February 27, 2010. It was a windy, cold, miserable day. The sky was gray, and snow flurried down, swirling in the wind. I was driving along Dulaney Valley Road at around 4 PM in my old, beat-up, hand-me-down purple Saturn. As I sat at the red light that spans the distance between Towson Town Center and the wonderful shopping center that contains not only a Starbucks but also the area’s Ukazoo store, I noticed a man walking by the road. Ordinarily I would not have stopped—men often walk along the road—but this man was different. He was older, about my grandfather’s age, and he had white hair and a white beard. Garbed in a black robe, he was clutching a rosary. Peering closer, I saw a look of bewilderment and panic in his eyes. I looked over my shoulder and saw nobody coming behind me, so I quickly pulled into the left lane and caught the tail end of the green arrow. I turned into the shopping center, and I parked my car in a two hour parking spot. Jumping from my car, I pulled my green scarf tighter around my neck and made sure that I manually locked the front door.
“Sir!” I cried.
He turned and looked at me. When I saw the front of his face in full, I knew. My suspicions had been correct. This man was indeed Geoffrey Chaucer himself, looking as if he had stepped out of his portrait in the Norton Anthology of English Literature.
“May I buy you a cup of coffee?” I queried.
“Coffee?” he replied. “What is coffee?”
Realizing that both coffee and tea had come to England a few centuries after his death, I quickly changed my question.
“How about a drink?” I asked.
“A drink would be very nice, thank you.”
I introduced myself as we walked toward a crowded Starbucks. As we approached the entrance, he chivalrously opened the door for me. Understanding that, though his English now was much more understandable than anything I read from the Canterbury tales, he would have no idea how or what to order, I told him to sit down in one of the big, patterned, oversized chairs.
Moments later, I returned to his side with two mocha chip frappuchinos (the cost of which is a small fortune for poor college students like me, but considering the wonderful opportunity that this could be, I did it anyway). After taking a sip, he smiled.
“My, my. This is delicious! Things certainly have changed,” he said. “What year is it, anyway?”
“Well, Mr. Chaucer, the year is 2010.”
I watched him nearly choke on his drink.
“And things have not changed that much,” I replied.
“Well then, young lady. Suppose you inform me how a world with steel horses and candles without flames and buildings made of glass is the same as the world that I knew.”
“Sir, the things that you have spoken of are indeed changes and signs of progress in the world, but the characters of the people in this world are such that you would easily recognize,” I responded.
“Indeed?” asked he quizzically. “Go on.”
“I will compare your Wife of Bath, your Pardoner, and your Parson to their modern day counterparts.”
And so I began my tale to the master tale teller.
Wommen desire to have sovereinetee.[1]This was the desire of the Wife of Bath. She desired to rule over her husbands, over her money, and to be equal in society. In the same way, there is a woman today known as the Feminist Woman. While she and her friends say that they merely want equality with men in every way, what many of them really mean is that they want power over men. They desire not to be subject to men; rather they want the authority of the men to wield over them.
In a more comical similarity, the Wife of Bath gives her heroine exactly what she herself wants: youth, beauty, and the magic to keep them forever. For by my trouthe, I wol be to you bothe—This is to sayn, ye, bothe fair and good . . . Caste up the curtin, looke how that it is.[2] The Desperate Housewife of today is the modern day Wife of Bath. However, the Desperate Housewife has what the Wife did not—the power to attain these things! As the Wife of Bath, the Desperate Housewife wants to look gorgeous and young at all times. With the magic of a piece of plastic known as a credit card, she buys herself a facelift to remove the wrinkles from around her eyes and to firm up the skin on her cheek. Using the same power, she can buy herself new breasts, remove unwanted fat, and dye her hair a lovely new color.
I could see Mr. Chaucer’s eyes widening in amazement, and the look on his face made me smile.
“Oh my!” he said.
Your Pardoner, I must say, was a very unsavory character. His tale concerned the sin of Avarice, something that he himself was afflicted with to his very core. I would say that he struggled with it, but that would be incorrect because he does not seem to strive against it as much as he appears to embrace it wholeheartedly. However, he is honest about his dishonesty, and it is through this that we learn more about him. The pardoner speaks of how he swindles poor people in various towns out of their money, convincing them that he has the power to forgive their sins if they pay him money. Of avarice and of swich cursednesse is all my preching, for to make hem free, to yiven hir pens and namely unto me, for myn entente is nat but for to winne, and no thing for correccion of sinne.[3] There are still those in the church who prey upon the innocent and weak. In this, the Pardoner is similar to what is known as the Televangelist. I have no doubt, Mr. Chaucer, that there were good Pardoners in your day, men who were driven by love instead of by their greed. So it is in this era; however, the Televangelist has a reputation for tending to favor the bad Pardoner rather than the good. The bad Televangelist pretends to speak the Truth of God, but really he speaks with the cunning of a snake. People are led to believe that, in order to further the Kingdom of God, they must send their money to the Televangelist. Many of these people are poor, and they do not realize that their money is not being used for good, but rather to fund the luxurious lifestyle of the Televangelist.
“Yes, yes,” Chaucer murmured. “How very interesting. But tell me; is there no good in the church today? Is it all evil? There was some good to be found in my time”
I smiled.
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “Or else you would not find me in church every Sunday.”
This brought me to the Parson. The Parson was a good man, a man who stood faithful even among the wolves found in the church. He was poor, caring, loving, and good. Furthermore, he practiced that which he preached—he was no hypocrite. He served his parishioners humbly, and taught only Christ. But in his teching discreet and benign, to drawen folk to hevene by fairnesse by good ensample—this was his bisinesse . . . He taught, but first he folwed it himself.[4] The Parson is like my Pastor. He does not live in a grand house, he does not steal money from any man, he can be found in the rooms of the sick, in the homes of the broken, and offering assistance without being asked. About the Parson is said, God loved he best with al his hole herte, at alle times, though him gamed or smerte. The same can be said of my Pastor. Whether grieving over the passing of a friend or dealing with the cancer of his daughter, he can always be found praising God and loving Him still. As you showed, Mr. Chaucer, the Parson was a rare man among men of the church—the good Pastor, though more plentiful than the Parson, can be hard to find. In the Bible, in John 10:11, Jesus says, “I am the good shepherd: the good shepherd gives his life for the sheep.” Pastors also are to be shepherds of the church. A shepherd cares for the sheep, protects the sheep, and feeds the sheep—unlike the other members of the Church among your Pilgrims, Mr. Chaucer, the Parson was the only true Shepherd. My Pastor is a good Shepherd.
So you see, while things in my world may look very different from the world that you knew, there is nothing new under the sun. People are still the same as they were—there are still people who are obsessed with beauty, power, and fortune, and there are still those who help and love others without expecting anything in return. Technology will come and go, advances will grace civilization, and the external things will change, but humanity will remain basically the same for the rest of time.
I finished my statement and realized that my mouth was very dry since I had been doing more talking than drinking. Stopping for a sip, I looked expectantly at Mr. Chaucer and waited for him to say something.
He smiled, but as he opened his mouth to speak, there was a loud beeping sound. While I looked around for signs of a fire alarm, Mr. Chaucer began to fade. I looked back. He was disappearing.
“Erin!” a voice spoke my name.
“Mr. Chaucer,” I called frantically.
“Erin, wake up!”
I started. The voice belonged to my husband, Patrick. The beeping belonged to his alarm.
“Can you make coffee? I’m running late!”
Patrick’s voice cut through my dream. And thus was the end of a wonderful dream and the beginning of a very long day.
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