The Egg and I and Me

 

This charming photo of a Pheasant's egg (from the Captain's Gallery) is because I was re-reading the biography of Betty McDonald, the author of The Egg and I.  We (my family) loved The Egg, as did millions of people worldwide.  We went on to read all her books.  So I was fascinated to learn more about her from the Wellman book.   

Her first husband, the husband of The Egg had a sad end.  But it was a very unhappy marriage. And the brutality of most animal husbandry is very evident.

Betty comes to hate hens "with a vengeance, especially the chicks".  She writes that the dear fluffy little babies are stupid, smell and peck each other's eyes out, require constant feeding and watering and are hell-bent on killing themselves by drowning  in the water fountains, or coming down with diseases.

I am no way getting at Betty in what I say next - the attitude was everywhere - still is - we are no better now - and I am sure she was basically a kind person.   But what a harsh and selfish attitude we have had, and still have, alas, towards the animal creation.

If you have seen a mother hen with her chickens you will know how carefully she looks after them, and teaches them.  To hatch hundreds of tiny chicks without mothers and to jam them into a sort of battery farm and expect them to thrive, to look after each other, and to hate them for not being able to do so is rather like taking hundreds of toddlers away from their mothers, jamming them in a vast nursery, throwing some food in twice a day, and expecting them to cope. And hating them when they do not.

The animal creation has suffered so much because of our selfishness.  And also the callous attitude promoted by "the world" .  One of the many many wonderful things I look forward to in the restored earthly paradise is that we will be able to care tenderly and unselfishly for the animal creation - and will find much joy in doing so.

Christmas cards and letters have started to arrive, and while I no longer send Christmas cards and birthday cards, I do like to respond to each one. It is a good way to keep in touch.  That is one of my projects for the weekend - to make a start on that - and also to do my studying and attend the meeting.

Captain Butterfly rang from The Field on Saturday to tell me he had found a Marcus Aurelius silver denarius, in good condition!  And this is a find he can bring home so I look forward to seeing it.  Assuming he makes it back from the Outer Planets (judging by the time his alarm went off) safely.  The older I get, the more fragile life seems, the more precious it seems, and the more I worry about him.

He and Marcus A made it back, thank God. And maybe I can get a pic of the coin itself for one of my blogs.

Storm Bram

 

In honour of Storm Bram, I have found a stormy shot from Col's photo gallery. I searched for a storm poem, and was reminded of this, the beginning of the poem Porphyria's Lover by Robert Browning:

The rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:

https://poemanalysis.com/poems-about/storm/

The storm is a metaphor for the turmoil going on in the speaker's mind, and its lethal consequences, as yet another woman is killed by her partner.

If I could write a storm poem, what would it be?  Something that conveyed the wonderful energy of the wind and the waves - and one with no ladies being murdered in it.

Storm Bram was busy vexing The English Channel Tuesday afternoon and evening, but all seemed calm on Wednesday morning, as I started this blog. The sea was just mildly irritated, rippling a bit.  It is a privilege to be able to look out over the sea every day - and I must remind myself of that when I find myself getting a bit down.  Old age is both wonderful - and tough, because of the deterioration.

And now my ears, or my hearing aids, or both, are playing up, along with this extra medical complication for which I am awaiting a scan...  what next?  Best not to think about it I guess.

Thursday morning Captain B left very early - as usual - to join the Lads in the Distant Field.  And I tried to at least get something done.  Did the washing, made a - wait for it - another apple crumble (still the Captain's favourite dessert).  And I made a tray of marmalade muffins to top up the freezer, and celebrate my new hand mixer.  

I did make it to the Kingdom Hall, but because of this problem with my original ears or my hearing aid ears, I couldn't really hear much.  I have an appointment with the Audiologist next week and will just have to hope that she can help.  It's all very worrying. Is it my ears? Is it my hearing aids? And if it's them and they have to be sent back to the factory, when will I get them back, given the dreaded Xmas/New Year holidays are coming up?

It is not nearly as cold as it should be for December.

Jersey Tiger

Nobody did Buy My Books at the York Book Fair.  So I am reduced to hoping that somewhere, someone is reading (and enjoying) a shoplifted copy.  Apparently a German lady did stop and look at The Umbrellas of Hamelin, attracted by the title no doubt, which I do think is a good one.  But, as she may have found out from a quick read, the title story is not set in Hamelin  - the reference is to the Pied Piper, who lured children away.  In my story, it is not children the Piper is luring, it is middle-aged ladies. I was middle-aged when I wrote it.  

They are being lured by a very dangerous art installation. Or is it dangerous?  You will have to read it to find out.

Some of my fellow Fantastic authors did sell though, so that is the good news.  And those who bought their books will be in for a treat. And the Fantastic Board Game, Gorgon's Loch, did well too.

We chose a Jersey Tiger moth to end our 2025 Calendar in a blaze of colour.  Lovely moth, lovely name.  What thought and care and love Jehovah put into the earthly creation - as did Jesus, who worked alongside his Father as a master worker.

We have had some real stormy weather - wonderful waves on The Channel - and its raining Sunday morning as I start this blog.  I had to Zoom to the Kingdom Hall, and what a lovely meeting it was.  The public talk is one that I wish every single person in the world could have listened to.  At least I know that millions of us, the children of Adam, did hear it. 

I had thought, after my medical epic last week, that I could hope for a medical-issue free week... ha... once one is past one's sell by date, it seems there is no such thing.  I had to ask for a GP appointment, was seen on the same day, which I am grateful for (very) but also alarmed by, and I am now set for another scan.  Plus my powerful med arrives this week, the one that has to be signed for and refrigerated.

What a drain I feel I am on the NHS. And for sure if we lived in the world that the Theory of Evolution tells us we do, why?  Of what evolutionary use am I now?  

But, if what Genesis tells us about our origins is true, as I believe,  then I can still have an important work to do  - and hope to be getting on with it today.  And I certainly do not think "Well, I have had a good innings, my threescore years and ten then some, and I am ready to go", because I am not ready.  Not only do I not want to leave Captain Butterfly, but the older I get, the more fascinating and interesting the gift of life seems.  I want us to be together in the earthly paradise, to meet all those who are woken from the dreamless sleep of death - and to be there beyond the Thousand Years to see what wonderful things Jehovah has in store for us then.

Please Buy our Books

 

 

I had hoped to make two trays of marmalade muffins for the brothers and sisters working on the Kingdom Hall this week, but somehow it did not happen.  Not only am I failing - having just had an intensive medical week involving a new med - but my hand mixer broke down as well, and I ran out of muffin cases. 

It was not old age in the mixer's case. We only bought it two years ago!

I did manage to make one batch, hopefully OK, and was able to send some store-bought biscuits to go along with it.  Biscuits in the English, not the American, sense.

On a more cheerful note, when the Captain rang from one of his outings he said how lovely the cake in his lunch box was.  "It seems to get better and better".  And, yes, it was the carrot cake, and it does get more tasty for keeping, and I made it weeks ago. It was then portioned and frozen for use as needed.

Got a card from Lilian and her sister Elaine this week. And also one from Peter - the husband of my friend Anne Marie.  I still miss her. I would have loved to share my books with her. She found the only short story she read - The Ecclesall Witch Project - very funny.  Its not in Umbrellas though, as it wouldn't make sense unless you know Ecclesall woods in Sheffield and the impossibility of getting lost in their dark fastness. Even I couldn't get myself lost in there.

Which does give me a chance to put my PleaseBuyMyBooks hat on and mention that my books, along with those of the other Fantastic Book authors will be on sale at the York Book Fair today, should any of you, my dear blogreaders, happen to find yourself in the vicinity.

Mr and Mrs Captain Butterfly on their Balcony

 

We made this little selfie video a couple of weeks ago at the request of the Canada Branch of the Butterfly diaspora. Greetings for Malcolm came in from as far as NZ.  You can hear the Channel softly roaring in the background.  Now if we had done it this week you would not have been able to hear anything but the Channel. There is a storm on - wonderful waves outside our window.

All that power, all that energy.  And how I could do with some of it.  I failed yet again to get myself to the meeting on Sunday morning in person.  I need to re-think and re-strategise.

In the meantime, I am so grateful for the Zoom provision.

It means I can not only attend the meetings, but take part in them too.  As can all of us who are housebound, or intermittently housebound.

It is comforting that we are so carefully provided for  - a reminder that Jehovah cares for all his people.

Tuesday was the first of my three medical things this week. We drove to a local hospital through sun and rain alternating - no rainbow seen though - and saw young Dr.Ali. She is very sweet and is trying her best to help. She has suggested an intensification of one of my meds and will see me again in 6 months. She will also speak to Rheumatology, who I see on Friday. I have another local doctor's visit to accomplish tomorrow, as does Captain B.

Dr. Ali was wearing lovely shoes, both smart and comfortable, as befits a very pretty and hardworking lady.  My shoes can only be sensible these days, alas, but I can still admire a stylish shoe.

Barton in the Beans

 

Barton in the Beans

by Joanne Limburg

For comfort on bad nights

open out a map of Middle England

and sing yourself to sleep

with a lullaby of English names:

Shouldham Thorpe, in gentle sunshine,

Swadlincote, in a Laura Ashley frock,

Little Cubley, veins running with weak tea'

Kibworth Beauchamp, praying on protestant knees,

Ashby-de-la-Zouch, saying 'Morning',

Wigston Parva, smiling - but not too widely,

Ramsey Mereside, raising an eyebrow,

Eye Kettleby, where they'd rather not talk about it,

Market Overton, echoing with the slamming doors

of Cold Overton, where teenagers flee every night to their rooms,

screaming that from Appleby Magna to Stubbers Green

they never met a soul who understood.

They never met a soul.

At Barton in the Beans, the rain says Ssssshhhhh...

I was reminded of this poem, which I have loved for many years, because of the names of the two roads I have been given to work. I have to do my preaching work by letter these days, as I can no longer walk well enough to go door to door. They are new roads, on a new estate, and one is a "Chase", the other is a "Grove".

Was there ever a hunting party that regularly hunted on that "Chase"? Was there ever a grove of trees where this "Grove" now stands?

Didn't those terms mean something once, as the name Barton in the Beans did?

I was thinking for instance of Ramsbottom - a numinous name from my childhood as it was close to my Granny's - and a name that has nothing to do with sheep and their rear ends, but means a valley of wild garlic. See Col's photo of Ramsons Wild Garlic above.

It is not a name that is likely to be poached for some new road on some new estate though - not upmarket enough.

Words, which should be full of import, are being drained of their meaning it seems. And is that all helping to cut us off from our past, leaving us adrift in a meaningless present?

In contrast, Jehovah uses words with great care - and we need to pay attention to everything he has told us in the Inspired Scriptures. Every word is important - vitally important. We are so close to the moment described at Daniel 2:44. Please look it up, and think about it. And if and when you do, bear in mind that the Seventy Weeks prophecy in Daniel not only told the Jews the exact year the Messiah would appear as he did - but warned them what would happen afterwards - as it did.

We can be sure of the rescue Jehovah has promised. But we do need to take hold of it.

We had a visitor on Saturday afternoon. One of the old boys from Col's recent School reunion. "Old" being the operative word these days. When we had all caught up on each other's health issues over tea and biscuits, we plan to meet up in a year or so when he and his wife have sold up in the Philippines and moved back to the South of England.

Catching Moments in Time

MOTHER OF WATER
by me


A blue spotted fish, swimming on the step,
Seeing me, nervously backs off
A turtle, rising out of the green deep,
Stares at me, and swiftly sinks away.
He’s worried that I might attempt to hold him
And all the thoughts that come up in my head
Melt just as quickly into heat
Before I can stir myself to know them.


FRANGIPANI BLOSSOM
by me

Frangipani blossom in a plastic cup
And the sprinklers singing
In the cool morning air

As the sun revs up.


I have blogged these poems before, but not for some years. They are moments in time from one of our early trips to Thailand that would have long vanished from my mind had I not written these little poems.

Will they inspire me to catch a few more moments in time in verse, which I still try to do occasionally.  But now that I hope to "inherit the earth"and live forever upon it, catching the moments as they fly past does not seem so important as it did in the days when I felt there were so few of them and my life was flying by so quickly.

I couldn't find a blue spotted fish in Col's photo gallery - and I can't even remember what the fish looked like - just that it was small, with blue spots, and it swam briefly onto the water covered step just below the step my feet were resting on.  But I did find a photo of a turtle. I don't know if its the same kind of turtle I saw in the Chao Phraya river. I just remember it was small, and I only really saw its head as it popped out of the muddy water, the same colour as the water, in my brief glimpse.

It gave me the metaphor for the poem, as it made me think of how the thoughts that came up just melted away in the steamy heat.

Tuesday I did manage to get some things done - made a rather uninspiring veggie and bean stew out of all the remaining veggies before our next order of fruit and veg arrived.  Did some witnessing, Zoomed to the field service group, washed the bathroom floor and cleaned the fridge. Wednesday I made the now routine apple crumble - along with a sugar-free jelly for me.

Do I see any moments there that inspired me to catch them in a poem?  Not really, but who knows?