Be careful what you wish for.......

One of our daily walks takes us across Chester Racecourse.  Plenty of space here. 

My life is usually busy. Although my teaching is officially 'part-time' I often find it fills many additional hours. And I have other regular commitments which I've chosen and enjoy - creative writing class, yoga, book club, Zumba, catching up with friends for lunch or coffee.   Then there's the stuff I don't really want to do - the washing of sheets, the sorting of the recycling, the unloading of the dishwasher... Sometimes I've wanted it all to stop, to have days when nothing is planned, nothing much happens, a bit like those lazy empty days between Christmas and New Year.

And now it has. Except, of course, for the stuff I don't want to do. I was quite looking forward to it in some ways.  I'd finally get the garden sorted.  I'd have the kind of neat and ordered house my sister-in-law has.  I'd change the beds regularly, and would vacuum every few days instead of ignoring the clumps of white dog hair which adorn our carpets.  The grout between the tiles would no longer be grubby. There'd be time for reading during the day; I'd walk the dog with Paul the permitted hour every day and get fitter; I'd watch all the Netflix series people had recommended; read the improving literature I'd never got round to....

But somehow it hasn't worked out that way.  Without a structure to the day I've found that time just melts away.  No need to set an alarm so I get up later, drifting about in my pjs until we take the dog out, the only thing I do regularly. Much time is wasted in reading all the coronavirus coverage from the BBC and the newspapers online.  And the attempt to create an neat and ordered house has failed.  I've wiped down kitchen worktops countless times every day, yet still mess persists. In this household with the addition of my daughter and her boyfriend who operate in a different time zone to us, there is always someone preparing food.

I've stopped the constant cleaning up now, and I've also stopped scrolling through news stories and watching the daily update at 5pm.  I watch one news broadcast a day - that's enough. I've also put back a bit of structure with new scheduled activities, discovering as many others have the joys of virtual meetings on Zoom.  So I am doing Zoom Zumba classes on Sunday and Thursday mornings and next week have Zoom book club.  We've been doing two weekly online pub quizzes, competing with family and friends.  Although I have cleaned out a few cupboards in the kitchen and disposed of items which were past their best several years ago,  I've given up any attempt at keeping the house neat and tidy. In general I've ditched the to do list. I do what I feel like doing and feel a bit better.

Next week I will be back 'at work', attempting online teaching.  It looks like Zoom is going to be used for that too. It will be interesting to see how that goes.

'History' by John Burnside and my response

One of the things that I've been doing for the last year when I haven't been blogging is teaching creative writing to a group of adults.  It's a WEA course I used to attend as a student.  When the tutor retired last year, I agreed to take over.  I felt a bit of a fraud, to be honest, as though I've been teaching writing all of my adult life to secondary school children, my own attempts at creative writing are pretty poor especially when compared with the previous tutor who has had work published in local magazines and plays performed in local theatres. Nevertheless, I took on the job as there was no one else keen at the time and I wanted the group to continue.  It's been quite a challenge but has been generally enjoyable.

The last course finished in March, but I'm keeping in touch with some of the group and suggesting some writing exercises we can do in lockdown.  Last week I shared the poem 'History' John Burnside which is actually one I teach on the 'A' Level course.  It's an interesting poem exploring all sorts of ideas about our relationship with the natural world and our reaction to world events at a personal level.  It was written in September 2001, i.e directly after the 9/11 bombings.  The speaker is on the beach with his family, including his toddler Lucas, flying a kite.  He is full of 'muffled dread' about the future and the poem tracks his reaction and thoughts in a kind of stream of consciousness.  He notices how his son is absorbed in the present moment, looking at the rock pools and 'puzzled by the pattern on a shell'.  The poet's message is not entirely clear but he seems to be suggesting that focussing on the moment and perhaps the beauty of the natural world as the child does is a way of responding to the chaos of the wider world.

This is the task I set the group:
Find something from the natural world in your home or garden, if you have access to it.  A flower, house plant, snail.  Look at it really closely, touch it, smell it. Use all your senses.  Then write a poem or a piece of prose based on the experience.

Here is my own brief attempt at a response.

Keeping Orchids

Someone has beheaded my precious orchid.  It sits on the window sill halfway up the stairs in a perfect spot - light but out of direct sunlight.  I have nurtured this orchid - an unpromising tangle of grey roots and dusty green leaves has been coaxed into flower again with a magic spray.  Fat buds are swelling from stems which have now sprawled in all directions, escaping garden centre's plastic confines.The flowers are pure perfection and last for ages with just the right amount of water.  Not to much, let it drain, never let them sit in water - I have learnt through my past mistakes 

But now one perfect blossom lies on the window sill, cut off in its prime by some careless curtain pulling. 

I cradle it in my hand and then place it a crystal liqueur glass, a wedding present never used in 34 years, but a perfect vase for my orchid.  I don't expect it to last.

One week later it is still nearly perfect.   There are five petals,  each white with intricate violet veining,  miniature trees with branches and twigs reaching upwards.  I touch the petals gently: they are surprisingly tough, yet soft and cool as cotton sheets. The two front petals are perfectly symmetrical and shaped like an artist's palette tipped with purple ink spreading in rivulets outwards.  Underneath these, three leaf shaped petals, similarly veined.  In the centre, a white column and three more smaller petals, tinged with yellow, surround what looks like a tiny insect.  The base petal protrudes and is tipped by a triangle and what look like tiny purple whiskers or an extravagant curled moustache. 

 A perfect orchid blossom. An unexpected gift, for I have stared at this beheaded bloom more intensely than those remaining on the plant.

I've done what John Burnside suggests in the poem and concentrated on my orchid and how beautiful it is.  But now it's 5 o'clock and time for the daily update so I'll leave it there...

Back to Blogging

It's a whole year since my last post but there's plenty of time now for a bit of a catch up and a blog revival.  This morning I was supposed to be flying to Palma with my daughter for a short break.  But, like everyone else in practically the whole world, I am at home.

This morning is beautiful - peaceful, sunny and I have a pleasant day ahead: a dog walk, bit of gardening, a Zoom Zumba class and the promise a supermarket delivery to fill our empty fridge. We have our daughter home from university and we are all currently well.  I'm getting used to the new routine and finding ways to cope, but it is tempting to keep checking for online news updates. As no one needs to leave the house for work and we've all been in lockdown for now for over two weeks, apart from very occasional visits to the shop and the permitted daily walk maintaining social distance,  we shouldn't be passing coronavirus to each other.  But I am still a bit fearful.  Should I disinfect the packaging when the shopping arrives as some of my friends and family are doing?  And what about that day when we walked the dog on the canal towpath and were not able to keep two metres apart from passing joggers without falling in the water?

And what right have I to be so fearful when a neighbour and fellow dog walker, who is a nurse at the local hospital, is working long hours helping those who have the virus?  Along with other neighbours we clapped for the NHS on Thursday evening and she thanked us in a post on the neighbourhood  group Facebook page.  I found this little painted stone by our front gate and discovered it had been left there by a little girl who lives nearby. I think she's the granddaughter of our nurse neighbour. Turns out that several of us have been given painted stones.  Good to see the community coming together more, both in this street and the rest of the country.

Introducing Booshka

Booska aged 8 weeks

Booska yesterday

In my last post,some time ago, I wrote about the sad loss of our lovely Irish terrier,  Ronan.  We knew that after he died we would eventually get another dog but I wasn't quite ready for the reality of having a puppy so it's been a bit of a shock.   Never one to delay, husband did some research and a lot of persuasion so we are now in possession of a Berger Blanc Suisse or a White Swiss Shepherd puppy - a girl (don't like calling her a bitch with all its negative connotations!).  This is a compromise - Paul wanted a German Shepherd; I find them a bit scary, remembering Flash, the fierce guard dog in our village petrol station when I was a child.  Swiss Shepherd Dogs are smaller and gentler says Paul, though she is already huge in my eyes and not that gentle when she races up the stairs to greet me in the morning biting my ankles to say hello. She is lovely but a lot of hard work - just like having a toddler around again. Yesterday, for example, she ate her breakfast too quickly, then vomited on the stairs; peed in the lounge; pinched a packet of butter from the kitchen worktop; chewed or attempted to chew any shoe or item of clothing left within her reach; and then managed to escape from the back garden in the dark. We are exhausted! And yes we have chosen another silly name for the dog.  Her full name is Babuska - like the Kate Bush song.  

I've not posted anything for ages.  I've not had much time but that's not really the reason.  I'm becoming less comfortable with the idea of documenting my life online for anyone to read.   But at the same time I like having this record  and enjoy looking back.  And there are a few members of my family and some blog friends I have made who like reading this. I'm wondering if it possible to limit the readership to people I choose. Does anyone know if it is possible to do this with an existing blog?

Sad News

I'm returning here to report some sad news.  Our lovely dog, Ronan, who has featured in the blog many times, died last week.  It was a big shock to the whole family as it happened quite suddenly - just over a week ago he was able to go for a walk with me yet a few days later he was too weak even to go out to the garden.  He had probably been ill for a while and was hiding it well, the vet said.  After a week of treatment for vomiting and lethargy, they found a mass on his liver so said there was nothing they could do and advised us to end his suffering.  It was a very hard day.

It is very quiet at home now.  Coming back to the house after being out is worst as we are so used to him greeting us at the door, his tail wagging.  We are also missing walking him, something which  felt like a chore at times but was part of our normal routine. And it's hard to go for a walk on our usual routes as we see other regular dog walkers we know by sight and say hello to and I can't face telling them. It's hard to make the transition from being a dog owner to not being one: I still find myself closing gates and doors to stop his escape and moving plates with leftovers out of reach unnecessarily.

Kate is back at university so we had to tell her the news on the telephone.  She is also terribly upset as she has grown up with Ronan. She was only 8 when he arrived in 2007.  Here she is not too long after we got him, helping to train him.  He was very good at sitting and giving you his paw but only if he knew he would get a treat. In some ways I was glad she wasn't at home when he became ill as she will have only good memories of his final weeks.  He was generally ok over the Christmas holidays and she had spent a lot of time playing with him and had him sitting beside her at the table as she was revising for the exam she had this week. 

Back in 2007, I had serious doubts about getting a dog.  I'd not had a dog as a child - we always had cats -  I knew it would be hard work and a big commitment.  It was, but I hadn't realised what joy a dog like Ronan would bring to our lives and what a good companion he would be.  He was with us for nearly 12 years and had a good life.  Still we will miss him so much.

Happy Christmas

A brief post to wish any remaining readers a Happy Christmas. I haven't blogged for a while as I have been busy researching and writing a kind of family history book.  It is now finished and I've posted it off to family members in this country and to the cousins we have found in Canada as a result of my research. I plan to return to blogging more frequently in the new year.  In the meantime, I hope you have a peaceful and relaxing Christmas.

Remembering: The Big Penny

It is over 100 years since my great-uncle, Jim Ferguson, was killed in Belgium aged 21, just a over a month before the end of World War 1.

When I was a child I was fascinated by the big penny which was propped on the mantelpiece in my grandparents' bungalow. They told me about its significance; how these pennies were given to the families of solders killed in the war.

As I grew up I learnt more about the war and wore a poppy on Remembrance Day but didn’t really have much interest in the details.  Later after I became a teacher and married Paul I was asked to go on a school trip to visit the war graves in Flanders.  It was 1994 -  we were living in Norfolk at that stage and I was teaching in Costessey High School in Norwich.  Granda had died 8 years earlier but Granny was still alive.  I found the details of the location of Uncle James’s grave with the help of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission.  And so on the trip I visited the small graveyard in Dadizele, Belgium and used the map to find James Ferguson's grave among the identical headstones each planted up with colourful flowers.   It was peaceful there even with the coachload of schoolchildren who accompanied me; they were quiet and respectful.  My teacher friend took some photographs which I showed to Granny when I visited later that summer.  She was a little tearful and said that Granda would have been so pleased I’d visited. He’d never forgotten his younger brother who died with so many others in World War 1.

That was over 24 years ago and now the ‘Big Penny’ has been passed on to me. Inspired by the story of James Ferguson,  I've been doing some family history research this year and I have found out a bit more about him.  For a start he wasn't called James at home but 'Jim' like my dad who was named after him.  He was the youngest of 7 children and lived in Ballyronan, growing up in the same house as I did.  His father started off working for a local landowner but earned enough money to buy his own farm, and then eventually buying a second one nearby.  He was clearly an ambitious man but it appears he was rather hard on his family.  He quarrelled with his eldest son, John, who emigrated to Canada, followed by two more sisters Sarah and Minnie. Jim's mother died when he was 12 and by 14 he was working on the farms with his 18 year old brother, Sandy (Alexander), who is my grandfather.  This information is on the 1911 census. I suspect the family weren't very happy.  All of the girls had married and left home by 1915 leaving just Jim and Sandy with their father. When the war started, young men in Northern Ireland were encouraged to join up. So Jim entered active service with the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers on the 25th September when he was just 18.  

I haven't found out much about Jim's experiences during the war as there are no individual records or photographs of him.  I do know that he returned home on leave at one point and went to Saltersland Church in his uniform as Granny says she remembers this.  His battalion was part of the 36th Ulster Division and were one of the few divisions to make significant gains on the first day of the Battle of the Somme in 1916.  They attacked between Ancre and Theipval against a position known as Schwaben Redoubt.  It was apparently the only division to have achieved its objectives on the opening day of the battle.  Their attack was described by war correspondent Philip Gibbs as 'one of the finest displays of human courage in the world.'  but in two days of fighting 5,500 officers and enlisted men were killed, wounded or missing. 

When he joined he was in the 10th Battalion and the men were known as 'The Derrys'. But in February 1918 the British Army on the Western front was reorganised and the 10th Battalion and 11th Battalion were absorbed into the 1st and 2nd Battalions.  The War Diary of the 2nd Battalion is available so perhaps it gives us some insight into what the soldiers were doing though there is little detail about the horror as it is very factual. However, it stops in January 1918 before the 10th Battalion were absorbed so it is unlikely that Jim was involved in the action or the football match described below.

He was killed in the Hundred Days Offensive which ended the First World War.  The images below from the Imperial War  Museum show the troops of the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers, 36th (Ulster) Division which included James's Battalion, advancing from Ravelsburg Ridge to the outskirts of Neuve Eglise on the 1st September 1918. According to the Cookstown War Dead, the 2nd Battalion had marched to fresh billets, skirting Courtrai to St. Anne where they were accommodated in and around a convent.  Jim was killed in action on Sunday 29th September 1918 along with 19 other men from the battalion.

He died in fighting near Dadizele which was in German controlled territory for much of the First World War until it was reached by the 36th Ulster Division and taken by the 9th Scottish Division on the 29th September. At the time he was buried in the local graveyard or on the battlefield.  However after the war in 1920 his body was moved with many others to Dadizele New British Cemetery.  The reference is 111.E. 13. Back in Northern Ireland John Ferguson was mourning the loss of his youngest son.  In 1920 he paid for an inscription to be added to his son's grave: 'Safe in the Arms of Jesus'. 

In 1921 he also erected a new gravestone for his wife Margaret and in memory or his son James at Salterland Church. He would be buried there himself. in 1928.  His son Sandy went on to live a long and happier life than his father, farming with his son who he called Jim in Ballyronan.  

This is the grave on the 22nd September 2018.  My cousin Doreen, Private James Ferguson's great-niece put these poppies on the grave 100 years since he died, aged 21, just a couple of months before the end of WW1.  

I'm not one for glorifying war but tomorrow I'll go along to the memorial parade in Chester and think about this young man who died with so many others in this terrible war.