An Anniversary in the Irish Fashion

The events of Monday 24th April 1916 and the days following are commemorated in Ireland not by date but by occasion.  For this was Easter Monday and, whenever that may fall - any date from 23rd March to 26th April - it is on Easter Monday that the Easter Rising is remembered.

Having justified my title, I'll turn to the start of my story.  For many years, I had lived a contented life as a same-day courier.  I was a self-employed, owner-driver, and was provided with work by a local company.  I worked long hours, often starting in the early morning or returning late at night, sometimes both.  There was insecurity, in that if I didn't work I didn't get paid.  But there was happiness too, to be found in a variety of friendships at work, at church and with the local bell-ringers.  I had no need, no desire and no intention of moving from this pleasant life in England's First Garden City.

One day my van stopped working ... at least, it became suddenly and significantly unreliable and, according to a plan I had outlined well in advance, I declared my innings at an end, and retired both the vehicle and the way of life it had sustained for the last 300,000 miles.  Over the next few years, a new, retired life-pattern emerged.  I helped at a weekly drop-in run by the Salvation Army, and later took up voluntary work for the local hospice and, in between, spent many hours researching my family history, adding about 2,000 names to my database in that time.

Then Covid-19 arrived.  The drop-in ceased to function, church life ground to a halt and, initially, I had to rely on friends to do my shopping.  As things began to open up again during the latter part of 2020, work at the hospice warehouse started once more, but was intermittent, churches opened again, but with very inhibiting restrictions, and there were strict limitations on the ringing of bells.  After a health emergency that November, it was detected that I had an irregular heartbeat and, although I suffer no obvious ill effects from this, I decided that, whenever ringing should eventually return to normal, I would not continue that activity.

And so we come to Easter Monday.  My Bible reading that morning was the story of Mary Magdalen at the tomb (John 20:11-18).  The commentary that I follow regularly was written by John Grayston, a teacher whom I greatly admire.  He explored the idea of a changing world order, in particular observing that Mary's life would be different from that point on.  "Mary wants things to stay as they are." he wrote, "She must learn to relate to Jesus in a different way."  He concluded that "holding on to yesterday's understanding and experience may hold us back." 

As I reflected on these words, I saw how they could apply to me at that particular time.  So many aspects of the life that I had enjoyed up to that point had either stopped, or were sufficiently different as to be unsatisfying compared to previously.  In complete contrast to my previous attitude to staying in the Garden City, I realised that there was now nothing holding me there any more.  The key thought that I took from that morning was, 'There's no reason not to move away.'

I concluded that God was telling me that He wanted me to move.  Without knowing where, I began immediately to fillet some of my shelves.  I filled bags with waste, and collected other items to take to the warehouse for fund-raising in one way or another.  It wasn't until the next week that, as my packing continued, I began to plan where I might move to, confident that, if I pushed some doors, God would close wrong ones and allow the right one to open for me.  My general aim was to move north, where I might find greater space for a lower financial outlay, and I searched for a house with the desired accommodation in a broad arc from Wrexham to Hull.

Little by little over the next few weeks, I was guided to the south Yorkshire area, and eventually went to view a terraced house in the small, former mining town of Goldthorpe.  Strangely, the young lady showing me around was persuading me that this place wasn't for me, but at the end of the visit she directed me to another one just a short distance away that would be much better, although it was not yet on the market.  I walked round and looked at it. It was being refurbished, but I could see straight away that it would be much better than the one I'd just viewed, and just what I was looking for.

From that point on, the process seemed fraught with delay but, as I look back, I realise that from inspiration to moving in, it was just on three months.  I later learned that, two days after I had signed the lease, the lady who had directed me here had - quite suddenly - left the estate agent's employment.  Was she an angel?  I leave you, dear reader, to speculate.

At the outset, I felt that God was leading me here because He had work for me to do here.  I now realise that it wasn't to use me, but to teach me.  I feel that I've learned much in the last nine months, and am certainly closer to Him than I had been before.  As this first anniversary approaches, I find that I'm quite content to let the future take its course.

Do you - Indeed, Can you - Open your Windows?

I've been thinking a lot about footnotes lately.   Both my present assignment from WEBBS, and the last one I worked on, involved them.  Indeed, the earlier one was exclusively devoted to them.  It was a project that had been completed some years ago, but now a different book had been found that included footnotes, and it was decided that these could prove very useful.  So a new project was commissioned to add these to the original output, which proved very fiddley.

The present work is based on a summary, rather than a standard scripture and doesn't easily fit into the software that we use.  As a workaround, the references are required to be added to every single footnote: a task that falls to me, along with the rest of my editing work.

So, what are these little 'ornamentations' that are so critical?  I like to think of them rather as windows.  You can ignore them, draw the curtains and live quite contentedly in a darkened room without them.  Or you can look through them to enjoy the scenery outside, or even throw them wide open and let in the fresh air to enrich your enjoyment of life.  Sometimes windows are of limited use, as if opening onto an alleyway so all you can see is the brick-wall on the other side or, worse, they might be darkened by a layer of grime that requires the attention of a window-cleaner, be this human or chemical.

Footnotes can be frustrating.  Like the windows that need cleaning, I've found some old books most annoying when the footnotes are written in the original language, with which I'm not familiar, or even in a different alphabet (e.g. Greek).  It suggests that the book wasn't written to be read by 'ordinary' people, but was published merely as a 'scholarly work'.

Footnotes can wander and be renamed as 'end-notes'.  Occasionally, there might be a whole chapter of these at the end of the book and you need to keep a bookmark there to read the interesting anecdotes referred to in the main text.  More often these simply provide a bibliography, or list of sources that the author has drawn upon in compiling his work.  In this case, at least you know that they can be ignored so far as adding to the plot is concerned.

You can tell that I like historical books, and the sort of footnotes I really appreciate are the ones that overflow onto the next page, and relate something more about a character in the book's subject matter ... something that is, probably, quite irrelevant to the theme but is, of itself, an interesting anecdote, a juicy tale, or maybe identifies someone relatively obscure in the present consideration as a key player in later life.

I'm very pleased that my new home is double-glazed.  However, most of the windows have only small openable panes at the top, and there are times when it would be nice to have a big casement window that could be - as I put it above - thrown wide-open so as to enjoy the clean fresh air to the full.  The same could be said of footnotes, they can add so much to the enjoyment of a book, but this potential is often curtailed by obscurity, inaccessibility, or just plain irrelevance.

What do You Call a Thingumajig?

Some call it a snake, others say it's a sausage: opinions differ.  But let me begin at the beginning ... or at least at the start of the latest chapter.

A few years ago, I decided I would make a cover for the armchair that has graced my home for the last twenty years.  I measured, schemed and drew up a detailed plan for its construction.  Then, having procured the materials and implements, I began, slowly at first, to regain my long dormant crochet skills.

The technique was there in the far reaches of my memory.  But one of the great mysteries of my life is ... when did it start?  Where and when did I first learn to crochet?  I know I could do it when I was living on my own in Diss, for I have memories of making some big squares ... although I have no idea what happened to them.  One day I asked my daughter if she had passed it on to me but, amazingly, she said that it was I who had taught her!

Elizabeth Thrower, née
Churchyard, c.1839-1934,
known to my father as 'Granny Thrower'

The obvious source would be my mother: she was always knitting: my hand-knitted sweaters of various colours (but always to the same pattern) are something of an embarrassing memory.  But I don't recall that she ever crocheted.  Incidentally her name for the snake or sausage was roly-poly (and it wasn't a steamed pudding!).

One of the very few pictures I have of my great-grandmother, shows her seated on a couch as if interrupted from crocheting a lace table mat.  Could it be her, I hear you ask?  Most unlikely, I have to say, since she died almost sixteen years before I was born ... unless I have inherited some peculiar 'crochet-gene'.

After the attempt at making the chair cover had lain unfinished for some while, I picked it up during last autumn, and converted its strange form into a conventional blanket or throw, about the size of a double bed.  It's now parked once more to await a useful future home.  In so doing, I found that there were almost enough of the small squares that made it up, and I had only to add about half a dozen more.

That's enough waffle.  What is this un-named object?  Before I identify it, let me just say that that word 'enough' is woven through this story.  I decided that, with the upcoming dramatic increase in energy prices, and since there was a detectable draught coming under the outside door of my lounge, it would be a good idea to make something to lay at the foot of the door to stop the draught.  

At the end of the chair cover-cum-blanket project, lots of wool was left over.  (So much for the detailed planning!)  I had used three  colours, and at the end there were two almost new balls and one that was almost exhausted.  When I came to the end of making the snake/sausage/roly-poly, that almost exhausted ball had managed to survive until only a few inches remained. 

And then there was the question of stuffing it.  A couple of weeks ago, when I visited on the occasion of her Emerald Wedding Anniversary, I mentioned this to my cousin who produced a boxful of rags and said, "Here's a bag, help yourself"  I quickly half-filled the bag and decided that that ought to fill the as yet unfinished article.  When it came to stuffing it earlier this week there was - you've guessed it - just enough, and none left over!

You could also say that, with the change to colder weather this week, and the energy price increase taking effect this weekend, there was 'just enough time' to get it finished.

Move Down the Galley!

A few years ago, when I had a motorhome, I acquired four pieces of carpet on Freecycle and, making good use of a sunny afternoon and an empty car park, cut them to fit into the awning.  They worked well until the day when I made an overnight stop on my way to somewhere else.  There was no need to erect the awning, but the only place to store the carpets - at least the two biggest pieces - was down the middle of the vehicle ... where they were in the way.

The solution was to place them about three feet below that, in other words, beneath the motorhome where, on the hard standing they would be perfectly safe and dry.  All was fine for the night and once breakfast had been concluded, I fastened everything in 'on the road' mode, and set off for my final destination.  It wasn't until I was some thirty miles down the road that I suddenly remembered the two rolls of carpet.  They were still marking the spot that I'd left an hour or so before ... unless someone else had arrived and claimed them, or the management of the site had disposed of them.

The kitchen in the flat

I decided that it wasn't worth the uncertainty and hassle of returning for something that I'd not paid for in the first place.  But there was the question of what to do with the remaining, smaller pieces of carpet.  I decided that there would be enough between them, once cut to shape, to cover the tiled floor of the tiny kitchen of my flat.  The space between the units, fridge and washing machine was neatly filled and remained a cosy enhancement to the flat until the day I left.

History has a habit of repeating itself.  I remembered this occasion when I stood in the kitchen of my new home, making my breakfast on a chilly February morning.  This kitchen is tiled with big stone squares; they look quite smart and are easy to keep clean but, in a room where the only heat is from the cooker, their attraction is, to say the least, dimmed on a cold day.  'Why don't I fit some carpet?' I thought.  I'd done it before, I could do it again.  While scanning the modern equivalent of Freecycle, Trash Nothing, without success, I attempted to scrounge an 'end-of-roll' piece from the local carpet shop ... but they were closed when I walked down to see them.

My present kitchen

Then the other Saturday, I spotted some pieces on offer from an address in Sheffield.  'I could collect later today', I eagerly replied, and by 4.0pm they were laying in the lounge.  Of course, I couldn't leave them there - in the way, and with no under-floor storage this time! - so, whether convenient or not, the only thing to do was to get on with fitting them.  One piece was almost big enough to do the job on its own, but needed cutting down to fit between the fixed furniture.  Fighting with a piece of carpet in excess of two metres square in a confined space is no joke!  The task also involved fitting it around the feet of cupboard units that are off the ground.  It was, however, a 'Mastermind' problem:  I'd started so I had to go on to the finish.

By 8.0, after a swift and delayed tea, it was 'all done bar the shouting'.  The final piece wasn't finished until earlier this week, but I'm pleased to report that, although it bears visible signs of not being a professional job, my mornings are much warmer now ... and it's not just due to the high pressure drawing warm winds across the Atlantic!

Mono-focused

We can read in the Bible about a man who had just bought five yoke of oxen and wanted to go and try them out.  He pleaded this as the reason for turning down the invitation to a meal.  It's no surprise that his would-be host was - to say the least - somewhat put out.

Five years ago, I found myself in rather a similar position as that man.  I had not only planned to go on a bell-ringing outing, but had undertaken to provide transport for my friend, who was anxious to travel 'top-down' in my sporty little car.  What I hadn't realised until it was too late, was that that very weekend coincided with my cousin's Golden Wedding Anniversary.

Fortunately, although bitterly disappointed, she did forgive me, but during the last year she's made one or two pointed reminders about the Emerald Event this weekend.  Needless to say, the date has long been engraved not only in my diary but in my memory, too.

But that's far from my only experience that matches that of the man in the Bible story.  The excitement of, and attraction to, something new is a common emotion in the human psyche.  I remember it especially from last summer, when one thing after another seemed to get in the way of my moving into my new home, not least in the early days when the anxiety was whether or not I would be accepted as a potential tenant.  Now I'm in, and getting established - slowly, and as yet to a very limited extent - in the community.  

During the autumn I responded to a plea for a new church treasurer and, after a prolonged period of suspense, it was only this week that, as a consequence, I took charge of a whole bag of files and paperwork stretching back over quite a number of years.  And that same 'must try them out' feeling was here again.

I couldn't wait to get to the end of my current WEBBS assignment so I could spread those files all over the desk and distinguish the real antiquities from what will be useful and essential for the preparation of last year's accounts.  Now that examination has been made, calm is restored, although the many unknown challenges of a newcomer taking on such a responsibility sometimes take over my dreams.  I sometimes wake up in what my mother used to describe as 'the biggest of muddle' and then don't properly sleep again until getting-up time.

By the time you read this, I shall be on my way, shall have just arrived, or shall be celebrating with the rest of the family, and for the weekend all thoughts of bank statements and spreadsheets will have been put to flight ... even if, like this blog, they will be 'back next week as usual'!

Happy Families

Long long ago, there was a card game with this name.  A gentle tap on the door of my friend Wikipedia reveals that it was created just before the Great Exhibition of 1851.  I understand that the cards are still being made, although I have no doubt that those of the present age (I haven't actually seen any) will lack the atmosphere of those that I played with a lifetime ago.

One thing that Mr. Bunn the Baker and his family lacked - apart from any imagination in naming his offspring (always Master and Miss, just like the neighbours!) - was the grandparents, an even more  essential component of the family in the days when the game was introduced than today.

I was reminded of this scenario as I looked out of my window the other day and spotted small figures running around in the garden opposite.  The scene complemented the fact that I had been doing some more research into my family history; that's the go-to occupation when other work dries up.  It's certainly higher on the list than housework although, that said, I did do some of that this week as well.  With families of one sort or another on my mind, thoughts went back to my own childhood.

One of the regular vlogs - the video version of the blog - that I watch regularly on YouTube features a woman in New Zealand who is experiencing the challenges of setting up a self-sufficient homestead amidst the demands of a tiny one, who is just beginning to crawl.  Doing things with constant interruption is not only inefficient, it is also a source of increasing frustration.  But many of my readers will already be aware of that!

My imaginative recollections led me to my grandparents' home in Norfolk.  It was handy that they lived quite close to us.  As the proverbial crow flies, it was about 200 yards away, but to walk around the block in either direction it was about half a mile, so still easily manageable.  It was easy to plan a pattern of regular visits by my mother and her sister - who lived only a short distance further away - to their parents, prima facie to keep an eye on them as they got older, and more so because my grandmother suffered from arthritis.

Another reason for such visits might well have been to relieve the restrictions imposed by their small children, especially as we grew older and, bored with toys, would find far greater interest in following our mothers around the house as they tried to do housework, faced with a constant barrage of 'What is this for?', 'How does this work?', 'Why do you do that?' and the like.  Even worse was the fear of little fingers prying into places where they shouldn't go, with the potential for damage to either the aforementioned fingers or to what they were exploring!  No doubt there would also have been times when my cousin or I - or both of us - would be parked with the older generation to enable shopping or other things to be done in comparative freedom.

I begin to see a less philanthropic motive for my mother teaching me to read.  Once I could do so, I could be parked with a book and she would be free to do whatever was necessary without the constant 'tail'.  Memories include Rupert annuals, Jack & Jill and Enid Blyton's wonderful series of Noddy books.  

Consequently, I have fond recollections of my grandmother's home, of climbing on her armchair to look at the books on the shelf above the wireless (radio set to my younger readers), or of playing on the hearthrug.  In fine weather, of course, the garden could be explored, allowing mud pies to be made or the behaviour of worms to be studied, and there is photographic evidence of grandad supervising a visit to the chicken run at the top of the back yard.

Whether it is 'toddler elements' in my YouTube watching, or the visitors who come to my neighbours, or simply the rose-tinting of the past that results from advancing years, these things have become of sharper focus just now, and seem worthy of being shared.

The Danger of Overload

I've written here before about my seemingly permanent need to have 'a project' on the go.  It's as if I long for something to dominate my life.  Is it a case of wanting something to blame when essential but unattractive aspects of running a hone get neglected?  Or conversely does this craving stem from a need to be wanted, to have some purpose in life?  In trying to explain this phenomenon, I might have stumbled on something that is critical to my understanding of my own psyche. However, I'm going to park this for now, albeit under that general classification of 'unattractive essentials'.

After half a week of feeling under considerable stress, I've been thinking about the way that bits of what I consider 'normal activity' can suddenly grow into new 'projects' and try to take over my life.  Often when this happens, it's not because of external pressure, but due to either some force within me or, conversely, a lack of self discipline in organising my life.

Regular readers will know about my work for WEBBS.  This is voluntary work that I do because I enjoy it, because I'm in sympathy with the charity that runs it, and because I find satisfaction in what I achieve by doing it.  In recent weeks, there has been an increased incentive, because I've been working with a familiar language: the Welsh tongue that I've been grappling with on an almost daily basis since I retired.  These two interests have coincided but, while my WEBBS controllers appreciate that my knowledge of the language means that I can be more useful than usual to them, there is no means of offering this real-life exercise to the on-line course that I'm following as a means of reducing the daily demand for time spent with that.

Like many voluntary jobs, control of the flow of WEBBS work is in my own hands.  I can work at whatever speed suits me, and return stuff when it's finished.  Within a day or two of my doing so, another batch is sitting in my inbox, and the cycle begins again.  If I want a spell of time off, I just have to say, and then let them know when I'm ready to pick up again.  It's just not in my nature to work slower than I know I'm able to when the work is there.

The trouble of letting something take over like this, is that other stuff, just as enjoyable, but less motivated, gets squeezed out, unless I actually 'carve out time' to allocate to it,  I've achieved this with my work for FreeCEN, transcribing the 1861 census, so that fellow researchers can use it without the need to pay a subscription.  This now conveniently fits into Sunday afternoons.  I'm on the verge of making similar arrangements for my own family history researches, by promising myself that I'll not do anything on the current batch of WEBBS work at the weekend.  This has the effect that the only competitors for family history are Church, football and housekeeping.

So what, I hear you ask, has made this week so pressured?  For upwards of thirty years, I have been a great devotee of spreadsheets.  It started so long ago that I can't remember the name of the first program to have captivated me, but I passed through Supercalc, Lotus 1-2-3 and briefly Symphony, before the present leader, Excel took control.  During the autumn months I followed up an appeal for someone to take over as treasurer of the Quaker Meeting that I now attend regularly, and the time is now approaching to process the data for last year.  The obvious tool for this is - you've guessed it - Excel.

Over the last few weeks I've been getting familiar with the previous year's reports and preparing my own workbooks ready to enter data as soon as it's provided to me.  Yes, a new project has hit the ground running to compete with everything else.  Add to this the fact that a few normally low profile but regular interests have also bubbled up and, as minutes turn to hours and hours into days, you can see that time can easily get out of control. 

I think the extreme pressures are past now, but the experience has certainly provided encouragement for thought and a bit more personal discipline!