Thank You, America

It grieves me to see so many of my American blogging friends unhappy with the politicians in their own country. I see a good, proud, kind nation tearing itself to pieces and would like to remind you of the big heart and generous spirit you showed towards others less fortunate than you.

Let me introduce you to a little girl, called Eva,  growing up in the years immediately after  WW2 in Germany, in a small village on the left bank of the Lower Rhine. Previous adventures can be found under the label 'Eva's Tale' in the side bar. Each story stands on its own. Sometimes Eva writes the story herself, at other times she asks me to do it.

This is one of those that I tell for her; she would like me to say thank you to the people of America, who, irrespective of political affiliation, clubbed together like one nation of like-minded people, with one gigantic heart, willing to help her and millions like her to survive the chaos of her time.

Dear American reader, you may not know what a CARE Paket is, or recognise the letters GARIOA , neither did Eva at the time, but those letters and what they stood for, meant that she, although often hungry, did not starve to death.

Eva went to the village school; she was fortunate in that her school was undamaged, it had a roof and walls and tables and chairs. Like every child, she picked up any kind of firewood she could find on her way to school.  Very occasionally, she had a piece of coal, or a whole briquette to take; without heating, they were in danger of freezing during lessons in winter.

Eva knew about hunger too. Everybody was entitled to ration cards, children included, but you can’t eat paper. There was very little food, with or without a ration card. If you had a garden, you might have had some potatoes or cabbage for part of the year; if you had anything left to barter, you might traipse round farms and maybe come away with a couple of eggs, a pound of potatoes, some apples.

An American Aid Programme made it possible that children had hot milk soup at school, semolina soup, barley soup, or oat soup. Eva’s favourites were chocolate soup and semolina soup with raisins. Each child had to bring a metal canteen with a lid and a handle, to receive a ladle full of liquid.  Sometimes they had a thick slice of bread, with cream cheese.

Food aid for families came in the form of CARE packages. In November 45, twenty two charitable organizations in the US founded the private Aid Organisation CARE (Cooperative for American Remittances to Europe). To begin with, most parcels were sent to relatives of American citizens in Germany; once help was standardized, other families also received food.

The parcels contained tinned meat, fat, sugar, chocolate, jam, dried egg, powdered milk and coffee.

Distribution was strictly controlled, and Eva’s family never had a full parcel to themselves but it was possible to receive some of the items on ration cards.

For years Eva believed that her favourite food in all the world was horse meat. The reason was that one of the tins her mother opened contained a luscious, dark brown meat, in a thick, savoury jelly. Once the contents had been emptied on to a plate, Eva put as much of her little hand inside the tin as she could, wiping it clean. Licking the traces of jelly off her hand was bliss.

These tins came with the picture of a horse stuck to the outside and the name on the label was ‘Mustang’

Pre-Printed Thank You Cards which recipients
of CARE packages sent to the United States.

Beauty Treatment

Facial Mask  -  Wikipedia






Hello, come in, how are you?

I'll be with you in half a mo. Hop on.

There we are, is this comfortable?

Are you warm enough? We don't really need the towels, do we?

She wipes my eyebrows, then proceeds to pluck them.

That's fine, not a lot today.

She puts on eyebrow tint.

We'll let this sit for a minute.

That's fine, all done.

I'll just lower the couch and switch off the big light.

A narrow towel is wrapped around my hair. I shuffle about a bit on the couch, making myself comfortable. I relax and close my eyes. The process of deep cleansing begins. Cool, small, deft fingers wipe the last vestiges of tension from my eyes.

Ah, avocado and ginseng today, smells good enough to eat.

I'd better pop into the greengrocers on the way home, 
we could do with some fresh veg, some carrots, broccoli and maybe an avocado or two for  salad. 
There's enough time to prepare a salad lunch. 
I don't suppose Beloved has remembered to get bread out of the freezer; 
a French roll shouldn't take too long to defrost.


Flat palms and fingertips smooth and massage a layer of cleansing cream into face and neck.

Has she got my collar tucked in safely? 
Shouldn't have put a clean shirt on before coming here. 
Some of the cream is bound to rub off.  
It's a question of doing just the centre or going in deep and messing up my shirt. 
Too late now to take it off. 
The ironing, oh hell, did I remember to switch the iron off? 
I must have done. 
Will Beloved notice? Probably not. 


Men! 

The massage proper is starting. Fifteen minutes of sheer bliss. I snuggle deeper into the soft couch. Experienced hands perform a dance of repetitive movements across my face, under my chin, around the eye sockets, circling and stroking and patting and drumming.

I drift off.


Ah, lovely, more please, more.

.I wonder if that boy is going to be any good while Gardener is away. 
He looked a bit like he was borderline Down's. 
Funny that he should bring his Mum along. 
Why do they marry their cousins round here? 
Down's is nothing to do with in-breeding, or is it? 
Must get started on the Larsson trilogy soon, 
Damn blogging, I don't read enough since I've started. 
Lots of my favourite bloggers seem to be away at the moment. 
Wonder how Suze is getting on with her sister. 
And Debs, haven't heard from her for ages. 
At least my favourite Edwardians are still around.
Would that Amnesty tea party make a post?
Perhaps a bit too fragmented? 
And personal?
Sally hasn't confirmed Andrew's birthday do yet; 
if she leaves it much longer there'll be something else in the diary. 
Hope she can arrange for a car and driver for all of us; 
a party without drink ? No thanks.
God, I still haven't been to see Audrey, I am such a cow, always promising to visit and never going. 
Poor Audrey, she can't help going ga-ga.  
Everybody is getting so damn old. 
Is it poetry on Thursday? 
I must find a couple of poems on birds. 
The others are bound to bring the Romantics, 
I'll have to look out some new poets, 
shock them out of their cosy complacency. 
God, I am a cow. 
Always stirring things up. 
Why can't I leave people be? 
Why must they be so boring?


No don't stop, Pleeeeaaase.

The massage is finished. Similar movements continue for another two minutes, this time to remove the massage cream, using cleanser and witchhazel.

It's time for the mask: a balancing mask for the 'T' zone, (forehead, nose, chin) containing kaolin and peach kernel. A soothing mask for cheeks and neck, containing aloe vera. This is the part where I usually doze off for 5 minutes. Witchhazel pads on my eyes mean that I couldn't open them even if I wanted. I don't. If I allowed myself to feel embarrassed, now would be the time. I don't.

The beautician tells me what she does with each new process, otherwise there is silence; there is the faintest hint of Classics For The Retarded in the background, played on an instrument which sounds like a harp for a web-fingered dwarf; I have no difficulty shutting the sound out altogether.  Perhaps I'm snoring.

Five minutes later and the idyll is over. The mask comes off, the beautician rubs at my face, hard. No more 'Miss Nice Guy'. A cleansing cream takes the last bits of plaster off, the big light comes back on,  and the pore police appears on the scene. Any remaining criminal blockage is attacked mercilessly by means of a metal squeezing tool, probably invented during the Spanish Inquisition;  the beautician's face is now so close to mine that I feel claustrophobia coming on.

Ouch! That hurt!

She slaps witchhazel all over my face, it feels very cold on my warm skin and I wake up fully. She pads me dry and her fingertips follow with a very thin layer of moisturiser to finish the job. The towel comes off. She hands me a mirror and picks up her diary.

Lovely. All done. Your skin feels gorgeous, so soft.

Three weeks?

Brief Encounter

On my walks round Valley's End I often meet several people who might be classified as 'simple'. Two of them never speak to me and barely look at me sideways, although one of them always has a careful glance at Benno before dancing a little detour to make sure they don't pass too closely. The other one takes long steps, hands deep in the pockets of his dark, long overcoat, summer and winter, head down; I doubt that he notices anybody, at least, he gives no sign that he does.

The other two chatter. If you let them, they'll chatter for as long as they can detain you. Both of them have a strange power over me. I feel bad about leaving them standing in the middle of the road, still talking inconsequentially, while I walk backwards, stumbling away from them, muttering, repeating what they've said, agreeing with whatever I think they've been saying.

The four are all middle-aged, only one is a woman.

I met her on the footbridge over the river yesterday afternoon. She had me pinned down, while I edged past her;  I was almost across when she changed her mind about letting me go without interrogating me. It is always an interrogation, never a friendly, but non-committal, "nice day today" which is the usual currency exchanged with a chance-met fellow walker. Abruptly, with something of an accusation in her tone, she asked:

"Do you live in Valley's End?"

"Yes, I do".

She smiled a sour smile, not believing me. Not only do I meet her out walking, we have also shared a cup of tea and a biscuit at many charity mornings.

"I don't know you".

I have learned that it's best not to mention previous meetings. They will involve a lot of explanations which I am too impatient to give. I smile, hoping I don't look as shifty and ill-at-ease as I feel.

"Yes, we've been here xx years now. I think I've seen you before. I live in Mrs. Pettigrew's house".

Round here, your house is never your house, it is always the house of the previous owner. It only becomes your house when you leave it.

"No", long drawn-out, shaking her head. "No, I don't know you."

She isn't mellowing. There's a small pause, during which I turn slightly to attempt my escape.

"Have you found a cleaner then?" this was unexpected. So she knew me after all?

"Yes, thank you, I did".

"Because you were looking for a cleaner, weren't you?" How could she possibly know?
"Jolly good, well done, who is she?"

"A girl from the town".

"Because I do cleaning as well, you know".

"Do you, that's kind of you." I'm babbling. But I have reached the end of the footbridge,  the open road is two steps away. Up to now I have been shuffling sideways, crab fashion, I am about to turn my back to her and, with luck, say goodbye over my shoulder.

"Yes, I do", she said, "I can come and clean for you".

Benno's nose has led him off the bridge and on to the verge up the road on the other side a little way. Excellent dog. I pretend I'm looking for him.

"Excuse me, I must  . . . . . . .

"Nice to meet you", she calls after me.

Of Bicycles, Gods and the Doghouse

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No. 75

Mars and Vulcan,
rough boys playing rough games,
riding their bikes,
shrieking, bells clanging  and brakes screeching,
up and own the long corridors of Jupiter's
workshops for the manufacture
of thunder and lightning.


Jupiter appeared,
bleary-eyed and hung over
after a long night with one of his many conquests.

By Jove, he thundered,
ear-splitting uproar of unruly youth
all but deafening him.

Send for Juno, my wife,
the companion of my years,
protector of my hearth,
warlike and fearless,
her word will end your games.

Juno, in garments of ire,
her face black with anger,
stood before Jupiter.

My lord, brother and husband,
the revels of the night
have addled your adulterer's brain.

Your tale is told as by an idiot,
full of sound and fury,
signifying nothing.

Now hold your tongue,
allow brave youth its edifying games
and you return now whence you came.
A wanton's couch is waiting
your return.

Chastened, ill-favoured, sick at heart,
Jupiter found his way to Sirius.
Move over Sir, he said,
Tonight it's me who's in the doghouse.

July Miscellany, The House of Leo and a Book

Ciclo Dei Mesi - Luglio - ca. 1400
Torre dell'Aquila, nel Castello del Buonconsiglio di Trento

July, the month of haymaking.

Named in honour of the Roman emperor, Julius Cesar.

Nowadays haymaking in Europe is more or less over by July, which means that  climatic conditions must have changed considerably over the past 1200 years.

The Sun enters the House of Leo.

The man born under Leo shall be hardy, he shall speak openly, and be merciful; but he shall be arrogant in words. At thirty years he shall be damaged, but shall eschew that peril; he shall have goods by temporal services, and as much as he loseth, he shall win. He will go often on pilgrimages, and suffer pain of the sight. He shall fall from on high; at thirty-six years he shall be bitten of a dog, and shall live ninety-four years after nature.



The woman shall be a great liar, fair, well-spoken, pleasant, merciful, and may not suffer to see men weep. Her first husband shall not live long, but she shall live to get great riches, and shall have children of three men. She shall live seventy-eight years after nature.

Kalendar of Shepheardes 1604



Am I the only person who finds Lorrie Moore's
"A Gate At The Stairs" a little too simile-laden?
I have just finished reading the novel. To begin with, I loved her
lyrical language, read many sentences twice and three times to inhale their full flavour, wanting to get to know both the characters of the story and the author, who was new to me. By about page fifty I needed the story to proceed a little less wordily. Half way through, I felt it dragging, although it certainly picked up speed again after Tassie learns of her employers' secret.

The reviews have been glowing and I feel slightly uncomfortable
saying this.






For those of you who have forgotten that I have a castle sitting just outside the garden hedge, here is a reminder. All that separates me from the castle grounds is a hedge which consists of rose bushes, and a dry moat. My hands and bare arms are scratched and torn,  bleeding and punctured by the pricks of a thousand thorns. This is the time of year when I prune my roses for a second and third flush; I need fearless, leather-skinned Gardener back. Being unable to work while wearing gauntlets, I must suffer the consequences.

Seven Rocks For Seven Maidens

Jinksy challenged me to write a romantic tale to accompany her computer artwork for her new prompt

In Tandem.

How could I refuse.

Long, long ago, on the banks of the mighty River Rhine, there stood a castle. Well, actually, the banks were positively littered with a multitude of castles  on both sides, all populated by pretty maidens, heroic knights, dragons, robber barons and greedy archbishops, but for now we are concerned with just one of them, Schloss Schönburg.

The Castle of Schönburg, now in ruins, was once a place of extraordinary fame, for here dwelt seven sisters of transcendent beauty; the fact that their proud sire, the Graf of Schönburg. was also reputed to be very rich, did them no harm in the marriage stakes. Their father had acquired his enormous wealth  in predatory forays, his exploits on crusades were legendary; and when he wasn't busy cataloguing and registering his ill-gotten gains, he was off robbing and pillaging nearer home. Because he was so good at it, nobody except his victims minded. The nobles of the Rhineland at the time found this all totally in order, in the Graf's shoes, they'd have done much the same.

An endless number of knights flitted about the castle, all hoping to catch the eye of one of the beauteous maidens;  the girls, having been spoilt rotten by their doting daddy, made fun of them; egging them on, flirting mercilessly, then dropping them again, one after the other. They simply weren't ready for the constraints of marriage. Suitor after suitor retired in despair; "what do women want?" they asked  bitterly.

Little by little the girls achieved an unsavoury reputation. Lack of female virtue was a heinous crime and once the tittle-tattle got started it simply couldn't be silenced, no matter how much the Graf threatened and bullied and paid.

He called his girls to order. "It's time you got married", he said, eyeing them fondly. "Each of you had better choose the one you like best. Make sure he is of decent breeding stock, that's all I ask. Once you are married, the rumours will stop. There'll still be parties and hunt balls and I'll make sure that you'll never lack a pretty rock or two from my jewel chest".

The girls knew that they'd have to comply with their daddy's wishes but first they'd play one more trick on their suitors.

The Graf arranged for a huge party to be held in his Schloss high above the river. Crowds of suitors appeared,  gorgeously dressed  in the finest raiments, in silks and gold brocades, crimson cloth and rich, soft velvet; nearly all of them had fathers and uncles who had followed King Frederick to the Holy Land on crusade and had come home laden with treasure.

Assembled in the staterooms,  the suitors waited for the maidens to appear, to choose seven husbands from among them. They waited and waited. No maidens appeared. Then one of them, who had been looking out of the window, gave a great shout.

"There they are, in the river, sailing away", he cried. Everybody rushed to the windows.

The girls looked up at them, waving and shouting, laughing and dancing with pleasure at having outwitted the dim knights yet again.

I would love to end this story on a happy note, but alas, a sense of humour was not the most desirable quality for a girl to have in those far off days.  That and their addiction to coquetry and practical jests were to be their undoing.

As the knights were watching, their dismay at having been the butt of the girls' jokes quickly turned to consternation. Unheedful of the current the girls' light craft was led into the fast flowing stream; had they sat still, all would have been well. As it was, the craft was overturned, none of the girls could swim and before another boat could be launched the Rhine had claimed its victims, and the perfidious damsels were drowned in the swift tide.

Near the place where the tragedy occurred, seven rocks appeared, visible to this day on the rare occasions when the river is low.

Gardener

has been been a happy and not so happy subject on my blog several times. Remember the time he almost burnt the garden down?  Or when he cut back the beauty bush and other shrubs BEFORE flowering?  There was the time when he put great piles of the most pernicious weed in my garden, the blessed lesser celandine, in the compost heap and we had to discard a whole spring's worth of compost, tipping many barrow loads of  it on to the banks of the moat just outside the gate. Admittedly, since then we have had golden carpets of celandine right outside the garden every spring. He has learned quite a lot about gardens and gardening since his days as a cowman, but he'll always need somebody to keep a close eye on him.

Gardener has had a heart attack and I miss him dreadfully. Not only because I have to work three times as hard myself now but I also miss the stories he told during our tea breaks and while we were working side by side. Being a real, died in the wool, countryman of the old school, very conservative,  full of mischief,  I often get cross with him. On occasion, his right-wing opinions make me bite my tongue, something I would never do with anyone else.

The way he mangles the language is priceless. I love gardener-isms, but I'd never laugh at him. He must have some form of verbal dyslexia.

Only a week before he had his heart attack, he went to visit his terminally ill brother in a hostel, (hospice) he said. "They can't  keep on giving him blood all the time. It's getting too expensive. He has something wrong with his corsuples. What can you expect, he abused himself all his life, being an alocolic."

"And as for that worbal gloaming, I don't believe in it. It's nonsense. My chimmuck nearly caught on fire last winter, I had the fire going perament".

I've never found out what a "compensating nuisance" is or a "disaffectened MMR virus", but I have an idea what he means when he tells me he has been given a bottle of "sloane gin" and I definitely know what hides behind "I let my wife do the dirty". She is the one who deals with unpleasant telephone messages for him, both ringing clients he doesn't want to work for and fielding their irate phone calls to his house.

But gardener and I get on extremely well; we have worked out a relationship which suits us both. I am going to keep his job open for him. I spoke to him today and he told me that he'll give up various clients, but that he'll definitely come and do my 'bit of garden'. If a particular job is too much for him, he'll get me to do it, he giggled. He has a giggle for even the hardest, bleakest tale from his life.

I am glad he reckons that I'm worth cultivating. "We'll just have to have more tea breaks", he said when I spoke to him today. "Besides, you pay me cash".

The Masked Ball

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No. 74

The keeper of the mask museum had turned off the lights, locked the door and left. Every night, the masks, helplessly pinned to the walls during daylight hours, came alive. They stretched and yawned, smiled and laughed, cried and shouted in relief; the immobility imposed on them by their makers lifted, until the first rays of daylight crept in through the dusty windows in the morning.
The keeper arrived late, late enough to allow the masks to shrink back into their rigid grimaces. During the day they slept on their hooks.

There were masks from all over the world and from all the ages. There were ritual masks, ceremonial masks, tribal masks, theatrical masks, horror masks, pretty-face masks, witches masks, goblins and gremlins, fearful masks and wise men masks; any kind of mask you can think of, they were all there.

Nobody much came to visit the museum, which was a real shame. The old keeper simply had no idea how to attract visitors; he just opened the doors in the morning, shuffled in, and with a feather duster tickled the masks until the dust made him sneeze and sniff; then he sat on his stool in the corner and unwrapped his sandwiches. On rainy days a few people came in for shelter, took a look round and said: “hm, interesting”. But they left again as soon as the rain stopped.

One night a jolly carnival mask had had enough of this state of affairs. “We must do something”, she said. “Yes, we must”, the others agreed. “But what?” said a fearsome African mask. “We only come alive after dark, how can we attract visitors at night?”

They all thought long and hard. There was no laughing or shrieking that night, all stayed where they were and pondered.

“I have an idea”, said a wise man mask. “Nearly all of us have magical powers and although we promised never to use them without humans, perhaps we could make humans use us”.

“I don’t know, isn’t it rather dangerous?” asked a timid young-pretty-face mask. “Nonsense”, said an old witch mask, “nothing ventured nothing gained. We all know that our keeper will die of a broken heart soon if we do nothing”.

There and then they cast their spells. Lightning flashed inside the room, the rumble of drums shook the walls, a fearful screeching and howling arose, tigers and snakes, monkeys and a whole herd of buffalo raced about the small space between the shelves. The keeper’s stool was knocked over in the mêlée.

But the masks knew what they were doing and eventually order returned, the stool righted itself and just before daybreak they assumed their usual places on the walls.

The very next week a rich man in the town decided to give a masked ball, using real masks, not those silly little hand-held eye masks, which only pretend to hide your face. He called upon the keeper and requested the loan of all the masks in the museum. He promised to pay handsomely for the privilege.

The keeper sighed. “Has it come to this”, he asked himself. “Should my lifetime’s collection be used for sport in a rich man’s house?”
Still, the money would be most welcome; he needed a new feather duster and his stool had become strangely rickety lately. So he agreed.

The masks were duly packed up and taken away. The little keeper felt quite tearful when he saw his precious collection leave the museum; several times he had to remind himself of the handsome sum he had been promised in return, which made him feel a bit better.

When the masks were unpacked at the rich man’s house and each guest chose the one he or she wanted for the evening, something strange happened. They all chose the mask which represented the exact opposite to their real life character and position. The rich man himself chose a beggar mask, the pretty young women chose tired old witches faces, the tired old women chose pretty-face masks, handsome young men became ogres and old men became handsome performance artists. The scientist chose the shaman’s face, the gossip became kind-faced, the apothecary became the wise woman and the old roué suddenly looked innocent. Pretty young women lost their bloom and ugly old women turned into their youthful selves.

The masks were hard at work all evening. As the heat rose and the champagne flowed they clung to their faces with all their might; without their hooks they were in danger of slipping off; little by little they melted into their bearers, becoming part of them.

The guests, their senses heightened by dancing and laughter, alcohol and a strange euphoria they could not explain and therefore did not question, gradually became aware that a power quite outside their control had taken hold of them. A power which, though not unpleasant, was beginning to seep into their personalities. They felt they were becoming more and more like their masks.

Twelve o’clock struck, it was time for the masquerade to end.

The unthinkable happened. The masks refused. After years of hanging on a dusty wall in a museum they felt like making a night of it. Although very tired now, they had had so much fun, they were unwilling to give up. They had also become attached to their bearers, separation would mean a painful wrench. They knew that daylight would render them immobile again, see them packed up and sent back to the museum.

So they refused to be separated from their faces. In the morning the keeper came and pleaded with them. They had grown rigid in their determination to stay just one day more. They would come off in the evening, after dark, they promised.

I don’t know if the masks kept their promise. The little museum has been shut for a long time. Perhaps the keeper has locked his masks away, never to let them out again. On the other hand, perhaps they have become so deeply united with their faces, that they are still out there in the world, causing mayhem and murder, fear and loathing or joy and happiness.

Who knows.



© USW

Opportunists

Crane's Bill - Herb Robert

Geranium Robertianum

has made its home in the crack of a sheer rock face high above the river Teme on Whitcliff Common.

In the Middle Ages there was a widespread belief in the 'doctrine of signatures'. This meant that any plant with curative properties would reveal the divine purpose for which it was intended through its shape or colour. In the case of herb-robert, the hairy stems and leaves turn a fiery red in autumn, or when the plant is growing in dry, exposed situations. It followed, according to the logic of medieval times, that herb-robert should be used in the treatment of blood disorders. The 'robert' of the plant's name is believed to be a corruption of the Latin 'ruber', meaning red; but it may also have been derived from the name of Robert, an early Duke of Normandy, for whom a celebrated medieval treatise was written.

There's nothing extraordinary about Nasturtiums, 

Tropaeolum majus,

except that once you have it in the garden, or anywhere else, it's yours for life, self-seeding profusely, clothing walls and fences or covering whole banks. For a blaze of red, orange or yellow, plant in poor, free-draining soil, and do not feed.  Nasturtiums suffer from blackfly infestations; spray, if you want to. Once affected, I rip mine out; a few seeds will have escaped already, waiting to burst into renewed glory next year.

This opportunist shoot has forced its way through a narrow crack between two planks in a long, creosoted wooden fence.

The grey squirrel needs no introduction. This fellow hung here for a long time, working out how he could reach the few remaining nuts in the feeder without losing his precarious hold on the slippery bars of the wrought iron feeding stand. He managed it in the end and I didn't have the heart to shoo him off. But I waited with the re-fills until he had gone.

Jackdaws are the most notorious robbers in the crow family; the thieving habits of the jackdaw were celebrated by the early 19th-century humorous poet Richard Harris Barham in his poem The Jackdaw of Rheims, wherein the Jackdaw steals the ring of the Cardinal Lord Archbishop.

Apart from snatching and hiding such inedible objects, the jackdaw occasionally steals young birds and eggs, which it adds to its diet of seeds, fruit, insects and carrion. I am happy to report that this Great Spotted Woodpecker youngster was a little too grown-up for the jackdaw.

And finally,

the family rain-coat wearing, leather-hatted and Wellington-booted

example of the common-or-garden variety of the female of the

labrador-walking species, a.k.a. Friko, catching a break between showers.

Truth and Untruth

Diogenes Searching for an Honest Man

Painting Attributed to J.H.W. Tischbein (circa 1780) 

The legend goes that Diogenes of Sinopi (404 or 412 BCE-323BCE) had a habit of strolling about in broad daylight, carrying a lamp. When asked what he was doing he said "I'm searching for an honest man".

The other night, at a village function,  I told a totally unnecessary lie.  I gained nothing by it, I lost nothing by it. The subject under discussion was a village lady's request for charitable donations of second-hand clothes and shoes, among other items, which are to be transported to an Eastern European country. Without thinking I made a remark boasting of many pairs of barely worn shoes and work suits lurking in my wardrobe which I would have to sort through some day very soon. In my defence I must say that I actually believed them when I uttered the words, but the truth is that I have already given most of the items away to previous collections.  I lied. 

Although this lie is not going to lose me much sleep, it made me think of truth and deceit and how easy it is to blur the lines between.

"My train was late"

"The cheque is in the post", although this lie is less often used since electronic banking has taken over.

"He always tried his best"

"Every word in my CV is true"

"Your pensions/National Health Service/jobs are safe with us"

"Greedy bankers?/Phone Hacking?/War for the sake of Oil?  Never!

"We have the means to cope with nuclear disasters".

"It's not you, it's me. I still love you, but I need some space"

"I'd never cheat on you"

At work, at home, in love, in politics, we tell lies and we are lied to. Up to 200 times a day, according to recent statistics. Is ordinary human interaction possible without convenient silences, half truths, the polite little social lie?

Is there anyone who can say they never lie?

Pretty much all the honest truth telling in the world is done by children.  ~Oliver Wendell

Truth is such a rare thing, it is delightful to tell it.  ~Emily Dickinson

Society can exist only on the basis that there is some amount of polished lying and that no one says exactly what he thinks.  ~Lin Yutang

There are many quotes about truth and deceit, most praise the value of truthfulness, some admit that lies can be expedient and some are downright cynical about our inability and inclination to tell the truth. When a high-ranking Civil Servant coined the phrase 'being economical with the truth' his verbal dexterity and, no doubt, his ability to blend fact and fiction, called forth amusement and applause. Some media organs almost make a point of slanting the news, particularly around election time or when reporting on human frailty. The fantasy shouts at you in the headlines, the subsequent apology or clarification is hidden on page five.

Should we be more courageous and tell the truth, no matter what? Sometimes the truth is painful, do we actually want to hear the unvarnished truth? How about being honest to the taxman? Would we buy many goods if advertisers were obliged to describe them truthfully? How about the second-hand car salesman,  and his description of the car he is trying to sell you? When applying for jobs, do we really want to tell our prospective employer that we are no better than the next candidate and that we have embroidered our curriculum vitae?

On many occasions I listen to somebody's sales pitch with the inbuilt assumption that I am not being told the whole, unadulterated, truth.

During my first ten years in the UK I was appalled by the apparent ease with which people indulge in social lying. "We must meet soon", You are looking well today", They are a delightful couple", "The children are doing marvellously well". All bare-faced lies. or are they?

"It's called 'oiling the wheels' of social intercourse, it's not really lying", Beloved tells me. Fine, I accept this now. Personally, I can't be bothered to use these phrases.

Whenever I catch myself telling a lie - call it fibbing, a white lie, flattery, time-saving, expediency, whatever you wish - I feel bad, guilty, a little ashamed. Whenever I realise that I have just been told a lie, I am greatly annoyed. When people in authority, politicians, the media, lie to me, in common with a large percentage of the population, I feel disinclined to believe them even when they tell the truth. In the age of the internet, we know so much sooner when politicians, the media, scientists as in the case of the Japanese disaster, lie to us; when forced to admit mistakes they may use salami-tactics - i.e. reluctantly feed us the truth slice by slice - , but eventually they have to come clean.

Of course, there are times when nothing but the truth will do.

Are there times when the choice between truth and untruth is not quite as clear cut and black and white? Or, as so often in our fallible lives, are there times when a shade of grey somewhere in-between will do?

Where do you stand? Quick answers on a postcard, please.

  

Langley Chapel - My World

Langley Chapel,  near Shrewsbury in Shropshire, sits tranquilly all alone in charming countryside. The interior of the chapel is a unique survival of the way Anglican Churches were arranged in the early 17th century, with box pews, a desk for musicians at the back and bench seats around the communion table for use during the sacraments.

The Burnells of nearby Acton Burnell were lords of the manor of Langley, and in 1313 Richard Burnell obtained permission to build a chapel here.

The structure of the present building dates from this time. In 1377, the manor of Langley passed to the Lee family, who fitted out the chapel in about 1546. In 1591 Sir Humphrey Lee, one of the forbears of  General Robert E. Lee,  moved to Langley. He was probably responsible for re-roofing the chapel in 1601. The last regular service was held here in 1871.

Langley Chapel has a simple rectangular plan. It is built of dressed grey sandstone with a stone-tile roof, and has a small weatherboarded bell tower at the west end.




It is the perfect set of early 17th century church fittings that makes Langley significant.

The focus of worship in medieval churches was a raised stone altar set against the east wall. The central celebration was the ‘sacrifice’ of the Mass at the altar by a robed priest speaking in Latin. After the Reformation, however, the emphasis changed to preaching and reading the scriptures in English. Pulpits loomed large, sometimes literally, though at Langley the pulpit was relatively small and movable.

The reading desk on the north side, however, is large, with seats inside and, unusually, a roof. With the replacement in the Church of England of the Catholic mass by the Protestant communion service, a simple communion table replaced the stone altar. (The original communion table at Langley was stolen; the present one is a copy.) Seats were arranged round the table, appropriate for people sharing a meal, as at the Last Supper. The manner of receiving the bread and wine at communion was a matter of theological dispute. At Langley, the furnishings allowed communicants to choose. Puritans could sit, while those who wished to could kneel. The fittings of the chapel were designed to cater for social as well as theological gradations. The largest of the ornate box pews, intended for the Lee family, were placed at the front. Behind these were smaller box pews for farmers and tradespeople, while servants and labourers sat on benches at the back. At the west end is a raised desk for musicians.

Glazed and decorated medieval tiles have been reused on the chancel floor.

There are two Tudor doorways with flat arches and nail-studded doors. If you wish to visit the interior of the chapel, the key is in the door.

The building gradually fell out of church use and was finally abandoned during the nineteenth century.

It began to fall into ruin and in 1914 it was one of the first historic buildings in the country to be rescued by being taken into the care of the state.

Hello to the people over at That's My World

If Only . . . .

People of Chilmark. Thomas Hart Benton, 1920

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No. 73

If only

I had not lacked so much from the beginning,

And I had had the good sense

To choose a different path from the one I chose,

And I had had the right kind of help

On the right path,

And therefore done the opposite to what I did,

And I had not been forced to do so much of what I did

at other men's behest,  

And I had then known the half 

of what I know now,

And I had been more serious,

Or I could be more serious right now,

And I would be as lucky as some others

who don't deserve their luck

and  never valued it,

And I had ten times the worldly goods that I have now

And I could do what I simply can't achieve,

Or best of all, 

If I were born again,

Well, then . . . 

Friko speaking entirely for herself,.

Sorry, dear Readers, after 17 comments taking me seriously, I've got to come in here and explain that the whole thing is meant to be the kind of dirge which all those who have never bothered to get off their bums use to explain their lack of success in life.  I wanted to make a joke about mankind in general and those in particular, who always blame something or someone else.  My joke failed.  Friko

My Garden World - My World

Come in, come in, 

welcome to my garden.

I hope you don't mind using the back door,

most people come in this way.

You can just make out the name of the house.

Now that the paying visitors have gone,

I can take you round and show you some of  my current favourites.

Dahlia 'Bishop Of Llandaff'

I started out with one tuber of this old favourite,

which I won in a raffle at a garden club.

Now I have at least a dozen plants in the garden, 

and I have given away at least another dozen over the years.

At this time of year I like plenty of hot colour.

Apart from terracotta pots I use half barrels,

cut top to bottom or across their bellies.

Terracotta pots often crack in winter, 

 wooden beer or whiskey barrels last a lot longer.

This barrel contains mostly pelargoniums and lobelias.

I have cut  a few small beds into the mossy lawn in the back garden.

Here are two examples,

one is a mixed border of small shrubs and herbaceous plants

running along the kitchen door terrace.

The colours here are mainly blue, fiery pink and purple.

A few silver edges tone the whole thing down.

Many gardeners have colour preferences, 

my least favourite colour is pale pink. Too washed out for my taste.

This is a small shrub border,

with a few tall grasses and some specimen herbaceous plants

to give the whole thing structure.

Can you see the 'American Pokeweed' in the back?

The dining room window looks out on to this border.

Two current seasonal favourites of mine are very common 

and few fancy gardeners would give them pride of place.

 They are sun-loving Red Campion and Yellow Loosestrife, which doesn't mind a bit of shade.

Of course, they also have botanical names: Lychnis and Lysimachia punctata. 

Silenus, the drunken, merry god of the woodlands of Greek mythology, gave his name to 'Silene dioica' , the wild form of red campion, which enlivens woods and hedgerows all over Britain with its bright red flowers, and even climbs mountains to establish itself on screes and cliff ledges.

The second part of its scientific name 'dioica', means 'two houses' and refers to the fact that each red campion plant has flowers of one sex only, so that two plants are needed to make seed.

Yellow Loosestrife or Lysimachia vulgaris,  has not one but two stories dating back to ancient Greece to explain the plant's botanical name.

According to one account, bunches of yellow loosestrife tied around the necks of draft animals would make them more docile by repelling insects that might otherwise irritate and unsettle the beasts. Hence people called the plant Lysimachia after two Greek words which together meant 'to loosen strife'.

Other sources, such as the Roman writer Pliny the Elder, said that the plant was named after Lysimachus, an ancient king of Thrace, who was reputed to have discovered medicinal uses for the plant.

The 17th century herbalist Nicholas Culpeper also thought the plant had healing properties. He recommended it for nose and mouth bleeding and for upset stomachs. Many people followed his advice to burn the plant in their homes, since the smoke drove away troublesome flies and gnats.



Late as ever for inclusion in That's My World where lots of clever people have long ago filed their new photos. As none of them ever comes here,  my tardiness won't matter.

Autobiographical - A Summer Ride

Wheat Field With Rising Sun  -   Vincent Van Gogh

WILLOW'S MAGPIE No. 72

Midday, and the wind is holding its breath.
Children's bicycles half-hidden in tall grass by the roadside.
Golden fields stretching as far as the eye can see,
crops reaching into the sun-blind sky, towards ripening.

Larks rise, trilling their joyous song,
cicadas shrill for attention in the drowsy air.
Blackbirds cease strutting
and snails are safe from the thrush's beak.

The children rest, damp roots of clover cooling tired bodies;
cornflowers, wild thyme and poppies licking faces
hot from childish efforts,
the scent of sage sweetening their breath.

Their ride was long and arduous.
Lanes disappearing in the flicker of advancing day
the shimmer of blue hills calling for greater deeds,
to reach a foreign land, a village far beyond.

The day has reached the hour between dream and waking,
white clouds stand still up high,
their graceful dance across the sky for now at rest.
The silent heat of noon falls heavy on the land.

Earthbound

There was a time when I believed I could fly. Now I am not sure that even my spirit can take off, I have become earthbound.  I am so much older, perhaps wiser, certainly sensible, and sadly, pedestrian.

Claire Gneccho's recent post on her blog Daily Epiphanies from Gaithersburg was a sudden, very sharp, reminder of something I had long forgotten:  roots are for trees, fetters that bind are for slaves. Mankind must not be fettered, immobile, spiritless. Here is what Claire said:


Sky Walk
Do you ever lose yourself in cloud thoughts?
Surrender to unfettered imaginings
of floating cities and giant causeways,
morphing into what?
Vastness of the Now
They transport us into timelessness
Do you ever feel it so?

I still fall into day-dreams, 'lose myself in cloud thoughts', but that's as far as I go. The dream ends, the clouds become grey skies and I am aware of terra firma under my feet.

I once had a friend, the sort of friend you have because your partners are friends;  we were the same age, from different countries but able to speak each others language and both unhappy for similar reasons; apart from that we had nothing meaningful in common. I don't think we even liked each other very much.

One day Claudine said: "You know, you always seem restless, wanting to leave this place; you say you are tired of being unhappy and that you will try to make a different life for yourself somewhere else. My life is no better, but I have made my bed and  must lie in it.  You should do the same; flitting from one place to another is not what we are meant to do; we must grow roots, strong roots and learn to put up with what is and not hanker for what might be. You will never be at peace that way".

Claudine was wrong. She stayed and I left. I heard later that the strong roots she put down couldn't save her sanity.

To choose flight can be risky. There is a story about a father who takes his son to the top of a tall mountain, shows him the vast emptiness below and says:

"My son, behold what is yours to take. You have wings;  take a deep breath,  and fly."

The son is afraid. "What if I fail and crash?"

The father reassures him: "Even if you crash, you will not be hurt for long. You will acquire a few scars but gain courage to try again. You were born with wings, do not let them wither in fear of the unknown".

The boy consults his friends who advise him to practise by launching himself off a low hill.  The boy crashes. When he complains to his father, the man says:

"To fly you need the space to spread your wings wide. There is always risk. If you want security, if flying is not to your taste, you had better stay earthbound".

Nobody needs to take stories like this one seriously, even young people can choose to live a life as free of risk as is humanly possible, where one step leads securely to the next and the next and the one after that. But how will you ever find out if you have wings if you never try to fly?

I may be earthbound but I still like to think that strong roots are for trees.