Quirks, Quirks. All God's Chilluns Need Quirks.

According to a reliable witness, a lawyer friend of my father who eventually headed a prestigious think tank, the Old Baguette was an eccentric when a Petite Pain of five. Of course she was eccentric. Her parents were eccentric, members of their families were eccentric, their friends were eccentric. Everyone the Petite Pain knew could be classified as an eccentric, and she learned from an early age to relish quirks in those she loved and liked. Her mother's oldest sister, her Aunt Elinor, had an unusual quirk. She was good, incredibly good. One of the Popes gave her the Pro Ecclesia et Pontifice Medal because she was good, incredibly good. She certainly deserved it. At least, I think she did.

When Elinor was four, she once forgot to put her nickel in the collection plate. Apparently feeling irresponsible, she embarked on a lengthy, difficult trek to rectify her error. Neither parent noticed her departure. Who pays attention, ever, to a child who is too, too good? Elinor crawled under the pews, over the kneelers and over the legs and feet of the worshippers. They remained silent, of course. Silence in church in that era was like eating fish on Friday or fasting before communion, a good thing, an expected behavior. With no one questioning her presence or her itinerary, Elinor crawled to the altar rail. Everyone, including her astonished parents, noticed her arrival. Goodness gracious, surely that child couldn't be Elinor. Elinor got up off her knees, raised her nickel much as a priest would raise the host, and intoned in English, "Here, Father Link, here's my nickel." Latin would have been more effective, but Elinor didn't know latin. Father Link interrupted the Mass, went down to the altar rail, and took the nickel. He thanked her, told her she could go back to her seat, and suggested she use the aisle. Elinor went back to the family's pew, and Father Link went back to the altar. Carefully and reverently, he put the nickel on the altar next to a candle. Elinor's moment has been remembered fondly over the years, even by those like the Old Baguette who hadn't been witnesses. For once, Elinor had been too, too cute. Perhaps, but she had been too, too good as well. The Petite Pain would have kept the nickel.

Widowed early in her marriage, Elinor became a social worker. Before and after her early retirement, she served. A volunteer teacher in her parish's parochial school, she went the extra mile when the convent burned down. Yes, the sisters moved in with her. She cooked almost incessantly for the hungry. She visited the sick. Whether or not she visited prisoners is unclear, but all the other corporal works of mercy were scheduled regularly. She never missed daily mass, novenas, missions. She took her turn dusting, scrubbing, and polishing with the other church ladies. Whether she meditated, rattled rosaries, pondered scripture, or read the spiritual classics remains unknown. We do know that she was an ascetic. Her diet seemed to consist of crackers and then more crackers. She spent no money on herself. She went to no plays, no concerts, no movies. What she saved she gave to worthy causes.

Her one luxury was her annual trip to Chicago. She was wined, dined, taken to baseball games, generally pampered. At her brother John's home, she discerned the difference between scotch and bourbon. "Scotch is more medicinal." At our home, she learned how to sleep late after playing bridge until dawn. Once she got mad, really mad, and threw her cards across the room. Elinor! She ate no crackers and gained weight. We did go to Mass every Sunday. Slackers, particularly slackers like Elinor, do have boundaries.

On one of her visits when the Baguette was in junior high, it happened to be Legion of Decency Sunday. When we went to Mass, our parish church, which could seat 1200, was packed. A visiting priest delivered a harangue that linked X-rated movies to mortal sin and eternal damnation. He then "invited" us to rise and pledge that we would stick to films like "Bambi." Up the congregation hopped, robots all. All, that is, except Elinor. She remained seated with her arms crossed and glowered at the priest. She radiated profound and absolute disapproval. I was dumbfounded. Since the rule of silence in church still prevailed, all I could do was look at her. Elinor was a smart cookie. She could figure out my unspoken question: "You aren't taking the pledge. Why not?" . Her response, her SPOKEN response, was astonishing, shocking.
"I just might want to see one of those movies." I wonder to this day if Elinor ever did go to "one of those movies." I just can't believe she would. She was too good to do that. Perhaps she was following the biblical injunction to avoid frivolous oaths.

Would the Pope, whoever he was, have given her that medal if he'd been briefed on her character as well as on her visible service? Was she too good or wasn't she? I don't know the answer to that question. I do know that excessive goodness is not one of the Baguette's quirks.