England

My body is here . . . now the rest of me has to catch up. See pictures and read an account at This Sceptred Isle

Life on hold

Travelling, when not undertaken very much, I find a little nerve wracking. It's the preparation and ensuring all documentation is current and correct; the fear of arriving at the airport only to discover your passport is in the other coat pocket; the idea of sitting in an aircraft for ten hours or so . . .

. . . No, I enjoy travelling really . . . just so long as I have a window to stare out of, even if it is at 37 000 feet; even if it is dark; even if there is only the ocean below or prairie or tundra.

When I was little trains were the way to go, and the top of double decker 'busses the way to see the road ahead. Travelling in a motor car was a novel treat.

Life is often described as a journey. Something a little more involved than mere travelling. A journey means stopping and taking notice, taking detours, getting lost and finding one's way again.

I missed a day

Tax day is usually very stressful. Leaving everything to the last minute (we owe). E-filed but the paperwork still has to be sent; and the State taxes had to be done the old fashioned way.

Kathy's trailer is built. This was a want after buying a truck with a tow package . . . more about this in a month's time, after my trip to England and celebrating Dale (brother-in-law) graduating from veterinary school in Colorado.

How is this helping me find myself? The stresses of preparing for the trip to England; Kathy being super excited about the trailer; the logistics of caring for the cats and Zoë whilst we're gone . . . I become a fractious child. Stop it! Grow up! I tend to make things more difficullt and complicated than they are.

What a moaning-minnie. Normal service will be resumed when I've composed myself . . . tomorrow.

The day . . .

started at six o'clock this morning with coffee brewing. Aaah. Then walking Zoë our aging Siberian husky. Out to breakfast: one egg over-easy, wheat toast and more coffee. Home to make international 'phone call then played dulcimer: scales, arpeggios, a couple of dexterity exercises, Swallowtail, Jamie Allen, Winster Gallop, Liberty, Red Haired Boy, Blackthorn Stick . . .
Errands to bank and drug store. Formatted, printed and made up itinerary-cum-journal for the trip to England. Checked e-mails. Guitar class and home to BBC News America and Top Gear then caught up here (where-ever 'here' is) . . . .

Hearth and Home

Four o'clock on a winter's afternoon. A Wednesday, early closing day. Choral Evensong from some far away cathedral is on the wireless. Crumpets for tea. "What did you do at school today?" I'm going to walk Lynn home across the fields, only a mile or so. I am six years old.

Butterflies (a note to myself)

That's what fleeting thoughts are, butterflies. Very difficult to chase and capture. But with patience and a sweet scent and they will alight on the back of one's hand where one can study the pattern of the wings; see the antennae test the air; feel the tickle of insect feet . . .

. . . or catch 'em when they are caterpillars! And patiently nurture the chrysalis; no, don't help the butterfly emerge, the struggle fills the wings' capillaries . . . then once dry they're off.

So, thoughts come unbidden; they can't be caught. With patience insights will be born.

Why thrup'ny bits?

I just like them and just happened to have a couple to snap. Sorry the quality of the picture is so poor. The twelve-sided nickel-brass coin on the left was introduced in the 1930s.
Silver threepenny pieces remained in circulation but became much less common. 

I started a second blog (This Sceptred Isle . . .) to record my forthcoming trip to England. I last visited England in 1998 before my father died.

The primary purpose of this visit is to attend my niece Clare's wedding in Colchester on the 25th April . . . but I expect I'll ring a few bells and down a few pints of real ale; catch up with dear friends and do a bit of sight-seeing (play the tourist). Oh, and I'll be going to a matinée of Oliver!

Now I wonder if I'll be able to get to Upton-upon-Severn for the folk festival?

Started the second blog for the journey . . . and Colchester is one place I'll be sure to visit . . . 'cos that's where Clare's wedding is . . . at the town hall, not the castle. Just didn't want to miss a day's posting.

QUO VADIS?

Writing without using the first person singular is a good exercise. Very much more difficult when trying to write about one's self. The photo scanning project is on hold as there are just too many pictures to review; and quite a few are duplicates. Many are of places that would have to carry the caption, "Somewhere in . . . ?"

There was yet another dusting of snow this morning; quite beautiful under the reflected light of the sun from the full moon! There have been three falls of snow here in the past two weeks each preceded by very gusty winds. "But he lives in Arizona? How can this be?" It can be at seven-thousand feet altitude in the mountains. The plants are desperate for the moisture; the wild-life, too.

QUO VADIS?

Nostalgia

Memories come unbidden. Pictures evoke untold memories. "One picture is worth ten thousand words". This picture can not cause memories to come unbidden. My parents about twelve years before I came along. Early this morning I rummaged in a closet to find a particular photo. I found more pictures than I expected: two book boxes full. Why make them public? Of what interest could they be to a stranger?


The first picture of me (do you get the idea I'm a bit self absorbed?). Stangers would stop mum in the High to peer into the pram to see the baby, "Oh, isn't she lovely"; "Actually 'she' is a 'he'". I was born with a full head of hair!

Silence

Recherché

This was taken by Sam McClelland in November, 1978. Is that a smirk? I wonder what happened to that silver necklace? My hair would never grow much longer; not quite long enough to make a decent pony-tail. I liked tightly fitting Britannia jeans then, too; and no they weren't flared.

Fear of the unknown

    What am I doing here? Shyness expresses itself in the feeling that I am not supposed to be here. I can't let myself go. I used to be terrified of being under water. I used to be afraid of the dark. I used to fear that wild animals would tear me apart in my dreams. Still, deep black water unnerves me yet. The blank page. The unknown. Hardly an intrepid explorer, am I? Then what am I doing here?

Day two

    Just a personal note: played hammered dulcimer much of the day. Guitar class in the evening. I felt like myself today . . . whoever that is . . . I play some more with this tomorrow. And tomorrow I may have something to say . . .

Seeking

    Doing this on the wing . . . a scramble to think of a title for these musings . . . Hello I am here. Where is "here"? Is it where you are now, the physical location? Is it where you are in the space/time continuum? A life stretches time; time as memory. What of the future?

    I started this to record a forthcoming visit to England to attend my niece's wedding . . . and see old friends and do some bell-ringing.