Warm

This circle of stones on the lawn marks a place where daffodils are coming up. This is to remind me not to step on them or mow over them.

There are eight stones, representing the Eightfold Path of Buddhism.

After the cold snap, a beautiful sunny, warm day! I've been gardening (natch), and the garlic is in the ground now. Next job will be prune the roses, perhaps tomorrow if it's dry. The bulbs are just starting to pop up, I can see them now I've removed the weed growth over them. 
  I've just realised that I've missed my anniversary of moving into this house. Thirteen years have gone by, in a flash it seems, since 22 June, 2002, the day I moved in. The garden has changed a lot in that time. I've added more flowering things and taken out some of the things that were planted before me. It would be fascinating to go back and tour the garden as it was then, but that was before I had a good camera or took many photos. I guess the biggest change would be eliminating the shrubbery in the back garden and replacing it with a vegetable garden. I seem to be in a long process of making the garden more productive of yummy food! 

The lesser celandine, Ranunculus ficaria, also known as pilewort because of the shape of its roots. 

It was used as such in medieval times, and considered to be a proof of the "doctrine of signatures", whereby God fashioned plants in the shape of the human body part that they were most likely to heal.

And Wordsworth wrote a poem about them:

"There's a flower that shall be mine,

'Tis the little celandine"

Dear little pansies, still flowering in spite of the cold.

When I first came to the garden, I bought lots of plants. Quite a lot of them died, so now I'm left with the "good-doers" which require no mollycoddling. I'm following the path of less resistance now, not buying expensive and exotic things, or species that have proved to be no-goers in my soil and situation. It's all much easier, but still interesting and beautiful. And often the simplest plants provide the most satisfaction. Less is more.

Record cold snap

Loch Cameron, MacKenzie basin, near Twizel.

Photo by Ian McKendrick, The Press (Christchurch, New Zealand) 25/06/2015

http://www.stuff.co.nz/national/69687960/more-bonechilling-temperatures-for-central-south-island

We are having a very cold time here in the South Island. Those of you who live in colder climes may wonder what the fuss is about, but it is unusual for us to get down to -20C in New Zealand. Not so bad in Christchurch which is at sea level so a bit warmer, but it's still cold enough to have heating going hard all day. I have been doing a bit of gardening, it's not so bad if I wear lots of layers and keep moving. I'm hoping to put the garlic and shallots in today and sort out some of my kitchen and linen cupboards, and start crocheting some leg warmers.
    And call down a blessing on the person who invented thermal underwear!

Sorting the apples

I spent part of yesterday sorting out my apples, going through them for those that are unblemished and unbruised and will keep well, and taking out the rotten ones and the ones that I will cook up for putting in the freezer as pulp or sauce. The red ones are Red delicious, the yellows are from the tree next door so I don't know what they are. They've all now been washed and dried and packed away or processed, except for some I'll make into sauce to have with pork chops.

Reading a lot lately, because the cold weather doesn't encourage me to go out, only for brisk and brief walks around the neighbourhood. I'm enjoying the Robert Dessaix' "What days are for". It's one of those books that is hard to classify, biographical but more about the musings of a person than about the events of his life. Robert Dessaix, an Australian author, was forced to look at his life when he suffered a heart attack. What and who had he loved during his life? What were the experiences that meant most to him? This is one of those books that had me saying "Aha! So I'm not the only one who thinks this". It reminded me of May Sarton's "Plant dreaming deep" with its philosophical and gentle approach to life and its conundrums and happenings.

After my DVD foray into the lives of the Plantagenets (The White Queen) I've continued the story with Alison Weir's "Elizabeth of York". Elizabeth was the daughter of Edward IV, the wife of Henry the VII and the mother of Henry VIII. Her marriage to Henry Tudor (Henry VII) brought to an end the interminable Wars of the Roses, uniting both strands of the royal blood in one union. Elizabeth's claim to the throne was stronger than Henry's, (which was marginal but enforced with arms and treachery), but of course she could never rule, as she was a woman. She had to be content with being daughter, wife and mother of kings, and she seems to have been so. Her early life was one of turmoil, so I think she may have felt some relief to be safely married and at least queen consort if not queen regnant. The early Tudors are something of a fallow field for historical fiction writers, considering how many tomes have been written about Henry and his six wives and many mistresses. I once read a biography of Henry VII, who started off OK, but became increasingly paranoid and miserly as he grew older, terrified that someone would knock the crown from his head as he had done to Richard III, and knowing his claim was tenuous. He had an army of secret police who spied on all his subjects, from his courtiers to the Thames bargemen who ferried people up and down the river. Everyone in the kingdom was relieved when he finally died and Henry VIII took his place.

More snow down south but none here yet. "They" keep forecasting it, but I think it's just a "worst-case scenario" so that no one will accuse the met service of not sounding the alarm. Monday tomorrow; it would be great to spend the day at home, snow bound.

Let it snow

   The first big winter snowstorm is powering its way up the country. It hasn't snowed here yet and may not at all, but I sort of hope it will. I quite like snow, it's a novelty here in Christchurch (and everyone hopes for a snow day in the week, when they won't be able to go to work or school), but it rarely happens. The snow has been falling all afternoon inland and along the mountains of course, and the skifields are hoping for an early start to the season. I dashed out to the supermarket this morning for toilet paper, wine and cat food, so the weather can come down and the cats and me will be set.
  I've just finished watching the TV series "The white queen" on DVD. God, those Plantagenets! Murderous and plotting, everyone wanting to be King or Queen, or at least get their son or daughter on the throne. And to think that all this really happened, it isn't fiction! 

A little more autumn gardening

The last leaves on the cherry tree

The Dahlia imperialis are now just ruins, fit only for the compost heap

The maple has been really good this year, the leaves are hanging on for a long time

Golden delicious apple

A little more tidying up today. The weather has been so cold  and wet for the last two weeks, but today was a bit drier if not warmer. I realised today that we're only about two weeks off mid-winter, and it will be time to put the garlic in. I'll have to get cracking and put lots of compost and bulb fertiliser in where I'm thinking the garlic bed will go. Much trimming back taking place; it's amazing how things grow in the summer and you don't realise how big they've grown till you need to cut them back. Trimming the overgrowth lets more light in and makes the garden seem bigger. There are a few things to be done that will require calling in professional help - a couple of bushes that have outgrown their welcome, some tree limbs to be shortened and the pear tree to be topped; it's taking too much winter sun away now and is growing towards the house.

And big excitement! I've just spotted the broccoli plants broccoling! Home-grown broccoli is something I've only tried once with little success. This time the plants look more promising.

Dad's birthday

 

It would be my dad's 97th birthday today

Here he is, the young man in glasses centre right. This was probably taken when he was around 20 years old. He was one of the first to be called up in 1939. After basic training, he was shipped off to France with the British Expeditionary Force, and spent his 21st birthday spewing his guts out inside a landing-craft waiting to go ashore. This first British invasion of France ended disastrously in the retreat to the French coast and the horrors of Dunkirk. Dad and his company were  part of this retreat, but at Dieppe, another town on the coast. Here is his account of the bombing of two British hospital ships, "Maid of Kent" and "Isle of Thanet" by German bombers at Dieppe.

It was another bright morning when we emerged from the school where we had spent the night. Stiff and aching, aware of great blisters on our heels but afraid of removing boots that might not be persuaded to go back on. A drink of water and a mouthful of chocolate comprised breakfast. The swing bridge still barred our way into the town, so we straggled round the inner harbour stumbling over debris and bomb craters as we went, careful to stay in single file to the edge of the road. We were all learning, painfully. Past a small coaster lying gutted against the quay, to the station at the end of the harbour, looking at the two hospital ships opposite. As we rounded the end of the quay we struck out across an open space taking us diagonally away from the harbour. A woman overtook us,
shouting cheerfully "We're not downhearted, are we boys?" and we acknowledged cheerfully that we were'nt, which I thought a damned lie.
     A distant drone swelled into a roar, into a scream, and there I was, impelled again by that wonderful reflex, hugging the ground. My world now consisted of a narrow strip seen under the rim of my tin hat, including a small puddle left by last night's rain. The explosion of the first bombs dulled my hearing, and the consequent action was a confusing mixture of "noises off". Small pieces of debris pattered into my little puddle and pinged off my hat. Machinegun fire crackled and I distinguished one different from the majority. Someone was using a Bren. I raised my head as the Stuka's roar diminished. They were lining up for another go. A pall of smoke hung over the ships, with a great column climbing into the still blue. On the roof of the hospital tram alongside the ships the Bren gunner fitted a fresh magazine and waited for the next round. A screaming dive and the Stukas were on us again. When they roared off finally, seawards, they took with them any starry-eyed ideas we may have had on the lines of Geneva conventions.
     Both hospital ships were utterly wrecked; one was a mass of flames. The tram was burning fiercely and the gallant Bren gunner had gone. A small coaster on the berth ahead had been blown to pieces and the pieces spread over the town. Shocked and dazed we took stock of our little band.
     We were three short. One bomb, well short of its target, had landed against a heap of timber about twenty feet away. The unlucky three were on the other side of the stack from me. So was the bomb. The Bank on the opposite corner was minus its front and on fire, as were two cars outside. We could do little to assist, no fire-fighters were forthcoming and the fires were left to burn out. Later I was to learn that many lives were lost, nursing sisters among them, but one thing saved many lives. It appeared that the train driver had some premonition and split his train in two only minutes before the raid, pulling well away with the fore end of the train.
     So with the two ships, "Isle of Thanet" and "Maid of Kent" in their death throes behind us we resumed our search for some unit that would take us under its wing. We needed now that authority that we had despised, someone to be responsible for us. Since we had been in possession of the Grand Hotel when we came to Dieppe we made our way there, only to find it firmly closed. However, as we left it we were hailed by a sergeant who we recognised from No. 5 General Hospital at Treport. He and several others were living it up in style at an hotel near the Casino at the other end of the Esplanade.

Dad wrote this account as practice for his right hand when he had his first stroke which paralysed his left hand side (he was left-handed). He died when I was fourteen, so I was denied the privilege of knowing him as an adult, and was not able to ask him questions about his war experiences, adult to adult. I just have some pictures and some writing.

Later in the war, he was stationed in India, defending the Jewel in the Crown from the Japanese. This was  much more cheerful posting, and I'll share some more photos another day.

Early winter days

Thomas spends a lot more time inside now

The view from my table. Now I've moved it to the window, this is my breakfast/lunch outlook. The clothing has all but gone from the pear tree, but the maple flames away in the corner.

"Red Delicious" apples - I've had a bumper crop this year.

Reading a book called "The golden rules of blogging and when to break them" by Robin Houghton. Most of the 'rules' I'm already breaking, so the book has a very limited use for me. Most of the rules concern blogs that are set up for money-making (or 'monetizing' in today's jargon) and I'm not really interested in that, nor do I have a ton of product that I want to shift. The main reason I blog is to get stuff off my mind; I find that once I've written about something that I love, or am really annoyed about, I can go on to the next thing on my mental agenda. And boy, are there lots of things on my mental agenda. I've signed up for a webinar tomorrow morning, from a site called "Introvert spring", about how to keep from mulling over and over about stuff, stuff that keeps me awake at night. Often, it's not nasty stuff, just of the order of "how can they do this?" or "Why is he/she so dumb/arrogant/shallow..etc?" or  stuff about the universe, geology, art... and on and on. I hope there may be some useful suggestions on how to stop "mulling" and the associated anxiety that goes with it.

A conversation yesterday with a colleague is an example. I love her but she does tend to dwell on "what will happen if..." which reinforces my own anxiety. The current question is 'what will happen if...we all get made redundant?" She asked me what I thought about this possibility, and I'm afraid I answered rather rudely, that I didn't want to think about it at all. I suppose one should think about these things, and prepare for them, but you could also worry yourself to a frazzle about something that may never happen. I love the Dalai Lama's take on worry: when asked if he worried about things, he said no; he didn't need to worry about the things that he could change, and if he couldn't change them, he didn't need to worry about them either.  

Queen's birthday

Dahlia before the frosts we've had all week

Today is the day we celebrate the Queen's birthday here in New Zealand. Her real birthday is sometime in April (she is a Taurus, like my mum) but for some reason we celebrate it in June. The English Queen is still our titular head of state, but doesn't really have much to do with everyday things that happen in NZ. Mostly the day is a holiday for us, nothing really happens - no ceremonies or rituals - except the announcing of who has received a medal or a title from the Queen. Mostly these are awarded for service to the community, but retired politicians seem to get them too.
    So today I haven't really done anything. I started tidying the front garden, and slashed myself across the face with a rose branch that I was cutting down from the guttering. Now we have had some fierce winter winds, the rose  plant has been bashing away at the house during the night and keeping me awake. The rose plant had the last laugh though. 
    Back to work tomorrow, it will be hell after a long weekend, huge piles of returned items to process. Oh joy. Then to court on Wednesday for the pre-school pre-hearing. We're all getting sick of it now, it will be great when we hear what will happen, but there's still more work ahead.
   I've just discovered Flavia de Luce. She is the heroine of a series of books by Alan Bradley, a girl who is Wednesday Addams crossed with Violet Baudelaire. I've read "As chimney sweepers come to dust" and am now starting at the beginning of the series with "The sweetness at the bottom of the pie". Murder mysteries with lots of weird stuff and great characterisations thrown in. Don't know how I didn't come across Flavia before, but even librarians don't know everything!