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OBJECTIVES/GOALS: Test the effects of a community health worker supported model to deliver home-based COVID-19 testing in the Yakima Valley (Washington) and Flathead Reservation (Montana) METHODS/STUDY POPULATION: A pragmatic, randomized controlled clinical trial evaluating the effects of a community health worker supported model to deliver home-based COVID-19 testing in the Yakima Valley (Washington) and Flathead Reservation (Montana) vs. a modified direct-to-consumer. 400 participants will be enrolled, 200 from each community. Outcomes include comparing the number of completed testing kits as well as the number of testing kits with successful (detected vs not-detected) results. RESULTS/ANTICIPATED RESULTS: The poster presents preliminary results from 191 participants, blinded to study assignment. To date, 53% of enrolled participants returned a sample for testing and 39% received a usable (detected or not-detected) result. Our populations experienced a high-rate (16%) of sample errors, required 28 replacement kits and had 20 participants randomized to the control arm receive the intervention to ensure participants received testing during the pandemic. DISCUSSION/SIGNIFICANCE: Home-based testing models are build for those who are proficient in verbal and written English, have high tech. literacy and continuous access to internet. For home-based testing to have similar success rates as white Americans, cultural and demographic differences and disparities will need to be accounted for in development and implementation.
This chapter focuses upon the concept of a library in this period, and asks whether the expansion in the scale and scope of institutional holdings in this period changed the ways in which they were perceived and used. It examines the terminology used to refer to them; their physical organization, and the identity and responsibilities of those given custody of them. It reveals the existence of shared practices and perceptions across Latin Europe, and points to continuity in the understanding of what constituted a library: a resource that served the liturgical and devotional as well as the intellectual requirements of a community.
The account of the office and duties of the cantor in the monastic customs compiled during the late 1070s or early 1080s by Archbishop Lanfranc for Henry, prior of Christ Church, Canterbury, ends by assigning to him general responsibility for the community's books: ‘He takes care of all the books of the house, and has them in his keeping, if his interests and learning are such as to fit him for keeping them.’ By the later eleventh century it had become common in England and on the Continent for the duties of the cantor to be combined with those of the armarius, to whom several late tenth and eleventh century customaries had assigned custody of the community's books in addition to oversight of the liturgical and other readings, together with certain other duties. For Anglo-Norman England, the norms described in customaries can be supported by other forms of documentary evidence from the twelfth century onwards, recording the allocation of revenues to the cantor for various purposes associated with the production, custody and upkeep of books. The identification of the handwriting of a number of cantors acting at some point in their career as copyists, annotators and correctors has also been seen to reflect the close relationship between the cantor and the production and custody of books. In a volume that examines the activities of those involved in the practice of the liturgy, its music and the writing of history, and seeks to understand and explain how such activities might be connected, it may be helpful to consider in more detail to what extent and in what ways the duties of the combined office of cantor-armarius encompassed the provision of books within Anglo-Norman monastic communities, which other offices were associated with the provision of books and why the amalgamation of the roles of cantor and armarius continued to endure throughout the twelfth century and beyond.
The production and custody of books
Lanfranc's assigning of the care of the community's books to the cantor, like much else in his customs, reflects the influence of the customs of Cluny.
At some point during the 1070s the archbishop of Canterbury, Lanfranc, wrote to Herfast (bishop of East Anglia 1070–84/5) in trenchant terms. Much of his letter criticized the bishop's lifestyle – ‘Give up the dicing (to mention nothing worse) and the world's amusements in which you are said to idle away the entire day’ – and the company he kept: ‘Banish the monk Hermann, whose life is notorious for its many faults, from your society and your household completely.’ Instead, Lanfranc told his bishop to read Scripture and above all to master the decrees of the Roman pontiffs and the canons of the holy councils, to ‘discover what you do not know’ and ‘ensure that you hold no opinion that is at variance with your mother church’. The significance of that advice finds context in the opening of the letter, which relates to the affairs of the abbey of Bury St Edmunds. After a conventional greeting, where Lanfranc wished Bishop Herfast might be humble in wisdom and of sober understanding, the archbishop began by observing that Berard, a cleric of Abbot Baldwin of Bury, had delivered a previous letter from the Archbishop to Bishop Herfast. He went on:
As [Berard] himself affirmed to me later, you made a coarse joke about it; you uttered cheap and unworthy remarks about me in the hearing of many; and you declared on oath that you would give me no assistance in that matter. There will be another time and another place to speak of those things. But my immediate instructions are these: that you lay no claim to the property of St Edmund unless you can give indisputable proof that it was claimed by your predecessors and that you discharge the aforesaid Berard without any fine or threat of punishment, until the case comes into our own court and can be rightly concluded according to canon law and our own ruling as judge.
There are three types of epilepsy: analempsia, epilempsia, and catalempsia. Analempsia has that name because it deprives the sacred parts of the head of sensation, and it arises either from neglect of the stomach, or from an excess of food or drink, or from drinking cold things, or from luxury … Epilempsia has that name from seizure of the mind and senses, and when they are besieged the body is also possessed, for it is a serious and slow affliction. Some call this sickness comitialis, others the holy affliction, and the Greeks call it geronoson … Catalempsia is epilepsy accompanied by fever … the sickness of cataleptics starts with the feet or lower legs. When they feel the advancing pain and catarrh, it comes from an excess of blood, or rather, choler ferments in the confines of the stomach, with no natural exit, whence it burdens the head and injures the senses.
This explanation of the causes and effects working within the human body is found in an eleventh-century medical text from Salerno, the Passionarius (‘Book of Diseases’) attributed to the physician Gariopontus. This medical text survives in sixty-five medieval manuscripts, one of which is now London, British Library, MS Royal 12. C. xxiv. Michael Gullick has identified the script of this manuscript as that of an early twelfth-century scribe of Bury St Edmunds, demonstrating that this text was known at Bury in the generation after the physician-abbot Baldwin.
The notion that the history of the abbey of Bury St Edmunds after the Norman Conquest was unusual is not new. William of Malmesbury in his Gesta pontificum described St Edmund as ‘the first of the saints of the country’. And in the Gesta regum he wrote that the saint's abbey was remarkable both for its capacity to attract patronage and to repulse tax-collectors:
By these arts he has so engaged the loyalty of all the inhabitants of Britain that anyone thinks it a privilege to enrich his monastery by even a penny. Even kings, the lords of other men, rejoice to call themselves his servants, and place their royal crown at his service, redeeming it at a great price if they wish to use it. The tax-collectors who run riot in other places, making no distinction between right and wrong, are on their knees before St Edmund, and stay their legal processes at his boundary-ditch, knowing from experience how many have suffered who have thought fit to persist.
A monk of the great Ile-de-France abbey of Saint-Denis, Abbot Baldwin of Bury St Edmunds (1065–97) was the one non-Englishman to be an abbot in England on the day that Harold lost the Battle of Hastings. He had first visited England well before his appointment to Bury in 1065 and been treated with great favour by King Edward.
The medieval persona of St Edmund, as far as it can be recovered, is generally recognised to have resided in Abbo of Fleury's Passio sancti Eadmundi. Written at the request of the monks of Ramsey at the end of the tenth century, this text was swiftly adopted by the Benedictine community at Bury, where it appears to have been recorded in a booklist from the 1040s, and from whose scribes three eleventh-century copies survive. The Passio was undoubtedly a creative stimulus for the local community, for it gave rise both to the famous cycle of illuminations in the twelfth-century illustrated libellus, now New York, Pierpont Morgan Library, MS M. 736, and to an important collection of eleventh-century chants for St Edmund's feast, which forms the basis of this chapter. Even Bury's late eleventh-century hagiographer Herman owed a debt to Abbo: in alluding to the story of the Passio, commenting on the general shortage of other available accounts, and apparently fashioning his own Miracula as a continuation of that narrative. One might be forgiven for assuming, therefore, that the St Edmund portrayed by Abbo's Passio – the humble, peace-loving figure characterised by Antonia Gransden as a model of Christian kingship – was the very same St Edmund known to the monks of Bury.
In comparison with the large number of manuscripts at Saint-Denis from the Carolingian period and the twelfth century, the sources for the eleventh century, the time of Abbot Baldwin of Bury St Edmunds, are meagre. This is one indication that the abbey suffered severe losses in the tenth century at the hands of the Normans. It lost many of its domains, the fabric of the church seems to have deteriorated greatly, and the performance of the liturgy seems to have become lax.
Abbot Suger, writing in the 1140s, saw the division of the Carolingian empire under the sons of the son of Louis the Pious, that is, Charles the Bald, as the major reason for Saint-Denis's losses. In addition to the problem the monks faced in recovering their illustrious past, the monastery encountered two major challenges to its prestige in the first half of the eleventh century. First of all, the monks at Saint Emmeram, Regensburg, claimed that they had the relics of St Denis. In response to this, the saint's body was exhumed in 1053, and a new feast, the Detection of Saint Denis, was celebrated on 9 June to commemorate this event. Secondly, the bishop of Paris challenged Saint-Denis's claims of exemption from episcopal control. So it is perhaps not surprising that the extant manuscripts and charters from the eleventh century reflect both of these topics: charters were forged to prove the monastery's independence from episcopal control, and manuscripts were created for its new liturgical celebrations.
An accurate picture of the architectural history of Abbot Baldwin's church began to emerge already in the middle of the nineteenth century, as for example with Graham Hills's study of 1865. The first person to make sense of the remains on the site as a whole was Arthur Whittingham, with the research he published in the early 1950s, and many aspects of the subject were investigated further at the conference of the British Archaeological Association of 1994, organized by Antonia Gransden. In the present essay I want to examine three things: the contrast between the Norman church and its Anglo-Saxon predecessors; how relations between the abbey and the diocese in the late eleventh century may be reflected in changes in the plan of the church; and the relationship between the plans of the abbey and the town.
The Contrast between the Norman Church and its Anglo-Saxon Predecessors
According to Abbo of Fleury, when St Edmund's body arrived in Beodricesworth (before c. 950), the faithful of the vill built a very large wooden church to receive it. Nothing is recorded of its shape. Cnut and Emma supported the building of a church which was begun about 1020 and consecrated in 1031 or 1032, the new work, according to Herman, being carried out in stone.
O Mars god of war, who curbs kingdoms by the sword,
who demands bloodied corpses of young men,
and men's blood poured out in mass slaughter,
what was your intent; how great your thirst for evil,
when in their midst you ordered savage troops to battle?
In the late 1060s, a cleric, possibly the bishop of Amiens, wrote a poem on the Norman Conquest. It represented William the Conqueror as a hero worthy of Troy, rightfully claiming a kingdom; but it also depicted him as a warrior revelling in gore, enthralled to the god Mars. The poet told of how venerable age and beautiful youth lay mingled in death on the battlefield and how William camped at Dover where the vanquished came to seek terms and kiss his feet, ‘just as flies … throng in swarms to sores full of blood’. Blood was impure in the eyes of the religious. A drop of blood was enough to desecrate a sanctuary. The taint of blood from intercourse rendered a priest unfit to say Mass, and to shed the blood of a Christian was to shed the blood of Christ. The mordant analogy of those sores full of blood – the Normans – marching upon Westminster, where their leader would be sacramentally anointed, should have troubled the conscience of the king the poet pretended to flatter. His subtext betrays horror and the expectation of penance. Comparable pressure came from the Norman bishops who imposed penance on William and his troops.