Joining the Post-Christmas Chorus

Snowdrops in the garden on Christmas Day.

Today was the first (almost) ordinary day after the Christmas holidays. Many of you have expressed joy at life returning to normal, may I join you? Here in the UK the holidays aren't quite over, shops are open, of course, but many offices remain closed. Before I retired, my last working day was Dec 23rd and we didn't return to work until Jan 2nd. In fact, it was even better when the official holiday fell on a weekend, like this year, we had an extra day or two added in lieu. In those days I was glad of the extra (paid) holiday, but now I usually just want it over.

I shouldn't complain, it was lovely, all of it, really. Beloved and I were left to celebrate Christmas Day in our own fashion, in the end nobody made any demands on us, and the one friend we invited, fell ill. We started very leisurely, revved down to a slow pace during the day and had come to near comatose by evening. It was all most civilised, we didn't even make ourselves sick overeating and drinking.

I hand delivered the last cards around the village on the afternoon of the 23rd. I leave it as late as that for two reasons: a) those who don't 'do' cards cannot possibly feel obliged to send us one at this late stage, and b) those who 'do', but have left us off their list for the year, must scrabble around madly to get one into our letterbox before Christmas Day itself. The latter means that we must then keep them on our list for the following year. Such fun!

Every year we go to a drinks party on the morning of Christmas Eve. Over the years the guests have become more and more ancient - I don't know why the hosts don't refresh their guest list occasionally - and much of the conversation is concerned with health matters. "How are you" invariably elicits an update on the latest health scare during the past year - many of these people we only ever meet on this day. My mother and her cronies used to have conversations like that; I swore then that I would never follow in her footsteps. Strange, how we turn into our parents eventually.

At the party, a couple in their early eighties told us they'd like to buy our house, cash buy, if and when we moved. We have, during the past year, vaguely moaned about the difficulties we have managing a house and garden larger than we strictly need. What makes this elderly couple think they can manage better than us, defeats me. Admittedly, they live further up and deeper into the hills; they really should move into the village soon. After their offer, I am, of course, totally convinced that we must struggle on, at least for the moment. Perhaps gardener will come back in the new year, at the moment his wife is making him move house. She'll probably kill him in the process. Apparently, moving house is high on the list of contributing factors to heart attacks.

The best part of Christmas was a dinner party on Boxing Day, given by my favourite host. He had a house guest, the same delightful lady writer with whom Beloved is mildly in love (not lust). Actually, I like her almost as much as he does, but I am secretly very fond of the host, a highly sophisticated man about town when he's away from Valley's End. Gushing? Who, me?

The conversation flowed as merrily and generously as the wine and the food was excellent. We talked about poetry - even reading some out loud -, the theatre, music, literature, people in the news in the arts, the media and literary circles (the three of them are given to name-dropping; not me, sadly, I don't know anyone worth showing off about), and we even had crackers, the very superior sort, of course, with fillers like tiny tea-filled caddies, a shot glass and one silver earring. The jokes were no better than they should be, here they are:

What did the plate say to the other plate?
Lunch is on me.


What has a bottom on its top?
A pair of legs.


Why do dragons make bad managers?
Because they fire everybody.


How do you clean a flute?
With a tuba toothpaste.

I think we may have fractionally overstayed our welcome. Beloved and I are nightbirds, for us the night is always young, and this was the sort of party I never want to leave. The host and his friend gallantly saw us to the bottom of his drive and the road, the night was starless and we'd probably have fallen into the cattle grid on the way out without their help. There are no policemen in Valley's End, and very few street lights. Both facts helped to get us home safely and with the minimum of fuss. Or disturbance of the peace.

Our Christmas Day friend finally came to dinner last night, which rounded off the festivities nicely. Now I've had enough, certainly until next weekend, when a little more celebrating is on the cards. That is, if Im still standing by then.

Problems with Blogger

Is anyone else having serious problems posting, commenting, etc?
I'm using a different computer from my usual desktop to post this.
Problems started soon after the new dashboard became universal.

It could be my imac, but that is surely unheard of? An imac going wrong?

The House of Capricorn and Christmas Crackers

Zyklus der Monate  -  Dezember

Meister Albert - 1400

The Sun enters the House of Capricorn.

'The man born under Capricorn shall be iracundious* and a fornicator; a liar, and always labouring. He shall be a governor of beasts with four feet. He shall suffer much sorrow in his youth, but shall leave many goods and riches. He shall have great peril at sixteen years. He shall be rich by women, and shall be a great conductor of maidens; he shall live seventy years and four months after nature.

The woman shall be honest and fearful, and have children of three men; she will do many pilgrimages in her youth, and after have great wit. She shall have great foods, but pain in her eyes, and shall be at her best estate at thirty years; she shall live seventy years after nature.


* be wrathful


From The Kalendar of Shepheardes 1604

I am no great fan of christmas crackers, but with every meal out at this time of year, whether in restaurants, pubs and even in some private houses, you'll find one of them on your plate. You're lucky if you have a small explosion when the thing comes apart - they don't always go off - and you then proceed to rummage around in the pile of torn shiny paper for your 'gift', your paper hat, and the obligatory joke. You put the hat on your head and read the joke to the assembled company. Apparently, there is an explanation: being able to groan in unison keeps everybody feeling included, everybody joins in, nobody feels left out.

Yesterday's writers' group lunch came with crackers;  I decided to collect some of the jokes and treat you all to samples of superior wit.

What did the fireman's wife get for Christmas?
A ladder in her stocking.


What does the headless horseman ride?
A nightmare.


Why did the teacher wear sunglasses to school?

Because her pupils were so bright.


Why did the tightrope walker visit his bank?
To check his balance.


What do you call a mischievous egg?
A practical yoker.


Where does Tarzan buy his clothes?
At a jungle sale.


Why is milk fast?
Because it's pasteurised before you see it.

Ludlow Food Centre - My World

Ludlow Food Centre  is one of those wonderful places where you can browse for the best and freshest produce, organic meat from beasts reared locally, hand made pies and ready meals actually cooked fresh on the premises, breads, pastries and cakes baked in the ovens at the bakehouse and vegetables from farms in the surrounding areas. There's even honey from the beehives in the back gardens. 

Shopping here is not cheap, how could it be. Everything is beautifully presented; the quality of the produce is evident; there's nothing that has been mass produced. Attention to detail is of great importance. For the snobs among us, there are connections to earls and ladies, on whose estates some of these goodies are produced. Their noble pedigree doesn't make them any better than the products of good, honest husbandry and crop farming of course, but dropping the provenance into a discussion of shopping habits pleases some. 

Occasionally, we treat ourselves to a basket of goodies, particularly at this time of year, when many of the goods for sale serve very well as presents for foodies and those with pretensions to foodiedom.

I am sure that my home made pickles, chutneys and jams and jellies are as good as the ones on sale; and who in their right mind wants hibiscus flowers in syrup (anybody know what they're used for?). Fancy bottles of vinegars and oils infused with the most outlandish ingredients sit in tidy rows; just to read the labels is a pleasure and an education to boot.

A place like the Ludlow Food Centre will never serve the same purpose for us that a good supermarket does; we could neither afford the prices nor find the everyday items one piles into ones basket as a matter of routine; but an occasional browse is a treat. Quite often we find things which are simply not on offer anywhere else, certainly not deep in rural England. And sometimes, just sometimes, there is an offer on something really delicious; either because it's nearing the end of the day and the cake or meat pie hasn't been sold on time, or they want to entice casual shoppers like us to become rather more frequent visitors.


Also a part of My World, but absolutely free, are these spears of snowdrops emerging. I saw them a few days ago, before the snow covered them up temporarily. On Christmas morning I shall go out into the garden and check their progress. The darling little bells have been known to ring out for Christmas.

For other peeks into the world of Bloggers visit this very interesting site.

Never Accept Sweets From a Stranger

Tess Kincaid's Magpie Tale Prompt No. 96

Hel --- lo there, little one!

 Hello?

What's your name then, handsome boy?

Erm, my name is Max. Why?

That's a pretty name for a pretty boy;

How are you, pretty boy?

I'm, Err, fine, thank you, lady.

How are you?

What lovely manners you have, little one.

Would you like me to buy you an ice cream?

Erm, I don't know.

My mum says I shouldn't.

Does she?

Just for once maybe she won't mind.

Or maybe we just won't tell her.

I don't know, lady, my mum wouldn't like it.

But you would really love an ice cream, wouldn't you?

One of those big ones, with a chocolate flake in it.

Come along, I know a lovely ice cream parlour not far from here;

you'll be back in a minute.

No harm done.

Where is your mum, anyway?

There she is, coming out of that shop.

M U M

I'm over here.

Max, who were you talking to?

There was this lady, Mum, 

and she was going to buy me an . . . . . . .

Now, where did she get to?

She was here a minute ago.

Never mind, Max, let's go and have an ice cream, shall we?

Hurrah, the First Snow of the Season

No, I've not gone mad.


Since coming home from hospital I seem to have been racing around like a woman possessed. Of course, I took a few days off at first, tried to relax and recover my strength, but common sense didn't prevail for long. Living where we do, way out of civilisation, in the hills, and at the back of beyond, shopping trips take most of the day. No popping into town for me, no quick dash to catch the shops before closing; no, everything I do assumes the proportions of an expedition. We were out for most of the day, every day; and not just shopping or socialising; there were visits to the hospital for Beloved's eye injection, and the dog needed to go to the vet for his arthritis medication. In between I made preparations for Christmas. Blogging? Reading, Writing? Forget it!


But then it snowed. And when it snows, we can't go anywhere. Which meant that I finally stopped, stood at the window and took time to stare, at the birds scrapping at the bird table, at the dark lines of hedges and tracks, the larches on the horizon and the winter sky.

And when it became too dark to see anything outside I looked inside the room, saw the light of the candles and realised what I had been doing. The relief was such that it felt as if a heavy weight had suddenly been lifted from my shoulders. "It's not my fault if 'things' aren't done, inactivity is not laziness, it's imposed upon me by a force greater than me." Thank you, weather gods.

There was time to sit and drink tea and eat Stollen, to write Christmas letters and have long phone calls with people we won't be seeing. There was time to appreciate the beauty of the season and the gifts it brings to those who open their hearts to receive it. There was time to think and be grateful for what we have.

Thank you, weather gods.

German Shop Windows - My World

My daughter went on a very short weekend trip across the Channel to visit the Christmas Market at one of my favourite German cities, Charles the Great's city of Aachen. Charlemagne, as he is known in French and English, started to build his Imperial Cathedral in the year 792  and Pope Leo III consecrated it in 805. The core of the cathedral is the Palatine Carolingian Chapel; it is small compared to the rest of the building, but every inch of it speaks of over 1200 years of history. It is an absolute jewel and a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

From a postcard

Aachen lies on the borders between Belgium, the Netherlands and Germany. Luxemburg is no more than a stone's throw away.

Aachen's Christmas market is set around the cathedral and town hall. This beautifully decorated "Christmas village" on the market square has everything your heart could desire. One local speciality you really must try is the Aachen Printen, a kind of gingerbread.

You will find a large variety of Printen and other Christmas cakes and biscuits, "Domino Stones", gingerbread, "Spekulatius" and marzipan bread. These are distributed all over the world by Aachen bakeries.

At Aachen Christmas Market they come fresh from the oven.

There are many stalls selling traditional folk art; these small china or, more often, beautifully glazed terracotta houses are all copies of existing buildings somewhere in Germany. They are highly prized and rather expensive to buy. I have three, perhaps there'll be another christmas post showing my wooden figures and these houses. I'd love to own more, even adults collect them. 

Apart from the wish to stroll about a traditional Christmas Market, eat Reibekuchen (potato cakes) and drink Gluehwein, my daughter's visit had a further purpose: to shop in German supermarkets. She goes a bit too far, I reckon, in her mania for buying German foods and specialities at this time of year; as she was willing to take a long list of items I just happened to need myself, I forgive her.

I am awaiting the arrival of a large food parcel any day now.

This post is part of Our World Tuesday

On The Banks of The River Acheron

Tess Kincaid's MAGPIE PROMPT No. 95

On the banks of the River of Woe,

Forsaken by the gods,

I await your return from Hades,

O Charon.

Sullen and wrathful my life,

In death condemned

 To wander

These shores,

My soul yearns for release.

I beseech you,

O Charon,

Ferry me across the dark river

To the mouth of Hades,

And the Adamantine Gates

Guarded by Cerberus,

Take me to

Eternal bliss

In the Elysian Fields.

My Obol be your reward.

Counting My Blessings - Help!

I saw this heading (without the 'Help')  at Freda's of What's the story in Dalamory, who in turn found it on Dianne's of Schmiddleyscribblins;  as my ideas for blogging seem to have dried up completely, I'll make use of it here. If anybody else finds themselves in the same shoes, feel free to do likewise.

Now then,  counting my blessings is anathema to me. I've always railed against it as an occupation I wouldn't even indulge in if I found myself at the bottom of the darkest hole I've ever not looked up out of. It's not that I'm against gratitude, I consider that a definite virtue; but, I ask you, doesn't the mere fact of COUNTING blessings make the counter sound totally pathetic?

Yet here I am, not even in a hole, except blog-idea-wise, counting today's blessings. Seven is the number of blessings I'm meant to come up with.:

1.   I found myself waking up in my own cosy, warm bed this morning, listening to the filthiest,

nastiest morning weather outside;  gusts of rain lashing the windows, gale force winds rattling the gutters, while  climbers, in extremis,  scratched the walls and clung on for dear life.
And why was this a blessing? Because I didn't have to go out in it!

2.   At 9.30, my wonderful cleaning lady, Kelly, arrived. I hadn't seen her since I came out of hospital last week. She is a caring, warm-hearted women, who listened to my tale of woe with lots of "Ah, poor you. Bless. Ah, Bless". She is rather given to lots of Ahs, and 'Bless' is one of her favourite expressions.

It has been known to grate on me in the past, when I've come across people whose empathy finds no other verbal outlet.

Today, it was a blessing to find a simple, kind soul, who sounded as if she meant every Ah and every Bless. 

3.   Kelly cleaned my house, quickly, efficiently and with a minimum of fuss.

If that's not a blessing, I don't know what is.

4.   While Kelly was working, I had a whole morning to clear my desk. It's been weeks since I tidied up paperwork, bills, receipts; at least two months since I last reconciled bank statements and filed other financial letters. That allowed me to rediscover various pieces of information, previously hidden, from societies in which I have an interest. I was beginning to think I'd been taken off their Christmas lists this year.

5.   Lunch was pasta, my favourite. Quick and easy to cook.

6.   Beloved offered to take Benno out for me in the afternoon. It was still tipping it down, with hail blown about by the wind fit to poke holes in the back of your neck. I gratefully took him up on the offer. I was doubly grateful when they came back drenched.

Bless him.

7.   Instead, I managed to write a long letter to a friend in Germany, whom I  have neglected since the summer, when we met by courtesy of Skype. I wrote the last long letter to her at the same time last year; the fact that she hasn't complained  in spite of my cavalier behaviour towards her tells you what a good friend she is. Or is it possible that neither of us is quite as bothered about the other as we were a few years ago? The thing is, I finally wrote, which makes me feel good about myself and gets rid of the niggling guilt feeling I've had for months.

8.   Can TV be a blessing? Maybe not, unless it's your favourite cop show transmitted to your own TV, in your own room, via digital, satellite TV, all the way from Germany to the UK. Sitting with my feet up, watching the box this evening I would even call bliss, rather than a blessing.


It seems that my blessings are all to do with idleness; others might find that quite embarrassing. But you'll never get me to admit guilt for being idle. I like it. Besides, not only did I come up with eight good things happening today, but I wouldn't even call them blessings as such. So, there's even more reason to feel good about myself. Counting blessings? Pah, who needs it!


PS: The picture above is nothing to do with this post. I took it on a foggy day in November in the garden.  What? You didn't really expect me to go out in this weather just to find a suitable picture to head up this post? You did? Dear me.

 

Three Days In An NHS Hospital

A vaguely anaesthetic smell,
cold, clinical, unpleasantly obtrusive, brought by two
burly men, dark blue and hearty, into your home;
machines which  blip and click clutter your floor.
As you invited them, you must allow them to remove you to
the place where bright lights cut into your eyes,
the scarlet of your jumper flagging up the immaculate wasteland of A&E.
Blue men deposit you and leave, turn in the doorway
to smile good wishes.

Colours come and hover over you, dark blues and light blues,
greens and pale greens, with now and then a flash of multicolour under white.
Questions need answers,
your limbs become attached to acronyms, needles prick your skin.
A new colour is added, livid bruises appear on arms and hands.
A dish of bitter tasting medicines is held for you to swallow,
involuntary spasms turn a pill into a missile.
Take your time, the dark blue says,
if you can bear it, you may crunch them into smaller fragments.

A bed is readied, no going home for you tonight, no sleep, no rest.
Into your nightgown now, the only colour grey, low lights illuminating shadows,
and questions without end.
And so a day of tedium begins,
a second day to follow.
Wheeled here and there, the blues and greens control the day,
your movement is curtailed by tubes and bleeping robots.
There's no escape from  cries and moans, from pointless conversations
and strips of neon lighting overhead.

The problem solves itself. The storm which buffeted your chest has eased.
It has done so before and no doubt will again.

The men in suits appear, the demi-gods of theatre and ward,
no doctors they, just call me Mister Slicer, Cutter or  Consultant.
Their diagnosis is that they don't have one.
We know the problem well, they say, although we still don't know
which trigger will unleash it.
We'll change your medication, a new regime to manage it might work.
Exhausted now from lack of sleep you nod agreement, what else is there to do.
You're grateful for their efforts. Soon you'll be free to go.
They want your bed for someone worse off than yourself.

It takes a very sick man to survive a stay in hospital intact. 
Relief at being discharged almost makes you weep. 
Your kitchen table offers bread and soup; each stitch of clothing
tainted by the smell of healing is discarded; you let a cascade
of hot water cleanse your pores,  until no trace of invalidity remains.
Outside your bedroom window the night is dark and still,
the river murmurs sleepily, she's back again, she's home.
The tawny owls agree, one calls another all the way across the valley
with the good news, it's done, she's home and in her bed, asleep.
 

THE FEAST OF ST. NIKOLAUS

This is an article I wrote for a local paper.

Normal service will be resumed shortly.

I've been ill and without a computer. Although back home and feeling much better,

I haven't got enough energy to come and visit all my lovely friends; it'll take me a while 

to get round to all of you.

And there I was, hoping to collect enough stories, reminiscences and poems for another

Advent calendar for you and maybe reach four hundred followers by the end of this year. 

Ah well. 

Maybe next year.

Knecht Ruprecht

Agios Nikolaos , better known as Saint Nicholas, was a fourth century bishop in Myra, now part of modern Turkey. Historically, there is very little more that is known of him, except that he is generally seen as a charitable man with a social conscience.

Legends however, abound. Nicolaos saves his home town from famine by miraculously providing grain;  he saves three maidens from shame and ignominy by secretly leaving three pieces of gold in their hovel, while they sleep, thus providing them with a dowry. He saves sailors from a watery grave and leads a young man imprisoned in a distant country back to his homeland. His most famous legendary miracle is that he is said to have revived and reassembled three drunken  students, who had been murdered, chopped up and pickled in a vat by an evil innkeeper. No wonder that Nicolaos became the patron saint of, among others, children, students, sailors, travelling merchants and apothecaries.

The feast day of St Nicholas falls on December 6th and is still celebrated in many western and eastern European countries; during  the night of December 5th  he arrives to bring gifts to the children of Germany.

These gifts had to have been earned, only ‘good’ children were the lucky recipients of Sankt Nikolaus’ presents.  'Nikolaus' was one of those saints, like St. Martin, whose feast days we children awaited with great excitement, but, in the case of the former, a modicum of uneasiness. No matter how good we may have been, there were always those disturbing memories of having been naughty at some time during the year since he last visited,  which had caused parents or teachers to be displeased. Nikolaus had a golden book in which he carefully noted all our good and bad deeds, and even thoughts. Good children were rewarded with presents on Nikolaus Eve, but bad children were punished. Nikolaus had a special companion for the purpose, his servant Ruprecht; Ruprecht carried Nikolaus' heavy sack filled with presents but he  also carried a switch made of birch twigs, with which he beat the air occasionally, making us hold on to mother if the switch whistled by too close for comfort.

During early Advent, father occasionally brought sweets or some biscuits home after work. "I saw Nikolaus today and he let me take these from his basket". I thought that was a good sign; we children believed every word adults uttered.

We were also busy writing wish lists for Nikolaus. Times were still very hard and presents were not then taken for granted, as they are now. Our requests were modest compared to today’s. A wooden toy, perhaps a rag doll, sweets and biscuits, nuts and fruit and a picture book or two, those are the presents I remember.  I never had to wear wooden clogs, like my father did as a boy, but I had a pair just for Nikolaus Day, because they were the appropriate receptacle for Nikolaus' gifts in the Lower Rhineland.

Until we were able to travel again to family living in other villages and celebrate the day with my cousins, Sankt Nikolaus didn’t come to me in person. “He has to visit too many other children to make time to come here, he may not come at all”, mother said.  Obviously, I was very disappointed but also just a little relieved; my conscience was never totally clear. As the evening progressed, the atmosphere in the kitchen, where I was sitting with my back to the large, old-fashioned range, with a picture or colouring book, grew quiet, with a slight tingle of tension in the air. I kept my head down firmly over my book, all the time listening for sounds from outside.

The noise, when it came, did not come from outside, but from right behind me. With a great clatter a wooden toy, a tin of hard boiled sweets and toffees, apples and  gingerbread biscuits came flying into the room. Sankt Nikolaus had thrown all these goodies down the chimney for me and they had survived coming down into the kitchen via the big black stove pipe and the fire in the range. It was a wonder mother hadn’t been hit because she was standing right there, in the way. On the other hand, it was good that she was standing there because she said she had heard Sankt Nikolaus  shout down the chimney that he might come again, later in the night, on his way back home and if he had anything left in his sack he’d put it into my clogs, if I left them out for him. Which I did, naturally, just in case.  And Sankt Nikolaus was as good as his word: in the morning I found that he had left me a book and a teddy bear and more sweets and sticky gingerbread and apples than could fit into my clogs!

One particular year, before I outgrew my belief in  Nikolaus, we spent the feast day at my aunt Johanna’s house; my cousin Dieter was the same age as me, about six or seven. He and I had been told to get ready for a visit from Nikolaus and that he would expect us to sing a song or recite a poem. That wasn’t a problem, every child knew the traditional songs and poems; the problem was, would our nerve hold? Dieter opted for a song, which meant I had to recite a poem. I remember it well “Von drauss vom Walde komm ich her. . . . . .”  We practiced all afternoon.

When male members of the family, disguised with beard and in appropriate costume, i.e., a magnificent coat with a deep hood and boots for Sankt Nikolaus and all enveloping dark rags for the Servant Ruprecht, roughly knocked on the door and demanded entry, many a child’s heart beat furiously, fearfully remembering a small lie, a naughty deed or a hidden shame. December’s early darkness fell, but before the lights in the cold, outer hallway could be lit, my older cousin Helga rushed into the kitchen, shouting “ Nikolaus is on his way, he’s already been next door, he’ll be here any minute.”

Both Dieter and I went into hiding. But it wasn’t any good, we had to come out; there was Nikolaus and although he sounded gruff and a little hoarse, he looked quite kindly on us. Dieter croaked a verse of his song and I managed to stumble through the first two lines of the poem which I knew off by heart, before I gave up. Nikolaus then asked “What do you say, have you been good children? Do you think you deserve a present?”

Quick as a flash my cousin Dieter said: “I have, but Ursula hasn’t. She always spits at me.”

I couldn’t let him get away with that. I said: “ Dieter does it too, he spits first.”

Nikolaus appeared to have been overcome with emotion at that, as evidenced by his heaving shoulders; we both got away with it.

I am glad to say that the custom of frightening children with the spectre of a vengeful Knecht (Servant) Ruprecht ended during my childhood. It was usually my uncle who dressed up as Nikolaus and it didn't take us children long to work it out for ourselves. Knecht Ruprecht was said to be waiting outside by the sleigh, but the adults gave up the pretence of even that.