Waiting for Geoffrey

Dear Reader,

                                                                           Beautiful loaves just out of the oven

The Food Police have been on the march again, warning us against eating crispy roast potatoes and fluffy rice.  Both of these favourite foods could do us damage, they assert.  Perhaps even prove fatal!  I suspect that most people reading this absurd piece of information must think it is a joke, as I do. And, in addition, we have to be on our guard with bread too, all sorts of dangers lurking there, it seems.  I was wondering what the Food Police would think of bread as described by Tobias Smollett in his popular novel, "The Expedition of Humphry Clinker" (1771): "London bread is a poisonous compound of chalk, alum and bone ashes, insipid to taste, and destructive to the constitution." Apparently sacks of old bones were not infrequently used by some of the bakers.

Bread in the 19th century was enormously important; it wasn't just an accompaniment to a meal, bread was the meal.  For a poor family the daily diet was likely to consist of a few ounces of tea and sugar, some vegetables, a small amount of cheese, very little meat, and bread.  A parliamentary investigation of bakeries in 1862 found that many of them were filled "with masses of cobwebs, weighed down with flour dust that had accumulated upon them, and hanging in strips" ready to drop into any passing pot or tray.  Insects and vermin survived along walls and counter tops.  Gosh, what would our Food Police make of all that?  But here they would have something serious to contend with, instead of the nonsense they write about food and its preparation in the 21st century.


                                                                            *

Waiting for Geoffrey

Waiting frustrates us, angers us,
even small waits like
waiting for eggs to boil,
waiting for the bath to fill,
waiting for the postman,
for the broadband to work.

Or the long waits.

Waiting for something to happen,
waiting for someone,
waiting for spring,
       the first cuckoo call.

Waiting for a new beginning,
waiting for the good times promised,
waiting for the loss of pain,
and the longest wait of all,
waiting for eternity,
the last breath.

Or waiting for Geoffrey.

Waiting for him,
to start, to stop, to sing the song,
or a hundred other things.
Me, sitting on the stairs,
ever reading a book,
until he finally appears.

Waiting for Geoffrey,
not first, but last.
But waiting for Geoffrey
is different,
me, accepting him, loving him.

And what does Geoffrey say?
He says the mills of God grind slow
but grind exceeding fine.                                                                       
                                                                            
                                                                            *

With best wishes, Patricia

Truth Modern

Dear Reader,

                                                                               Patterns from a Kaleidoscope


When I was about eight I was given a kaleidoscope for my birthday and it was my prize possession.  It was quite my favourite toy.  I loved looking at the wonderful shapes and patterns it made just by shaking it, and I remember taking it to bed with me so that my sister couldn't borrow it.

Kaleidoscopes were invented in 1816 by a Scot, Sir David Brewster.  An inventor, he was studying many aspects of physical sciences, including polarization optics and the properties of light.  He named the new invention after the Greek words meaning: beautiful form watcher.  He discovered that attractive and pretty symmetrical patterns were made when loose pieces of glass and other objects were reflected by mirrors, in a tube-like instrument which resembles a telescope.  Following its invention, the kaleidoscope grew in popularity in Western Europe and became a favourite toy for children, but also an entertainment for adults taking part in parlour games, one of them being charades.

                                                                            *
                                                                          
Truth Modern

Through a kaleidoscope
shifting bright colours,
set close to the eye,
the viewer's truth reflected,
assuring the mind of its veracity,
acknowledging its fantasies
as realities,
seeing truth
not as it is, but as we would
like it to be,
spinning words,
detaching truth from its moorings,
setting it loose in murky waters.
Illusions of truth
sandwiched between lies
is the authentic truth
of our times.

                                                                            *

With best wishes,  Patricia

Dorothy's Dilemma

                                                                                  Early Snowdrops

Dear Reader,

The photograph I put on the blog last week of a Cotswold field, and the thought of a picnic in it, seems to have touched a chord with many of you, and quite a few of you wanted to share the picnic with me, and, if they kept very quiet, they also thought Ratty and Mole might scamper by.  Well, in the gloom of my foggy garden this week, I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw a snowdrop under the tree, bravely pushing through the damp earth, to cheer us.  In fact there were one or two when I went out to inspect them, so it won't be long, I hope, until the spring comes and this dank winter is left behind.

On January 27th 1802, Dorothy Wordsworth wrote from Westmorland :

'A beautiful mild morning; the sun shone; the lake was still, and all the shores reflected in it....the bees were humming about the hive.  William raked a few stones off the garden, his first garden labour this year.  I cut the shrubs.'

On January 31st 1825, John Clare wrote from Northants:

'A yellow crocus and a bunch of single snowdrops in full flower, the mavis thrush has been singing all day long.  Spring seems begun.  The woodbines all over the wood are full leaf'.

                                                                              *

Dorothy's Dilemma

Dorothy slowly rode the hill,
eating potted beef and sweet cake,
she glimpsed, growing in green moss,
three primroses in full bloom.

Should she pick them?
December primroses in a jar
adorning the kitchen table
was a temptation, a pretty picture.

She pondered long, then left them
to enjoy the fecund earth,
their natural home,
their rightful place.
Days later, she saw with joy, nestling in the moss,
her primroses, flourishing,
uninjured by cold or rain
or human hand.
                                                                              *

With best wishes, Patricia

January Weather

Dear Reader,

                                                                                     Cotswold fields

To cheer us up I thought you might like to see this photograph taken of some Cotswold fields in the summer months.  The weather in January is so gloomy, dull and damp, and the world news so depressing, I long for a picnic in this field.  I would have a basket filled with smoked salmon sandwiches made with thin slices of brown bread, followed by a portion of cheddar cheese, a piece of lemon drizzle cake, and a delicious bottle of white wine (preferably Vouvray) to go with it.   And  then, probably a square or two of dark chocolate.  And if I half shut my eyes I might be lucky and see Ratty and Mr Mole scampering by .....

Do you remember my writing about the pesky seagulls last year?  They were getting very bold, snatching sandwiches out of people's hands and generally causing chaos in several seaside resorts, one of them being Scarborough.  Well, the Council there has met to consider an "action plan", to hire a specialist company which uses Harris Hawks and falcons as flying police officers, to deter the noisy and irritating gulls.  These birds of prey are specifically trained not to kill the seagulls, just to frighten them off.  So if you are thinking of booking a summer holiday in Scarborough this year, don't worry about the seagulls, they are being controlled and your sandwiches will be safe.

                                                                                    *

January Weather

We know from recorded history,
that in St. Merryn
a hundred years ago,
there blew great winds
and the sea was smoking white.

We know it was warm in Kent,
where the thrushes thought spring
had come, and piped away.
And primroses were a yellow carpet
in North Norfolk,
or so the parson wrote.

We know of cutting winds in Hampshire,
of icicles and frost, and
in Skiddaw on a mild day,
a brown spotted butterfly was seen.
We know that hungry church
mice ate bible markers,
hungry people died of cold.

And we know that this dark winter month
had days of snow, that wild clouds
gathered in the sky unleashing icy rain,
churning up the plough.

And yet, again, we also know
the sun shone in that distant year,
it was warm enough to push through
early snowdrops, and Holy Thorn.
Light was glimpsed, here and there,
all life struggled for its moments.

                                                                      *

With best wishes, Patricia

Cold Christ Child

Dear Reader,

                                                                                Morris Dancers

I read that in Birmingham this week a group of Morris dancers were forced to abandon a performance after they were accused of being racist, because they had blackened their faces.  I wondered why they do this and found that the tradition of rural English dancers blackening their faces may be a form of disguise, or a reference to the Moors or even to miners.  The origins of the practice remain unclear and are a matter for ongoing debate.  Morris dancing is a form of English folk dance accompanied by music, often an accordion or flute.  It is based on rhythmic stepping and the execution of choreographed figures by a group of dancers usually wearing bell pads on their shins.  Sticks, swords and handkerchiefs are often also wielded by the dancers.  It is unclear how the dance got its name, but apparently it arose as a part of a wider 15th-century European fashion for supposedly "Moorish" spectacles.  Morris dancers perform in the small market town where I live, at the annual street fair,  and they are most entertaining to watch.

                                                                           *

Cold Christ Child

Why did Murillo, Fra Filippo Lippi,
Leonardo da Vinci paint
the Christ Child nude?
Did they not know of night-time cold?

Was the hot Levantine wind
blowing in the midday sun,
enough to stay the chill of evening
and warm this precious child?

They painted the Madonna in a dress,
the soldiers fully clad
in jerkins, amour, helmets,
the angels in sumptuous robes,
but the Christ Child is left on marble floors,
or dandled in laps,
with nothing to swaddle and secure him.

Could it be that this cold start
was not enough
to set alight the love
needed to save us all?

                                                                         *

With best wishes,   Patricia

Perfect Pace

Dear Reader,

                                                                        Jerusalem Artichokes 

There seems to be a bit of consternation among exotic vegetable lovers this week concerned about the disappearance of the Jerusalem artichoke.  Where have they all gone, they ask?  But it seems their fears are groundless, since I have now learnt that they still grow in numerous gardens and allotments. The Jerusalem artichoke was first cultivated by the native Americans long before the arrival of the Europeans, and this extensive cultivation obscures the exact native range of the species.  The French explorer, Samuel de Champlan, found domestically grown plants at Cape Cod in 1605.  He then brought the plant back with him to France, and by the mid-1600s the Jerusalem artichoke had become a very common vegetable for human consumption, in Europe and the Americas.  The French in particular were fond of the vegetable, which reached its peak popularity at the turn of the 19th century.

I saw a quote this week from an entry in Gerard's Herbal of 162l, which I thought I would share with you in case you didn't know some of the effects of eating these vegetables:

"Which way soever they be dressed and eaten, they stir and cause a filthy loathsome stinking wind within the body, thereby causing the belly to be pained and tormented, and are a meat more fit for swine than men".

So if you are thinking of eating Jerusalem artichokes, you have been warned.

                                                                        *

Perfect Pace

Orphaned, blind,
this small elephant,
cosy under kilim rug,
slowly follows the man's tapping stick
on their daily walk
through the bush.

They rest for a while.
The man shields
the small elephant
from the heat of the sun
with a big blue umbrella.
Unhurried they walk on.

Oh, what envy for this man,
slowly walking, quietly tapping,
sleeping in a stable with the small
blind elephant.
Each bound to each other,
with love.

                                                                     *

With best wishes, Patricia

Only cotton

Dear Reader,

                                                                               Children Picking Cotton

Hundreds and thousands of children are thought to be involved in picking and processing cotton around the world.  Many are kept out of school, work in dangerous conditions, and some are not even paid and sometimes work ten or twelve hours a day.  Their parents stop them from going to school because they need them in the fields, where farmers like to employ children because they have nimble fingers and are the same height as the plants they are picking.  When it rains they are given plastic sheets, which they put on their heads, and then carry on working.  Apparently the girls work much harder than the boys who run around and, if beaten, they stop work.  Boys' behaviour then seems pretty universal!  While pressure from the West is making a difference to the cotton supply chain in India, there is not the same pressure from within the country.  Rampant poverty, high inflation, unemployment, and a lack of regulation of the industry make it difficult to see how things will change.  I have never felt guilty about wearing cotton clothes, but knowing now what I have just  learnt, perhaps I should.

                                                                             *

Only Cotton

In the Southern Punjab
the sun scorches, the insects hum,
small pieces of cotton dust
fill the air,
whirl, suffocate, poison.
Aruni and Paloma, ten and twelve,
bend and pick, bend and pick,
hour after hour.
Scratches on their arms
scab and bleed,
their heads ache,
their vision blurs,
their drinking water canisters
contaminated with lethal spray.
At dusk they crawl home.
At dawn, they start another day.

Mrs Anne Hudson-Berry
selects a cool cotton dress
adorns herself,
hails a taxi,
has lunch at the Ritz.

                                                                         *

Very best wishes for 2017, Patricia