Chapter 11: Cataclysm

Trish was just back from a family trip to Ireland with her mother and two uncles. Just back and much welcome. Down in our Lair, she was sitting comfortably between Froggy and me.

(As an aside note to scientific ... um, scientists, The McGovern is equally proficient with both her hands. By that, I mean right and left. Froggy and I are quite content to sit on her right side or her left side. I guess years of training with us has made her ambi ... ambi ... something to do with sexterous, you know the word.)

Trish had already taken care of two eager boys first thing that evening. She usually decides to oral us, “Get the first one out of the way, boys.” Which is fine fettles with the Frogged One and me.

But do not think it’s just sex, sex, sex. You would be quite mistaken to think it’s just sex, sex, sex. The three of us have what I would best describe as lofty discussions. Philosophy, religion, business, and whatnot ... need I say more?

Trish had us well lubed, per her usual practice, and both hands were gliding up and down, up and down.

“You know, boys, it wasn’t until I got to County Cavan that I learned that Jesus was Irish.”

Froggy said, “Irish! I thought he was Jewish.”

Now our friend is a sweet as buttermilk, but he often doesn’t grasp the finer points of scholarship. I corrected the lad gently, “No, Froggy, Jesus was Episcopalian. Learned that in Sunday School.”

Up and down, up and down.

Trish, all innocence on the surface, “Didn’t you win a Spiritual Knowledge Medal, Bertie?”

Now I love her, have done so since I discovered what True love is, around two years of age. But a jab from The McGovern can cut to the quick. I bit back a scathing rejoinder and said, perhaps a little icily, “I came in second, as you well know. Trick question. Obscure too.”

Froggy, “What was it?”

The memory still stings, “A Saint’s name associated with a type of hay.”

Froggy, “Timothy.”

“How in the world did you know that?”

“Everyone does.”

I folded my arms, above the petty fray.

Froggy said, “Irish?”

Trish grinned and put on her Irish brogue, “Sure. Examine the evidence, boys. Jesus lived with his parents until he was twenty-nine. Last night of his life, he went out drinking with the lads. He thought his mother was a virgin. And she, mother dear, thought her son was God.”

Froggy said, “Gosh.”

Huh. Food for thought.

The Brewster Rule, as I think of it, is that I can ask the Sisters and Wandy any question I want, no limits.

Of course before I reached my current Sophistication level, I had many more queries. For example...

Well, let me first lay out the contextual groundwork. Through trial and error, I learned that it was most profitable to airmail any inquiries regarding sex to Auntie Pru. Nothing seemed to shock her and she took care to make sure I understood her answers.

Back to that example...

“Auntie Pru, is it true about the clit? Importance-wise?”

She placed both her palms on my hand, “Birdie, listen very carefully. As carefully as you’ve ever listened.”

Eyes wide, I nodded.

She said, “Whatever Trish tells you to do, do it. Just do it.”

I nodded again.

I’ve been awarded no official medals for bravery, nothing like that. But it takes a lot to scare the pants of Bertram Owen Osgood Brewster.