People In Glass Houses

Bert, like myself, comes from a farming background but farming was never where his heart lay. From an early age he was drawn to horticulture. His father Johnny would have liked Bert to follow in his footsteps and encouraged him to take an interest in livestock. He gave Bert lambs and calves to rear and when market time came Bert pocketed the profits. He did not reinvest this money in livestock. Instead he bought a green house and grew salad vegetables in the winter time and tomatoes in the summer. In time he went to Greenmount College where he studied partying, drinking and horticulture. That greenhouse must have been a good one because it has stood in the same spot for more than 40 years. Now that Bert has 6400 square foot of poly tunnel to play with, the greenhouse is all for me to potter around in. Most years I've used it to grow bedding plants but this year I'm growing tomatoes.

We have our godson staying with us this weekend and we get him involved in our projects. This evening he helped me plant leeks and he also mowed the lawn. He loves the lawnmower. I have to admit I had a few concerns about safety and discussed these with Bert who assured me he could come to no harm. I decided to let Bert have his way in this. After all Ben will be thirteen in a couple of weeks. I watched Ben on the mower and I even took a little film of him. He showed a lot of confidence. Maybe too much confidence?

Still from my mini-movie. Does Charlie look a little wary?

Perhaps half-an-hour passed. Ben announced that he was going out to gather up the grass and said that he just loved mowing the lawn. A little while later I heard a crashing noise but did not take it under my notice as Bert is always making crashing noises. I was just getting myself into the mood for staking my tomato plants when I realised I'd been listening to clinking noises for quite a while. It sounded like someone throwing broken glass around. I went outside. And there was Bert, stoically removing broken glass from my very bent greenhouse. And there was Ben looking white and worried as he collected the glass in the wheelbarrow. He told me straight away what had happened. He'd meant to reverse but had gone forward and the front of the greenhouse had got bashed in.

Afterwards Bert told me that Ben was very afraid that I'd be mad. I'm glad to say that I wasn't. Instead I told him that he'd just learned that he'd have to be more careful when using machines and then I got on with staking my tomato plants.

I did tick him off later on for drinking coke whilst on the trampoline.

"Ben," says I. "I'm prepared to forgive you for bending my greenhouse but I draw the line at you spilling disgusting, sticky coke on the trampoline." And that was that.

Pigs and Wine and Shortened Time

I have been listening to reports about research on recommended weekly amounts of alcohol. Dr Melanie Nichols of Oxford University, the lead author of a recently published paper, said: "Over 4,000 deaths from cancer, heart disease, stroke and liver disease in England could be prevented if drinkers reduced their average level of alcohol consumption to half a unit per person per day - a level much lower than current UK government recommendations.” She went on to say that a half unit of alcohol would be just a quarter of a glass of wine, or a quarter of a pint of beer. These days a unit of alcohol corresponds to half a glass of wine – or a glass and a half of wine per week.

And here I am busily making wine with every possible ingredient I can lay my hands on. Right now I have 18 bottles maturing and fourteen gallons still fermenting. Oh dear. What shall I do? Should I empty it all down the jacks?

But, to look on the bright side, if we adhere to these new guidelines, the present amount of alcohol being processed should last Nellybert a number of years. I have done the math. There are 5 glasses in a bottle and 6 bottles to the gallon. Multiply that by 17 and that comes to 510 gallons. We would be drinking three glasses between us every week and at that level of consumption the wine will last us three years and three months.

I comfort myself with the thought that when the statistics are examined more closely those 4000 + extra deaths per year translates into a probability of the drinking classes living about a fortnight less than the abstainers. It being late, and me on the wine, I cannot be bothered to research this thoroughly but, if any reader is interested, the views of statistician David Spiegelhalter are worth a moment or two of your time.

Now as well as making wine Nellybert has also a freezer full of home-grown pig and I'm sorry to say that eminent researchers in Harvard have shown that those of us who eat red meat more than three times a week are also shortening life expectancy, so if you are partial to a bacon sandwich and a glass of wine you're probably going to live around six weeks less than an abstemious vegetarian. Well worth it in my opinion. Slainte! Bon appetit!

Happy Birthday Bert!

bert and pup, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

It's Bert's birthday today. Thrifty Fee!

The Sun Has Got His Hat On

We have been basking in beautiful, glorious sunshine for almost a week. Misses Martha and Evie and their parents are camping out in the fields. Between spending time with them and watering, watering, watering (thank God we have water) there is little time for blogging.

But that's all right. Must go. I have a poly tunnel to water before it gets too hot.

Picture of the Day and Other Matters

Photograph of the day

It is one of my great delights to come across abandoned buildings. Especially fascinating is when the abandoned home is full of the detritus of the lives once lived there. The house I came across yesterday was such a place. I had no camera yesterday so returned today. The people who lived here were interesting folk. They studied, took and developed photographs, made things and painted. They might even have gardened although there was little evidence of it. The garden was so overgrown with nettles and brambles that it was coming into the house but I'm sure the butterflies were very pleased with it.

A fool and his finger are soon parted

This fool I know lacerated his finger on his lawnmower and refused to have medical attention. Surely everyone knows not to poke at the sharp moving parts of a machine while those sharp moving parts are actually in motion. These were my words of sympathy, "Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

He pointed out that at least I wouldn't have to listen to him  playing his clarinet for a day or two. I think I'd rather have the clarinet and an uninjured Bert as not. I'll give him this - he is a stoic. He even finished mowing the lawn and it looks great.

Another worry

 My car is, in the opinion of my mechanic, not worth fixing. Apparently French cars are parcels of merde. It's true! I heard it on Radio 4. Up to three warning lights can be on its dashboard panel at any one time and according to my friend, the mechanic, the diagnostic machine indicates that everything that could be wrong with it, probably is. Or not - as the computer box is full of clothes pegs. I know. I thought that sounded a bit surreal too. The guy that sold it to me assured me that it had only ever belonged to his parents, a respectable couple of retiring age. They had wanted an estate car to transport a big dog around in. I have to say, Bert and I thought it was odd that the front seats had those little burn holes that come from smoking cannabis joints. We didn't think the oldies were the type. But maybe their dog was the same breed as Brian from Family Guy.

The joyous part of the day...

...is still to come. Hannah is visiting and I'm currying some chicken. I haven't decided whether to buy gin or wine. I'll probably get both. It's been a tough day.

Tell Me Now

Grannymar  wanted to know....

What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up? Should I take a photograph of the sunrise? I didn't.

What do you prefer to drink in the morning? Coffee

What songs do you sing in the shower? I don't.

Do you own slippers? Yes, two pairs, both Christmas presents from sisters.

Worst injury you’ve ever had? I am very lucky never to have had anything other than minor cuts and bruises. Perhaps my right hand, cut on glass, self-inflicted when I was a teenager.

What’s one trait you hate about yourself? I don't hate it but I think I'm an under-achiever. I also eat too much.

What’s in your pocket right now? Labelling pen, seeds, pedometer, phone, iPod

Where would you like to go today? Dingle peninsula

Does someone have a crush on you? Certainly!

Spring

 This has been a cold May up until a few days ago. Hardly anything has been growing and the farmers are all complaining that there is not enough grass in the fields. These overwintered calves got their first taste of the great outdoors this morning. Seeing cattle getting out after a long winter indoors is one of my greatest pleasures.

 The gardeners are getting busy too. This lot are putting in potatoes. Again, far later than usual but what can you do?

I finished my day by taking a walk up the back lane. We're having campers at the weekend so I wanted to see if the proposed site was all that they'd want. I kept my eyes peeled for a sighting of Foxy but he was keeping well out of the way. Probably scared of my feline companion. Because, strangely enough, not one dog accompanied me on my walk. Charlie was around but he kept a distance. Holly de Cat walked with me every inch of the way meowing piteously if I got too far ahead of her. She loves to take a walk up the back lane.

A Day With Martha

And then Miss Martha says, "Put the camera away Granny and come and play."

Careless

Sometimes when I am watching old film footage from the sixties, say at a festival or a Rolling Stones concert and I see all the hairy hippies and flower children and I find myself thinking how old they must be today. And I hope that they are coping with this thing we call 'old age'. And that if they have reached the stage of their lives where they need people to help them that those people are kind people who live up to the title of 'carer'.

I once knew a lady who had lost her legs due to diabetes and she told me that her carers threw her about “like a bag of corn”. She said that the young ones would be helping her and all the while they’d be talking about what they’d got up to on a night out. My friend complained that she certainly didn’t want to know about how drunk they'd got or who had got off with who. Young girls can make wonderful carers but often they patronize the elderly people they look after. They can find it hard to fathom those old people were once young and vibrant and full of vim and vigour.

In a Ballyclare home there was a lady in her mid-fifties who was suffering from a degenerative disease. She had lost the power of speech and was unable to feed herself. I watched a carer spoon food into her mouth all the while conversing with a colleague and never once speaking to the person she was feeding.

Then I worked a couple of shifts in a care home in Ballymena. It was tremendously well run and luxuriously appointed and the standards of care were very high. One evening towards the end of the shift when the work was all done and carers were waiting to go off duty, to pass the time, I went over to chat with a bright nonagenarian who came from my part of the country. She had attended the same country school as my father and was full of interesting stories. When I returned one of the permanent staff said to me, “Why were you talking to that old bore?” I’d previously spent my tea break in the company of this particular staff member and had found her very dreary. All she had wanted to talk about was her Christian faith and to criticise other staff members who didn't live their lives according to her high standards.

Carelessness happens here too. Pearlie's carers came in the other morning chattering nineteen-to-the-dozen. It was all “she said and then I said and she said and if they don’t like it and imagine putting in a complaint and Jill said to Nancy that Lorna said and I said and then I just said and she goes and…”

And by this time they were in with Pearlie and I heard the clank of cot sides going down and the conversation never stopped. No “Good mornings, how are you today’s?” to the lady in the bed. They continued with washing and changing Pearlie and never lost their momentum or missed a beat.

Then I heard Pearlie pipe up,

Can you turn out the light again?

And this reply…

Just wait Pearlie. Can you not see I’m doing something else?

Then (rather shortly)…

There that’s your light off.

No goodbyes, no see you laters. Just out the door with them.

Quiet Night In

Our first visitor came at just after 10am. He and his friend arrived moments after Bert got up. I'd been up and around for a few hours but was not quite ready to start the day. Oh well.

After H & D left I went out for an hour or so. On my return the yard was full. Rod and his mum, Les showing us his amazing cauliflowers, Aunt Lizzie and her new dog. I started to make lunch. We were just about to serve when Young Rooney and his young lad turned up. The boy headed straight for the sand pile and began digging. Young Rooney came in to oversee our lunch. He did not stay long but before he left Young Loveheart appeared. Rooney and Loveheart used to be close friends but they're odd with each other these days. Bert and I don't mind. We're used to people being odd with each other at our place.

I had a phone call from Swisser. We chatted about this and that. she said she thought she might call up. I agreed that this sounded like a good idea. Loveheart and Bert were working in the polytunnel, Lizzie was stroking about with her new dog. The phone went. It was Jazzer. They were thinking of coming up. Why not says I, just the two of you? No Erin and Ben and the dog. Sure. Why not? It'll only take a moment to change the beds.

Jazzer wanted to cook but I dug my heels in. I care too much about getting vegetables to let Jazzer cook so we spent half a week's grocery money on an Indian take-out from the Khyber. Bert went to fetch it and said he'd seen Mel in town although she hadn't seen him. Then I got a phone call. It was Hannah. Are you at home. Oh yes. Jakers, Mel and I are thinking of calling out. Sure that will be lovely, see you soon.

So - 17 people and 2 dogs. Just another ordinary day at Nellybert's.

Disgusted of Cully

In the early days of Flickr I routinely accepted contact invitations from people I did not know. These days I am rather more suspicious and check a prospective contact's photostream before agreeing. This came about a few years back when I noticed that a perfectly sweet and decent photograph of Pearlie and Aunt Lizzie had attracted a lot of interest. I checked the commenters' profiles and got a horrible shock. I regret to say that these were men with a special interest in the elderly. Each to their own, as the saying goes, but not on my photostream you won't!

Then there were the specialists who took, in my view, an unhealthy interest in some pictures of my friend's horse-trodden toe. I had to block toeamps99 - the weirdo.

In the past two days I've had two new contact invitations both from middle-aged, podgy men. One had only a few photographs up. They were of his wife, who looked a lot like Marcia Falkender. He seemed to welcome salacious and creepy comments from other men about how beguiling she was. Aaargh! Begone horrid man. And then another unwelcome invitation today from a goofy French-sounding man. His entire photostream consisted of five unflattering pictures of a male person, I assume to be himself, with greasy hair, wonky teeth and fat slug lips. His interests he stated to be swingers and teen moms - the brute! Blocked.

Does anyone else have this problem? I do have pictures of elderly ladies, I do have pictures of sore toes, I do have a few pictures of young women holding babies - none of whom are teen moms. They might be teen aunties, or teen big sisters, or teen the girls next door, or even moms that look a bit teen but aren't and are me many, many years ago.

Perhaps I should stick to posting photographs of Slemish and gardens and flowers as these seem not to attract weirdoes. I can't even be sure that there aren't people out there getting off on my photographs of dogs. I am also going to have to consider changing my Flickr icon as it makes me look far too free-spirited and fun-loving. Which I'm not.

Sunday Morning Musings

Our telephone display lets us know if the call is coming from outside the UK. The display will read 'OUT OF AREA'

These calls are almost always from call centres and are very, very irritating. Often, the moment I speak, the call is terminated. I can't not answer them because I have family living outside the UK and I am always very keen to hear from them. I have now come up with a new tactic, which I hope annoys cold callers as much as they annoy me. I don't speak so this keeps them on the line a little longer - then they hang up. I get a little burst of pleasure thinking of their frustration.

Realistically though, they are so thick-skinned (they'd have to be) that they will hardly give a toss if the call doesn't work out for them.

Bert is hanging about this morning waiting for the AI man to call. The AI man, for those not familiar with the term, sells and administers sperm. The AI man looks like Henry VIII as  portrayed in that famous Holbein portrait although nowhere near as well-dressed. Henry VIII is coming to see if the heifer took from her New Year's Day insemination. We are not hopeful as the procedure has failed with her before. Her friend (and half-sister) the other heifer has a sweet little calf already and this will be the first time the AI man will set eyes on her. I said to Bert,

D'ye think when Henry VIII sees the wee calf he'll glow with paternal pride?

Pearlie has returned from a two week respite visit to the Home For The Bewildered and Sometimes Belligerent. She is in her usual good form. Not. I had her best eiderdown in the wash and got her a new wastepaper bin and she was not best pleased. I was that annoyed with her this morning that I left the crusts on her bread and butter. But we'll get used to each other again and get to rubbing along just fine.

You know what is the best bit about her not being here? It's not her not being here. It's her carers, her district nurses and her visitors not being here. There is a lot of footfall through Pearlie's part of the house and it is sometimes hard to put up with. There are days when there will be up to seven lots of people in the house. I do get fed up with it. And although I know we're lucky to have the care team I'll not be sorry when the day comes that we don't need them.

FOOTNOTE

It is with great pleasure that I can announce that the New Year's Day insemination has worked. The heifer will be calving some time in September. Yippee! This means she will not be going to market for slaughter.

Gardening Leave

 A work in progress

I've been busy.

I've been busy with the business of marking Matty's first anniversary and busy in the garden.

If a garden is not maintained, if it is not cared for and looked after it will return to wilderness. Here at Nelly's Garden we, and Bert's bees, like a certain amount of abandonment but if there is too much of it there will be few delicate flowers survive and there will be hardly any fruit and vegetables. During the early spring of last year the flower garden was not cared for or looked after. I tried to keep it going during the summer months and it looked well enough. But pernicious weeds, particularly couch grass, gained hold and only the strongest flowering plants survived.

In the past past few weeks, in the run up to her anniversary, I had been in the doldrums. It was as if I was waiting for the twelve month mark to pass before I could concentrate on the future. There were some things to do, the most pressing being the arrangement of her memoriam cards. Other members of the family helped with this and between us we chose the photograph and prayers that would feature. I  used the printing press at the Cistercian Abbey in Portglenone and they were great.

On the day of her anniversary Leitrim Sister came up and we spent a lovely day together, first meeting with cousin Joe and his family, then visiting Mum's grave. We couldn't go into the chapel to light a candle as a wedding was taking place there but we did meet Father F. who had been so good to her during her illness and who had been with her when she died. LS and I spent the rest of the day together and I finally got a hold on that Puerto Rican chicken and rice dish I'd been trying out. It was my third go at it. Getting the recipe helped.

Several people said to me when I mentioned that the first anniversary was coming up, “It doesn't seem like a year.” Well it did to me - exactly. I counted it week by week, month by month, season by season. I can stop counting now and next year I will be surprised. Two years already!

So I've spent most of the time since in the garden pulling it back from the wilderness. I have lost a lot of plants but I do not mind. They might flourish elsewhere in wilder parts of the garden and the space that they leave will give me room for new flowers and plants including some that came from Matty's Garden.

Tornadoes

When someone you love is nearing the end of their life everything else narrows. The wider world dims and becomes unimportant.

This time last year our mother, our beloved Matty, had slipped into coma and we were, as we say in Ireland, awaiting on. What do I remember? I remember that on the roads from my house to her house the verges were smothered in dandelion blooms. I remember how good our friends, neighbours and relations were. I remember the devotion and care of her priest, her doctor, the Marie Curie nurses and her carers. I remember walks in bluebell woods with one sister or another as we sought respite from her dying.

I knew nothing of the devastating tornadoes in the United States nor of the floods in Colombia. I was barely aware of the Arab Spring. The impending wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton was an irrelevance. Some months afterwards as I leafed through a magazine featuring their wedding I found myself wondering why I hadn't seen anything of it on television. After all, it must have been saturation coverage. Then I remembered. I was at my mother's funeral on that day.

Araucaria

I'm not even sure that I like the monkey puzzle tree (Araucaria), although I do like the crossword setter of that name very much indeed, as do most cryptic crossword fans. But Bert's father Johnny Orr liked monkey puzzle trees and he planted one in the lawn at Springhill nearly thirty years ago. The dog pictured is Tweed, I never knew him, he was before my time. Tweed bit a small child on the face, a child who was a near neighbour of Bert's parents and the dog was put down for his sins that very same day. The bite was savage and the boy bears the scar to this day despite having received extensive reconstructive surgery. The first time Bert ever visited me in my home was the evening of the day that this terrible thing occurred. Bert was very sad and near to tears about the day's events. That was the evening that our relationship began.

We move on nearly three decades, Bert and I live at Springhill now and the Araucaria tree is still there, I still don't care for them very much but the history of this house is not about me, it is about everyone who ever lived here. Because Johnny Orr cared about this tree I never want it not to be here. I love it because I loved Johnny. And there are still dogs racing under it. That dog may look like a giant hamster but she is a dog, a blurry dog, an action dog, running in the shadow of the Araucaria that Johnny Orr planted many years ago.

Like A Thatcher

Swisser came round for supper last night and as soon as she arrived on the yard she went off in search of Bert who was working in the big shed. I carried on cooking. About ten minutes later I spotted her coming out of the shed carrying one of my director's chairs and placing it in the boot of her car. Almost immediately Bert came in whereupon I lit on him like a thatcher.

I lit on him/her like a thatcher. This is a phrase I heard my mother use. As I understand it, it means to challenge someone in a very forceful way. It has nothing to do with the former British Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, although I'm sure she lit on plenty of people. I just asked Bert what he thought it meant and he said, to give someone a good eating. That would be eating as in ate the head of him. I've been trying to figure out why, in the days before the Dragon Thatcher, that thatchers, as a trade, should be seen as particularly belligerent or scolding.

But to get back to Bert. Says I to him,

What's Swisser doing with my chair?

Sure we never use them. 

We do so! You've no business to be giving away the things that I buy with my own money without asking me first.  

Sure you didn't even know where they were. 

I did so! One was is in the poly tunnel, your man was perched on it yesterday and the one she's lifted was in the shed, folded against the wall behind the seed potatoes.

Swisser comes in so even though I'm still cross I pretend not to be.

We converse generally about this and that. Then she spots the lovely enamel pie dish I bought in TK Maxx a few months ago.

Oh! That's a lovely dish.

Before I could stop myself, I say,

You should tell Bert how much you like it and then he'll probably give it to you.

Oh dear! Awkward situation. Bert tells her I'm mad she got the chair and she immediately offers it back. I demur. She insists. She returns it to the shed. When she comes back I tell her that this is not the first time Bert has done this. A few weeks ago Banjo Man was idly looking at some bits and pieces on my dresser when he noticed a little brass box decorated with shamrocks. He asks Bert about it. Bert says,

That's something belonged to Nelly's mother. Isn't it Nelly?

I say,

Actually I found it among your mother's things.

He immediately offered it to Banjo Man not taking into account that I must have liked it enough to have it on display. I protested and got to keep the little box although it made me feel a bit selfish. But I'd have felt worse if Bert had given it away without taking my feelings into consideration.

I talked to Bert about this today and he informed me that he'd told Swisser to sneak the chair into her car without me seeing and then he said, “She blew it.” So I lit on him like a thatcher.

Pictured above - Bert sitting on my lovely chair quite a few summers back. It still rankles, nay it enrages me, that some light-fingered toad stole that hat he is wearing. Maybe I do get far too attached to material things.

Country Wines

It's a long, long process this wine making. I started in August and, so far, have only bottled the blackcurrant. It will be at least six months before it's ready for drinking. Maybe I'll try a bottle for my birthday. Of course, the wisdom is that you would be better leaving it for a year or more but that depends on the wine. Apparently apple can be drunk while it is relatively young.

I've started 15 gallons already and I now have an assistant (not Bert) who has helped me with the last three batches.

Picture courtesy of Zoe Bowyer, photographer and dandelion picker

These are the wines that are currently in production.

Blackcurrant (bottled)

Rhubarb the first

Damson

Rhubarb the second

Parsnip

Peach

Blackberry and Raspberry

Carrot

Bramley

Raspberry

Beetroot

Orange

Birch Sap

Dandelion

Nettle

A Dilemma

What do you do when an elderly relative, barely fit to look after herself, has an old, sick dog that she won't even take to the vet because she is afraid she'll be advised to have the animal put to sleep?

There were other people, far closer to this relative than I was, and, as far as I know they held their counsel too. But privately I thought, everyone thought, that our relative was being unkind and, perhaps, selfish.

The dog was deaf and blind, his back was humped, he was fed cake because it was soft. His life must have been a misery. His owner's life wasn't much better for he frequently destroyed her sleep with his restlessness and frequent need to pass water.

Well. It all came to a head at last. The poor dog staggered into an open fire and burned his feet and this is the unbelievable part – it happened three nights ago and still she wouldn't get him to a vet. Her cousin intervened today and at last the pathetic creature was put out of his misery.

I know that his owner was not intentionally and deliberately cruel, that she herself is very old and that her dog was a much loved pet and he will be her last dog. I know that she has suffered other terrible losses these past two years which is why she might have clung on to her pet but I still feel I could have done more. I do know that if I had known of this last incident I would have, at the risk of her never speaking to me again, have got that dog to a vet. I still feel I should have, at the very least, spoken plainly to her long ago.

Cultural Olympiad: Maurice Orr

Happy Birthday Hannah 30 Today

It must have been 30 years and one day ago that my mother and I got on the Ballymena town service bus and asked the driver to take us to the Waveney Hospital. I was going in for a planned delivery which would take place on the following day. Of course I didn't tell the driver that, or that I was around ten days overdue. Anyway he took one look at me, drove straight to the bus station, left the other passengers there and got Mum and me on to another bus whereupon he drove us straight to the door of the Waveney Maternity Unit. Nice guy.

The Evil Wolf

An old Cherokee told his grandson, "My son, there is a battle between two wolves inside us all. One is evil. It is jealousy, greed, resentment, inferiority, lies, and ego. The other is Good. It is joy, peace, love, hope, humility, kindness, empathy and truth." The boy thought about it and asked, "Grandfather, which wolf wins?" The old man quietly replied, "The one you feed."

Found, read and appreciated at Brighid's place.

Something I've noticed is that the Evil Wolf clamours for food in the wee small hours. Far better to get up, make a cup of tea, read something restful than to lie there fretting and feeding one's Evil Wolf pecks of bitter nourishment.

For The Love Of Chickens

Anyone who follows my Flickr photostream will have realised that Nelly's got a brand new printer/photocopier/scanner to play with. Well - I say new but actually it was given to me by Les, who occasionally gets free range eggs from us and a wee bit of ground to grow things on and then, in return, we get blackcurrant and gooseberry bushes (wine) and chillies (yummy) which is much better than going to the shops and buying things.

Last night, while going through a packet of Pearlie's photographs I noticed a theme. Bert's female relatives have always been very keen on keeping chickens. The first photograph shows his Great Aunt Maggie feeding her little flock. I like the look of Maggie. She is, in Ulster parlance, a tidy wee woman and she has a very kind, sweet face. I also like that she is doling out the grain very generously indeed.

And this is Bert's Aunt Annie, who, when she was a girl and lived on this very farm. Those chooks are living where pigs hang out these days and I note than chickens keep a far tidier house and yard than Rusty and Lily do.

This is a shot of Pearlie and her dog taken a few years ago. That shed to her left is gone now. You can just make out to the right of the flock little Bernie the black bantie who lived for many years, until the fox finally grabbed her as she was minding her one and only chick. Bernie was the only one left when we came to live here and when I suggested getting some laying hens, Pearlie protested, "What need d'ye have of a lot of oul hens?" which I thought was rather unreasonable. We ignored her and got them anyway. Free range eggs are better by far.

And now, thanks to Les, I am able to scan these old photographs and give the originals to the grandchildren and children of their original subjects. Pearlie thinks that is a good idea too.

Cooking With Gas

In County Antrim, back in 1959, it would have been the height of sophistication to be connected to the telephone system. Numbers in those days were two or three numbers long. We didn't get ours until the 1960s and our first number was Kells 416. People who got the phone installed in the 40s or 50s would have had three figure numbers starting with 2. The phone was so posh that Daddy had a special telephone voice. He'd say, "Helloooo." How I sniggered. I was a horrible child.

I must still be a bit horrible for if Bert were to ring me and tell me he was bringing anyone home for dinner in 20 minutes I would be rather pissed off. The only thing I'd be rustling up would be beans on toast. Mind you he never calls me 'Darling.' That's where he must be going wrong.

I remember those cars. They were proper cars. Not everyone had the phone but pretty much everyone had the big solid car. I confess I actually remember cars with running boards and my Uncle using a starting handle. Upholstery was leather and awfully cold (at first) to the cheek of a sleepy child. there were no seat belts, no child seats. Baby sat in the front on Mother's lap and the rest of the family would be in the back squirming and squabbling like a nest of puppies.

Now Bert would never tell anyone that I'm a wonderful cook. But then he's never called anyone 'Sir', not since Cullybackey High and he sort of had to then.

Darling is awfully calm about it all. I don't know how she can get all that organised in 20 minutes and still have time to smarten up. In my case 'smartening up' would mean removing one pair of mud-stained and pig-snotty jeans for clean pyjama trousers. No wonder Bert never brings his boss home! Oh but I forget - he doesn't actually have a boss, unless you count Clint and he's just bossy.

I see Darling gives all the credit to her bloody gas cooker. We modern women are not so much in thrall to our kitchen machinery. We like to take the credit for ourselves. Well I do anyway. I prefer cooking with gas myself but it is me who plans the meals, shops and prepares - not the bloody appliance.

What a corker Darling is. Sir announces that she and hubby are relocating to Brazil and she doesn't bat an eyelid or turn one perfectly coiffed hair. Just hopes that she can have a gas cooker out there. That's the sort of standard the ordinary woman had to live up to way back in 1959. No wonder she persuaded hubby to buy her a gas cooker so that she could live the dream of peach crumble, tiny-waisted taffeta dresses and promotions that took her and hubby all the way to Rio de Janeiro.

Happy Birthday Little Brother

seamus and joe, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

He's not so little these days. That's Joe helping Daddy to paint something. Joe celebrates his 48th birthday today. At least, I hope he's celebrating. Mind you - it's a bit much when Child Number Seven is that sort of age. Makes Child Number One feel pretty ancient.

Party Time

Party Time The Earlier

Our good friends the Banjos came over last night and we had a small party for ourselves which consisted mainly of chocolate, wine, whiskey and pork and bean stew. I had intended taking charge of the catering but I was busy with my country wines, lots of sterilising, racking and little tastes. The raspberry has a divine flavour already but the carrot will need a lot more time. Speaking of wines, Mr D and I started a batch made with birch sap. That was a new one for me. We're also planning on making nettle wine and Japanese knotweed wine this year.

But anyways – back to the Banjos and the catering. I had intended making some kind of a cassoulet but before I got to it Jazzer had the meat and some onions boiling in water. I nearly fainted! What about the browning off and seasoning? What about the vegetables?

Jazzer doesn't do vegetables. She hates them and she says her children hate them too. Personally I think it is a miracle that the authorities have allowed her to keep those children. But she has an excuse. It's not that they hate all vegetables – it is just that they hate cooked vegetables. Why, Jazzer will tell you, her sprogs have eaten delicious raw vegetables all their lives. They cannot get enough of them. They scoff them by the bucket load. If I dredge through my early memories of the Banjo young 'uns I do recall pleas of,

Nelleee! Can I have a carrot?

Nelleee! Can I have some celery?

And then five minutes later they'd be in shouting for crisps and the yard would be strewn with carrots with just one small bite taken from each one.

So, back to the pork in water. Jazzer assured me it would be delicious and she started looking for things to add. In went a tin of tomatoes, some fenugreek (?) and other assorted spices and seasoning. She refused carrots, assented to mushrooms (then didn't use them) and I managed to get her to throw in some tinned kidney beans. She still felt it needed something. And started to hunt for vinegar. I was a bit worried about this. Anyway she located the vinegar (it was actually sloe gin) and put the whole lot on a slow simmer.

Two or three glasses of Merlot later it was time to serve. We boiled some rice and we dished. I'm afraid the dishing lacked finesse. I'm sure that weary cowboys around a campfire in Montana would have served their pork and beans with more delicacy. Then. Guess what? Jazzer didn't even have any! Said she wasn't hungry! Deprived the rest of us of delicious vegetables because she didn't like them then didn't even eat it. I was raging. And how was it, for those of us that ate it? It wasn't bad at all. The sloe gin helped.

Party Time The Later

I went to bed at around eleven and I'm told the rest followed at about midnight. Charlie and Judy were left downstairs, where to their glee, some fool hadn't closed the fridge door properly. They feasted on cat food, chocolate, butter, cheese and salami. At some point a fight broke out. Probably over the salami. Judy barked for assistance and Bert got up to rescue her. He failed to notice the signs of Canine Party Time. When I got up this morning Charlie was lying on the sofa surrounded by an incredibly clean and shiny cat food tin, several chocolate wrappers and the shredded butter paper and two piles of disgusting buttery vomit. Ah well. Better out than in.

My Life In A Day

I've been trying to get up one minute earlier every day. I had just got to 7:03am when British Summer Time arrived. Today I got up at 7:59am.

First things first. Charlie goes out to pee and start on the many hundreds of 'rounds' he clocks up every day. This done I returned to bed with coffee and got up again around half-eight. The other two dogs got up and we all went out to sort the pigs and hens.

Charlie has taken a great dislike to pigs and would torment them given the opportunity. However I found a way to deter him when I picked up a length of alkathene piping. The minute he saw it he shot off and watched the proceedings from a safe and respectable distance. I think his previous carer must have whacked him with alkathene piping on more than one occasion. I'll not be doing that which I'm sure he'll soon discover and then poor Lily and Rusty will have to watch out.

I attended to Pearlie then breakfasted on a new-laid egg and some home made bread after which I headed to the poly tunnel to sow cucumber, peppers and okra.

New baby

Clint came to help Bert move the new calf and her mother to the meadow. He was back and forth all morning in a variety of tractors. Don't ask - it's a Clint thing.

Bert cleared off to deliver clematis and I had a light lunch of beetroot soup and sandwiches. I think it was beetroot soup but it was from the Polish shop and all information was in Polish. Maybe it was blackcurrant soup. It was very nice anyway and I ate it sitting in the sunshine. Young Rooney called. He crawled about under my car for a wee while and his long shorts slipped down and I saw his bum but I pretended I didn't. Bert returned and Clint arrived up in another tractor and a road sign that said Men at Work. He looked over at us and said,

Youse boys'll hardly be needing this then.

I said,

Did you not see Young Rooney under my car? He was working. For about a minute anyway.

Clint and Bert had a very boring conversation about manuring the meadow and Clint was whinging about the price of manure. I asked him if he couldn't just use shite and he said you need the artificial stuff to give the shite a bit of a push. I think he just wants the excuse to get out on his tractor. Young Rooney said he could get him plenty of horse manure but Clint said sarcastically,

Aye! If I wanted my fields to grow every weed under the sun I would!

Then Rod (and his mum) arrived with the fruit and veg for the pigs and we gave him six hen eggs and a goose egg and his mum gave me a pen which she does every time I see her.

When we got the yard cleared of folk I did a bit of weeding, bit of housework, started the dinner and made scones for Bert's music night.

In among times I kept Pearlie's fire going. Pearlie likes a fire no matter what the weather is like. Today, while everyone else was in tee-shirts and her carer had the top off her sports car, my mother-in-law sat there with a fire roaring up the chimney, all her windows and doors tight closed and wearing, on top of her normal clothes, two shawls, with two blankets over her lap and a hot water bottle. I'm afraid I was cruel come mid-afternoon and opened a window a chink and let her fire go out as I believed she was at risk of heatstroke.

Boys all arrived for music night and since then I've mostly been sitting here scanning photographs. I got a HP Photosmart from one of the boys as my previous machine would not work with Ubuntu. I've been going through Matty's photographs but I think I've scanned the best of them already.

Then I tried to take a photograph of the Moon, Jupiter and Venus. Sadly I couldn't find the important part of my tripod so it wasn't much good. As you can see.

Camera shake

What Makes Blogs Shit

What makes blogs shit is when bloggers keep on posting even when they've got nothing to say. What makes blogging shit is when bloggers have got lots to say but, because they try to be decent and tactful people, they don't blog about it. 'Twas ever thus. These past few days I have spent a lot of time with family members near and wide. It has been mostly very good. Today was particularly good. I have heard stories mad, sad, fantastic and true. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I have been trying to compile a tree-like plan of the Nelly family right down to Miss Martha's third cousins. This has entailed much cyber-stalking and looking at photographs of friends and friends of friends on Facebook. I have discovered a number of things. One is that boys are much less likely than girls to concern themselves about privacy and another is that I have a lot of young (mostly) female cousins who pose seductively in their temptressy going out outfits right in front of pictures of the Sacred Heart. Mind you that is an improvement on the cousins who posed in short sequins and cleavage against a background of mops and buckets and other kitchen squalor. Another thing I found is that more than a dozen of my young relatives are excellent sportsmen and sportswomen within the Gaelic sphere. Which brought to mind a comment my naughty cousin J. made today. He spoke of a young neighbour lad who was that good at hurling that he ought to be put out to stud. I couldn't help saying that I had many young female relatives who should, for the sake of the GAA, be introduced to him. Yes. I know I'm an eedjit. But as someone once said, and on a very special day, at least not a boring bastard.

Five Minute Bread.

I subscribe to a monthly publication called Home Farmer, because it has interesting articles about growing in polytunnels, bee keeping and wine making. It also has some good recipes. This month there was an article that was titled 'Fresh home-made bread every day – in just five minutes?' I resolved to try it. The recipe comes from a book also called Five Minute Bread by Jeff Hertzberg and Zoe Francois.

This is what you do.

Get a large container. I used a wine fermentation bucket. Throw together 900g of white flour. I used strong white flour that I'd had for far too long. Probably past its sell-by date but I checked for weevils and there were none. To this I added 750ml of lukewarm water. A teaspoon of salt and three sachets of fast acting bread yeast. Quick stir together, cover (not supposed to be airtight) and into Pearlie's lovely warm room to rise. I left it for a few hours. I could see why the cover did not need to be airtight because I used clingfilm and when I lifted it the fumes of fermenting yeast would have taken the sight from your eyes.

This mixture is supposed to make 4 loaves. You can keep it in the fridge and use it whenever you need it and this is supposed to be better because it takes the stickiness out of the dough. I got two loaves and a huge pizza base out of it but because it was so sticky I think I probably washed half a loaf's worth down the sink when I washed my hands.

The recipe says the bread should be rested for an hour but I've only just noticed that and mine went straight into the oven at 230C (450F, Gas 8) for about 25-30 minutes.

The pizza dough was drizzled with olive oil before being topped, the loaves were dusted with flour and I had a bowl of hot water in the oven to keep the crust from becoming tough. The end result wasn't bad at all. Bert has eaten lots of it and he says it's a bit like ciabatta. The actual work with the bread was only about five minutes if you don't count the rising and resting time. I'll definitely be making it again.

In A Graveyard

So that is St Patrick's Day and Mother's Day over for another year. We had a few friends around last night and the talk came round to parading. Swisser complained that she had been held up earlier by an Orange parade and Bert and me had a little disagreement when I opined that I thought Orange Men only paraded on St Patrick's Day for complete twistedness and he opined that I was a sectarian bigot.

Usually on Mother's Day it slips my mind that I am a mother and have been so for 37 years. It always seemed far more important that I was a daughter and I had a mother. I visited her grave today and left a little posy that I plucked from my garden. Hannah went with me. I took her photograph by the grave and afterwards I said, “Were you smiling in that picture?” and she said, “Yes. Everybody puts on a solemn face by a grave. I didn't want to.” I've never been in St Comgall's cemetery with Hannah alone and we walked around and I told her stories about the people I knew who were buried there.

There was an Aunt who died of cancer when I was a teenager. She had the most beautiful smile and she loved to laugh. Her daughter was seven years older than me and she had a really quirky sense of humour. One day I went to visit my Aunt and my cousin was there as well. She came out with some remark (I forget it now) that I found so funny that I laughed until I wet myself. My Aunt was tickled pink at this disaster and she laughed until tears ran down her face. She died not long after this.

I knew so many stories about people who were buried there. There wasn't the time to tell her all of them but I did tell her one about Father Vincent Davey who was Parish Priest in Antrim when I was a girl. In those days the Parish Priest was a figure of authority and although Father Davey seemed to be a jovial sort of man, we children were taught to fear him. Father Davey had been a missionary priest in Nigeria from 1922-1932 and was still devoted to that cause. He was very skilled at raising funds or, to put it another way, squeezing money out of his parishioners. As I remember, the bulk of his sermons were fund-raising drives and exhortations for money. Still the people of the Parish would far rather have given their money to the Missions or the Parish than to the Government.

I would have been around fifteen and becoming very wilful and defiant and my parents were despairing of me. Matty had the bright idea of sending me in to Father Davey for a good talking to and I was given the busfare to Antrim and instructed to go and see him. I can't have been that bad a girl or I wouldn't have went near the Parochial House but anyway I stood at that bus stop and I got on that bus and I was trembling with fear and I'm sure there are people who've gone to the scaffold who were not as afraid as me.

I got off the bus at the Chapel Corner and presented myself at the Parochial House. I knocked the door and, after what seemed like a long time, it was opened by the old dragon of a housekeeper. She looked down at me with great disdain. “Yes. What do you want?” I quaked and said in a very tiny voice. “I'm here to see Father Davey.” She went off and a few minutes later he appeared at the door. I must have interrupted his meal for he was wiping his mouth. He was pink and shiny and not terribly cross looking at all. I said, “My mammy sent...” He stopped me, looked at me benignly and he said, “Now – you're to be a good girl, say your prayers, work hard at school and do what your Mammy and Daddy tell you,” and with that he smiled at me and closed the door. I was delighted to have got off so lightly and made my way home with a far lighter heart.

I did not make Matty much wiser as to what had passed between me and the Parish Priest and I'm afraid that I did not take his advice to heart for I did not say my prayers, nor did I work hard at school or do what my parents told me. But I probably should have.

The Three Marthas

It has been a 'brave while' since I posted to The Garden. Too much going on. That's when I get the block on. Meanwhile, thanks to a family visit and the gift of a digital photograph of my great-grandmother I am head and ears back at the old family tree. It calms me. If anyone is going to make a record of the many descendants of Granda Ned then that is going to be me. There are plenty others working on the ancestors and the ten thousand cousins in Australia. I'll concentrate on the ones that are (mostly) still with us. So far I have discovered that if it wasn't for Granda Ned the whole G.A.A. scene in County Antrim would be much the poorer.

This is Martha who was my mother Martha's grandmother. She died in 1939 when my mother was thirteen.

Martha, my mother and Miss Martha's great-granny, pictured shortly after her grandmother died.

And this is Miss Martha who is a great-great-great granddaughter of the lady who was Miss Martha Donnelly from Randalstown before she married James McAnespie in Belfast. Does anyone else see a similarity in the brow area? It is a family trait that helps us give good frown faces.

Frogspawn

We had the digger (1) man round the other evening. There are a lot of drains needing cleared out in the wood and a very boggy patch at the bottom of one of the fields. Bert said,

When can you come?

He said,

I don't know about that now. There is a lot of frogspawn (2) in those sheughs. (3)

I saw that myself. What do you reckon?

Well I could lift it in the bucket and move it to another hole but there'd be a lot of it lost. I'd as soon leave it until May at the earliest.

That'll do then.

When Bert reported this conversation to Hannah and myself we were both delighted with the digger man. Hannah said,

Good old Gorgeous Gage for caring about the wee frogs.

Is it any wonder he is our favourite digger man?


(1) Digger/ Backhoe

(2) Frogspawn is produced in huge quantities because of the high mortality rate. Only the strongest eggs will survive. The eggs are also an important food source for newts, dragonfly larvae and water boatmen. Out of 2000 eggs in a blob of frogspawn fewer than five frogs will ever reach breeding age.

(3) Sheugh – Ulster Scots. A narrow open drain or ditch, often with water in it.

Things I Hate

I hate doing Bert's books. He records his incomings and outgoings in a tatty little yellow notebook and uses the first writing implement that comes to hand be in pen, pencil or crayon. And did I mention that his writing is horribly illegible? Letters I can work out but numbers are awful. His 4s and his 9s are indistinguishable and his 5s and 3s aren't much better. There are difficulties with 6 and 0 as he can hardly be bothered to close his zeroes. His customers and suppliers he calls by differing names, sometimes it's their first name, sometimes it's their town and sometimes he actually uses the company name. It gets confusing. There is no ordering either. The year 2010 comes after 2004 and 2009 is followed by 2011. There are crossings out and there are arrows pointing to little notes in the margins. I despair of it all.

So I spend many torturous hours deciphering all this then I send it by email to his accountant in the form of a nice neat spreadsheet. She needs checking up on too. I sent her an email in September which she claimed not to have received and had to send again in January. She probably spends five minutes on it, sends it on to Her Majesty and charges Bertie Boy 400 for her professional services.

The world is ill-divided. Next year I must, I really must, cut her out of the loop so I can have the 400 plus notes. It can't be that hard to self-certify.