The Great Blight

As far back as the 1600s winemakers were trying unsuccessfully to transplant European grape varieties to North America. For reasons unknown at the time these grapes would never grow in American soil, so they settled for cultivating local varieties and occasionally grafting European grapes onto American rootstock.

In the mid-1800s American vines were being transported to France to be grown there, and by the 1860s local vineyards were being obliterated by blight. Vines in the midst of a vineyard turned yellow and red, with the few grapes being produced yielding little good taste. The blight would spread quickly outward, with entire vineyards mysteriously drying up over a few years.

It turned out that the European rootstocks were unable to take root in American soil because of an aggressive species of aphid that European vines had not developed an immunity towards, and the newer transportation by steamboat finally allowed these aphids to survive the journey across the ocean. Once discovered, the reaction was swift but tardy. Insecticides proved slow to work, and many vintners turned in desperation to the aphid-resistant American rootstock.

The Great French Wine Blight was well under way. Over the course of 15 years about 40% of vineyards were affected, the French economy was shaken, workers in the wine industry had their pay cut in half, and many migrated to America. Because wine production dropped so precipitously, the French turned to another source of alcohol from Switzerland to whet their palettes—absinthe.

Pre-Blight wine quickly became a collector's item, and today only a few untouched vines remain. Although mocked as "Americanists" by the diminishing purist population, vintners found success by grafting the local vinifera onto the aphid-resistant American roots. This was dubbed "reconstitution" and hailed as a victory. Still, many claim that the robust flavors of pre-Blight wine were never again reproducible.

The public's taste had been greatly diminished due to their consumption of wormwood, leaving wine at least for a time to the connoisseurs. Wine makers joined the fight against the spread of absinthe, and the green devil was blamed for an increase in violence and general drunkenness. Jean Lanfray, a Swiss farmer, murdered his family in 1905 while presumably under the influence of absinthe. Many countries banned the drink, including Switzerland, France, and the United States. Only the Great War stopped the bans from increasing.

Today Americans can be found patting themselves on the back for saving the French wine industry with our rootstocks, completely forgetting the problem originated with us.

There is more than one way to devastate a vineyard, and sometimes it never recovers.

Hilarity and Intoxication

Mr. Ralfy is a Scottish gentleman of modest means who occupies himself with undertaking, speed racing, and whisky appreciation. His YouTube channel is a steady source of good information on spirits and common sense, and even his special episode on absinthe is entertaining and worth a watch. Most recently, he recorded an instructional video on the Seven Levels of Intoxication (embedded below), and how they can affect your social wellbeing.

No Catholic is Ralfy, but his green- and red-zones are probably more helpful in discerning the need for confession than the ever-elusive "point of hilarity" suggested by Thomistic moralists. It is good to drink often (Ps. 103); it is better to drink well and with temperance.

St. Bruno Day

O Bonitas!

From his hagiography:

With six companions, four priests and two laymen, Saint Bruno applied to Hugh, Bishop of Grenoble, who led them to a wild solitude called the Chartreuse. There they lived in poverty, self-denial, and silence, each apart in his own cell, meeting only for the worship of God, and employing themselves in copying books. From the name of the solitude the Order of Saint Bruno was called the Carthusian Order. Six years later, Urban II called Bruno to Rome, that he might benefit from his counsel. Bruno tried to live there as he had lived in the desert; but the echoes of the great city disturbed his solitude, and, after refusing high dignities, he finally obtained, by force of persuasion, the permission of the Pope to resume his monastic life, this time in Calabria, with only a few companions. There he lived, in humility and mortification and great peace, until his blessed death occurred, in the arms of his faithful monks, in 1101.

St. Bruno, pray for us! Restore your order and the glory of the religious life!

Sympathy for the Devil

“You drank the port?” His Traddiness’ eyes widened as the truth sank in. “All of it?”

“I didn’t think you’d miss it,” was my reply. “You entirely forgot about the bottle of F—.”

“You drank that? I’m never leaving a bottle at your house again!”

“Fine, I’ll buy the next bottle of Chartreuse.”

“Darn straight you will!”

“It will be the yellow one, though.”

"What?" His Traddiness snapped.

The little lady sniffed at us and rolled her eyes. The three of us were sitting on the outside patio of Café Preténse, enjoying the last warm spurts of autumn before Texas decided to welcome Old Man Winter.

“You know, Rad,” she said, “you could just buy cheaper wine.”

We both watched as His Traddiness’ face turned a few shades of wine-dark, and laughed through a brief chill wind. I turned towards her and admired the frothy latte that sat so smugly superior to the tea on the other side of the table. I decided to defuse the situation with another bomb.

“Did you hear the most recent about Fr. Facile?”

“No, what did that little pipsqueak do now?”

“Apparently he’s been doubling down on his pseudo-mercy talk. He’s gone almost Full Kasper in his Sunday sermons. The Church is changing, didn’t you know? We are now welcoming the perverts and the homewreckers without exception. Anyone who’s not on board is going to fall behind the March of History.”

“Oh, joy.”

“I wonder how soon before he comes out?”

“Of which closet?”

“Hard to say. Heaven save us from the wicked clerics. You know, I was accosted by a fellow parishioner at Tradistan the other day about needing to pray for our wicked leaders.”

“Not a bad idea,” chimed in the little lady.

“Sure. But mostly I pray for their destruction. That seems like a worthy cause.”

“Not their conversion?” she asked sweetly.

“I suppose I must,” I admitted. “But I draw the line at praying for the repose of the souls of those who died as public enemies of all that is good and holy. This is November, the month we’re supposed to pray for the faithful departed. I don’t feel the need to pray for the faithless.”

“What’s got that bugaboo up your posterior?” asked His Traddiness.

“The lady and I knew a fellow who went to a local Catholic university. By all accounts he was quite the academic and literary modernist, although I know nothing in particular about his spiritual life. He had a young wife, a very young daughter, and another child on the way. He murdered himself in the middle of the night about a year ago.”

“Wow.”

“The worst of it, though, is the sympathy and nostalgia surrounding the whole ordeal. All of his close friends are heartbroken, of course, but they insist on not thinking badly of him. It took me weeks of sorting through Facebook comments to even get a hint that he had taken his own life.”

“To do that to a wife and child!”

“Exactly the point. I don’t deny that he may have had some psychological problems, but surely they cannot have rendered him invincible to the demands of familial justice, nor to the tugging on the heart by the ladies in his life. All his friends say that he doted on his daughter, but I suppose not enough.”

“Remember what Pius the Third said in response to a request that a Requiem Mass be said for the repose of his predecessor, Alexander the Sixth?”

“What’s that?”

“‘It is blasphemous to pray for the damned.’”

Just then a familiar vintner of damned souls walked out of the front door, saw us, and waved.

“How goes the quest to eliminate lukewarmness?” the devil asked, with a tip of his hat to the lady. His horns showed for a moment.

“Making progress one good drink at a time.” I raised mine. “To your utter failure.”

He smiled toothily and walked to his car. I was disappointed to see that it did not sport a darkly humorous customized license plate.

“That wormy bastard wouldn’t know good taste if it hit him in the face,” mused His Traddiness. “Based on the financials going back and forth in his emails, he could easily afford a Rolls but, like most evil men, prefers a Mercedes.” The devil put-putted away in a cloud of noxious green exhaust.

“I wonder sometimes if I should pray for all my ancestors who died outside of the Church,” I said once the fumes had cleared. “A lot of them were Protestants who hated Catholicism. Quite a few others were staunchly non-religious their whole lives. The New-Springtimers say that charity demands prayers for all the dead, except at their funeral Masses, but I have to wonder. Isn’t it reasonable just to assume that those who die in manifest sin are damned, and to cover your bases by praying regularly for all the poor souls? At least that way everyone who can be covered is covered.”

“Wouldn’t you want someone to pray for your soul in particular,” asked the lady, “even if you seemed to die in evil circumstances?”

“It would be nice, but at the expense of public scandal? Perhaps not! In that case I might have to satisfy myself with the scraps that are tossed out commonly to all the purging souls. Better to be in Purgatory and buried in unconsecrated ground than in Hell and buried behind the rectory. In any case, I’ll be planning in my will for private Masses to be said for my soul by some helpful religious orders.”

“You’d better hope those orders hold up their end of the bargain,” she said. “Lots of them are simply dropping all the old charges they held for praying for the dead.”

“That’s a sobering thought. I’d better die in some saintly way! Perhaps the martyrdoms will begin soon, and I can get that done and over with.” She sniffed again at that.

His Traddiness sipped the rest of his tea and began to recite from memory, “In paradisum deducant te Angeli; in tuo adventu suscipiant te martyres, et perducant te in civitatem sanctam Ierusalem. Chorus angelorum te suscipiat, et cum Lazaro quondam paupere æternam habeas requiem.”

“And may the devil get his due,” I added.

“Amen.”

Wormwood Proposes a Toast; or, Abyssus Absinthium Invocat

It was another sunny Texas Sunday morning when I last made my way into Café Preténse. The parking lot was far from being full, but a swarm of bicyclists had overrun the sidewalk, and a line of them stretched from the counter almost to the front door. They were talking excitedly from the adrenaline, and overwhelming the café’s usual espresso scent with their own.

By the time I made it to the counter I had almost decided to leave for a Starbucks. Where would I even sit?

“What can I getcha?” asked a college girl with too many colors in her hair.

“Cappuccino, please.”

“For here?”

“Better make it to go,” I said, looking around the building. “Just in case.”

“Name?”

“J.”

“Jay? Jay What?”

“‘J’ as in Joseph.”

“One cappuccino for Joseph.”

“Sure.”

She ran my card, and I wondered if the couches in the back area might have an empty cushion or two.

“Hey, your card says John Grump, not Joseph.”

I took my receipt and pushed my way through spandexed bikers to the back area. It was low-lit and close to the unisex bathrooms, but one teenage girl sat on each of the three couches, all of them talking animatedly. I considered sitting down beside one of the infantile women to make a point, but then I recalled that I actually wanted to read.

This place is getting on my last nerve, I texted to His Traddiness.

Ditch the burnt coffee scene and join me for another glass of Chartreuse, he retorted.

Yellow or green?

Green. I am convinced that this yellow monstrosity was invented by the Franciscans.

After I’m properly caffeinated. We’ll see if I get a seat. Still cranky from the sermon this morning.

Leaving the couches behind, I made my way up front. Every table had an occupant, every padded chair comfortably employed. If nothing cleared before my name was called I would leave and shake the coffee grounds from my sandals. My eyes wandered to and fro, and finally met with those of another customer looking up from his laptop while taking a sip from his mug. He was a devil of one of the lesser orders, and he nodded to indicate I should walk over. I did.

“You looking for a seat?” he said.

“Yes, thanks. You heading out?”

“Not for a while, but I have some space if you want to take the other chair.” There was indeed enough space for my books, my drink, and my self. “I don’t mind sharing a table with a fellow coffee aficionado.” He looked and dressed like Matthew Goode (circa 2008), except for the horns. I decided he was less likely than most of the people in this café to steal my books if I stepped away for a phone call.

“Sure thing. My name’s J.”

“Wormwood.”

“Cappuccino for Jay Grump!” the baristi with the technicolor dreamhair bellowed.

“Be right back.”

When I returned to the table, Wormwood was reading the back matter of my book.

“Occult symbolism in modern poetry? Tsk, tsk. That’s dangerous stuff.”

“Research.”

“Thinking of joining our lower ranks?”

“No, just interested in being able to spot this sort of thing when it appears. I’ve suspected many of these authors of occultism before, but this just confirms it.”

“Hmm, it’s all true enough. We didn’t catch all of them in the end, but plenty have long been drained dry by Our Father Below. Victor’s fateful séance was a real show to remember.”

I took a sip and decided to change the subject. He was beginning to look nostalgic.

“So are you the Wormwood? Of C. S. L— fame?”

He tossed the book in front of me with a flourish. “Guilty as charged! I tell you, the doors that book has opened for me! Slubgob leaked my uncle’s letters to the human world after the two of them had a falling out, and got poor Uncle Screwtape tossed into the Styx for about a century without parole. For my part, I was released from my uncle’s dungeon and allowed back into the Tempter Rolls. If all goes well, I’ll be teaching in the Tempters Training College in no time.”

“You must be busy these days. The world does seem to be falling apart.”

“And isn’t that just delightful? Don’t you just experience a wonderful, sick thrill at the thought of it? Don’t it just make you smile on the inside?”

I glared at him and sipped my drink. It would have been better in a mug than in this waxed paper cup.

“I am busy,” he continued. “I’m part of a team working on your parish. A lot of the usual temptations: sexual deviancies are easy to encourage”—he made an obscene gesture—“as are anger and certain forms of despair. But let me tell you, the best thing to do is to widen divisions and encourage fathers to provoke their children to indignation. Bitterness is rich soil for despondency, rebellion, and apostasy. Tie heavy burdens on the shoulders of the faithful, force them to march through a slough, and then chastise them harshly for complaining. I swear, if I can turn even a third of your waters into wormwood, I will destroy your parish beyond recognition.”

He sat back with a contented look and breathed out a series of perfectly shaped smoke rings, even though he had been puffing on no tobacco. My phone buzzed, and I welcomed the distraction.

Just realized that wormwood is a major ingredient in absinthe, texted His Traddiness. We should try mixing it with more sulfur to see if it brings out that hellish flavour.

“Well, Mr. Wormwood, this has been enlightening.” I replaced the lid on my cup and tried not to look in his eyes. “I should probably head out. I don’t think I’m going to be able to read much with all this commotion.”

“It is downright pandemonious, isn’t it?” He sat up straight. “My goodness, I need to learn to not monologue when I’m talking to prey. I just enjoy the look in their eyes when they see me coming for them, you know? Oh, and do you mind watching my things while I use the facilities?”

I nodded my assent without making eye contact, and he clomped off, his tail trailing just above the ground. Once he was behind locked doors I shifted over to his chair and began skimming through his emails. It was a simple enough matter to set a forwarding email address to all his messages. By the time he returned I was back on my side of the table, stuffing my receipt into the book and skittishly sipping my drink.

“Certain things just take longer when the waters are bitter.” He laughed, and I pretended to laugh with him. He raised his mug. “Well, my amphibious friend, let us toast before you move on to your day’s business.”

“Toast to what?”

“To the elimination of lukewarmness. May the undersexed morons who blunder into online pornography shops be turned into insatiable, defiant adulterers! May the self-hating drunkards who slur the name of The Enemy be turned into inflamed, rebellious, and sober blasphemers! May the flabby video gamers drive their cars over real pedestrians!”

“He that is filthy, let him be filthy still.”

We each took a sip of our now-tepid drinks.

“Catch you next time, Mr. Grump.”

“Until then.”

Back in the car I put the remainder of my mediocre cappuccino in the cup holder and sent His Traddiness one last text before driving:

Much to discuss. Keep an eye on your email. Chartreuse at my place, I’ll buy the cigars.