Archive | June, 2015

Luceo Non Uro

7 Jun

Today’s Gospel was about Jesus being accused of casting out demons by Satan. Fr. M pointed out that Satan was originally one of the archangels – Lucifer, Bringer of Light. And thereby hangs a tale.

crestThe Squire is a McKenzie on his mother’s side, and used to have a T-shirt with the clan crest and motto. One work day at church a teen-aged girl wandered up and asked him with the Latin words meant.

“Well”, he said, pointing to the first word, “you’ve heard of old time matches being called Lucifers, haven’t you?”

She nodded.

“And Non means No.”

Sure.

“And everybody knows what Uro means.”

She nodded again, although it was obvious she hadn’t a clue.

He ran his finger around the belt on the crest.  “It just means ‘Don’t pee in the fire’.”

Rude Awakening

6 Jun

We had a Fish Fry at church this evening, and I had offered to take some of the load off the cook by making gluten-free dishes for several folks at church who have celiac disease.

I woke up this morning to the sound of people screaming, as I backed my car into a large shelf full of expensive knick-knacks. We had arrived at the dinner only to realize I had left the food at home. I excused myself and rushed out to the car, which was inexplicably parked in someone’s living room, and in my rush to leave, hit a valuable étagère.

Obviously, all a dream. The screaming I heard was that blasted Eddie telling me he was starving. I staggered out of bed at an ungodly hour, scared up some breakfast, and made up the mac and cheese, and got the ingredients together for the cornbread, and went back to finish my sleep. Both food items went into the oven at 3:30, and we arrived at church at 4:00 on the dot.

The Fish Fry went very well, but we had one minor kerfuffle.

Many, many years ago, before The Squire and I were even dating, never mind married, somebody broke into my apartment, jumped me from behind, beat me up (yes, that’s a euphemism), and tried to smother me with a pillow.  To this day it is worth your life to touch me on the back or squeeze my neck if I do not know you are there. Even after forty years of marriage, if I have my back to the door, The Squire will speak to me before he approaches me. It’s safer that way.  If we’re at a concert or a museum, I expect to be jostled and I can handle that, but some poor unsuspecting fellow – a friend and frequent visitor to our parish – walked behind me tonight and gave my shoulders a playful squeeze. I went off like a bottle rocket, and scared the fellow across the table – I think he believed I was choking or something, but when The Squire didn’t move, he decided to wait and see what happened. Poor Frank was dreadfully upset, but we managed to get explanations and apologies out of the way, and all’s well that ends well.