Buck Up

I usually wake in the morning to a news-talk station. But it hasn't been anything worth waking up to lately. If it isn't all about how the stock market is down and the world economy's in the tank, it's about how the stock market is up and that means in another day or so it'll be really down, putting the economy even deeper in the tank.

Some commentators seem to take a sordid pleasure in exclaiming for two hours straight how This Is Just a Taste of It and It'll Get Unimaginably Worse Regardless of Who's Elected President, etc., etc., etc.

How incredibly, uselessly depressing. What I'm not hearing is what any of us can do about it. Listening to these guys, nothing. We're all going to hell in a handbasket and they won't even let us enjoy the slide.

This has had an odd, counterintuitive effect on me.

I've not been feeling too lively for quite awhile, not having a proper job and surrounded with house-renovation mess that will get a lot messier before it gets better. But with things in the general culture being the way they are, I've decided to buck up.

Why? Because since all these temporal props are being kicked out from under all of us, I'm getting it through my thick head to rely on the only solid foundation there is or ever has been, which is almighty God revealed in His Son Jesus Christ.

Did Jesus ever promise His followers would always be prosperous and well-fed? No. Did He ever swear we'd always have plenty in the bank and our own roof over our heads? No. Did He ever covenant with us that we'd die in our beds of peaceful old age? No, again.

But He did promise that where He is, there His servants would be. He said that we should be of good courage, for He has overcome the world. He said we should lay up for ourselves treasures in heaven, that will never wear out or rot or decay. He said all authority in heaven and on earth is given to Him, and He is with us to the end of the age.

If Jesus had been only a man, those promises wouldn't mean beans. But given that He's the Son of God, with all the perquisites and endowments that that implies, His mere presence with us gives us more than the most healthy economy ever could, and that's even before you tally in all the other blessings of heaven and eternal life.

So I've decided to get my vision straight and buck up. I don't say Jesus is gonna get me a job, but letting Him give me perspective will get me further towards that goal. And maybe things will get as bad as the radio pundits say. Maybe. But we humans can't screw things up so badly as to keep God from bringing good out of it.

And in the meantime, I'm not messing with things I can't help. My radio alarm now set to the classical station.

Plugged In

Classical Presbyterian fans will like to know that on this beautiful autumn evening we got the Reverend Mr. Brown well and truly plugged in at the Jeff Center Church.

And here's my perspective on the matter.

This was my first time serving on an Installation Commission, though not, of course, the first time one was served on me. One thing I can never figure out-- why does the moderator (of presbytery) dissolve the Commission before the service?

(Because that's the way it's done, silly!)

The installation sermon was based on Ezekiel 33:1-16-- the responsibility of the prophet as a watchman to warn people of the consequences of sin. And by temporal extension, it's now the responsibility of the pastor and the church as a whole. Not the most popular ministerial duty, but if the traffic cop, say, fails to warn the motorist that the bridge is out, it's certainly that policeman's fault if the car goes into the river.

("But I don't wanna warn people that the bridge is out! If I tell 'em it's dangerous to go down that road, I might offennnnnd somebody!")

Only thing, only thing . . . I wish we'd been given a generous dose of Jesus Christ and how He works in us and through us in grace to enable us to discharge our watchman duties . . . I mean, I needed it . . . please?

The former interim pastor of the church gave the Charge to the Congregation, introducing his remarks with how he gets his jollies cheering against the football teams all his friends are for. It may well be a sign of the irenic nature of Toby's new congregation that they didn't rise in ire at this implied disloyalty to dem Stillers and bury the old IP in the nearest cornfield.

On the other hand, he was their Interim. Interim pastors are supposed to be obnoxious and shake things up-- right?

There was a point to his provocation, however. Instancing how he recently cheered for an Ohio college team with a freshman quarterback against the Pennsylvania college team favored by a family member, he drew the analogy that while the church's new pastor wasn't quite a freshman, it has its mission and service plays down so well it might be tempted to forget they have a new quarterback on the field. "Let your new pastor call some plays! When I was here, I practically only had to show up on Sunday to preach! You took care of everything else, and I could hardly get a word in edgewise!" Laughter from the congregation! Music on the organ console shaking, from the organist unable to contain herself!

Me Toby asked to give the Charge to the Pastor. This past week or two, contemplating what the Holy Spirit might want me to say, the frivolous part of me couldn't help having a giggle or two at what can come these Internet-driven days from leaving comments on someone else's blog.

Never fear: My mind was in Earnest Mode when I wrote it. Considering the chargee, it was natural to take a quotation from J. R. R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings as a jumping-off point. And the scheduled hymns-- all with martial elements-- provided more framework. After that, the appropriate Scripture passages seemed to crowd in so thick I could barely find my keyboard.

Well, wouldn't you know it, the first hymn got changed in the interim and I'd quoted it three or four times! No matter. By the grace of God, I believe what I said was appropriate and to the point.

(And worth remembering, I hope, more than the charge I got at my ordination, when my preaching friend advised me per the water when doing baptisms, "A little dab'll do ya!" Every time I recall that, I want to yell, "No, it won't! God attached physical signs to His grace in the sacraments for a reason! People out there in the pews gotta see and hear the water!! They have to feel like they're getting wet!")

Funny thing is, the Charge to the Pastor, which I worked on carefully ahead of time and delivered more or less according to plan, apparently hadn't as much impact as another part of the service I thought I had under control, but didn't.

This was the Prayer of Confession of Sin and its Call to Confession and Declaration of Pardon. I determined to use a form of Romans 3:21-26 as the latter. I even wrote the verse number down. So why I didn't put a bookmark in my Bible at the passage, I do not know. The Call to Confession, I had a few ideas for appropriate verses for it, but decided I'd settle on which when I got there.

Oh! (I settled this evening) I'll split the Romans 3 passage, and use part for the Call, and part for the Declaration! But when I got into the lectern, I discovered first that I'd left my bulletin with the Prayer of Confession on it in the pew. I had to confess my own fault and ask another member of the Commission to hand me one. Then something seemed to possess my fingers: fumbling with the thin, slippery Bible pages, I could not seem to turn to the place in Romans I needed. Flip-slip, flip-slip, flip-slip! Oh, gosh, this is taking forever! Everyone is staring at me! When I finally found it, there was no way I felt I could take the time with my dratted presbyopia and study which verses should go where.

So I gave up. I summarized Romans 3:23-24 ("All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God . . . ") for the Call to Confession, and fell back on my heart verse, Romans 5:8 and surrounding, for the Declaration of Pardon. I don't know exactly what else came out of my mouth. But I guess it was what the Holy Spirit wanted, since two different people (both of them men, if it matters) came up to me at the reception and said, "When you gave that Declaration of Pardon, I just wanted to jump up and get going! I felt totally forgiven, and now I wanted to go out and serve!"

Oh. Really? God used me like that this evening? In spite of my klutziness?

Hmmm. Maybe I should remember this for those times when I'm making a hard job of forgiving myself. Because if there was any absolving power in what came out of my mouth this evening, it wasn't from me. But it's certainly available to me, if I'll just believe God and ask.

But now, here's what I'm thinking: That it'd be really, truly nice if very soon I'd be in a position to invite the Rev. Mr. Brown and some of the members of his Installation Commission to do the same service for me. Having gotten Toby plugged in, I would be grateful and gratified to find my own place to be plugged in, too.

Hwyl and Hiraeth

I've had this blog going since 2005 or so, and never once have I reported anything about the annual Pittsburgh St. David's Welsh Society Gymanfa Ganu. But this year I shall.

What, you may ask, is the gymanfa ganu? How do you even pronounce it?

It's pronounced "Guh-MAN-vuh GAH-nee," and it literally means a singing assembly, ganu being the mutated form of canu, which you Latinists will recognize as a form of cantare, to sing. It's a custom that got started in the Noncomformist chapels of Wales in the 19th century, partly to give people a social and religious outlet now that heading down to the pub for a pint was frowned upon, but much more it was an expression of the emotion and singing spirit of the Welsh which outsiders had remarked upon since the Middle Ages.

In the old days, the people-- not a separate choir, but all of them-- would stay after Sunday Chapel or maybe reconvene after Sunday lunch to sing hymns a capella in four parts strictly for the joy and hwyl of it. But sometimes their sessions had a more deliberate purpose, for the song leader, or arweinyddion y gan, would be rehearsing them to meet in one place to join in sacred song with the members of other capelau in the region. And when that cymanfa took place, the fervour and hwyl would rise enough to float several full-sized battleships.

Contemporary Welsh-Americans do not meet for cymanfoedd ganu as regularly as our ancestors did in the Old Land. But everywhere there is a Welsh St. David's Society of any size (Welsh societies are always dedicated to St. David, the patron saint of Wales), they will arrange to meet once a year to sing in four parts the old hymns, raising the roof of the church with heart-swelling emotion and praise.

This year the Pittsburgh gymanfa was held at the Community Methodist Church in Whitehall, Philip Aley of the church at the organ and Tim Slater, our conductor of several years, our song leader.

Traditionally the arweinyddion y gan has the prerogative not only to choose the hymns to be sung and which verses, but also how fast, how slow, how loud, how soft, whether specific verses shall be taken by the men or the women, low voices or high, whether a verse was sung well enough or needed to be done over, and how many times the chorus was to be repeated. And unlike contemporary-music worship services where this is all strictly planned out, rehearsed, and noted on the PowerPoint slides well ahead of time, at a cymanfa ganu the song leader decides much of this according to the hwyl he or she feels going in the place, leading the singing people as the Spirit leads him. If a chorus is repeated several times ( a repeat being signified by rotating the right the index finger in the air), it's because the power of the occasion demands it, not because the overhead projector slide says "(4x)" on it.

Tim was no different, and the sound he got out of that congregation was so vastly different and better than what I experienced in church this morning as to nearly make me weep. It had nothing to do with greater numbers; it had everything to do with the choral heritage of the Welsh.

We sang "Calon Lan" ("A Pure Heart; Calon Lan), "Jesus Calls Us" (Hyfrydol); "Come, Gracious Lord" (Llef), "Dring i Fyny" ("Hear Him Calling"; Dring i Fyny), "I Bob Un Sydd Ffyddlon" ("Onward, Christian Soldiers": Rachie), "Lead On, O King Eternal" (to both Lancashire and Llangloffan), "How Firm a Foundation (Joanna/St. Denio), "Mae d'Eisiau Di Bob Awr" ("I Need Thee Every Hour"; Need), "Jesus, I Live to Thee" (Penpark), "Men of Harlech" (just for fun), and "Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah" (Cwm Rhondda).

Tim did something a little different this year, having Phil the organist play soft transitions between the numbers. Very effective. And he programmed several hymns which we in America sing to other tunes, to expose us to how our cousins in Wales sing them even today. It was a clever way to organize it. My only complaint about this was that, unlike many others, I grew up singing "Lead On, O King Eternal" to Llangloffan, but the hymnals have changed and I rarely can anymore. I was glad to see in the program that we'd be singing three verses of it today, but after two verses sung to that tune Tim on a whim reverted to the more common and less interesting (and non-Welsh!) Lancashire!

Tim's Pittsburgh Welsh Choir, which started in 2003, has improved under his direction prodigiously the past five years, particularly in the a capella work. They did a setting of "This Is My Father's World" that was stupendous. He's also got a strong contingent of men who could be positively brilliant if he'd work them on their legatos. If they don't watch it, the PWC or some part of it are liable to find themselves entered in the eisteddfod (music and poetry competition) when the National Festival of Wales is held in Pittsburgh, Labor Day weekend of 2009.

Our tenor soloist was the reliable and sweet-singing Ken Davis, who again this year was joined for a duet by soprano Bronwen Reed Catalano.

The hwyl was high in the Methodist church in Whitehall today, and if there was any hiraeth (unsatisfied, heartfelt longing), it was probably mostly in me. Hiraeth because we never can sing long enough or enough verses at a cymanfa. Hiraeth because as years go by, fewer and fewer people bring their red and green Welsh hymnals and sing in parts from the music, depending instead on words printed in the program or projected on a screen, so that the glorious tradition-- and effect-- of part singing is dying out. Hiraeth because due, I guess, to bad sightlines with the organ, Phil rarely picked up on the chorus repeats Tim signed for, and due to the fact that the church needed us out early in the evening to make way for another group, he didn't push it. And hiraeth because here in Pittsburgh we never, ever sing enough Welsh.

Good grief, I can sing "Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah" in English in any church almost any Sunday of the year! I can program "Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah" in English in any church whose pulpit I happen to be supplying almost any Sunday of the year! So Tim, Tim, why do you persist at cymanfa after cymanfa at putting it in with no Welsh? Aaaaaghh! I am naughty-- I sing it all in Welsh anyway-- but it's not the same as when everyone else is doing it, too, whether they've got all the pronunciation right or not.

And hiraeth mingled with hwyl at singing "The Star-Spangled Banner" in company at the opening of the assembly and the Welsh National anthem, "Mae Hen Wlad fy Nhadau" ("Land of My Fathers") at its end. "Mae Hen Wlad" in Welsh, always in Welsh; the day we sing it in English is the day we turn in our red dragons and yellow daffs and go home and degrade ourselves with MTV. I'm glad and grateful to be an American, and my ancestry is a mixture of all kinds of peoples, Hessian, Prussian, Bohemian, Dutch, Irish, even-- gadzooks! --English. But the Welsh part of my elder heritage is what I identify with and am moved by the most, and to plant my feet and sing from memory the anthem of old Cymru somehow roots me in something both enduring and strong and also achingly sad and far away.

And isn't that unfulfillable homesickness the essense of hiraeth, and doesn't getting together to sing the old hymns fill one with hwyl!

Da iawn, Cymry, da iawn.

"We Have Heard the Joyful Sound!"

This morning I had the fun of supplying the pulpit of a little church over the border in the wilds of West Virginia. Their regular pastor was away, they needed a Real Ordained Minister to preside at the Lord's table on World Communion Sunday, so they brought me in from miles away, under hill, over dale, to be there.

I arrived in good time, met up with Ralph*, my elder contact, and began get settled.

The organist is an elderly and honorable lady who knows not a great many hymns and is no longer capable of learning many more, so the selection is always left up to her. The hymn numbers were on the board at the front, but not in the bulletin. Hmm . . . what do we have? First one was an unmemorable but innocuous devotional number . . . second was "Beneath the Cross of Jesus," a good one, though in my experience it's generally used in Lent . . . . But the third and last . . . oh boy, here's my jolly old hymnodic bête noire, "In the Garden." On World Communion Sunday, we're going to sing, "And the love we share, as we tarry there, none other has ever known"? I do not think so.

I said to Ralph* (who also happens to be the son of the organist), "Do you think your mom might be willing to substitute a mission hymn for "In the Garden"? It's World Communion Sunday, and that hymn's a little inward-looking . . . I'd like to send us out with something a bit more mission focussed . . . "

He thought that could be done, but as we moved towards the sanctuary doors to get a hymnal, we were greeted by the members of the adult Sunday School class, just dismissed, including a very ancient old gentleman leaning on a cane.

"So you're to be our preacher today!" he exclaimed, grabbing my hand with his free one. "I'm a retired Church of God minister, but I've worshipped in this congregation for over twenty years! You know, the Church of God has a mission in Kenya, and there the Church of God and the Presbyterian Church are like twins in Egypt! They get along so well! Just like twins in Egypt!"

As he spoke I spared a piece of my brain to rummage around for the source of the "twins in Egypt" analogy. No luck; maybe he'd give me a clue himself? Nope, and I couldn't wait for the happy event-- we still had the hymn issue and other arrangements to deal with. So as I excused and extricated myself, Ralph* handed me a hymnal and steered me to his mother, Ilene*-- though not before I was once again waylaid by old Rev. Goodheart*.

Ilene* and I looked through the "Mission" section of their hymnal: Neither she nor the congregation knew any of them. (Oh, dear!). "Let's try 'Evangelism'," she said. Not much more success there. But she knew "We have heard the joyful sound! Jesus saves! Jesus saves!" though she doubted all of the congregation did. I told her I knew it-- mostly-- and it was a good, rousing, outward-looking hymn to finish up with, so let's do it. I'm thinking, "Anything to escape C. Austin Miles' rank and unweeded 'Garden'!"

With one thing and the other, we didn't get everyone in and seated till twenty minutes past time, but nobody seemed to care. Ralph* began with announcements, and as he spoke, it hit me, "My sermon's too conceptual as I've got it written. These people are going to need some specific, bright-colored application, or I'll fly right over their heads. Holy Spirit, help me have the right words when the time comes!"

I didn't have to come up with the right words for the children's sermon-- it was taken in hand by a woman of the congregation. Bearing a globe, she called the large band of kids to shifting and tenuous order at the edge of the platform. Two or three erratic toddlers found the platform more interesting than the talk, so I came and joined them to lend a steadying presence, sort of.

Teacher asked if anyone could find the United States on the globe. One girl about nine or ten tried and tried and tried . . . Good grief, don't they teach Geography in the public schools anymore? Teacher finally put her out of her misery and showed her where America was.

Our own nation fixed and established, the teacher asked, "Can any of you name any other countries?"

"WalMart!" volunteered one tyke, and of course the congregation just howled. As the teacher tried to recover from that one, the discountenanced little boy turned his back on the assembly, trying to draw a couple of his little friends away with him.

Ilene* the organist and I tried to get him to turn around and pay attention.

"No!" he said, "I'm not going to! They're all mean!"

Oh, dear, again. The child probably thought the teacher had asked if the children knew the names of any companies, he'd given a perfectly good answer, and he got laughed at! That was mean! I can just see it, years from now: "I gave up on religion when I was four years old and the congregation laughed at me during the children's sermon!"

(Well, I've heard equally silly excuses for turning one's back on Christ and His salvation!)

The children's talk proceeded, and was wound up with the announcement that the Peacemaking Offering they'd been contributing to for the past few weeks would go to help poor and needy people around the world. So now would they bring their offering boxes to a certain table below the platform, the one where the flowers are?

The boxes were already there on the front pew, and the children picked them up and took them . . . back to their seats . . . to the edge of the platform . . . around and around the sanctuary . . . and finally, to the designated table. And may the denomination be half so effective and organized in getting the money to the people who need it!

My sermon began with lines like, "It's all up to us to bring peace to the world, right? God's sitting back in heaven waiting for us to do it. So we'd better get busy!" And from the congregation I'm hearing, "Amen!" "Yes!" O noes! That was meant to be satirical. Good grief, we human beings fight over the best way to bring peace, and that includes us in the church! No, people, not Amen, not Yes! That is a great big NO! Only Jesus Christ the Son of God can bring true peace, not us, not even our human version of His peace. Christ alone!

Lord, help me turn this ship around before we end up on the rocks! Whew! by the end-- with the help of the added applications-- they were Amening the sound doctrine, not dodgy cultural misconceptions. Though it's not because I cut any impressive figure in the pulpit. Hey, I had to make things more interesting by having assembled my sermon text booklet with some of the pages in backwards and in the wrong order! That long awkward pause? I meant to do that!

At this church the Communion table is very small, and their set of Communion ware is very large. There was simply no place to put my Book of Common Worship, as I had noticed when I arrived. So for (I think) the first time since I was ordained eleven years ago, I said the Eucharist impromptu, from memory: Great Thanksgiving, Sanctus, Words of Institution/Consecration (always do that from memory), Epiclesis, Acclamation, Attribution, and all. Who knows, I may do it from memory the next time and the next. Saves me fighting with the small print in the worship book!

Some of the same peripetetic toddlers roamed the sanctuary during the administration of the Lord's Supper. I being a stranger, they wouldn't come to me. Sob!

The time came to sing the substituted final hymn, and Ilene* was right-- Maybe half the congregation knew it. It doesn't help that the tune features some very wide and acrobatic intervals that not even I was nailing. But we muddled through with little or no damage to the ship, and I dismissed the people to a fine fellowship hour featuring a large repast of leftover pastries contributed by a local bakery. Enough and to spare to take a few home.

And back in the little narthex-hall, I was again accosted, taken by the hand by my old friend Rev. Goodheart*. He'd loved my sermon. He was so glad I had come to be with them. The Church of God and the Presbytery Church are like twins in Egypt! The Church of God has a wonderful mission in Kenya! He was so happy to hear my sermon! Twins in Egypt! Etc., etc.

I listened to him patiently. There is honor due his years and calling, and when-- if!-- I ever reach my ninth decade, I hope people in the church will listen patiently to me, too.

But then he looked at me and said, "God gave us the night time for a blessing."

Yes?

"God wants us to use it to rest."

Uh, yes?

"You should take the blessing God gives you. The darkness is for rest."

Uh, what? Sir, I perceive you are a prophet! How did you know I was up all night Friday night-Saturday morning working on my sermon! And up till 2:00 last night making Welsh cakes?

Very strange! Sermon preached; will it now be applied?

Another member of the congregation invited me home to lunch with his family, but I couldn't take him up on it and still make a previous commitment I had for this afternoon. The invitation is open for the next time I come, however.

Which may be a long time, since I live so far away and it costs the church a lot in mileage to bring me. Still, it was a fine thing to get back down there to the little church way down at the bottom of the Presbytery Over the Border*. And if I got them thinking a little ways past their hilltop in West Virginia, past the once-a-year Peacemaking Offering, that would be a fine and worthy thing.

We have heard the joyful sound: Jesus saves! Jesus saves!

Spread the tidings all around: Jesus saves! Jesus saves!

Bear the news to every land, climb the mountains, cross the waves;

Onward! 'tis our Lord's command; Jesus saves! Jesus saves!

Field Trip

A couple-three weeks ago I got a phone call. The caller ID said it was from my friend Hannah*, but when I answered I heard was a little voice saying, "Hi, this is Letty.* Will you come to a field trip at my school?"

Somewhat mystified, I asked her to put her mother on. Hannah* explained that Letty's* kindergarten class was making a fall excursion to a large nursery, but she's back to work full time so she couldn't be a parent-chaperone. Letty* was extremely disappointed; would I mind going along as an adopted aunt?

I would be honored, I said.

And today was the big day.
I arrived at the school by 8:30 AM and was sequestered in the library with the other chaperones until the kindergarten teachers had their charges in hand. When I came to the door of Letty's* classroom, I found that she and I were going to lead the dance. She was waiting expectantly at the front of the line, along with two other five-year-old's who would also be in my care. "Letty*, Buster*, and Rosalind*, you're all going with Letty's* aunt," the teacher announced, and I resolved to do my best not to be an "aunt" with quotation marks.


My little flock and I ended up in the back of one of the busses. When staring out the back window flags, you can get miles of entertainment out of your "aunt's" digital camera, especially when she lets you use it.

Even before we set out I was disabused of the notion that this trip was to be a five-year-olds' fall frolic, all about pumpkin carving and hay rides and corn mazes. No, the venture was educational: The pupils were to learn about apples and cider making.

I have to wonder a little what the kids made of it. They were all very well-behaved and attentive, considering their age, especially. They raised their hands and volunteered answers and showed their cheerful intelligence. But due to the size of the classes, the children were broken up into smaller groups and taken off the various points as they were available.

Thus our group saw the cidermaking equipment before they'd learned about apples, apple picking, apple sorting, or apple storing. More awkwardly, the cider mill wasn't actually going today. So as we stood in the room with the pulper and presser and so on (we chaperones a discreet distance to the side), the orchard worker wrangled a TV into place and showed the kids the process on a video! At least it was awkward to me. The kids, it didn't seem to faze. When we moved on to the shed to learn about apples, the worker there asked, "Did you see the cider mill? Were the machines going?" Oh, yes, the children assured her, they had! And maybe for a lot of modern children, seeing something virtually on TV is as good as seeing it in real life!

My three charges continued to behave themselves, considering, though Rosalind* just had to poke at the weird pumpkins and gourds they showed us, and I had to exert myself to keep all three of them together. I was haunted by one teacher's saying "We haven't lost a child on one of these trips, yet." No way were they starting with me!

The nursery-orchard is situated in a very hilly spot, and to reach the various storehouses and sheds you had to walk up or down short ramps or slopes. More than once, Letty*, holding my hand, complained, "This is really steep! My legs are tired!"

"Well, you should get more exercise," I told her.

"That's silly!" she retorted. "I'm a little kid! I don't have an exercise coach!"
At last, in the picnic pavilion, the children (and we chaperones) were given samples of the apple varieties the orchard grows. The kids received and ate them eagerly-- except for this one boy at Letty's* table who sat staring at his apple slices as if he were waiting for them to transform into robots or race cars or at least a Snickers bar.

After lunch, there was time for play in the miniature frontier village and a visit to the petting stable. The consensus in my little crew was that it'd be a fine thing to have a goat-- always assuming the goat wouldn't eat them.
By noon all the children were collected and on the busses and heading back over hill and dale to the school. A lot of little spines and legs seemed to have turned to spaghetti over the morning, for somehow the kids just couldn't help sliding off their seats. I chaperoned with the best of them: "Sit up, please!" and "Sit down properly before you get hurt!" and if any kindergartners remained as pools of protoplasm on the floor of the bus when we got back, it wasn't from my lack of vigilance.

Hannah* called me this evening to find out how it went. She said, "I asked Letty* if she'd had a good time, and she just said 'Yeah.'" Next time we're all together I'll have to prime the kid a bit, and see if she can tell her mom what's the difference between a bruised apple and a rotten one, and what it means if your apple is calling for sunburn salve!

The Last Shall Be First

Tonight was our first Village Singers performance of the 2008-2009 concert season, or maybe it was the last concert of the 2007-2008 run.

It definitely was a reprise of our spring concert program, done at a church that couldn't fit us in last May but could this evening.

The concert went well; at least Linda our director was pleased, and she's pretty darn particular, especially about little things like harsh terminal rrrrs and people not holding legato lines or singing in their throats.

The interesting thing for me was that the venue was a church in a nearby town that's been without a pastor for a year or more. They'd had one interim pastor and I'd heard in late June that they might be looking for another. So I sent my church resume in. When I didn't hear back, following up was difficult, since the only contact information was via snail-mail in care of the church. And I admit I didn't feel it was worth it, as in August my executive presbyter enthusiastically mentioned during a committee meeting how the interim pastor had ripped out the Communion table, font, and pulpit, got rid of the hymnals, and installed the praise band's instruments front and center on the chancel. Me, I do not consider endless theologically-shallow chorusses to be a Means of Grace, so I figured that church wouldn't want me anyway.

But earlier this month I encountered some folks who know people who go to that church, and they told me my EP had gotten it totally wrong. Yes, they do have a praise band that plays sometimes, but everything else is still there, too.

Well then. Tonight was my chance to talk to someone face to face and see where things stood.

Hmm. Hymnals still in the pews. Communion table, font, pulpit, all still there on the platform, only moved aside to make room for our choir risers.

But were they still looking for a follow-on interim pastor? Had they even received my resume at all?

I found my opportunity as we were sitting in the fellowship hall, waiting to go on. I approached the elder who was expediting our performance, and asked him about it.

"Oh! I wish we'd had a chance to talk to you sooner!" Obviously, he'd never seen my resume. "We've decided not to get another interim; we think we're farther along in our search for a permanent pastor than that. But we've hired a seminary student to come in and fill our pulpit every Sunday. He starts the beginning of November."

I found out who this is: He's also the youth director at another church in the area. We voted him in as an official candidate for ministry at the presbytery meeting last Tuesday.

"He was recommended by the executive presbyter," said my informant.

Oh, gee, thanks, Mr. EP, sir, I didn't say. Thanks for the vote of confidence, not even giving them my name so they could at least talk to me.

But then I think back to that committee meeting in August, when the EP was describing how this church was proving its missional bona fides by minimizing the traditional media of church growth and nurture, e.g., the Word and Sacraments, and exalting contemporary, popular means like praise music. When it came time to recommend a steady pulpit supply for this church, that young man's name and reputation automatically must have come to him.

Or maybe my EP didn't think I'd be interested in a steady pulpit supply position.

However it was, the elder I talked to tonight asked me to give him my card anyway. "You never know," he said.

I don't expect anything out of it under the circs, but he might know somebody who knows somebody who needs an interim pastor. The more my name is out there, the better.

Kraftig!

Tonight was the Saturday season opener for the Pittsburgh Symphony Orchestra, and I was there in my seat at Heinz Hall.

Not my seat from last year: I moved up a few rows to save myself a few bucks. Some might say I have no business renewing my subscription, but at around $10 apiece for seven concerts, with an additional complimentary ticket and a $30 gas card thrown in, it'd be mendacious scrupulosity to say no.

It looked like a lot of other people were attracted in as well: the hall, orchestra and balcony, was practically filled. And by people of all ages, too. Including a lot of kids, a lot of college students, and even an infant or two-- out of whom I heard not one peep all evening.

The first piece was Short Ride in a Fast Machine by John Adams, the PSO's composer of the year. This was the third time I'd heard it in the past week or two, most recently last night on a live radio broadcast of the orchestra's season opener. I have to say I liked it better in person.

Then we had Joshua Bell playing the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto. Whoot! I've seen and heard Mr. Bell in concert several times, beginning back in the mid-'80s when he was still a teenager, and it's always a rewarding experience. To quote the ordination vows of the Presbyterian Church (USA), he played that concerto with "energy, intelligence, imagination, and love."

He was brought out for three or four curtain calls. The last time, he left his violin backstage, as if to say, "No encores tonight, sorry!" Well, we could hope, couldn't we?

Well, after throwing himself so thoroughly into that music, I suppose he was rather drained. And he was still on to sign autographs during intermission. I didn't stand in line for that; rather I took up a position on the first balcony overlooking the Great Hall and watched the queue. I get a kick out of seeing Josh Bell sign autographs, especially for kids. It's apparent to me that he remembers what it was like as a child violinist, practicing and practicing, and he likes to encourage the young ones to keep it up.

When we took our seats for the second half, a PSO official stepped to the front of the stage and said, “You will notice there are more microphones than usual on the stage tonight. That’s because we’re trying to make a live recording of the Mahler Titan Symphony with our new conductor, Manfred Honeck. The Mahler has some very, very quiet passages in it, particularly in the first movement. It also has some very loud ones. So if you must cough, please control yourself and don’t do it during the quiet parts! Wait till the music gets loud, and then you may cough—discreetly.”

He bowed himself off and the music began, quietly. One bar, two bars, three bars, then, from one quarter of the hall, “Koff!” A bar or two more, then, “Koff!!” A bit more quiet music, then, “Koff! Koff!”

Oh, hell! Can’t we control ourselves for even that short a time?

And then, three seats down in my own row, a young woman was veritably possessed by the Coughing Demon: “Koff! koff! koff! Koff!! koff!! koff! koff! koff! koff!!!”

As one who’s struggled with recurrent bronchitis since the age of nine I know what it’s like to be seized by a terrible urge to hack out one’s lungs in public. But clearly, this young woman had never developed the moral and physical stricture that I call “Die First!” To be exercised only on such occasions as tonight’s, this rule says it doesn’t matter how great the drive is to let it out, I Will Keep That Cough In or Die In The Attempt.

The only time I remember failing at it was in seminary, during a Good Friday chapel service when I was supposed to be singing in the choir. The coughing incubus settled on me, I couldn’t master it, and I excused myself to the ladies’ room in the chapel basement—where I proceeded to cough up my immortal soul. My fellow choir members later told me they could hear me all the way upstairs.

My neighbor at Heinz Hall didn’t produce so stupendous a sound, but it was bad enough. And as is the way with the Coughing Demon, it didn’t drive her to it during the fortissimos, hell, no, only during the long pia-pia-pianissimi.

I wish I could have slipped her a cough drop, but the only one I had was sharing its wrapper with a spent piece of chewing gum offered me by a fellow presbyter at the very end of break at last Tuesday's presbytery meeting. Like an idiot I didn't get rid of it before we reconvened, and there I was in the Communion service with no place to put it but the tail of a cough drop paper!

The beleaguered cougher fled after the first movement and didn’t reappear. I felt sorry for her, but I hope the orchestra is trying for this recording during all three of this weekend’s performances.

I’ve only heard the Mahler 1st Symphony as it’s poured over me via classical radio, so I don’t know it that intimately. But from tonight’s performance I’d say Maestro Honeck and the Pittsburgh played it strongly and very well. It’ll be a long time before I get its lines and melodies out of my head.

Lost in the Sticks

I am not a happy camper.

Today was Day Two of our western-part-of-the-synod leadership conference, and oh, yes, the camp where it was held is very rural and attractive. I wish I'd had more time to explore the paths and hills.

But today, the personal and group reflection activities had more and more to do with how we were going to put the principles we'd learned to work in our parishes, and I'm thinking, Rot it, but I don't have a parish! Oh dear, oh dear, the day is coming to an end and I'm coming to the end of what I can use now!

And never, ever, since first thing yesterday, did we talk about It, about the Pastor Competency Model.

That is, not until about twenty minutes before the end, when a guy who pastors a church in my town got up and made an argument for it. "At first I thought it was really legalistic," he said, "but then I realized you can't be a good pastor without having all fifteen of these competencies."

Yeah, maybe, sure, but these precise interview questions designed to bring out whether you have these competencies, since when are they unchangeable holy scripture? Funny, yesterday I was afraid we'd be addressing them and my lack of experience would be revealed, but today I wanted us to confront them head on so I could find out how strict and absolute they were. But nothing was officially said.

I couldn't leave without knowing. So after we were dismissed, I accompanied the official from Big City Presbytery* back to her lodgings, to ask her about it in private.

She confirmed that they instruct interview committees to use these questions not just for potential solo and senior pastors, but for associate pastors as well.

"I can see," I said, "how someone who had several years experience in ministry could answer all these satisfactorily, but what about someone, say, who's just out of seminary?"

"Oh," she answered cheerfully, "the answers don't have to be restricted to someone's time in ministry! We figure if someone is the right kind of candidate, they will have done all these things sometime in their lives before that! Besides, the questions aren't about experience anyway, they're about competencies!"

I would beg to differ-- few of the questions leave you open to describe what you have accomplished under a given competency, they assume you have had particular experiences and accomplished certain things, in a congregational context, and call on you to describe how they went! Good things to have done if one has done them, certainly, but not all things that can be taken care of in the first years of a ministry, let alone in a student internship.

But this wasn't the time or the place to deal with the matter. She had to hurry off to another engagement. But she gave me her card and told me to ring her up to discuss it.

Will I or won't I? On one hand, it might be useful to explore what sort of answers might be considered satisfactory should I get an interview out of one or more of the feelers I've put out in Big City Presbytery.*

On the other hand, I've definitely learned from a misspent ministerial life that it's a mistake to put too much confidence in presbytery officials, especially when it involves revealing one's self-doubts. In my experience they tend to take you entirely too much at your own estimation. And when they could stand between you and getting a post, we're talking fatal error.

No, I have to face this thing and find my own way out of this forest. I need to consider how I might answer these forty-five questions if I'm ever called on to do so. And where I can't by myself, I should consult people who know me and my work to give me perspective. Maybe I've done a lot of these things and never even realized it!

Irony

I'm thinking the Holy Spirit-- or someone-- has an ironic sense of humor.

First of all, I had a gen-u-wine, official, dizzy spell this morning when I was ironing my shirt to get ready for my continuing ed event. Had a sudden, irresistible inclination to sit right down on the floor. Whoa! I was thinking it might be even more suitable to lie down on the floor, but my dog disagreed. He shoved his body under me and made me get up. So I finished ironing the shirt, got ready, and arrived safely at the conference site-- but my head felt like someone had shaken everything out of it and pumped it full of dirty air. Not the state I wanted to be in to impress my peers with my Marvellous Potential.

Then I saw the small group lists posted on newsprint on the meeting room wall. What kind of a sick joke is this? I'd been put in with a group of some of the most intimidating people in my presbytery, some of whom have been effective in restricting my progress to a new solo call. What kind of chance would I have of proving my competence with them?

And then-- you'll love this-- I looked in the folder they gave us at registration, and there in the front pocket was a copy of the Pastor Competency Model. Yes, I wasted three hours or more last night looking for my own copy. How ironic is that?

The Pastor Competency Model was talked up by an official from Big City Presbytery* (this conference is a multi-presbytery event). She cheerfully and enthusiastically told us that they require all the churches looking for pastors in their presbytery to use it and its questions. O woe! O depression! I've got my resume in to some churches down there looking for associate pastors; what hope can there be for me under these circumstances?

But the sessions began. And my head began to clear. And though the discussions concerned the competencies dealt with in the Model, we didn't consider the interview questions at all. In fact, when we convened for our first small group session, the very pastor who'd led the general discussion over the first competency commented that any pastor who could honestly come up with good answers to all those questions would be totally amazing. And is maybe (the implication was) nonexistent?

But wouldn't you think that she, of all people . . . ? Ironic.

As is the fact that maybe in the end being in that group gave me a chance to sound halfway intelligent around some high-powered people. And to consider and treat them as I would like them to treat me.

Which might do me some service next time there's openings to be recommended for.

At least, I hope so. In this, I'm definitely not trying to be ironic.

Mai Kompittinz, Let Me Show U Itt

Tomorrow-- later today-- I'm off for a two-day pastoral leadership training event, up in the wild woods of some church camp or other an hour north of here.

I'm informed it's based on something called the Pastor Competency Model. And right now I don't feel particularly competent.

Because I obtained a copy of that document a few months ago, and I know it's around here somewhere, but I just can't figure out where.

And I'm short of printer paper and can't print out another copy from the email attachment I got from the presbytery.

So here it is, 2:30 in the morning, and I figured I could just pull this thing out of my file cabinet two hours ago and be all set, and I'm still going through folders and files and stacks and piles.

This is not a great exhibition of competence.

It's all the more annoying because when I first read this document I found it miserably demoralizing. If I remember correctly, it was formulated by some synod or other as an aid to churches seeking pastors. It lists qualities and skills a good pastor should have, and suggests questions search committees should ask candidates to determine if they have them.

I'm not saying the competencies listed aren't good to have. No. But a lot of the questions require the applicant to share some pretty darned intimate and soul-bearing stuff with a roomful of strangers. Is all this stuff really a search committee's business . . . or by asking that, do I reveal my incompetence?

Other questions call upon the candidate to report on his or her past performance to prove competency at overcoming obstacles and so on. And just reading them a few months back at my dining room table, my mind went totally blank. I mean, I know I've had experiences and dealt with the kind of issues the questions are about, but whatever could I say if I ever got asked in an interview about it? It's all lost in the murk!

Like my copy of this document. I know I have it . . . unless . . . oh, dear, I couldn't have accidently chucked it, could I?

No, I don't do that sort of thing. I keep everything, whether I like it or not.

Or did the presbytery official I got that copy from ask for it back?

Well, maybe that's what happened. And maybe I should do something competent now, like try to save paper by printing out the digital document at two pages per sheet.

. . . Oh, damn! I'm not even competent at bloody Microsoft Word, and I can't figure out how.

However, I just looked again (for the fourth time), in my Church Job Search file, and found the silly thing.

Good. We will spare at least a portion of a tree. And a smidgin of my sense of competence.

As for the training event tomorrow (this) afternoon . . . I wonder if we will be called upon to shaaarrre. I'm not exactly in the mood.

If I have to, you think I could pretend it's just a verbal blog entry?

(Sorry. That sounds really incompetent.)

My Great Britannic Adventure, Day Twenty-One

Thursday, 6 April, 1989
London to Rochester to Canterbury to Moatenden (Kent)
Day Twenty-one

Got up and dressed in time to go feed the meter a pound or two. That was only good for an hour but that’s all the meter will give you in the daytime.

Phyllis* was already gone to her job but one or two of the roommates was rattling around. Didn’t see any of them, though.

Made myself some breakfast then got out of there, bag and baggage, around 9:00. Did not want a ticket.

I’d made no particular plans for today, but I thought I’d like to see Westminster Hall. So I muddled through the very slow London traffic, figuring I’d get down to the Parliament buildings and check out the parking and take things from there. But when I hit Parliament Square the sidewalks were lined with people behind barricades and bobbies everywhere. Parking situation didn’t look hopeful enough to even mess with. So I took the Lambeth Bridge south then started looking for the A2 to Canterbury.

This morning I took a version of Phyllis’* advice of last night. I spotted a coach with a Kent logo on it and followed it. Although the way to the A2 was fairly well marked, staying in the wake of that light green coach made things a lot easier.

I was well into the suburbs when I heard on the radio that all the hooha in Westminster was because Mikhail Gorbachev was in town today, Raisa in tow. Another good reason to skip town. That could’ve been a zoo.

The signs for Rochester came along just before the junction of the A2 with the M2. I decided what the heck, as Dr. Gendle [my Oxford medieval architecture history tutor] says the castle’s worth seeing, I might as well look it over as long as I’m here.

You go through a town called Strood first, then across a good big stretch of the River Medway, before you get into Rochester proper. The downtown is still pretty old looking but they obviously do a good deal by way of shipping. I parked the car on the street under the castle wall, opposite a marina.

The light meter on the Minolta is definitely screwy. The ring on the lens is stuck and the lollipop and stick never line up. So first item on the agenda was to find a camera store on High Street and get it checked.

The man there says the meter’s fine, if you disregard the fact that the f-stop ring on the lens is stuck. I nearly let him sell me a used exposure meter but the thought of having to fiddle with it was too tedious. Besides, I’ll see about getting the camera fixed in Oxford, this weekend. Did get a typical reading for today’s cloudy conditions and that’ll have to do. You’d think that after fifteen years of using that lens I’d be able to set it without the meter, anyway.

Well, we’ll see.

Another thing-- the camera’s case smells like beer. That’s strange, because I didn’t have it in the pub with me Tuesday night.

It was mizzling a bit when I got back to the castle. Came in by way of King John’s round turret, or rather, through the encircling wall to the left of it. The castle entrance is up some modern steps to the forebuilding. Inside you meet the admission desk and the postcard concession. Your tariff paid, you turn right to go into the castle proper-- though it’s more like going outside, since the hall and solar are now roofless all the way up.

The circulation is all around the perimeter, with stairways in the corner towers. Kept having to remind myself that the stairs wouldn’t’ve been so precariously worn in the 11th and 12th Centuries. But still, the old owners had a fine disregard for the niceties, like railings and uniform riser heights, considered so necessary by 20th Century American housing codes. The National Trust has supplied the railings, but some of them were wet with paint today. It was really too bad for some of the other visitors, such as some women wearing medium-heeled shoes. With my suede waffle-stompers I was fine.

The central wall is still there, of course. I’m trying to remember if one of the shafts in it was a rudimentary sort of dumbwaiter, or if that was just the loo. Pretty fancy loo, if so.

The castle also has some nicely-carved fireplaces for the various chambers. All very up to date and civilised, for the time.

They’ve built a new roof, with a skylight, over the chapel, which is in the upper storey of the forebuilding. It looked better-preserved than the rest of the castle. It got me thinking about the religious attitudes of the old inhabitants-- were they sincere Christians or just using God (like so many of us do) as an endorser of their own plans and prejudices--in their case, the making of war on their neighbors? From our pacifistic perspective it’s easy to think the latter, but who are we to judge?

Could’ve done with less rain today. Used the flash a lot, which overcame some of the meter problems. Deliberately set it low to preserve some of the effects of the subdued lighting.

After the purchase of two or three postcards, I went out and took a look at the remainder of the castle grounds. There’s a very fine dogtooth-moulded Norman archway to the northwest-- except that it’s a restoration. I feel so ambivalent about that.

Skipped the cathedral-- no time to satisfy mere curiosity-- and returned to the High Street in search of something portable to eat. This town turned out to be remarkably short on fruit stands, which is what I really wanted. But I got a box of shortening biscuits from a grocers and a couple of disgustingly greasy pastries called Eccles cakes from a bakery and returned, dripping crumbs, to the car.

Took off at around 1:00. Tried to be creative on my route out of Rochester but I only succeeded in getting myself sequestered down a potholed, dead end lane. Back across the bridge across the Medway and through Strood, then.

Listened on the radio to the effusions of enthusiasm for Gorby and company that were coming out of London. I can’t believe the simplemindedness of some people. They probably think Mrs. Thatcher’s a spoilsport because she advises caution.

Back on the M2 and thereby to Canterbury. Cute town, lots left of the ancient city wall. But with all those generations of pilgrims and tourists you’d think they could do better regarding parking. I drove round and round and round, literally, before I found a carpark that had spaces, let alone one that was affordable. And we were talking 40p per half hour, at that.

Anyway, ditched the Astra and threaded my way though a pedestrian mall in the city center and eventually found myself at the Cathedral.

More scaffolding, lots of tourists. Expected by now, and at least it wasn’t high season.

Entered by way of the southwest porch. But I couldn’t hang about contemplating the nave, as one is required to purchase a photography permit. You get that at a little bookstall in the southwest transept. So I made my way there first.

After that, I passed between the parish altar and the massive choir screen to the northwest transept, to where it all happened in 1170.

It’s a little daunting to consider that-- there’s no doubt of it whatsoever-- in this very spot St. Thomas á Becket was murdered. And whatever you may think about the relative merits of his case and of Henry’s, there’s still the fact that Thomas was upholding as best he knew the will of God. There’s an immediacy about being there, even after these long centuries, enhanced by the evocative modern sculpture, a cross formed of two jagged swords and their scabbards, set above the altar. And behind you is the cloister door through which the four knights entered . . . Kyrie eleison!

There was also a plaque commemorating the occasion on which Pope John Paul II and Archbishop Runcie prayed there together. Very sweet and ecumenical, what?

Took the stairs down to the crypt, with its chapel and treasury. There’s a sign reminding people that that’s still part of the church, but some boys down there hadn’t got the idea. I refrained from adding my admonishments to the noise, though.

Quickly scanned the display of church plate then reëmerged back up around in the southwest transept. Being limited as to time I didn’t spend much time in the choir, rather I crossed quickly again northwards and climbed the aisle steps to the Trinity Chapel. They’re a big flight of them, but I decided that if all those people for all those centuries could make it up without complaining so could I. It was piquant to think I was making my own Canterbury pilgrimage, anyway. I liked the sense of heritage.

The glass in the Trinity Chapel is absolutely brilliant, in any way you use the word. God, those glaziers know what they were doing! 17th Century Flemish stuff is cut and paste in comparison.

While I was contemplating the Becket miracle windows the PA system came on and a man’s voice welcomed the visitors to the cathedral. It also reminded everyone that this is not only a tourist attraction but also a house of worship and prayer. After informing us when the evening service was to be, the voice requested everyone to please bow their heads for the Lord’s Prayer. I knew there were a lot of French tourists about today-- there always are, lately-- and I wondered if they’d know what was going on.

Apparently so, because although not everyone seemed actually to be praying, the noise level, blessedly, went down.

I wonder who that was on the PA. Robert Runcie himself? No, probably not . . .

I passed around then and stood before the spot where Becket’s tomb once stood. There’s nothing left of it now-- Henry VIII and his successors made sure of that. But still, at the site of the final earthly lodging of a determined and visionary cleric I was moved to pray for the ministers soon to come out of Coverdale College*, for their ministries and vocations, and especially for Nigel’s* . . . O sancte Thoma, ora pro vobis!

To the east is the Corona with its altar-- it’s roped off so you must survey the glass there from a respectful distance. The Jesse Tree window is there.

I came back round via the south aisle of the Trinity Chapel; I was disappointed to see that both St. Anselm’s and St. Andrew’s Chapels, pre-Becket parts of the Cathedral, weren’t open to visitors. But as long as I was now back on the north side, I popped out to see the cloisters. They’re elaborately fan-vaulted, and ornamented with everybody’s and everyone’s shields and arms.

The Cathedral bookstall, in the southwest transept, didn’t have as many nice postcards as I would have wanted. Still, I purchased one or two and was reminded at any rate to go visit the West Window with its image of Adam delving, before I departed. It’s some of the most ancient glass here.

Couldn’t stay much longer, though: I was afraid of getting a parking ticket. But I did pop into a souvenir shop on the High Street and got more postcards and a nicer Cathedral guidebook than they had in the church itself.

One thing they didn’t have was a copy of The Canterbury Tales in the original Middle English. Nothing but modern. If it could be done with sufficient economy, it’d be neat to have an edition that was dual-language, with illuminations.

Got back to the carpark by 4:30 or so; no ticket, thank God. Got out onto the A28 and headed southwest.

I really love the names of the towns in this place! Between Canterbury and Ashford there’s actually a town called "Old Wives"! Is that the original site of the original tales?

Got the A262 then the A274 and began to look for Mrs. Deane’s guidemarks for Moatenden Priory-- except for doing it the other way round: she’d assumed I’d be coming from the north. They were good directions and I spotted the turn-off just fine. But as I wasn’t expected till 7:30 and it wasn’t even 6:00, I overshot it on purpose and drove up to Sutton Valence to see what I could do about dinner.

Not much, there. I stopped into the local pub. They weren’t serving proper dinners yet, since the cook wouldn’t be in till 6:30 or so. But I could have a beef burger for around six quid. What is this, London or something? I declined and drove down the lane to Chart Sutton. But the pub there wasn’t open yet at all.

Oh well! So I’ll be early!

Mrs. Deane, the white-haired lady who owns Moatenden Priory, didn’t seem to mind. She showed me up some narrow steps to a good sized room overlooking the back garden. It had a fireplace (plugged up, unfortunately), nice dark-wood furniture (including a glass-fronted case full of books), and two twin beds, one of which had a coverlet of patchwork deerskin, with the hair still on. The other had a synthetic thing that was more or less supposed to match it, in a fake fur sort of way.

The other people staying here, a couple from London and their grown daughter, pulled in before I could get my things out of the car. It was a pity, because otherwise I could’ve moved mine and got an unobstructed photo of the front of the house-- part of it is 12th Century.

All day I’d been wondering why the back of my Minolta smelled of beer-- and now I found out why: The lid of the jug of cider I got in Taunton yesterday morning was loose. Oh, boy, are the EuropCar people ever going to love me!

Mrs. Deane suggested I try Headcorn for supper. I’d decided that since it was my last night out I’d splurge on one. The people in the local there were rather friendlier and the prices weren’t so ridiculous. I still had to wait for the cook to arrive, though, so I retired to a table with a half pint of ale and Walter Scott and sat back to observe the goings on.

It was rather different from the Plough in Somerset. The people here came filtering in wearing jackets and ties-- good chance they’d just finished a commute from London. And when one bloke pulled out a portable phone and made a call, I almost burst out laughing, it was so incongruous. Because for all that, it still was a basic British pub, with kids running in and out (the boy may’ve belonged to the landlord) and the usual decor, enhanced in this case by airplane memorabilia.

I ordered roast beef with peas and potatoes and was glad to get it, too. Can’t get it at Coverdale*.

Back at Moatenden, I sat down in the little white painted hall reading in front of its great fireplace and making faces at the little dogs that trotted in and out. That fireplace is taller than I am-- I could’ve walked right into it. The fire on its bed of ashes and coals occupied one corner-- you could just imagine pulling a chair into the other side of it.

I didn’t see any other of the company while I was there; I retired to bed around 9:30. I decided, even though I’d been sitting on the bed with the fake fleece coverlet, to sleep on the other one-- one doesn’t often get a chance to slumber under deerskin and I doubted I’d ever have such again.

Ow! Ow! Ow!

For the past few months, some little bubbles have been appearing around my back left wheelwell of my lovely bright red PT Cruiser. I know it'll cost a fortune to fix, so I stare at it and refuse to accept the implications and let it go.

A couple months ago, some charming person in a vehicle with a high bumper, backed into my car while it was parked, pushing in my front grille and chipping paint off it. But I can't afford to fix it and whoever it was hit it squarely and anyway, it's made of plastic and won't rust. So until I can come up with the cash, I detach and let it go.

But this afternoon I was out running some errands, and came back to my Ddraig Goch Fach (Little Red Dragon) to find this!!

What the bugger!!??

Gouged to the metal on the top of the fender! and rubber residue all over the fender's side!

I think I know what happened. Last night, between 11:00 and midnight, I heard noises outside, like a bell jingling and sort of like a car door shutting, but not exactly. My dog began to bark, and I got up and looked out my upper storey window. All I could see in the darkness was what looked like the side wheel reflector of a bicycle suddenly appearing, almost as if it had just been turned on, then rolling, rolling leftward down the street.

I didn't think anything of it then. Thought the bike was across the street. But today I can see it all: Riding with no lights. Bike tire hits and scrapes the side of my fender. Handlebar digs into its top. Blasted cyclist picks himself up and rides off under cloak of darkness, may his/her conscience eat him!

This afternoon, once this ghastly sight blasted mine eyes, I did not pass go, I did not collect $200, no, I drove directly to the body shop that did the repairs for me in May 2006 after I had a minor dispute with another driver over who should occupy a certain space on a local city street. Estimator came out and looked at the latest damage. Estimator sat at his desk writing it up. I sat there, waiting, feeling I was about to cry. I couldn't detach this time. Damn, they've injured my pretty car!

And getting this fixed is not going to be cheap. I don't dare submit it to my insurance: my rates are finally starting to come back down after the 2006 contretemps.





















Ow! ow! All I can do at the moment is dab on touch up paint to cover the bare metal and keep the rain out. It looks scabby and terrible. But it can't be helped. I have to let it go, will I or nil I.

But I don't have to be happy or detached about it. My poor Little Red Dragon! Owwww!!