Katie's Angels

Dear Reader,

                                                                                        Angels

Someone asked me the other day whether I had ever sought the help of my Guardian Angel, and I had to say I had not.  In truth, I know very little about Guardian Angels and what they are supposed to be or do.  As a Christian, I have never felt the need of an angel to intervene on my behalf.  Nevertheless I thought I would like to know a little more about them, and this is what I found.

According to Saint Jerome (347-420 AD) the concept of Guardian Angels is in the "mind of the church".  He said "how great the dignity of the soul, since each one has from his birth, an angel commissioned to guard it".   And he also said that "every soul was assigned a Guardian Angel the moment it was put into a body".  A Guardian Angel would therefore seem to be a created being, non-human, non-corporeal, that has been assigned to guard a particular person, especially to help that person avoid both physical and spiritual dangers, and so achieve salvation.

The Guardian Angel concept is present in the books of the Hebrew Bible and the Old Testament and its development is well documented.  Writing of angels as guardians Thomas Aquinas once said: "On this road man is threatened by many dangers from within and without, and therefore as guardians are appointed for men who have to pass by an unsafe road, so an angel is assigned to each man as long as he is a wayfarer."

Perhaps, in these difficult times, we all need the help of our Guardian Angels more than we know.

                                                                           *

Katie's Angels 

At dawn, driving eastwards,
mist still covering the fields,
trees ribboned in cobwebs
sky blue and white,

she saw a rabbit, a pigeon,
and two hen pheasants,
but no cherubs, no bright light.

Much later, lost, tired,
rounding a corner she saw
gathered in the road
twenty white doves.

They flew up,
a breath of sunshine tipping their wings.
Ecstatic, she recognized the sign;
recognized her angels.

                                                                              *

Very best wishes, Patricia

I wandered Lonely as a Cloud by William Wordsworth

Dear Reader,

                                                                                        Daffodils

I have put lots of daffodils into jugs around my house this week, and how cheerful and pretty they look.  I expect you have too.  Daffodils are certainly telling us that spring is here, and surely that is what we all want to know.  It wasn't William Wordsworth who first saw the daffodils in this famous poem I have printed below, it was his sister Dorothy.  She wrote in her Grasmere journal of seeing "daffodils so beautiful they grew among the mossy stones about and about them, some rested their heads upon these stones as on a pillow for weariness, and they tossed and reeled and danced and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew over the lake, they looked so gay ever glancing ever changing".

The Roman army was responsible for introducing the daffodil to much of the known world.  Native to southern Europe, the daffodil (narcissus) was believed to have medicinal properties, and the Roman apothecaries, and later priests, carried bulbs in their supplies and planted them wherever the army was stationed.  But this in fact was not a good idea, as the plants are highly toxic.  These hardy bulbs naturalized all over northern and western Europe, and we even get the familiar name "daffodil" from the Dutch (affo dyle), which means "that which comes early".   When the plants arrived in England around l629, the population embraced them as it does today. 

                                                                          *

I am not a nature poet, so I have chosen this very famous poem by William Wordsworth (1770-1850) as the best one I know about daffodils, and which I thought you would enjoy.


I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
by William Wordsworth


I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
and then my heart with pleasure fills,
and dances with the daffodils.

                                                                           *

With very best wishes, Patricia

My Husband and Other Men

Dear Reader,

                                                                                           Wigs

In the 1970s I took part in a daily television programme called "House Party" on the Southern Network.  I am not sure why I was chosen to be on it, and can only say my performances were rather poor.  But the point is that today I am writing a few thoughts about wigs, and on the programme, so that my hair would always be neat and look the same, I had to wear a wig, and I did not find this a good thing to do.  My wig had a mind of its own: it frequently scratched me, and often moved its position on my head, making me look ridiculous.  And it was hot under the bright lights where we had to work, so the wig and I were not friends.

The wearing of wigs by men started to be very popular at the end of the 17th century.  However, Samuel Pepys bought a wig in 1663 when wigs were still uncommon.  It was such a novelty that he feared people would laugh at him in church, and was greatly relieved to find they did not.  He also worried that the hair of wigs might have come from plague victims.  In fact, wigs could be made of anything from human hair, cotton threads, goat hair, or silk.  The more substantial the wig, the higher up the social echelon one stood - one literally became a bigwig.  But all wigs tended to be scratchy,
uncomfortable and hot, particularly in summer, and people who couldn't afford them tried to make their hair look like a wig.  From about 1700 it was fashionable to powder the wig and the main powdering agent was flour.  By the late eighteenth century hair powders were commonly coloured, blue and pink being especially popular, and they were also scented.

In Britain today judges' wigs are made of horsehair and cost about £600.  To make them appear old and well-worn, lawyers wishing to look experienced often soak their wigs in tea.

                                                                            *

My Husband and Other Men 

My husband is from heaven,
well, he is close to God;
but goodness me, even so,
I do find men are odd.

                                                                           *

Very best wishes,  Patricia

PS.  I forgot to say that mice often made wigs their home in the 17th century.

The Panelled Room

Dear Reader,

                                                                           17th-Century Bedroom

                                                                         14th-Century Peasants' Bedroom

                                                            Dutch Mattress 18th Century

From time to time I have stayed in hotels and found the bed uncomfortable, and the mattress lumpy and not conducive to a good night's sleep.  And I have done a bit of grumbling about this to my husband in the morning.  But if we had lived in years gone by, we really would have had plenty to grumble about.  Mattresses in the 19th century were havens not only for bedbugs, fleas and moths (which loved old feathers when they could get at them) but for mice and rats as well.  Apparently, the story goes, an American woman reported in 1867 how she and her sister took armloads of shoes to bed each night to throw at the rats that ran across their bedroom floor.  Historically, the most common filling for a mattress was straw, whose pricks through the ticking was a torment, but people used whatever they could find.  I thought it was very interesting to learn that as late as the 19th century people staying in inns were obliged to share their beds with complete strangers.  Can you imagine some of the problems that might create today?  Political Correctness police would, of course,  have lots of warnings and advice on this matter.

                                                                        *

The Panelled Room

He asked me to tea
in his college room.
Two china cups
a small white teapot
and a bowl of sugar
on a Russian tray,
perched on his desk.

Outside the window
small flakes of snow
fell silently
into the dusky twilight.

There was a cupboard
in the study with a wooden door.
"It leads to a panelled room
where a man with a flute
who sings sweetly, lives"
he said.

Holding hands we slipped
through the door.
The room was lit
by a hundred candles, and
while the flautist played softly
we danced under
holly berries and green garlands
threaded with red ribbons,
holding each other tight.

"This room is my secret," he said
"tell no-one you have seen it.
It houses my heart
to be shared one day
with the lady I love."

Later, in the panelled room
I saw from the window
a hundred stars,
and a crescent moon.

While he poured out the tea.

                                                                    *

With best wishes, Patricia

Recipe for Blue

Dear Reader,

                                                                                             Moths

                                                                 

Have you been visited by an army of moths this winter?  I haven't but my daughter has, and they have chomped their way through cashmere jerseys, fine wool suits, bedspreads, and much of the carpet.  She told me that moths don't seem to like cheap materials, and that they much prefer to munch on anything precious and expensive.  She has now fumigated the house, and put the jerseys into the deep freeze, where they have to stay for a week or two, presumably to kill the eggs.  And although we humans find moths infuriating (or at least I do) they are food for a wide variety of wildlife, including other creatures like spiders, frogs, toads, lizards, shrews, hedgehogs, and birds.  In fact, some of Britain's favourite garden birds rely on caterpillers to rear their nestlings, with blue tit chicks alone needing an estimated 35 billion a year!  Moths are a major part of our biodiversity and play vital roles in the ecosystem.  So remember, when you are cursing the moths, that our friends in the garden and undergrowth love and need them, would be hungry and find life difficult without them.

                                                                           *



Recipe for Blue

Take blue from the mountain

and dye my bones,

crush lapis lazuli,

mix it in my hair.

Plunge my heart in forget-me-nots,

soak my maidenhead in blueberry juice,

add a pinch of larkspur.

Wrap me in the Blessed Virgin's Dress,

shake over star sapphires,

fold in the clouds,

and bake slow.
                                                                           *


With best wishes, Patricia                                                                            

Crosby - a poetry prose poem

Dear Reader,

                                                                                   Madeira Cake


I think the world has got into a muddle about what is real and what is not; we don't seem able to differentiate between the two these days (I am not talking about "fake news" which I can't understand at all).  No, this is back to "The Archers", the radio soap I listen to and have listened to for over forty years.  Apparently a number of academics will speak at a two-day conference in Lincoln, wondering why, as I understand it, no-one in "The Archers" gets fat with all the cake, biscuits and tea they seem to eat and drink throughout the day.  And the academics think the listeners should be told about this worry.  But I myself love hearing that Eddy Grundy is settling down to a piece of Madeira cake at someone's kitchen table, enjoying a bit of village gossip.  What these pernickety academics don't seem to understand is that this is a drama, an entertainment, thought of and imagined by its author, and not reality.  We, the listeners, don't want to think about the characters getting fat because they have eaten a biscuit or a piece of cake.  We want to lose ourselves in the fantasy of the story, uplifted sometimes and sometimes sad, but not wanting a lecture on how much we eat and whether or not it makes us fat.  These academics should have a two-day conference working out what is real and what is not.

                                                                           *
                                                                            
Crosby      (Sculptures by Antony Gormley on Crosby beach)

I pick up white shells from the beach and put them into the pocket
of my dress.

They stare out to sea.  Tall and dignified they stand, all weathers,
undisturbed.  Gulls perch on them, sea salt encrusts their faces, the
tide laps at their ankles, and in the winter fog obliterates their forms.
I wonder, do these statues whisper in the wind to each other?
Talk of important things?  Do they run along the beach when the
crowds have gone or have a swim at midnight?   Perhaps, after dark,
they stare out to the horizon, star-directed, seeking eternity?
And, are they ever lonely?

I walk back to the car park wondering again about what is real
and what is not.

                                                                             *

With best wishes, Patricia

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