Ten Things I Did on Mother's Day

 I woke up worrying about the Antarctic Ice Shelf, then decided that my fretting about it would not help.

Listened to the dawn chorus and estimated that there must be at least a thousand birds living nearby. Sounded like it anyway.

I thought about my own mother.

I sowed lots of vegetable seeds.

And entertained two adopted sons and a girlfriend. Received a Mother’s Day gift from Locky.

Participated in the naming of the most recent calf born on this farm. He is to be called Sparrow.

Spoke to my Katkin from Norfolk. She has had a bout of Covid. That’s all of my children have had it now.

Pondered my tendency to feel guilty about everything.

Did lots of knitting.

Did lots of weeding.

A Frugal Lifestyle

We had a home visit today from a financial advisor, a local chap from a well-trusted and established organisation. It was just a matter of adding to an existing ISA. Financial services being what they are, the advisor had already spent a considerable amount of time filling in forms on our behalf. As he was explaining all this to us he made reference to our 'frugal lifestyle'.

I was reminded of the investigation carried out many years ago by Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs during which an impertinent young pup sat in our reception room asking questions about our 'lifestyle'. Questions such as,

How often do you holiday abroad?

How often do you eat in restaurants?

How much do you spend on gifts?

To which the answers were - rarely and little.

That HMRC investigation was one of the most stressful years of my life and at the end of it we did not get a huge tax bill, rather a rebate and since then have paid an accountant a lot of money to manage our meagre affairs.

I know we are fortunate people. No mortgage, and a little something behind us. We're lucky boomers. Yet, in some ways our lifestyle is frugal and I like it being like that. We spend tiny amounts on personal grooming, entertainment, holidays and cars. We maintain our home but almost everything in it is second hand and 'pre-loved'. Likewise the garden. We grow some of our own vegetables and start most of our plants from seeds and cuttings. we make our own compost and keep hens for eggs. And we share. Every year we give hundreds of pounds worth of plants away, we share the eggs, another two other families grow vegetables here and we have a bushcraft camp and archery facilities that friends and family use at no cost. Bert also has friends queuing up to go logging with him in the woods. 

Sharing and not looking for cash returns brings its own rewards, not least being the feel-good factor. We get the labour in the woods, the labourers get as much wood as they want. We get volunteers replanting native trees for the enjoyment of it. We get company and friendship and office chairs and all sorts of good things in return. 

I said before, I know we are fortunate. Incredibly so. 

Saint Patrick's Day

 Usually, St Patrick's Day passes without note. It means very little to me nowadays. It used to - a day off school mid-Lent was always a good thing even if it was rather dampened by compulsory attendance at Mass, whilst wearing a clump of something dark green and trifoliate which was supposed to be shamrock. Even so, I always loved hearing Faith of our Fathers and Hail! Glorious St. Patrick belted out resoundingly by Sheena, piercingly by Aunt Mary and with all other choristers doing their best to keep up. One St Patrick's, Daddy took us to Randalstown to see a Hibernian March. The Hibs were a sort of counterpart to the Orange and, I must confess, I was expecting to see a lot more pomp and circumstance. Our main reason for attending was to support Cousin Joe who had joined an accordion band and I was beyond excited. Along they came, a collection of (sorry) po-faced men, marching along looking very pious and accompanied by the saddest of accordionists, a couple of lack-lustre drummers and a forgettable banner. The Glorious Twelfth it was not. Did I also mention it was mizzling with rain?

Since then, the celebration of St Patrick's Day, like Halloween and Irish dancing, have all been overly influenced by our American cousins. Parades? Wearing of the green? Drinking the bit out? A lot of nonsense except for the drinking of course. The 17th of March falling always in Lent was seen as an excuse to break one's abstention from alcohol. And as children, we would give up sweeties for Lent and there would be an exception allowed for Paddy's Day.

These days, no Mass for me, no Lenten fast. St Patrick's Day is just another bank holiday. Martha had the entire day off school, while Evie had a half-day. I picked Martha up just after ten and we went to a coffee shop for breakfast. Martha had something ridiculous that included waffles, strawberries and cream. That's not breakfast, that's dessert. I had something pancakey which was practically a dessert except for the bacon topping. Martha's mum had a coffee. Decaff. We observed that species of mummy often referred to as yummy. It was like being in an episode of Motherland.

Martha and I parted company with her mother and my daughter and we had a very quick dash around the charity shops before picking up Evie. We then went to the Factory Craft Shop where I bought some glue (for a purpose) and some knitting yarn (for a purpose) and to Lynas for Haribo (for St Patrick's Day) then home.

Every year we get this agricultural themed calendar from our friend Richard. In the light of Holly's unexpected death, I felt I needed to replace the bull picture with a Holly de Cat picture. Hence the glue.

Home then to find Young Loveheart and two bags of sausage rolls. Happy days for Bert and Evie who had not been in an episode of Motherland with waffles, pancakes and cream. Next to arrive were the girl's parents and they and I went off to the woods to plant rowans, oaks, hawthorn, hornbeam and birch. Loveheart and Bert did something mysterious, Martha worked off the Motherland carbs on the trampoline and Evie made a grave marker for Holly, and then watched Netflix. We all had a very enjoyable afternoon. The best St Patrick's Day in an age and not a shamrock in sight.

Evie made this beautiful marker for Holly de Cat. It will be placed on the grave when the yacht varnish dries. 

Holly

 

Holly came to live with us in December 2006. She was born on a farm near Slemish and the day that Zoe and I collected her, we were told that all she'd ever eat was chicken. I wondered what kind of fancypants kitten we'd landed ourselves with but it turned out she was prepared to muck in with the rest of us and eat whatever was going.

She was always feisty. She loved to have arguments with Bert and she always won. Many the blooded finger he got from her but as she'd have pointed out if only she could speak, he had it coming to him.

I really thought she had a few years left in her yet. Her coat was glossy, her appetite good, her fitness levels great for her age (she loved to go walking with humans and dogs in the woods) and her zest for life was still there. Bert saw her racing round the yard chasing a dead leaf only the day before she died and Zoe saw her scoffing her dinner with relish only a few hours before. 

I went to bed after midnight and was just settling down to sleep when I heard a piteous mew. Not an unusual thing as either her or Fred would make that hard-done-by sound when they wanted outside. I got up thinking it was probably Fred. It was Holly and she was having some sort of fit in the corner of the kitchen. I called Bert as I am cowardly in those sorts of situations. He said, 'She's dying', picked her up, stroked and soothed her, his eyes all teary. She calmed, no more spasms but she was limp. We sat awhile. I thought of calling the vet. Bert thought there was no point. I said I'd take her to bed with me. My bed was one of her favourite spots. I wrapped her in a towel and lay beside her. She was very calm and still. She stayed like that for about two hours then around three o'clock her breathing changed and she became agitated. I gathered her up and a few minutes later she died.

Bert checked to make sure. And wrapped her back in the towel and placed her on the floor. She looked as if she was asleep. I got back into bed and cried a little. 

This morning I had planned to go to IKEA with Zoe and that's what we did. Bert was left with the task of burying Holly. He asked where? and I said, you decide - maybe not too far away. When I got back he'd placed her in a wild part of the garden behind a drift of snowdrops. She used to like lying there on sunny days.

We have five pets left now, two dogs, one cat and two pigs. The youngest (Jess) is nine, the oldest (Fred) is thirteen. Judy and the pigs will be twelve this year. We'll give them the best life we can for it might not be that long. It's all we can do.

https://www.flickr.com/photos/17223773@N00/albums/72157688045378801

Paddy's Apples

When Paddy died we went to his house. His apple tree, that strange forked apple tree that he loved so much was laden with fruit. Well, one half of it was anyway. I was pleased to see it as Bert, at Jazzer's request, had supplied the sprays and fertilisers that encouraged the old tree to give a bountiful harvest for Paddy's last autumn on earth. Earlier in the season, he'd sent us a bag of the apples and I’d made a very nice apple crumble.

At his funeral, each member of his family threw a rose on top of the casket as it was put in the ground. A lovely touch was, when one of his great-grandchildren, reached into a pocket and threw in one of his granda's apples.

Music Night 2016

So, after the babies were tucked up in bed and we'd read the story of how Brer Rabbit tied Mr Lion to a tree Jazzer and I went downstairs to see what Bert and Ben were up to and we found that Ben had taken over YouTube and was playing Bert his favourite numbers from Bruce Springsteen and the Seeger Sessions Band.

After we'd had our fill of The Boss I moved it on to Krystle Warren singing Circles on the Jools Holland show in 2005. Jazzer reckoned Warren was a man and could not be convinced otherwise. In her defence, she did have a quantity of strong drink taken. She rambled on in this vein throughout the track while Bert and I rolled our eyes at each other. The next one we listened to was Krystle Warren singing Jealous Guy a couple of years ago in Amsterdam. Even Jazz was struck dumb. When it was over she said,

Did you and Bert really think she was a man then?

I did not take this remark on board.

Bert asked for Paolo Nutini singing I'd Rather Go Blind. We weren't overly impressed. Heard it better. Nutini had himself referenced Etta James and Dr John doing it so I checked this out. This one was from 1987 and it was mesmerising. The others did not agree with me, especially Jazzer. Bert shouted for Christine Perfect (as she was) but I thought her version bland compared to Etta's. To annoy them all I played Etta doing Crawling King Snake.

After that we took it in turns to choose the music.

Ben (15) picked the .357 String Band, R.E.M. Losing My Religion and Joy Division, Love Will Tear Us Apart.

Bert went for The Dirty Heads, Cabin By The Sea, George Ezra, Budapest and John Prine, Killing The Blues. All songs that the fellows at the Tuesday night sessions work on.

I chose The Bangles, Walk Like An Egyptian, Miley Cyrus, Look What They've Done To My Song Ma, The Pixies, Caribou and Joe Cocker and The Grease Band at Woodstock doing With A Little Help From My Friends.

Jazzer went for an audition clip of some guy doing Redemption on Holland's The Voice. It was good enough. And then two videos by Taylor Swift. She did some serious dancing to one of them. I have managed to avoid Taylor Swift and her work until now. All I can say is that I plan to redouble my efforts. Swift is awful. Music for people who don't actually like music. I can't deny that she has talent but she wastes it. Still, who can blame her? The folk who don't actually like music seem to spend shed loads on it and make people like Taylor Swift, Madonna and their ilk very rich indeed.

This Time of War

 Wasn't it always so?

The News and all our thoughts are dominated by Putin's invasion of Ukraine and almost everyone has something to say. My say? I'm not as scared as I was back in 1962 when the world stood on the brink of nuclear war. I was in primary school then and I remember our teacher, Cassie O'Neill leading us in a prayer for peace and her fear was palpable. All the grown-ups were scared and never in my entire life has there been a more terrifying time. 

Until sometime in my thirties when I got so down that I went to my GP. He was that old-fashioned pull yourself together kind of doctor. I said I was depressed. He said something along the lines of, 'How so?' He was all prepared to be sceptical, or so I believed. I replied, truthfully, 

I keep looking at the sky and imagining I see mushroom clouds.

He started writing my prescription.

And so began a period of five years or more when I took reuptake inhibitors. They worked on my anxiety and I began to live in an unreal world. 

Eventually, I felt strong enough in myself to leave that cloudy place where I'd stayed too long.

It's so different when you are old. No matter what happens I know that I'll not suffer (or enjoy) it for long. Now I only worry about the younger generations. Sometimes I think we've all been foolish to procreate. Which doesn't equate with the joy and delight I'm feeling in my grandchildren, my great-nieces and great-nephew and all the other bright and lovely children entering and inhabiting the world. 

Today I had the pleasure of seeing a two-week-old calf  (Dudley) leave his shed for the very first time to frolic in the sunshine in a soft green field. He was loving life. Yet, at some point, he will enter the food chain. And that is a hard thought. He's not my calf. I'm not in charge of his future, But I saw him taking pleasure in his first experience of the great outdoors and, for me, that will have to do for now.