Now the nanny state is getting personal

A Tulare, CA policeman shut down this little girl's lemonade stand because she didn't have a business license.

I'm remembering that I sold lemonade to the golfers at Eagleville Country club one summer before I was old enough to go to work at Harry's Potato Market. I forget the number of the hole I set up on, but there was a bench convenient to Trooper Road that was next to a hill on the course. Pop would drop me off on his way to Norristown in mid morning and then pick me up on his way home in mid afternoon.

The golfers were good customers; but if I had tried to charge them $2 a cup for lemonade they would have laughed me off the course. The dollar isn't what it used to be. The next year I started work at Harry's for less than a dollar an hour. For the first couple of summers Harry paid me one dollar less than the number of hours I worked in a day - for instance $9 for a 10 hour day. Of course I also got all the fruit I could eat, and occasionally a basket of spotted peaches or apples to take home to Mom. That was a pretty good deal for Harry because the next day Mom would send me back with a pie or a cobbler for him.

I could write a thousand words and not do justice to Mom's peach and apple pies. . . Suffice it to say that a scoop of ice cream would have defiled those pies.

Because I had better get back to the golfers. Besides lemonade I also sold them golf balls that I retrieved from the rough and the water hazards on the course. I think I charged ten cents apiece for the balls. Occasionally one of them would give me a quarter for an especially good ball and if one of Pop's buddies showed up I might get a half a dollar or even a dollar tip.

And, occasionally one of them who had lost a ball he had just hit up over the hill would inspect my collection of balls pretty carefully; but it wasn't me who had a habit of running across that hill stealing golf balls. It was (redacted) who did that. I didn't rat on (redacted) to the golf course manager back then when he questioned me about the tendency of balls to go missing on that hole, so I'm not going to do so now.

(Redacted) used to try to sell me the balls; but I never bought them. because that would have been foolish. First off, I knew for a fact that Pop knew the golf club manager, just as he seemingly knew everybody else within twenty miles who ever saw me do something of note then and later. Secondly, even then I knew that golfers keep track of what make and number of ball they're playing.

Good times. Lazy summer days, sitting in the shade on my bench with my cooler of lemonade that mom made and which thus cost me nothing, reading science fiction, and raking in a few bucks - with occasionally the excitement of wondering if (redacted) would get caught when he appeared to chat for a while, have a cup of lemonade, and then suddenly light off across the top of the hill to collect the balls the golfers had just hit. Some people are just not suited for honest labor, at least when they're young.

I don't know what became of (redacted); but I'm pretty sure he didn't become a priest even though he later dropped to his knees as though poleaxed when a disrespectful and inquisitive altar boy opened the gold plated door of the sanctuary in the altar on the stage at the Visitation gym on a dare to see what was in there and the door surprised us all by clanking open forcefully after the key was turned.

I pointed out to (redacted) that the sanctuary lamp was not lit and hence the altar was not live, so to speak; but even after that he stayed agitated and on his knees until I got the sanctuary door closed again. The spring on that door was pretty strong. I can still remember how it sprang open as though alive, probably because it took a little while for my heartbeat to settle down.

Fortunately no one was out in the gym beyond the closed drapes of the stage because they would surely have heard that clank and (redacted)'s alarmed and quite loud start of the act of contrition. (Redacted)'s surprisingly intense piety did not prevent him from trying a sip of the altar wine we liberated another time from the cabinet that Father L had surprisingly left unlocked. Father left the key in the lock of the sanctuary door as a matter of course; but he never left the key in the lock of the cabinet that held the vestments, wine, incense and self starting charcoal briquets for the censor.

Terrible stuff that altar wine. Even boosted and savored with friends it didn't taste good. All in all we drank very little, and we carefully refilled the bottle with water before putting it back, so no harm was done. It was probably just as well that Father L took very little water with his wine when he said mass.

The story about the little girl who got stopped by the Tulare police from selling lemonade is here: http://www.mcclatchydc.com/251/story/73160.html

Hopefully the cop who shut her down will not be smart enough to avoid buying lemonade from her when she gets set up again. Such a cop deserves a bit of extra flavoring in his lemonade.

Christmas music, ghouls, egg pastina and rodents

I went out earlier and got a new lithium battery for the remote control of our loony Bose music system which has no controls on it. No remote control, no music. But now I have glorious music. I'm sitting here totally immersed in Handel's Messiah. And I mean immersed. That thing can put out some sound when properly goosed by a remote control with a nice fresh battery. Fortunately all the windows are closed and our house is about a hundred yards from our nearest neighbor or the police would be here already.

Music I've learned, like many things in life, requires discretion. You can get a pretty weird look from a UPS driver if you forget to turn off the machine and he gets a blast of Pavarotti booming something unusual like Leoncavallo's Mattinata at about a hundred decibels when you open the door, especially if he's been knocking for a while and has heard a less refined voice joining in with the master. Have I ever mentioned that when in a proper mood I can accompany Pavarotti pretty darn well. Unfortunately I never perform in public, so you will never get to form an opinion on that score.

Linda isn't sympathetic to my firm view that classical music needs to be played at concert hall volume to be appreciated; and she tends not to appreciate certain of my somewhat idiosyncratic musical tastes. So it's only when I'm in the car or when Linda's not home that I can properly appreciate the Messiah, of which there is only one despite the starry looks in the eyes of some of Barry's adherents. Just coincidentally, "Are we like Sheep?" just started, not that I'm trying to cast any aspersions on The One's followers. But I'm here to tell you that Barry is not "The King of Glory," no matter by how many voters he "Unto us was given." He ain't "my Redeemer" and thankfully he shall not "reign forever." "Incorruptible," indeed!

Nonetheless, this is the Christmas season, so I heartily wish "Blessing and Honor and Glory and Power be unto" that supercilious big eared bast. . . er. . . fellow, at least for the duration of his four year term.

But let me not get started on Barry. Linda will tolerate The Messiah at reasonable volume, but she definitely lacks appreciation for sung Latin Masses even though I've pointed out that the beginning of the end of Western Civilization will one day be marked by some Muslim scholar as the date when Vatican II blithely betrayed us all by ordering the atrocity of vernacular masses. I never put on Masses when Linda's home because then things start to get a little strained around here well before the Kyrie Eleison booms forth; and the Kyrie is almost always the best part.

Maybe to truly appreciate sung Masses you have to have been an altar boy. I used to volunteer for funeral masses just for the music, especially the Kyrie. Well, maybe filthy lucre also exerted some influence; but I also liked the Kyrie in the Mass for the dead a lot - still do. A very good baritone worked the funeral circuit in those days. Nothing is better than the Kyrie with incense in the air. I've often been tempted to buy some frankincense so as to make it possible to enjoy something a bit closer to the full experience right here at home.

I once served as one of perhaps fifty altar boys at a funeral mass down in Philly. I can't remember who the dear departed was, probably some crooked politician. But we sent him off right. He got the full package, the acoustics of a big cathedral, the Archbishop, two Auxiliary Bishops, eight or so priests who included a couple of great chanters, a full choir properly up in the choir loft where they belonged and a baritone and soprano who were probably moonlighting from their regular jobs at the Metropolitan in New York. That day there was truly made a joyful noise unto the lord. Well, perhaps it was a lachrymose noise; but the principle is the same.

I've often wondered if my appreciation of funeral music has a genetic component. Pop and Aunt Carmella often discussed the fact that their oldest sister, Aunt Mary P, was a "ghoul" who invariably attended wakes with a similarly inclined friend whether they knew the dear departed or not. When she wasn't attending wakes Aunt Mary P made great chicken soup. Uncle Chick liked to put a little ketchup in his bowl when we had lunch together after watching Hopalong Cassidy and the other westerns on Saturday mornings. They had a TV before we did and they lived conveniently next door to our house on Penn Street. Aunt Mary dressed her pastina soup egg drop style rather than with butter as Mom did; but putting up with her alien pastina was a small price to pay for enjoying Saturday morning cowboys with Uncle Chick. I still sometimes put a touch of ketchup in chicken soup when I'm not being watched, and I think of Uncle Chick. I also think of Aunt Mary P, in her black veil, walking past Aunt Carmella's house a friend, headed down to enjoy a good wake.

But I seem to have strayed. And Pavarotti doing Ingemisco from Verdi's great Messa di Requiem has brought me back. As I said, Linda isn't home today. So the Kyrie and the Agnus Dei will boom forth in several versions at the very limit of the Bose's volume. Oh, yes they will! I may even put on the disk of sea chanties later to inspire me while I attend to the heavy labor at making dinner.

Meanwhile, since I'm in the Christmas spirit I'll pass on this heartening story to which Ken M alerted me earlier. Attending to the poor is a sacred duty, and this German politician is clearly alert to that duty.

http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,468525,00.html