St. Swithin’s Day Greetings!

‘St Swithin’s Day, if it does rain
Full forty days, it will remain
St Swithin’s Day, if it be fair
For forty days, ‘twill rain na mair [no more].’

This verse still oft is repeated in England referring to a 9th century Saxon bishop also known as Swithun, Swithern, and his Latin appellation Swithurus.

Bishop S. was very big on apple trees and the planting thereof, and scandalized his Church peers by throwing lavish feasts for poor people rather than rich ones, who of course are and always have been the Church’s bread and butter. His most famous miracle was restoring to wholeness a basket of eggs maliciously smashed by workmen on a bridge. You take your divine magic where you can get it, I suppose, and I’m sure the owner of the eggs, some downtrodden Saxon farm girl no doubt, was very grateful to him.

The rhyme, I’m afraid, is utter tosh, meteorologically speaking, but apparently Swithin asked to be buried out of doors rather than in a cathedral as was his privilege and perhaps duty as a bishop, so when they tried to disinter and move his remains into a more stylish indoor crypt on July 15, 971, efforts, according to legend, were hampered by a 40-day deluge. Requiescat In Pace means just that, Church guys, and don’t you forget it.

I had to look for all this information since I’m not up to speed on very many saints. In fact, the only time I recall any reference to him was on a TV variety show several decades past. I don’t remember who else was there, but John Wayne sat onstage while someone or other prattled on, and whoever it was asked the Duke if anyone ever called him by his given name, Marion.

Wayne smirked and nodded, and said, “That fella woulda been 56 years old, come St. Swithin’s Day.”

I think there were other Swithin references in the program though I could be mistaken, but the point is that most Americans aren’t too familiar with someone the English know well and perhaps take for granted.

Photo credit: Georges Palamino

However and but, I am here to rectify that situation by bringing this venerable apple plucker’s feast day home and hopefully dry to all my friends on both sides of the briny – hands across the water, Lend-Lease, over paid, over sexed, and over here, there will always be a sceptr’d isle, this earth, this realm, and so on and so forth …

‘St. Swithun’s Day, her birthday is,

Our naughty Poppy, English Ms.

St. Swithun’s Day, on this you’ll bank,

That I’ll her bottom sorely spank.’

(Edna Millay, eat your heart out)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, POPPY!