Not Patrick

Sweetpeas

 

 

Dear Reader,

St. Patrick of Ireland was born at Kilpatrick near Dunbarton in Scotland, in the year 387, he died at Saul, Downpatrick, Ireland, 17th March 461.

Patrick is venerated as a saint in the Catholic Church, the Church of Ireland and in the Eastern Orthodox Church where he is regarded as equal-to-the apostles and Enlightener of Ireland.

He is a patron saint of Ireland and a patron of migrants because of his association with the Irish.  There were certainly Christians in Ireland before Patrick arrived as a missionary in the country, and that the saint worked as an evangelist only in part of the island. 

Patrick began preaching the Gospel throughout Ireland converting many.   He and his disciples preached and converted thousands and began building churches all over the country.   Kings, their families and entire kingdoms converted to Christianity when hearing Patrick's message.

Patrick was never canonized as a saint.  He may be known as the patron saint of Ireland but was never actually canonized by the Catholic Church. 

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My mother wanted a boy and was going to call him Patrick to please Irish Granny.  So that is how I became Patricia also to please Granny.

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From Gilbert White    August 23rd 1785 in Hampshire

'Martins and swallows congregate by hundreds on the curch tower.   These birds never cluster in this manner, but on sunny days.   They are chiefly the first broods, rejected by their dams, who are busyed with a second family.'

From Richard Jefferies   August 23rd 1879 in Surrey

'Rain steady all morning: heavy till afternoon - caused local flood.  Evening dry but cloudy.   The wood pigeons are now in the wheat on flocks (they beat the ears with bill).'

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Not Patrick

 

 

The woman forgot

to say goodnight.

No footsteps on the stone,

dark passages silent,

her child’s cries unheard.

A wet pillow, a wet bear

bore witness.

 

The woman loved men,

all men were gin in her tonic,

men for dazzle and dancing.

Uncles abounded, bringing presents

in exchange for loitering in the garden,

freeing the house for abandon.

 

The woman said the fault

was in the gender,

fate slipped up,

daughters were not expected.

She yearned for a son

to delight and love her,

understand her frailties.

Sons would have adorned her.

 

The woman, dying, summoned the priest

succumbed to the last rites,

gave up of herself to this last man.

There were no footsteps by the bed,

her last cries unheard,

no tears were shed.

 

 

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

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Porridge

 Dear Reader,

Freshwater pearls form in lakes, rivers, and other non-salted water.  Over 90% of freshwater pearls are known as baroque pearls.  This means they have an irregular shape, the most abundant type.   This irregular shape is what makes them so beautifully unique and individually special.

Freshwater pearls are just as real as saltwater pearls as long as they come from a pearl oyster.  The only difference is that freshwater pearls are not so expensive as saltwater ones because the latter are more difficult to find and process.

With only one in 10,000 oysters producing a pearl it is clear that freshwater pearls are a rare and precious find.

I must say I have never thought much about pearls before today.  I used to wear them when I "came out" as my mother thought I should and had a beautiful string of small seed pearls.  It seems a shame that so many oyster shells are opened and then discarded when they do not contain a pearl.  What a waste.

 

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From John Ruskin  August 20th 1875 in Coniston Lake, Lancashire

'This morning ....... intensely beautiful, pure blue seen through openings in quiet cloud and lake calm; but the clouds not quite right - tawny and too thick ....    chopping wood.  Fairly fine with sweet air.'

From Alfred Tennyson  August 25th 1860  in Cornwall

'Tintagel.  Black cliffs and caves and storm and wind, but I weather it out and take  my ten miles a day walks in my weather-proofs.'

 

From Gilbert White   August 26th 1787 in Hampshire

'Timothy the tortoise, who has spent the last two months amidst the umbrageous forests of the asparagus beds, begins not to be sensible of the chilly autumnal mornings; and therefore suns himself under the laurel-hedge, into which he retires at night.He is become sluggish, and does not seem to take any food.'

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Porridge

 

The kitchen maid

plunges thin white arms

into the heavy cast-iron pot,

scours the glutinous porridge

from its insides.

She imagines her mistress

out in her carriage

on pleasure calls,

wearing lilac silk,

freshwater pearls around her neck,

her hands, idle white, in her lap.

She weeps.

 

The housewife scours the saucepan,

eases the porridge from its sides,

brushes the sticky mess into the sink.

She imagines her husband

taking the train, office-bound,

making important telephone calls,

lunching with partners Lucy and George

in that Italian bistro, discussing deals,

drinking white wine, laughing, living.

She weeps.

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

Afternoon Tea

 Dear Reader,

When I was a child I used to go to afternoon tea with a neighbourhood friend and her mother.  Her mother was my idea of a perfect mother, and I still do think so, after all these years.  This is a picture of her.  She was plump with a round face powdered white, and curling silver grey hair.  She was always kind and interested in her guests and asked me questions which were lacking at home.  Never asked in fact. She was homily and funny too, always laughing and making jokes which my sister and I enjoyed.  She made delicious cakes and scones and had out on the table cloth an array of homemade jams and Devonshire cream.

I thought Catherine was very very lucky to have her as a mum but I am not sure she was appreciated as much as she should have been.  Still what is that quotation about prophets not being known in their own country? Something like that springs to mind when I think of Aunty Margaret which is what we used to call her.

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From Francis Kilvert  August 11th 1871 in Dorset

'In a field among the woods the flax sheaves stood in shocks like wheat, the fine-hung bells on their wiry hair stalks rustling and quaking in the breeze like wag wantons.  A mare and foal stood in the shade among the flax sheaves.'

From Gerald Manley Hopkins August 18th in Devonshire

'We sat on the down above Babbicombe bay.  The sea was like blue silk.  It seemed warped over towards our feet.  Half-miles of catspaw like breathing on glass just turned the smoothness here and there.  Red cliffs, white ashy shingle, green inshore water, blue above that, clouds and distant cliffs dropping soft white beams down it, bigger clouds making big white tufts of white broken by ripples of the darker blue foreground water as if they were great white roses sunk in a blue dye.'

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Afternoon Tea

 

If the woman had had

choice of mother,

she would have chosen

one who liked afternoon tea,

with scones, strawberry jam,

sweet biscuits, and hot Darjeeling.

 

But the mother of the woman

did not like afternoon tea.

She liked cocktails, excitement,

after dark and its secrets,

stirring things up, mischief,

and life’s excesses.

 

As the woman knew

that choice of  mother

was not negotiable,

she chose her friends

with four o’clock in mind.

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia 

PS    A catspaw : is a light air that ruffles the surface of the water in irregular patches during a calm.

 

 

 

  

Throwing Away

 Dear Reader,

 

The first cards were issued by Austria-Hungary in 1869, a proposal by Dr. Emanual Herrman, although he was not the first to propose the idea.

Postcards were introduced in Britain in 1870.  They were produced in two sizes and drew heavily on the Hungarian design.  Commissioned by the British Post Office the cards included an imprinted halfpenny stamp that covered the price of postage and was half that of a letter.  The were only printed on one side allowing the message or business correspondence to be printed on the other side.

The design of the British postcards changed over time with new cards being added for international postage.  Postcards sent within the former British Empire featured an image of Queen Victoria based on a painting by Heinrich von Angeli from 1885.   This design would become the only British stamp to depict the Queen in both her old age and standing.

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I love getting postcards and enjoy writing them too. Obviously it has gone the way of so much, not used because of emails, but I shall continue writing them and receiving them too I hope.

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From John Ruskin  August 7th 1874 in Warwickshire

'It rained hard while I staid in the cottage, but had ceased when I went over and out, and presently appeared such a bright far off streaky sky in the west seen over glistening hedges as made my heart leap again...  and the sun came out presently and every shake of the trees shoke down more light upon the grass; and so I came to the village, and stood leaning on the churchyard gate, looking at the sheep, nibbling and resting among the graves (newly watered they lay, like a field of precious seed)....'

 

From Gerald Manley Hopkins  August 7th 1872 in Isle of Man

'We went mackerel fishing.   Letting down a line baited with a piece of mackerel skin - tin or any glimmering thing will do - we drew up nine.   A few feet down the look like blue silver as they rise.'

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Throwing Away

 

the letters,

those billets doux,

the photographs,

the dance programmes,

the theatre tickets,

the postcards,

is a formidable task,

and weeping is not forbidden.

 

Before discarding

these once precious things,

the proof of special moments

lived in earlier times,

memorize them all with care.

And afterwards, relive

this solitary, remembered road,

and weeping is not forbidden.

 

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With best wishes, Patricia