Weblog of a Country Priest

A stock-car racer lost his race and his life last night.  He knew and embraced the risks.  His family will still be devastated and not hearing any condolences offered.

About the same time a mother,  driving her children and their friends to a 13th birthday party, crossed the central reservation on a local dual carriageway; killing three of the children and the other driver involved in a head on crash on the other carriageway.

Pictures of the grieving families and friends have appeared on local and national television.

Two funerals to arrange for someone.

When I officiate at a funeral I always make the assumption that the deceased is in good standing with our maker, through the good offices of our Saviour the Lord Jesus.

I always take a funeral in the same way that I hope someone will take mine.

I shall not be taking either of these funerals, but I trust that the minister concerned operates in the same way.

I have three recurring dreams.

The first dates from my wartime childhood; it consists of watching the funeral of Neville Chamberlain as it goes along our landing; I see it clearly through the crack in the door.  Where it begins and where it goes is not revealed, but he is clearly recognizable as he lays in his open coffin.

The second began more recently, well relatively so.  I am sitting or lying in bed, or eating at the dining table, or sitting or working in one of the other rooms and it is raining; through the ceiling of whichever room it is, but not outside.

The third concerns a prison.  I am admitted through a gatehouse at the bottom of a hill as a visitor or guard and,  as I climb up the winding drive to the main prison buildings, past the derelict hanging shed, I change status and I become a prisioner.

What's up doc?

Learning of the Marine who died from some mutant overwhelming infection arising from a scratch on his leg by heather or scrub; my mind began to circle around memories of similar deaths I can remember.

The first was at my school in Trowbridge when we were 13.  She was a beautiful honey blonde, very popular for all the right reasons, and very inspiring for us pubescent lads.  She was a boarder, and at the Christmas party we boys all attempted to have at least one dance with her.  Then we broke up, and went to our own homes.  At the first assembly in January we were told that she had died from some unknown infection on Christmas Day.

At my medical to join the RAF I stood in the naked queue with a boy who had gone to the local grammar school whilst I had gone further afield.  I was rejected because I couldn't balance on one leg for the regulation period, and he was accepted and after initial training became a Pilot Officer. (I volunteered for the Army). His family were elated with this and readily gave permission for him to marry his sweetheart (with whom also I had been at school).  Some six or seven weeks after their honeymoon I came across her leaning over the town bridge looking at the water and crying her eyes out.  He, her husband, had been killed on a training flight, and she was desolate.

Recently, here in Norfolk, a Flight Sergeant who had perished in the same way as my friend, and whose remains were recovered after 60 years from the recovered wreckage in the past year from the Wash, was buried with full military honours at RAF Marham.

My best friend during my early teens was a diabetic.  He couldn't do any military service because of his condition.  My mother was instrumental in persuading him to become a trainee surveyor with the local council.  Over the years he steadily progressed until he became the Borough Surveyor; controlling a huge staff and a very large budget.  On his 60th birthday he attended at the London HQ of his professional body to receive some sort of fellowship to mark his success and his impending retirement from public life.  He returned to our home town during the late afternoon to attend a retirement do given by the borough council in his honour.  As he stepped from the carriage onto the platform of the railway station he suffered an instantaneous and fatal heart attack.

All of these have a common feature.

However far back our memories they are, we still remember them and catch glimpses of them in our modern daily lives.

I give thanks for each memory,  hurtful though they may be or have been.

Gloria patri!

For the first time in my life I have got our garden exactly as we like it and it should be, and I hate gardening.

It reminds me of the old countryman leaning over his gate drawing on his pipe and admiring the garden around his cottage.  As he did so the local Parson approached.  "Hello Bill" says he, "what a beautiful garden you have, isn't God good to you?"  "Oh, arrh" said Bill "but you should have seen the state of it when He had it to Himself".

And that reminds of St. Teresa, who observed that God had no hands or feet in this world but ours.

So turn a sod, grow a begonia, pull a weed and do God's work for yourself.

The Iron Lady stopped school milk.

Her successors put school meals out to tender, and ended up with turkey twizzlers.

Under the New Labour government (in a fit of political pique) various Conservative councils stopped school meals, except for supplying sandwiches for those entitled to free meals. Of course they also shut the school kitchens so that none of these entitled pupils could have a hot drink.

Under New Labour political correctness has blossomed leaving the Police and School Staff without the means to deal with yobs in school or outside.  The Victorian low penalty, immediate arrest and before the Beak in the morning, remedies were all swept away emasculating the Coppers; and the presumed locus parentus remedies (whereby Head Teachers were rightly feared as the swift instrument of divine wrath - we thought our Head was related immediately to God even if he wasn't actually Him), were likewise removed.

Now today a survey has revealed that milk is good for children and may help prevent osteoporosis, but the no-school-milk generation will have to be persuaded to give milk to their children, because they learned  from its absence in school that it was unimportant.

Jamie has had to show how wholesome school fare is not outside a reasonable budget; and works to calm and invigorate studiousness in children.

The Police Federation have pointed out the stupidity of the way their members' hands handcuffed behind their backs (one training session I heard about - from the trainer himself - was that a Copper facing a threatening situation should "walk away")  I mean to say,  as Paul O'Grady would say, come on how farcical can we get.

Today we hear that the strange M/s Kelly is setting up another focus group/ think tank/ conference to talk about ways of dealing with indiscipline in schools - well I mean - knighting head teachers hasn't solved it has it?

Now it has suddenly struck me this present government is a collection of superannuated social workers stuck in the context of 1960 - 1970's theorising and case-conferencing; and they think that if they brainstorm and talk, and talk, and talk, it will all solve itself!  Well it doesn't.

Heaven preserve us!  God help us!  None of us seem to be able to!

 

 

It's a funny old world as the Iron Lady said before she crumbled.

Dolmio with its iconic supposedly Italian puppets is made in Ireland!

I made arrangements to take a funeral yesterday; the relative arranging warned me that there might be a well known actor present; she had gone to another part of the family's funeral and caused a stir merely by being there.

ITV news homing in on Kylie's problems treated us to a longer gaze upon what little they had gleaned than they did on the Royal Visit to Canada.  But then ITV News is showbiz and understands it - whereas the other world we live in is a total mystery to them.

The PM said he had been listening to us and would learn from our opinions.

The Queen's Speech seems to give the lie to this.  New Labour obsessions continue.  Think about one thing only - Community Service?  Now I am not a fan of this approach to dealing with criminals.  If punishment is needed then make it a totally controlled residential affair.  If there aren't enough places then build some (cost? how about some of our wasted space exploration or Iraq monies).  I digress, back to CS, I can't help seeing the ghost of european Jewry in the proposal to make CS participants wear yellow uniforms.

Put that on the back of suggestions that the NHS should ration treatment by applying a system of age indexing, and I think you might agree.

Yesterday was Pentecost, or as we old codgers say, Whitsunday.

The Preacher told us of his experiences at an Anglo-catholic Renewal conference.  He explained that holding both hands up and waving them from side to side was a Full Moses, that holding one up was a Half Moses, and that these were signs of renewal?  Then he told of the Worship songs; apparently they consisted of a ditty of two or four lines repeated over and over again until the singers rang out of steam or whatever.  During these a woman ran about amongst the congregation waving a banner, and then a nun rose to dance in her wake.

None of this really phased him too much. However, when he was in conversation over a cup of tea and the person he was talking to suddenly fell flat to the floor with her eyes closed, and he wondered about calling for the emergency services, she just as quickly rose and explained that she had been resting in the spirit!

The only time I've shared his experience was when my companion had had one over the eight and collapsed with his glass in his hand.

It takes all sorts I suppose.  As one friend puts it, "This sort of thing isn't for everyone, you know".  That is best when done with a Welsh accent.

Thinking about yesterday's blog I realised that the Company of Preachers would need some distinctive article of attire so that when robed he would be recognised as such.

Looking about me I spied a small statue of the Cure d'Ars resplendent with very large black edged preaching bands.  So that will be our mark.

The title is just a nod in WG Grace's direction for old time's sake.

The weather was glorious yesterday and the beloved and I had lunch at a beach cafe over-looking the graceful wind turbines set in the choppy North sea.  There is nothing quite like a bacon bap and cappochino to satisfy the midday needs.

Reading Psalm 68 v 11 in this morning's daily office I remembered that Bishop Jock Henderson inscribed my ordination bible with this verse.  "The Lord gave the Word; and great was the company of preachers".  So I have resolved to establish "The Company of Preachers".  I shall be the Moderator Companion, and for the rest anyone who proclaims the Risen Lord Jesus as a preacher is elegible to become a Companion.  There will be no fees, and each self electing member can make his own certificate of membership.  The post nominal letters indicating membership will be "CP".

There, now I feel great satisfaction in having done that.

 

All morning at a funeral, then all afternoon in the Rheumatology Department at the local hospital.

Blood tests, 5 X-rays, consultation and a tut-tut over steroid regime.  The consultant tells me I have arthitis and osteoporosis, so he wants to phase out the steroids and begin something I can't spell but is a maxte0-whats-its-name. Problem is that this also has side effects on the liver and kidneys.  I really thought old age would be a gentle running down - not all these stops and starts.

We went out this morning.  First to B & Q where I bought a light weight strimmer about a month ago to buy a replacement line spool.  Surprise of surprises they haven't got any! Every other sort in existence but not this and it's one of their own make!  I left my telephone number so that they could source it and let me know when it came in.  A Mellisa or a Melanie rang to say that they don't make them, and then tried to tell me how to wind some loose line on the spool which as the spool in question is totally sealed doesn't make a lot of sense.

To make up for all this we went to Sainsburys where my beloved got a blue box with a lid, some groceries, a preparation to make her look ten years younger, 2 sandwiches, 1 douhgnut, 1 slice of lemon meringue pie, two coffees, and our parking fee back ('cos we spent over £5).

Now we are having a post prandial snooze before going out to eat this evening.

Thinking again about war time Britain I recalled the evacuees we had staying with us.

The first were two imps from Wandsworth High School whose idea of fun was to try to execute the cat by hanging.  The cat and my mother gave them a hard time over this, and they were soon sent packing.

The next to come was a family; dad who worked at the local munitions dump; mum who tried to keep house in one room downstairs, one room upstairs, and a share of the kitchen and lavatory (the bath was being used to store water in case of enemy action); there were two infants, a boy and a girl.

My mother soon realised that our guests coming from London's East End were part of an extended family set-up where the oldest female directed household tasks and provided answers to housekeeping problems.

My mother assumed this task.

One day my grandfather sent down two rabbits he had acquired.  My mother gave one to our guests.  She showed her how to paunch and clean the rabbit, and settled a time for her to have use of the stove to cook it.

We ate ours, and very good it was.  The following day, having heard nothing about the other one, she enquired as to how they had got on.  "It was quite nice", the woman replied, "but we spent ages getting the fur out of our teeth!" She had roasted it fur and all.

Suddenly the flowers are in bud giving the month of May the magical quality for which it is renowned .

The structure across the road now has a  proper bricklayer involved.  Our next door neighbour has carried his decking timber through to its intended site.  He said he hoped to get it laid down today - but the weather, hail, thunderstorms, torrential rain, seems to have put paid to that!

Election day was also Ascension Day, so it seems right to point out the Kingship of Jesus, even over the Mother of Parliaments.  Roll on the day when all will be revealed and the true nature of things given its rightful place.

Now it's election day the TV and radio stations have switched mega time to VE day.  I remember it first time round, and there's something missing from the attempts to re-create the mood of the time.  I think (or fink) it's the complete emotional and adrenaline high that filled even my infant breast.

Two or three days before the end we had a lone bomber loose an air mine on a big house on the edge of town.  It was a beautiful house in a beautiful garden, a place where garden parties and the like were held to support the war effort. Sunday school treats with chopped jelly in bedroom washbasins, and running for sweets and bits of chocolate thrown over us by the elderly couple who, with their too old for war service children, lived.

We went up to see the damage, and our parents came to see if they could help these benevolent souls in their hour of need.

We approached the place.  All the lovely hedges were flattened outwards towards the road and the surrounding field paths.  The house (and its occupants were totally gone.  All that remained was a great big hole.  No trace of the family or its dwelling or its contents and their possessions was ever found.

Sadness for all the loss on every side - that's what's missing.

Just seen a lovely example of language change sprayed on a garage wall.

"Dah-Dah iz phat"

Ole!

English as a language is fascinating.  Take the way "th" is becoming "f" and the way that "ing" is becoming "in" or "ink".  Estuary English is wot it's called, I fink.

Never mind! We shall survive.

The sky is blue, the main road is chock-a-block with cars hastening to the coast seven miles away, and I've just posted our ballot papers for the General Election.

Tomorrow will be another day, with work beckoning in garden, house, shops and crematorium.

The funeral is for Auntie Queenie, a real stunner (judging by the photograph of her around the outbreak of the 39-45 ware), born in the 1920's and unmarried; 'cos her intended was Canadian and wanted to take her to the prairies; but she felt she had to stay and care for other family in this country.  A selfless life much appreciated by the recipients of her war time sacrifice.  Oh, how many other followers of Our Lord's command to love others as ourselves are hidden away behind the clean net curtains of our despised terraced English streets?

The first since last year.  The rector, also rural dean, is on extended study leave.  Rumour has it there's more to it in terms of burn-out, but he sounded alright when he made the arrangements for today.  Ah, the gossip abounds in all congregations.

There was a little family there.  Dad and two sons obviously totally at ease with themselves, other church members and with the ceremonial of what is a very high church.  The two lads came up alone for a blessing and skipped back to their seats.

The footings are in opposite; now we wait for the bricklayer to arrive.