These little angels have flown over my head for about 15 years. There was a great little store, La Palma, that was over on 20th or 19th, I no longer remember, between 8th and 7th Avenues in New York City. I would wander over there on occasion and inevitably come home with something, either little La Palma painted things, such as these angels, or Guatemalan telas. At the time, I dropped money I shouldn't have but all these years later, I have not regretted it.
Ever since I bought these angels, I have hung them on the wall behind the head of my bed. I like to think of them creating as well as preventing mischief. Not in the picture is a Mexican rosary made out of stones, a small medallion of San Romero de las Américas, a Guatemalan cross, the first one I ever got, and two other little La Palma designs.
Despite these protecting angels, they have not prevented me from wasting the day on furnaces and plumbing. The rectory limps along with super low water pressure; we backed off the main supply so it won't leak as much, but as far as fixing the leak, it's beyond the capacities of the kind parishioner who came over last night and again this morning. To fix the leak properly, we will have to replace the regulator, way too complicated. I am pretending I am in El Salvador where water pressure can be quite low or running water not all except for 45 minutes every 24 hours.
Meanwhile, the parish house furnace has quit, most likely for the same reason that the church furnace quit this week: frozen supply line. We just don't have enough snow cover to protect the line and with this super cold weather (down to minus 23 last night), the oil doesn't have a chance. I am waiting for the furnace repair people to call back. It has already been 45 minutes and I have just been told it will be another 20. Sitting around for these type repairs wastes a lot of time and gets frustrating, even though I have a lot of sympathy for the furnace repair folks and am most glad I am not the one who spends all day working in cold spaces getting frozen fingers.
The church was 28 yesterday morning so that cold space killed off the poinsietta. No small loss to the head of the altar guild who more than happily removed their carcasses from the church this afternoon.
Voici le petit train-train d'une prêtre rurale.
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