1909

"Death and disease stalk the land, like two giant stalking things." I make this quotation from Blackadder not to be glib (though the sentence pretty consistently makes me chuckle). Nationally and internationally, all sorts of disasters have transpired. Worse, bad things seem to be happening all around me: friends and colleagues are struck with misfortune. My choir director, who happens to be the wife of my organ instructor, is battling cancer. (It's not exactly an even fight.) It'd be nice if you could keep her in your prayers. (Hopefully, praying for "that one choir director of Ross's" will be specific enough for the Powers that Be.)

But enough of that. In other matters, I have determined that I was born a century too late. I'd do much better as an Edwardian. I assume that, in 1909, every day was like living in The Music Man, or, in the U.K., My Fair Lady. I would have a red-and-white-striped suit, I would, and a straw hat, and on feast days a monocle, and I would ride a penny-farthing bicycle. When courting lady-friends I would wear a daffodil in my buttonhole and be ever so dapper. I would exchange correspondences with G.K. Chesterton and Edgar Lee Masters. I would disdain those radical suffragettes, as I would surely be thoroughly reactionary.

Yes, in 1909, life would surely be much better than the wretched present.