A Royal Month?

A Royal Month?

As a young Catholic, I learned that the month of May was consecrated to the Virgin Mother of God, Mary.  Every May, I set up a small shrine in my bedroom, and recited a decade of the Rosary to the Mother of God every night.  I was very sincere and, like so many tweeners, hoped that my prayers would be answered, or at least, make my life more palatable, if not purer.  As we enter the month of August, I try to remember which saint or god it is devoted to:  Augustus Caesar?  “August” occasions are grandiose affairs; the Queen celebrates her birthday in August although she was born under the sign of the Bull, Taurus (I think); one may have an “august” presence, I suppose, and preside over an equally august occasion.  I don’t get it.  The month of August, following too quickly on the steps of July, signifies the onset of Autumn…and then, you know…w i n t e r.  W I N T E R…you know, THE season of winter tires, minus 35 Celsius, snow piled as high as my head, 40 minutes scraping the ice off your car, wearing men’s underwear under your layers and layers of undershirts, tops, sweaters, ski pants, scarves that fall to your feet, hats that make you look like a mobile condom or a smurf, and coats that so disguise the human form that the difference between you and a stick figure completely disappears.  As the barometric pressure changes and strange weather patterns take centre stage, my joint pain flares and migrainous headaches begin to preoccupy my psyche.

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