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Greetings, my fellow port swillers and Happy Easter!
Yes, Ol’ Robbo is alive and kicking. As anticipated in the post below, I over-Martha’d myself preparing for Easter Sunday and I also endured a bout of the holiday blues to which I have been subject from time to time ever since the Mothe passed, but everything came right in the end.
And here we are. So, whaddaya know?
Ol’ Robbo is pleased (and, frankly, relieved) to say that Eldest Gel has landed herself a full-time post-graduation job in, let us say, information management. (Really, I’m not allowed to say more than this.) As mentioned previously, she will be returning to live at Port Swiller Manor, at least for a bit, so as to knock out great chunks of her student loans. (Ol’ Robbo notices that the phrase “multigenerational household” has suddenly become fashionable. You know – because of the booming economy and all. This isn’t that.) Middle Gel also will be returning to the area for her Beltway Bandit gig but still insists that she wants her own place instanter. We’ll see how that works out once she starts crunching the numbers. (Youngest, as I’ve mentioned, plans to remain in Ohio. Every time I ask her about an apartment, she says, “Oh, we’re still looking.” Grrrr.)
Speaking of Port Swiller Manor, even as Ol’ Robbo types, the house is swarming with fellahs prying off the old roof and putting on a new one. There is much banging and shuddering. Mrs. Robbo has already fled and I doubt I get much work done today myself. I only hope that I wasn’t foolish in ignoring the suggestion that I remove anything hanging on the upstairs walls, and will no doubt spend the day listening for the sound of breaking glass. Eh. UPDATED: After first cup of kawfeh, prudence overcame resignation, and I went round and pulled all the pictures and mirrors off the upstairs walls. It is VERY bangy up there!
Also speaking of the place, a mouse has appeared several times this week. Ol’ Robbo hears them in the ceiling and floorboards all the time but I don’t know why one would come out in the open like this. The Decanter Cats, despite much sound and fury, so far have signified nothing. I seem to recall reading or hearing somewhere that cats, and maybe other predatory mammals, possess the instinct to hunt but must be taught by Mama what to do with their prey once they catch it. Well, we’ve had both the current cats since they were wee kittens, and their debutante-like lack of a real-world education is readily apparent. (Indeed, the only good mouser we ever had was a half-feral brute who nobody ever really liked.) Who knows – they may wind up scaring the thing to death.
What else? Well, last evening Mrs. Robbo became a baseball widow for the season as Ol’ Robbo settled in to watch his beloved Nats beat the Pyrates of Pittsburgh. It’s not that Mrs. R doesn’t like baseball herself, it’s that she doesn’t like the basement in its current state of shambles and that’s where the teevee is hooked up to the cable. (Although, to be honest, I’m not sure she’s all that keen for Ol’ Robbo’s whoops and hollers, either. I’m normally a fairly calm and reticent person but something about the game brings out the yeller in me.) Such is life. At least the games are much shorter these days, so she’s got that going for her. What else is there to say except –
GO, NATS!!!
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo is going to confess that he really doesn’t much care for the High Holidays, or perhaps more accurately hosting the High Holidays. What with all the planning, shopping, cleaning, cooking, and the rest of it, not to say, you know, still having a job, I invariably fall into the Martha Trap. I much prefer to Mary along in the quieter parts of the year when nobody expects me to do anything else and I can concentrate.
Heigh-ho. At least I suppose it keeps me from brooding too much. As I mentioned the other day, Mrs. R is away. Long-term friends of the decanter (and friends of the llama before that) may recall that Ol’ Robbo rayther enjoyed the peace and quiet of periodic bachelorhood back in the day, particularly when the Gels were small. Now, not so much. I find myself getting antsy after no more than 48 hours of Mrs. R’s absence, especially now that Decanter Dog is gone. (Yes, there are the cats but, well, cats. They have staff, if you know what I mean and I think that you do.) Makes me actually look forward to slogging down to the office the next couple days.
Anyhoo, nothing for it but to put one’s head down and muddle through. I doubt if I’ll post again before next Monday, so here’s to a very happy Easter in advance! See you on the other side.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Ol’ Robbo woke up in the wee hours of the morning to the sight of moonlight positively pouring in through the skylights in the mahstah bathroom and into the bedroom. We’ve got to the time of the year where the angle of the moon’s orbit really maximizes this effect. Ol’ Robbo loves this. (It always reminds me of Frodo and Sam at Henneth Annun in The Return of the King. Or maybe it’s that scene which always reminds me of this.)
I looked it up and technically today is the first day of the actual full moon (evidently called the “Worm Moon” because the ground is thawing out and earthworms are appearing, which I guess makes sense). So here’s a thing: It is Ol’ Robbo’s understanding that Easter falls on the first Sunday after the first full moon after the spring equinox. Well last night was a near run thing. What happens, I wondered, if said first full moon actually occurs on a Sunday? Is that Easter Sunday? Or does “after” control?
Hey, it was 4 ack emma! This is the sort of thing that occurs to me at such an hour.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
An upside-down start to the weekend round here, thanks to Spring Break. Mrs. R left for Flariduh this morning to visit her parents; Eldest Gel heads back to Indiana tomorrow; Middle returned safely to school from her trip to Germany (she didn’t much like Berlin but says Nuremburg is lovely); and Youngest is, as Ol’ Robbo types, somewhere in the wilds of Alabama on her way to N’awlins (what one does there when it’s not Mardi Gras, Ol’ Robbo has no idea). So, as you can see, many moving parts.
As you also can see, this leaves Ol’ Robbo on his own for Holy Week. On the one hand, this gives me the freedom to participate in the various religious activities unhampered (I haven’t done the Triduum in some years). On the other, guess who’s saddled with all the scut-work in preparation for hosting Easter dinner. As a matter of fact, I do not begrudge this much, as Mrs. R has been working like a hero this semester and deserves the break.
Anyway….it poured rain most of the morning today so Ol’ Robbo has nothing to report in terms of gardening except that the lawn will, in fact, need its first cutting before Easter. I notice also that the goldfinches are starting to get their summah coloring, at least in patches. We progress. We progress. On the other hand, the pachysandra patch out front seems to have taken a greater hit this winter than I had previously thought, with large patches going brown. My hope is that the roots remain strong, and these patches will bounce back on their own quickly. I look at some of the other pachy patches in the neighborhood and they all seem green and healthy, unimpressed by the weather. But they’re all in much more sheltered spots and mine is comparatively open to the brunt of the winds, so perhaps that has something to do with it. We shall see. (It would be an immense pain to have to replant.)
One thing in which we have not progressed is the big reroofing project. I had expected to have been given a confirmed start date by now yet there has been nothing but silence this week. I actually hope they don’t start next week as previously threatened, but wait until the following, if for no other reason than that I don’t want a big dumpster parked on the Port Swiller Manor driveway when I have guests – not only is it unsightly, the driveway really isn’t all that big.
What else is happening? Ol’ Robbo caught Mrs. R checking out one of those lab-rescue websites the other day. At the same time, she insists that she has not yet agreed even to get another dog. I find this disconnect puzzling and can only think that she believes even thinking too much about a replacement now constitutes some kind of disloyalty to the memory of Decanter Dog. (Wimminz. Whadaya gonna do?)
Well, It’s pizza and a movie night for Eldest and me. We’re going to watch The Incredibles, which I actually have not seen for some years. A cartoon, yes, but so well done, and positively brimming with values now completely out of fashion with Our Betters. It feels almost subversive to watch and enjoy now. (One simply couldn’t make this movie in these increasingly horrible times.)
Finally, speaking of the horrible times, I note that Insty and his gang have been running articles this past week about this being the fourth anniversary of “two weeks to flatten the curve”. Ol’ Robbo did a little poking around in his own archives and notes that his skepticism of the Covidiocy started pretty much on Day One. I can’t help reflecting grimly that every single damned thing I questioned back then has since been shown false, fake, or otherwise untrue, that the whole thing was always about politicks and not science, and that Our Betters are both incompetent and evil. (About the only good I can think coming out of all this was the blowing of the lid on the schools’ efforts to radicalize and sexualize children. Of course, they’re still at it, but such things are easier to challenge when they’re out in the open instead of clandestine.) Ol’ Robbo would simply suggest that similar skepticism would not be out of place when considering other pronouncements coming down from On High these days.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers! (Or maybe not? Traffic here has dropped off mighty sharp of late and Ol’ Robbo begins to feel like he’s just blogging to himself. Eh.)
Anyhoo, life continues apace here at Port Swiller Manor. It strikes Ol’ Robbo, as we hit the midpoint of March, that getting hammered by both tax and pollen season at the same time is, on a cosmic level, really rayther unfair. (Why can I hear my own Dad Voice saying, “Whoever said life wasn’t unfair?”)
***
The Great Reroofing Project continues to gather steam and I’ve an awful feeling they’re going to have Port Swiller Manor torn to bits right through Holy Week and all ahoo on Easter Sunday when I try to entertain what might turn out to be a biggish party. (At least it will give us something to talk about, I suppose.) Ol’ Robbo does not wish to besmirch the building contractor and insurance adjuster community unduly, but what with the ease with which our claim was processed, I continue to believe there’s a certain amount of what P.G. Wodehouse called “Oompus-Boompus” going on there.
***
I see where regular friend of the decanter, the lovely and talented Sleepy Beth is contemplating a vegetable garden. Excelsior! I’ve never tried it myself but our next-door neighbors have one and have got in the habit of giving us some cukes and tomatoes each summah. I must say that I’ve always admired their perseverance in the face of all the critters in these parts who’d lay the plot completely to waste if given half the chance. They’re fortunate, too, in that one set of retired parents live in the area and spend lots of their leisure time maintaining it. (They started re-appearing just this week, in fact.) Free labor is a Good Thing if you can get it.
***
Speaking of Good Things, Ol’ Robbo reread 1066 and All That this week. (Yes, it isn’t exactly Lenten material, but I spent all last weekend immersed in Robert Hugh Benson and needed a little relief.) The book really only takes about 45 minutes to finish, so I said to myself, “Self, you need to move on now to Three Men in a Boat.” (There’s no real logic to this except that they’re both books that people of a certain sensibility ought to know and cherish.) I’d only read it once before and it didn’t really stick in my mind, but golly what fun it’s turning out to be this time around: My hoots of laughter got me several looks on the Metro last evening, which in these horrid times is probably not such a Good Thing. I particularly enjoy J. K. Jerome’s habit of making an observation and then wandering off on an anecdotal segue, because that’s always how I hoped my blogging style would develop. (Which see dropping traffic above.) Plus, this time around I am nerding out by pulling up Gargle-Maps and tracing the chaps’ journey up the Thames. (I do this often with historickal readings (both fictional and non-fictional) these days. Apart from other considerations, my hope is that it gives Bob at the NSA heartburn trying to figure out what I’m about.) At any rate, my copy also includes the sequel Three Men on the Bummel which I’m pretty sure I did not read last time but am looking forward to very much now. (For those of you concerned about Robbo’s soul, I probably will tackle some Aquinas this weekend, too.)
***
Well, that’s that for now. Tomorrow looks to be a pretty busy day out in the Port Swiller Manor demesne now that Ma Nature is truly beginning to wake up, but I’ll save that for another post to myself.
***
UPDATE: Ol’ Robbo was told this morning that today is Decanter Kitten’s fourth birthday. I would have sworn she was only three, but a quick check of the archives shows my mistake. Good Heavens! That’s an entire year I’ve somehow misplaced! I suppose I can’t really call her a kitten anymore, either, except that I still think of her as one compared with Decanter Cat, who turns eleven next month.
Along those lines, it’s been about two months now since we said goodbye to Decanter Dog. My gosh, how I miss her. I still keep half-expecting to hear her bark whenever I come into the house, or to see her sacked out on the sofa when I turn round from my desk. Ah, well. (Mrs. R and I haven’t discussed it yet but I’m beginning to think that this summah might be a good time to start thinking of a new puppy.)
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
We had just finished chanting the Credo at Mass today when a woman two pews in front of me turned slowly about and made eye contact with me. A moment later, she had gathered up her things and moved to another seat. Possibly a mere coincidence but the circumstantial evidence seems to argue pretty strongly otherwise.
Look, Ol’ Robbo has never set himself up as another Sinatra but c’mon, man, I’m not that bad! And even if I am, wouldn’t the charitable thing be to simply turn the other ear?
Being the neurotic that I am, it’s now going to take weeks of mumbling before I can regain the nerve to put any volume at all into my delivery.
Sheesh!
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Today’s TLM Mass*** setting at Ol’ Robbo’s church was by one Roger Petrich (1938-2022). This surprised me, as our Scola director usually serves up settings of a 16th or 17th century vintage. I dunno what got into him this week.
The musick wasn’t actually awful, but it wasn’t at all to Ol’ Robbo’s taste. I favor crisp counterpoint. This was something closer to what I’ve always called a river of sound. It was built on Gregorian Chant but then got gooshy and unfocused as it developed. Most distracting. I found myself smiling, nonetheless, because I’d bet a lot of money that Middle Gel would have liked it. Indeed, I wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised if she hasn’t sung some Petrich at some point in her own career and enjoyed it. This was very much her sort of thing. (If you’re reading this, M.G., feel free to comment!)
This diversity of musickal tastes is a running joke between us of long standing now, by the bye. Of course, Ol’ Robbo is just an armchair dilatant, while Middle Gel is a professional chorister, so I can’t possibly win such an argument if it comes down to articulated words, but I know what I like and if that makes me a cow, viz. Wilde or Shaw or whoever said it, so be it.
*** Father was in a foul mood, you could tell, and gave us a humdinger of a Lenten homily. Word got out this week that the Cathedral of Austin’s two-year period of being allowed to perform the Traditional Latin Mass is not going to be renewed, why he doesn’t know or isn’t saying. Gawd knows that that means for us. Our own Bishop seems very sympathetic to the TLM but there are other powers at work. Ol’ Robbo continues to be stupefied that the Vatican is picking such a mean and petty fight.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Friend of the decanter Joseph Moore alerted Ol’ Robbo to a new pleasure the other day, a novel entitled The Ball and the Cross by G. K. Chesterton.** Go here for Mr. Moore’s review.
Ol’ Robbo has read GKC’s Manalive and The Man Who Was Thursday many, many times, but I’d never heard of this one. Given how great those others are, however, I can’t imagine this will be any less so.
Of course, I ordered my copy of B&C as soon as I read about it. It arrived this afternoon. Alas, the edition I picked out over at the devil’s website is one of those “print to order” affairs, literally put together four days ago. I try to avoid these when I can, as they usually are not particularly good quality, sometimes employing impossibly small font or sacrificing margins in order to squeeze the text into the least amount of paper possible. This one is guilty of the latter, and also does not have spaces between paragraphs. It can be very tiring on the eyes (especially eyes as bad as mine are) to read past formatting issues like these, but I suppose I should be thankful that the text is available at all. (This is the curse of having literary tastes that sometimes run to the obscure.)
Anyhoo, I’m starting in on it this evening and will let you know what I think when done.
** A glass of wine with you, Sir!
168 Pages Later UPDATE: Galloped through it and of course my initial expectations were confirmed. Now I’m going to have to go back to the beginning and read it more carefully. (This is the way I usually am with books – after an initial dash to find out what happens, I then go back and absorb the substance and detail through many, many rereadings.)
One more note about cut-rate publication: Spell-check does not and cannot take the place of proper proofreading. Just saying.
UPDATE DEUX: An update instead of a new post just because it’s topical. Ol’ Robbo has been in bed the last day or two with the sinus headache again. In that time, not only have I reread Ball and Cross, I’ve also read the following lighter books in order to divert my mind:
Dave Barry in Cyberspace – Yes, Ol’ Robbo thinks Barry’s quite funny. This book, however, also contains a surprisingly strongly-written serious bit about an ordinary suburban wife who slides into an online affair. Comes as quite a surprise in the midst of his clowning around.
Monty Python Speaks – Transcriptions of a series of longish interviews with then-surviving members of the Team and friends from the late 90’s about, well, their entire careers. Funny how “Holy Grail” is one of Eldest Gel’s favorite movies but she hasn’t the slightest interest in “Flying Circus.” It must be a generational thing. And just for the record, no, “Life of Brian” has never bothered me as a Christian.
The Thurber Carnival – Ol’ Robbo hadn’t read this all the way through in years and had forgotten just how good, if quietly insane, a writer James Thurber really was. The “Get-Ready” Man and Muggs the bad-tempered Airedale never cease to make me hoot with laughter.
I feel I ought to go back to something more in keeping with the Lenten season now but still really don’t feel up to tackling St. Augustine’s Confessions. Maybe I’ll take another whirl through Narnia….
Greetings, my fellow port swillers and happy Epiphany! Ol’ Robbo is looking forward once again to secretly chalking the traditional Epiphany greeting over the Port Swiller Manor front door and seeing how long it will last until Mrs. R notices it. (Unfortunately, she looks on such things as bits of “boogie-boogie-boo!” and is rayther intolerant of them.)
Speaking of the outside, they went so far as to treat the roads yesterday for the first time this season, but it looks like the latest Storm of the Century of the Week is only going to drop a few flurries here this morning before it turns all to rain. Yawn.
Eldest Gel heads back to school tomorrow, the last of them to leave. All in all it was quite pleasant having teh three of them home for a bit, except for the discovery at 4 ack emma one night that one of them had managed to clog the septic line yet again, requiring a very expensive snaking out the next day. Ol’ Robbo admits he rayther blew his top over that one, but I think the yelling and pounding on tables was, in the circumstances, perfectly justified. (It also induced a contrite confession from the malefactor, after which no more was said, so there was that at least.)
Also on the housing front, we had a fellah out last week to give us another estimate on restoring the basement. He’s the young son of a friend of Mrs. Robbo’s and eager to build up a client base, so hopefully he’ll give us a good deal. On the other hand, we also had a different fellah out to give us an estimate on replacing the Port Swiller Manor roof which, after a quarter century, is beginning to show its age. The figgah he came back with just made us laugh and laugh. (Ol’ Robbo wouldn’t mind a legit Storm of the Century of the Week putting a limb down on said roof, thereby allowing us to shove the expense off on the insurance company.)
As a sign that the house isn’t the only thing starting to age round here, Ol’ Robbo went for a follow up visit to the doc yesterday. She was very pleased with the effects the blood pressure med she recently prescribed is having on the Robbo circulation, but now she wants me to start a cholesterol prescription, too, AND go see a urologist about my prostate. (I suppose since that’s what did in the Old Gentleman, and at a relatively young age too, this is one recommendation I shouldn’t ignore.) Heigh-ho.
Poor Decanter Dog is also on the sick list. She cut her haunch somehow a few days ago and it got infected. So, hey for the antibiotic shot and the cone of shame. The vet also foisted on us a couple other meds to deal with tummy issues apparently related to all this, but after trying (unsuccessfully) to jam them down her throat, we decided the best thing for her was really just to let her sleep it all off. She’s resting comfortably at my feet and already seems a bit better today than she was.
Meanwhile, to round out the pet front, we’ve got mice again and Decanter Cat and Kitten are having a ball chasing them about. Unfortunately, they so far don’t seem to be so good about actually eliminating them. I believe I read somewhere that for cats the chasing part is instinctual, but that they have to be taught by mum what to do once they’ve got their prey in claw. It’s pretty plain that neither cat ever received such education.
Well, that’s that for the Home Front. It’s a bit topsy-turvy and stressful sometimes, but compared to the ever-darkening world outside, it’s still a harbor of calm and sanity. As anybody paying even the least attention to the nooz will know, 2024 is going to be quite interesting (in the Chinese curse sense). I hope we can maintain our little sanctuary amidst the chaos.
Greetings, my fellow port swillers!
Once again Ol’ Robbo wishes you the merriest of Christmases. For myself, now that the worry and heavy lifting of throwing the Christmas Day dins is over and done with, I plan to spend the rest of the holiday relaxing.
For those of you keeping track, Ol’ Robbo simply could not keep his eyes open long enough to get to Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. (One of the disadvantages of being the sole Catholic in my family is that I have no real support network – if I can’t energize myself, nobody else is going to do it for me.) However, I hoisted myself out of my bunk and made it to early Mass on Christmas Day, which has its own rewards, too. 
Then it was home for kawfee and presents. Mrs. R and I were startled this year in that the Gels absolutely insisted that we open presents from them first – nothing elaborate, to be sure, but quite thoughtfully chosen. It does one good to see the kidz growing up.
Then Ol’ Robbo put on his chef’s hat and got to work. I have complained here many times about the Port Swiller Manor kitchen being really nothing much more than a glorified galley in which I can only do a limited number of things at the same time. (I usually also gripe about moneyed idiots with “designer” kitchens simply for show and who find making even peanut-butter sandwiches a challenge.) Well, the reverse of that is the pleasure I get at preplanning and coordinating all the various components so that they all come together at the endpoint: The challenge primarily is deciding what goes in the oven and when, but when you think about it there can sometimes be a surprising amount of room for flexibility. Anyhoo, after my usual bout of anxiety, I’m happy to report that the meal was a success: The beef came out perfect, the bacon and water chestnuts disappeared almost as soon as I set them out, and in the end there were very, very few leftovers. My only disappointment was with the mini-pie shells in which I served up the lobster Newberg. They turned out too dry and crumbly, perhaps because I baked them a bit too long. I shall try some other foundation next time. Maybe toast-points.
Company behaved itself, too. My elderly cousin, the one who is interested in genealogy, came armed with a report about my mother’s family. I already knew they came here from Bohemia and the Sudetenland, but I never knew my grandfather was actually an immigrant himself, coming through Ellis Island when he was seven. Turns out there also were an awful lot more of them than the Mothe ever let on. (Grandpa was one of six.) Interesting stuff. We also successfully kept our Leftist friends off politicks by concentrating mostly on their boy, Mrs. R’s godson, who’s about ten now and beginning to become something of a jock.
Ol’ Robbo was up again with the dawn (actually, the rain) this morning to play scullery-maid and finish cleaning up the mess I couldn’t bring myself to face last night. The good dishes and silver are now cleaned and put away, the linen is in the washing machine, and yours truly is now putting up both his physical as well as his metaphorical feet. Mrs. R and I have to go to a party tonight, we’re taking the Gels to go tour a local winery Thursday, then it’s off to New Year’s festivities with the Former Llama Military Correspondent and his lovely and talented bride and family. But as I say, the hard part is now over.
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