In life we meet many interesting people and visit all sorts of places.
I'm not a member of any church but, as Angelo Guiseppe Roncalli observed, anyone who loves is a Christian whether he calls himself one or not.
Reviewed by Kate Burnside 5/16/2006
The Yorkshire I know and love so well... like a twang of Tetleys beer or T-brew. You are a master word-painter, and this canvas sheds a true light, true breath and true colour on the Last Of The Summer Wine images. Stroked with compassion, bright-eyes and humour as always, our Ken. And I can even smell the musty vestments... :)) Khoirstalls (or is it Kowstalls?!) Kate xx
Reviewed by Kate Clifford 5/4/2006
I feel like I was there as I read this. Great descriptions and bringing the characters to life.
Reviewed by . Aberjhani 4/28/2006
The beauty of simplicity and the humble allure of the beautifully ordinary inform the intent and substance of these lines. Within this TRINITY I can't help wondering whether the narrator is "the son" or a "holy ghost." Food for poetic thought maybe. A poem worth framing and placing upon a wall.
Aberjhani
A FRIEND OF THE CHURCH
She was a good Catholic girl
from Slovakia and her accent was charming, eastern European -
a bell ringing in Father's house,
the bell of St. Mary's and St. Michael's.
I drank whisky with Father
as she watched the comedy Father Ted for the first time:
I'M OUT OF ME HEAD WITH THE HUNGER, TED!
Despite her piety, she had to laugh.
But inclined to stay in her room too much, oh yes,
and make long phone calls to her boyfriend,
a Slovenian from Florida.
Father would complain in private,
but not everyone likes cigarette smoke,
not everyone is comfortable with tobacco.
He preferred her dark-haired friend,
but she wasn't Catholic
and sang from a different hymn sheet
across the road at the Methodist church.
I would mow the lawn, manually,
and survey the rectory garden;
the dry stone walls covered in lichen,
the cowslips and the yew tree
(a symbol of everlasting life),
the limestone hills dotted with sheep,
the rugged Yorkshire landscape.
Dinner with Father was a ritual;
I would follow his irritable instructions
about the chip-pan, the tea,
the plates, the knives and forks.
Ever since Suzanne had thrown out
the oil after only one fry,
- It's only been used once! -
Finally, we'd have our dinner
with the kitchen door open
and the smell of the newly-mown grass in the air,
the little Roberts radio giving the news and sport.
Later, I would look forward to doing the crossword with Father.
I was proving a quick learner:
More anon...more LATER?
Reaching for the Oxford English dictionary,
on the bookshelf on the wall behind,
I was the junior cleric
eager to increase my word power
and assist my new friend.
Instigator of the second Vatican council... Angelo Guiseppe Roncalli！
But Father's legs were giving him bother;
it was a big effort to sit down
or get up, hence the walking sticks;
a struggle to go through
to the living-room and slowly
ease himself into his armchair.
Suzanne would come back from work,
stacking shelves in Booth's.
Father would say in a Yorkshire
way, Hello! Half expecting her
to disappear straight into her room.
Hetty, the fat dog would jump up
and give her a nervous welcome.
She wants walking that dog.
I'll make myself useful
and take her along the riverbank tomorrow.
The bloom of summer and youth
was in Suzanne's face.
She was oddly foreign and spoke
with a slight lisp; she was going
to Mr Sacristan's tonight.
Is Dom still teaching you French?
She answered Father with a simple yes.
She would move out soon
to a rented house.
Raised on Black and White TV is Carol Denise Mitchell’s intimate, unflinching memoir of growing up in a world where television became both a refuge and a mirror. Through the glow of classic black‑and‑white programs, she learned about fami
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A FRIEND OF THE CHURCH
