Winding down, in an age of coronavirus

"I had a little donkey

He wouldn't go,

Did I beat him?

No! No! No!

I put him in the stable

And gave him some corn;

The best little donkey

That ever was born."

This little song has been trotting around in my head since we first met Oliver: our grandson, and just a month old. As far as I know, it was his first "garden party," and I am pleased to say that informality ruled. The sun was shining, the food and wine were plentiful, and from time to time there was speculation as to what the little fellow was up to: was he smiling, or just doing a pooh in his pants.

As for this nursery rhyme, (that comes with is own jaunty little tune), it spans the generations; it takes me back to "Foyle Street", to "Grandam", and to one or other of our three maiden aunts. Bridie was quiet and hard working and kept her childhood memories to herself, while Maura, cultured and refined, could really make the little donkey do its stuff on the piano; while Kathleen, for her own amusement, and ours, having chalked a tailless donkey on the kitchen floor, would have us, blindfolded and disorientated, "put the tail on the donkey." And happily at that time, no one asked why the little donkey "wouldn't go," or dared to suggest that at its heart, this little song wasn't really about a donkey, but something altogether more profound: the unconditional nature of love.

Now if Oliver's visit was symbolic of the easing of the "lockdown" restrictions, what about this, "Self Isolating Notice," that has been on our front door for the duration:

"If you are delivering a parcel

please ring the bell and

leave it on the doorstep.

             Thank you."

As a consequence, and in this period, only two outsiders have made it past the front door, and then, only into the hall, with the delivery of two "state of the art" vacuum packed  mattresses: standard size double bed mattresses, that at the factory were folded into a quarter of their normal size, and then, with the life squeezed out of them, vacuum packed for delivery. Once delivered, and with the men long gone, it took time, and patience, to work out how to safely release the mattresses from their reinforced plastic shrouds; but, once released and spread out on the floor, slowly they came back to life: (No! not as air beds, but mattresses).

So all in all we have done our best to stay safe. Letters and packages, are quarantined, and groceries delivered, not through the front door, but to the garage, and I make a point of being on hand, at the window, to show our appreciation as the delivery drivers take their leave. After that comes the sorting: deciding what foodstuffs should be quarantined in the garage, and what brought into the house for immediate use, but before they can be stored away, these packages have to be sprayed, (disinfected,) and left to stand for a time before being dried off and put away. And sometimes, in all this business, we lose track of where we are in the process of cleansing, or find that we have to go back to the garage for something that was overlooked, which can mean, more disinfecting: spraying of bolts and handles and yet another washing of hands.

All of this said, and living in comfortable circumstances, there is a sense in which our experience of Covid 19, is far removed from what is the reality for most people. so much so, that at times I have had to remind myself, that the threat is real, and that the virus has had devastating consequences for many people. And I have had to stop myself from becoming irritated by the daily news briefings from the government, that are often, or so it would seem, less than truthful. When a government minister stands there and tells me that they have taken possession of three million plus, "pieces" of protective equipment, for those working on the front line, I smell duplicity. What I want to know, and what the minister knows, and fears, that I want to know, is not, how many "pieces" of equipment have arrived, but how many, full sets of protective clothing are represented in that number, and how that relates to the total need. So in the end, I stopped listening to the government briefings.  

And so as to keep my own world fresh and interesting, I have gone back to baking bread, (though a machine does most of the work), and I have purchased a radiogram: a 1930s look-alike radio, that besides providing the "Wireless", (you have to turn the knob to get the stations), also plays vinyl, cassette tapes, CD's and has a blue tooth facility. And my friend Arthur, who features in my poem "Friendship", has just last week, sent me a CD of the Ballyclare Male Choir. Grounded by the Covid-19 restrictions he is missing not just the singing, but the social life that goes with it. And the Parish Priest has written to remind us that the Church will be open on Sundays in future; and, that we are to look out for a further e-mail explaining how, in the light of continuing restrictions, things will be managed.

And full credit to ZOOM that has kept going throughout, and via which we have had our monthly poetry meetings. This month the theme was food. "The Walrus and the Carpenter", by Lewis Carroll, in which oysters, unsuspecting, get eaten, was one of them, Another was "The King's Breakfast", by Alan Alexander Milne, which provoked some discussion as to whether it was simply a nonsense poem, or a political statement, about power and privilege. What the king wanted, and got, after messages were passed down and up the line, was, a "little bit of butter"on his bread. As for myself, I brought along the opening lines from Chapter XXII of The Odyssey, by Homer, in part because I felt inspired to bring along some Epic poetry; and, having read both the The Iliad, and The Odyssey, some years ago, I especially, in the context of the theme, recalled this particular moment in the poem. But before we get to the poem, some background detail.

Having fought in the Trojan War, (and for a variety of reasons), it take Odysseus ten years to make his way back home to Ithaca, only to find that in his absence, a bunch of hangers on, (suitors), have been abusing the rules of hospitality and eating him out of house and home, while they wait for Penelope to accept that her husband Odysseus is dead, and in the hope that she would accept one of them in marriage. Unaware that Odysseus has returned, (disguised as a beggar), the drama unfolds in the banqueting hall, where he has decided to take his revenge. The first to fall victim to his bow is Antinous, as he indulgently lifts a loving cup to his lips:

"Full though his throat Ulysses' weapon pass'd,

And pierced his neck. He falls, and breathes his last.

The tumbling goblet the wide floor o'erflows,

A stream of gore burst sprouting from his nose;

Grim in convulsive agonies he sprawls:

Before him spurn'd the loaded table falls,

And spreads the pavement with a mingled flood

Of floating meats, and wine, and human blood. . . ."
__________

Now as I began with a donkey, it seems appropriated to end with one, in what is my final coronavirus blog. In the Medina in Fez, (Morocco), I have seen them, as beasts of burden, heavy laden, making their way quietly and obediently through crowded passageways, and again, divested of their cargoes, standing quietly, and I couldn't help but wonder how long they might have to stand there, ignored, until their next assignment. Well in this poem by G. K Chesterton, we are seeing and hearing the world from the point of view of the donkey, who, amidst scenes of  jubilation, is carrying Christ, in triumph, before his passion and crucifixion, into Jerusalem. 

"When fishes flew and forests walked

And figs grew upon thorn,

Some moment when the moon was blood

Then surely I was born.

"With monstrous head and sickening cry

And ears like errant wings,

The Devil's walking parody

Of all four-footed things.

"The Tattered outlaw of the earth,

Of ancient crooked will:

Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,

I keep my secret still.

"Fools! For I also had my hour:

One far fierce hour and sweet:

There was a shout about my ears,

And palms before my feet."

__________ 

    ©  Cormac E. McCloskey

   "Foyle St"   

   "Grandma"   

   "Friendship"  

   "The Odyssey" Translation, Alexander Pope, BOOK XXII

   "The Donkey"  A very effective reading  YouTube.

Memories, and other things, in an age of coronavirus

As the saying goes, it was “curiosity that killed the cat,” and it almost killed me in my teenage years. I was climbing a rock-face bare handed, when I came unstuck, crouched on an uneven sanded ledge beneath an overhanging rock. I was in trouble, and knew it. At first I tried to go back the way I had come, but unable to secure a footing, (and perilous though it was,) I had no choice but to clamber back on to the ledge. “You need to stay calm,” I kept telling myself, and “find some way of drawing attention to your predicament.” So with great care I removed a shoe, the intention being to drop it when the next lot of people came clambering over the rocks below. But fortunately, a man some distance out in a boat, spotted that I was in trouble, and managed to get the attention of those on the top of the cliff, and those who were clambering over the rocks below. Between them, and with no little skill and imagination, I was hauled up between one of the rescuers who had come up from below, and the overhanging rock-face to safety. Many times in the past I had clambered over those same boulders of rock, that is, until it occurred to me that climbing bare-handed to the top of Ramore Head, would be more interesting; so I did, successfully, only to be caught out at the second attempt. And fortunately, when it came to the rescue, the overhanging boulder was just below the surface.

Now as to whether or not divine providence played a part in my rescue on this occasion, I have no means of knowing, But, when on holiday in Havana, (Cuba,) the divine intervention was self evident.

We were on an early morning visit to one of several old fortresses, in this instance, Castillo de los Tres Reyes del Morro, or, (Castle of the Three Kings of Morro). When it came to getting off the coach, I stepped back, allowing Jenny, who had the inside seat to go first; a gesture that prompted many other passengers to take advantage and scramble off ahead of me, so that by the time I stepped off the coach quite a little crowd had gathered. Stepping forward, and feeling a hand on my shoulder, I stopped, and looking back, saw Jenny’s outstretched arm; she had her back to me, and was talking to the bus driver, so no words passed between us; but, the outstretched arm and hand on my shoulder, was sufficient to alert me to the danger: the sun was so bright, and the water clear, and we were parked so close to the waters edge, that without what seemed like an instinctive action on Jenny’s part, I would have walked over the edge of the causeway. But for me, there was nothing instinctive about it, it was divine intervention: for God, who keeps His word, would not allow that I should drown in Havana. And the more remarkable the intervention, because Jenny, so to speak, is not, “among the believers.”

Be that as it may, I am 78 and still going, minus my appendix, gall bladder and benefiting from some positive refurbishments: plastic surgery on my nose, triple heart bypass surgery, and a new lens, and a prosthesis, fitted around the Iris, with the same to follow sometime soon in the other eye. And I have just taken delivery of some sturdy household scaffolding, with variable work platforms, a tools shelf, and wheels that lock. There is nothing as tiring, or as uncertain as working from a ladder, especially when it comes to trimming hedges on uneven ground. So from here on in, the emphasis is on comfort and safety. But that’s not all.

Very recently, and somewhat reluctantly, I have come to the conclusion that the time has arrived for a second cull of books, the first occurring when we moved house a few years ago. So the questions that arise are, What to keep, and what to let go? and Why? And is it possible in this digital age, that I won’t find a home for a full set of Encyclopaedia Britannica, leather bound and gilded, and for the children’s 18 volume equivalent, in bright red hardback, gilded and catching the eye on the shelf.? Will the parents of Oliver, our recently arrived grandson, (again, in the context of this digital age,) be interested? Or is it a sad truth that these and many other such items will end up in the recycle bin. But, even before I get going, some things I know will survive: anything that has to do with philosophy, theology, astronomy and mythology, religion, and evolution; and little of anything from my collection of poets and poetry, will disappear. And of course, when it comes to history and politics, biography and autobiography, each book will have to be considered on its merits, a task that might be more taxing in the context of things Irish. But here, by way of example, are a few that readily come to mind, and will be staying: Hitler And Stalin: Parallel Lives, by the acclaimed and late historian Alan Bullock. And a no less accomplished biography of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, by Eberhard Bethge, and the writings of Ernest Hemingway, whose path we trod in Cuba, and lastly a man who, night after night during “the troubles,” made the same nasal sounds as myself, when reporting from Parliament for the BBC, John Cole, who titled his memoirs, As It Seemed to Me: From Harold Macmillan to John Major. And I am also well disposed to keeping the many, expensive, travel brochures that we have collected over the years.

And lastly, the Children’s Encyclopedia by Arthur Mee, that I purchased, second hand, for reasons of sentiment. It was part of the fabric of home, and will  survive the cull. At one period in his life, our father, going literally from door to door, negotiated a sale, and was once heard to remark, that he had never called at a house ashamed of what it was that he represented: for he had both the education and experience in life, to know its worth. Well I purchased it, not because our father sold it, but because in my formative years the best I could do with it was to look at the pictures; so in today’s parlance, I am, shape aware, having, all those years ago, absorbed so many buildings, sculptures, monuments, insects, birds, costumes, flags, locomotives ,etc., etc.,  and the innards of the industrial revolution. And in particular, I readily recall the sculpted image of a man bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders, whom I now know, in Greek mythology, was the Titan Atlas. And so in my evolving understanding of the world, and limited though it was, Arthur Mee had a god like status, which brings me nicely to Fleet Street.

I used to work in Fleet Street, for five years to be exact, for Reuters. It was before the printing presses (with much acrimony) were moved out to Wapping. So I know where all the watering holes used to be: Ye Old Cheshire Cheese, The Cartoonist, and, the Tipperary, all, along with many others, on Fleet Street. And when, for reasons of space, we moved to the London International Press Centre, at the top of Ludgate Hill, there, in a state of dwarfism beside it, was The Printer's Devil. And when, yet again, we moved back across Fleet Street and beyond to John Carpenter House, in John Carpenter Street, the Ludgate Cellars were close bye. 

Understandably, things around Fleet Street are not what they once were; but, Ye Old Cheshire Cheese, (that in 1667) was rebuilt after the Great Fire of London, is still in business, as is the four hundred year old Tipperary, of which a reviewer, giving it five, (green) stars, recently wrote:

“Great wee pub,

Right in Fleet Street.

This is a proper Irish Pub in the middle of London serving excellent Guinness and Tayto cheese.”

Well, when some time ago I was reading a Biography of Arthur Mee, “writer, journalist, and educator,” I made an unexpected, quirky, but none the less pleasing discovery, that this great man had worked at his desk, in my very own place of employment - John Carpenter House.

__________

  ©    Cormac E. McCloskey

Photo: Climbing along the public footpath, to the top of Ramore Head.
"among the believers" : the title of a book by VS Naipaul

The Sun, in an age of coronavirus

Recently I was asked by a friend to comment on a poem that had come to him in an email; it was to do with the COVID- 19 epidemic, and my reply was to the effect that I thought that the writer, "a man of the cloth," as we say, could have worked a lot harder at his poem.

The first thing that struck me about it, was, that it was too long, and platituutionis (in the juxtapositioning of ideas), and devoid of emotion; and, among other things, I asked, where was the grief, the pain, the anguish, the despair, the "crucified Christ," and pointedly, where are the children? And for good measure, (for I was feeling a bit angry at this point), I threw in the plight of refugees, most of whom are living in camps, in squalour, and in a seemingly endless state of "lockdown." And after such a downer, I had to offer an upper: that the inclusion of these deeply personal responses to COVID -19, would have brought the poem to life, and the moreso, when set against the spiritual and corporal works of mercy.

Now whatever flaws I might have found in the poem, I can't say the same about the sun, though I can admit to the truth, that for much of my adult life I have taken it for granted; and why not, for not only has it always been there, but, as we know, the sun is present even in its absence, and most important of all, although separate form the earth, the sun is integral to it: it is the provider and sustainer of life, no light, no life, and thankfully, given our capacity, as humans, to mess things up, it is beyond the reach and influence of man,  In fact, it is everything that we are not; not only is it self-sufficient, but it is there for our benefit.

Now if we are dependent on the sun for our very existence, of necessity the earth has to cooperate, or if you prefer, work in a way that allows all of us to share in its life giving properties, hence, with each evolving day, we pass from darkness into light; but of course it is more profound than that, for it is the changing tilt in  the earth, in its year long journey around the sun, that gives us the seasons of the year, thereby allowing all of us, (more or less equally), to share in the richness of what the sun has to offer. Hardly surprising then, that from the earliest of times, and in mythology, the sun has been both an object of wonder and a deity.

Now when it comes to the sun, there is a sense in which data seems superfluous, for it is in its sheer brilliance that the sun speaks to us, but in defence of data, here are a few additional details that literally! go a long way, and put not just us, but the sun in perspective. While we, so to speak, tip-toe around it, the sun, (that is 109 times bigger than the earth), and our entire solar system, makes its way around the inner edge of the Milky Way, along the spiral arm, Orion Cygmus; a journey that takes 230 million years to complete. And if we ask the question, What lies beyond the Milky Way? space science holds out the possibility that there might be as many as one hundred billion galaxies in the universe. But as we are in danger here of serious overload, let me return to planet earth, and a personal perspective.

For me the sun is a miracle, a daily recurring and stunning manifestation of the reality of God, that, for all the physical and technical reasons listed above, flies in the face of the notion that planet earth, and all that has been accomplished in it, is simply a product of chance, (a random and evolutionary coming together of various substances) that,  somehow resulted in us. It is an idea as unconvincing as the notion that the car parked outside our house, just happened; or than the neolithic monuments at Newgrange, in Ireland, at Stonehenge here in England, or elsewhere, likewise, just happened. 

So why am I telling you this? 

Well, it's all the fault of COVID-19, that has myself and Amber, (of necessity), out walking at the crack of dawn; and in the eight weeks that we have been doing so, we have witnessed some spectacular sunrises, an experience that has taken me back to a particular moment in my teenage years.

Standing at the water's edge on what was a drab seafront, I found myself reflecting on the complex nature of the world into which I was born: a world of serious political and religious division, and what particularly caught  my focus at that moment, was the sun, high in the sky, in all its splendour, and presiding over the world in all its diversity. India, about which I knew almost nothing, had come to mind, and the sun, at that moment, was a visible and tangible manifestation of the Divine. And profound though that moment was, I knew nothing of what the psalmist had to say of the sun, or of how effectively he had written of the transition from darkness into light:

"You made the moon to mark the months;

the sun knows the time for its setting.

When you spread the darkness it is night

and all the beasts of the forest creep forth.

The young lions roar for their prey

and ask their food from God.

At the rising of the sun they steal away

and go to rest in their dens.

Man goes forth to his work,

to labour till evening falls.

Nor could I have known as I stood on that drab shoreline, that one day I would have the pleasure of reading a remarkable book, not yet in the making, but to be written by the Polish journalist Ryszard Kapuscinski, who had spent forty years reporting from Africa. And everything about his experience is captured in the title. The Shadow Of The Sun: My African Life. In it he documents the lives of all the political figures, and political regimes of Africa, some good and some bad,  who occupied the world stage in my lifetime. But altogether more interesting are his insights that he gives into the cultural histories and traditions of the people of Africa, pre and post their colonial eras. And though the book was first published in 1998, I suspect, that since that date little, in Africa as a whole, has changed. He died in 2007. 

Now as I have laid claim to the sun for God, here is a passage from Ryszard: he is in the bus station in Accra and waiting, (a very significant concept in Africa), for a bus to Kumasi. Having described in vivid detail the bus station, as resembling a hugue circus that has just rolled in to town, he goes on to interpret what it is that he is seeing:

"The spiritual world of the "African" (if one may use the term despite its gross simplification) is rich and complex, and his inner life is permeated by a profound religiosity. He believes in the coexistence of three different yet related worlds.

   The first is the one that surrounds us, the palpable and visible reality composed of living people, animals, and plants, as well as inanimate objects: stones, water, air. The second is the world of the ancestors, those who died before us, but who died, as it were, not completely, not finally, not absolutely. Indeed, in a metaphysical sense they continue to exist, and are even capable of participating in our life, of influencing it, shaping it. That is why maintaining good relations with one's ancestors is a precondition of a successful life, and sometimes even of life itself. The third world is the rich kingdom of the spirits - spirits that exist independently, yet at the same time are present in every being, in every object, in everything and everywhere.

   At the head of these three worlds stands the Supreme Being, God. Many of the bus inscriptions speak of omnipotence and his unknown omnipotence: "God is everywhere," God knows what he does," "God is mystery." There are also some more down-to-earth, human injunctions: "Smile," "Tell me that I'm beautiful," and lastly, "Those who bicker like each other."

So what then of the sun; will it rise tomorrow and continue to do what it has been doing for the past 4,543 million years, (the age of the earth) ? Short of divine intervention, the answer has to be - yes!

__________

      © Cormac E. McCloskey

      "a man of the cloth" - a priest.
      Psalm. 104/105
      The Shadow Of The Sim
       Ryszard Kapusdinski
       Allen Lane: The Penguin Press

       The spiritual and corporal works of mercy - here


       

Childhood, in an age of coronavirus.

In my childhood days it wasn't uncommon for adults to tell fibs about children, to children. Here's one told to me by my maiden aunt, Kathleen:

"Birds in their little nest agree,
it is a shameful sight,
when children of one family
fall out, and chide, and fight."

Of course I didn't know that they were fibs, little moral tales for our edification; and I have since written an affectionate poem about aunt Kathleen: "A Hard Bargain", that dwells on another side of her character. She was a wheeler-and-dealer in Heaven, striking bargains with the angels and saints; Mary and Anthony come readily to mind. Under their statues she would leave promissory notes, (ten shillings in old money) to be precise, with instructions by way of prayer, that as soon as they. Mary and Anthony that is, had done whatever it was that she wanted them to do, the money would go to a good cause, or causes, that she knew the Virgin and Saint Anthony would approve of.

But  now that I am old, and wise, and regardless of anything that aunt Kathleen might have said, I can tell you for certain that the behaviour of some birds is shocking, as here, where the house-martin having done all the hard work, and is ready to move in, finds that the house-sparrow has got in ahead of her, and is claiming squatters rights. What a wonderful moral tale, (from so many angles), if only aunt Kathleen had known about it, which is why I am telling it to you, as told to me, by Gilbert White:

"About the middle of  May, if the weather be fine, the  martin begins to think in earnest of providing a mansion for its family. The crust or shell of this nest seems to be formed of such dirt or loam as comes most readily to hand, and is tempered and wrought together with little bits of broken straws  to render it tough and tenacious. As this bird often builds against a perpendicular wall without any projecting ledge under, it requires its utmost efforts to get the first foundation firmly fixed, so that it may safely carry the superstructure. On this occasion the bird not only clings with its claws, but partly supports itself by strongly inclining its tail against the wall, making that a fulcrum; and thus steadied,  it works and plasters the materials into the face of the brick or stone. But then, that this work may not, while it is soft and green, pull itself down by its own weight, the provident architect has prudence and forbearance enough not to advance her work too fast; but by building only in the morning, and dedicating the rest of the day to food and amusement, gives it sufficient time to dry and harden. . . . .By this method after about ten or twelve days is formed a hemispheric nest with a small aperture towards the top, strong, compact, and warm; and perfectly fitted for all the purposes for which it was intended. But then nothing is more common than for the house-sparrow, as soon as the shell is finished, to seize on it as its own, to eject the owner, and to line it after its own manner."   *

And thinking of all of this I am reminded of another perspective on childhood that was around at the time. It was to do with Christopher Robin - a very very upper- class little boy, who, kneeling by the side of his bed, struggled with his night prayers: "When I open my fingers a little bit more, / I can see Nanny's dressing-gown on the door, / it's a beautiful blue but it hasn't a hood, / God bless nanny! and make her good. . . ." And what intrigues me now about this song, is just how much myself and Christopher had in common, because it was while saying my night prayers, that I suddenly had the notion to tip Saint Anthony on his side so as to see what was underneath, and that was that, for, "forgetting my prayers completely," I went looking for more statues, and then, and in my pajamas, and to aunt Kathleen's consternation,  I came leaping down the stairs to tell everyone of what I had found.

Something else that was around at the time, and that had nothing whatever to do with piety, or moral rectitude, but rather with the capacity of the child to see through the pretensions of adults, - and be downright annoying with it, was the magical poem by Lewis Carroll, "You Are Old, Father William". In the telling of this story the boy, of course, could be any boy, but whoever he is, and wherever he come from, his father is always William.

"You are old father William" the young man said
"and your hair has become very white;
and yet you incessantly stand on your head -
Do you think at your age it is right?"

At  first father William was patient in his replies, but when the boy becomes too personal and marvels at his father's ability to balance an eel on  the end of his nose, - despite his failing eyesight, it all became too much for the old man:

"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
Said his father. "Don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!

And lastly, this, the opening words of a song that have to do with the child's capacity to wonder; and besides being a song, the construct of the words are such, that it is also an exercise in diction. As a boy soprano I sang it in a competition at which, Sir Malcolm Sargent, was present as a guest of the adjudicator. In the competition I came second, and as Sir Malcolm was there as a guest, I have no means of knowing what he thought of my singing.

"Is it I wonder a rum thing,
oe nothing to wonder upon,
that whenever a man's doing something,
there's always a boy looking on.

He may stand for hours like a dumb thing,
but this can be counted upon,
that wherever a man's doing something,
there's always a boy looking on."

So why am I telling you all this?

Well those who have read my previous blogs, will know that under the current COVIC-19 restrictions, of which "social distancing" is a part, I now take Amber for her morning walk at 6 am, and her evening walk at 8. Walking at these times makes it easier, in terms of the virus, to stay safe; but such is the solitude in the residential streets in the early evening, that  I couldn't help but be reminded of the story of the "Pied Piper of Hamelin"; for, not only are there no children in sight, but they are not to be heard either, in the many private gardens as we pass. They have simply disappeared.

__________

   ©       Cormac E.McCloskey

A Hard Bargain   here

The Natural History of Selborne   *
By Gilbert White   (1720-1793)
My edition: 1900.
Still readily available i.e. Penguin Classics, and others.

Blog: Between The Covers   here

You Old, Father William:   here

The Pied Piper of Hamelin  here

Staying home in an age of coronavirus 4

   As you would expect, with time passing and ever more urgent appeals that we respond positively to government advice, I was relieved to hear that the police, in enforcing "safe distance", or several broom-handles worth of space between people,  will not be going after those out walking their dog; as one commentator pout it, How would they know as to whether you were on your first or second walk; and that was good news for me, because I had every intention of walking Amer twice each day: in the early morning and late evening. Now that doesn't mean that I am deaf to government advice, but I do admit to selective hearing.

   Well in terms of heading government advice, I have had a few thoughts about walking the dog, and have had a change of strategy. As far as possible, and it is not that difficult at six in the morning, myself and Amber walk along the middle of the road, just in case someone on their way out to work makes an unexpected appearance from behind a hedge, and there are just inches between us. That would be bad enough, but Amber has a strong inclination to want to make friends, so getting out of the line of fire, could be difficult. And a further point; walking along the middle of the road is pleasant as compared to walking on some of the footpaths which are a mix of rough surfacing, and patchwork, a consequence of the laying down of cables. And while walking in this fashion recently I was reminded of Val Doonican, deceased, who for many Saturday evenings on television, had a big following.

Val was Irish, a singer with a mellow voice, and easy delivery, the patter that is,  to go with it, and a bevvy of pretty girls to help him with the singing, and the props, Aran sweaters and a rocking-chair. Well, one of the stories that Val told was of how when a boy and out walking with his father, his father explained that you were much safer walking up the middle of country roads, than clinging to the hedgerows.

Well the other day while working at my desk I felt a buzz about me, and sure enough, on opening up the phone, there was the first of several e-mails, sent out by the National Heals Service (NHS), the first of which advised that on account of my medical history,  I was at high risk, and must not leave the house for 12 weeks; I could though, open the windows. The e-mails that followed were giving practical advice: what to do in such and such a situation. And following hot on the heels of the e-mails, was a letter advising me of the same. And this is where it gets interesting, and my hearing  - selective.

Over dinner a week ago, were were talking about our own personal situations when I ventured the view (with which Jenny did not dissent), that she, on account of her compromised immunity, was high risk and should not be going out of the house. In my own case, I told her that I was at risk on account of my age, 78, but not otherwise, and I was confident in my assertion, as, in 2017, and never having had a heart attack, I had triple heart-bypass surgery, and as a result, have never felt better, a truth born out at the clinical level recently.

When I arrived for a routine blood test, and an injection against shingles, (you get it free age 78) the practice was impressively quiet, so the first of my appointments with the practice nurse was on time.  "Why don't I do everything while you are here," she said, "if you don't mind?" So she did, and in doing so, saved me a wait, and a walk along the corridor to my next appointment: a blood-pressure test and the taking of a sample. And she saved the practice pharmacist having to remember to call me on St. Patrick's Day, (again a routine call) to review my medications. And there was more. My cholesterol level on the previous blood test was 3.1, well within the guidelines. And I, always keen to be helpful in such situations, told her that I take my blood-pressure at home, and it is always well within the guidelines. And so as to satisfy your curiosity, here it is, an average of three readings taken this morning: Systolic 134, Diastolic 68, Pulse 55.

All this I hope helps to explain why, with regard to the letter and e-mails,  my hearing is selective; they are part of a job lot, that in all probability when it came to issuing them, worked like this; anyone who has been on the books of the cardiology department in the past ten years, gets a letter. There are no circumstances in which they could review every case, and it just wouldn't have been possible, for the Prime Minister, in the middle of his press conference, to interrupt the proceedings: -

"Oh! and by the way, Mr McCloskey,
you don't need to, to, bother about the letter.
Tell you what, Cormac (pointing)
Just, just, tear it up! - bin it!"
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       ©    Cormac E. McCloskey

Staying home in an age of coronavirus 3

Two women met in a supermarket, both of whom went to a slimming club on Saturdays, now on account of the coronavirus, closed: "What did you do," said one to the other,, "when you found out that the club was closed?"  "I had a chicken sandwich!" came the reply. "And what did you do?" asked the other. "Oh," she said, "I had a meat pie."
                                                                     
Now taking up from where I left off yesterday, with the life of Henry Morse, a priest who ministered in London to the destitute, the poor and those dying of the plague in the early 1600s, and who himself, in an anti-Catholic purge, was hanged at Tyburn in 1645, I thought that it might be interesting to recall from his biography, some details of how the authorities coped, or tried to cope, with what in effect was the continuation of the Bubonic Plague that was at its height in the mid fourteenth century, and that didn't burn itself out in England until after the Great Plague of London of 1665, some twenty years after the death of Henry Morse. In Chapter 8 we have this opening account of the anxiety, and the precautions put in place as the plague was relentlessly making its way across Europe, and then, as now, there were delays in putting processes in place, and not everyone thought that the rules applied to them: -

From Chapter 9
"In the early summer of 1635 the plague was reported on the Continent. In August, when it struck Dunkerque, causing great loss of life,Sir Robert Parkhurst, the Lord Mayor of London, wrote in alarm to the Council. He proposed a proclamation to prohibit all vessels from Flemish and French ports landing persons or goods without licence, and, furthermore, urged a period of quarantine for all travellers coming ashore from the infected places. But it was not until the 3rd of October that these precautions were taken. The same day an Order in Council set watchers on all incoming ships to prevent the landing of goods or persons until the lapse of twenty days. For the most part the order was enforced, but occasionally the cordon was broken by an insistent traveller like Baron de la Ferte who obtained horses at Great Yarmouth and rode with his retinue to Court within two days of landing. . ."

And this from Chapter 10
"The sealing up of houses was a tragic measure. In St. Giles-in-the-Fields the crowded tenements were occupied by four and sometimes five families, frequently strangers to one another. No exit was permitted once a case of  the plague had been reported. Barred in behind doors fastened with padlock and staple, the healthy and the infected lived side by side. The wisdom of the order had never been questioned. First enforced by Cardinal Wolsey [who held political as well as ecclesiastical office] in 1518, it now had the sanction of the College of Physicians, who considered contagion inescapable. Although there were cases to prove the contrary, it was argued that anyone who came into contact with a plague victim was certain to fall sick himself. Thus, without work or occupation, the healthy were forced to await the death of each victim in turn. No food or medicine was available except such as the parish visitors brought them, or, in the case of Catholics, the two priests assigned to this work. "I sent for Mr Morse when I was visited with the plague . . .and he many times gave alms to me, my husband and my two little children, who all died of the plague, the parish not giving us anything, we being very poor and seven persons in number shut up."

Now I have two other sources on the theme of plague:" The Diaries of Samuel Pepys", and somewhat incongruous, in the circumstance, a beautifully presented and gilded reproduction of "The Great Plague", by Walter George Bell. The focus, here too, is on London, and the plague, that of 1665; twenty years exactly after the hanging of Henry Morse. In Bell's case there are contemporary plates in support of the narrative. i.e., and electron micrograph image of a flea, Xempoylla cheopis, clinging to the fur of a rat, and adjacent to it another: a colour presentation of the plague bacterium Yersinia pestis. "Six vigorous specimens can increase to more than 7,000 in one day. two days later the total may be 100 million.

For his part Samuel Pepys besides being an MP., had an illustrious career associated with the navy, though in keeping with the precarious age in which he lived, he was twice arrested - on suspicion . . .  and later , in 1699, made Freeman of the City of London for services to Christ's Hospital. Now if you are familiar with the poetry of John Betjeman, you will know that his work has a flavour that is so uniquely his, that you can, as they say, smell it a mile off. Pepys's Diary is a bit like that:-

"Up early; and with Mr. Pickering and the child by wagon to Scheveling . . ."
"Up and all day long finishing and writing over my will twice, for my father and my wife . . .
"Lay long in bed, talking; among other things,  talking of my sister Pall, and my wife of herself is very willing that I should give her 400! to her pension - and would have her married as soon as we could . . ."

So what of the plague:-

In "The Great Plague", Bell writes of the wealthy who, fearing the plague seek refuge in the suburbs and beyond; while on the behaviour of the crowds, Pepys puts it thus: -

". . . Church being done, my Lord Brouncker, Sir J. Mennes, and I up to the Vestry at the desire of the Justices of the Peace, Sir Th. [Thomas] Bidolph and Sir W. Boreman and Ald. [Alderman] Hooker - in order to the doing something for the keeping of the plague from growing; but Lord, but to consider the madness of people of the town, who will (because they are forbid)  come in crowds along with the dead Corps to see them buried.  But we agreed on some orders for the prevention thereof. . ."
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        ©    Cormac E. McCloskey

HENRY MORSE: Priest of the Plague
Author: Philip Caraman

PEPYS'S DIARY  Vol. II. 1664-1666
The Folio Society 1996

THE GREAT PLAGUE IN LONDON
Walter George Bell
The Folio Society 2001
Editor: Belinda Hollyer

Staying home in an age of coronavirus 2

      I am very quick on the uptake in some things, and not so quick on others, so it can be a bit of a pain when you think you have cracked it, only for, she who knows, to send you frantically searching for escape routes. So here is how the conversations went recently.
     When the door-bell rang the dog started barking, and before I could get there, the hall door opened and a man, (I know it was a man even though I didn't see him), set a cardboard parcel down on the hall floor and disappeared. Now we have a procedure in place and Jenny knew what it was. "The package," she tells me, "has to be taken up to the garage to be quarantined." "Too late, I tell her," I have already carried it through to the utility room." I am confused, because she who knows, has explained that the life of the virus depends on where it lands. On cardboard it can keep going for X number of days, and on plastic for XX number of days.

Much later, towards nightfall, a different currier rings the bell and drops a cardboard box just inside the door. Now, of course, I know what to do, but having been awakened by the doorbell I am feeling grumpy, and don't really want to take the package up to the garage, and fortunately, she who knows is understanding, and suggests that I bring the contents, (not the box),  through to the  kitchen; so I collect the six bottles of prestige wine and carry them through  and as instructed, place them in the sink; and by the time I have returned from disposing of the cardboard box, it is all too apparent that, whatever about the past,  in this new dispensation a woman's place is in the kitchen: she has made up a potion of 1 part bleach to 50 of water, and is diligently washing the bottles. Later, when I saw that the jug was empty, I asked, "What have you done with the rest of the solution?" the reply was amazing, she had poured it over the bottles collectively, just in case she had missed anything when washing them separately. "We could have used it later," I told her. "No," she replied, "the water has to be hot." "But we could have heated it in the microwave!" Silence.

Now in a time of crisis, I have a way of being helpful, and catching her off guard, and as a means of combating the virus asked, "Do you think we should wipe over the light switches with whiskey? Laughter. And later, "Do you know what, I have just found a new use for chopsticks!" "What's that?" she said from the next room; "switching on and off the lights," I said.  "Well then" she said, "you'll contaminate the chopstick."

      Now I have a book in front of me that is no laughing matter, but a salutary reminder of times past. It was presented to me at the school prize giving, and I have often wondered, though not at the time, (and as it is a substantial text), if someone was trying to suggest that I might, as we say, "have a vocation" to the priesthood. But neither then, nor since, have I had such an idea. The book set in the early 1600's is about the life of Henry Morse, and subtitled, "Priest of the Plague," nd without turning a page, we can learn a lot from the dust cover.:

"About this book the author writes: "For a long time I have wanted to study the life of what I might call an "ordinary" priest in the seventeenth century. I took a risk, and settled on a man whose name was unknown. As I gathered information about him -- in London, Rome, Liege and elsewhere - I realised how fortunate my first chance choice had been. Henry Morse led me into many fascinating bypaths of seventh-century England: book-smuggling, the London underworld, ecclesiastical feuds, prisons and camp life, the plague, organised blackmail and thuggery.""

And so the narrative continues:

"After he had been twice imprisoned and twice exiled, Henry Morse returned to England in 1633 and worked  unsparingly among the plague-stricken poor of London. Again exiled and again returning, he was eventually arrested in Cumberland, shipped from Newcastle to London, and executed at Tyburn in 1645." 

In more senses than one, these were fraught time, Charles the I was on the throne, and his wife a Catholic, and Puritans were spreading the word, that the plague was an expression of God's anger at the increasing number of Catholics.

      These days, and for good reason, I don't overindulge myself in following the news, but in recent days I heard a man tell of how his wife, a nurse, phoned him from work, crying, and telling him that she couldn't take it any more. And I had the privilege of hearing a doctor, (who I am sure had no more wish to die than the rest of us) face up to, and accept, the reality, that his job might cost him his life.
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  ©    Cormac E. McCloskey

HENRY MORSE: Priest of the Plague
Author: Philip Caraman