If you had asked me yesterday what I needed to get me going, I would have said, a bowl of porridge, a pot of tea, toast and honey. But this morning, and in response to those who are anxious to save me from myself, because I am over seventy, myself and Amber were up and out at the crack of dawn, and all on a cup of tea and a slice of toast. As for Amber, getting up early has never been a problem, as it has for me, and once fed and watered, and having scared the birds in the garden witless, she is not at all adverse to going back to bed for a lie-in: stretched out on Jenny's bed for an hour or more, listing, or pretending to listen to BBC Radio 2.
Now whatever the time of day, there are rules for walking, and chief among them, on the outward part of the journey, is, that it is Amber who sets the pace. So for me, amid the stopping and starting, standing, and sudden, and at times, arm wrenching changes in direction, there is ample time for reflection on the state of my soul: of how little progress I have made in the practice of patience and self-denial. But on the homeward stretch, the old Adam surfaces, I am in charge, and Amber, walking roadside, knows it. But lest I sound sanctimonious, let me explain that there is more to the outward bound part of the walk than meets the eye. Often I see dogs, (who, after all, didn't choose to live with human,) walking at pace, and never look left nor right; and when I think about them, I fear, that they mightn't be dogs at all.
Well this morning when we turned the corner away from the busy main road, what did we see coming towards us, but a man with the same idea as myself. "I see you have the same idea as myself," I said, "start early!" But he wasn't in the mood for talking, and possibly, because his dog, not much bigger than a cat, kept veering towards Amber, to which the good man's response was, "behave, behave!"
That was the only dog that we met on our travels, and almost certainly, the refined elderly lady, with established habits, that we sometimes meet along the way, was almost certainly fast asleep. When they meet, herself and Amber never fail to stop for a chat, and Amber never fails to have a peek into her shopping basket, which leaves me to suspect, that this good lady's daily routine takes her up the hill to the supermarket is to get some fresh meat for "Minnie." And I have just remembered, when I told her that Amber, after her walk, gets "Duck Fillets" as a treat, she told me that Amber eats better than she does.
And we had no sooner passed "Dapper Dogs," (the local grooming parlour) when I recalled that today is St. Patrick's Day, and thinking about the current moral and political condition of Ireland, I couldn't help recalling the words of the hymn, "Hail Glorious Saint Patrick." For me, the tune is terrible, but the words that I recalled, in the context of change, in Ireland, are profound.
"In the war against sin, in the fight for the Faith,
Dear saint may thy children, resist until death,
May their strength be in meekness, in penance, in prayer,
Their banner the cross which they glory to bear."
Well by the time we had got around to Harvey's Funeral Home, it was 7 o'clock, and to my surprise, the manageress was going in. And by the time we got down to THE CROWN, I was feeling sorry for publicians, whose livelihood was pulled from under them yesterday, when the Prime Minister urged people, in the fight against the coronavirus, to avoid "pubs and clubs." As it happens, this particular pub, under new management, was on the up. But now I was wondering if in the not too distant future, it would be converted into living accomodation. Not a bad location, I thought, with the Co-Op, the pharmacist, and another funeral parlour just across the road.
As for the future, if it goes to plan, I will be taken from there, the funeral home that is, down the hill, past my house, over the bridge and even further down, and up, into the Church of Our Lady and Saint Walstan, for Requiem Mass, and I will be watching, from wherever, to see that there are no picture takers in the gathering, just good people interceding on my behalf. And as the stipend for the priest is the responsibility of the funeral director, I will be watching to ensure that it has been inflation proofed.
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© Cormac E. McCloskey
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