The Emperor, the Laurel Wreath, and the Department of Atmospheric Unpleasantness

An entirely reasonable response to thunderstorms, according to ancient Rome.

Dear Gentle Reader,

I have made a discovery.

A rather important discovery, actually, and one that may forever change the way thunderstorms are handled at The Metaphysical Haberdashery.

It began innocently enough. I was working on the Apothecary Shelves, researching Bay Laurel (Laurus nobilis), a lovely Mediterranean evergreen with a distinguished history involving prophecy, poetry, victory, and the god Apollo.

As someone whose name, Laura, comes from the laurel, I was finding the research particularly interesting.

And then I encountered Emperor Tiberius.

Now, Tiberius ruled the Roman Empire from AD 14 to 37. He commanded armies, governed vast territories, and possessed considerably more political authority than most of us will ever enjoy.

He was also, apparently, terrified of thunderstorms.

Well.

At last, an emperor with whom I have something in common.

I don't particularly care for thunderstorms myself. The thunder is bad enough, but the lightning is another matter entirely. Living here on the Caribbean coast of Mexico, where thunderstorms can arrive with considerable theatrical enthusiasm, I have had ample opportunity to develop this opinion.

And apparently, Tiberius agreed with me.

According to the Roman naturalist Pliny the Elder, the ancients believed that lightning would never strike a laurel tree.

Tiberius, being a practical sort of emperor when it came to matters of personal survival, reportedly took to wearing a laurel wreath whenever thunder threatened.

A laurel wreath.

On his head.

During thunderstorms.

I read this and immediately recognized the brilliance of the arrangement.

Here I have been, all these years, enduring thunderstorms without the slightest consideration for proper imperial headwear.

Clearly, an oversight.

The matter seemed perfectly straightforward.

Until I mentioned it at the Haberdashery.

An Emergency Meeting of the Department of Atmospheric Unpleasantness

Sir Henry, our resident peacock and Director of Interdimensional Correspondence and Cross-Portal Affairs, received the news with considerable interest.

Not because he was concerned about thunderstorms.

Not because he was concerned about my safety.

But because the words imperial ceremonial headwear had caught his attention.

"An emperor, you say?" he inquired, adjusting his bow tie.

"Yes, Henry. Emperor Tiberius."

"And he wore a crown?"

"A laurel wreath."

"During thunderstorms?"

"Precisely."

Sir Henry considered this information.

"I shall require one as well."

"Henry, you're a peacock."

"An observation of astonishing irrelevance."

He turned to Mr. Nibwick, his long-suffering secretary.

"Nibwick! We shall require two ceremonial wreaths. One for the Proprietress and one for myself. Mine should be slightly larger."

Mr. Nibwick, who had been attempting to enjoy his tea, quietly set down his cup.

"Very good, sir."

"And naturally, we shall need a department to oversee their maintenance."

"A department, sir?"

"One cannot leave imperial ceremonial headwear lying about unattended, Nibwick. Standards must be maintained."

"Of course, sir. And who shall maintain these standards?"

Sir Henry looked genuinely surprised.

"Why, you, naturally."

The Appointment of Mr. Nibwick

Within minutes, Sir Henry had drafted an official proclamation.

Or rather, he had dictated one.

Mr. Nibwick had drafted it.

THE METAPHYSICAL HABERDASHERY

Official Appointment, Regulation No. 49

Mr. Nibwick is hereby appointed:

Keeper and Maintainer of the Imperial Laurel Wreath

His duties shall include the care, preservation, inspection, storage, and immediate deployment of ceremonial laurel wreaths during periods of atmospheric unpleasantness.

Sir Henry shall retain full supervisory authority while assuming absolutely no responsibility for the condition, whereabouts, or readiness of said wreaths.

In the event of thunder, Mr. Nibwick shall present the appropriate wreath to the Proprietress without delay.

Sir Henry shall observe proceedings from a suitably sheltered location.

Signed,

Sir Henry

Director of Interdimensional Correspondence and Cross-Portal Affairs

Dictated but not read.

Filed by Mr. Nibwick, who must now also make the wreaths.

A Question of Responsibility

There is, of course, one small complication.

Sir Henry's entire professional philosophy can be summarized in a single sentence:

"I observe everything. I am responsible for nothing."

It is a philosophy he has perfected over many years of diligent inactivity.

He has unrestricted observational privileges, a secretary who performs the actual work, unlimited tea privileges, and the authority to look deeply concerned without being required to do anything whatsoever.

He is, in short, magnificently qualified for management.

Mr. Nibwick, meanwhile, has acquired yet another responsibility.

I found him later that afternoon sitting at his desk, surrounded by botanical reference books, measuring tape, twine, and several sketches of laurel wreaths.

"How are things progressing, Mr. Nibwick?" I asked.

"Very well, madam. I have located a suitable supplier of laurel leaves, established a storage protocol, and begun preparing an emergency thunderstorm deployment procedure."

"Excellent!"

"There is one question, however."

"Yes?"

"His Lordship has requested that his wreath accommodate his crest feathers."

I considered this.

"That could be rather complicated."

"Indeed, madam. Particularly as he has also requested that the wreath not interfere with his sunglasses."

I left Mr. Nibwick to his calculations.

Some problems are best left to the professionals.

The Next Thunderstorm

And so, Gentle Reader, we await the next thunderstorm.

Somewhere in the Haberdashery, Mr. Nibwick is undoubtedly preparing two magnificent laurel wreaths.

Sir Henry is supervising from a comfortable chair, probably with a biscuit.

And I am looking forward to the day when the first distant rumble of thunder rolls across the Caribbean sky and I can announce, with all the dignity of a Roman emperor:

"Nibwick! My laurel wreath!"

I cannot promise that wearing a crown of leaves will make thunderstorms any less frightening.

But I suspect it will make them considerably more entertaining.

And really, isn't that one of the loveliest things about exploring old traditions?

Sometimes you discover ancient wisdom.

Sometimes you discover forgotten folklore.

And sometimes you discover that a Roman emperor was just as frightened of thunderstorms as you are and had the wonderfully absurd idea of putting a salad on his head.

Until next time, may your skies be clear, your tea be warm, and your ceremonial headwear be properly maintained.

With a little magic and considerable amusement,

Laura

The Metaphysical Haberdashery

Old Ways & Wyrd Things

Postscript: Mr. Nibwick has requested that I clarify one important matter. The Department of Atmospheric Unpleasantness is not responsible for actual weather conditions, lightning protection, or the behavior of peacocks during electrical storms.

Sir Henry has approved this disclaimer.

He considers it an excellent example of responsible delegation.