On the correct care of the clerical smile...

I have already spoken of Custody of the Eyes while Cleaning Father's Toilet,and Sixteen Ways of Ironing a Priest's Shirt, and also How to Serve Father Flealessly.

Today I want to give some advice on Finding and Cleaning Father's Dentures.

What a marvel is a holy Priest's smile! At times I have been very miserable over a teeny, inconsequential grievance such as poor nutrition or lack of heating. The Devil has entered my Soul. He has almost compelled me to ask for an extra two dollars a month.

The Smile has driven away the Devil and made me content with my Lot.

When Father smiles it seems that Heaven has opened.

St Michael and all the Angels come down and set up residence in my glass-louvred extension to the Presbytery. They sweep away the loneliness since the dog was moved inside for warmth.

It was, however, a special moment that made me realize the need for Smile Maintenance for the Parish Priest.

One morning I entered Father's Room with my usual 'Cup of Tea Father?' delivered in the low to middle register with no irritating tones and in the Respectful Manner of a Woman of Canonical Age.

I was met with the interrogation, 'Have you seen My Clackers, Molly?'

It was the morning after the Diocesan Priests' Conference at which Father had received the Jamesons' Conviviality Award.

The Award stood on the table with its shiny inscription, 'It ain't a Presbytery without Jamesons'.

I noticed the absence of the usual Morning Smile. Father's lips were pressed tight together in an expression I only recommend in my Tips on Answering the Door behind the Grille.

'Clackers, Father?'

'Choppers, Molly.'

I still could not comprehend.

Father felt he should descend from the Noble Speech of the Holy and Ordained Celibate Priesthood down into the vernacular.

'There's something gone missing from the Entrance to Beer Street.'

'The door's gone from the Bone Box, the Clack Box, the Prattler.'

I was still none the wiser.

Father is always tolerant of my female lack of comprehension. He is so patient.

'Missing m' rattlers, m' EATING TACKLE which is why I am keeping m' rubies closed like a convent door.'

I stood silent. The Custody of the Eyes must be observed until understanding arrives.

Father's dog lay there, still as a bun, no help at all, its eyes like black currants. It is a Pekinese with a caffe latte colour and feathered paws, and it hates me, but we all have a Cross to Bear, and that animal will definitely not make it to heaven..

'Molly, I HAVE LOST MY DENTURES AND I HAVE TO SPEAK AT THE BISHOPS' CONFERENCE THIS AFTERNOON !'

It was then my training came to my rescue.

'Another Cup of tea, Father?'

'Forget tea, find the FANGS.'

Father's wish is my command, so the search began. First, of course, a prayer to St Anthony, the saint of lost things.

A housekeeper has to be something of a detective who can keep the Seal of the Confessional.

I started at Familiar Territory, the Toilet.

I have very long arms, and fortunately from my diet, they are not only long, but very slender and my fingers are of extraordinary length, so I was able to reach down and detect the missing dentures round the bend.

The Devil Himself, however, foiled me from grasping them.

To the rescue, however, came parishioner Paddy O'Reilly.

He and the Council Sewage and Septic Tank Service, after instructions bound by the Seal of the Confessional and the Custody of the Voice, were able to retrieve the runaway 'clackers' (oh how I still laugh at the manly and worldly expression) before they floated into Duck Creek.

The rescued dentures were certainly transporting a lot of undesirable passengers from their journey, but I was equal to the task.

A mixture of sodium bicarbonate and citric acid loosened the particles and the effervescent compound also neutralized the bacteria, and broke down the proteins.

I soaked the dentures in a mixture of mouthwash, detergent and bleach before attacking them with my best hair brush, a gift from my mother.

I was careful not to use any abrasive cleaning power and I did not use any sandpaper or files.

Instead, I held the priestly dentures over a bowl of water delicately and reverently between my thumb and forefinger.

It was a moment of discretion, intimacy and holy secrecy.

I have confessed the intimacy in the Sacrament of Penance and Reconciliation.

I gave the teeth (I do not like the term false teeth because there is nothing untrue about Father) a final wash in Polident.

A quick trip to the local library brought the knowledge that one in five priests aged over 55 years wears dentures, and fungal infections can result from lack of hygiene.

What, I wondered, happened from several hours of transport in a sewer line?

It was then that Saint Anthony came to my rescue.

I popped the teeth into the microwave for two minutes.

Nothing could live in there, surely.

I placed them on a table where I knew Father would pass.

Soon I heard him call, 'Molly, I have found the clappers — just in time !'

I replied, again in the lower register, 'Cup of Tea, Father?'

Until next time, Good Housekeeping!

Molly Arbeit

Molly Arbeit is ready to give tips to housekeepers in the Vineyard of the Lord. Molly has been a housekeeper to priests, bishops and even cardinals since about the time Adam was a little boy and knows more about the in and outs of clerical politics and good manners than even Ratz does.

Molly welcomes your pearls of wisdom, and just plain good old housekeeperly tips, in our discussion forum and she always welcomes your questions and feedback.

©2006 Clifford Baxter

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