We had something of a late evening last night at the Leviathan, in which I curiously had the chance to sample – perhaps that word is too modest, imbibe would be more accurate – a port which was, well, not a port. It was a port of New York, and I am not referring to the riparian locus wherein multifarious containers of a universal design speed cheap imported goods from the Orient to our fair city and beyond. Nay, the port was a fortified wine which claimed Long Island as its place of birth. Was it any good? Well, it was a little too fruity for my tastes, but then I’m a man of simple (some would say bland) tastes.

The Leviathan, for those who have not the pleasure of knowing it (which I take to be most of you) is a unique private club open to a select few young gentlemen and their occasional lady guests. It is not so much a club, but a private home which, given the absence of the parents off in foreign climes for rather extended periods of time, has been turned into a private club by the ingenious only child who is its sole permanent inhabitant. The club has a high proportion of members of French Canadian extraction, and features an interesting collection of Russian artifacts, provenance “unknown”.

As I was saying it was a late night, or rather late in Cusack terms as I left at half past one in the morning, and I am told the last members left around the hour of three. I nonetheless awoke this morning and took the train down to Manhattan and heard the resplendent treasure that is the Tridentine mass said in all its glory at the Church of St Agnes.

Whilst jolloping through the Hudson News shop in Grand Central, in the vain hope of being able to flip through a grievously overpriced imported latest edition of Country Life, I stumbled upon the latest issue of the New Oxford Review, the cover of which claimed that an article by John Lamont lay within. Delving into the formerly Anglican now ardent traditionalist Catholic publication I found that indeed it is the John Lamont we know and love. (He is also known as ‘Big John’ owing to his heighth and to differentiate him from the comparitively ‘Little Jon’ Burke).

Anyhow, Big John is the Gifford Research Fellow at St. Mary’s College, the School of Divinity at the University of St Andrews. He and I are seen below in a photo taken by Rebecka Winell at a dinner in the Byre Theatre organized by Miss Victoria Truett in Candlemas term 2004.

The Manhattan Institute‘s splendid City Journal of Spring 1999 carried an article worth a read entitled ‘How Gotham’s Elite High Schools Escaped the Leveller’s Ax’ on the few quality public schools left in the City of New York and how they managed to stem the tide of egalitarian senselessness.

Egalitarianism is one of the most morally repugnant of all ‘Englightenment’ ideas. To look upon success, label it “unfair” or “racist”, and then demand that, as a sacrifice to the false-goddess Equality, all must fail. It is the typical socialist formula that it is better that all wallow in poverty rather than only some (or even many but not all) succeed.

So a number of these high schools have survived. It is perhaps even more of a shame that none of the colleges did. City College was once known as “the poor man’s Columbia”. The quality of education at both City College and Columbia fell as a result of the cultural revolution of the 1960’s and 70’s. Columbia, for the most part free from the fetters of state intervention, never hit rock bottom and in many ways remains a quality institution, despite the highly politicized and racialized nature of many of its students and faculty. City College, however, went into freefall. Admission was thrust open to anyone who had graduated from a New York public high school, which coincided with the lowering of graduation requirements by these high schools. Thus you had students who could barely read and almost certainly could not write attending an institution which prided itself on its many Nobel laureates.

It is testament to the levelling zeal of the angry left that not even one college, not even one, within the entire City University of New York was allowed to maintain high standards of academic achievement. They will tear down with savage avarice the highest ideals of civilization to quench their destructive thirst. And these are colleges which for decades had been the ticket to freedom and success for hundreds and thousands of economically-disadvantaged New Yorkers. (Imagine if they had gotten their hands on the independent places of learning!). No wonder there are so many stupid people in New York these days.

But at least the high schools are still there, and calls for their emasculation are now few and far between. True, they are not ideal, but can we realistically expect a government-tethered school to be as such? Of course not. We should be glad that there remain at least a handful of public academies of high standards in New York available to all – rich, poor, and anywhere in between – based purely on merit.

No sooner had I read in the Independent that the eminent philosopher Roger Scruton is moving to America than Mrs. Peperium sends me this article from the local paper about the historic home the Scrutons are moving into.

I am sure Professor Scruton, a keen huntsman, will enjoy the Virginia hunt country. In Britain, of course, the traditional English pasttime of foxhunting is illegal and thus the police must take time from fighting and preventing terrorism to try to enforce ridiculous class-warfare laws.

Dr. Scruton, America welcomes you with open arms!

During the past fortnight, I have been learning to row on the lagoon in Pelham Bay Park, a body of water with which I had no previous aquaintance. “Learning to row?” you ask. “But weren’t you in the University of St Andrews Boat Club during your bejant year?” Yes, dear reader, I was a full paid-up member of said body, but I was too busy avoiding lectures, failing courses, and other such frivolities of one’s first year at university to actually row, and only went to circuit training when Ezra Pierce irritated me enough that I felt obliged to give in and head on over. Nonetheless, at the suggestion of a good friend I decided to enroll in this program and have not regretted it at all. Rowing, in short, is addictive, and it is a grand shame that I shall have to wait until at least September in Scotland to get back on the water. (Above, the Travers Island clubhouse of the A.C. can be seen from the far end of the lagoon). (more…)

Well our favorite Jewess-turned-evangelical-turning-Catholic, Miss Dawn Eden, picked up on the complaints yours truly had about the Brooklyn Museum in her weekly Daily News column (scroll down, “A Boil Grows in Brooklyn”, NY Daily News, July 10, 2005). Well folks, someone at the B.M. must’ve been reading because later in the week upon collecting our mail I received an envelope from none other than the Brooklyn Museum itself.

The contents? Four free guest passes and a brief missive:

I laughed out loud when I read it. I’m glad they have a sense of humor, though it doesn’t make up for the new entrance. Nonetheless, I shall take them up on their offer. Perhaps the carbuncle is not quite as grievous in the flesh. Perhaps it’s worse. It remains to be seen.

The last time I went to Brooklyn (so far as I can remember) was to Fort Hamilton, one of the few remaining military installations in the city, back in 2000. It was Independence Day and my uncle was leading the artillery battery firing the salutes at the incoming tall ships for OpSail 2000.

The more deductively inclined amongst you, dear readers, shall of course have extrapolated two conclusions from the above photograph. First, there has been a wedding. Second, I have obtained a pipe. Huzzahs all around.

I have known the young lady formerly known as Katie Lennon as long as I can remember, and I’ve known Brendan Daly more or less as long as they’ve been an item. The twain were joined in a happy and blessed union on Saturday afternoon at the Church of St. Joseph in Bronxville, and we all wish Mr. and Mrs. Brendan Daly a fruitful and happy marriage. The reception followed shortly afterwards at the Shenorock Shore Club on Milton Point in Rye, New York.

I had not really been to Shenorock in a number of years but many a day in the Cusack childhood was spent there, especially during the summers. We kids generally found it disagreeable while our parents found it an ideal place to unwind. Some summers my mother worked the 7:00pm to 7:00am shift at Lawrence Hospital in Bronxville. She would come home from work in the morning, wake my brother, sister, and I, pile us into the car, pick up the Lennon children and the McKegney children and head to Shenorock. We were kept busy at the club’s day camp while Mum slept on the beach for a five or six hours, read when awake, then collected us all again, dropped us off at our homes, fed us Cusacks dinner, and headed off to work.

For some reason I never liked going to Shenorock as a kid but nonetheless the place is a fountain of fond memories as I grow older. Just the other day a few of us were sitting in Scott Bennett’s back garden; Scott and I reminisced about summers at Shenorock, kickaboo juice, and crazy Mr. A (the summer camp’s director). Tommy Lennon (who’s my age, the younger brother to Mrs. Daly) and I would built forts and castles on the beach and man them with those little green plastic army men. Barbecues in the wooded Bowery were frequent, and of course the magnificent fireworks display for the Fourth of July was an annual obligation (who can forget the grand finale!). Strangely, we kids also had a pronounced hatred for Coveleigh, the neighboring club. (For some reason there was no similar disliking of the American Yacht Club, also on Milton Point on the other side of Shenorock). They were the France to our Germany and for some reason amongst us young’ins the rivalry was passionate. Of course now that I’m an old man Coveleigh’s bowling green grows more and more attractive.

Shenorock’s home on Milton Point is easily the most beautiful spot on the Westchester coast (only Red Bridge and Manor Park come close to challenging it). A seemingly permament breeze rolls off the Long Island Sound and keeps the Summer Clubhouse with its long, awninged deck overlooking the sandy strand at a comfortable temperature. The Winter Clubhouse across the street overlooks Milton Harbor and the dining room once afforded an excellent prospect of the Twin Towers all the way down in Manhattan. A happy place with happy memories.

The large beach in the center belongs to Shenorock, with the large summer clubhouse on it with flanking cabanas. The winter clubhouse and dock are on the other side of Milton Point, on Milton Harbor. Coveleigh is at the top right, and the American Yacht Club at the bottom left, covering the end of the point.
From Google Maps

And the pipe, dear reader? What a felicitous gift! It was a present from my old school friend Lev Trubkovich (aka Leviathan), who even chucked in some tobacco from Nat Sherman. The last time I had enjoyed the pleasures of the smoking pipe was deepest winter amongst our friends in New Haven. Places where we have smoked our pipe so far: on Red Bridge, watching the world (and the geese, and the swans) pass by; in my hammock in the back garden whilst reading; in Pelham enjoying the company of Nick Merrick, Panda, Simon (also called ‘Generalinnimo’ owing to his short stature), and Miss McGarry; and finally, planted in a deck chair at Shenorock on Saturday evening. We hope we shall find many more places to enjoy our pipe.

“Live 8 Hype Recalls Triumph of Live Aid” sounds forth the headline of a recent Associated Press article. Read the article, if you dare. It is exhibitive of the decline (or is it death?) of modern journalism. It is completely lacking in any inquisitive or challenging spirit and one would not be terribly foolish to mistake it for a press release of Live 8’s public relations department.

Now, arguably Live Aid may have been a triumph in the sense of it being a highly-sucessful rock concert, but as a humanitarian endeavour it was far from anything approaching a ‘triumph’. Much of the money raised, after all, merely lined the pockets of Ethiopia’s evil dictator Mengistu who, it should be recalled, pretty much started the famine in the first place. (A starving populace is much easier to control). Yet the only negative thing the article has to say is mentioning the few fumblings of the hastily-organised 1985 shindigs. The writer – ‘journalist’ if flattery is your wont – merely adopts a commonly-accepted myth and accepts it unreservedly as fact. Journalism? Balderdash!

St Andrews is, in many ways, a little oasis which we have been blessed with the pleasure of enjoying. Edinburgh is close enough to make journeying there feasibly, yet far enough to make it still a slight effort to go there. We have a library which, though not comparable to Alexandria of old nor Bodley’s or Congress’s of late, has a wide and deep breadth and enough to keep us occupied. We have beautiful beaches, divine strands on which to saunter, rest a while, exascerbate ourselves, paddle in the waves, or converse with a friend. We have a number of good bookshops in which to peruse ancient volumes. We have myriad cafés in which to read our books, and pubs in which to stir our minds over pints of bitter. We have a style of teaching which allows ample time to wander the library, ambulate down the sands, explore the booksellers, enjoy our drinks. We have, most thankfully, a community of orthodox Catholics and fellow travellers, saints and sinners, which provides sufficient good times and fellowship that one imagines we’d be happy even without our beaches, libraries, cafés, et cetera. We have an entire lifestyle of tradition, thought, worship, and enjoyment. It was ever thus, we are told, and ever thus it shall be, God willing.

I. Conservatism is an anti-ideological ideology. It is as uncomfortable being labelled an ideology, though it is, as secular humanism is uncomfortable being labelled a religion, though it is. Many have tried to precisely extrapolate the tenets of conservatism, most noticeably Russell Kirk in the last century, but I believe this to be a somewhat fruitless enterprise. To me, conservatism seems to be the prudent attempt to balance continuity with change, erring on the cautious side of the wisdom of our elders and ancestors rather than the fashions of our day. After all, tradition, according to Chesterton, is the democracy of the dead.

Conservatism – when I say conservatism I mean of course the real pragmatic traditional Christian social ideal, my conservatism, not neo- or corporate or libertarian or whatnot – gives voices to all the epochs of civilization and progresses along a merry path of continuity. Continuity is a keystone of conservatism. Falkland said “when it is not necessary to change, it is necessary not to change.” I’d be inclined to agree. The modern way of thought – ‘liberalism’, progressivism, socialism, what have you – insists on a break with the past: a chasm between what has always been and what they would have us be. It is revolution, instead of evolution. As science has shown us, evolution is how God has made Man what he is; revolution is how Satan perverts us from what we should be. Where there has been a breach between ourselves and the past, we must fill it. Not retreat to the other side of the gap, but fill it. Restore, inspire, and create; don’t retreat.

II. In a conservative world, the Church inspires John to give to Jack. This is virtuous. In a modernist world, the State takes from John, gives half to bureaucrats, and some to Jack. This is ridiculous.

III. America, by some curious fate, stands today as the paragon of conservatism. Many find this out of step with the founding of the United States, and I believe them mistaken in so finding. When we look at the British political tradition, we can see that in many ways the American Revolution, imprudent as it may have been, fits in perfectly with English political evolution: from Runnymede, to William and Mary, then Lexington and Concord, and finally Philadelphia 1789.

Ah, but perhaps I have fallen into the danger of constructing meta-narratives. The British political tradition also has its contradictions. The freedom of the Church was considered so utterly central and important that it was the first tenet of the Magna Carta, but was then so blatantly trampelled upon by Henry VIII and his succesors (excepting Mary I). Would the great Westminster system of government – which still today governs Britain, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and of course India, the largest democracy the world has ever seen – have been possible had not the rupture between England and the rest of Christendom occurred? I believe so, others may disagree; arguments can be made either way. At the end of the day, the what-if game is not one to which we should devote much time.

During my various travels – which have been limited in comparison to those of others but I dare say very rich experiences nonetheless – I have sometimes been tempted into a system for the classification of people and peoples. There are friends, cousins, and foreigners.

Since I am an American, friends are Americans. American is a very open, wide, and varied category of person. A cabbie born in India, an accountant of Italian extraction, a stockbrocker with Irish origins, a factory worker who a few generations back is a Pole: all are Americans. A New Yorker, DCer, Virginian, a Kansan, Texan, Oklahoman, even a Californian: all are Americans.

As Americans, our cousins are varied. There are first the most obvious cousins: Brits, Canucks, Aussies, Kiwis, the Irish, and white Africans. They all might prefer their home countries, but don’t feel as if each others are quite foreign. I have lived in (or to be precisely, I currently spend most my time in) Britain and it doesn’t seem quite that foreign, though it certifiably isn’t home. I suspect (though cannot prove) this would be quite the same were I an American at Sydney, McGill, Otago, Trinity, or Rhodes instead of an American at St Andrews.

Let us therefore suppose the British, Australians, New Zealanders, Canadians, Irish, and white Africans are our first cousins. There are also other people, who seem foreign but I think would also be quite familiar to us. During my time in Argentina I discovered that the Argentine middle/upper class were entirely our cousins, not foreigners. They are also zealous Anglophiles. (The saying goes that Argentines are all Italians who speak Spanish and want to be English). However, I very much doubt the Argentine working class are cousins (and I doubt even more they are Anglophiles). I suspect a great deal of Indians are cousins, though I suspect a great deal more are foreigners. These are examples of second cousins and further. I think the remainder of the Commonwealth, West Indians, black Africans, the Hong Kong Chinese, etc., etc, fit into this category, and arguably the Filipinos as well.

We have much in common with our first and second cousins, and we much to ourselves as well. Foreigners, on the other hand, are foreign. We have little in common with them in culture, politics, tradition, or otherwise. Our only real connection with them is our common brotherhood as men created in the image of God. They are the type of people who don’t understand your ways and at whom you mutter “bloody foreigner” under your breath.

Continental Europe is an issue. Friends of mine (in the real, social sense, that is) tell me that under my system of classification the Germans/Austrians are dear misguided cousins, while the French are definitely wily foreigners, while the Italians are dear, misguided, wily, foreign cousins. I plead ignorance.

“Friends”, “cousins”, “foreigners”. Like all systems, it is a flawed one, and I would hesitate in pushing it too far, but I’ve found it holds true to a certain extent.

The past two days have been enjoyable. Yesterday, after getting my driver’s license renewed (it expired upon my twenty-first), I highed off to neighbouring Mamaroneck and had some Walter’s with Adam, recently made Bachelor of Arts from that place up in New Haven. You know, he hadn’t had one of Walter’s world-famous hot dogs in two years?!? Imagine that! And he only lives just over in Larchmont. Quel ridicule!

Nonetheless, after our great American luncheon we resolved to take advantage of my new legal status by engaging in a midday (well, early afternoon) pint in Larchmont. We were much disappointed, however, when we discovered that practically all the preferred drinking holes did not open until at least the fourth hour. Mournfully, we retreated to Adam’s front porch for some cool ginger ale, good conversation, and a flip through the paper before adjourning.

Today was leisurely as well. After dropping in for a chat at the bookshop in town, I called upon the Gills and was finally introduced to Daisy, their latest corgi, purchased during my academic period abroad. Caroline suggested I rest in the hammock while she potted some flowers in the garden, and I happily obliged. Above is the view from the hammock as Caro gives the dogs (behind the chairs) a corrective glance. (more…)

A pleasantly uninteresting flight across the realm of the Atlantic and I am happy to find myself home in New York once more. Not much sooner had my parents and I returned to our little abode in Eastchester than we were off to dinner courtesy of Uncle Matt and Aunt Naomi (who live next door to us) at a happy little place called Joe’s on Marbledale Road in Tuckahoe — an eatery quite keen on what is most often called home food: simple, filling, and particularly appropriate in this circumstance. I then had my first legal drink in the States: Brooklyn IPA (India Pale Ale). Not a poor drink, but didn’t strike my fancy terribly. I have had better pints before, legal or not.

After we all returned to the Cusack family compound, I tried to convince my mother of the efficacy of Catholic social teaching for a bit before heading into town to Roger Mahon’s house, wherein lay Michelle Carroll and good ole Will Freeman. Mikey, the Mahons’ Irish Wolfhound, is pretty much fully grown now, but of a very kind nature. Caro Gill should’ve been there but was exhausted since it was her birthday.

The Church of St. Agnes: exterior and tabernacle.

As I have often said, I always really know I’m home when I’ve heard the intoxicating incantation of the Asperges me at the 11:00 at St Agnes. The train from Bronxville is scheduled to arrive in Grand Central at 11:04 but almost always gets in two minutes before the hour, allowing just enough time to ascend to the grand concourse of that beaux-arts temple of transit, scurry through the Graybar passage, hop across Lexington Avenue to arrive at St Agnes just as the procession is finished and the Asperges commences. Today proceeded right on target.

Asperges me Domine hyssopo et mundabor,
lavabis me et super nivem dealbabor.
Misere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam.
Gloria patri et filio et spiritui sancti,
erat in principio et nunc et semper et in saecula seculorum. Amen.

Asperges me Domine hyssopo et mundabor,
lavabis me et super nivem dealbabor.

The wonderful thing about the Latin mass at St Agnes is it’s always just as it should be. It’s not an over-the-top ostentatious drama as you might find at Anglo-catholic churches, nor a wailing maelstrom as at some charismatic churches, nor a banal mediocrity as at the average Marty Haugen parish. It is what it is, and it is beautiful and reflective of God’s eternal glory.

Taking the train back to Bronxville, on Metro-North’s brand spanking new rolling stock I might add, I noticed a number of new buildings which popped up along the line since I last travelled on it in the winter; chiefly in Harlem. There were about five new structures: one was bland and inspid, but three were fairly decent attempts at good New York vernacular, and one was an exceptional example of the said style. It was brick, with proper windows, a wonderful cornice, and everything you might expect of a building of its kind built in the 1900’s or thereabouts. I don’t know how it managed to get built today, nor by whom, nor do I know what it is (looked like housing), but it was most certainly a new building and I admire whoever’s behind it for making new New York architecture in the New York style. Bravo.

Now I must be off to cocktails next door at the Colonel’s. It’s good to be home.

Today marked the final barbecue I am ever likely to attend at No. 12 Queens Gardens. The current inhabitants are moving out and new, strange people will move in next year, who are foreign to me.

No. 12 was quite recently home to Barbecue Challenge 2005 (BBQC05). The challenge was that during Reading Week (the week between the end of class and the start of exams) for all the partcipants to have all meals – breakfast, lunch, and dinner – on the barbecue. It lasted from Monday until Friday, and I am happy to say that of the twelve who started out, I am one of three who managed to last all the way through. The others were Chris C. and George Irwin.

Anyhow, I have enjoyed plentiful good times at No. 12, more than I deserve. Home to Chris, Dave, Alex, Jenny, and ZaZa, it was always a comforting place when things were irritating me; a veritable home away from home. And because they have satellite television, there was always at least one program about Irwin Rommel on for us to watch whilst slowly sipping a cup of Earl Grey. From getting sunburnt in the garden while studying this term, to the time Cockburn the Younger was ill atop the herb garden, No. 12 has been a font of good times and fond memories, and long may it be so to its future residents. No. 12, I shall miss thee.

Woke up this morning with a slight timmerman (that’s Dansk/Sofie-speak for hangover), which was happily cured by a prodigious amount of orange juice and two sugar doughrings from Fisher and Donaldson’s on the way to my exam at 9:30am.

The jolly Dr. Frank Lorenz Muller invigilated the exam.

‘France Since 1940: Politics, Culture, and Society’

Three hours to answer three questions. I responded to:

After the exam I headed round to Maria Bramble’s for a glass of fizz with her and Robert O’Brien. She had just had her last exam and both are graduating this year, and getting married, as previously mentioned. Anyhow, we all of us headed to the Doll’s House restaurant to make use of their prudent lunch deal with “Ishmael”, Clare Dempsey, and Sam Ferguson, or ‘Father Sam’ as we call her because she’s studying to be a ‘piscie priestess.

It was a good luncheon with the usual good humour, except “Ishmael” and Rob continued their boring argument over something Paul says in Corinthians. There were a lot of good quips, none of which I can recall sadly.

There are so many great and wonderful people leaving this year; they will be greatly missed. I must thank Jocelyn my cook (God bless her!) for being instrumental in increasing the effectiveness of my general operations this academic year. She will be leaving — hoping she’ll be accepted to a position as nanny to a wealthy Turkish family somewhere in Anatolia – but don’t worry about my stomach. I am leaving the realm of private accomodation (good riddance!) and returning to a university hall of residence. Not just a hall of residence, but the best hall of them all: St. Salvator’s. Three square meals a day and a maid to empty your bin, vacuum your floors, and clean your desk surface. I think my room overlooks the Garden Quad rather than having a sea view, but that’s acceptable.

Now for a few days of packing, cleaning up the empty port bottles from my bedchamber, and then on Saturday back to the Empire State in all its glory. God bless America!

Last night was my very good friend Arabella Anderson-Braidwood’s twenty-first birthday celebration, unfortunately timed for the evening before my last exam of the year (9:30 this morning). In the spirit of self-sacrifice, I attended the soirée nonetheless, which, owing to Bella’s generosity, raised funds for the newest Maggie’s Cancer Caring Centre in London. (more…)

Today is the last Sunday of term, so after going to the 9:00 Mass and mulling around the tea-and-coffee afterwards I headed over to St. Salvator’s Chapel for the last chapel service of the academic year. Thankfully the final hymn was “Guide me, O thou great Redeemer” which is a classic. Most of the other hymns were good traditional tunes but with different lyrics to suit the touchy-feely Teddy Bear Christianity (if you can call it that) of the Church of Scotland today. But at least the last hymn of the year was a good, solid one. And I had Matt Normington at my right hand and Jenny Maxwell at my left, so I was amongst friends to boot.

Above are seen Sara Lawrence Goodwin (center) and the Rev. Dr. Ian C. Bradley (right), in my mortarboard which he nicked for the purposes of the photo. (more…)

The Bronxville Review-Press informs me that old Mrs. Garretson has passed away. When I worked at the bookshop in the village, I used to deliver the books she ordered to her apartment. I never made it past the large entrance hall, but that alone was literally covered in all sorts of polychromatic art; always very intriguing. Mrs. Garretson was always a very courteous lady, may she rest in peace.

His Eminence, Keith Patrick O’Brien, the Cardinal Archbishop of St Andrews & Edinburgh visited St Andrews today, and offered the holy sacrifice of the Mass in the ruins of the Cathedral. It was the first time the Cardinal was in St Andrews since receiving his honorary degree last June. Above are Canon Halloran, our parish priest and Catholic chaplain to the University, and His Eminence.

It was unusually cold today and the ruins of the Cathedral were windswept, but we held fast and stayed for the whole mass. (There were about fifty or so in attendance). His Eminence even gave the final blessing and dismissal in Latin, after which he lead us in facing east and chanting the Salve Regina. Then we were all off to the parish hall for some tea, coffee, and cake. (more…)

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