My Cut-Rate Grand Tour: Day Thirteen

Sunday, 18 December, 1988
Paris

Woke up around 7:00 AM with a stomachache. It was either food poisoning, indigestion, the flu that’s going around, or the approach of the wrong time of month. I chose to believe the last, having pills on hand to throw at that condition. So I took them then went back to sleep.

Nevertheless I did not feel too wonderful all day. Considered not getting up for Mass (à la Mexico City, 1970†) but decided I’d regret it if I didn’t.

So I put on my gray dress and went to Mass at Notre Dame. It’s rather odd-- the organ plays and they have readings and so forth between services. Meanwhile people are walking around taking pictures-- with flash-- and it’s a real zoo. Fortunately things calmed down for the service itself.

There was a copy in French and in three other languages of the readings. What I need is that and the actual eucharistic liturgy, in French. A copy of the sermon wouldn’t hurt, either. The priest spoke, I believe, on not making Christmas a surface thing. Very edifying, I’m sure, if I could’ve understood it.

I still did not feel at all well and hoped to gracious I would not have one of my famous Raging Hormonal Imbalances right in the middle of the service. But I survived to go up and take Communion (one kind only), and to come back to my seat and lose it.

Emotionally, I mean. It wasn’t being there, per se, that did it. It was more the feeling of oh, God, what am I supposed to be doing with my life, and if You don’t let me know, who will? I asked Him to give me some kind of sign as to what He wants me to do . . . somebody bringing something up in a conversation, maybe. I don’t know. What did He give Jim Leffel*‡ when he was struggling over accepting the call to Wilkes-Barre*?

Outside afterwards there was a rather ragtag group in front of the cathedral singing Christmas carols-- in English-- for the Armenian earthquake relief (and that’s what happened there, on top of the delicate political situation).

I headed north and had a bottle of Perrier at the first café I found open. I needed the bubbles. Stomach lousy. Between the Pompidou Center and Les Halles I made myself buy a crepe and eat it, but I wasn’t too happy about it.

Still, there were things I had to do today so I pushed myself. Had to find a florist to sell me some real flowers, for one. And as long as I was fairly close, I thought I’d go up to the Boulevards and see where Berlioz went to music school.

Found the fleurs first, near the rue Montmartre. I had to decide what he would like. I settled on a bunch of those small tulips, yellow and white and dark pink and variegated, with their green stems and leaves. Freesias would’ve done well, too, but the only ones they had were all yellow and looked like cheese popcorn. Definitely wrong.

Walked on over to where the Conservatoire is supposed to be, but unless there is another place in Paris with streets named rue Bergère and rue Faubourg de Montmartre, they’ve demolished the building that was there in the early 19th century and moved the school elsewhere.§ Still, to think that he walked there once, on that pavement, and passed through that air!

Took the Métro to Havre-Canmartin, where I encountered a check. The #13 line, which I needed for both la Cimetière Montmartre and for St. Denis [to see the famous abbey church] was closed. Went on to Villiers to at least reach the former and discovered the #6 line wasn’t going today, either. Transit strike on. So I went back to the Place Europe stop and walked it from there.

The cemetery is under the Rue Calincourt overpass, unlike what is shown on my map. Found the entrance down below, though, and inquired of the uniformed porter where to find it . . . Hector’s got a lane named after him there. And he’s not under the viaduct, thank God.

French urban cemeteries aren’t like American ones. They don’t go in for green grass and well-tended plots. They tend to be little necropoles of miniature chapels and temples all jumbled in cheek by jowl with only drear, sandy soil between.

But thank God, somebody has done something about that ghastly Beaux Arts horror of a tomb that Hector originally had, the picture of which I saw in a book in the Philadelphia Free Library. It was all redone in 1970 in black Andes granite (or something similar) with gold in the incised lettering. The portrait on the medallion isn’t as beautiful as it should be, it doesn’t properly convey his character, but everything is very well tended, there are cyclamens, the pretty dark pink kind, and healthy-looking shrubbery growing in pots that are an integral part of the monument, not like the desiccated chrysanthemums on some nearly tombs, and-- oh, God, Berlioz! Berlioz! I can’t-- I wish-- Oh, Lord, I-- and he’s-- I can’t express it!

One doesn’t go to pieces totally. One mustn’t. There are other people around every so often. And it’s not like he died recently or anything . . . let us be sensible.

I could take refuge in activity. I could at least give him what I brought him. Someone who came earlier had left him a bunch of white chrysanthemums (I was glad to see that); I unbound my tulips and laid them across the other flowers. And I knew I’d chosen the right thing. They’re like him, in a way. Straightforward, unpretentious, colorful in their way, but still sensitive to the rigors of the mundane.

There’s a tree there . . . its roots probably grow down into his grave. It’s very handy when you have no other shoulder to cry on . . . Though I’ve cried on his shoulder often enough, figuratively, singing his songs and reading his memoirs and his letters, taking comfort in knowing there was one who has been through it himself, who could express it all so as to draw it up into ineffable poetry and beauty, one who despite his sins and failings took the gift that God gave him and used it, sublimely . . . I couldn’t help it, I prayed again the prayer I’ve said for the past eleven years, that please, God, in Jesus’ Name, if he can’t actually be saved-- and if there’s any proper way he could be, please effect it!-- please allow his faithfulness to his gift and all the good he’s done through its fulfillment speak grace and amelioration for him in the judgement! Please!

There’s a cross engraved above his name on his monument. I hope it is not there for naught. I wish I could believe the Roman Catholic doctrine that you can be saved by being baptised as an infant. I cannot, but it would be a comfort.

I tried to sing the Te Decet Hymnus for him but my voice broke-- "Ad Te caro omnis veniet!" Yes, but how-- and in what spirit?

There were some fuzzy cats roaming around (none of them black) and one approached now and sat a little ways off, preening herself. I went over and patted her, and, unusually for a French cat, she responded to it. If she’d been [my own cat] Didon I’d’ve picked her up, but she was not.

Then I went back and stood once more before la noire tombe-- mon pauvre Hector! Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine!-- kissed my hand to him, and departed.

Hélas!

Found la Square Berlioz after that, not far from la Place Clichy. The statue there is of him as a younger man than on the medallion of the tomb. It was not carved out of very high quality stone-- it has deteriorated badly. I dislike seeing that. And somehow, though I’m glad he is honored in public sculptures like that, somehow seeing them makes him seem more distant, unlike the portraits. I’ve read that his portrait by Courbet is said to be the only one by that artist that has a spark of life. If so, I’m glad it was Hector’s. Nothing can portray him that does not give you those piercing, wonderful eyes.

The square is largely given over to a large sandbox where children play, and sandy paths where the kids were kicking around a soccer ball. I wonder what he’d think of having his statue placed in a playground. He wasn’t much good at children, except for his son Louis.

Since going to see the abbey church of St. Denis was a bust and it was getting on towards 4:00 anyway, I took the Métro back downtown and got off at the Opéra stop. Had to look at the building which, while not the one that Hector knew, yet houses the institution that only opened its doors to him once.

Ironically, they did the Damnation de Faust, as I saw on a poster in the lobby, on the 8th. If I’d known that I could’ve come in from Chartres, no problem. Damnation, indeed.

They had tours but I just didn’t feel up to it. Browsed the gift shop; they had enamelled composer pins, even one of Hector. But they were just too expensive: 70F.

Over then to les Galeries Lafayette to see if maybe they were running the same sale on slips their branch in Toulouse was.

They weren’t; moreover the only suitable kind of slip they did have was running 225F each and was made in the good old USA. I think I’ll wait till I get back to Oxford.

Close one on the escalator there. It was full of people and as we rode upwards, a fairly good-sized man in his 60's lost his balance just ahead of me. Only my never-that-strong and presently very fatigued left arm and hand desperately clutching the rail kept him and me and everyone else from falling like dominoes. I don’t even think I was holding the righthand rail. I just stiffened up and hoped he’d get his balance before I gave way, too. When he made a grab for the rail he pushed into me worse and I had to step back, crunching the toes of the guy behind me (who wasn’t being any help, I might add). Fortunately the older man regained his footing at that point and aside from a little soreness, I was ok.

Still can’t figure out how I did that. I was feeling extremely yucky. Thank God I was able to, though.

The store was packed with Christmas shoppers and decorated to the hilt. (It’s the same all over, isn’t it?) And then it has that immense stained glass dome over the central court.

Back towards the hotel on the Métro (I might use the busses if I had a bus map. But I don’t, so I don’t). Really dragging by now. Figured I’d better find some food though so I got some junk at a croissanterie on Boul. St. Michel.

Got it and me up to the room-- and just couldn’t face it. Changed my clothes and climbed under the bedspread. Was not going to make it to the organ concert at Notre-Dame at 5:45. No. Listened to the radio, BBC World Service. They were airing their worldwide request program, and played the Hallelujah Chorus. And for the third time today I broke down and cried. Oh, Lord Jesus, come quickly!

Made myself work at train schedules for the next two days but other than that accomplished nothing but sleep all evening.
__________________________
†I was part of a high school group that took an Easter weekend trip to Mexico that year. On the Saturday, I, like an idiot, Drank the Water, and woke up the next morning too sick to go to the American church for Easter service. Happily, it was a mild case of MR and passed off by late that afternoon.
‡The immediate past pastor of my home church in Kansas City.
§Turns out I'd come up with the wrong address. The old Conservatoire building was and is still there, three or four blocks away from where I was looking for it.

My Great Britannic Adventure, Day Thirteen

Wednesday, 29 March, 1989 Glasgow to Fitz (near Shrewsbury) Day Thirteen Elected not to eat the hostel’s soggy breakfast this morning. I did have a little bit of chore duty down in the members’ kitchen before I could get my card back and leave, though. Not sure how that works but I figured it was better just to get it over with and not take the time to enquire. Got a freebie parking space in a garage on the fringe of the center city when someone who’d gotten an all-day sticker left early and the garage attendant gave it to me as I was pulling in. Not strictly kosher, I gather, and so I was a good child and made sure to park on the proper level, even if it did mean driving around till a space became vacant. Had my bit of breakfast at the Willow Tea Rooms on Sauchiehall Street. I hear rumors that they’re not precisely as Mackintosh designed them (I’m referring to the tea room itself, not to the jewellery store downstairs) but I don’t really care at this point. Shared a table with a nice Scots couple who have a neighbor who’s going to go study in Moscow. Which should tell you something about Scottish communicativeness. There was a bit of fumbling around over culinary terminology with the waitress, as I ordered a crumpet, meaning an English muffin, but got what I call a pancake, but what the Scots call a crumpet. Confused? So I ordered a muffin instead, and got what I’d call an English muffin, but what the English would term a crumpet. Right. But it was what I wanted, anyway. Asked for more boiling water but the waitress brought me another pot of tea. And left it off the tab. I reminded her of it when I went to pay the bill but she said to forget it. Well. Decided to make it to Shropshire before night, skipping the Lake District. Called and made a booking at a B&B near Shrewsbury. Walked down and saw Mackintosh’s Daily Record Building in its little alley, then got the car and drove back to the University area to see the Glasgow Style exhibit at the Kelvingrove Museum. By now even Mackintosh was beginning to become too much of a good thing and it was getting late. So I just ran back to the Hunterian to get a postcard to send Jim and Annie Schoenmacher* [our custom furniture makers in Kansas City] and took off south down the A74 to Carlisle. But not before stopping at a Jessop’s in Glasgow and spending another £48 or so on ten rolls of film . . . 10% off if you get ten, you see. Misty and foggy today. Raining in places. Traffic not too bad, though. Saw many beautiful things in the landscape on the way south. The Scottish Lowlands are rolling hills, now seen through a mist, bluish on either side of the carriageway. Passed the turn-off for Lockerbie . . . Wonder how long before that will once again be just the name of a nice holiday town and not be known primarily as the site of that tragic terrorist-induced plane crash last December? Picked up the M6 north of Carlisle, and so into Cumbria. The fields from time to time manifested, even through the closed car windows, quite an odor of cowpies. Cundry smells! At first I thought it was only from herds of grazing cattle but it occurs to me that the farmers may be manuring their fields, this time of year. Well, what do you expect? The mountains of the Lake District, though not attaining to the heights of the Rockies or the Swiss Alps, have a towering stark grandeur that is awe-instilling even as you merely race through at 80 [or sometimes 90] mph. I am continually amazed at the geographical and topographical diversity of this comparatively small island. Filled up the car and bought some cookies to tide me over just past Lancaster. Checked the map for my route. I’m getting better at remembering the road numbers and towns but a little paranoia doesn’t hurt. Thought I might hit some heavy traffic along the turnoffs for Liverpool and Manchester, but it wasn’t too bad. Jumped off the M6 at Crewe and went through there and so along the A530 southwest through Nantwich and Whitchurch towards Wem and Shrewsbury. Whitchurch is a goodsized town (by which I mean, it has a Boots). You pick up the B5476 there. I found the brick and timbered houses and the hedge-lined lanes of Shropshire peaceful compared to the gray harled houses and the stone walls of Scotland. But here you still have people ahead of you going 30 in a legal 60 zone or people behind wanting to do 60, on a road that any sensible Missouri highway engineer would tell you was for 45 mph, tops. And the frustration of having nowhere to stop and take a picture of all the excruciatingly typically-English pastoral harmony you’re seeing through your windshield. The directions I had worked wonderfully until, at around 8:00 PM, I got to a kind of flattened Y-junction on a one and a half lane road past Harmer Hill. I’d been told to turn left at a T-junction and thought that must be it, since the lollipop at the top of the sign said "Bomere Heath," the name of the biggest village near Fitz Manor. But I went much farther than the called for 100 yards and saw no sandstone cross, the landmark I was to watch for. Turned around at first opportunity, drove back through the junction, and off along and into Bomere Heath.† Big enough village to have mercury street lights. Tried calling the B&B but the village phonebox wasn’t working. So I got directions from the clerk in a nearby grocery store and set off again. Major frustration-- it was dark by now, there were no such turn-offs as the woman had described, and I had a train of other cars behind me who couldn’t pass on this narrow, hilly, twisting lane. I could’ve screamed. Turned around again, tried to find the junction where I’d gone wrong before. No, I did that first . . . Seems I hadn’t gone far enough. At any rate, I couldn’t find it and ended up the other side of Bomere Heath, at a nameless hamlet with a pub by the name of the Romping Cat. Cute, but not where I’m headed. Turn around again. Anyway, I’d tried the clerk’s directions, they didn’t fly. But on the way back to the village I found the signs she’d referred to-- but on the other side of the road. She’d told me left when it should’ve been right. I was all right thereafter. Found the cross-- a WWI memorial-- and ticked off the mile on the odometer and so found the lodge and the drive to Fitz Manor. Arrived a little after 9:00. It was nice to have the illustration in the Staying Off the Beaten Track book, because that way I knew I was in the right place. Drove up in the yard and two dogs, a border collie and small, smooth haired creature, came running up, barking their greetings. I didn’t mind and if I had thought to be concerned, I was too tired to expend energy on it. Got out, and attended by the dogs, addressed myself to the front door. I was glad of the dogs’ noise, since I couldn’t find the doorbell and my knocking wasn’t having much effect. And pretty soon, Mrs. Baly, the lady of the house, answered the door and let me in. She was actually surprised I’d made it down from Glasgow in such good time, even considering my meanderings in the immediate neighborhood. When it came out I hadn’t had lunch or dinner, she made me a sandwich and brought it to me in the sitting room, where the other guests were gathered. There was a log fire in the fireplace, which was a pleasant sight to see and even pleasanter to sit before. The other people there were Harry and Elspeth*, a middle-aged couple from Middlesex, and Ted and Susanna*, who are from near Cambridge. Ted’s* an Anglican curate and we all talked for awhile on the difference, if any, between a priest and a vicar and how the curacy works. He was acquainted with some people from Coverdale* two or three years ago but is sure none of them is there still. Tea was brought and served round and I was treated to a serving of the trifle that had been the dessert at dinner. The party broke up around 10:00 and everyone retired to their rooms. Mine was a cheerfully decorated chamber at the front of the house, made more cheerful by Mrs. Baly’s introduction of an "electric fire," as they call a space heater here. The coal grate was no longer in use, and just as well. I dislike the odor. There was also a shelf-full of books, and considering how very tired I was I sat up ridiculously late, till past midnight, reading vignettes out of one of James Herriot's. After I turned off the light I realized my encounters with animals might be more firsthand. I could hear the unmistakeable squeak and rustle of mice in the baseboards. I very much wished for my cat, as Didon would make short work of any rodents that ventured out. But lacking her, I told myself to buck up and go to sleep. The house is around 530 years old and I’m sure people have been sleeping here for centuries with the sound of mice in the walls, and have been jolly glad to know it wasn’t Something Worse. ________________________________ †Thanks to the modern wonders of Google Earth and Google Maps, I see now that the original directions were perfectly fine. The problem was how I interpreted them. That, and letting a large chunk of them slip my mind. The funniest thing has been learning that given the nature of British country roads, that if I'd kept on, the "wrong" turns would have got me where I wanted to be sooner and in a shorter distance, vs. turning around and retracing my route. Oh, well!

My Great Britannic Adventure, Day Three

Sunday, 19 March, 1989
Cambridge, Ely, & March
Day Three, Palm Sunday

Not having told Mrs. Payne any different, I was obliged to unearth myself and dress in time for breakfast at 8:00 o’clock. Serves me right for staying up so ungodly late.

I have neglected to say that they have two little dogs, Katie and Emmie, and a cat, Harvey. Harvey, a girl, isn’t much seen (too bad, as she looks a lot like my cat Didon) but the terrier puppy Emmie is all over the place if you half let her. So she was shut in the kitchen this morning. I really wouldn’t’ve minded the company, if she could’ve been persuaded to sit down.

They do have a church in Little Chesterford, at the end of the village street, but Mrs. Payne told me it’d only be the Communion service, no hymns, despite this being Palm Sunday. So I elected to go to the family service at Saffron Walden.

They have a very handsome Perpendicular church down there. Very great in size, too. Painted ceiling. Acoustics leave a little to be desired, as it’s hard for the choir to be heard and so lead the congregation in singing. And no tunes in the hymnals doesn’t help. (I will be so glad to get back to America and decent hymnals!) They did do "All Glory, Laud, and Hono(u)r," which is familiar, fortunately.

The deaconess preached (I’ll have to ask at home-- at Coverdale*, I mean--what her proper title would be) on the shame of the Cross, saying we’ve romanticised that element away. Very true.

There was a young African man in the pew and I spoke to him afterwards. Discovered he’s from Mozambique and is studying at a college there in Saffron Walden. I hadn’t realized the place was big enough to have a college (though I suppose so, it has 12,000 inhabitants). He, in his turn, had never heard of Oxford. The things you learn!

After hanging my Palm Sunday cross from the Astra's rearview mirror, I returned to Cambridge to see some things I’d missed yesterday. King’s College Chapel was open till 1:00 so I made that my first stop.

I’m not sure why, but I found the space rather oppressive. Maybe it’s those slender colonnettes terminating in those flattened arches overhead, or all that weight of ornamentation and false ribbing on the fan vaults, but it made me feel as if a ponderous hand was pressing down on the top of my head. I found it neither soaringly dynamic nor statically comfortable. Trying to be both, it was neither.

So I resolved to ignore the overall effect and concentrated on details instead, the stained glass, the carvings on the furniture, the organ case. (I am collecting organs this time.)

They hurried everyone out at 1:00, as the Choir was doing a recording this afternoon. The organ was being tuned (voiced?) as I was there looking around.

Drifted around to Silver Street and to the Backs again. Saw the Mathematical Bridge (interfering Victorians! [or maybe not]) then did a northerly flaner along the far back of the Cam, up eventually to St. John’s College, to see their version of the Bridge of Sighs.

There you have a classic example of the picture that got away. For I stood in there for fifteen minutes or more, the Olympus at the ready, but every time the sun as full out (making the tracery patterns on the floor that I was trying to get), there were people in the way. Or vice versa. Of course, once I’d given up and taken myself off back towards the carpark the sun came out for five whole minutes at a stretch. Teasing creature!

Next stop, Ely. You know, you can see the cathedral from several miles away.

Oddly, the west front isn’t as overbearing as I’d expected it to be. Maybe that’s because you approach it over an expanse of grass and you’re not confronted by it above you in a little square, as in France. But no, that can’t be it. Maybe it’s just because Ely looks so castellated you expect it to be forbidding.

I took my time working my way down to the crossing with its Octagon, and inspected first the Norman nave with its round pillars and brightly-painted wooden ceiling above.

The Octagon is a wonder, and more so for my knowing something about the carpentry that went into it. You can’t stand directly under it, as that’s where the parish altar sits. But you can stand there at an angle, gaping for minutes at a time up into the marvel of its ribbing and colors. It's like a wondrous heavenly flower opening overhead. Was I transfixed by the awe-inspiring effect of the space-- or was I simply waiting for the sun to come through the lantern so I could get a better photograph?

I went up to see the stained glass museum but it was just closing. The Lady Chapel was not open at all. Renovations.

The choir boys were singing as I came in. Then they stopped, recessed, then came back for Evensong at 3:45. The Scripture was that from Lamentations, "Is it nothing to you, all you who pass by?" Which somehow seemed appropriate for a church full of people only there to see the sights and not to worship.

I wish I could have stayed but I still wanted to see the angel roof in March. Had a ham (Spam!) sandwich and an order of chips at a cafe first. Do you know they had the cheek to charge 5p for a little packet of ketchup? Ye gods.

Up to March after 5:00; arrived shortly after 6:00. (Took the road towards Huntingdon and got off at Chatteris). Glorious sunset through the tombstones, but I felt I’d better get inside before the light faded too much for the ceiling to be seen. At 6:05 the sexton came in to open up for the evening service and turned the lights on.

The roof is all plain oak, no polychrome or gilding. There certainly are a glorious lot of angels flying around up there. But as one man (the churchwarden, maybe) who came in shortly thereafter said, "After awhile you forget they’re there." I suppose so . . . they’d be at most a back of the mind reminder of the real Heavenly Host looking down on the people of God. After all, you can’t be looking up at the ceiling when you should be paying attention to the preacher.

It being so close to time I decided to stay for evening service. The congregation seemed to be very lively sorts of Christians, and seemed very genuinely joyful. The sermon was on Philemon and was a good one, but I think I was struck more by the words to all the hymns. They all seemed to deal with Christians, friend and stranger, all being one in Christ and all joyful together in his love. And as such seemed somehow aimed at me, and I didn’t really like it.

[ . . . Because I did not feel joyful. I did not feel happy. Why? Because . . . ]

I forgot to tell you, I discovered in Ely that I’d lost my flash attachment, apparently in Cambridge, after I’d used it to shoot the dark wood pulpitum in King’s Chapel. It must’ve dropped off the camera as I was carrying it around. This was one more pound of the ram against my defenses . . .

[Go make yourself a cup of tea while my 1989 self indulges in a short-sighted and frankly idolatrous lament over the existential devastation wreaked on her and on her attempts to be in total control of her personal universe. By what? By the loss and/or damage that was befalling her camera equipment and her credit the past two or three days . . .

Okay, it's safe to come back now.]

I receive Communion nevertheless. Second time today. The Catholics say that’s a no-no, I think, but the New Testament only says not to neglect the recognition of Jesus’ Body and Blood in the elements. Salva me, fons pietatis, for I have nowhere else to go!

The nearly-full moon was coursing through the clouds over the fens on my drive back. I was hoping they’d have the cathedral at Ely lit up like Chartres but no such luck.

Got bloody lost in Cambridge in the dark, idiot-like. Arrived back in Little Chesterford at nearly 10:00. Had all sorts of things I needed to do but only got a little route planning done before I fell asleep, nearly, on top of it.

The wideangle lens is still stuck on macro, but it will now slide back to 28mm. That’s a start at least.

Happy Birthday, Hector Berlioz!

In honor of the 204th anniversary of the birth of composer Hector Berlioz, I present this clip of my kittens and dog appreciating the "Scene at the Manger" from his L'Enfance du Christ.

Vois leur gaîté!

(C'est la musique magnifique! --Even if my study is a mess.)

As If I Had Nothing Better to Do . . .

I has a cat.

I has also compewtr an indernetz.

An grate REFORMED theologie!

Puts thim loltogthur, we can haz ~~~~~~~~~

REFORMED LOLCATZ!!1

(see belw plz)

Moar ltr mybe. Kthxbai.

Wennie Gets Her Fifteen Minutes!

Rhadwen's profile is up on the Meankitty Gallery at Meankitty.com! She says I took long enough getting around to writing her publicity piece, only pounding it out in the waning minutes of 2006. As if I didn't have enough to do! And then the wait for Meankitty's Typing Slave post it.

But now, there it is, and Rhadwen invites one and all to go to http://www.meankitty.com/Gallery/wennie.htm and see what a fierce and selfless cat she is (not). She's not sure how it will affect her reputation, but I tell her, her reputation proceeds her. As with the current cat sitter who creeps in, fills the food dish, and escapes before Rhadders can use her jeans leg as a scratching post.

I've moved the birdfeeder to the side yard outside the dining room window. Wennie asks, since it's so close to the dining room, why don't I just open the window and let her dine? As it is, she gazes at the feathered visitors and dreams . . .

Even so, it's Llewellyn who has scored the latest bird. Obviously, he cornered it on the back porch, scarfed it down, and thereafter upchucked it whole onto the study carpet. Oh, lovely. Thank God for lots of paper towels!

And no, I did not take a picture of that!

The Song of the Hunting Cat

I haven't posted any songs for awhile. Here's a frivolous piece I came up with while raking last year's leaves out of the back yard this afternoon:

Oh, at our house we have a cat,
Picolay, picolay,
Who prowls around this way and that,
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay,
High-di-ho-di, picolay,
Picolay, picolay,
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di!

Out in the garden sat a frog,
Picolay, picolay,
Said, "Whither go ye, Mistress Mog?"
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay . . .

"Hunting go I, as is meet,
Picolay, picolay,
"That I may find my dinner sweet,"
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay . . .

"And what, pray, shall your quarry be?"
Picolay, picolay,
"The bird that flies unwarily."
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay . . .

"And what if Bird stays in her house?"
Picolay, picolay,
"Oh then, I’ll catch the tender mouse."
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay . . .

"And what if Mouse runs down his hole?"
Picolay, picolay,
"Oh then, I’ll hunt the whiskered vole."
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay . . .

"What if Vole gains his burrow snug?"
Picolay, picolay,
"Oh then, I’ll find a juicy bug."
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay . . .

"And what if Bug should hear your voice?"
Picolay, picolay,
"Oh then, a squirrel would be my choice."
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay . . .

"And what if Squirrel runs up a tree?"
Picolay, picolay,
"Oh then, Sir Frog, I’d fancy thee!"
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay . . .

When Mother let our cat inside,
Picolay, picolay,
"Frog legs for supper!" Kitty cried.
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di.

Picolay, picolay,
High-di-ho-di, picolay,
Picolay, picolay,
Hey-di-high-di-ho-di!

--24 March 2007 (copyright St. Blogwen's Well)

Magdalen: In Memoriam

Maddie and Rhadwen, this past January 22nd