Dinner with in-laws; another couch; September’s poem
Another dinner at Karin’s mom’s house. We watched Notre Dame lose, and then the conversation turned to how contemptible Joe Biden is and how “they” (the bad guys, i.e., the liberals) are coming after “us.”
“Personally,” McKenzie declared, “I’m looking forward to ‘the purge.’”
Karin’s mom had previously mentioned that she and her new husband intend to build a “family compound” in Kentucky.
“With whom does she expect to live in this compound?” I asked Karin.
“With all of us,” Karin sighed. “With all of her family.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Back at home, we have a new old couch. It was free for the taking. My parents happened to notice it while passing through Bremen, and some locals offered to haul it over to us in their truck (they were heading toward our part of South Bend, anyway). The couch is brown and plaid, and it’s from the 1980s. It looks like the furniture of Quito’s old Missionary Church Dorm.
Even more than our previous old couch, it “ties the room together.”
The cats already have peed on it.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
This month’s poem, by Rudyard Kipling, is “Recessional.”
(For the Diamond Jubilee of 1897)
“Personally,” McKenzie declared, “I’m looking forward to ‘the purge.’”
Karin’s mom had previously mentioned that she and her new husband intend to build a “family compound” in Kentucky.
“With whom does she expect to live in this compound?” I asked Karin.
“With all of us,” Karin sighed. “With all of her family.”
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
Back at home, we have a new old couch. It was free for the taking. My parents happened to notice it while passing through Bremen, and some locals offered to haul it over to us in their truck (they were heading toward our part of South Bend, anyway). The couch is brown and plaid, and it’s from the 1980s. It looks like the furniture of Quito’s old Missionary Church Dorm.
Even more than our previous old couch, it “ties the room together.”
The cats already have peed on it.
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
This month’s poem, by Rudyard Kipling, is “Recessional.”
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine –
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget – lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies;
The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget – lest we forget!
Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget – lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law –
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget – lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word –
Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
(For the Diamond Jubilee of 1897)