Sometimes

 

 

Dear Reader, 

Last week I was talking about beautiful Worcester Pearmain apples and I thought this week I would remind you of quinces. Their short season is now. The quince tree is deciduous and bears a pome fruit, similar in appearance to a pear and is bright golden-yellow when mature.  The quince is a hardy drought-tolerant shrub which adapts to many soils and tolerates both shade and sun, but sunlight is required in order to produce larger flowers and ensure fruit ripening.  It was favoured by landscape architects such as Fredrick Law Olmsted in the early 20th century for its attractive blossom.  

Most varieties of quince are too hard to eat raw but are used to make jam, jelly and quince pudding, or they maybe peeled, roasted, baked or stewed.  Adding a diced quince to apple sauce will enhance the taste of the apple sauce with the chunks of relatively firm, tart quince.

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The following quote is probably one you all know from Edward Lear's (1812-88), The Owl and the Pussy-Cat:



"They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
  which they ate with a runcible spoon..... "

                                                                                 *

From Francis Kilvert's diary, 1878, The Gower Peninsula, Glamorgan

"We had a merry windy luncheon on the bank near the churchyard gate, and great fun and famous laughing. An east wind was blowing fresh and strong, the sea was rolling in grey and yeasty, and in a splendid sunburst the white seagulls were running and feeding on the yellow sands.  A wild merry happy day."

                                                                                 *

Sometimes
 

I feel overwhelmed by
a spirit of joyfulness,
a desire to jump, to dance,
to laugh, to see the world
in a bright light,

sometimes I am optimistic,
enjoy the warmth of the sun,
soft patter of rain on my face,
the wonders of this world.

Sometimes I believe
people are kind and good,
are innocent of evil,
deserve praise and
I honour them,

and sometimes I don't.

                                                                                  *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Truth Modern

                               

                                                                        Worcester Pearmain apples and blossom

Dear Reader,

The Worcester Pearmain is an early season English cultivar apple tree which was developed in Worcester by a Mr. Hale of Swanpool in 1874. It was once the most popular cultivar in England for early autumn harvest and is still popular to keep in the garden.  Apparently in order to grow it successfully a Worcester Pearmain needs nearby bees to pollinate it. The Pearmain apple has a strawberry-like flavour and its early season property is passed on in breeding programmes to other cultivars. Its taste is smooth and sweet and it is recommended for stewed apples.

                                                                           *

October 13th, 1787, from Gilbert White's diary

'We saw several redwings among the bushes on the north side of the common.  There were swallows about the village at the same time: so that summer and winter birds of passage were seen on the same day.'

 

October 16th, 1851, John Everett Millais in Surrey

'Worked on my picture; painted nasturtiums; saw a stoat run into a hole in the garden wall; went up to it and endeavoured to lure the little beast out by mimicking a rat's or mouse's squeak.....Succeeded, to my astonishment.  He came half out of the hole and looked in my face, within easy reach.'

                                                                          *

 

Truth Modern

Through a kaleidoscope's
shifting, bright colours,
set close to the eye,
the viewer's truth is 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.
Illusion of truth
sandwiched between lies
is the authentic truth
of our times. 

                                                                       *

Very best wishes, Patricia

Waterhole

Dear Reader,

 

I wrote today's poem after I saw a documentary about Indian women in villages having to walk miles in the sun, to get a pitcher full of water from a well, and then walk home again.  I suppose I had never thought about water as something we, in the west, take for granted.  I realize now how very precious water is and try to be careful when using it, washing my teeth, for instance, without leaving the tap on. Well I am trying to do my bit...

 

When we were in Lyme Regis Francis bought a Book of Thankfulness.  The idea is that every week you write in it saying what you had been thankful for in the last few days. We have enjoyed writing in it and 

thinking about what we are grateful for, and we have found there are so many things.  What a life of luxury we lead compared to our fellow human beings in other parts of the world.....

 

                                                                               *

From Dorothy Wordsworth's journal, October 1st, 1800, in Grasmere, Westmorland

   

'A very rainy morning.  We walked after dinner to observe the torrents....the lichens are now coming out afresh, I carried home a collection in the afternoon.  We had a pleasant conversation about the manners of the rich - avarice, inordinate desires, and the effeminacy, unnaturalness, and the unworthy objects of education......a showery evening.  The moonlight lay upon the hills like snow'.

                                                                                *

 Waterhole

As dawn breaks Afia and Tamika
place their pitcher pots
on their heads,
start walking to Potra
many desert miles from home.
The sun scorches, the heat intense,
the girls silent.
Many hours later
at the waterhole
they carefully fill their pots
each drop of water precious.
Wearily they walk home
under a sky full of stars.

I brush my teeth
watch the clear water
stream into the basin
turn on the dishwasher,
the washing machine,
see rain pouring down the drains.

                                                                              *

Very best wishes, Patricia

Blue Gingham Dress

 Dear Reader,

Do you know the poem 'Warning' by Jenny Joseph which said something on the lines of: when she was an old woman she was going to wear purple and a red hat which wouldn't suit her.  I had been looking in my wardrobe lately and found most of my clothes were either beige or navy blue or something dull. But in these dreary times I have been wanting to wear colourful clothes, like Jenny,  to cheer myself and everyone else up. Since I don't go shopping and had found nothing on line that I liked until I went to Lyme Regis and found lovely Soraya, on the beach. She was selling bright coloured jackets which I fell in love with immediately and bought five different colours.  They will go with my pinafore dresses and act as a cardigan.  Two of them were for my children who were very pleased with them.

In the photograph is Horatio the Lyme Regis mouse Francis bought for me.  Francis made him some trousers to go with his nautical jersey.  Horatio was very excited to read this week of the rat, Magawa, who was awarded a gold medal for 'life saving bravery' for his work detecting dangerous land mines. If possible Horatio would would like to do something similar, but I am not sure there is anything like that available here where we live.

                                                                                   *

From Gilbert White, 1771 in Hampshire

'Hedge-sparrow begins its winter note'.

From John Clare, 1824 in Northampton

'Took a walk in the fields, heard the harvest cricket and shrew-mouse uttering their little chickering songs among the crackling stubble'.

                                                                               *

Blue Gingham Dress

She was wearing
a blue gingham dress
long-sleeved, with lace collar,
one summer evening in July.

A sweet smell from lilies
lavender bushes
roses and orange blossom
drifted on the air,

the sea sapphire
played its own repetitive tune
soft and enticing
and a southerly wind blew.

Suddenly he took her hand
drew her near
kissed her urgently
then came a call,

they separated
ran back to the house
her heart racing
knees weak, on fire.

The gingham dress
worn and faded now
hangs at the back of the cupboard,
but the kiss is till as fresh
as it was on that one
summer evening in July.

                                                                             *

With best wishes, Patricia

Spirit Suitcase

                                                                                        Spirit dancing

 

Dear Reader,

Oscar Wilde said "hearing about other people's happiness was a trifle dull"so keeping that in mind I won't bore you too much about my holiday in Lyme Regis last week. Sufficient to say we had marvelous sunny weather, a beautiful room over looking the sea, and good things to eat in small restaurants on the promenade.  I bought two beautiful Indian jackets from an Iranian girl called Soraya and made friends with her and her mother.  

I have never been that keen on holidays as I don't like crowds and feel happy and safe in my own house, but this holiday was different and marvelous.  We met an old friend who had lived in India for most of his life,  but now lives in Lyme and was a practising hypnotist. I asked him to hypnotise me to help with my anxiety and it was very successful. I hope this is not too much for you to take in but after months of shielding and staying in the house it was wonderful to get away for five days in the sun.

                                                                                   *

From Francis Kilvert's diary, 1870, in Radnorshire

'Another dense white fog which cleared off to cloudless blue and brilliant sunshine at 11.....Went to Bronith.   People at work in the orchard gathering up the windfall apples for early cider.   The smell of the apples very strong. Beyond the orchards the lone aspen was rustling loud and mournfully a lament for the departure of summer.  Called on the old soldier. He was with his wife in the garden digging and gathering red potatoes which turned up very large and sound.....The great round red potatoes lay thick, fresh and clean on the dark newly turned mould.....the sun grew low ......we heard distant shots at partridges'.

                                                                                  *

Spirit Suitcase

A sturdy key
locks the spirit
in its suitcase

It floats and dances,
dives low, climbs high,
is forever candle-lit. 

The suitcase, new, shines,
leather polished,
locks and fittings brass-bright,
unbruised.
But through use, it gets kicks,
scuffs, scratches, and slowly fades.
Its original shape
is just recognisable,
only just there



While the spirit dances on...... 

                                                                                       *

 

With best wishes, Patricia

Was it chance

 Dear Reader,

There hasn't been too much to laugh at these last few weeks but in Friday's newspaper I read the following article and laughed and laughed at is total absurdity.  I am sorry if you saw yourself but it is for those didn't.

A Unisex hairdressing salon in Stroud, Glocestershire put an advertisement in the local paper stating that they were looking for a "happy" stylist to join the business. 'This is a busy, friendly small salon, so only happy, friendly stylist need apply.' it said. The owner, Mrs. Birch, said an official from the Department for Work and Pensions contacted her within an hour of the advertisement going into the paper to say she "couldn't use the word 'happy' as it discriminated against people who weren't happy.  Can you believe it? What will we hear next?  If you didn't laugh you would cry I suppose.

                                                                            *

From Francis Kilvert, 1875,  in Wiltshire.

'The morning suddenly became glorious and we saw what had happened in the night.All night long millions of gossamer spiders had been spinning and the whole country was covered.....The gossamer webs gleamed and twinkled into crimson and gold and green, like the most exquisite shot-silk dress in the finest texture of gauzy silver wire.  I never saw anything like it or anything so exquisite as 'the Virgin's web' glowed with changing opal lights and glanced with all the colours of the rainbows.  At 4 o'clock Miss Meridith Brown and her beautiful sister Etty came over to afternoon tea wit us and a game of croqquet. 

 

*

Was it chance                        

that the girl
in the yellow jersey
bought herself a chocolate bar
at the station buffet
and then dropped it?

A man in blue jean jacket
picked it up.
They smiled, talked
missed their trains
and walked away into
a different life.

Was it chance
they saw in an old
newspaper an advertisement
for a cottage by the sea -
their dream home?

Chance can change our lives
does change our lives

we are what we are
where we have been
what we have done
when chance comes knocking.

 

*

With very best wishes, Patricia.

Photograph by Nikki Moran.