History Repeats Itself

Oh, prithee find

                               A joyous bauble

                     To mend the cleavage

                                          Of a buzzard's eye.

                 --Cordelia Hawkes, 1778

The housekeeper has a bad habit of going to every garage sale that comes down the pike. It's not the sales themselves, of course, it's all of the must-haves that she grabs.

Just this morning, Father Will was trying to get his coat out of the hall closet only to be accosted by an avalanche of junk. If it's something we must have, then why don't we "must use?" Not "must stash" or "must hide," never to be seen again until its presence is triggered by some apocalyptic movement like the opening of a door.

My suggestion would be for the parish to hold its own garage sale. First, it would keep the housekeeper in the bunkhouse. Secondly, it would be better for the rest of us. It's no fun to witness the settling in of more stuff after a certain someone went all around, nosing out tchochkes over a weekend and arriving at the rectory Monday morning all laden down.

It would be a God-send to have it here. Not only would Mary Lou's assortment be front and center, but other people with packrat inclinations could release their belongings into the wild. Of course, there's always the danger of buying each other's junk and leaving with as much stuff as contributed. I'll have to find a way to suggest that all junk be kept out.

Jack paid me a compliment yesterday. He and some of the church men were playing poker in the conference room. He called me his "ace."

What a card.

                                                           --Tom

                                          Church Cat at Temptation Parish