Where Have All The Bloggers Gone...?

Where have all the bloggers gone?
Long time passing.
Where have all the bloggers gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the bloggers gone?
Gone to sle-ep every one.
When will they ever learn?
When will they e-ver learn?

Hey, you guys! Wake up! It's snowing like billy-o, Emi's about to produce, Soe and Colin are engaged, Kevin saved a couple of folk from their blazing home, Papa's been on Fox News oh my word, and Christmas is coming and the geese are getting fat! Please put a penny in the old man's hat. If you haven't got a penny, a ha'penny will do. If you haven't got a ha'penny, God bless you! For all you fine folk looking for a little prosperity in the new year, the Figgy pudding will be stirred on Monday...yes, I know it's 2 months late, but I'll compensate with an extra glug or two! We surely will miss the Banana this year. Now I know how my parents must have felt when I came to America in 1968. (Or maybe they raised the flag and had a huge celebration!)

MERRY CHRISTMAS

and

GOD BLESS US ALL, EVERY ONE!

Advent

Advent refers to the 'coming' or 'arrival' of something or someone. Typically, we think of the birth of the Messiah, Who is Jesus, the Christ. This is one of my favourite times of the year, a time of expectation, of secrets, of staying up all night, creating, wrapping up those secrets. It is a time of greenery and tradition, making memories. I love the fact that Soe has her Ornament Making Party every year, reminding us of school days when school chums used to come to the house to make exquisite ornaments. My very favourite one was a tiny Christmas fairy, the details of which were extraordinary, and to whose front had been glued two beads of enormous proportion! (All modestly hidden under her paper dress!) One of the puppies, however, made short work of enjoying her for an Advent snack! This is the time when Christmas puddings are made, using the very best ingredients, and being careful not to be stingy with the orange brandy! Tradition tells us that all who stir the Christmas Pud will enjoy prosperity in the coming year! This would be the year, then, to come on over to my house on the Pudding Making Day, to put all your financial fears to rest!
This year is no exception to that presence of expectancy: somehow, there's a magic hush in the air. We are all anticipating the imminent birth of Emi and Kevin's first child, a miracle in the making! We're holding our breath, savouring each moment of each day. As a mother, I'm quietly following Emi's progression, and remembering...it truly is a miracle, with the birth of each new child.
Another memory is in the making: we, along with some of the family, shall all gather at Soe and Colin's new house to celebrate Christmas together. Sadly, Hannah will be unable to join us this year. Lucy and John shall come and join us, and maybe Baby Kouri will be here by then! Jerry and MariaLuisa may come too. What a time we'll all have! This is our first year without any parents/grandparents, so it'll be such a good thing to be together, to remember, to encourage.
Our little tree in the woods looks so beautiful, it seems to be heralding in this wonderful time of Advent, this time of mysteries and excitement..."How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given!"

Big Kevin's Tree

I've come a dozen times or more in the last few weeks, and each time I've discovered that inspiration's running awry! I really love to write, and find it strange that my heart and brain have cramped up to such a degree. And so, though I have no idea as to content, I have made a promise that today, when I log in, I shall not log out until I have put pen to paper, or rather, fingers to keys!

We have recently spent a couple of days with dear friends and family up at Sugarbush, in Vermont, to celebrate family and friends and Thanksgiving. Apart from companionable conversation, delicious food, detailing our thankfulness and blessings, and generally enjoying each others' company, Big Kevin jazzed up the whole event by performing his (now!) famous Annual Christmas Tree in the Woods Lighting Ceremony! Despite Kristin's whining about why couldn't she watch it from the living room, why did she have to come outside?, he was not to be discouraged! And, of course, partly because of Kristin's groans and moans, he had to do an emergency oh-my-word-I-hope-it-works sort of a test, so he quickly plugged it in and immediately out just to make sure. When we were all crammed onto the porch, dogs and all, did we do a count-down? I can't remember! But on went the lights, and my heart soared! I have a feeling that a few in the party were merely humouring the light lighter, but it was clear to see what great pleasure he derived from this simple act of giving! When we came home, one of the very first things I did was to go into the woods with the dogs to find the perfect little Christmas tree, I clothed her with the prettiest little fairy lights attached to a very long green landscaping extension cord and turned her on, not with the attending crowd, just me and the dogs. It was one of those moments: quiet, peaceful, magic. I thought of Kevin and Liz, and how much they mean to us, and wished that, if it could be, they could be a part of that moment...only to realize, on contemplation, that they had! I shall try very hard to take a picture of this magic tree and post it here. I'm not sure that I can remember how to do it, but will try.

Philosophy and the Soul, a good choice!

Si vis studere philosophiae animoque, hoc studium non potest valere sine frugalitate. Haec frugalitas est paupertas voluntaria. Tolle, igitur, istas excusationes: "Nondum satis pecuniae habeo. Si quando illud 'satis' habebo, tum me totum philosophiae dabo." Incipe nunc philosophiae, non pecuniae, studere. Seneca, Epistulae 17:5

If you wish to devote yourself to philosophy and to the soul, this pursuit is not able to be strong without frugality. This frugality is voluntary poverty. Therefore, take away those excuses of yours: "I don't yet have enough money. If ever I shall have that 'enough', then I shall give my entire self to philosophy." Begin now, to devote yourself to philosophy, not to money.

Good advice! When philosophical thinking becomes passion, then finances will fall into the correct perspective!

Remembrance Day

A friend from Canada gave me a poppy on Sunday. My sister forwarded a pictoral message entitled "Lest We Forget". I am awed at the courage of these brave, patriotic soldiers, whose choice to go isn't an option, but a life's drive, a must go. No greater love be known, but the love that lays down his own life for another's sake. I remember a few here: Uncle Richard, Richard Madden, Jesse Strong, Helen's son, Tim's friends...and I'll remember the fields in France, to which poppies return each year to remember the blood that was spilled...so many to thank, to honour.

Teddy Bear's Picnic

If you go out on the lawn tonight
You'd better go in disguise!
If you go out on the lawn tonight
You'll never believe your eyes.
For Bruno Bear, as bold as you please,
Will come and dine, way down on his knees
On sunflower hearts I hung in the sun for birdies!

A Gaggle of Geese

It happens every year round about this time, when one goose says to another goose,"Gaggle, gaggle, gaggle!" And then that goose turns to his nieghbour and almost repeats what he just heard, "Goggle, gaggle, goggle", who honks to his friend, "Gotta goand google", who, honking sweet nothings into the ear of his fiance, includes "Gotta, getta, going!!" It's the old Norman Rockwell thing all over again. Nobody really listens, but in this case, the geese somehow get it right, because as everybody knows "Gaggle, gaggle, gaggle" means "Come on, you lot, it's time to fly south again! Pack your bags and line up straight!! And don't forget your goggles!" And off they go gaggling, goggling and giggling all the way, flying low over the house to make sure I come running out to wave them off, and in the waving, feeling just a little part of me leaving with them, and knowing that if I don't warn them about Chesapeake Bay, they won't beware...Have a good flight, a warm winter, and we'll see you in the Spring...so long, farewell, auf wiedersehn, adieu! And off they go, ribboning their way across the autumn skies to warmer climes, that tiny part of me trailing behind...wait for me...

The Malta-Weave Knitting Bag

Today I found my Mummy's bag
The Malta-Weave striped knitting bag.
It used to hang right by her chair,
Her comfy, sagey fire-side chair.
She bought the bag when I was new
And she not more than thirty two.
It used to house her knitting things
Her needles, patterns, wools and pins,
With which she'd knit such lovely things
For tiny maidens, tiny kings!
It's nice to know that I love too
The art of knitting that she once knew.
It's nice to know that in that bag
Lie memories that never lag
When brought to mind, when stirred anew,
Of island warmth, of childhood muse.
I'd like to think she sees me now,
As I knit and click and hum and how
In this little bag I find such joy
As I knit for our little girl or boy!

Take Me Down To The Sea Again...Again

Have just been remembering some fine memories of Boothbay Harbour, Maine, especially when we first arrived. We had to finish off the school year at home, which I thoroughly enjoyed. We would do our scholastic studies in the morning, and then in the afternoon we'd often go to the beach for our 'Marine Research Unit'! There was a terrific Aquarium nearby which had an amazing educational program for the children, and we had a few friends who worked there, so we had great opportunity to have many guided tours around the place. I was particularly remembering the enormous blue lobster who lived there. He was so.o old! And the cool rock pool, which housed horse-shoe crabs and one of our favourites...the sea cucumber, which never ceased to entertain us by squirting us! Every time! We spent hours and hours down on the beach at Hendick's Head on Southport Island, where we'd find no end of shells and crabs and star fish. At low tide, a group of rocks were left high and dry on the sand, the tallest of these, the girls christened 'Commercial Rock'. I'm not sure that I can remember why! I think they used to play a game that Soe called 'Let's 'tend!' There was always a part for everyone in this 'tending game, and I expect they used to make commercials on Commercial Rock. Telling stories, pretending, collecting treasures...of course, the whole setting was made that more exciting by the fact that the Wicked Witch of the West from the movie 'The Wizard of Oz' had a house just there, down the bay on the rocks, and that certainly added a spicy seasoning! However, if you spent too much time pretending and making commercials, you'd have to swim back to shore, because the tide was tricky, and would rush back in, surrounding all the rocks, before you had time to say 'Shiver Me Timbers!!'
Hannah and Emi were part of the Dolphin Swim Team, which met at 4 pm every afternoon at the 'Y'. Any kid that could swim from one end of the pool to the other could be a part, and they were thrilled and proud to be able to wear those red hooded sweat-shirts with the dolphin on the back. A team to be reckoned with were those Boothbay Dolphins!
On the beach, down by the sea, the whole ebb and flow of it all...a great place to be a child...even when you're old...a great place to be a child!

Woodland Walk

Today, I wore my Mama's hat,

Her bright autumnal titfer (tat).

We walked among the ferns all drippy,

We walked the old familiar way,

Down to the river, down to the pond,

Down by the way of the loon's clear song.

An acorn at my feet I found,

Then lichen, moss and bark and flower,

And soon my arms were full of fall

Of dripping earth and autumn's call.

So homeward bound with all we'd found,

To share with friends

And nourish all!

Swallows and Amazons

I have always wanted to put my childhood memories, which are legion, into a book of memoires, but I think I don't have to anymore. It has already been done! Or rather, this is what seems to be.
I have recently started to read a series of 12 books written by Arthur Ransome, the first of which is 'Swallows and Amazons', first published in 1930. Perhaps you, like countless children since, have read this series, and your lives have been dramatically influenced by it. In the first book, we are introduced to the Walker children: John, Susan, Titty, Roger, Vicky and their Mother.
As children, my four siblings and I, deprived of television and video games, spent our days captivated in one adventure after another. As soon as one mystery was solved, off we'd go on another adventure, which often involved pirates and smugglers and kings and princes, (especially those imprisoned in towers!), murderers and body-snatchers (we lived right next door to the village graveyard)! Our imaginations ran wild, and nobody seemed to think this was detrimental to our growth, except, perhaps, with the exception of when we kidnapped John Innes, who was 4 at the time, tied him up and left him in my chapel to think about his dreadful crimes. It was hours later that his sister, Jessica, came looking for him, and we remembered with horror where we'd left him.
I'm sure that such naughtiness was never displayed in the Walker children, but this book, and in fact, the whole series comes highly recommended, especially if you missed it in your youth.
Beautifully written, this book would be a welcome change to any Book Discussion Club!
Well, I think I shall saunter down to the dock at Houseboat Bay, tackle up the able-bodied catboat Swallow, and tack on over to Wild Cat Island, where I'll no doubt encounter the two intrepid Amazons, Nancy and Peggy Blackett!

Her Rings

Today, I wore my Mother's rings.
They fit so well. They suit me well.
I wore them as I pulled the beans.
I wore them as I watched the scenes
Of Gustav hurtling into land.
I wore the everlasting band,
I wore the red, I wore the gold,
The love within these rings I hold
Within my heart which loudly sings.
Today I wore my Mother's rings.

Home again, home again, Jiggerty jig!

It certainly has been a topsy turvy week and some. Mama Sonia has packed her bags, according to Sonia Elizabeth, and has winged her flight to heaven to join Papa Roger, who has been calling her now for some months. It is a great comfort to me to know that they are together again, to part no more. Sonia told me that at one point, a couple of days before she died, she was talking to someone, instructing them to please make sure that her golf bag was packed, and that it should be packed just so on the bottom...this was very important! Must be that Daddio had organized a tee time! We all flew down to Winter Park to see her off, and to comfort and console each other. It was a good time for that, but as Father Walsh said, this is the end of that era, and that is very hard to swallow. Gone are the days of Mama Sonia's fantastic gourmet dinners. Gone are those dreadful political discussions which became more and more volatile by the second! Just the kind of debate on which the Wall family fed, well, some of them, anyway! I remember Uncle Chente sounding off like a machine gun, then Mama Sonia, totally undaunted, joining in the fray. Papa Roger would screw up his face in disgust, and tell everyone they were nuts! They were able to spew away at each other, and within moments, slap each other on the back, and with mirth and love filling the room, turn their attention to other matters. Gone are the lunch dates, the dinner dates, the museum dates, the art gallery dates, the play dates, and saddest of all: the shopping dates! Thank~you, sweet lady, for all the memories. Thank~you for adopting me as your daughter, and introducing me thus. Thank~you for accepting me for who I am. Thank~you for coming canoeing with me up at Kidney Pond, and keeping your cool, well, almost keeping your cool, when the moose swam out to check us out while circling around our canoe! Phew, with me extremely pregnant with Hannah, that was a little hair-raising! Thank~you for spoiling my children with all those amazing trips to DisneyWorld, Epcot, SeaWorld etc. and their shopping trips. We came to bid you farewell this past week. Did you know that? We were all so sad. You looked so pretty in your periwinkle suit, and your hands crossed just so. Vinny and Lucy poured their hearts out and made us all cry. Jerry honoured Patricia, and thanked her profusely for all her unselfish attention to your every need in the last months. Larrito applied some of that wonderful love~glue on his brothers and brought a semblance of reconciliation between them: for understandably, emotions have run high, and it's been difficult to come to terms. Father Walsh came up trumps! You would have been pleased. But you were millions and trillions of miles away, having a picnic with Papa Roger under a heavenly willow tree, which definitely was not weeping, enjoying the love that still holds you two together, and will, while eternity rolls along!

Hic, haec, hoc

Hic haec hoc
Huius huius huius
Huic huic huic
Hunc hanc hoc
Hoc hac hoc

Hi hae haec
Horum harum horum
His his his
Hos has haec
His his his

Do you old Latin buffs out there remember these paradigms, and having to chant them each morning?? Well, Charlie was so excited about his newly acquired passion for the Latin language that when, on arriving in Dodge City with his friends, they came upon a mysterious old inscription nailed to a hitching post, he was excited to try his hand at translation. This is what the sign read:
TOTI
EMUL
ESTO
O.K. This should be easy, thought he. It looks like the newly learned dative case of totus + emul, like simul, simultaneously? + some form of sum, es, est, the exotic future imperative, perhaps? Unfortunately for Charlie, it was one of his friends who pointed out that the old post simply said: TO TIE MULES TO!!

...and yet another limerick

There was a young maid from Newport,
Who may not have lived as she ought.
She claimed 'twould be fun
To become a good nun
And fly over the town of Newport.

Oh the pranks that this young nun got into!
As Reverend Mother was sucking her Minto
She espied flying high
In the evening sky
The newly arrived nun from Newport.

Her whistle she blew loud and clear
As the young novice flew through the air,
Loop de loops and a dive
Completed by five
Which finished the young nun's career!

Moss

We've had plenty of rain for the past month or so, which, for some of us, has been lovely. The rain makes everything so green and vibrant and drippy. The ferns on the edge of our woods have never looked so radiant, and when the sun comes out in the evening it heightens the effect. Of course, the moss is thick and rich and covers every square inch that never sees the light of day. There's a place down by the river where trees have long ago fallen, tree on tree, as if in a tornado; and there they've lain, year on year, for decades. They are simply dripping with moss, and I wonder at the amazing life-forms they harbour.
So, I looked up this old word "moss' in the dictionary, and certainly wasn't surprised to read that it is 'any of various green, usually small, non-vascular plants of the class Musci of the division Bryophyta.' All very interesting, no doubt, but my eyes slid down the column and landed on 'mossback', and was absolutely fascinated to learn that a mossback is '1. an old shellfish or turtle(!) with a growth of algae on its back, and 2. an old, large, or sluggish fish, and 3. one extremely conservative or old-fashioned.' It was as if I was standing in front of a watery mirror! This is exactly how I've been feeling for at least a week: old, large and sluggish! I even mentioned to My Best Friend the possibility that I'd been bitten by the African tsetse fly which, by way of the infamous trypanosome, causes, among other nasty diseases, sleeping sickness. But this is not so at all. I am merely feeling the effect of all this rain, and have turned into a dear old mossback! What a relief!

Reverie

Take me down to the sea again,
To the crashing, spewing foam.
We'll spend happy days by the sea, my dear,
Then wend our way back home.

Nosey Parker

Well, as planned, I did weed the onion patch, and it looks fantastic. In fact, the whole garden had a jolly good going over, and, fully satisfied with the results, I came to my desk for a few quiet moments. Then the desk had a good clear-out, too. It was just one of those rare days when things just had to be put in their right place. I looked up from my labours, and turning my head to the window, imagine my surprise as I looked into two huge ebony eyes staring back at me! A deer was curiously looking in at my window. Nosey Parker! I know I gasped, but she didn't seem to care. She just dropped her head to graze awhile, then calmly walked over to the driveway, waddling her way up to the church. How lovely to live side by side with so many of these gorgeous creatures: deer, bears, raccoons, owls, squirrels, both red and grey, we had a moose once but I didn't see it. It left huge footprints all over the veggie patch! We had a weasel this winter in the rock wall. I didn't see that one, either, but Kevin and Emi saw it.

I can't imagine living in a city, devoid of such creatures. But wait, wouldn't there be mice and rats and squirrels and those beautiful pigeons, and dear little darling little sparrows?

I suppose you could find beauty anywhere, if you just took the time to look for it...

I have to tell of the traumatic event in the onion patch. As I weeded, I noticed hundreds of those busy little garden spiders rushing away from the devastation I was causing by my weeding, each carrying under her belly a neat little egg-sac. So then, having been made aware of the dilemma, I carefully checked each clump of baby crab grass before gently pulling it away from the earth and laying it in the bucket. This greatly added to the time alloted to this particular patch. Unfortunately, I found an egg-sac without a mother. I felt awful, like a murderer. These 20,000 baby spiders are now orphaned because of my carelessness. I gently picked up the egg-sac and tenderly placed it under the 2nd onion on the left-hand row, and went about the exhausting job of weeding these onions. A few minutes later, I went back to check on 'my' babies. About 12" away I saw a very distracted spider, so I very carefully put the styrofoam ball next to her. She grabbed it, popped it under her belly, and ran for cover underneath the johnny-jump-up plant I had left in the row! Phew! What a relief. All babies safe and sound, with a doting mother for each 20,000 or so babies. (These are not scientific figures, by the way, merely an imagination running amok!)

I could tell of the distracting dilemma of the rice grains here, but better to leave it for another day...! Wouldn't want to be considered totally barmy!

A Song of Joy

Hey ho! The sun doth glow
The rain droplets gleam on the lawn
Birdies sing their joyful song
Seems they'll sing it all day long
Nothing, today, can e'er go wrong
Coz I'm going out to weed onions!

Strength and Beauty in Sweetpeas and Life

This afternoon, the storm clouds broke up for a few minutes, minutes enough for me to go out to the veggie patch and gently pull the newly rooted baby crab grass, which was threatening to choke out the courageous sweetpeas, who had braved the stormy blasts of May and early June. The day I planted out those tender seedlings in early May, the North wind came with a vengeance, bringing with it freezing temperatures, blasting out the life from my little sweetpeas, and laying them on the ground. Most of them succumbed, but I left them alone, not believing that they'd come back, but I just didn't have the heart to turn them under. It's now the middle of June, and I'm astonished that something so fragile as a sweetpea can turn its nose up at the North wind, and with a little sunshine, plenty of rain, and some lovely muggy warmth, pick itself up by the bootstraps and start again from the ground up! That is precisely what has happened to about half the row. The roots were unscathed by Jack Frost's kiss, and they simply formed 'tillers', an Old English term meaning by-shoots, forming a stronger plant by way of a rotten trick of fate carried on the wings of the wind.

It can be that way, too, for humankind. Fate's ugly hand can come knocking at your door, and before you know it, there you are, lying alongside the fallen sweetpeas. Some really do succumb, like the little seedlings, too weakened by the blow to form 'tillers'; but many, even if they lie there for a while, will be brought back to health by the warm love of friends, the encouragement of those who have been there before, and by the grace of God find new life, stronger life, in this far friendlier environment. It's very important to make sure that this new strength is not choked out by even the tiniest, tenderest baby 'crab grass' of life; it must be kept clear and clean. Before too long, that poor devastated life has branched out, reached out, and has become far stronger than it could ever have imagined. Now that life is an encouragement to others, rather than the victim of circumstance, and people draw from that well and are nourished.

In the same way, in a month or so, I shall draw in my breath deeply, as I take in the delightful aroma of the beautiful sweetpeas, and be nourished. A scent full of memories of my childhood, so long ago, yet so present in this dear, tendrilled flower.

Latina Est Gaudium - really!

The long-awaited Latin Barbecue has come and gone! Oh we had a time! 7th and 8th Graders certainly know how to have fun. We played croquet, we chatted and laughed, we ate, we blasted each other with the Aqua-Blasters, we went down to the river with the dogs and swam and swam, we laughed, we heartily encouraged Anna the Viking Opera Singer but without a great deal of success, we bid "Vale!' to Libby who's moving to Arizona, we had awards, there were balloons, there were presents, and there were hugs!

Valete discipuli mei! Aestas beatas!

Feeling Sad and Empty

Have just finished my final class for the year, and have this strange, empty feeling in my spirit. It was different in Kindergarten. We had an end of the year party. We had graduation, of which I made a huge deal. We had parents coming to praise your accomplishments of the year. We had hugs (which 5-year old doesn't hug?). We even had presents! But today there was none of that. Why should there be? Most Junior High students don't have the capacity to adore their teacher as Kindergarteners do. They just wanted to get out of there. Someone called back over their shoulder, 'Bye, Mrs. Wall! See ya tonight!' I wanted to call back, 'Hey, wait, you guys! Are you really just going?' Grow up, Mrs. Wall! Don't forget that next Friday (the 13th!) you're hosting an end of the year celebration barbeque for all your Latin students, and they are all excited about that! We'll say our proper goodbyes then, won't we?...I doubt it!

As Hours Go By

(With apologies to Marianne Faithful - 'As Tears Go By')

It is the evening of the day
I sit and watch the puppies play
Doing things I used to do
They think are new
I sit and watch as hours go by.

In swirling waters deep they romp and play
They splash and woof the passing hours away
But now it's time to head back home
To find their dins and a parsley bone
I sit and watch as hours go by.

Moses Went Down The Stairs Today...

(To be sung to the tune of 'Here We Go Round The Mulberry Bush...)

Moses went down the stairs today, stairs today, stairs today,
Moses went down the stairs today,
And fell on his nose at the bottom!

My Best Friend

We first met 35 years or so ago. He, a lanky 19 year-old with thick wavy hair down to his shoulders, with an easy-going walk that betrayed his Puerto Rican childhood. A walk that showed the world that he held it in the palm of his hand. He owned a red step-sided Chevrolet that he named Ruby Truck. Ruby was awesome, and it was a sad day indeed when, many years later, he sold her for $150.

His cousin, Beriah, and I were good friends, and he taught me how to muck about with clay, and throw it on a wheel. I made some pretty nice pots, and spent many happy days at the gallery that the family owned. It was through Beriah that I met my best friend.

Our very first date was a picnic on the Battenkill River which flowed through our town. He brought his fishing rod, and I brought the oatmeal/apple cookies. We sat on a thick wool plaid blanket, and enjoyed the stillness of the day. He stole kisses in between casts!

We were married within the year. He had turned 20, and was by now quite grown up. We will celebrate 34 years in a week or so. Our favourite passtime? Sitting on the river bank, or in a canoe, throwing out the line, listening to the occasional 'plop' of a rising fish, enjoying the quiet of the afternoon.

It's good that we haven't changed too much.

It's good that we are still best friends.

Thank you, Larry, for the best years of my life. I love you so much.

The Passage of Time

I'm sure that last year, (can it only have been last year?) I planted the entire veggie patch in one day. I just decided that this was the day, and I did it.
This year, however, is slightly different. Although I planted the onion and leek seedlings earlier in the spring, yesterday the 7 young tomato plants were lovingly set to earth, firmly attached to their towers. Then I had to have a sit down with a chilled tonic water! Today was a new, warmer day, and I was thrilled and invigorated to know that at the end of this day, the rest of the garden would be in, following an unspoken tradition that dictates that your garden should be completely planted out on Memorial Day weekend. So I raked, cultivated, and generally prepared the row to receive Johnny's Provider beans. I set the seeds in a nice straight row, and having completed the task, realized that although I find it easy to bend down and remain in that position for a good hour or so, getting up again and staying in a nice upright position is another story altogether!! I'd had it. Completely side-swiped, I waddled over to the porch to rest my weary bones. It's all very sad and pathetic. But I'm not too worried: tomorrow is Memorial Day, and by the end of tomorrow...!

My Children

During the past couple of weeks, all 3 of my children have come to our house to visit, and each of them brought a good dose of sunshine with them.

Penelope Ann: The youngest of the three, came bearing gifts galore from the Farmers' Market in Burlington. The purple sage, a Mothers Day gift, keeping to the tradition of replenishing my herb garden. She found the most beautiful rhubarb, which was translated into a scrumptious Soe Rhubarb Fool, the best I've ever had, spiked with lemon and tangerine zest. Her plan was to create a delicious Mothers Day Brunch, and she succeeded, gaining a high honours accolade in the process. She produced this amazing Springtime Quiche, which included asparagus, spring onions, mushrooms, garlic and lots of other delectables, and we decorated it with pastry cut-outs of mushrooms. It certainly was a chef-d'oeuvre! (See PenelopePost - there's a picture!) Thank-you, Soe, for your warm, giving heart. Thank you for that soft love, with which you embrace us. Thank you for your careful, adventurous spirit, daring, yet cautious! Thank you for daring to be you, careful in purpose and exuberant in joy! I love you!

Emma Hull: The middle child! Yet she has risen far above the tags that are so often associated with this dilemma. Emi came this past weekend, bringing Kevin, Cooper and Cabot with her. Kevin is her best friend, a friendship that we see growing and maturing every time we see them, becoming more at peace, more in harmony, more in depth. Emi thinks that she's training Kevin well, but don't be deceived! Kevin is a very clever chap, and knows exactly which voice to use, which face to pull, which demeanour would work best for any given situation. And still, Emi thinks she's training him well! Yet, we saw with our very own eyes the colour of the new collar and leash for Kevin's brand new CHOCOLATE LAB, Cabot: let's just call it NORTHEAST KINGDOM ORANGE! Thank you Emi, for teaching us the social graces that you have learned along your journey. Thank you for showing me how to be organised. Thank you for being such a great communicator, encouraging us to be the same, especially in family matters. Thank you for your terrific sense of humour, and for getting us all hooked on Fawlty Towers, or was that Farty Towels?! Thank you for achieving your goals without wavering. But most of all, thank you for your soft heart and deep love, the glue of this family. I love you!

Hannah Holden: Our first-born. Our angel. Our joy. Our Hannah! How could our hearts hold any more blessing and joy! Hannah took time out of her busy schedule to come and visit us this Sunday, filling the house with her sweet spirit and laughter. She has left her beloved Brian in California for a couple of weeks, to go and be with her grandmother, Mama Sonia, who is weakened with years and sickened lungs. To go back 30 and more years, Hannah and I took a trip to England. I was 5 months full of new baby, a baby that couldn't make it, a baby that needed to return to its heaven. On the plane I kept passing out, and Hannah sat on my tummy and stroked my face each time. This was later told to me by the crew members, who praised this little tiny person for her presence of spirit and gentle ways. Yesterday, she called us from Mama Sonia's apartment, and told us how she had massaged Mama Sonia's face with her lotion. Mama Sonia was absorbing far more than her precious lotion, but, too, the love of this grand-daughter who had come so far to give so much. Thank you, Hanushka, for that abundance of love. Thank you for putting up with this unstable mother during our rocky times. Thank you for being the strength I needed. Thank you for being such a good friend to your sisters, an enduring and growing friendship through the years. Thank you for who you are, and the sincerity of your heart. I love you!

My Three Darlings. My Three Joys.

May God Our Father

Bless You and Keep You

May He Make His Face To Shine On You

And Give You Peace

I Love You All

Mama

Where E'er You Walk

Where e'er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade,
Trees where you sit shall crowd into a shade,
Trees where you sit shall crowd into a shade.

Where e'er you tread, the blushing flower shall rise,
And all things flourish, and all things flourish,
Where e'er you turn your eyes, where e'er you turn your eyes,
Where e'er you turn your eyes.

Some things just have to be written down right away, so you don't forget them, and this is one of them! A beautiful poem/song from George Frederick Handel's 'Semele'. I heard it today and wondered at the heart of the one who wrote these beautiful words. He must have loved deeply.

Garden Worms

They never rest from toil, ever churning up the soil,
Making tunnels, leaving castings there,
My gardens healthy, rich and rare,
My heart o'erflows with love so dear
For lowly earthworms ever near,(this poem is most strange and queer!!)

And during times of rain, something jingles in my brain,
An alert goes off inside my toff,
I don my coat and then I'm off,
Not caring for my cold and cough,
To search for stranded earthworms who have slithered onto gravel rough. (Looks like cough!)

The rain has gathered on the grass, the lowly earthworm there I pass,
To rid his gleaming outer coat of the nasty gravel overcoat.
I place him gently on my heap of compost where he used to sleep
The sleep that caused one end to smile, as he lingered on my compost pile.
A pox on any who would look to pierce him with a fishing hook!!

Fish Hook

A few days ago, my heart felt such loss at the devastation on the other side of the world. Then yesterday, my baby brother, Norman, came to visit with his dear friend, Bridget. There is absolutely no room left in my heart to contain any more blessings!! We were swept over by an overwhelming flow of joy and clung to each other for those precious moments of rememberance and fraternal love and connection. Oh, precious, sweet man!

And so, inevitably, I've been pondering the past, and realized that as part of a large family, we were always together: we played cricket together, we climbed trees together, we bashed nails in things together, there really seems to have been nothing that stands out that Norman and I did together without all the others joining in. One event stands out, however. He managed to get a fish hook stuck in his hand fairly seriously, and he wouldn't let anyone look at it except me. Not only that, I was the only one who was allowed to pull it out. He can't have been more than 4 or 5 at the time, which put me at the ripe old age of about 10. I can't really remember much about the screams of agony, only that a bond was born. I was the chosen one! Then we all went away to our separate schools and that was that really. And here we are, 50 years later, still connected by the ties that bind.

He's going fishing today...!

...without warning

Oh dear! It's so very difficult to know how to write this. I want to describe the enormous sense of loss I feel in my heart with the news that over 20,000 people are dead this weekend in Old Burma, and another 45,000 are missing, following the devastation of a cyclone across the peninsular. The satellite before and after photographs are an utter nightmare, the after photograph showing the entire south-eastern coast and inland lying under the Indian Ocean. They never had a chance, it hit without warning.

So how do you go about planting out the sweet peas, and building a trellis for the tender young plants? Where do you find the importance of teaching 12-14 year-olds Classical Latin? How can I carelessly tumble on the ground with the puppy dogs, while we play tug-o'-war with an old sock?

Because life is so very fragile, and there are no guarantees of tomorrow or even the next moment. Therefore, it's up to each one of us to live life to the fullest. We can't afford to waste a single moment on self- pity, self-importance or selfishness in whatever form it may materialize. It's up to each one of us to egg the next generation on, demonstrating every day, the preciousness of life, showing them through our actions, not our words, how to live the abundant life.

So, call up the Red Cross or Samaritan's Purse, those organizations who are on the cutting edge, to find out how you can help the survivors of this cataclysmic event, then go out and plant your sweet peas, while you whisper a prayer.

I do not love thee, Dr. Fell

Non amo te, Sabidi, nec possum dicere quare;
Hoc tantum possum dicere: non amo te.

I do not love thee, Dr. Fell, the reason why I cannot tell.
This one thing alone I'm able to tell: I do not love thee, Dr. Fell.

For some reason, this silly little poem reminds me of Papa Roger. He used to recite little ditties that his mother, Granny Anne, used to make him memorize, and I'm sure this was one of them. So in honour of Papa Roger, I asked my students to memorize the Latin version. They took it on with much gusto, except one. I suggested she put it to music. She decided to play the part of Olga the Viking, and sing it opera-style. We invited Dr. O, the headmaster, to the 'performance', and he graciously accepted, gallantly sitting through the extremely painful performance! She was a good sport and recited the poem with much wailing and hysteria.

After all, Latin could be quite tedious, if a little merriment were not injected into the lessons!

Leeks in a Row

Lately, I've been feeling slightly discombobulated, and until today, I haven't quite understood why. And now I know. By the time the sun set this evening, all the onion plants were in: red, and 2 different yellows; the tiny leeks are all dibbled in, lined up like soldiers in 2 very straight lines, and Larry sowed the peas under the fence, and finished tilling the new beds out back. Ahh! Peace, at last.

Tomorrow, Spates will deliver the 4 hybrid roses I ordered, and any day now, Eric will bring the bushes and a load of triple milled mulch, and our sunken garden out back will be well on the way to completion. A cozy place to barbeque and relax in the hammock, enjoying friends, being quiet.

Tonight, I shall sleep the sleep of the blest, knowing that I have all my (ducks) leeks in a row. God's in His heaven, all's right with the world.

The Jump

The snow is almost all gone now from the lawn. Every day I rake for about an hour or so, then scritch round in the beds for awhile to awaken the soil. things are beginning to look alive around here. At the foot of the hill out back, the remains of the jump that Colin and Soe made this New Year's Eve have lingered, refusing to melt, and this has all been helped along by the fact that it lay in the shadow of the pines. Yesterday did it in, however!! This morning, when I went out for my daily raking ritual, I was kind of sad to notice that all that remained of the jump was a dark, damp spot on the lawn to show that it had existed and had brought with it lots of laughs and great entertainment.

Spring's sprung, the grass is ris

Spring's sprung, the grass is ris,
I wonder where them boidies is?
The boidies is on the wing.
Don't be absoid, the wing's on the boid.

I don't remember where I heard that, but it was a very long time ago. But it certainly is a verse that's in harmony with today. The sun has been blazing all day long, and we can now, finally, walk around the field without having to walk on snow. The ladybirds that came in droves last autumn, have now reappeared, basking in the lovely sunshine. So have the cluster flies! Somehow, I don't welcome them with the same amount of eagerness!

The daffy-down-dillies, tulips and snowdrops are pushing their way up through the iron-cold earth, and many of the perennials in the beds are already showing new growth.

My brother, Richard, has hatched 6 goslings, and they are under a heat-lamp in the woodshed. How long does it take a gosling to develop that amazing honk? His little ewe lamb, Minty (short for mint sauce!), is still being pampered in the paddock, being bottle-fed by Naomi, the 10 year-old daughter of Frank and Miriam van Nes, who farm the neighbouring land. We met the van Nes family while we were in England this month: Frank and Miriam, 3 sons, 16, 14, 12, and 10-year old Naomi. We were totally enamoured by the whole family, all of whom, except the younger 2, were closer to 7 feet tall than 6 feet! Frank and Miriam come from Holland, and they now farm 3,000 odd acres of spectacular land in the south of Dorset. We went over for supper one evening a couple of weeks ago, and immediately felt the warmth of their home and family. The 2 older boys play basketball for England! I feel like I've known Miriam all my life, she has a lovely warm character, and I wish we didn't live 6,000 miles apart! Perhaps they'll come and stay...

I have stuffed some fleece into a couple of bird feeders around the place, and the birds are having a great time with them, pulling out long strands to help line their nests. There was a spider in the bath this morning: where on earth did he come from? A couple of ducks flying overhead, quacking joyfully 'We're Back!'

Everywhere we look, evidence of springtime abounds....at last!

Leave it to Moses!

Remember the grouse? I had wrapped him tenderly in a Russian muslin, to wait out the bitter winter on our side porch. The plan was to bury him as soon as the frost was gone in the spring, but unfortunately, for not only the poor grouse, but also for my need to do what was right (or ridiculous), something found it and took it away. I have to say that I felt a deep emotion of loss at this point. After all, it was my responsibility to have the funeral, along with full sporting regalia, to honour his noble life, and ponder on his abrupt demise. Sorrow was brief, although questions did arise as to the nocturnal thief's identity: our friendly(!) bear, raccoon or skunk, all of these having recently come out of their various hibernations. I thought it was the bear, because he had paid us a visit that day, sitting on our lawn licking his lips and swaying rhythmically from side to side.

That afternoon, the puppies and I were returning from our walkies, when suddenly Moses put his little 10-week old nose in the air and sniffed. He dashed under the side porch, and reappeared with the grouse in his mouth. This was a treasure indeed, and he held his little head up high as he ran for the front door! When we caught up with him we said 'Dead!' and he dropped it! I cut off its wings to attach to a tennis ball toy, and threw the rest unceremoniously into the bin along with my duty and loyalty! Moses later retrieved the Russian muslin, which joined the grouse in the bin.

Moses in the Bulrushes

Moses came to live with us yesterday. He is a delightful 10 week-old black Labrador, who has stolen our hearts away. He is utterly enchanting, and has a lovely docile spirit, although we are not fooled, and he certainly shows off his high spirits by jumping off the highest snow bank, and landing splat, having failed to negotiate the landing techniques used by older, wiser dogs. Our 9 year old yellow bitch, Sadie, has welcomed him into our midst, with a slight disdain for his foolish antics, but has generously allowed him to play with her duck, and he, in turn has offered her his new pheasant.

My brother, Richard, is slightly concerned about his name, worrying about a possible state of confusion when we ask him to get in his basket. We have, however, come to a good conclusive solution to this potential cause for rebellion: we are never to ask him to get in his basket while it is floating downstream. This will eliminate any fear of being found in the bulrushes by Phaeroah's daughter, with the resultant coddling.

He has settled in very well to a strict schedule of eating, walking, flying!, outside chores, chewing any one of his new toys: duck, pheasant, lamb, a nasty 'thing' that looks like a hand grenade which you stuff with a treat encased in peanut butter, it keeps him happy for quite a while, and takes his mind off any idea of chewing anything untoward!, at which point he falls into the lovely contented sleep of the truly happy.

His heritage is English, but I'm afraid that in his short life, he has picked up some extremely un-British habits. The way he boistrously laps his water, would prompt any Royal Marine to inflate his life-dinghy right away. I'm not quite sure how to correct this highly foreign behaviour, and so for now, the mop will have to be on hand to swab the deck of our kitchen floor at all times.

He and I are in the middle of a very exciting book by Minette Walters called 'The Breaker', and we think we know who dunnit! But we can't reveal it here, firstly, coz it might disappoint anyone who is almost at the point of recognizing the culprit, and secondly, we wouldn't want to appear foolish when the truth reveals the folly of our guesses.

We have wandered far from the bulrushes on this very sunny Sunday afternoon, but everyone is sleeping off our walkies, and this seemed an appropriate moment to introduce all and sundry to Maestro's Moses: Canto Della Terra.

He is not here. He is risen!

Mary from Magdala, Joanna, and Mary, the mother of James, and others went too; their hearts were heavy with grief as they made their way to the garden, where their beloved Yahweh had been placed in the sepulchre of Joseph of Arimathaea.
They brought with them precious herbs and spices, oil and clean linens, intent were they to cleanse most gently, then embalm and rewrap in fresh linens this most Precious of men. This Man who had cast demons out of some, healed others, and brought new life to yet others. This Man who had lived His short life caring for others. This Man who, in His last agonizing moments, gave hope to the penitent malefactor: Truthfully speak I to you. This very day we shall be together in Paradise!
Questions swirled among them: Why did He have to die? What was the reason for it all? How will they continue without Him? Where will they turn? When will they see Him again? And now yet another one posed itself to them: How on earth will they roll away the stone? For they had been there on Friday, and seen where He had been lain, and seen how that huge stone had been rolled across the front of the sepulchre, sealed, and was now guarded by Roman soldiers, who guarded it with their lives.
It is curious to note that all these questions did nothing to deter them from continuing their mission. Something compelled them on to do that which common sense would have them not. Something was urging them on, filling them with faith and courage as they went. promising them answers.
And courage they would need, by and by. For an earthquake heralded the angel's descent, as he rolled away the great stone of the sepulchre; and he sat upon it, waiting for the women. His eyes and face blazed like lightening fire, and his garments shone white as sun-drenched snow, causing the Roman soldiers unspeakable fear as they fainted dead away. And so he sat, and waited.
They didn't run away. The Lord had prepared their hearts, and the angel of the Lord assured them: Don't be afraid. I know that you're looking for Jesus, Who was crucified. He is not here, for He is risen, as He said. Come and see the place where He lay. And go quickly, and tell His disciples that He is risen from the dead, and that He will see them in Galilee. I have told you the truth.
Just imagine their joy, their exhilaration, their fear, as they ran back to tell the disciples. Their abrupt astonishment, as they beheld Jesus Himself in the garden: Salvete! Just imagine their utter bliss as they bowed down at His feet and worshipped Him. He, confirming the message of the heavenly being at the sepulchre, urged them to go, tell.
And down through the ages echoes the sorrowful cry of the Centurian, as, grieving, he proclaimed: Truly, this was the Son of God!
Hope for all whose hearts are moved by sorrow at their need for a Saviour! For a broken heart He will not despise! He will cover them with His feathers, and they will find refuge under His wings! For the same Spirit that raised Christ from the dead will bring to life that which was dead in us: He will quicken our mortal bodies and give new life to us! Halleluia!

If I had an alabaster jar filled with precious ointment, I, too, would break its top and anoint Him, and honour Him, so thankful am I for this new life that He has given me; a life once devoid of all hope, most wretched. He has turned my mourning into joy!

Maunday Thursday

Tomorrow's Maunday Thursday,
A sad day, to be sure,
The things that had to happen
Grieve me to the core.

He rode into Jerusalem,
He broke bread with his friends,
He washed their feet and prayed for them.
What love is this He sends?

He suffered so, my Saviour dear,
They whipped him to the bone,
Then bore the cross to Calvary,
Our sins fore'er t'atone.

Tomorrow's Maunday Thursday.
I wish I could be there
To lay my Mum to rest at last,
And help to bring good cheer.

I'll be in England next week
A day I'm sure to save
To bring a bunch of freesia's
And lay them on her grave.

...riding on a donkey

It's Palm Sunday, and all kinds of memories come flooding back to me. I'm 8 years old, and we've just come out of St. Mary the Virgin church, and we all have our palms. They have all been painstakingly woven into crosses, but to an 8 year old it looks more like a tiny sword, and far more useful it was as a sword, than as a cross. For goodness' sake, what can you do with a cross, but hang it on your bedroom wall, or stick it in your Bible or prayer book. But a sword! Just think of the adventures you could have! 'Let's go to the graveyard and play pirates!', someone suggested. And so, swashbuckling our way down the lane, we opened the little wrought iron gate and did battle. All sorts of lovely graves were to be found at Marston Magna. My personal favourite was a huge stone box-like affair, made from the beautiful local Ham stone, a rich yellow, enormous. It had a lid that was laid on top, over-lapping the bottom part. Ivy grew all over this, fertilized by the bones inside, Cally said. All around the tomb was a black wrought-iron fence, to keep out robbers, I suppose. But it didn't keep out pirates! If you jumped on top of this tomb wielding your sword, you were the master of the world, just daring anyone to come aboard your pirate ship, and just see what would happen to you should you be so foolish as to try. Sometimes prisoners were taken, and God help those poor blighters! But not this day. Cally and I soon tired of the game, and went to read our Sunday stamp in the hollow tree. Every Sunday when you went to Sunday School, you were given a stamp to stick in your stamp book, and on it was a story from the Bible. This Sunday, Jesus came riding into Jerusalem on a donkey. The people were breaking palm leaves off the trees and, waving them, shouted, "Hosanna!" Well, there's only so much you can write on a stamp, so off we ran to Cally's house, down the lane, to get the whole version from her Mum, who was very keen on the Bible. What an amazing story she told us! And so inspiring! We couldn't wait to go back to church on Friday to find out what happened next. Anyway, because we were in the choir, we had to go back that night for the Evensong service; but, full of inspiration from the Bible story, Cally and I had other ideas! Unbeknownst to our mothers, we dressed up in the purple robes in the dress-up trunk in Cally's cloakroom. They had hoods. This time, instead of swords, we carried pampus grass. Giggling hysterically, we ran down the lane, and entered the graveyard by that same side-gate. We waited, hidden from sight, until we were sure all the choir children were in their places, then groaning mournfully, we waved our pampus grass across the window of the church, and wailed, "Hosanna!" The children couldn't sing they were laughing so hard, and poor Mr. Batson had quite a time of it coming out of the 1000-year old side door without it creaking its head off! We ran away screaming down the lane, sure and certain that we were protected from the wrath of the church warden, because of the purple robes. He couldn't possibly have known it was us, could he? I think Jesus would have loved our purple robes and pampus grass!

Mud Season

The robins came back weeks ago, the phoebe's here as well,
How long they'll have to wait for worms is more than I can tell.
There's still snow on the garden, it's turning slightly grey,
And I, for one, have had enough! Be gone, dull snow, away!

My car is filthy dirty, from muddy roads and lanes,
And I must get the Windex out to wash my window panes.
My seeds are coming shortly, they'll be here any day,
But spring-time planting'll have to wait until the snow's away.

The air is filled with misty scents of maple and wet earth,
And birds are busy making nests, a-waiting the new birth
That happens each and every spring, it always comes around,
When new life bursts and pushes up through cold, dark, frozen ground.

Cold Feet

I just walked out in the snow without shoes or socks, and now my feet are cold, and I was thinking about that expression 'cold feet'. Usually when one talks about someone having cold feet, it's understood that that someone has lost courage. So I shall pause for a moment and contemplate the connection...nothing. The American Heritage College Dictionary calls it 'slang', and goes on to describe 'fearfulness or timidity preventing the completion of a course of action'. Why is the origin of the phrase not included?

'It was a dark stormy night in the late winter of 1864. America was at war with herself. A brave soldier was found by the side of the wagon lane, his feet rudely bandaged up in scraps of cloth, no boots were found near his exhausted body. He was carried by his mates to a nearby farmhouse, where they were offered hot stew and peppermint tea. Blood began to circulate through his recovering body, and when questioned as to why he hadn't ventured the previous night to the welcoming farmhouse, he explained that he couldn't have been sure that he would have had a friendly reception, and "besides", quothe he. "I had cold feet!"

Well, that's my version! Anybody else have any bright ideas?

The Turkey Trot

Today I saw a turkey trot, twelve to be precise
They came a-running carelessly across the snowy ice.
Hunger must have driven them, for worry they did not,
I could so very easily have put one in the pot!

Had not the kitchen wall been there, had not the window pane,
My hand extended tenderly upon their backs had lain.
I felt so warm and satisfied that I had spread the best
Of sunflower hearts onto the ground to fill their croppy breast.

My Grandfather's Walks

Over the hills? Or by the honey lady? Whichever way we chose, it was sure to be an exciting adventure back to Pa and Gramsie's house in 'the Old Grey Mare", one of the Austins that my grandparents owned in the fifties. If I knew ahead of time that we would be going through the New Forest, I would always make sure that I had a sturdy piece of string, in case we saw the wild ponies...
My mother's parents lived on the south coast of England, right on the cliffs, but far enough back from the edge to know there was little danger of the house sliding down, as was the case further down the way towards the Bears. So-named were the white cliffs, afar off. On a clear day, 3 polar bears carved by the wind into the chalky cliffs, plodded along toward the east.
Pa loved to walk, and walk, and walk, and walk. "Miss A." he'd say. "Please go and get my walking shoes." Pa's room was a room of strict order. His bed was always made, tops dusted, everything in its place, including his shoes, which were lined up under his bay window which overlooked the sea. His driving shoes, walking shoes, eating shoes, shopping shoes and shoes to wear to the barber were all lined up, ready for inspection! They all looked pretty much the same to me, beautifully polished leather, some with tiny holes that formed feathery patterns on the sides. His walking shoes were just plain brown lace-ups. There were a few things that absolutely had to come along with us on Pa's walks: his penknife, a crisp juicy apple such as Cox's Orange Pippin, and his 'ticker' pills. Invariably, we'd walk to the pier, a good 5-mile trot there and back. He'd let us choose: Along the top there, and back along the sands and up the Zig-Zag. Or, down the Zig-Zag and along the sands there, and back along the top. Really, the only way to experience the Zig-Zag was to fly down it, arms stretched out and slightly back, with a high-pitched whirring sound, Sopwith-style! Pa was no fool! A couple of hours walking by the sea in the strong wind, and we'd be sleeping like babies before you could wink an eye. We'd have to stop every now and then, to give Pa's poor old heart a rest, and to perk it up with one or two of his 'ticker pills' and off we'd go again. If we were lucky, and it was clear, we'd watch the huge ocean-liners sailing along the English Channel, America bound. Pa was a whiz at identifying the different ships. You could tell by how many funnels they had. We saw the Queen Mary, now docked permanently at Long Beach, California. There was a band-stand at the pier with deck chairs lined up in front, so we'd sit and listen: oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah. And out would come the pen-knife and the Pippin. Everything Pa did was quite deliberate, and extremely perfectly executed. Never was anything done slap-dash, but with the utmost care and attention. And so it was when he peeled the apple. The trick was to start at the top and peel a thin snake round and round and round until you reached the bottom of the apple, and it absolutely was not allowed to break! I don't remember it ever breaking...We'd eat the snake, and he'd divide the apple equally among us. Pips and all, down it would go, even the stalk. Not one bit of the apple was wasted. Then we'd go down Fisherman's Walk and feed the squirrels some nuts, then the dreaded walk home. The wind was always strong along the top, and he'd have to hang on to his titfer (hat) ((Tit for tat - hat)) I remember the most awful earaches in those days, from the constant buffeting of the wind, I expect. The final climb up to the house, off with the shoes, wash the sand glittering on our feet in the pan of warm water set out by the back door. Gramsie would have warm milk waiting for us, then bath, then bed. If there was a story, after a line or two, I'd have drifted off, to the muffled voice of a loving Gramsie, and the constant pounding of the wind and waves through the open window...

I remember, I remember...

I remember, I remember the house where I was born,
The little window where the sun came creeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon nor brought too long a day;
(But now, I often wish the night had borne my breath away.)

This is the first verse of a poem by Thomas Hood 1798-1845.

My mother used to recite it to me, but it wasn't until I saw it in print that I realized what a sadness it all is. It begins so beautifully, and I always think of the spare room at the Manor House where most of us were born. A special room to me it is, where I first gasped for life's breath, and where my darling Dad drew his last. There was a cupboard in the corner with a big step down, down, down, where my Grandmother kept her fur coats, and there were hat-boxes, and it smelt of mothballs and other smells that I can't describe; old smells; smells I wasn't supposed to smell because I'm sure I wasn't really meant to be in that secret place.

You probably noticed that Thomas Hood was only 47 when he died. So, how did he die? The last line of that first verse seems to tell that he wished he had died at birth. How sad. It doesn't get any better in the next few verses, so I shan't print them here. Did he die of a broken heart? Did he succomb to TB or smallpox or influenza or a common cold? I put the fourth line in brackets and italicized it because it doesn't belong to this sweet thought: I remember, I remember the house where I was born, The little window where the sun came creeping in at morn...I can even remember the scraping sound of the curtains in the spare room when they were drawn!...

The Rarity of Friendship

Pauci viri veros amicos habent, et pauci sunt digni. Amicitia vera est praeclara, et omnia praeclara sunt rara. Multi viri stulti de pecunia semper cogitant, pauci de amicis; sed errant: possumus valere sine multa pecunia, sed sine amicitia non valemus et vita est nihil.

Few men have true friends, and few are worthy. True friendship is splendid, and all things splendid are rare. Many foolish men think always about money, few about friends; but they err: we are able to be strong without much money, but without friendship we are not strong and life is nothing.

Cicero - De Amicitia 21.79-80

Total Lunar Eclipse

It's two o'clock in the morning
The moon is shining brightly
Which wasn't the case four hours ago
Her image hovered slightly
Behind the shadow of the earth
Oh, how her aura glowed
For just a wink there time stood still
And life on earth was slowed

It's hard to think on just Whose hand
Controls the paths of moons and stars
For 'tis in the hollow of that hand
Life's traumas turn to blessed calm
The storms of life would never dare
Disturb the peace I treasure there

Night Visitor

He came this evening, while we were out. In my laziness, I had put the kitchen garbage bag, all tidily tied up, on the porch, onstead of popping it in the car and taking it up to the dumpster. You know, it doesn't pay to be lazy, that's a lesson instilled in us by our well-meaning parents since our earliest days. But it all depends on your perspective: not too long ago, a lone deer benefited greatly from my laziness in the vegetable patch last fall. I'm inclined to believe that this is another such occasion. We can't be sure exactly who came to dine at our front door: Foxy Fowler, Rocky Raccoon, Pepi the Piyoo, but whoever it was, I noticed how very tidily he tore a hole in just the right spot, and extracted the chicken carcass (from the chicken soup on Saturday.)He meticulously cleaned the bones and left a tidy pile for us. Nothing extra, just the bones. How very thoughtful!

Just Sitting

Papa saw him first. Just sitting there, up in the pine tree, all fluffed out. 'What in..what is that? Quick! Oh, no, he's g..no there he is! Quickly. Come and see. Do you see him? Go and get the camera. What is that?' Well, we now have another beautiful bird to add to the growing number on the list. This time a Great Barred Owl came and sat on the pine tree right outside our window for the whole afternoon. He just sat there. At least that's what we thought he was doing. Actually, I think he was biding his time, just waiting for one of those pesky red squirrels to take a trip to the peanut pile by our kitchen window. The storm was just blowing in, so he had fluffed himself up like a huge pillow. He's probably about 20" long, enormous. What a treat for us to be able to study him at such close quarters, without him becoming spooked. 63 years ago, my sister, Gay, had complained to my mother, 'Wigga-Woo come a me nex!' Looking at this majestic creature, I can see why she would have been daunted by the prospect of being carried off to the top of the beech tree, to be shared equally among the fluffy nestlings...!

Does anybody know...

Does anybody know, does anybody care,
Where slugs go when the trees are bare?
Do they all slide south to some warmer clime,
Then slide back again when it's summertime?
I don't really care, but I'd like to know
What happens to slugs when we're covered with snow!

Chili for the Chilly

I made chili today! Jumping out of bed at 5 a.m., I plodded to the kitchen, barefoot and flannel-nightied, with an inner determination: chili and chicken noodle soup. Still half asleep, I waddled down to the storage room downstairs, and took my 2 largest stainless pots down from the shelves. The floor beneath my feet was wonderful, all warm from the below-floor heating, then up to the very cold stone-floored kitchen. I put the groats on to cook for an hour, and figured that they'd be just about ready for our breakfast, by the time I had the chili ingredients all chopped and caramelized, with all the special elusive spices dug out from the jumbled corner cupboard (one day, I have to make a big effort and clean this space out!). This particular chili was a first for me: it was the first time in my life that I had ever used jalapeno peppers! I continue to fight my lone battle that life can be quite exceptional without hot peppers, but today, because I was making a double batch for the youth chili fest on Sunday I decided to swallow my pride and pull out all the stops. So I chopped the onions and peppers, both sweet and hot, smooshed the 12 cloves of garlic, yes 12! Then I washed my hands and washed them again, then just for good measure, did it again, this time rubbing them on the stainless tap to neutralize the garlic. It worked. The 'carne' had been browned and the onions had turned a beautiful golden colour. I turned out the spice cupboard and found all the herbs and spices, some that had come from Arles in the south of France, some from Paris, a dollop of Marmite that Sophie had brought me from England, some from Puerto Rico, herbes de Provence. What an international chef-d'oeuvre! After this extraordinary mish-mash had simmered for a couple of hours, in went the 6 cans (rinsed) of dark red kidney beans, the pile of chopped cilantro and the juice of a lime. The crowning glory was when Papa, taking a spoon, lifted it to his mouth, closed his eyes, breathed in the pungent delight deeply, then tasted the lovingly prepared offering...I think I held my breath: "I think this has to be the very best chili I've ever had." I have fallen in love all over again, not only with my darling husband, but too, with the idea of never thinking that you've arrived, but there's always another adventure just around the corner, in this instance, chili con carne with jalapenos!!
Still basking in the delight of it all, I went to work on the chicken noodle soup: thickly chopped bacon, a nice little chicken, together with her gizzards, heart and liver, lots of veggies: onions, garlic, leeks, celery, turnip, parsnip, red potato, herbs galore, and carrots. Pop it all in the other pot and cover over with chicken broth. Side by side, the chili and chicken filled the house with delightful smellies, all before the sun came up!! What fun, and oat groats to boot! I'm not so sure I could do it every day, but for this day, at least, I'm in my absolute element: and all's right with the world! Bon appetit!

I'm Still Glad...

We used to live at the foot of a hill
If we hadn't moved we'd live there still
The Spring Thaw did our cellar fill
In the house where we lived at the foot of the hill

I'm Glad...

I'm glad I live on the top of a hill
The snow doth fall and the wind blows chill
The mounds of snow around us will
Come Spring trickle down to the foot of the hill

Back-scratching

Almost a year ago, we gave away the old black car that I'd been using for a garden shed! The chap to whom we gave it was so thrilled: he put some new shoes on the brakes, fixed her up with a new muffler system, and behold! She's as good as new. Today, he turned up with a few friends and a couple of loads of dry wood, and they're out there now, having the time of their lives, joking around and stacking the wood. I've made a feast for them to enjoy once the wood's all stacked: a couple of spinach quiches and bratwurst, apple and blackberry pies, fresh home-roasted coffee and thick cream. We shall enjoy a roaring blaze tonight in the fireplace that has remained empty and cold for weeks. We were saving the last few logs for a very, very cold night or if one of us became ill...I can't remember when we've ever felt so healthy! And so we're looking forward to a cozy evening, while the snow continues to fall, snow on snow, and our hearts will sing with thanksgiving for the friends we have who reflect the ebb and flow of life, dealing with the circumstances of lack and abundance, sickness and health, joy and sorrow, the yea and nay of it all, the fragile balance of friendship. We are truly blessed!

Crystal Earth

Tinkling fingers, darkest night,
Glass-like image, fairy lights.
All upon this winter's night,
Crystal covers giant and mite.

Don't fade in sleep upon this night
Or you'll miss the gay delight
You'll not be captured by the sight
Of tinkling fingers, darkest night.

Feasts, walks and sleepovers.

What a wonderful weekend we've had. On Friday afternoon, Larry and I tootled off to Burlington to spend some precious moments with Emi and Kevin and Soe. The girls had gone to great pains to plan a birthday celebration for their old Mum, and Kevin very generously, not only provided, but also cooked, the pork chops. Soe's completely delicious Roasted Beet Crostini added a bright, unexpected sweet and sour accompaniment to the rest of the meal, which included the aforementioned pork chops, homemade applesauce, done in the oven, and Mustard Greens and Bulgur. This was all followed up by an exquisite Pineapple-Coconut Layer Birthday Cake, an extremely ambitious climax to an already supercalifragilisticexpialidocious meal. What a gift of love and generosity. How blessed we are with our daughters and their boys. I feel very priveleged and extremely well-loved. Although everything was splendid, we missed Hanushka, too far away to have been part of the evening...(The recipes can be found in the February 2008 issue of Eating Well magazine). After dinner, we took the dogs for a walk on the golf course. We didn't need headlamps, the moonlight shining on the snow was light enough. The dogs had such a romp, and we walked off a good portion of the meal. When we finally (!) made it home, we all collapsed contentedly onto our beds and slept the sleep of the satiated. I love sleepovers...I wonder why we stop having them. I used to sleep over at Cally's house and stay up all night telling ghost stories and eating jam sandwiches under the sheet tent we made. Breakfast in the morning was the sweet dessert of the fabulous sleep-over feast. She lived a stone's throw from our house, and we saw each other every day, but a sleep-over...mmm, heaven!

It's a grouse!

She certainly looked like a bird of prey with her legs all stretched out and 'talons' ready to grasp whatever it was on which she had her beady eye set. For all intents and purposes, she was a merlin. Yes, that was it! After hours of searching through my trusty bird book, I found that, though it was rare, merlins do actually winter-over all the way up to Southern Canada. I had dug her out of the fresh snowfall, wrapping her tenderly in a Russian muslin, then I brought her inside to thaw out a bit, so I could get some good pictures and spread her wings out a bit, to get a better look. I also wanted to do a pencil drawing of her. Took the pictures, studied and compared her to different hawks listed in the book, and finally came up with the afore-mentioned merlin. Larry came home for lunch, took one look at my merlin, and said, "It's a grouse!". I told him not to be silly, that surely he knows the difference between a hawk and a grouse, but he was adamant, pointing out the difference in the eye-set of the hunter and the hunted, the small chicken-sized head of the grouse, as compared to the majestic head of the hawk. The absence of long legs and huge talons of the hawk, (all the better to grasp you with, my dear!) surely must have been a clue to me that this was a humble grouse? I feel a little silly! Never-the-less, my sadness at her unfortunate demise is no less acute! May she rest in peace!

Fallen bird

Sadie found her first. All frozen and stiff and cold. She nudged her gently with her nose, urging her to try harder, but it was far too late for heroic efforts. She came to get me from where I stood watching, hoping ... So I followed after, slipping and sliding down the hill to the foot of the cedar tree where she lay. Oh where had I been when this happened? Why wasn't I watching, so I could've helped? What happened? Were you just not looking where you were flying? Did you slam into this beautiful tree? Is that why your head is all twisted askew? What kind of hawk are you? She's about the size of a large pigeon, with a defined hawk's beak and talons. Her plumage is not unlike the summer ptarmigan, but there's a feeling of grouse about her...and she's not in my National Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Birds. I shall make a pencil drawing of her tomorrow, and find her identity by calling VINS, they'll know why a broad-winged hawk failed to make the migration. Cally and I used to collect dead birds, barn swallows, sparrows and the like. We laid them in rows up in the attic part of the stables. The only way you could get up there was to squeeze through a small trap-door opening above the middle loose-box, having climbed up onto the partition wall. To this secret place, we brought our treasures, sometimes performing gruesome operations on them with pieces of broken bottle and Mum's favourite paring knife! I remember being amazed at how big their eyes were, but I don't ever remember them smelling, and they surely must've. Dad must have known about our secret hiding place, because I was the only one in the family to whom he gave the prestigious job of cleaning the pheasants, grouse and partridge that he and my brothers brought home from shooting weekends. In retrospect, it was a bit of a Tom Sawyer thing, he, pretending that it was the best part of the feast, and I, then, wanting to join in the fun. Dad had a gift for wooing you into the thing, without you realizing it was a trick. He taught me how to bleed brakes, and in those days before the boys' legs were long enough to reach the pedals of the old Riley, he often called on me to come and help him bleed the bleeding brakes! Oh, joy! No dusting or cleaning for me today, I have to help Dad! So here we are with a mystery on our hands. Our woods will be far less rich without you, whoever you are.

January

I always feel this way in January. Some have what is known as 'cabin fever'. But this isn't that! I take an inward look, and think 'My Lord, Miss A., but you're boring!' The thing is, I'm perfectly happy with that conclusion, which is slightly worrying. Could it be that I don't really believe it? Or maybe I understand that it's only temporary, and, like the wind, will be gone. Possibly, but highly unlikely, we're supposed to slow down in January, take an inward look, make plans for spring, by the way, where are my seed catalogues? Used to be that, come January, our mail box would be stuffed with seed catalogues. Haven't seen one in years. Last year, around about this time, I spoke to Papa Roger, his birthday was January 24th. It was a lovely conversation, and after a few minutes I told him I loved him, and he replied, "I love you, too, sweetheart." They were to be his very last words to me. How perfectly lovely. Last January, I was looking forward to Sophie and the kids coming, hoping and praying for snow, before they came on the Saturday after Valentine's! Last January, I turned 60. Last January, my Mum was still alive, and Papa Roger, and Caleb. Sometimes, but only in January, I wish I was an old bear, then I could just skip January, and wake up in the spring to start digging in the garden. How lovely and boring that would be!

Gypsies

Was it so long ago? Have places, times and things changed so dramatically, that it beggars the imagination to even bring it to mind? When I was eight years old, our family moved back to the misty-moisty-mornings of the English countryside, having spent what, to me, was a lifetime on the island of Malta, which sits in the Mediterranean Sea, mid-way between the foot of Italy and North Africa. My brothers and sister, (Sophie wasn't even a twinkle in my father's eye yet!), were brown as autumn berries and could all swim like fish. We were all fluent in Maltese, since Joycie, our Nanny, spoke no English. My parents did their best at teaching her the basics, but it was so much easier for us to learn her language, since we were with her most of the time. Maltese is a strange mix of Arabic and Italian! Mummy was in the kitchen conjuring up some delicious Mediterranean feast, and Joycie, just arriving for the day, went into the kitchen, following the exquisite aromas, to proclaim in her very best English, "Oh, Madam, I am smelling!" We've never forgotten it. And back in England, my parents did a splendid job of raising their ever-growing brood in a marvellous laissez-faire fashion. There were few rules, one of these was that when we heard the cow-bell, a huge great Swiss thing on a fat leather strap, we were to drop everything and run home as fast as we could muster. The cow-bell rang for lunch and tea-time and bed-time, or if there was a crisis (it never happened!) Every now and again, at least once a week, Mummy would plonk a shilling down on the table, and tell me I could go riding with Cally, my mostest friend. We'd ride our bikes the 2 miles to Downhead Farm, crossing the A303 with a fleeting left and right glance. (The A303 was the main road from London to Cornwall in those days). Mrs. Neimeier and her husband (who I was madly in love with!) owned the farm and all 'our' precious horses. We'd 'yahoo' into the kitchen, to let her know that we were taking Betsy and Bendix out, and could we use the loo before we went. There were always cookies and 'cow-cake', lumps of goodness-knows-what that we fed to the horses instead of sugar lumps. So off we'd trek, the two of us, up onto the hill and into the woods where the gypsies made camp when they were round about. I remember their ponies. They were piebald and skewbalds and wild as the wind, like their children. It really was an adventure, and very brave of us to go up there. Everyone knows that gypsies steal little children, and sell them in Africa! We liked to play with the children, all muddy-faced and raw. They showed us how to catch rabbits and things, and the grandmother told our fortunes if we had a few extra pennies in our pockets. The promise of marrying at 21 a dark-eyed prince of a fellow, with the resultant eight children was enough for me! After a while, we'd get on our horses and wend our way back through the woods, into the quarry and down the hill to the farm. Riding our bikes home to arrive in time for a delicious tea-time, nobody could have convinced us that the old woman made it all up, every stinking word!

The Continuing Saga...

This bird-seed wreath thing has become an obsession! Really. I shall make a promise right now that I will not mention them again after this entry! I mean, life must go on. So let me tell you what has happened today, and be done with it. Still in my trusty plaid flannel nightie, I decorated my wreath, still heady with a decidedly beefy flavour, with a bundle of wheat sheaths and a few pine-cones, all tied up with strips of coordinating home-spun fabric in browns and soft rose-pinks(!), one floral and the other plaid for goodness sake, and attached it to the side of the wreath with a nice chunky bow. It was a sight for sore eyes. Wishing that I wasn't such a dunce with the digital camera, I never-the-less pulled on my sister Sophie's cold-weather boots and my heavy down squall jacket (hey, it was -2 degrees Fahrenheit!) and tromped out to the garden to hang the precious gift-offering onto a chosen tree where we could watch contentedly as our little birds would enjoy their treat. I also hung up the raisin icicles that my dear friend had made - 4 of them. I was pleased, however, that nobody was around to take a photograph of the vicar's wife in her nightie and winter boots out in the garden! That was 9 a.m. I left for school, and returned at about 1:30 p.m. only to find that one of the icicles had been very carefully removed, no string, no ribbons were to be found. Clever little bird! Wait, who's that hugging the wreath. Little red squirrel, that's who! He's claimed it. It's his! I looked for the sign that would read 'No birds allowed!' but he, like a good little squirrel, was using his words! No bird in its right mind would dare to come against this chattering conquistador! The days of the bird-seed wreath are surely numbered. Enough already!

If they only knew...

I'm not exactly sure how the progression went, but I'll try to give an accurate account of the progression of things: My dear friend, who I love dearly, couldn't find what she needed locally, so she went online and ordered some 10" straw wreaths. (Actually, she wanted 6" ones, but this is what arrived.) Great. Now down to business. She drove to Price Chopper, to buy some pre-shredded suet (what have we come to?!), some peanut butter, cornmeal, and a bag of song-bird food. From somewhere she procured some beautiful wheat ears, pinecones and a bag of brightly coloured ribbons. So we made a plan, and spent the afternoon together today making these exquisite wreaths to hang outside in the trees for our little feathered friends. While the suet slowly, carefully melted, we chatted about this and that, a wonderful, companionable visit between friends who hadn't enjoyed each others company for months. The kitchen began to swell with the heavy odour of Mr. Rideout's butcher shop in Marston Magna. He's been dead now for at least 20 years, but for the years we lived in the village, his shop, on the Queen Camel road was a daily destination. "2 lb. of your best sausages, please, Mr. Rideout. Oh, and we'd better have a leg of lamb for the Sunday joint. And have you made any faggots today? We'll need a dozen. (Faggots, for you American readers, are delicious meatballs made up of all kinds of unmentionables and stuffed into intestine skins...completely scrumptious!) How's Mrs. Rideout? And Sally? Is she enjoying Australia? You must miss her most dreadfully." And so it went. Everybody in the village knew all about everybody. What a heavenly place to grow up. We were all born in the guest room of the Manor House, a lovely Jacobean house which stood on the village green, flanked by the Church of St Mary the Virgin on one side and the farmhouse labourers cottages on the other. Roland Guppy had climbed up the yew tree in the graveyard on the afternoon of my birth, some 61 years ago, to get a better look. He called down to his mate at the foot of the tree:"I can see the doctor in his white nightie!" This, according to my beloved father, who had taken himself off across the fields, to get away from the drama of awaiting the arrival of his second daughter, both blue and breach! Where was I? Oh yes, in Derby, Vermont making bird seed wreaths! The pot was too small for the 10" wreaths so we held them up, taking turns to pour this amazing mixture of melted suet, peanut butter and cornmeal onto the wreaths until they were covered, but it was all going extremely well. My dear friend had dutifully placed a couple of pork chops on a plate to defrost for dinner that evening, and they seemed safe enough, sitting there on the kitchen counter...so at one point, I was patting a sodden wreath with birdseed, just a little tricky, as the birdseed was now all mixed with the suet, and it wasn't sticking too well. And then my friend, who I love dearly,decided to take things into her own hands, took the plate of birdseed to the pot, and lifting the wreath onto the plate proceeded to scatter birdseed from one end of the kitchen to the other! What a mess! What fun we were having. I really love my friend! There was a little of the suet mixture remaining in the pot, so she ran off and came back with a bundle of pinecones. Now that was fun! While we sat and chatted after this enormous effort, she tied red ribbons on some raisin icicles she had made for my birds. It seemed to take a long time, and she was most particular about her bows. They are truly beautiful. I shall hang them in the morning, along with the wreath and pinecones in one of the trees left standing after last week's storm. If those darling little birds only knew to what lengths we went to give them such a nourishing treat! Would they care? I doubt it! But I care, and I'm sure my sweet friend cares. We made a moment...So. What did you do today? How were the pork chops, dear friend?!

Only One...

I remember thinking at the time: we have a problem here. It's really not a huge 'thing', it's just that I have nowhere to store the rest of the veggies in the garden. I pulled up all the onions and garlic and put them in burlap sacks. They are now in the furnace room perfectly happy. The potatoes didn't fare so well. The furnace room is way too warm, and they all grew beautiful shoots. I pickled the beets along with some of the onions, but the carrots, leeks and the rest of the potatoes and beets had nowhere to go for the winter months. All too soon the garden was covered with 2 feet of snow and that was that, or so I thought. It'll all go back into the soil and turn into the most beautiful compost, or so I thought. This morning, we had a deer on our front lawn, and when Sadie and I went out for our walk we followed the tracks to the garden to find that she had found the leeks. The carrot tops, hidden for weeks under the blanket of snow, had this morning become the Sunday brunch of a lone deer. We have had a week or so of very warm weather, and I am so pleased that this past fall my garden was left unattended, so that this morning, one little deer found comfort and nourishment in my laziness!

The Joys of Solitude

It's so quiet here. Every now and again, Sadie, who's lying on the carpet in front of the fire, starts chasing squirrels, at least, that's what I think she doing. All her legs are moving in a running motion, and her upper lips are quivering. She must nearly have caught up to them because she's actually talking to them! Exquisite little squeaks and grunts, oh no, could that be a growl? Run. squirrels, run! How peaceful it all is. It's like a gift of time all wrapped up in the prettiest paper and ribbons. Time to read. Time to write. Time to think. Time to just be. Time to practice my songs for 'HONK!' and my lines, out loud! I can do what I want when I want. I can eat what I want when I want. I can sleep in when I want, which normally isn't something I like to do, but this is catch up time, having been under the weather lately. It's all really wonderful...and yet: I miss you!

Storm Damage

In this life, we shall have disappointments, that's a given. The way we deal with those disappointments determines the quality and depth of our lives. We KNOW this. Nobody will remember the winds that screamed through here last night like a freight train. This morning, on looking out of the kitchen window, the story started to unfold. Two big trees had succombed to the winds strength and fallen. I feel so sad. They're just trees. One of them had helped hold up the washing line that had held the clothes that flapped in the wind that howled round the house that Jack built! I remember telling my Mum last year about the trees that fell then. Her re-action: Lucky old you! Think of all that firewood, right in your back garden! Such wisdom! So now I thank the Almighty for providing next years firewood. I thank Him for sparing our little house from their demise. They could just as easily have blown here, rather than there. And I thank Him for giving me parents that so often looked on the sunny side of life. How refreshing. How nourishing!

Stormy,stormy night!

It's 4.05 in the morning and I haven't gone to sleep yet. Six hours ago, I had a lovely, hot jaccussi with some scrumptious Vermont Woods spices in it. I soaked for ages, then went to bed with Sadie and an eye mask filled with lavender and flax seed. Everything was in place for a good nights rest, but the wind was blowing and screaming, hurtling the wheelbarrow all the way down the hill to rest against the trees. Sadie went crazy, thinking it was some monster or other. I tried to recapture the magic moment of peace and warmth, but it was gone and so I got up and came to the computer and read Soe's 'Eating Peas' and laughed 'til I cried, signed up for the National Body Challenge, read Hannah's blogging and marvelled at her expertise in the sports photography field, then realized that it was high time to write, and so here we are. Apart from teaching Latin to middleschoolers, I have taken on the added excitement of accepting a role as an aristocratic English chicken in the British musical comedy 'Honk'. It's a fairly small part, but great fun, and I even have a solo! The premiere night will be in early March. Oh my goodness, I'm so tired and I think I've forgotten how to publish this post...

Feed The Birds, Tuppence A Bag...

Outside the window where we eat our meals is the spot where I feed the birds. It's a great set-up. I only have to open the window, to bring the feeders in during a storm, or to clean them and then re-fill them, and pop them back outside. I always call the chickadees, as if they aren't watching my every move and telling all their cousins what's happening over at the feeding station. It's very important to me that everyone get a fair shot at the feeders, so all are welcome. We have 4 extremely fat grey squirrels, and an unknown number of red squirrels minus one who sadly came to an unexpected end. I tried to revive her, but she had already died, so I ceremoniously wrapped her up in a pick-a-size Bounty towel and laid her gently to rest in the garbage bag, and then to the dumpster. (I couldn't bury her, it was -8 degrees F.) Our chief visitors are chickadees, ruby-breasted nuthatches, white-breasted nuthatches, goldfinches, and in the past couple of weeks, red-polls from the Arctic regions. We have hairy woodpeckers and downy woodpeckers, and even pileated woodpeckers who don't bother coming to the feeders, preferring instead the rotten pine trees still standing in the woods. We have blue jays and turtle doves and guncoes, and of course our little family of turkeys! Others come and go, but these are the regulars. Now! This 'tuppence a bag' lark is for the birds! I bought a 40# bag of sunflower hearts today for my little friends, and a large suet holder with a large suet pud to put in it and laid well over $60 on the counter of the Farm Store where I get my goodies! Wow, that's a far cry from 2d. a bag, isn't it!? But the Almighty has spoken, and He wants us to be good stewards of His creation, taking care of His little ones, all of them. So come on, squirrels, come and chow down, but don't be greedy. You must share!

So Much Has Happened...

The last time I wrote, the leaves on the maple trees were just turning that magic shade of pale apple green, and the sunlight whispered breezy dapples through them onto the warming earth. The sap had been running now for a couple of weeks, and the phoebe had returned from warmer climes to bring her sing-song call back to our woods. That was April. My Mum died suddenly in July, which completely rocked my foundation. Strange. Was I so thankful that she didn't suffer for more than a few hours? Was I devasted at her loss? Was I relieved for her that she died before becoming completely dependant on others, one of her worst dreads? To this day, I can't fathom it all. There have been a couple of times that I have picked up the phone to give her a call, and once even dialling all 15 numbers, and only when there was no answer did I realize the folly of it all. (In England, the house keeps the number, not the person.) I have been more thrilled for her than saddened by her death, and that really surprises me! My mother, the wonderful woman who carried me, birthed me, nursed me and gave me the best childhood anyone could ask for, along with my 5 brothers and sisters, is no more here on earth, but is gone to her eternal bliss with her beloved Pip, my darling Dad, and my children's precious Gapher. It all seems perfect, that's all.