48 Years Ago Today

Somehow, right now, these memories sting more. 

Lost Lives, pp 1522-1523, entries 1130, 1131 and 1132

Sean went to Micky Mallon's funeral, so did my father and sister. Sean is reputed to have said afterwards that it was 'a big funeral' and hoped he'd not be at as big a one again. Micky's father ran a country pub, as did Sean. His own funeral, a few days later was a big one too when he was laid to rest with his younger brother, Brendan.

There are three thousand, six hundred and ninety-seven entries in my copy of Lost Lives and that wasn't the end.

For all of the people who died during the conflict, there must be tens of thousands of people left grieving. May those days never return.

A Shooting at the Pub

Our Road

I Wake Up Stupid

 At first, I did not realise that I'd woken up stupid. The first indication came as I was driving into town to pick up the young lad doing a bit of painting for us. The red light was on, and I'd left my wallet on the kitchen table. There was probably enough diesel in the tank to take me to Ballymena and back but I knew I could not handle the stress of worrying that I'd come to a halt in the middle of town. Better to fill up. So I wheeled around, retrieved my wallet and headed up the Kilrea Line to the petrol station. 

As I drove, keeping an eye on the red light, I wondered where the tank was. This would be my first time buying fuel for this particular vehicle. Turned out to be the passenger side. Got out, keys in hand, ready to unlock the fuel cap. Immediate problem. I didn't know how to open it. I vaguely recalled there being a magic lever somewhere but I could not find it. By this time the proprietor of the petrol station was out on the forecourt advising me as to where to look. This was when I first realised I was displaying signs of stupidity. I decided to phone Bert and found that I could no longer work my phone. My stupidity was increasing by the moment. Eventually, I got through and eventually, Bert answered and talked me through the location of the magic lever. The proprietor was standing by the magic door and boy was she excited when it sprang open. With the tank just over half-full and my wallet sixty quid lighter, I headed to town to pick up my painter.

Seemed no time until I was driving back to town to pick up the schoolies. I went early enough to spend a little time in the shops. It's a pity I only changed my gardening shoes before I left the house as I noticed (far too late) that my yellow jumper had two sinister brown stains on the front. The stains were probably just HP sauce but they looked nasty. I decided to buy a new jumper in the Oxfam Shop. I also bought 3 pairs of sunglasses as I'd sat on mine at the petrol station. More stupidity. And, of course, I bought a book (Ian Rankin). Six pounds well spent and off to the Council Loo to change my top. There is a sort of in and out barrier in there. I got in OK but on the way out I forgot how it worked much to the amusement of the attendant. He talked me through the mechanics of it and I managed to escape.

Schoolies gathered up we drove home slowly and safely on a long and little-travelled road as I did not trust myself to get tangled up in the home-from-school rush. Instead, we dallied along country lanes admiring the sheep. 

There was one final instance of stupidity. After the painter and the schoolies went home we decided to order dinner from the Golden City in Ahoghill. Bert drove there, I was the collector. He parked in the Diamond and I jumped out of the van and barged straight into a beauty salon. It took me a few seconds before I realised I wasn't in a Chinese Takeaway. How Bert laughed.

I hope to be smarter tomorrow.

From One Pedant To Another

Granny! I've been reading your blog and you're wrong about Rusty and Lily's age. You said they were coming 12 this year and they're not! They're the same age as me. Twelve! 

My oldest granddaughter did not use these exact words at the supper table this evening but that is roughly what she said.

I tried to tell her that the pigs were a bit younger than her and that my blog was not always precisely factual. After all, within my posts, I've often given an impression that I love my grandchildren and that I think they're great.

Granny!

I called her a pedant. We brought down the Oxford Concise and looked it up  - a person who is excessively concerned with minor detail. Oldest grandchild to a tee.

It's not even fair. Sure I barely even know what age I am. Birthdays come round so fast these days. But after they'd gone I went to my Kunekune file to see what I could find out. A whole big book in there regarding the Declaration of Movement of Pigs. Yet they've only moved once in their lives, from Knockloughrim to Cullybackey. Their birth certificates were in there as well. Turns out that Martha was right. They are twelve. Or was she right?

According to their birth certificates Sperrin Awakino I (Rusty) and Sperrin Tutaki II (Lily) were born on the 24th April, 2010.  When I posted (on 15th March) that they would be twelve this year they were still eleven. Who is the pedant now? Granny!

When this photograph was taken Rusty and Lily were eleven months old and Martha was eighteen months.

Sowing Time

 

What with the preparation for, execution of and recuperation from the recent (and extremely enjoyable) family visits, I found myself a tad behind with the sowing schedule. I was thinking of this a few weeks ago when Jazzer and I were in TKMaxx*. She asked me,

What time is it anyway?

I answered,

Practically the end of April.

Anyway, I managed to get quite a lot started before the beginning of May and this is where we are now.

*I was in need of some really nice socks as Martha and Evie seem to have purloined from my sock drawer all that is bright and beautiful.

Bert's Forecast

 

 

And there was me thinking he didn't have any sense of politics.

On the other hand, he did ask me the other morning,

What's Roe vs. Wade about anyway? Is it tennis?

Election Eve

 Bert and I do not always see eye-to-eye regarding local politics. His inclination is to vote for moderate candidates whilst I (in his opinion) vote 'tribally'. I see my position as voting for parties that are more left-leaning. Where we come together is that neither of us will give any preference to the DUP, TUV or Northern Ireland Conservatives. In addition, I will be giving no preference votes to Aontú.

During the run-up to the Brexit referendum, I was keen to encourage people in our friendship circle to vote sensibly. As regards this election I'd just ask that they vote because, I'm glad to say, most of them hold sensible views even if some of their views do not align completely with mine. Sadly, I know a fair few folks who won't vote at all. Some have never voted. I've never not voted except for that time that I was at a country auction for most of the afternoon and was far too tired after standing for hours as farmer's wives got into bidding wars over bundles of moth-eaten cushions, chipped delft and ancient Singer sewing machines. It was only a council election anyway.

One of our callers told me he has never voted. I was shocked. He is almost fifty years old! His reasoning for not voting is that as soon as the election results are called it is likely that one party will refuse to form a government and we will be cast into limbo again. I did not like to say that it is because of people like him that we are in the mess we're in. However, it turns out that his sibling always votes and he favours the centrist Alliance party and that barrister chap, Jim Something. I suggested that if the bro was going to vote for the TUV leader he'd be better staying at home and cracking open a bottle of Sainsbury's finest red instead.

Then this morning there was a moment of joy. Clint called round and after a brief conversation about why local farmers roll their fields (I'm still none the wiser) we moved on to politics. I didn't like to ask Clint what his intentions were. He's normally Unionist but if he'd moved in Jimbo's direction I'd have been depressed.  But no. Clint is disillusioned with politicians. Thinks they are a terrible shower. In fact, the only person he ever struck in temper his entire life was a local DUP councillor. They were both about eleven years old when yer man accosted Clint as he was carrying home a jamjar of tadpoles. The councillor to be thought it funny to grab Clint's tadpoles and empty them on the ground whereupon Clint lost it and knocked him through a hedge. Discretion prevents me from naming this councillor but I'll provide a clue. His initials are the same as the Big Man in the New Testament.

Voting day is always a Thursday and that is the day we have the two oldest grandchildren. Their school is used as a polling station so they'd always have the day off. Traditionally they have accompanied me to our polling station, which is Bert's old primary school and only a five-minute walk from here. Tomorrow it will just be Evie as Martha has moved on to secondary school. Martha will probably not enter a polling station again until she is old enough to vote. And that is only six years away. Who knows who she will vote for? It might be easier to guess who she won't be voting for. The future is coming.

The New Trampoline

 

 

When Zoe and I bought the first trampoline Evie could barely stand upright on it. The middle picture in the collage records her first attempt at staying upright. She was so pleased with herself.

Eight years later, it was time for a new one.

For the old one had taken quite a battering.

The brand new and slightly bigger trampoline was delivered a week ago.  Bert, Martha and Evie began the assembly on Saturday. They hit a snag and Hannah had to be called in. The problem was that Bert had left his reading glasses in the house and couldn't make out the instructions. Bert thinks if he squints really, really hard he will eventually decipher the information. In this assumption he is wrong. Luckily Hannah does not need reading glasses and was able to assist.

 

Saturday

Today

Sadly, I was too occupied with making a delicious supper to take pictures of the netting and the first turns on the new trampoline. Martha did some very good somersaults and Evie got a bleeding lip from impact from her own knee. I wonder if they'll still be using it in another eight years when they are eighteen and twenty? One thing for sure is - that I won't be on it.

Dandelions

Driving to Antrim last Saturday I noticed that the dandelions were in their full flush. It brought back memories of those days eleven years ago when Mammy was living out her last days and everyone was at home. I drove out there every day, sometimes just to sit with her, sometimes to take whoever else was minding her out for a bit of respite. We were all ready to say goodbye to her and, at the same time, nowhere near ready to have her leave us.

Eleven years ago we were all there at her side when she died and Martha the first, and at that time the only great-grandchild was there too. 

Martha (her namesake) brought her such great joy in the last year of her life. This picture was taken only a few weeks before Matty died.

It seems we are not one of those spreading out families. Matty's children (seven of us) produced eight living grandchildren. six girls and two boys.

My six siblings and I with our mother. 

Then there were the grandchildren.

Again, just two boys. A third boy, Mark William was stillborn in 1993.

On to the next generation. Matty only got to meet Miss Martha although great-granddaughters Ava and Evie were both on the way when Mammy died.

These are Matty's great-grandchildren, the ones she never met. Including Martha, there were nine of them and just the two boys. Their great-grandmother would have adored each and every one of them.

The last baby, Séanaí, is happed up in a crocheted blanket made by his great-grandmother Martha. she would have been delighted so I shall be delighted in her stead.

   

You Cannot Make An Omelette...

 ...without breaking eggs. Not quite sure what that actually means but it came into my mind today.

Another thing I'm not quite sure about, even after nearly eighteen years, is Nelly's Garden a diary, or not? Because, if it is a diary then I should be making much mention of recent family visits from the Norfolk and Muswell Hill branches of the family. Both visits meant a lot to me but while they were going on I was much occupied and did not seem to have the time or energy to make diary entries. I will get back to that.

Instead, back to the breaking eggs thing. Some years ago we removed a number of overgrown conifers from the front of the house. One brute of a thing left a two-pronged stump which we decided to leave in place. I envisaged it covered in clematis and eventually one was planted (a viticelli) which took about five years before it blessed us with a few sparse flowers and then died. Today Bert decided to remove the stump.

Considering ourselves to be conscientious of the needs of wildlife our aim was to remove the decaying stump to another area where insects etc. could continue to enjoy it.

Ropes were attached to the tractor, and the removal was underway.

Then Bert cried, Oh SHIT!

A tiny egg had rolled to the ground.

A closer investigation found the little nest, six eggs one broken.

The eggs were cold and we hoped it was an abandoned nest.

Looking into it afterwards Bert reckoned it was a tree creeper's nest. The coldness of the eggs meant nothing as the birds had fled the nest as soon as he roped the stump. The eggs, being tiny, would have cooled rapidly.

Our only consolation is that there are at least three pairs of tree creepers breeding here and hopefully the pair whose nest we destroyed will go again. 

The moral of this tale is to avoid all kinds of wrecking projects in our gardens during nesting season.

Happier times fifteen years ago when the stumps were newly made. The girl is in her last years at grammar school. The boy (Ben) is in his twenties and the pup (Frank) is buried a few metres away.

Corners of My Home

 

There are a lot of things I like about this phone picture. The light, the two young ones at my PC, the Ikea knitted blanket giving a nice splash of colour, Zoe's painting on the wall. Young Loveheart's husky watching the screen, the old-style broom lying on the floor...

Really, I should be catching up with last week's exciting (and exhausting) visit of the Norfolk branch of the family. Maybe later this week when I have more time. The Muswell Hill branch arrive tomorrow. Can't wait.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow my Katkin and her family are coming to stay with us, all the way from deepest, darkest Norfolk. They will be here for five days. Not long, I know, but we shall make the most of it.

It's been a week since I blogged here. Too busy making food, preparing rooms, knitting and watching Vikings. Sometimes all at once.

Bert started me off on Vikings. One evening I brought my knitting into his man cave to keep him company. Something very terrible was happening on the TV. I did not look. It is easy not to look when one is knitting. The thing that was happening was execution by blood eagle. If my reader does not know what that is and has a strong constitution, feel free to look it up.

I came late to Vikings. One of my Facebook friends was a regular extra on the show and recommended it to me years ago. And Bert seemed to be enjoying it. Katkin said that she and her husband watched it for a while but stopped because it got 'stupider and stupider'. Bert dropped out too but I kept going. It seemed to go with knitting. When it all got a bit rough I just kept my eyes on my stitchwork. I expect, had I lived in Paris during the French Revolution I'd have been a regular at the guillotine.

Day Out In Derry 2/2022

A few weeks back Jazzer and I took a day out in Derry. The main reason for our visit was to visit the Museum of Free Derry. I was also on the lookout for a craft shop where I hoped to acquire some lovely new knitting yarn. Somehow we managed not to find it.

On Wednesday last I decided to try again. Up early, chores all done and was wearing an actual dress, nice wee boots and some red tights as I stood by the door waiting for a lift to the train. Bert said,

Doesn't take you long to get ready for a day out in Derry.

I waited for the compliment that was sure to follow.

Instead...

When are you going to get your hair cut?

I was raging. 

It's true that a visit to Rhonda was well overdue. But that was not what I needed to hear. It's not as if I could do anything about it at that point. I made my feelings on the subject very clear and he was contrite. As we parted at the station I told him that I'd have forgotten his careless comment by the time I got to Ballymoney. This wasn't entirely true but it made him feel a little better.

Where devout Derry people get their holy statues, holy pictures and rosary beads. It seems to have survived lockdown. I can't imagine that such items of holiness would be considered essential. Maybe I'm wrong.

 Flowering currant in the grounds of St Columb's Cathedral.

Jackdaw on Derry's Walls

St Augustine's Church on Derry's Walls. This is a beautiful little church but, unfortunately, it was closed the day I was there. I would have liked to get a closer look at the glorious magnolia by the door.

There was a selection of painted garden benches outside The Yellow Yard. I liked the pastel stripes but couldn't have got it on the train. 

I did find that craft shop and it was a big disappointment. The one in Ballymena is miles better.

And two days later I managed to make it to Rhonda's to get the whin bush sorted. Bert paid.

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. 

Snow Day

Snow lost its novelty for me a long time ago. Nowadays it seems like a big nuisance and I cannot even be bothered to take pictures anymore.

Not so, for Martha and Evie who both adore snowy days. Martha was full of it when I picked them up on Thursday. Her school permitted snowballing at breaktime. They were asked though, not to throw snowballs at people who didn't want to take part. That would have been me. Evie's school said there was to be no snowballing but they did it anyway and the playground supervisors pretended not to notice.

The local bus station must have been a dangerous place on Thursday morning as the best of the snow had fallen during the night. At Evie's age, I'd have taken it very personally if a 'big boy' had lobbed a snowball at me. Evie was unbothered and told me that she used her cello case as a shield. I do love having such tough-minded grandchildren.

After school, they were straight out to the meadow. The snow was starting to disappear but there was enough of it to make a snowman and a snowdog and to take...

a good, hardy roll in the snow.

Then there was that time their mother made a snowman that looked a bit like a snowdog.