Author Archives: wjduquette

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About wjduquette

Author, software engineer, and Lay Dominican.

Watching the Tiber Go By (Part 1)

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My family were Sunday-and-Christmas Catholics. That is to say, we went to mass on Sundays (unless we were on vacation) and on Christmas day. We didn’t go to mass on any other holy days; we didn’t have prayer cards, scapulars, or rosaries; we went to public school rather than Catholic school; and we never stayed for coffee after the service, assuming that there was coffee after the service. I know there was sometimes, but whether it was a regular thing I can’t say.

Religious observances outside church were confined to prayers at bedtime and grace before dinner. We weren’t tepid about religion, precisely; but for my dad, being Catholic was something you did, not something you talked about. My dad still goes to mass every Sunday, and he still doesn’t talk about it. For my mom, being Catholic was something other people did; she was Methodist, and though she went to mass with dad every Sunday, she followed up by going to the local Methodist church immediately afterward. I suspect that’s why my childhood lacked certain traditionally Catholic markers.

I was born a year after Vatican II began, and although I have vague memories of my elder siblings carrying big heavy missals to mass I don’t recall ever hearing the mass said in Latin. From the time I first began to pay attention, it was all English. Catechism class, or “CCD”, was similar; I suppose my siblings probably remember the pre-Vatican II catechism, but I went through CCD during those heady days when the “Spirit of Vatican II” excused a multitude of well-intentioned experimentation. I don’t know if this explains anything, and I think all of my CCD teachers were doing their best; but as an example, though we were all given rosaries one year we spent less than a class session on how to pray the rosary. I was left with a vague notion that you said an Our Father followed by a bunch of Hail Mary’s, lather, rinse, repeat; nobody ever hinted that there was more to it than that.

I went through First Communion, and later on was duly confirmed; and after that CCD was over and done with, as was any involvement at my local church beyond going to mass on Sunday.

I went through something of a crisis of faith during my high school years; which is to say that I found God to be increasingly inconvenient and thought that I’d be happier if I could be sure He wasn’t really there. That ended my senior year due to some circumstances I won’t go into at the moment; it was that year that I really first made up my mind to follow Christ.

Oddly, that was also the year I started consorting with Protestants. A friend took me to a high school group at the local Episcopal church, and I started attending that regularly; in fact, though it isn’t where we first met, that group is where I first really got to know my wife Jane. Then I went off to college; and rather than attending the small Catholic mass in the school chapel I went to the local parish church and joined the campus InterVarsity Christian Fellowship group. I was active in IVCF all four years of college and grew considerably in my faith; and that whole time I attended mass every Sunday at Our Lady of the Assumption where I never got to know anybody.

After college I went to Stanford for graduate school, and at Stanford, oddly, I actually got in with a group of young Catholic adults at the campus Newman Center. That was probably my most Catholic year to date, and I remember it fondly.

I started dating Jane that year, and after I got my degree I returned to Southern California. I went back to attending my old church every Sunday, where I knew (almost) nobody, and Jane and I joined a young adult group at a Catholic church in Pasadena which we found out about because the folks I knew at Stanford knew some folks in that group. We made many friends there; ironically, the only one we still keep in regular touch with isn’t Roman Catholic (nor was he then).

Do you begin to see a pattern here? Every since I first decided to take my faith seriously, I’d been involved in some kind of Christian community; but except for that one year at Stanford, the community I was in was always completely separate from where I attended mass.

Around this time Jane and I decided to get married; and that raised the question of where we were going to go to church. And that was a big deal, because Jane was Episcopalian and she found mass at St. James to be rather underwhelming. Yes, the service had a lot in common with the service she was used to; but….

But there wasn’t any coffee hour after the service. Or if there was, I didn’t know about it, and I certainly wasn’t able to introduce her to anyone. At her church, St. Luke’s, she knew everybody. And the singing at St. James was subpar by her standards (she was in choir for years), and we never sang more than two verses of any hymn. And some people left the church right after communion, instead of waiting for the closing hymn; and if they did wait for the closing hymn, they were often out the door before it was over. Which given that we never sang more than two versions meant they had to move fast after the priest left the altar.

And besides, I didn’t know anybody.

To me, “church” meant “the Eucharist”; to Jane, “church” meant “the community”. And given that her church had the Eucharist as well, she really couldn’t see leaving St. Luke’s, where she already belonged to the community, to attend St. James, where I didn’t.

We spent a season or two attending both churches every Sunday, and we had both a Catholic and an Episcopal priest at our wedding; but we were married at St. Luke’s, and after the wedding that’s where we went to church. Some months later I was formally received into the Episcopal Church by our local bishop.

Continuing to attend both churches wasn’t a reasonable solution. Jane and I agreed that we needed to pick a church, and stick with it; my parents’ mixed marriage had worked OK, but it certainly hadn’t been optimal.

I figured it like this. St. Luke’s was what used to be called a “high church” anglo-catholic parish, so the service was very similar to the mass I was used to; in fact, in some ways it seemed even more Catholic than I was used to. St. James was still in the throes of Vatican II, but at St. Luke’s even the choir members wore cassocks, and processed into the church preceded by acolytes bearing candles. I learned that, being a branch of Anglicanism the Episcopal Church could still claim the apostolic succession. And Episcopal doctrine, as it was explained to me, appeared to be everything I wanted in a doctrine, and less. Which is to say, so far as it went it agreed pretty well with what I’d always believed; there was simply less of it, and it didn’t go so far. The doctrine of the Eucharist is a case in point. Episcopalians believed, so I was told, in the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist. The Prayer Book didn’t define precisely what “Real Presence” meant, and certainly didn’t insist on transubstantiation; but if I wanted to go on thinking about it that way, there was no harm done. The Marian doctrines were similar–some Episcopalians revered Mary, and there was nothing stopping me from doing so…but there was no insistence on it either.

In short, I could join the Episcopal Church without being asked either to renounce any of the beliefs I held dear, or to believe in anything new. I could, it was presented to me, simply transfer my allegiance from one bishop to another. If Jane were to become Catholic, however, she would be asked to believe many things she hadn’t previously been asked to believe; and she’d lose the parish community she was used to. Put that way, the answer seemed clear. I had little to lose but the Pope and, possibly, some doctrines to which I wasn’t particularly attached. What I had to gain was a happy bride.

Part 2 is here.

Making Money, by Terry Pratchett

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In Making Money, confidence-trickster-turned-Postmaster-General Moist von Lipwig is named to the position of Master of the Royal Mint by Lord Vetinari of Ankh-Morpork, and much comic mayhem ensues. At least, that’s the idea. And indeed, there’s a fair measure of comedy; but I’m afraid I found this to be Pratchett’s least book in years.

Pratchett’s one of our favorites; when a new Pratchett comes out, I always read it aloud to Jane over a period of a week or two. In this way we can savor both the comic writing, and also the vagaries of the plot as it comes slowly to fruition. Terry Pratchett is typically the master of both: he knows how to write in a funny way, and he knows how to design plots for maximum effect with excellent comic timing. (Anyone who’s read Thud! will know exactly what I mean by the latter when I say, “Where’s my cow?”) In Making Money, alas, only the former is present. There are lots of funny lines, situations, gags, and so forth; had I not been reading it aloud I’ve have been forced to read so much of it aloud that I might as well have just read it aloud to begin with. But the plot is, frankly, a disaster, especially compared with Thud! or the preceding book about Moist von Lipwig, Going Postal.

As a confidence man, Moist is adept at improvising in tough situations. He doesn’t get to do nearly enough of that here, and when he does his improvisations often don’t make much sense. He spends too much of his time passively reacting to what’s going on, if that’s possible. There’s a lengthy subplot involving some ancient golems found by Moist’s girlfriend that is almost entirely unconvincing. Important plot points seemed forced; nothing quite works. It’s as though the Laws of Narrative Causality made sure that the broad outlines of the tale went properly even though the small details weren’t quite all in place. Lots of interesting things were pulled in and made a big deal of—I’m thinking of the Men of the Sheds, who work in the Royal Mint, in particular—and then almost dropped, with no real payoff.

On the one hand, it was fun to read anyway, and I don’t regret spending the money to buy it in hardback. But Pratchett is capable of much better work than this, and so on the other hand it’s a real disappointment. Oh, well.

Three Things My Parents Got Right

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Jen at “Et Tu” has proposed a group writing project on three things your parents got right. Here are mine.

1. There was no TV on school nights

Their theory was, if we got to watch TV on school nights, we’d rush through our homework. I suspect they were right. What was the long-term result? People ask me, “How do you have time to read so many books?” I read fast…and I don’t watch TV.

2. We had room to be kids

A lot of our kid’s friends are so over-scheduled by their parents that they hardly know what to do with any free time. We didn’t have this problem when we were little, and so we developed our imaginations. Jane and I are raising our kids the same way. Result? I’ve often seen David and James playing a video game—Pokemon, say—and one will say to the other, “Do you want to go upstairs and play a Pokemon game?” Which means, “Would you like to go up to our bedroom and engage in unstructured imaginative play centered on the general topic of Pokemon?” That’s right. They will turn off the video game console to go play make-believe. On their own initiative.

3. They each married the right person

Neither of my parents rushed to get married. My dad served in the Pacific in WWII as an electrician’s mate; after the war he got a EE degree and went to work for an electronics firm. I gather a lot of his work was for the Navy. My mom went to nursing school, and after the war she went to work at a hospital in Hawaii. They were both in their mid-20’s when they met, by chance, at a hotel there. Apparently they’d both been keeping an eye out looking for Mr. and Miss Right, and when they found each other, that was that. They were engaged two weeks later, and married four months after that, and had 48 happy years together before Mom passed away.

Having a good marriage is a lot of work…and there’s no reason to make it harder by rushing into it with the wrong person. Mom and Dad both knew what they wanted, and didn’t settle for less. And we kids had all the benefit of parents who loved each other, got along well, and didn’t split up on us.

Long term result? When I married Jane, we were each in our mid-20’s. Just this week we’re celebrating our 20th wedding anniversary. God willing, we’ll both be around for our 50th.

A Meeting At Corvallis, by S.M. Stirling

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This is the direct sequel to Dies the Fire and The Protector’s War, and I enjoyed it thoroughly, though not without reservations. Somehow, with Stirling’s work, I always have some kind of reservation. But more of that anon.

Eight years prior to the beginning of this book, everything Changed. All high-technology ceased to function—electric power failed everywhere, cars were no longer driveable, guns no longer worked. Overnight, the tech level dropped alarmingly, and as recorded in Dies the Fire, almost everyone died. A variety of nascent states were born, including Clan Mackenzie, the Bearkillers, the Faculty Senate of Corvallis…and the Portland Protective Association, an ugly amalgam of SCA members and street gangs patterned loosely after the realm of William the Conqueror and driven by unbalanced ambitions of one Norman Arminger. Clan Mackenzie and Bearkillers bring about an uneasy stalemate in The Protector’s War when they capture Arminger’s daughter Matilda; the present volume covers what happens after.

My reservation about A Meeting At Corvallis are not, for a wonder, religious; yes, Clan Mackenzie are still wiccan, and yes, Arminger’s puppet pope, Leo, is overseeing a horrid rebirth of all of the Catholic church’s worst sins. But there’s nothing new here over the previous books, and Arminger’s diseased sect is more than balanced by the warrior monks of the Roman Catholic Abbey of Mount Angel, a group still loyal to the true pope (one former Cardinal Ratzinger, as it happens). There are serious, devout, and praiseworthy Christians galore.

Nor will I have much to say about Stirling’s tendency to highlight gay and lesbian relationships. There’s some of that here, certainly, and it plays a major role in the story, but less so than in the Island in the Sea of Time books.

No, my concern is about the story itself. There are, for a wonder, insufficient horrors. That is to say, the foreshadowing led me to expect horrors…which then failed to eventuate. At one point, for example, young Rudi, son of Juniper Mackenzie and the Bearkiller leader Mike Havel, is captured by Arminger’s forces. He’s a wiccan, like his mother, and Arminger’s demented Pope Leo dearly wants to get his hands on him.

And then, realpolitik and good sense win out. Arminger might be a nut, but his wife, Lady Sandra, is anything but. She might not have a better nature for anyone to appeal to, but she’s got a firm grasp on reality. And so, the horrors fail to eventuate.

In one sense, though, it’s appealing to read a book in which the bad guys are not all bent on evildoing for its own sake or for their own sadistic pleasure. And I enjoyed it thoroughly while I was reading it, as I said. And the ending was genuinely moving. Nevertheless, it all seemed just a little too easy.

Am I picking nits? Probably.

The next book in the series, The Sunrise Lands, is out in hardcover; it takes place quite a few years later, but involves many of the same characters. I’m looking forward to it.

New Orleans

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So as I say, I spent this past week at the 14th Tcl/Tk Conference, which was held at the Bourbon Orleans Hotel in New Orleans, pretty much smack dab in the middle of the French Quarter. The 2nd Tcl/Tk Conference (which I did not attend) was also held there, as was the 11th Tcl/Tk Conference (which I did).

Thus, I saw the Quarter about a year before Katrina, and now I’ve seen it about a year after. So what’s changed? The answer is, I’m not sure. That is to say, I noticed changes; but whether the differences I noticed represent real changes in the nature of the French Quarter I can’t say. Anyway, here’s what I noticed.

Overall, things seemed more or less the same. There was little flooding in the Quarter, as I understand it; apparently the first settlers built on the high ground.
Last time, there was an aura of (I suspect carefully cultivated) seediness about the French Quarter, especially the residential areas. This time I noticed much more fresh paint, much more repair-work-in-progress, combined with more real disrepair.

It seems to me—I can’t say for sure, and it’s entirely possible that I’m mis-remembering—that the T-shirts on sale in the tourist shops, as well as the general tenor of Bourbon Street, are several degrees cruder and ruder than they were a few years ago. I dunno.

So much for the bad and the icky, now it’s time for the good. The high-points of the trip, tourist-wise, were a visit to Preservation Hall to hear the Preservation Hall Jazz Band, something I’d gladly do again even though Preservation Hall is rather a pit, and café-au-lait and beignets for breakfast at the Café du Monde.

And then, of course, there was the conference, which as always was fabulous. Thanks much to Gerald Lester and Ron Fox, the committee chairs, as well as (in no particular order) Steve Landers, Steve Redler, Donal Fellows, Michael Cleverly, Clif Flynt, Joe English, Sean Woods, and the rest of the gang (practically speaking, I can’t list everybody). It was a small conference this year, but we had attendees from Canada, England, Australia, and Germany—four from Germany alone! I’m still digesting everything I learned, and I’m in my typical post-conference state: really excited and inspired, and too tired to do anything about it. Time for a few quiet evenings at home.

The Chequer Board, by Nevil Shute

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Ian has an uncanny knack for locating copies of now obscure books by Nevil Shute in used bookstores which would seem, to the average customer, to contain only multiple copies of A Town Like Alice and On The Beach. I don’t know how he does it; I certainly never find them.

Anyway, this is the latest Shute he’s sent my way—if you can use the word “latest” with respect to a book published in 1947—and as usual I enjoyed it thoroughly. It takes place two or three years after World War II, and mostly in England.

At some point during the war, four men end up in the same ward in a small hospital in Cornwall. One is a pilot named Morgan, injured in a plane crash; the other three are up on charges, their days in court waiting on their recovery. Captain Turner, the nominal viewpoint character and the most seriously injured, was arrested for selling three truckloads of His Majesty’s sugar on the black market. Duggie Brent, a paratrooper, will be standing trial for killing a man during a stupid brawl. And Dave Lesurier, an American soldier, a negro, is accused of attempted rape of an English girl.

The book begins several years later, when Turner, now simply Mr. Turner, has come to see a doctor. He was convicted, and has served his time, and has several years has been working in the sales department of a flour manufacturer. He’s been having fainting spells, apparently due to the wound that put him into the hospital originally. He finds he has at most a year to live. What will he do with the time he has left?

He’ll look up the other three, of course (with this set up, how could he not?). But therein hangs the tale, and I’ll not spoil it.

Find a copy, if you can, and enjoy. As for me, I have to give this copy back. Hmph.