Patum Peperium

"Set Free The Condor!"

Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium

 

This morning on the way to school, Little Bertie asked me to tell his favorite story of mine, "Set Free The Condor!".  As I retold the story for the children (highlights only as the drive is a short one) and set them off on the school's curb, still laughing, I thought perhaps you, dear readers, would like to hear it as well. I will warn you that this is not a story for the faint of heart, ie; those of liberal persuasion who adore animals. I know this because Mr. P used to always ask me to tell this story over the port, stilton, and pears whenever liberals had made the fatal mistake of accepting one of our dinner invitations during our Episcopalian years. 

Back in the first years of our marriage, before I gave up my career to be a wife, and years later, a mother, I was a senior art director on the Jeep account.  (Yes, chances are very good all of you have seen my work both print and television.)  Anyhoo, one of the fun, or very grueling, aspects depending upon your outlook, of being an senior art director on the Jeep account was that to shoot the commercials (and print), you, a few agency types, Hollywoood director, an entire film crew, catering crew, a brand-spanking new Jeep prototype (with its own handlers) and a famous as well as profesional race car driver, had to travel to some of the most remote, yet incredibly beautiful places this country has to offer.  Once there, you had to park it, literally, for weeks at a time, to get the perfect shots needed for you 30 seconds of film.  The perfect shots took so long because perfect shots are only capable of being shot, literally, at a few minutes before sunrise and a few minutes before sunset a day at a time.  So, this means getting to the location before sunrise to set up to catch the first attempt at a perfect shot, and then, if you're far enough away from your hotel, staying out there all day to wait for the few minutes before sunset to get the next attempt at a perfect shot.  Then, when you concluded you had nailed it, you and the entire caravan moved on to the next location.

So, being (usually) the only girl on the shoot, I learned quickly how to sit around on rocks and logs, chewing the fat with all of the guys.  And even in the wilderness, a pony-tailed Hollywood director who had been to Woodstock and was now charging about 50 grand per day (20 years ago) for just his services, not his crew or materials, even becomes just one of the guys.  I would amuse the guys with stories of my life and my family.  Then, they in turn would amuse me with stories of their lives and careers.  This one was has always been a favorite.

In the 60's, '70's, and early '80's, the environnmentalist movement gained a lot of street cred and power in California with their efforts to save the California Condor.  The California Condor (pictured above) is a very large, ugly, and mean bird in the vulture family.  By the late '70's there was, perhaps 3 or 4 mating pairs left in all of California. These birds resided in a protected environment and were all protected by local, state and probably federal governments and woe to the fool who sneezed on one.  The Bastille would've been a better fate.

About this time ('80 or so) the American car maker, General Motors, (remember them?) was prepared to roll out a new vehicle, which it was hoped would bring the car maker back to its former glory. The Carter years with gas rationing and price controls along with the new and much better Japanese imports had not been kind to GM.  This car was a comeback kid. So, the ad guys  couldn't help seeing a connection with the California Condor and lo and behold, came up with this idea of having the car, at an incredible California sundown, sit at the base of one of those oceanside Californian craggy cliffs while the voiceover prattled on all about the car's finer attributes and then, for the finish, have a California Condor with its great wingspan fly into view of the lens and over the car. 

GM loved the idea.

So, the California Condor handlers (Audubon types on steriods) were approached and an agreement was struck (translation: large transfer of cash) and one of the 3 remaining male Condors was allowed to star in the commerical. As long as the Condor handlers and all of their assorted friends were allowed to be on the set for the shoot. No problem.

So the day came and it was gorgeous.  The California Condor showed up with its handlers and all sorts of Very Big People in the endangered bird world were in tow, along with important GM people and important agency people.  All of the assorted VIP's were seated in folding chairs behind the director down below the cliff and near the car, so they could watch the action via the monitor.  The Condor and his handlers went up to the top of the cliff above the car, where he could be released, on cue from the director's walkie talkie and fly into screen like a good California Condor.  Everything was set and ready to go, all that was needed was the perfect moment (literally) in the gorgeous California sunset for the director to say, "Action" and then a few moments later, "Set Free The Condor!" into his walkie talkie to his crew that was up on top of the cliff with the bird and its handlers.

Now everyone that knows California, knows it's always been the land of the liberals. And where ever liberals go, what do they bring with them besides monumental amounts of self-loathing, hatred of others, and failed dreams?  Why monumental amounts of State and Federal regulations of course. What few people know about the film world is that it is run by the Unions.  Yes, it is.  Everyone on a set is a Union member of some sort.  This means they must all do the jobs they have been hired for, no one else is allowed to do it.  Or the director will never work in Hollywood again.  So, even if the California Condor showed up at the set with his own handlers and all sorts of VIP's from the endangered bird world, once the film began rolling they were not allowed to touch a feather on his head.  Only a Union guy could because those are Union rules. So, once the film began rolling the Condor became the responsibility of the props guy.  Yes, the props guy.  And because it was such an important moment in car advertising the props guy was given his own walkie talkie to hear the director's  "Set Free The Condor."

I had mention earlier the California Condor is a mean bird. It is so mean it will attack.  So, his handlers, understanding the bird had to sit around and wait for just the right moment in the sunset before he could do his stuff, so to speak, had shackled him and his wings (with metal chains) before they had ever arrived on the set so the Condor could not go crazy and harm anyone or, more importantly, harm himself. So up on the cliff, you have a props guy and the shackled Condor with his handlers waiting for the big moment.  And then the big moment came.  The sunset was close to peak perfection.

The director calmly called "Action."

The shooter, or DP as they're now called, began rolling film. 

Disaster struck. 

The film snapped. 

The shooter had to open the camera and reload.  Time was wasting.  The sun was about to hit perfection and the moment would be lost.  The DP had maybe a minute to fix the snaffoo. The director is screaming for all hands to assist.  The crew is scrambling, everyone is moving fast as they can. The seated VIPs are getting nervous and begin fidgeting, wondering what will happen.  Then the shooter screams he's got it.  It's not too late, they might just get the perfect shot.

The director, still unnerved, screams "ACTION!!".

The film rolls.  After a few moments, the director, into his walkie talkie, still unnerved, bellows, "SET FREE THE CONDOR!!!"

The prop guy hears his command and understands it's THE MOMENT.  He reaches over and like a props guy of the old school picks up the huge bird and gives him the best heave over the cliff anyone had ever seen.  The shooter sees the bird in flight and immediately picks him up on the lens.  The director, the assorted VIPs all lean forward, looking to monitor awaiting for the Condor to do his magic with his enormous wingspan.

What they saw on the monitor instead, was one of the 3 remaining male California Condors struggling valiantly to free himself from the metal chains he was still bound in as the props guy had forgotten to set him free before he tossed him over the cliff and the struggling continued all the way down the side of cliff before the Condor landed (with a very audible 'thud') on the hood of the car, leaving a dent, taking about 3 good size bounces, leaving more dents, and landing on the ground with his neck stretched out at an most unnatural angle.

The entire crew was speechless.  No one moved.  Then, the Very Important People from the endangered bird world knew immediately what to do.  They turned their hawk-like eyes on the important GM people.  The important people from GM understood immediately what they had to do.

So, if you have ever wondered how the California Condor actually was saved from extinction, it was not because of the environmentalists.  It was because of one whoopsie made by a props guys that required GM  to make good.

Gay Go Up And Gay Go Down, To Ring The Bells Of London Town.

Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium 

 

Gene Robinson, the gay Episcopal Bishop of New Hampshire,and soon-to-be June bride, was recently in London visiting Anglican parishes to promote his agenda, I mean, new book.  Two excerpts:

The Anglican tradition is uniquely capable of holding two seemingly contradictory ideas together," he says. "Its position on abortion, for example, is that all human life is sacred [he stretches out his right hand, as if to seize this principle, then continues]. And, that no one has the right to tell a woman what to do with her body [the left hand shoots out]. Both are true.

And :

His book, In the Eye of the Storm, is pinch-yourself bold in its association of homosexuality with authentic Christian faith. Being gay, he says, is his ‘little window into some of what it must be like to be a woman or a person of colour, or a person in a wheelchair — and countless other categories the dominant culture has controlled, diminished and oppressed’.

Bishop, I'm going to be straight with you as it's clear no one else wants to.  God did not intend for men to lie with men like they would lie with a woman. Nor did he intend for women to abort their babies. As for your position that being gay giving you a little window on what is like to be a woman, well being gay is all, and is only, about sex. As far as that goes, a woman is able to look her husband in the eye, smile at him, and wrap him in her arms as he enters her.  Her womb is able to receive his seed and by the grace of God and the miracle that is life, a baby can be born 40 weeks later.

Bishop, you can't do any of that no matter how lovingly your soon-to-be husband enters your rectum.

The rest is here.

(Note: The old nursery game, Oranges and Lemons, used to begin with the line, Gay go up, Gay go down to ring the bells of London Town. However, it seems in recent years that line has been edited out. Gee, I wonder why?)

Thank You, big spaniel

Poet's Coroner
Mr. Peperium

Last Friday, as the Long Weekend was just beginning, I came home to two large manilla envelopes on our mail table. The slap-dash handwriting told me from whom they had proceeded even quicker than the State Department stationary or government franking. big spaniel, a reader of this blog as well as old friend, was once again about to grace our home with something not found in the normal course of a sedentary midwestern life. This time it was the South American cartoonist, Quino.

Since the Friday before the Holiday Weekend caption contest went so well, why not a Wednesday after the Holiday weekend caption contest?

My contribution: "A Game of Chest" - T.S. Eliot

So Where Was I?

Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium

Previously...

Conversation during last evening's bath time:

Roger Kimball's future daughter-in-law:  "Mom, do you have to be a nun to be a saint?"

Me: "No, why?"

RKFDIL: "Well, I don't want to be a soldier when I grow up or a pilot."

Me: "That's good. Women are not supposed to be soldiers. Women do not fight in wars no matter what some people say.  Women stay at home and take care of the children. That's how women have always kept Western Civilization going. And it's perfectly fine for you not to be a pilot."

RKFDIL: "I want to marry a soldier who is a pilot and have lots of children.  Can I still be a saint if I do that?"

Me: "Yes."


So the reasonable among our readers are asking themselves, "Why on earth is that child talking about being a saint?  What kind of parents are they?"  And very frankly, when RKFDIL first broached the subject of wanting to be a saint (during Mass - yes we are the type who talk in the pews)  4 days before we were to depart for Washington , D.C. to attend the Papal Mass, I thought the girl was quite barmy.  I mean, do you think that little Joan of Arc leaned over to her mother during the Latin Mass and said  (probably in Latin) "When I grow up, I'm going to lead the army and put and end, once and for all, to the dominion of English Kings over French Kings."?  No. I seriously doubt it.  And I would think that anyone who said she did, was barmy too.

You see, (and for newer readers who are not in the loop) I am a former Protestant.  Actually former religious psycho as I was born into the church that currently believes, most fervently too, that two men buggering is equal to, if not better than, a husband and wife who have been joined together in the holy sacrament of marriage expressing their love for one another in their marital bed.  In other words, I was one of those barmy Episcopalians. So was Mr. P.  But thank God (literally) our eyes were opened and we got the Hell, (literally) out of that church before it collapsed on top of us.  However, as any reasonable person would admit, you may be able to take the Episcopalians out of the Episcopal church but you can't take the Episcopalian out of the Episcopalian (-visit LLama Butchers and read Robbo's the Recently Departed Episcopalian's complaints of the music at his new Catholic parish if you need more understanding). I was approaching the idea of our daughter's desire to be a saint all wrong.  Or in much simpler words, I was approaching it like a Protestant.  I thought she was barmy and being a former Episcopalian, I said  to her "That's good honey." and like millions of Episcopalian parents have in the past, nodded and smiled while secretly hoping it was just a passing phase.

That was, hoping it was a passing phase until I was in a subway station (on an escalator, no less) with D.C.'s best-looking Catholic priest (Father M. for the un-initiated) and I told him RKFDIL had said she wants to be a saint when she grows up.  I thought Father M. was going to give me one of his classic jerk of the neck and sharp shot of his eyes as if to say, "What on earth are you teaching this child?  Megalomania?  But he didn't.  Father M's reaction was the opposite.  Quite the opposite in fact. He was pleased and so pleased he immediately related it to the other priest we were on the escalator with, Father H.  Father H. was pleased too.  I still did not understand why they were pleased.  I knew that both men were not megalomaniacs themselves, but since we were en route to me all whole bunch of people who had been waiting at the bar of a D.C. restaurant for more than an hour for us, I couldn't stop and ask why RKFDIL desiring to be a saint is sane. Since I was technically in the South, I decided the best course of action was to borrow a page from one of the South's most well-known megalomaniac's, Scarlet O'Hara, and think about it tomorrow.  But tomorrow, I was having Mass with Pope Benedict and so chances were very good I wasn't going to do much thinking about it.  In fact I didn't think about it at all until about 2 weeks ago, when I told the whole story to Basil.  (And, for the record Father M., Basil thinks I've figured it out properly. Please, if I haven't, take him and I postehaste, separately of course, to the woodshed. -but the rest of you must wait until the end of this story to learn what I figured)

So, back to the escalator in D.C. with all 4 Peperium's, Father M. and Father H, en route to meet a whole bunch of people who, if they were anything like they pretend to be on the blogosphere, then they would be six sheets to the wind, not the expected 3.  But before I get there, I must add that due to the fiend, who had canceled our reservations at our hotel in downtown D.C. and had now better be outfitted with asbestos boxers, we were about two hours late checking into our new hotel in Arlington.  And I must admit, it was a great sigh of relief to pull up to our hotel and NOT find Father M. in the lobby waiting for us.  I had told him (on the cellphone in the Chevy Chase, Maryland roundabout that I had not showered before we had left Michigan and that I had no makeup on and it would be most unkind of him to see me in my current state --do you see the hoops ex-Episcopalians make Catholic priests jump through?) that he must allow some time for me time to get in a proper state.  He did.  And for those of you that are mothers, you know you get the kids and husband dressed first and then you work on yourself.  It was when Mr. P was dressing and pulled out a tie he did not recognize as his, that our next disaster hit. Mr. P was tie-less for not only dinner but for Mass with the Pope.  I did not pack his ties as he and I have very different opinions on ties and he had neglected to select his and place them in our case before I had closed it. This is not the first time Mr. P has found himself in a tie-less state.  The last time he found himself like that was when we were in NYC about to have dinner with TNC. But that night, I changed his shirt to a deep blue one which gave him a most jaunty

I-look-as-if-I'm-on-the-porch-in-Maine
-having-cocktails-with-whichever-
Episcopal-bishop-has-decided-to-help-himself-
-liberally-because-they're-all-liberals-
-no matter-how-loudly-they-protest--otherwise-
to-our-rot gut-I-mean-
grace-us-with-his-presence.

  But as Mr. P will tell you, not having a tie to have dinner with TNC is a world of difference to not having a tie to have dinner with Father M. and a whole bunch of people we've never met and, more importantly, he said, while that little vein in the middle of his forehead bulged, to not have a tie when attending a Papal Mass is unforgivable.  Especially when his 6 year-old son had 4 to choose from.  He had me there.  Oh well, I knew it was going to be a story for the grandchildren when a tie-less Mr. P took the children down to greet Father M and Father H.in the lobby.  Little Bertie had on his tie with Spitfires in honour of Father H. who besides being part of the Apostolic Succession is also a pilot. I had remembered a tie with airplanes on it for Father H. but neglected my wifely duties terribly. Poor Mr. P. I did think about this as I readied myself but there was not a thing I could do.

As Sir Basil would say, when I came downstairs it was Mayfair kisses all around and then with priests as our escorts, the Peperiums headed off to meet a whole bunch of people, I've spent the better part of 3 1/2 years babbling to about whatever struck my fancy.  Who were these people?  Why, they were Lorraine and her friend who is a priest, Maximum Leader, Robbo, Mr. and Mrs. Poulos, and Misspent, naturally. We got to the restaurant, which served my favorite, oysters, and then once again it was Mayfair kisses all around.  No, I did not use the excuse of meeting everyone to sieze upon the chance to kiss Father M again. Gesh, the sick and immoral things you people think of. Now, because I've had the honour of meeting people most of you will never meet, do you want to hear, or more accurately, read what I thought of them?  Sure you do because why else would you be reading this?

My first victim shall be Robbo.  And he's the only one that is a bona fide victim.  And like all victims, his victimhood stems all his from own doing, not mine.  How did Robbo victimize himself?  Easy. Last summer he wrote about meeting a fellow blogger for lunch during his summer holiday.  And, much more importantly, Robbo wrote that he has learned that when you meet bloggers in real life they are always what they appear to be from their blogs.  It was his understanding thatdue to the very nature of blogging and the need to write everyday, one could not hide one's true self for any sustained period.

Guess what?  What a complete load of tosh that was.  Robbo is not at all what he pretends to be on the blogosphere. My suggestion to Robbo is to get out of his government Esquire gig and move to the Big Apple and start raking it in at some Esquire firm that eats people, regularly, for lunch.  You see, from reading Robbo for as long as I have, I had gotten the idea that he had gone to Wesleyan.  In my day, I've known a few guys who went to Wesleyan, one of them being Teddy Jr. before he married the shrink and from reading Robbo, I had concluded that he would fit right in the compound down in Hyannisport with the raping and pillaging of the liquor cabinet, women and the croquet lawn the Kennedy's pretend is a football field whenever the besotted press shows up. Especially since Robbo had gone Catholic in recent days.  But no, Robbo wouldn't. Which means his playing the baby grand is true. I had always thought his baby grand was just an expensive liquor cabinet that suited his medicinal needs and Mrs. Robbo's taste in interior design.  I must now inform you that Robbo uses proper language.  None of that Southern/English/drunk frat boy with glandular issues speak he often employs.  Robbo is proper, most proper.  I still haven't figured out he gets away with Mrs. Robbo with all those scantily-clad women he drools all over, over at Llama Butchers.  Unless she figures it's cheaper than a Playboy subscription.  Who knows?  Maybe Father M does. I'll have to ask. 

Lorraine is exactly as she appears on the blogosphere; a lovely lady and a rare bird.  She's very lovely and a true credit to our Faith.  She paid us the enormous compliment of driving into the City, more than a hour each way, to meet us and everyone else when she knew she had to be up at 3am to escort a bus load of kids from Christendom to the Papal Mass.  Like I said, she's a rare bird and we wish her well as she enters the monastic life in the coming days.

Mr. Poulos is exactly as he appears on the blogosphere; a brilliant nut.  And you know just how brilliant he iis by his choice of a wife. Mr. Poulos married an equal, except she's not a nut like him. Mr. Poulos probably does and will continue paying every day for marrying an equal.  And I can tell he does not mind, at all.  Mr. Poulos also sports mutton chops and that night he was wearing  a vest cut very much along 19th century lines -the last time mutton chops were in- that showed his off very nicely. Mr. Poulos has also just said he has big news soon to be announced concerning him - don't be surprised if it is that John McCain has selected him as his V.P or that he and his band have been selected to be the new opening act for Marilyn Manson because with him, both could happen.

Maximum Leader is exactly as he appears on the blogosphere, except that he may be more jovial.  As regular readers know he actually gave Mr. P the tie off his neck to wear to the Papal Mass. Maxy, as I call him because his full name is too much to type, loves oysters and he and Father M. both helped me with my selection of local oysters as well as my pronunciation with the tidal basin they came from.  And those oysters proved to be exactly as both Maxy and Father M. said they would be; buttery and delicious if you like raw bottom feeders.

Misspent is also exactly as he appears to be on the blogosphere.  Except he's alive. (His blog is dead) He clearly lives by the I'll-try-anything-once-twice-if-I-like-it ethos. He tried one oyster and now he's done.  I tried to get Maxy to take him shooting with long guns (Maxy was keen). Misspent said, "I've already gone shooting once."  Last summer he studied in Germany and liked it.  So this summer he's off to Germany to study again. Not that I could explain to you what it is he studies.

And I will honestly say despite all the duress prior to the meeting, it was a delightful time though much too short.  All of the Peperiums look forward to visiting D.C. again.

Now, as far as saints and Papal Masses go, here is what I've figured out.  First, if you have a chance to go to a Papal Mass, don't hesitate. By all means go.  And try to get seated near the most traditionally decked-out nuns that you can.  You want to do this because when the Pope tools into the Mass in his little Popemobile, those traditionally-garbed nuns have climbed up and are standing on their chairs faster then you can say "Ave Maria".  If you thought the Beatles got a good reception from the female persuasion, you should see what the Pope gets.  And then chances are that if you've scored tickets near the nuns, you're also near the priests, who are not only, as a whole the best-tailored men America, but many of them are completely dishy. Hey, someone has to state the obvious, occasionally.  Being surrounded by all the Church's finery though, does not prepare you for what it is like when the Pope appears.  I will admit, that since we were sitting on the field, I did could not see him walk on to the field so when that big screen in the stadium showed the back of this little old man walking on the field, who appeared (to me) the same exact robes all the Cardinals, who had just paraded past us wearing, my immediate thought "Oh, this must be the oldest Cardinal." It was the overwhelming cheering of the 46,000 pilgrims that caused me to realise this was not the oldest Cardinal, but Pope Benedict XVI.  He's very short.  Who knew?  I had  always thought he was at least 5'10". Whatever he lacks (physically) in height he more than makes up in intelligence, sincerity, and holiness.  The man is the spiritual giant in a world filled with far too many spiritual trolls, cyclops, midgets, and even faeries. It was not only a great honour to be so close to this man but an incredible privilege to partake of the Eucharist in his presence.  All I can say is that I was so gosh darn happy I had put my life where my Church is and had not the gall to present myself in his presence for the Body and Blood as one of those modern contracepting Catholic women that have been the rage, literally, since the 70's.  Don't even get me started on those pro-aborts politicians who presented themselves for the Body and Blood that day.  All I will say is that if you live by the sword, don't be surprised when you die by the sword.  And pegging out at 75 with an incurable brain tumor, that all the best doctors in the world will have been called in to try and halt its progress is a much nicer and gentler death than being sucked down the sink at 6 weeks gestation, at an unregulated 'clinic' by a guy who got his med. degree in the Caribbean.

Now as far as saints and why our daughter is not barmy.  This is where the reading of good books come in handy when you aren't rich enough to have your own private chapel and Catholic priest in your home.  It was the even-shorter-than-Pope Benedict, Evelyn Waugh who showed me that our daughter is right to desire to be a saint.  It was my thinking that God made Saints and we did not that was wrong.  But if you give it some more thought, at it's most basic, it is true as we cannot become saints without the grace of God which is poured out to us, most generously, through our participation in the sacramental life of the Catholic Church. Here's what Evelyn has to say (excerpted from an introduction penned by George Weigel to his novel, Helena:

In the course of his conversion to Catholicism, which took  place in 1930, Evelyn Waugh came to the conviction that sanctity was not for the sanctuary only. Every Christian had to be a saint. And one of the hardest parts of that lifelong process of self-emptying and purification was to discover one's vocation: that unique, singular something that would, in accord with God's providential design, provide the means for sanctification.  Helena's sense of vocation, and the Christian scandal of particularity (the mystery of the omnipotent, omnipresent God revealing himself through limited creation, from the people of Israel to the wood of Christ's cross), to which her vocation bore witness, was what attracted Waugh to the 4th-century empress, whom the world remembers as the mother of the Emperor Constantine.  Waugh later explained his choice in a letter to the poet John Betjeman, who confessed to being puzzled by the fact, in the novel, Helena "doesn't seem like a saint"

Saints are simply souls in heaven. Some people have been so sensationally holy in life that we know they went straight to heaven and so put them in the [liturgical] calendar. We all have to become saints before we get to heaven....And each individual has his own peculiar form of sanctity which he must achieve or perish. It is no good saying, "I wish I were like Joan of Arc or St. John of the Cross." I can only be St. Evelyn Waugh - after God knows what experiences in purgatory.

I liked Helena's sanctity because it is in contrast to all that moderns think of as sanctity. She wasn't thrown to the lions, she wasn't a contemplative, she wasn't poor and hungry, she didn't look like an El Greco. She just discovered what it was God had chosen for her to do and did it...

So our daughter is right to desire to be a saint. She just needs to figure out what God has chosen for her to do, and do it.  And hey, if God means for her to marry a soldier who is a pilot and have lots of children then I'm not going to complain. If I did, then I'd be the barmy one, wouldn't I?

Memorial Day

 

 

July 14, 1861

Camp Clark, Washington

 

My Very Dear Sarah:

 

The indications are very strong that we will move in a few days - perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.

 

Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure – or it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. “Not my will, but thine, O God, be done.” If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing - perfectly willing - to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this government, and to pay that debt.

 

But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows – when, after having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must offer it as their only sustenance to my dear little children – is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?

 

I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death – and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.

 

I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved, and I could not find one. A pure love of my country and the principles I have often advocated before the people and “the name of honor that I love more than I fear death” have called upon me, and I have obeyed.

 

Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on, with all these chains, to the battlefield.

 

The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God, and to you, that I have enjoyed them so long. And hard for me it is to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me – perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar - that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battlefield, it will whisper your name.

 

Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness, and struggle with all the misfortune of this world, to shield you and my children from harm. But I cannot. I must watch you from the spirit land and hover near you, while you buffet the storms with your precious little freight, and wait with sad patience till we meet to part no more.

 

But, oh Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the garish day and in the darkest night – amidst your happiest scenes and gloomiest hours - always, always; and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath; or the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.

 

Sarah, do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again.

 

As for my little boys, they will grow as I have done, and never know a father’s love and care. Little Willie is too young to remember me long, and my blue-eyed Edgar will keep my frolics with him among the dimmest memories of his childhood. Sarah, I have unlimited confidence in your maternal care and your development of their characters. Tell our mothers I call God’s blessing upon them.

 

O Sarah, I wait for you there! Come to me, and lead thither my children.

 

- Sullivan

Fine. Art.

Poet's Coroner
Mr. Peperium

Here's a Friday before the holiday weekend caption contest:

My own contribution: Shaken...and stirred.

The Last Identity Of Hillary Clinton

The Eccentric Observer
Old Dominion Tory

Currently, Hillary Clinton is on her third identity of the 2008 primary season. The first was the Uncrowned Queen of America, awaiting only the formalities before assuming power. True, hers was a reign that promised a common touch. From her chintz sofa in her mansion, she offered a “conversation” about the country’s direction. She deigned to solicit popular opinion as to her campaign’s theme song. Our presumptive monarch admitted it was tough to look magnificent on a daily basis, but tearfully averred she bore the burden because it was her duty to assist us.

Alas, for all this stooping, she did not conquer. So, Senator Clinton took on a Jacksonian cast. She told tales of rough-hewn childhood summers in the hills of eastern Pennsylvania , living among the common folk and engaging in their rustic social pursuits. Like Old Hickory, she claimed to be the people’s tireless tribune, defending them against patricians’ predations, who strived to wrest control of their government from their enemies. She dropped a shot and drank a beer with obvious gusto in Indiana , cheerily pumped gas in West Virginia , and delightedly visited a  Kentucky distillery. In this guise, she accomplished much, winning primaries in Pennsylvania ,  Indiana , Kentucky , and West Virginia by decisive margins.

Yet, even these victories did not change the campaign’s dynamic. Barack Obama shrugged off the defeats, scored victories of his own, and extended his lead over her in pledged delegates. Smitten with Senator Obama from early on, the political press declared her continued pursuit of the nomination to be quixotic (at best) and all but demanded she cede the field.

Senator Clinton, however, pressed on--and adopted a new guise: fiery feminist. Over the past couple of weeks, despite Senator Obama’s obvious appeal to a large number of women, certain women declared that sexism in the elite of the Democratic Party and in the elite press was what was denying Hillary Clinton the nomination. Unless she received the nomination, they threatened, they would not vote for Senator Obama in November. During her victory speech in Kentucky and in subsequent statements in Florida and elsewhere, Hillary Clinton enthusiastically wrapped her arms around this narrative (and the threat), claiming to bear the mantle of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony and borrowing phrases from that anthem of the Women’s Liberation Movement, “I am Woman.” Privately, it is reported, she declares that some incidents on the campaign trail are irrefutable evidence of the Democratic Party’s misogynistic conspiracy.
 
Senator Clinton’s latest attempt at self-definition doesn’t seem to be working, however. The press and Senator McCain as well as conservative talk radio are treating Senator Obama as the Democratic nominee. Moreover, her sustained comparisons of her campaign to that for female suffrage as well as the abolition struggle and the Civil Rights Revolution make her seem at once conceited and delusional. And, still, Barack Obama serenely moves forward. Yet, Hillary Clinton still can make a final throw for the White House.

Notwithstanding Democratic historical legerdemain, two of the movements to which Mrs. Clinton now compares her campaign—the abolitionist movement and the civil rights movement—were substantially Republican projects (the latter substantially, the former almost exclusively). Furthermore, Mrs. Clinton reached into her family background to validate her identity as the champion of the common people.
If, therefore, the Democratic Party rejects Senator Clinton’s demand that the nomination be handed to her at national convention in Denver , she will bolt the Democratic primary and continue her quest for the White House. She will not run, however, as an independent candidate. Instead, claiming that her campaign is in the great tradition of the crusades against slavery and for civil rights and that it was thwarted by the reactionaries in the Democratic Party and touching upon her family’s roots and her own, she will assume her final identity of the campaign by declaring herself . . . a Republican.

Scoff, if you will. However, by the time their convention rolls around and Hillary Clinton offers herself as a candidate for President, Republicans probably will be a demoralized lot. Already beset by polls that show a looming disaster in Congressional races, they will have endured a long, hot summer in which John McCain will have been vilified by the Democrats, assorted “527s,” and the press as a cantankerous old man, a man “kept” by a millionaire wife, a son of privilege, and a lousy aviator. In the immediate aftermath of a Democratic convention, at which the press will breathlessly pledge their undying devotion to Barack Obama, some Republicans might be verging on despair. So, despite her baggage—Bill Clinton, Harold Ickes, and Terry McAuliffe, to name a few more prominent pieces—to those Republicans who are mainly concerned with their own welfare (and there are many), the opportunity to run a woman who has national name recognition, was once a “Goldwater Girl,” attracts blue-collar voters in swing states, speaks of “massive retaliation,” and who fudges sufficiently on withdrawal from Iraq (as well as gain a Senate seat) might seem Heaven-sent.

So, although Hillary Clinton today has only the slimmest chance to gain the Democratic nomination, her campaign’s “last dog” might not die until September in  Minneapolis.

Technical Difficulties

The fault, as they say, is not with your receiver. Due to an unscheduled ear infection, Mrs. P is not on line but in bed, waiting for two blockbuster antibiotics and a decongestant usually reserved for zoo elephants to take effect. Normal broadcasting will resume as soon as she can resume the perpendicular.

Mr. P

My Verticals Went. I'm Quite Convinced It's All Robbo's Fault.

Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium

The Peperium's basement

Yesterday, my verticals went. For those of you lucky enough not to know what verticals mean, it means the plumbing that runs verticular (is that a word?) in the cold plaster -yes cold plaster- walls of our home. When we bought our house, our real estate agent told us we had 20 years on those pipes. Well turns out he was wrong. That's ok. He told us we had at least 15 years on the furnace - we got two. The windows were good for a lifetime -they made it 7 years. Ah well, no one can't be right all of the time especially when they're trying to sell you a house, can they?

Anyhoo, this is all Robbo's fault. Yes it is. It my payback for pushing him, as he himself once described, into The Tiber. If you know anything about Robbo the Llama Butcher, then you know besides being a recent convert to the Roman Catholic Church, the man has more plumbing problems than the average Roman Cathoilc convert. Being educated in an almost Ivy League school, and attending an almost decent law school, Robbo's up on all things psychological too. He doesn't totally buy into all things psychological because if he did, he never would have left the Episcopal Church. But he must buy into transferrance because he transferred his plumbing problems onto me very nicely. Thanks a lot Robbo.

So, our plumber has yet to add up all the numbers and tell me how much $$$$$ this verticular thingummy is going to cost Mr. P. Then I've got to call the kilt-wearing cold plaster Scottish guy Mr. P cannot stand to see how much it will cost to put a new ceiling back into our breakfast room (the plumbers have to take it out) and then call the paratrooper turned craftsman who did my kitchen to find out how much it will cost for him to reline the alcove for the double oven in the kitchen with cottageboard (that's history too because I'm not letting the plumbers, as nice and competent as they are, put one finger on the wormy chestnut paneling in the breakfast room). *Sigh* It's moments like these when I wish I could help Mr. P with the financial burdens of our home. But I can't. *Sigh* The trials of a stay-at-home Mom. All I can do for Mr. P is try and make his home a happy one so that when things burst like dreams or pipes he can laugh about it and say it really doesn't matter. Of course that wisdom hits him after a stiff bourbon or two does first.

So Mr. P, this one's for you.

Oh, and Robbo, no this is not the future short story with you in it that I was babbling on about. This, most unfortunately, is real life.

A Prick Of A Bishop

Madame's Nightshirt
Mrs. Peperium

From the May 2003 NYTimes obit for the late Bishop of NYC for the Episcopal Church, Paul Moore Jr. :

Paul Moore Jr., the retired Episcopal bishop of New York who for more than a decade was the most formidable liberal Christian voice in the city, died yesterday at home in Greenwich Village. [...] Bishop Moore spoke out against corporate greed, racism, military spending and for more assistance to the nation's poor, pursuing his political and social agenda in both the city and within the national Episcopal denomination. He was an early advocate of women's ordination and, in 1977, was the first Episcopal bishop to ordain a gay woman as an Episcopal priest. [...] During his tenure, Bishop Moore transformed the seat of the diocese, the Cathedral Church of St. John the Divine, at 112th Street and Amsterdam Avenue, from a moribund backwater church to a place where peacocks roamed, orchestras performed, elephants lumbered, inner city youth found jobs and the homeless slept in supervised shelters. [...] Bishop Moore was married in 1944 to Jenny McKean with whom he had nine children. [...] Standing 6 feet 4 -- something of a human rallying pole -- he became the consummate urban priest.

From The Bishop's Daughter by the eldest child of Bishop Moore and his first wife, Jenny McKean, Honor Moore:

At the time, I was still ignorant of any fissures in my parents’ marriage, and I learned that my mother’s dissatisfaction had a sexual element only after she and my father separated, some years later. It was the early nineteen-seventies, and I was visiting her in Washington. [...] My mother and I often talked about the changes in sexual attitudes from her generation to mine. At the time, for instance, like many of my friends, I was living with a man to whom I was not married. I don’t remember how the conversation began, but suddenly my mother was saying, “I didn’t have an orgasm until I was forty.” I had no reply. “And when I finally did,” she continued, “Paul said, ‘What’s the matter, Jenny?’

From The NYPOST :

February 28, 2008 -- MANY Episcopalians are reeling from the news in this week's New Yorker that the late Bishop Paul Moore - the 6-foot-5 patrician whose political activism drove many parishioners from the church - was a closeted homosexual who had a gay lover for the last 30 years of his life.

From The Bishop's Daughter :

He had a confident voice. Andrew Verver (as I’ll call him) was the only person in my father’s will whose name was unfamiliar when we sat in the lawyer’s office the day before the funeral. [...]

The beginning of the conversation was formal.

“Your father was a close friend of mine.”

“Yes.”

“For almost thirty years.”

“Yes. You said so in your letter—”

[...]Andrew had been a student at Columbia, a Roman Catholic. “I was considering being received into the Episcopal Church,” he said. This was in 1975. “I went to your father for advice. He was very helpful. At first it was a pastoral thing, and after a while we became friends.” [...]

“I’m so happy to be talking to you,” I said.

“I would have called sooner—”

[...]

“Did he tell you about us? About . . . me?”

“You had some problems with each other.”

“Yes,” I said, “we did.”

“We were so close, your father and I. He told me a lot of things.” He didn’t want to get off the telephone either.

“About—”

“About your family. About his life. We missed our plane to Patmos, and we had to spend the night on Samos, another island.[...]

“Did he talk to you about his sexual life?” Two men in Greece, a beautiful night.

“I was his sexual life,” Andrew said.

“You were?” There was a silence and then we both began to laugh.

“For a long time.”

“I am so happy he had someone like you,” I managed to say.

“Of course, there were other men,” he said.

I asked him whether there was any significance to the table that my father had left him in his will.

“Only that it was next to the bed!” he said. “Your father had a sense of humor.” That quiet laugh again.

“Once, we were on the sofa, talking,” he continued, “and Paul took off his bishop’s ring and put it on my hand for a minute. The New York bishop’s ring has windmills on it, and your father smiled and said, ‘I’m your Dutch uncle.’".

From Newsweek's Honor Thy Father:

Paul Moore was a polarizing figure long before his daughter's book. Born into a family of privilege—his grandfather, William Moore, was a founding member of the Bankers Trust Co.—he embraced a radical form of Christianity that focused on social justice, choosing poor parishes and moving his family to the then gritty Jersey City, N.J. ("On the Waterfront" was filmed in the Moores' neighborhood a few years later), where he and his wife, Jenny, opened their house to the community. He marched with Martin Luther King Jr. and Dorothy Day.

The bishop also struggled with his attraction to men and had adulterous affairs with both men and women throughout his marriage. He told his children about his double life when he was 70, after the death of their mother, when his second wife discovered an affair with a man. But he never came out publicly, despite ongoing rumors.

From the Wikopedia entry on Bishop Paul Moore Jr. :

Jenny McKean Moore died of colon cancer in 1973 [she and Bishop Moore had separated before her illness and remained separated until her death]. Eighteen months later Moore married Brenda Hughes Eagle, a childless widow twenty two years his junior. She died of alcoholism in 1999. It was she who discovered his bisexual infidelity, around 1990, and made it known to his children, who kept the secret, as he had asked them to, until Honor Moore's revelations in 2008.

From The NYTimes obit for Bishop Moore's second wife, Brenda Hughes Eagle:

Brenda Hughes Moore, a human-rights advocate and arts consultant and the wife of the Right Rev. Paul Moore Jr., retired bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of New York, died Sunday at New York Presbyterian Hospital. She was 56 and lived in Greenwich Village and Stonington, Conn.

The cause was hepatitis, her husband said.

A native of Richmond, Mrs. Moore graduated from Salem College in North Carolina and studied at the University of Aix-Marseille and the University of Perugia.

She accompanied her first husband, John Franklin Campbell, a Foreign Service officer, to Ethiopia, where she became a special assistant to Emperor Haile Selassie and arranged a national exposition of Ethiopian crafts. [...]

Mr. Campbell died in 1971 at age 31, and the next year she married Vernon Eagle, then the executive director of the New World Foundation, which supported civil rights and community projects.

The year after Mr. Eagle's death in 1974, she married Bishop Moore, who had officiated at her second wedding and had himself recently been widowed.

Re: The Bishop’s Daughter
A letter in response to Honor Moore’s article (March 3, 2008)

With moving elegiac sentiments, my sister Honor Moore has outed my recently deceased father, Bishop Paul Moore, against his clearly and often stated will.[...] We have kept my father’s confidence since 1990, when our stepmother discovered his infidelity. It is this trust that Honor has breached.[...] Nowhere does Honor mention the extent of the anguish suffered by my mother, my stepmother, and my siblings as a result of his betrayals. Instead, she exposes intimate sexual details. Like so many others, we loved him despite his dishonesty, and we recall with deep fondness his courage and affection.

Paul Moore III
Berkeley, Calif.