It was a foolhardy expedition, unaccustomed as I was to
snow, and with barely more than an armchair tourist’s knowledge of the region’s
climate. Yet, I found myself, on a frigid December day, sauntering, then
gaiting briskly, then finally racing down Market Street, in search of a warm
refuge and a cup of tea.
I had hoped, upon my arrival, to cut a distinguished figure amidst the bustle of the historic city’s streets, but my desperation to take shelter from the elements, and the perturbing way in which the wind blew my muffler into my eyes every twenty paces, rendered this impossible. (It is the humbling faculty of nature to make one look ridiculous at the exact moment when one most desires to appear dignified.)
Poise dashed, I at last burst into a street corner pub. Had the hour been more regular, I would not have been afforded even a glance, but as it was quarter to noon, the local color appraised me, not unkindly, from their stools.
The bartender nodded a cordial hello, and I ordered an Irish coffee while I shook the detestable melting powder from the brim of my hat.
“Cold enough for you?”, an elderly Welshman queried from the corner. I smiled and took a seat close to the fireplace. I sniffed gently and marveled at the aroma; perhaps it was the native humidity, perhaps a romantic notion that I harbored, but I fancied that I could smell the very history of the bar as clearly as I could see the rings left on the varnished wood.
It was also a gesture of habit; instinctively, I inhale my surroundings before any of my other senses are allowed to pass judgment. In this, I can detect the flora of a region for a half-mile round; the apple blossom, the budding peoni, the field covered with Queen Anne’s Lace, none escapes my notice and, if possible, my inspection and collection. To the present, my olfactory capacity is without peer.
This day, however, my prodigious sniff was rewarded with not the fruit of the anther, but the depressed must of the quercus deceased. The stools were of the same weathered oak as the walls, and the fireplace crackled with the remains of its cousin.
I sat back in my chair, and felt my stomach rumble in response to the savory waft of potato soup from the kitchen. Catching the eye of a stout young lady, who identified herself as ‘Bridget’, I ordered a bowl and a pint of porter to partner it. A feeling of modest adventure accompanied the anticipation of imbibing this early in the day, and I turned my thoughts to where I would seek lodging for the evening. I was absolutely of the mind that it was impossible to spend more than one night in a given inn; to see the city properly, I would partake in no fewer than five, and each at some distance from the other. I undertook to hail the freckled Bridget, and she gave me the names of three establishments within walking distance of the pub. The Lippincott House she described sounded promising, so upon finishing the last bit of bacon in my bowl, I left my gratuity and donned my hat to brave the cold again.
“Come again”, called the squat barkeep.
“I will indeed”, I said.
I looked around and gave a benevolent smile to the bar at large and, tugging the brim of my hat, stepped grandly into the snow.
*******
Lippincott House was all that had been promised: Quaint, quiet, and inexpensive. A kindly crone showed me to a chintz and pastel covered room with floral wallpaper that made me glare ruefully from corner to corner. Mrs. Donnelly (as she introduced herself) peered into my face anxiously and asked if it weren’t terribly pretty with all the flowers? I reassured her that the room would do nicely, agreed upon terms, and sent her off with a satisfied smile.
Only after she left did it occur to me that I should have asked when dinner would be served, so I ventured into the passage to seek the mistress. As I passed door after door, I saw why she had been so pleased to have me- her establishment was practically vacant, I suppose owing to the poor weather.
I made my way to the kitchen, where the strong smell of lamb roasting accosted my nostrils.
“Ah, you’ve mint jelly for the lamb, I warrant!", I commented to the figure slicing potatoes.
“ Just put up this past summer! But sure ‘en you could smell that through the meat cookin’? My, what a nose you’ve got!”
Indeed. I inquired after the time set for the meal, and retreated back to my room. I mulled over our brief conversation, and found myself waxing pensive. Between my nose for scents and my eyes for flora, it’s a wonder I could notice precious else. Of course, these things had served me well in my academic life. But at this particular epoch, I was ready to be well rid of them. I wearied of the whole business of botany, and even more so, compiling the research findings that attended it. This had not always been so- but a chance visit to St. Catherine’s Abbey had prompted me to look more closely at my occupation…and, eventually, flee Europe, where I had been on indefinite holiday, and end my expatriate days….
*******
The holiday had been much needed; after my second lengthy paper on the vital importance of Atlanta’s wildflowers to the fauna of the region was met with barely a cough in the academic halls of Tilvern University, I applied for a sabbatical, which was quickly and enthusiastically granted.
I decided to gather my notes, compiled the summer previous on the crabgrass that skirted the swamplands of Folkston, complete the paper incumbent upon me, and spend the remainder of my time traipsing the streets of Paris and Prague.
I arrived, after careful investigation into the matter, at the warmest time of year, and lost little time in beginning my work. Pages flew by along with the days, as I worked my way towards Scandinavia.
One Sunday morning, as I beheld the Denmark dawn, I felt a compulsion to walk down a side street, which turned to cobblestone, and ended at the door of an Abbey. I glanced through the gate that enclosed the small yard, and my nose twitched at the scent of zinnia. Unable to resist the familiar impetus, I swung the gate open and walked down the white stone path, which wrapped around to a small footbridge. A modest stream trickled beneath, and as I crossed the bridge, I beheld an expansive bed of zinnias, planted in the fashion of a moat around a likeness of St. Catherine herself.
The alabaster of the statue was of such a bright white, that I marveled at what pains must have been taken to keep it so clean. A small plaque was placed in the ground at the foot of the sainted lady, and I stooped to read it.
St. Catherine of Siena (1347-1380) Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. If then God so clothe the grass, which is to day in the field, and to morrow is cast into the oven; how much more will he clothe you, O ye of little faith? (Luke 12: 27-28)
“Consider the lilies how they grow.”
I fairly tripped through the streets, back to the lodging house where I was spending the week, and asked the rotund hostess to see that I was not disturbed on any account. I returned to my room, made a cup of tea, and settled in to resume my commission from the Almighty.
*******
I had hoped, upon my arrival, to cut a distinguished figure amidst the bustle of the historic city’s streets, but my desperation to take shelter from the elements, and the perturbing way in which the wind blew my muffler into my eyes every twenty paces, rendered this impossible. (It is the humbling faculty of nature to make one look ridiculous at the exact moment when one most desires to appear dignified.)
Poise dashed, I at last burst into a street corner pub. Had the hour been more regular, I would not have been afforded even a glance, but as it was quarter to noon, the local color appraised me, not unkindly, from their stools.
The bartender nodded a cordial hello, and I ordered an Irish coffee while I shook the detestable melting powder from the brim of my hat.
“Cold enough for you?”, an elderly Welshman queried from the corner. I smiled and took a seat close to the fireplace. I sniffed gently and marveled at the aroma; perhaps it was the native humidity, perhaps a romantic notion that I harbored, but I fancied that I could smell the very history of the bar as clearly as I could see the rings left on the varnished wood.
It was also a gesture of habit; instinctively, I inhale my surroundings before any of my other senses are allowed to pass judgment. In this, I can detect the flora of a region for a half-mile round; the apple blossom, the budding peoni, the field covered with Queen Anne’s Lace, none escapes my notice and, if possible, my inspection and collection. To the present, my olfactory capacity is without peer.
This day, however, my prodigious sniff was rewarded with not the fruit of the anther, but the depressed must of the quercus deceased. The stools were of the same weathered oak as the walls, and the fireplace crackled with the remains of its cousin.
I sat back in my chair, and felt my stomach rumble in response to the savory waft of potato soup from the kitchen. Catching the eye of a stout young lady, who identified herself as ‘Bridget’, I ordered a bowl and a pint of porter to partner it. A feeling of modest adventure accompanied the anticipation of imbibing this early in the day, and I turned my thoughts to where I would seek lodging for the evening. I was absolutely of the mind that it was impossible to spend more than one night in a given inn; to see the city properly, I would partake in no fewer than five, and each at some distance from the other. I undertook to hail the freckled Bridget, and she gave me the names of three establishments within walking distance of the pub. The Lippincott House she described sounded promising, so upon finishing the last bit of bacon in my bowl, I left my gratuity and donned my hat to brave the cold again.
“Come again”, called the squat barkeep.
“I will indeed”, I said.
I looked around and gave a benevolent smile to the bar at large and, tugging the brim of my hat, stepped grandly into the snow.
*******
Lippincott House was all that had been promised: Quaint, quiet, and inexpensive. A kindly crone showed me to a chintz and pastel covered room with floral wallpaper that made me glare ruefully from corner to corner. Mrs. Donnelly (as she introduced herself) peered into my face anxiously and asked if it weren’t terribly pretty with all the flowers? I reassured her that the room would do nicely, agreed upon terms, and sent her off with a satisfied smile.
Only after she left did it occur to me that I should have asked when dinner would be served, so I ventured into the passage to seek the mistress. As I passed door after door, I saw why she had been so pleased to have me- her establishment was practically vacant, I suppose owing to the poor weather.
I made my way to the kitchen, where the strong smell of lamb roasting accosted my nostrils.
“Ah, you’ve mint jelly for the lamb, I warrant!", I commented to the figure slicing potatoes.
“ Just put up this past summer! But sure ‘en you could smell that through the meat cookin’? My, what a nose you’ve got!”
Indeed. I inquired after the time set for the meal, and retreated back to my room. I mulled over our brief conversation, and found myself waxing pensive. Between my nose for scents and my eyes for flora, it’s a wonder I could notice precious else. Of course, these things had served me well in my academic life. But at this particular epoch, I was ready to be well rid of them. I wearied of the whole business of botany, and even more so, compiling the research findings that attended it. This had not always been so- but a chance visit to St. Catherine’s Abbey had prompted me to look more closely at my occupation…and, eventually, flee Europe, where I had been on indefinite holiday, and end my expatriate days….
*******
The holiday had been much needed; after my second lengthy paper on the vital importance of Atlanta’s wildflowers to the fauna of the region was met with barely a cough in the academic halls of Tilvern University, I applied for a sabbatical, which was quickly and enthusiastically granted.
I decided to gather my notes, compiled the summer previous on the crabgrass that skirted the swamplands of Folkston, complete the paper incumbent upon me, and spend the remainder of my time traipsing the streets of Paris and Prague.
I arrived, after careful investigation into the matter, at the warmest time of year, and lost little time in beginning my work. Pages flew by along with the days, as I worked my way towards Scandinavia.
One Sunday morning, as I beheld the Denmark dawn, I felt a compulsion to walk down a side street, which turned to cobblestone, and ended at the door of an Abbey. I glanced through the gate that enclosed the small yard, and my nose twitched at the scent of zinnia. Unable to resist the familiar impetus, I swung the gate open and walked down the white stone path, which wrapped around to a small footbridge. A modest stream trickled beneath, and as I crossed the bridge, I beheld an expansive bed of zinnias, planted in the fashion of a moat around a likeness of St. Catherine herself.
The alabaster of the statue was of such a bright white, that I marveled at what pains must have been taken to keep it so clean. A small plaque was placed in the ground at the foot of the sainted lady, and I stooped to read it.
St. Catherine of Siena (1347-1380) Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. If then God so clothe the grass, which is to day in the field, and to morrow is cast into the oven; how much more will he clothe you, O ye of little faith? (Luke 12: 27-28)
“Consider the lilies how they grow.”
I fairly tripped through the streets, back to the lodging house where I was spending the week, and asked the rotund hostess to see that I was not disturbed on any account. I returned to my room, made a cup of tea, and settled in to resume my commission from the Almighty.
*******
