzestna, Córka Chrzestna, and the Naughty Dog

We are back from Poland, and I have a new goddaughter. Her daddy loves privacy, so no photo. Maybe I will be successful at blotting her sweet little head out of a photo of her with me, and then at least you can admire her christening gown, which was made by an English seamstress who is the go-to mantilla-maker of British trads-in-the-know.

Poles do not really go in for long and ornate christening gowns, which was a surprise to me, since I thought they were universal to Christendom. Instead they have ornate handkerchiefs which serve as the official "baptismal garment." My fortunate goddaughter has both, plus a quilted jacket and a quilted bonnet. The planning that went into these garments was intense and ultimately quite rewarding.

We had a few adventures on our way to the Saturday christening and after the christening, one involving a stray husky shedding the black feathers of a murdered hen. My biggest adventure was learning both the Apostles Creed and the Lord's Prayer in Polish while discovering how hard it is to say them automatically when English and sometimes Latin come to mind first.  In the end, I decided I could just read them from my handy Polish prayer book, but then I was handed the baby and had no hands for the prayer book.

Thanks to a miracle, and much reading and re-reading of the Latin-to-Polish text of the Christening according to the Extraordinary Form beforehand, my Nerves melted away when the service started. I actually knew what the priest was saying, and Córka Chrzestna stared up at me in a hypnotic sort of way, and I remembered the responses, e.g. what her name was and what she wanted.

On our walk up the aisle towards the altar, it wouldn't have mattered if I hadn't learned the Skład Apostolski in Polish, for CC began to cry and wailed so loudly nobody could tell if I said it or not.

The service, which was in one of the most famous and beautiful shrines in Poland (13th century),  lasted about 40 minutes, and it was really splendid. Afterwards, I handed the baby to her grandmother and was thus freed from any lingering fear of dropping her on the cold, hard, mediaeval stone floor. But really, we had quite a nice 40 minutes together. Her relations wondered why we spent the first part of the ceremony staring wordlessly at each other. Naturally we were having a spiritual conversation.

The adventure of the dog and the murdered chicken was on Sunday morning after breakfast when I convinced B.A. to walk to the nearest country church with me. It was too late for Mass, unfortunately, but we found the church without being squashed by cars or bitten by dogs or deafened by cockerels. It was very plain, but it was there, if you see what I mean. On our way back to our host hamlet, we were joined by a husky who seemed to have broken his chain. However, he was respectful and friendly, so we didn't mind him trotting along ahead of us, even when he drove captive dogs insane by marking his new territory right in front of them. But then he spotted some chickens, who began to scream as he chased them around a farmyard, and came trotting back with a wailing,
 black hen and broke her neck right in front of us.

City-bred, we were horrified.

"Niegrzeczny pies" was all I could think of to say as he rushed forward again, trailing black feathers from his mouth. "Niegrzeczny pies! Naughty dog!"

We feared that the villagers (hamlet-ers?) would see the dead hen--which the dog didn't even eat--and assume the bad dog belonged to the obvious foreigners who were so uncivilised as to let it run around killing Polish hens. However, this didn't happen, and when I did my duty in informing the local grandee (i.e. Polish Pretend Son) that there was a hen-killing stray on the loose, he said only that I was lucky, for he had never seen anything like that.