East-Anglian Church-Crawl

 Cansell Grove Farmhouse, Rattlesden, Suffolk

The homeward flight to America, like the outbound flight two weeks earlier, was surprisingly comfortable.  I deduce from the popular press that one regards a half-empty glass in a philosophical light much dimmer from that in which one views a glass half-full.  But so far as airplane flights are concerned, half-full and half-empty are equally excellent categories.  I want to report on the second half of our English tour before its golden memories become overwhelmed by the fierce urgency of now—a phrase I hope I can recycle as our President moves on to the less fierce indifference of whenever.  The actual pretext of our trip to England was an annual Oxford reunion.  It was splendid, even if for constraint of time I can say nothing more than that about it.  The real high points of the trip were a series of reconnections with several old friends.

          

I left off my last post after the first of two days in the Cambridge area.  Our second night was spent in the nearby village of Linton with Hilary (Joan’s niece) and Alan Crooks and their two delightful young boys Ivor and George.  On Wednesday, after a pleasant lunch in beautiful Saffron Walden (Essex), Hilary drove us to the Cambridge railway station where we caught a train to Stowmarket in Suffolk, there to be met by our friends and hosts for the next two nights, Michael and Heather Nicholas.

 The Athenaeum, Pall Mall, London

            We had actually already seen Michael and Heather on Monday, between Oxford and Cambridge.  He had organized for a group of old college friends a very elegant lunch at his London club, the Athenaeum.  This was my first visit to those sacred precincts, the ne plus ultra of British intellectual exclusivity.   In lieu of a visitors’ book they have an album featuring the photographs of the fifty Nobelists who are past or current members.  I know people at the Century Club in New York who have wangled their way into that comparatively plebeian institution primarily with the view of exploiting its reciprocal privileges with the London Athenaeum.  The plaice was excellent, though there was nary a gaitered bishop in sight.

           

A word or two more about our host.  Many married people, of whom I am one, naturally attach a special importance to the person through whom they came to know a future spouse.  I first encountered my spouse in church.  All the best medievals first spotted their girlfriends in church.  Why should that not be true of medievalists as well?  Think of Troilus.  He’s wandering around the Trojan Athenaeum, ogles Criseyde, and gets shot through the eyeball by Cupid.  Think of Petrarch.  There he is in the church of Saint Claire in Avignon.  He looks up from his distracted prayers, and there she is.  The rest is history—history, deployed in approximately 317,421 European sonnets.  Well, fifty years ago in Oxford there were no female students in Jesus College and no male students in Saint Anne’s.  Under these circumstances it proved decisive to my personal fate that there was an organization called the “Jesus-Saint Anne’s Musical Society,” which offered occasional concerts in the beautiful seventeenth-century chapel of Jesus College.  The impresario of the Jesus-Saint Anne’s Musical Society, and for all I know its inventor, was Michael B.Nicholas.  So in a sense I owe him the debt of my life-long indebtedness.

 

The Lord Lyon King of Arms and the

Chief Marshal of the University

          

or

Real and Phoney Ceremonial Grandeur

 with Real and Phoney Georgian Royalty

 

Furthermore, though jealousy hardly features in my lengthy catalogue of imperfections, I must confess that Michael excited in me an intense “title envy”.  I eventually became the “Louis W. Fairchild Professor of English, and Professor of Comparative Literature,” which should satisfy the vanity of any man; but I still find myself lusting after the glory of two titles I can never possess.  The first, once held by the early Scottish poet David Lindsay of the Mount, is “the Lord Lyon King of Arms”.  The Lyon King of Arms is the chief ceremonial officer of Scotland.  The other and even more enviable title was that held by Michael Nicholas when I first met him: the Organ Scholar of Jesus.  The Organ Scholar of Jesus! With that beginning, his subsequent fame as a church musician was virtually guaranteed.

            Michael and Heather now live in the beautiful Suffolk village of Rattlesden, in a glorious old thatched farmhouse, the “new wing” of which considerably antedates the arrival of the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock.  Heavy oak beams, many of them fully exposed and transformed by age to the texture of iron, hold its spacious rooms together with impressive conviction.  Heather, one of the mainstays of the local history society, pointed out to me faint apotropaic graffiti incised by some pre-Elizabethan in the fire-place beam: a petaled wheel, and the sign of the Virgin (V.V., virgo virginum).

            Thursday, blessed by glorious weather, was devoted to a day-long church-crawl in the general direction of the eastern coast.  In the Middle Ages and early modern period much of Suffolk enjoyed a protracted agricultural and mercantile prosperity, and many of the area’s parish churches are mini-cathedrals.  We ended at Aldeburgh, the home of the greatest of modern British composers, Benjamin Britten, who is naturally one of Michael’s musical heroes.  We visited Britten’s gravesite in the beautiful churchyard at Aldeburgh, and admired the “Britten window” in the church itself.  We wandered along the shingle beach of the old town in an early autumn twilight.. 

 The Britten memorial window by John Piper, Aldeburgh parish church, with detail of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the fiery furnace

 

Even the most mellow of days must end, and this one ended memorably, with a splendid supper at the Swan Inn in Woolpit.  This was a timely visit, for I had just about decided that the wonderful old pubs of my youth were as dead as Chesterton and Belloc.  If you get far enough out in the country you lose the pinball machines and the braying hordes of inebriated yuppies, but partridge is still on the menu.  Old wood, old books, old wine—but best of all, old friends.

The spectacular beamed ceiling of Woolpit parish church

Let the Deed Shaw

 

          Oxford failed me, but not Cambridge.  We are now with the wonderful Dignam family (Elizabeth being Joan's niece), a more wired group than which it would not be possible to find on two continents.  I am thus able to tell you about our arrival in Britain--now a week out of date, of course, but any port in a storm.           

          We flew to London on September 11, a date thoughtlessly chosen months ago.  I expected to find Newark Airport in a state of lockdown gridlock.  In fact, there were few people there, and no lines at all at the security barriers.  Even the flight seemed relatively uncrowded and pleasant, and with but a minimum of our usual comic misadventures we made our way From Heathrow to Waterloo and thence by suburban train to Sevenoaks in Kent, where Joan’s brother and sister-in-law, John and Margaret Newman, live.  I managed to stay awake, sort of, through the rest of the day, which included a stroll through the extensive grounds of Knoll House, seat of the Sackvilles, one of the great architectural and historical ornaments of this fine old town.

            Our one full day with my inlaws, Tuesday, began with a practically motivated walk through Sevenoaks.  Money magically appeared when I pushed some buttons on an ATM.  That was a relief because I wasn’t sure I remembered the right buttons for my English account.  Among the first necessities of international travel these days is getting your hands on a mobile phone that works.  There are two ways of doing this.  The first is to be already in possession of a very costly hyperphone of the kind that most twelve-year-olds of my acquaintance already have but that I am too stingy to buy and too dumb to use.  The other is to seek out the cheapest Samsung on offer at the electronic junk bazaar.  In today’s Britain that would be the garish Phones 4U shop (I kid you not) that is now one of the less picturesque features of the High Streets of picturesque British market towns.  We found our quarry within three minutes.

            We also discovered the following interesting fact of Nine-Eleven relevance.  The phone we wanted costs £30 if you pay cash and £20 if you use a bank card.  I naively sought an explanation of what seemed to me a  curiously counter-indicative pricing policy.  It s all about helping Big Brother keep track of the phones.  The security authorities are willing to invest ten quid in what they can learn from a swipe of your credit card.

            Even a brief tour of a town in the British counties involves for me some indispensable ritual stops.  One of these is the charity shops, where my usual purchase is an old suitcase in which I can cart about the old books I buy in other shops.  But we are already overloaded, and my book-buying days, if not quite over, are painfully shortened.  Having little time, I stepped into the first rummage shop that presented itself: the Children’s Trust.  I cased the place swiftly, decided I had done it justice, and was making my exit virtuously empty handed, when my spouse drew my attention to an item hanging on the wall among other hideous decorations: to wit, a shield-shaped pseudo-heraldic plaque with the Fleming coat of arms and motto.  Neither the device (the belted head of a billygoat) nor the motto (“Let the deed shaw”) was previously known to this particular Fleming, but when God gives you a sign, sign up.  When again would a measly £3.50 allow me to shaw a spurious nobility documented by wood-burning set?  This treasure will be a Christmas gift for a certain immediate lineal descendant who, as he never reads my blog, is in no danger of having the surprise compromised.

The afternoon’s more worthy occupations included a lovely walk along the River Medway near Tonbridge, where many years ago my brother-in-law had rowed.  We walked about a mile and back without seeing another soul.  Indeed for most of the walk no signs of human habitation were in sight, and the only signs of human industry were the anciently cultivated fields and the numbered riparian fishing posts, maintained by a ferociously exclusive angling club, at the water’s edge.  One might have been in Montana rather than densely populated southern England.

            Before beginning our walk w had made a visit to the lovely old village of Tudeley.  All Saints’ church in Tudeley is a kind of beautiful architectural palimpsest, an anthology of architectural styles and enthusiasms.  From a distance it seems to be a fine exemplar of the chaste and elegant brickwork of the Georgian period.  In fact, the church’s foundations are pre-Norman, and from the inside it is obvious  that the chancel is late medieval.

            This ancient Christian church owes its modern prosperity to the bounty of two Jewish benefactors.  In the nineteenth century the wealthy and civic minded Goldsmid family took possession of the large estate at Tudeley.  “Squire” Goldsmid took an active interest in the physical and cultural health of the parish, including the upkeep of the church fabric.

            The much more famous beautification of the church dates from the second half of the twentieth century, when through a munificent bequest the church wardens were able to install a series of remarkable stained glass windows designed by Marc Chagall, some of them actually donated by the artist, who was then over ninety years old.  We can assume the Gothic church will have had a pictorial window, though we cannot know its iconographic subjects.  The old glass had perished even before the eighteenth century, replaced by clear lights.  But now one sees above the altar a huge, hauntingly blue hassidic vision of the Crucifixion of Christ.

O Mores, O Temporizing

Your stymied bloguiste finds himself in a rather seedy Internet Cafe near Victoria Station, unable to transfer the very elegant essay composed with great labor on his flash disk to the slightly verminous machine beneath his fingers.  He may try again from Oxford, after disinfecting the flash disk.  Then again, he may not.  Regular dispatches will resume no later than September 24.

Annals of Political Discourse

 

Infrastructure challenge in Detroit

"We got to keep an eye on the battle that we face: The war on workers. And you see it everywhere, it is the Tea Party. And you know, there is only one way to beat and win that war. The one thing about working people is we like a good fight. And you know what? They've got a war, they got a war with us and there's only going to be one winner. It's going to be the workers of Michigan, and America. We're going to win that war," Jimmy Hoffa said to a heavily union crowd. "President Obama, this is your army. We are ready to march. Let's take these son of bitches out and give America back to an America where we belong," Hoffa added.
                                                   James Hoffa (as quoted in the American press)

I have in the past expressed my admiration for the great Doctor Samuel Johnson, one of the first and best of bloguistes, and especially for his utter unflappability with regard to writing deadlines. He frequently would not even begin writing his required periodical essay until the printer’s boy appeared at his door urgently demanding copy. What Johnson achieved through sangfroid can be achieved also through mere oblivion and distraction. Tuesday offered a most pleasant distraction: an exhilarating doctoral defense by a brilliant young scholar of my acquaintance. The experience was so tonic that I went home and wrote a few scholarly paragraphs of my own. And though Wednesdays have been following fast upon the heels of Tuesdays even since my earliest youth, it was only latish on Tuesday that the significance of the time-tested sequence dawned upon me, blog-wise. Now what has dawned upon me is Wednesday itself.

Though I try to avoid current events, the week’s political developments have been importunate. First there was the flap over the President’s really pathetic attempt to upstage the orgy of self-promotion, posturing, and pandering that the Republican presidential candidates are pleased to call a “debate.” Hardly had this battle of titans achieved its uneasy resolution than alarums sounded on a new front: Detroit, where the president had gone to preview his speech (now scheduled for Thursday) before a friendly audience of “working Americans”. Among the friendliest of all (as in Johnny Friendly) was James Hoffa, whose office it was on this occasion to welcome the President to the podium. His introductory remarks, which according to Rush Limbaugh and numerous others included a generalized incitement to violence against members of the Tea Party, have become the object of journalistic--and now bloguistic—scrutinty.

My treatment of Mr. Hoffa’s remarks, though perforce censorious, will also be dispassionate. I have no animus against Jimmy Hoffa. In fact, I find Jimmy Hoffa rather reassuring. He is the living proof of the greatness of our democracy. For in this country it is not merely the presidency of the Republic that can be passed from father to son like the lordship of a thirteenth-century manor. The same is true of the Teamsters’ union. Nonetheless I must agree with Hoffa’s critics that the “Detroit remarks” crossed a line.

Johnny Friendly                                                                and                                                         Friendly Jimmy

But what line? You undoubtedly have heard the academic Q and A joke about the Mafioso and the Deconstructionist. The small degree of cultural literacy required for its appreciation—a passing familiarity with the Godfather movies—will be child’s play for my erudite readership.
     Q: What is the difference between the Mafia Don and the Deconstructionist?
     A: The Deconstructionist makes you an offer you can’t understand.
I had long since recognized the Mafioso style in the American labor union bureaucracy, but only now do I fully appreciate the more subtle influence of Deconstructionist style. In a stirring medley of striking but utterly indeterminate martial images Mr. Hoffa seemed to posit a “war” between “workers” and the “Tea Party,” a war in which the former must triumph. His specific and vigorous encouragement was this: “Let's take these son of bitches out.” The phrase “take out,” even when not being used of fast food, is I suppose sufficiently slippery that we must give Hoffa a pass. Take me out to the ball game. My husband never takes me out. That sort of thing. “Son of bitches” is another matter.

Even in American politics, where almost anything goes, this is entirely unacceptable. The term son of a bitch, a term of opprobrium dear to such great twentieth-century politicians as Roosevelt, Truman, and Nixon, is nearly as venerable as the eighteenth-century English whoreson, which in America it replaced. Its vernacular variant forms esohbee and sumbich are also amply recorded in our political discourse. But you simply cannot say what Hoffa said. You would never talk about “Knight Templars” or “mother-in-laws”. The proper plural is sons of bitches, with sons of a bitch being at least theoretically possible, if somewhat stilted. The English professors of America demand an apology. As for beating the war and giving America back to an America, those sound like sensible bipartisan suggestions.

=====================

A note for regular readers.  Travels in England for the next two weeks may disturb the wonted schedule of postings.

Mycology, and Yours

While I am sure you are eager to see my stunning Power Point Presentation called My Irene--featuring my photos of my arboreal debris, my wet crawl space, my downed power lines, and my local inundated highway, complete with its stranded, half-submerged automobile—such images are a dime a dozen on this morning’s Internet, probably a penny a peck.  I therefore elect a more upbeat topic, namely my cology, which is to say, the fungus among us.  For abundant early autumnal rainfall in the north-central coastal states of America encourages a profusion of fungal growth, much of it of a scrumptious nature.

 Regatta Row, Princeton NJ

            I took a little walk around my neighborhood this morning, camera in hand, and within five minutes I had found succulent champignons (agaricus campestris), several fine boleti (including the boletus edulis), two different kinds of delicious leucoagaricus (sometimes called parasol mushrooms), not to mention exotic but edible tree fungi.  In Europe most of these would have disappeared by eight-thirty, but here in New Jersey I can count on them to be there until they melt into the ground.

South Harrison Street, Princeton NJ

            The American attitude toward wild mushrooms was neatly summed up a few days ago in an NPR squib reported to me by my wife.  The word from that eco-friendly group of tree-huggers and dioxiphobes, Sierra Club members to the last earnest voice, is that you should under no circumstances eat a mushroom lacking the cellophane imprimatur of some grocery chain.  Now it is true that a few mushrooms are poisonous, and a very few potentially lethal.  They are far less dangerous than roller skates or stepladders, however; and just as you should not operate a car if you don’t know how to drive, you should not eat a mushroom if you cannot identify its species.  It is about as easy to confuse a chanterelle with a Destroying Angel as it is a hawk with a handsaw.

R. Gordon Wasson, ethnomycologist extraordinaire

  
The message that Nature is out to kill you is unhealthy for our young people.  What we need on NPR is a little less ecological pseudo-piety and a little more R. Gordon Wasson.  Wasson (1898-1986), the father of American ethno-mycology was an English teacher who later became an investment banker and a VP of J. P. Morgan.  This was an unusual career move, but one that with impressive economy raised the cultural level of two professions.  He was married to a Russian doctor who was crazy about wild mushrooms, and found Americans’ fear of them just as crazy.  She knew that there is nothing in the world more delicious than a fine mess of field mushrooms, and that eating the cultivated and cellophaned ones (bisporigera) is by comparison the gastronomic equivalent of taking a shower in a boiler suit.

            He was a great amateur scientist of the Victorian stamp.  Together with his wife he wrote important books that are beautifully written in addition to being splendid specimens of typography.  The two most important are Soma: Divine Mushroom of Immortality and Mushrooms, Russia,  and History.  Second-hand copies of the latter, one of the great books of the twentieth century, now go for about $1500.

            You can still afford Divine Mushroom of Immortality, though.  Wasson was rich enough to be able to publish it on a “vanity” basis with a major New York trade house.  But as is well known, the rich get richer, and the book was a huge commercial success. In it Wasson arrived at the stimulating if controversial conclusion that the mysterious substance of the Rig Veda called in Sanskrit soma was actually the hallucinocenic fly agaric mushroom, the amanita muscaria.  This is the really sensational red or yellow spotted one most people think of as the quintessence of the so-called toad-stool.  I didn’t actually see one on my morning rounds, but they are very common here, and in many other places.

             Needless to say, you should not consume a fly agaric unless you happen to be a native of Lapland or the Kamchatkan peninsula, where piebald poison is “part of the culture,” and where there is not a hell of a lot else to do on a Saturday night anyway.  There the preferred mode of ingestion is via the intermediary urine of someone who has eaten some fly agarics or, failing that, of a reindeer that has browsed upon them.  Don’t ask.

            Do, on the other hand, take advantage of wet autumnal weather to check out some of the more delectable funky fungi of your area.  One golden rule eliminates ninety-five percent of all potential problems: Never, ever, eat a white amanita.  But look around for some delicious field mushrooms.  You might even luck out and find some morels or chanterelles.  All of these are very easily identified from books or from the Internet.  If you are timid, you can start with the baby step of a pasta sauce.  If you do, you’ll never turn back.

           

agaricus campestris (champignon, field mushroom)

boletus edulis

       chanterelle    

           

Bloguiste Rescues Literature

The author of Criminal Queens, with impedimenta

I am aware of my good luck in having an unusually literate readership—“fit audience though few”, as Milton wrote concerning his own blog—but I wonder how many of you have read Criminal Queens: Powerful Women as the Playthings of Love? It’s a trick question, of course. Nobody has read Criminal Queens, because nobody ever actually wrote it. It is the imaginary title of an imaginary potboiler written by Lady Matilda Carbury in Trollope’s great novel The Way We Live Now. She is a distressed gentlewoman with a number of the usual Victorian impedimenta—tradesmen at the door with overdue bills, a daughter needing to be married off, a wastrel son with a serious gambling addiction. She has to do a little writing on the side “to make ends meet”.

Hogarth: The Distressed Poet (with irate tradeswoman at door)

Well, Trollope knew all about that sort of thing. “Of all novelists in any country, Trollope best understands the role of money,” wrote W. H. Auden. “Compared with him even Balzac is a romantic." That became apparent, if it had not done so earlier, with the publication of Trollope’s famous Autobiography in 1883. It is perhaps fortunate that it was published posthumously, for it savaged his reputation even before the first edition had sold out. For in it Trollope “ruined literature,” as one reviewer put it.

Trollope had ruined literature by taking so very commercial an attitude toward it. Writing is like the grocery business, he explained. Sell a sufficient weight of tea each day, and prosper. The Victorians could handle this kind of thinking in almost all areas of life, but they still clung to a Romantic notion of artistic “inspiration”. Fiddlesticks, said Trollope. Inspiration, shinspiration. He rose early each morning and wrote, watching the clock, maintaining a rate of 250 words per quarter hour until the cook rang for breakfast. He then put his writing gear back in its box, ate his coddled eggs, and devoted the rest of the day to more serious matters, such as the Post Office (for which he worked) and fox hunting (his passion).

He kept meticulous financial records, from which he deduced certain principles of literary cost effectiveness. His readers didn’t much like Ireland; so he quit writing novels set in Ireland. They seemed to love the old cathedral towns of southern England; so he took them as a specialty. Over a lengthy career he netted about £130,000 before breakfast (maybe fifteen million dollars in today’s money), with which he was able to buy some really good hunting horses. He laid it all out in statistical tables in his autobiography. He ruined literature by making writing profitable.

 Anthony Trollope (after breakfast)

I, on the other hand, have just rescued literature. I found this out by accident late last week. I still have a mailbox in my old departmental office. I pass through and empty it occasionally. It’s mainly textbook catalogues and other items of the sub-junk category. What I’ll call my real correspondents use my home address. Very rarely there is a piece of “real” mail in the box, and such was the case last Thursday or Friday. There was a real letter in an envelope to which an actual forty-four cent stamp had been affixed. The elegant printed return address was that of a university press with whom I published, some twenty years ago, one of the seminal books of the last several decades—to wit, Classical Imitation and Interpretation in Chaucer’s “Troilus”.

I am sure it is unnecessary to tell you that I did not dash this thing off before breakfast at a rate of 250 words per quarter hour. No, it was the fruit of long hours of labor, mainly in the Classics Reading Room of the Bodleian Library in Oxford. As to the actual writing of it, it took about a year. On an extraordinary day, when the inspiration was positively crackling, I might achieve five hundred words; but on many days there were fewer words, and on some none at all. Hence I was hoping that my royalty statement—for such, I deduced, the envelope must contain—would allow me to purchase at least one small hunting horse, or at the very least a colt.

With trembling hand I opened the envelope, carefully using a cardboard advertisement as a letter opener. I then unfolded the statement and cast my eyes upon it. These things are always a little confusing, but I finally had to conclude that my total earnings for the period between July 1, 2010 and June 30, 2011 was--$0.00! However, the statement was not all noughts. There were also some crosses. It turns out that the account carried a “Balance Forward from Prior Statement.” That balance was minus $1.86. I am sure you have from time to time come across a book of which you thought: “They’d have to pay me to read that book.” Well, I wrote one like that! I had made history. I had achieved negative sales. I had saved literature.

Click to increase size; buy a copy to increase amount

Shaggy Granddaughter Story

One Sunday in 1786 Robbie Burns was sitting in church trying to filter out the sermon by concentrating on the back of the neck of the young lady in the pew in front of him when he noticed something alarming. There was a wee critter of ill repute crawling across the lacey fringe of the woman’s bonnet. In one of his most beloved Scotch dialect poems Burns characterized this odious insect as “ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner / Detested, shunn’d by saunt an’ sinner”. The title of the poem: “To a Louse.”

Robert Burns (1759-1796)

Many people today don’t know what a real louse is, as opposed to a metaphoric one in an old James Cagney movie, nor may they recognize the related adjective lousy. There is a better chance that the plural form, lice, will ring a bell. The truth is that in most industrial countries the louse has been rendered a seriously endangered species by the dramatic improvements in plumbing witnessed by the twentieth century. Body lice, the dreaded porters of typhus, are now mainly relegated to memoirs of Auschwitz or the gulag. It would be hard to find a body louse even in the New York subway system, and that is saying something. As the admirable Hans Zinsser pointed out in a classic book*, indispensable to anyone approaching our subject, this should be no laughing matter. But it is. “The louse is foremost among the many important and dignified things that are the subjects of raucous humor by the ribald. Despite the immense influence of this not unattractive insect upon the history of mankind, it is given, in the Encyclopaedia Britannica, two thirds of a column—half as much as is devoted to ‘Louth, a maritime county in the province of Leinster,’ one fifth as much as is allowed for Louisville, Kentucky.”

On the other hand, head lice, which fortunately do not carry diseases, have maintained their small but unshrinking market share among even the higher echelons of the American bourgeoisie, specializing in middle schools and summer camps, including the most de luxe. The website of the National Institutes of Health is very comforting. “Having head lice does NOT mean the person has poor hygiene or low social status”. Of course if you have to be reassured by a governmental bureaucracy concerning your “social status,” you are probably in deep trouble already.

 pediculosis capitis in mid creep

My beautiful and delightful granddaughter Lulu had to learn this the hard way last week. Everybody knows that if you lie down with dogs you get fleas. But what happens if you hang out for hours on end with the offspring of physics professors and tax lawyers in an “enrichment program” at an upscale Quaker summer camp? Answer: head lice. It was only as she was about to board a train to New York with her grandmother and her sisters that Lulu became definitively aware that some very intimate strangers seemed to have taken up residence in her long, gorgeous, raven hair.

I was not in New York, so I am dependent upon my daughter’s report for the rest of the story. It is a source in which I have the fullest confidence. I have bragged about my daughter in another post , and will not now burden my readers with further praise. But she is a very Can-Do kind of lady, and I had no doubt that she would be able to take care of the louse problem. What was unexpected in her report was the incidental good news about the American economy.

She met the girls upon their arrival in the city. After taking very brief medical advice, and conducting a hurried search on one or another hand-held device from her portable console, she took off, with three daughters in tow, for Midtown. There, somewhere in the mid Fifties are the posh offices and state-of-the-art delousing laboratories of Licenders. I’m one of the world’s leading collectors of silver linings. I try to practice, as well as preach to my students, the art of turning lemons into lemonade. But even I was astonished to discover that some American entrepreneurial genius has made a fortune coming up with a franchise for nit-picking. Jobs, jobs, jobs!  And not all of them in Texas!

For my daughter reports that the place was crawling with—uh, let me start that sentence again. She reports that the Manhattan offices of Licenders were replete with concerned matrons from the Upper East Side, each accompanied by a nervous child (mainly long-haired daughters), positively champing at the nit to pay a small fortune to undergo a process that the promotional video makes seem as jolly as a mother-daughter visit to the Camden Aquarium.

One mother in particular stands out in my daughter’s narrative: a severe and soignée blonde ice-maiden, “probably the wife of some hedge fund manager.” She couldn’t possibly have known that sociological detail. She was undoubtedly trying to spare her aging parents her more usual vernacular phrase, “rich bitch”. This woman was scandalized to find herself in a delousing station, however upscale, and positively mortified when an examination of her own expensively coiffured head—a survey of the heads of household being part of the drill at Licenders—discovered a thriving colony of the dreaded pediculosis capitis right there on the mother ship.

Meanwhile, life goes on. It took but a moment for our resilient raven-haired beauty to put this distressing episode behind her. She’s back among the Quakers this week without having missed a beat.


*Hans Zinsser, Rats, Lice, and History (1935)