The Scraper's Diary, Wednesday, March 26th, 1947, Verden

Street Scene in Bremen

We packed the lorries at 8.30 this morning, sat in the bus at 9 and left at 9.30. we drove to Oldenburg and thence to the American Ferry in American Bremen.

On being told that it would be four hours before we got across, we drove to Wesermunde and took two hours to cross. We drove in a sort of large Y shape South from Wilhelmshaven to Oldenburg and Bremen, then back up North to the bridge at Wesermunde and South again to Bremen and Verden.

Thus we took over four hours to cross the river Weser from Bremen West to Bremen East on the other side. We arrived here at 8.30, having had no food except three sandwiches each for over twelve hours, having been travelling for eleven hours and having played 144 rounds of solo, with over a hundred pass rounds in eight hours continuous play.

Bremen is lousy with Yanks and terribly bombed. I never dreamt to see such utter, efficient devastation. Occasional gaunt walls leapt up to the sunset, much as Egyptian obelisks do in cheap water colours.

A fleece of clouds was crimson above the West and ragged in the wind, like a sea of fire, unquenchable.

As I said, we got here at 8.30 and as we were expected at 1 pm, there was nothing ready. No plates, no lights in the rooms, no blankets. Now, at last, at 10 o'clock, everything is sorted out, all kit unpacked and everyone fed.

Goodnight.

o-o-o-o-o

Thursday, March 27th, Verden

the smell of cheap scent, like the remembered touch of a silk stocking...........

grey clouds across a sombre sky, and all around, like the dubious security of a residential suburb.........

Is it better to know the agony of solitude, or is this disillusion a release, a kindness?

My old Gods look hollowly at their crumbling feet and as I am now without my painful worship, I feel a new emptiness, a sequestration........

Where ignorance is bliss.........

And yet I know that for the rest of my life I shall build new temples to my old, nostalgic, wistful, often profane deities, and, with a little tremor in my heart, I shall turn away when the rain dissolves their feet.

Children's Playtime

It’s conker playing time, so why are there no children coming up the garden path, asking if they may collect the conkers from our big old horse chestnut tree?

Could it be something to do with the dreaded Health & Safety brigade forbidding children to play conkers in the school playground ?

How do children of today develop their sense of adventure, an appetite for exploration, give their imagination free rein; perhaps even just learn how to negotiate a road, when they are under supervision almost every hour of the day.

Why are so many playgrounds empty most of the time, even in good weather? Where are the children having fun?

This is not the beginning of a “better-in-my-day” rant. I genuinely feel sorry for the way children are hedged about on all sides by anxious parents, teachers concerned that they might be sued and officialdom adding prohibitive restrictions.

“In-my-day”, the young were sent out to play, to explore woods and fields and hedges, to build dens, climb trees, swim and paddle in streams and ponds. There were seasons for bike riding, roller and ice skating, sledging, skipping, hopscotch, playing ball and many other regularly recurring games. Girls took their dolls and doll related paraphernalia on to the doorstep or into the open porch, boys kicked a ball about in the street.

I realise that most children grow up in towns nowadays and that it would be foolish to allow them to play on busy roads but it must surely be within the bounds of adults’ ingenuity to encourage children to discover activities outside their computer and TV infested bedrooms or organised “after-school-activities”. Many children are ferried to and from lessons in extra-curricular subjects after school hours, could these subjects not include some unsupervised playtime in a safe environment? Not just indoors but outdoors as well.

Even nowadays children could still have adventures away from adults, on their own, rehearsing how to become grown-up by taking on responsibility for themselves and each other; with older children keeping an eye out for the younger ones.

Perhaps parents’ reluctance to give their children the freedom they deserve and need is partly due to the constant reminders and solemn warnings in the media and public organs of the ever-present danger of psychopaths, rapists, muggers, lurking around every corner as well as gangs of feral boys, and more recently, girls, wielding guns and knives, ruling the streets.

I heard last weekend, that here, at Valley’s End, shrubs and trees have recently been cut down on the perimeter of the children’s playground and the football field with the justification that “paedophiles might be lurking there hidden from view, waiting to pounce”. I sincerely hope that is no more than rumour, otherwise I would despair.

Horror stories like these sell papers and advertising; for the most part, these stories are wildly exaggerated, even nonsense. The children who come to harm in our society, come to harm at home or in the care of people they know well, people out of their own, often closest, environment. Only the very worst of these stories come to public knowledge, the vast majority of them remain untold. But every isolated case of a stranger attacking a child is immediately whipped into a froth of public hysteria.

We must keep our children and grandchildren safe, we must protect them, look after them, but let us also allow them the space and freedom to grow into happy and well-adjusted adults. I feel that “learning to play” is very much part of that process.

What do you think?

painting by Jacques Laurent Agasse 1767-1849 "Der Spielplatz"

The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon

Sei Shonagon, who was a lady-in-waiting at the court of he Emperor of Japan towards the end of the tenth century AD, wrote her Pillow Book as a sort of very early blog. Here are three more examples of her lists of things which she found worthy of noting.

Things That Have Lost Their Power

A large boat which is high and dry in a creek at ebb-tide.

A woman who has taken off her false locks to comb the short hair that remains.

A large tree that has been blown down in a gale and lies on its side with its roots in the air.

The retreating figure of a Sumo wrestler who has been defeated in a match.

Awkward Things

One has gone to a house and asked to see someone; but the wrong person appears, thinking that it is he who is wanted; this is especially awkward if one has brought a present.

One has allowed oneself to speak badly about someone without really intending to do so; a young child who has overheard it all goes and repeats what one has said in front of the person in question.

Someone sobs out a pathetic story. One is deeply moved; but it so happens that not a single tear comes to one's eyes - most awkward. Though one makes one's face look as if one is going to cry, it is no use; not a single tear will come. Yet there are times when, having heard something happy, one feels the tears streaming out.

Things That Fall From The Sky

Snow. Hail. I do not like sleet, but when it is mixed with pure white snow it is very pretty.

Snow looks wonderful when it has fallen on a roof of cypress bark.

When snow begins to melt a little, or when only a small amount has fallen, it enters into all the cracks between the bricks, so that the roof is black in some places, pure white in others - most attractive.

I like drizzle and hail when they come down on a shingle roof.

I also like frost on a shingle roof or in a garden.

October

The month of October, the “golden month”, the month when the last fruits ripen, is a tranquil month, suitable for autumnal contemplation and for taking a well-deserved rest from the labours of the outdoor year. In terms of the human lifespan, October falls into the fourth season, after childhood, youth, middle age; it is the month corresponding to the age of the senior, the older person. Lines and colours become sharper, the contours of a life lived, achievements and failures of a lifetime, become clearer, more defined. There’s nothing much we can do about anything now.

The age of the “senior”, the age of retirement, has not been with us for many years yet. In olden days, before the beginning of the 20^th century, the aging man and woman worked until s/he could no longer do so, until s/he no longer had the physical or mental strength. The aging man would pass on his farm, his fields, his business, his trade, to his son and the farmer’s wife and housewife handed over keys and responsibility for the household to the daughter or daughter-in-law. The elders would, however, remain with and in the family, needed still for advice, help with children and lighter work, thereby remaining active and retaining a sense of self-worth, a confirmation of their relevance, terms nobody would have known or used a hundred years ago.

With the advent of retirement age, a retirement pension, therefore a fixed date for leaving our active working life – good as these achievements are – we also gradually invented a need for alternative employment and a filling of our leisure time, particularly, as we in the West all live so much longer than we used to do.

In the old days, particularly in rural environments, it was common for three generations to live together under one roof, or at least in the same village. Before machines took over much of our work, when we grew our own food, washed our own clothes and scrubbed our own doorsteps, there was always enough work for everybody within the family, house and garden, when the daily bread-winning job was done.

Of course, not everything in the garden was endlessly rosy, far from it. People living together in close proximity has always caused problems, for all parties.

Still, grandfather and grandmother were of great importance to the children of the family, taking care of them, entertaining them, teaching them, telling stories, comforting, consoling them, when the need arose; tasks which are too often left to TV, computers and noisy games today.

A hundred years ago the older person was, much more than we can even imagine today, part of the continuous chain of generations; hence their adherence to what they knew, had learned throughout their lives. When asked “why” or “since when” their answer was “that’s how it’s always been”. And they’d stick to that. “Age and wisdom” are not always synonymous but there is no doubt that experience had taught them well.

The term “leisure activities” too was unknown a hundred years ago. There were no organised entertainments or sports for the elderly rural population. They had time to be aware of and in tune with the changing seasons, for instance; to watch both crops and children grow. They knew of “all things between heaven and earth”. During long summer evenings there was time to sit on the doorstep and talk; the women knitting and the men maybe smoking a leisurely pipe.

And when they grew too old to be of use they were allowed to live out their remaining days in the bosom of their family, accepted as a part of the rhythm of life.

o-o-o-o-o

I have been prompted to these musings by the sad spectacle of an old lady of my acquaintance, a dear friend, being transported to a care home by her family.

I realise that her failing health is making this move necessary but I am still wondering if we are not too ready to put our old people away too readily.

All Things Pass

Lao-Tzu

A stone sculpture of Lao-Tzu, located

North of Quanzhou, at the foot of

Mount Quingyuan

All Things Pass

All things pass

A sunrise does not last all morning

All things pass

A cloudburst does not last all day

All things pass

Nor a sunset all night

All things pass

What always changes?

Earth. . . Sky. . .Thunder. . .

Mountain. . .Water. . .

Wind. . .Fire. . .Lake

These change

And if these do not last

Do man's visions last?

Do man's illusions?

Take things as they come

All things pass

Lao-Tzu (6th century BC)

from translations adapted by Timothy Leary

(born October 22nd 1920 - died May 31st 1996)

This version appears in Leary's Psychedelic Prayers (Academy Editions, London 1972).

In the foreword he writes that "these translations from English to psychedelese were made while sitting under a bamboo tree on a grassy slope of the Kumaon Hills overlooking the snow peaks of the Himalayas....

image Wikimedia

Eva's Tale

Eva Goes On Holiday # 2

I am on an island. I have never been on an island before. It is called Norderney, I asked Miss Manfred and she showed me how to spell it. Miss Manfred is in charge of me and I must do as she says. But she smiled a bit and I wasn’t scared. I’ve never been sent away before. Everybody says it’s good for me but I miss Mum. Mum packed a suitcase for me, with my knickers and vests and socks and my skirt and blouses and my dress and shoes and plimsolls and even my nighties. She wouldn’t pack any toys, not even my Pummelchen*, she said, you will only lose them and anyway, toys from home are not allowed.

Sanatorium is a bit like school except I have to stay here all the time and sleep in a room which is called a dormitory and there are six of us, all girls, and we all have to lie on our beds in the afternoon and rest. Miss Manfred says that the doctor says we are all tired after lunch, but I am not tired and I asked Miss Manfred if I could read a book if I had one.

We are allowed to write a letter home but we have to show it to the lady who sits with us in the big room, where we eat and write letters and draw pictures and play games. The lady asks us many questions about how we are and what we like to do and if we like the Sanatorium and the nurses. I didn’t know that there are nurses, but the lady says that this is not just a children's home but also a Sanatorium and that there must be nurses. And doctors. The doctor said I must have a thorough examination, and he needs to check me. There was a nurse but she didn’t look like a nurse. she didn't have a white apron on; I was scared, they made me take off my vest and they didn’t give me a sweetie. I couldn’t manage all my buttons and the nurse helped me.

The doctor said I must go into a very special dormitory, for very special children. We get extra attention and the ward is called isolation. Miss Manfred is very nice to us, she is never cross, even when Susie cried all night because she missed her Mummy and we couldn’t sleep because she made such a racket. I cried a bit but very softly, so nobody heard me.

I wrote a letter to Mum. I think I was very clever to remember my Mum’s name from before she married my Dad. I didn’t think you could write a letter to two people so I wrote it just for Mum and I put her name on it, Miss Josten; I even put her other name on it, Miss Katherine Josten. I asked her to send me my winter coat and my Heidi book. I showed the letter to the lady and she put a stamp on the envelope. She smiled at me but she didn’t say anything.

I don’t know what all the fuss is about, my Mum sent the coat and the Heidi book and a letter saying that I was very naughty and the lady called me in and she smiled again and she said I must put my Mum’s proper name on the next letter.

But the name she said I must put on the envelope is my Dad’s name I said, not my Mum’s. The Lady smiled a bit more and she said, all the same, could I please do as Mum asked and then she said that she enjoys having me and I am not to worry and she will tell my Mum that she likes me and that I am a good girl.

*Pummelchen = rag doll

The Scraper's Diary, March 25th, 1947,

Wilhelmshaven ( continued )

The Writing Room, Church of Scotland,

Wilhelmshaven has been bombed quite efficiently, and is largely in ruins, at least, it is in the centre of the town, and by the docks.

Out of the window, in the tranquil air, I can see a few gaunt walls and grotesque brick remains, that are rapidly greying to silhouette. A church tower, sturdy, but gutted, points a purposeless finger at the urgent clouds and emphasizes the delicate tracery of the trees, black against a fading sky.

A lorry has pulled up in the street below and vomits soldiers and their profanations on to the pavement. They enter the canteen and are happily lost to hearing, and the scene assumes a strange peace, somehow a harmony, from its intrinsic decay and senility.

At Dusseldorf you left barracks, turned left, turned right, and thumbed a lift into the town, over two miles away. There were shops plentifully among the devastation.

At Dortmund you turned left, crossed a field, and turned left again, and then hitchhiked or walked the mile and a half to the centre, as you pleased, and there was scarcely anything but rubble in the centre.

At Osnabruck you turned right and hoped for a lift. It is two miles from barracks to town and though the town does not appear excessively damaged, there are few shops open there.

At Oldenburg the camp is but a mile from the town, where all shops are open, and full of many things to take home, if you have marks or cigarettes.

And here, at Wilhelmshaven, you leave barracks and scarcely any vehicles pass you as you walk the mile and a half into the uninteresting town.

However, we are only two in a room, and each room has running water.

A Walk in the Woods

from North Wind in October

In the golden glade the chestnuts are fallen all;

From the sered boughs of the oaks the acorns fall;

The beech scatters her ruddy fire;

The lime has stripped to the cold,

And standeth naked above her yellow attire;

The larch thinneth her spire

To lay the ways of the wood with cloth of gold.

Out of the golden green and white

of the brake the fir trees stand upright

In the forest of flame, and wave aloft

To the blue of heaven their blue-green tuftings soft.

Robert Bridges (1844-1930)

A walk in the woods

on a sunny day in mid-October

There is a bench hidden in the woods

by the side of the pond.

Despite the sunshine there is a chill in the air.

It's better if we move on; walking will warm us up.

We'll follow the small brook which feeds the pond.

On the other side of the path are these wonderful, mossy tree trunks

going up the hill.

We'll stay on the leaf-strewn path, although Benno

would be very happy to follow his nose uphill.

The sunlight creates pretty patterns,

the woods are thinning out.

We're getting back into pasture land;

there's a bank of manure lying by the hedge.

And here we are back in the open fields.

The winter wheat is coming along nicely.

The photos can be enlarged.

Eva's Tale

Eva Goes On Holiday # 1

Mum says I’m not well, she wants to send me away. She even took me to the doctor; he knocked on my chest, just like you knock on a door and made me cough. And breathe. I breathe all the time, sometimes I breathe very hard, like when I run or play hopscotch with Lucy and Jenny. Lucy is my best friend ever. Jenny is my best friend too, but not like Lucy, I like Lucy better, she can’t run fast and we play together nicely, Mum says.

The doctor waggled his head when he finished knocking on my chest and my back. I like him, his hands are warm and he gives me a sweetie. We’ll try to get her into the next group, he said, six weeks of sea air will do her good.

Six weeks, that’s forever. I think it must be a very long time, because when Mum and I told Miss Speer, she also waggled her head a bit and said, she will miss most of the summer term then. Miss Speer is my teacher, she is very, very old, she has her hair all scraped back, with a bun in the back and lots of grips and when she smiles her face goes all crinkly. She is really lovely. Except when she has to leave the room and she makes me stand in front of the class and write down the names of naughty children on the blackboard. I don’t like that. But Miss Speer says I must do it, you must do your duty, she says. I wish she would pick someone else sometimes. Even if Katy and Marianne are naughty I never write their names on the blackboard. I only pretend. I go round the back and I scrape the chalk over the blackboard so it sounds like I’m writing, but I’m not really. When Miss Speer comes back she always asks me who was naughty and why there are no names on the blackboard. I say that nobody was naughty and that everybody read their books and practised writing.

I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

Miss Speer says it’s all right for me to be sent away and breathe the sea air; I think it must be very special air, Mum says it will stop me coughing. Mum says I’m lucky, other children don’t get to go. Perhaps if I tried very hard to stop coughing they won’t send me away.

Sunday Quotation

The Fall of the Leaf

In the beginning of the world we presume all things to have been

produced in their best state; all was perfect, and yet how soon a decay!

All was summer, and yet how soon a fall of the leaf!

John Donne

1573-1631

photo Heinz Wohner

Edition Krackenberger

October in the Garden

from

The Garden, Autumn

by Vita Sackville West

Autumn in felted slipper shuffles on,

Muted yet fiery, - Autumn's character.

Brown as a monk yet flaring as a whore,

And in the distance blue as Raphael's robe

Tender around the Virgin.

This year's colours are absolutely spectacular, I have never seen such brilliant reds, ochres, golds, and yellows. we had the first frost of the year last night, but it seems to have done no harm; on the contrary, the colours appear to have been intensified by the cold. I have brought in all tender plants that I wish to save for propagation; there will be an earthy smell about the place for a few weeks until I have dealt with and safely stored geraniums, dahlias, some grasses and a few of the lavenders and rosemarys; I lost too many plants last year to risk repeating my mistakes.

This is a narrow border close by the house.

In the picture are the dying leaves of a herbaceous paeony,

the flame-coloured plumes of a green-leaved cotinus,

and the golden leaves of a choisya.

This is an unusual and beautiful spiraea, which I grow mainly

for its foliage. What it lacks in stature it makes up for in

the colour of its leaves: they are golden in spring and vary

from deep red to the palest bronze in autumn.

The spindle tree (Euonymous) is an indigenous

tree of the hedgerows in Europe.

It is pretty inconspicuous for long periods.

It produces small white flowers in May which turn into

a profusion of rose-red capsules which open to reveal orange seeds.

But in autumn it takes centre-stage in any garden, it turns a

deep red flame, stealing the show

and overshadowing in beauty any rare shrub you may be cosseting.

I love Euphorbias, a plant of mediterranean origin and I grow several varieties.

They are not strictly speaking of particular interest in autumn;

they make quite a show in any season.

But they can be relied upon to provide colour ranging from

lime green over deep green to reddish purple in autumn and deepest winter.

They certainly earn their keep.

At this time of year and during the winter the small, unassuming

cyclamen fill many a shady space in the garden which would otherwise be bare.

This clump is growing around the foot of an ancient rambling rose.

But the biggest scene-stealer in the garden in October is this ornamental cherry tree.

On the tree these leaves provide a kaleidoscope of changing colour

with every breath of wind that touches them.

Underfoot they are the brightest oriental carpet you have ever walked on.

And finally, some advice for October:

Plant gooseberries, currants, raspberries and strawberries, that they may take root before winter; for those which are planted at this season will produce fruit the following summer, whereas those which are planted in spring, have seldom strength enough to produce any (or at least very few) until the second year.

Philip Miller The Gardeners Kalendar 1732

Summer/Autumn 1945 How not to keep rabbits

In the summer of 1945 a completely new system of food rationing and allocation of all available foodstuffs was introduced by the American authorities in the Lower Rhine area. The word calories soon became a term everyone was familiar with.

The average inhabitant of the region was entitled to the following quantities - always provided the food was actually available for distribution - per week:

Bread 1 500 grams, Meat 175 grams, Butter 90 grams, Sugar 100 grams, Jam 150 grams,

Various dry foods, such as noodles or rice 250 grams, soft cheese 50 grams

Making a total of about 5 547 calories per week, i.e. 792 calories per day.

Fresh fruit or vegetables were not included; in earlier reminiscences I explained hat these were collected by gleaning, foraging and sometimes stealing.

Meat and fish were hardly ever available, they may have been on the list of allocated foods but in reality they very much remained pie-in-the-sky.

Father had an idea. Father had always liked meat, he missed it badly. Mother and I had not had any for a long time, our health may have been suffering but that was not something mother was overly concerned with. Filling bellies sufficiently to alleviate hunger pangs was more her aim.

Father decided we should keep rabbits; we would collect their food in fields and meadows ourselves, fatten them up and eat them.

A rickety hutch was duly built, a pair of baby rabbits appeared out of the blue, were incarcerated and fed on grass, cabbage leaves (we had plenty of cabbage, we always had cabbage, cabbage was our main source of vitamins and minerals and cabbage made us all look fat and bloated, with huge bellies) and anything else we could find.

The rabbits became my pets. I visited them in the garden whenever I could, fed them by hand, even sharing my food with them, which made mother very cross.

I begged her to let them out occasionally, but she wouldn’t budge. These rabbits were to have no exercise which would lengthen the fattening process.

Soon one of them was pronounced ready for butchering. The problem was, how and by whom. In theory, turning a live rabbit into a dead one, ready for the oven, had seemed to be a simple task; in reality, father just couldn’t do it. His great idea had come to a dead end.

Still, these rabbits were food and destined to be cooked and eaten. So father took Hans (naturally, I had given them names), put him in a sack and took him to a farmer, who, in return for the skin, duly dispatched and cleaned him.

Father came home, handed mother the carcass and she cooked it. It was to be a very special Sunday treat. Despite the wonderful, rare cooking smells pervading the kitchen, the atmosphere was sombre, subdued. I was sitting in the corner, snivelling.

When the meal was dished up, my snivelling turned to howling; I absolutely refused to eat Hans; mother likewise felt herself become queasy; she toyed with a piece but soon pushed it over on to father’s plate. Father was determined to show true grit, he grimly worked his way through his portion and ate mine and mother’s as well.

The next day father took Gretel, the other rabbit away, “to set it free”, he said.

It is more likely that he exchanged it for eggs or butter with someone less squeamish than his own family.

Sunday Quotation

Men deal with life, as children with their play,

Who first misuse, then cast their toys away.

Hope

William Cowper

1731-1800

Photo Jeremy White

The Scraper's Diary Sunday March 23rd, 1947, Oldenburg

Played in the German Church this morning. Most monotonous, bland service; the Padre intoned platitudes most prosaically and automatically, and the audience, - sorry congregation - intoned the responses with the same lack of inspiration. They sounded far from convinced. They confessed themselves smugly sinful and felt loads better.

Tonight they are probably swearing and black-marketeering.

Bah.

Concert this afternoon, we played badly.

o-o-o-o-o

Monday, March 24th

We went to a whist drive last night, Mike and I, and I won the booby prize of a bottle of Brylcreem. Good Show.

This morning we had a medical inspection, F.F.I. (free from infection), also a gum inspection for gingivitis. After that we were dusted with de-lousing powder and sent home. They don't seem to think much of the Band.

Then we, or rather I and three others, were interrogated by the military police about the recent loss or theft of the banerettes and the oboe. As I was the last to see the oboe, I am regarded most suspiciously.

Now I must go and testify at a court of enquiry.

o-o-o-o-o

Tuesday, March 5th, Wilhelmshaven

Arrived here at eleven, after an hour's solo whist. It's more sunny today.

From time to time during the journey someone would come out with a witty remark or a new verse of a comic song about the loss of the oboe. It's getting monotonous already.

We stood by from 5 o'clock last night for the court of enquiry. At 7.50 I was called in, sworn in and questioned for five minutes. Half an hour later I signed eight copies of my statement, and that was that.

I feel weak and tired. It must be the air, most enervating.

o-o-o-o-o

Evening, Church of Scotland Writing Room, Wilhelmshaven,

I've got indigestion, bad indigestion, and it's caused through eating too much, and by the unaccustomed richness of the food I have consumed out here.

I thought, two days ago in Oldenburg, that my lassitude and lack of energy had something to do with the air, but now, after a mild attack of diarrhoea, and having been belching for hours, I know differently. It is nearly seven o'clock, and I have eaten one roll, and drunk one cup of tea since one and yet I do not feel hungry. That proves it, I'm overnourished.