tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89883304595733270942024-03-05T18:02:59.048+00:00Can I Just Say...Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.comBlogger82125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-16519995377158774582023-03-23T17:02:00.000+00:002023-03-23T17:02:49.923+00:00Love and Hate on the Island<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhBoOqk3LmE9_xHlUbu1ZM0We2gI_cj7bOMWT5XwJy0bDl-J8YZZJ4IzcOC95du6dxLK0CGzpbj6Xmb3eznVp9FDba9RBltWFnuNRBn-DixsohLw4SL_3BCoPuFbXqEYlFApLRVW2KLchutqAs3PotSJSbFTc0Y0nTS5ngyveMABYDdRLqLxQAC5TSsQ/w320-h240/Entrance%20to%20the%20island.JPG" width="320" /></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At the limestone quarry we gaze into the mouths of
caves, dark against the white stone. ‘They served as latrines,’ says the
guide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her tones are strident, but I
still wish she was using a microphone. On the other buses I see guides with
microphones. Someone has told our guide that she doesn’t need one. But she
does. We are towards the back of the bus and we cannot catch every word. We get
the gist, though. Prisoners forced to labour for hours
under the punishing sun. No hats and precious little water. Shitting in the
shadows offered a brief moment for communication which was otherwise strictly
forbidden. The passing on of vital snippets of news about the world outside –
the world happening just across the bay. Even the possession of a scrap of
newspaper was a punishable offence.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivqi0hBWyUDL2mePvk2Dmu-JWcVZe0d8dApDLHQ28E3H83rVjP2G1BXccjAu3nc5UIKOx4XuKu1FPWSpcMhnAVkkSRNEhzUNwdDWGM4T-6BMkjPUiz_nIc-Nhbcq14divcR8wZnwHWjxwEhjjWde_imlvEjLXo_Oowp9KWi3hSNiNpVwbFnuNARhuwYw/s1024/View%20from%20Robben%20Island.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: 12pt; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivqi0hBWyUDL2mePvk2Dmu-JWcVZe0d8dApDLHQ28E3H83rVjP2G1BXccjAu3nc5UIKOx4XuKu1FPWSpcMhnAVkkSRNEhzUNwdDWGM4T-6BMkjPUiz_nIc-Nhbcq14divcR8wZnwHWjxwEhjjWde_imlvEjLXo_Oowp9KWi3hSNiNpVwbFnuNARhuwYw/s320/View%20from%20Robben%20Island.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Decades later the place still oozes brutality. The
landscape offers no relief from the harsh conditions endured by exiles, lepers,
the mentally insane and finally the militant opponents of apartheid. We were
surprised to find that the Irish also occupied the island for a time, evidenced
by a tumble of gravestones and a Celtic cross. </span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We stop briefly for a photo opportunity with the
iconic Table Mountain in the distance then back on board. Passengers are
starting to feel cheated. The half hour sea crossing stuffed into an airless
cabin and now a hot and dusty bus ride is not what we were expecting. ‘What
about the prisons?’ murmurs one. ‘Aren’t we getting out?’</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">One couple has already disembarked in shame. They were
young with a whimpering baby. As the bus pulled away from the harbour, the
frustrated mother stood up to haul the little one into a front-loading sling
carrier. She hurtled him into the air and banged his head with a loud thud on
the overhanging luggage rack. There was a collective gasp of shock as we
watched the infant’s face contort in pain. A screech followed that no
microphone could cover. The father berated the mother and then hurriedly
gathered up the child and the buggy demanding to be set down at the roadside.
The driver was reluctant – idlers were not to be allowed to wander at will, but
the man was insistent. As we drove off, we watched the little family walk forlornly
back down the hill. We did not see them again. The passengers were relieved. We
judged and tutted. No one wants a crying baby on the tourist trail. Like the
generations of jailers who trod these roads before us, we had left our
compassion and tolerance back at the landing stage.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Just as we are running out of breathable air, one of
the women on the bus begins to sing. There are five of them and we had noticed
them queuing to board the ferry. They are dressed to be noticed - ostensibly in
the pristine white of a religious sect but bejeweled to the nines with designer
handbags and heels to match. Their buxom figures are tauntingly on display in
plunging necklines and buttock-hugging mini dresses. They look like girls on a hen
do yet they are clearly pledged to a Higher Power. They announce that they have
travelled from beyond the Cape, and I get the impression that, like me, they are
Robben Island virgins – but with makeup and lace. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As we disembark, they burst into song:</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><i><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The Holy Spirit must come down,<br /> </span></span></i><i><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And Africa will be saved.</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /> </span></span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">African women sing like no others – loud, confident
and in full harmony. They segue into the national anthem:</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><i><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nkosi sikelel’ Afrika.</span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We instantly forgive them their sexual brashness, follow
behind their sashaying hips and join in the tune, if not the words. We know
neither Xhosa nor Afrikaans. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <br /></span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">As we approach the actual prison buildings, a holy
hush descends and the singing fades. An old black man is waiting to conduct
this part of the tour. He is wearing a metal cross and has the weakened arm of
someone who has suffered a stroke. I ask him who he is. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He says he will answer questions all in good
time. First we are free to wander through the cell block and prison kitchen;
there are stories to read and straw palliasses and a wooden rack used for torturous
punishment to marvel over. </span></span></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLwCnSXeocwNVYM_LfRnNDkwDGXKnSquHNJrn2UkZMtwJ-py3tvTrHpkUe-zJn654Vj_5yzt0riwrau6nEdoew_J6DfDBcSz1f_b6cK7foMvPznR5dLKsNfVR3AAnYloO7FqPM9QsovZ0TZfyHvaZnqCqyx26Zer-RfwoGqED16T_mFPdzBon-chZ5Rg/s527/Tom%20Moses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="527" data-original-width="526" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLwCnSXeocwNVYM_LfRnNDkwDGXKnSquHNJrn2UkZMtwJ-py3tvTrHpkUe-zJn654Vj_5yzt0riwrau6nEdoew_J6DfDBcSz1f_b6cK7foMvPznR5dLKsNfVR3AAnYloO7FqPM9QsovZ0TZfyHvaZnqCqyx26Zer-RfwoGqED16T_mFPdzBon-chZ5Rg/w362-h320/Tom%20Moses.jpg" width="362" /></a></span></span></p>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We proceed in respectful silence to the section where hardline maximum security political prisoners were housed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are all thinking about Nelson Mandela. To
our chagrin, few among us can remember the names of any of the others. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The gentleman introduces himself. He is Tom
Moses who was incarcerated in this very place and clearly bears the mental and
emotional scars. In a long speech he details the prisoners’ suffering – a very
personal account of isolation, deprivation and terror. The sixties were the worst,
he said. Men who were convinced of the rightness of their cause living in
constant fear and at the whim of cruel and vindictive guards. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He is emotional
and, at times, angry. His well-worn recital descends into diatribe directed,
somewhat surprisingly, not at the Afrikaners who perpetuated apartheid, but at successive
black governments who have failed to honour the collective sacrifice of
political prisoners. He is scathing about the Truth and Reconciliation
Commission and leaders who have greedily amassed wealth without making any
provision for the families of those who fought with their freedom for the
privileges enjoyed by the elite. He is a sad and tormented soul whose evident pain
belies talk of forgiveness. My eyes well with tears.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I try to tell Moses that I understand something about political
prisoners and terrorists in government. ‘It’s not colour that corrupts,’ I say,
‘it’s power.’ I am white and he is black. I am ignorant and he has been to hell. There is no understanding.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;">I walk alongside a fellow visitor. His name is Roger. We
search for Mandela’s actual cell. ‘It’s the one with the bucket,’ the guide has
told us. And there it is – a narrow tomb with a straw bed and a lidded metal pail
for waste. Deliberate, I realise. There is no shrine to the man who only spent
eighteen years </span>confined on this island when others stayed longer and
were soon forgotten.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrEtHYY08ifnAE4f7j9jsl-JU7-zypLgnBx6KQ0mH0PWvZnLt8DOXUTXakQcoFfZHiEDnBFFumx9BOu9SqaQJ8h1NiAyVVtmaM-Q2uhQYPQbRKByrfar2vzGq5vWn9-eycEhwaVuhhxVUg6QQL7UmVvTVpGsvJ9k1kbIhjFKkrL2EHyIhQKlQdyl3gwA/s320/Nelson%20Mandela's%20cell.JPG" width="240" /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"></p>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We emerge from the darkness of concrete walls and
bleak despair into the brilliant white light of an African day. Summer will
soon </span></span>reluctantly <span style="font-family: inherit;">give way but for now the sun is beating us as it has
beaten generations of people for whom there was no escape. Our route off the
island is clear – a downhill trek to the harbour. Our own personal ‘long walk
to freedom’ quips Moses as we shake his hand. He glances at me in disappointment
– clearly the woman in front of me laced his palm with rand. I did not come prepared,
and I feel guilty.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I look around for Roger. He is gazing down the long
road to the sea. He is never going to make it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is only about four and a half feet tall and
severely disabled. He has managed to shuffle his way on and off the bus and
through the corridors, but this is too far. I look back towards the building we
have left. There were ramps inside; maybe there’s a wheelchair. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">But </span>Roger is not looking for a chair. He is
clambering up onto a huge boulder where he manages to stand. Without fuss or
ceremony his friend is reversing into him and lowering his strong body so that
Roger can clamber onto his back. I have only just dried my eyes and now I am
weeping again. It’s a baking hot day and carrying an adult that distance is no
easy feat, but this friend has obviously done it before. Many times. That verse
in the Bible about greater love and laying down your life springs to mind. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;">At the waterside there is a delay. The ferry has not yet
returned from Cape Town. We buy ice lollies and settle down to wait. I need to
talk to Roger and his saviour. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are
old friends from school. Roger is very witty and makes me laugh. </span>Adam is Jewish with a flop of black curly hair. He is now living
in the UK, but he comes back to the Cape every year. We talk about parallels with places like Auschwitz and he tells
us that all of his grandfather’s family disappeared during the Holocaust. He introduces
us to an American cousin found as a result of relentless searching for
survivors and says that through the miracle of the internet they are still making
connections across time and continents. He is looking forward to discovering
more family members. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Roger is not Jewish and not family, but the love the two
young men share is that of brothers. I tell Adam that he has such a big, embracing heart. He thanks
me. I want him to know that his act of selfless kindness has touched me deeply.
I can feel the warmth and generosity of his spirit borne out of generational
suffering. Not all horror leads to bitterness. I am glad we have met.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">On the return crossing, as civilization and mountain hurtle
towards us, we sit with our new friends. There is no movement of air in the cabin,
and we are sweating uncomfortably. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Suddenly,
one of the crew takes pity on us and invites us to sit out on deck – only a limited
number. We jump up with our new friends and finish the five and a half hour round
trip with the cool breeze in our hair. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4uwSeVSAX301vLPemfGZvLgtvKFvEjpPPaTgFOaMstXzmPiKBFJX59i6mL6mDyxxtIVp3jQGzF49Bn3PwzNPAYv130-_R6dgQj8H3qIecm50Kepg3ZDk-GxXHf2r2e1Iyf7nGaQNt_8UdytjqZED0EwsCz9_kMDwufgn1hBqDgzhCJFWyUM0epfpPpg/s1024/Table%20Mountain%20in%20the%20distance.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4uwSeVSAX301vLPemfGZvLgtvKFvEjpPPaTgFOaMstXzmPiKBFJX59i6mL6mDyxxtIVp3jQGzF49Bn3PwzNPAYv130-_R6dgQj8H3qIecm50Kepg3ZDk-GxXHf2r2e1Iyf7nGaQNt_8UdytjqZED0EwsCz9_kMDwufgn1hBqDgzhCJFWyUM0epfpPpg/s320/Table%20Mountain%20in%20the%20distance.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Robben Island is a beacon of hatred and control of
what could not be tolerated. Our visit would have been a cold experience
without Roger and Adam – flesh and blood examples of how hope can triumph over
fear and unconditional love over adversity. </span></span></div>Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-73258487376610130412022-12-21T16:51:00.000+00:002022-12-21T16:51:52.049+00:00I Have Come<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-edtEF84FAGY3vtkHW6U5ew0HQFNUL81jXiBQhcF7G8evaZHtz1_5WtpJIwLT6P5WXAYeTv5RsDYq-Wsx5J2Rx0jeELnfTbANmJLSrQdcMX47A2UxJxbQTc2yezx_zw3SygipfYnFGK-U909A0NoCE9r_isJe_3Bqe3Dww3S_eT9kL3FqBTZiRte2Cg/s612/Journey%20to%20Bethlehem.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="433" data-original-width="612" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-edtEF84FAGY3vtkHW6U5ew0HQFNUL81jXiBQhcF7G8evaZHtz1_5WtpJIwLT6P5WXAYeTv5RsDYq-Wsx5J2Rx0jeELnfTbANmJLSrQdcMX47A2UxJxbQTc2yezx_zw3SygipfYnFGK-U909A0NoCE9r_isJe_3Bqe3Dww3S_eT9kL3FqBTZiRte2Cg/s320/Journey%20to%20Bethlehem.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Somewhere in my memory there was a donkey <br />Shambling and swaying. <br />I just wanted
to lie down but there was nowhere for me to rest. <br />Go – leave here – move on <br />Find
your papers, they said. <br />There is no room here, they said.<br /><br />Go back where you
belong. <br />Inside me is hope waiting to be born.<br /><br />I have come in soiled swaddling
and a strawy bed <br />In the cry of this mother and all mothers <br />In the bruised hands
of this father and all fathers <br />And grandfathers, and grandmothers <br />To virgins,
widows and children I have come. <br /><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>∞ <br />Somewhere in my memory there was a boat
<br />Surging and swishing. <br />I just wanted to lie down but there was nowhere for me to
rest.<br />Go – leave here – move on <br />Find your papers, they said. <br />There is no room
here, they said.<br />Go back where you belong.<br />Inside me is hope waiting to be born.
<br /><br />I feel like I am going to die, I said. <br />I am going to be born and then I am going
to die, he said. <br /><br />I have come, he said. <br />I have come in a soiled blanket on the
ground <br />And soaked clothing. <br />In the cry of this woman and all women sold into
brutal hands. <br />To parents in far-off lands waiting for news I have come. <br /><br />To the
outcasts and the not allowed in I have come. <br />To the cold and the hungry, the
burnt out and the washed out I have come. <br />To the faithful inside the cathedral
<br />And to the wasted outside in the square, I have come. <br />To the old and the young,
I have come. <br />To the anxious and afraid, <br />To the trafficked and traumatised, <br />The
despairing and displaced,<br />To the weary and waiting, I have come. <br /><br />In humility, I
have come: <br />The Wonderful Counsellor who needs tender care <br />The Mighty God who
snuggles and sleeps <br />The Everlasting Father who is a suckling son <br />The Prince of
Peace who plays. <br /><br />Angelic Advent awake! <br />The door of my heart is open. <br />I kneel at
your coming.
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-74317061883593762642022-06-18T19:46:00.000+01:002022-06-18T19:46:24.069+01:00Standing on One Leg<br /><br />It’s been five days since and it’s time. I don my wellies and stride through the wet grass and up the Scrabo stone steps to my heron house, so called on account of my love for the birds that wait silently at the water’s edge without rush or rhyme.<br /><br />I fumble with the keys. The door is warped after the hot and cold of the seasons. And there he is on the wall – a study in pink and cobalt oil scrapings – the paint thick and textured. The water shimmers in the background – an ice blue lake flecked with indigo shadows. The bird’s head is hunched to rest the long heavy neck, his eyes alert to movement in the nearer distance. He looks away towards the window, towards forever. Does he know his maker is dead?<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_e8Fc57j1JsnF6N50WgB60XAameUiNlynAv0pquxHrU114RkO2iohFJDZCmtFje9YxG5cdcEHvEgVKLDAfrCpWX-bkkHuVplatt11Ta2cQ97pMKh-2rRSt4GzF8GfbsFHrtw9mZfK4C5NvTlOOPA2pgl1S-5EHl1_uqETPLTJQUD3GLoHTLevG3vo5g/s640/Heron%20RR%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_e8Fc57j1JsnF6N50WgB60XAameUiNlynAv0pquxHrU114RkO2iohFJDZCmtFje9YxG5cdcEHvEgVKLDAfrCpWX-bkkHuVplatt11Ta2cQ97pMKh-2rRSt4GzF8GfbsFHrtw9mZfK4C5NvTlOOPA2pgl1S-5EHl1_uqETPLTJQUD3GLoHTLevG3vo5g/s320/Heron%20RR%20(2).jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I found it in his studio, on the ground leaning against the wall. ‘A heron?’ I said. ‘It’s yours,’ he said. ‘I did it for you but I wasn’t sure if it was good enough.’</div><div>It is good enough. <i>You</i> were good enough.<br /><br />It was our last conversation. Is the heartache of the artist embedded in his art? I have been standing in front of his paintings since I heard the news looking for answers, looking for questions. In one abstract, a brown strip separates grey strokes from hues of deep marine. There are splashes of ochre and a bright red speck – a boat’s sail, a flag, a deck chair on the beach? I asked him about the painting and he hesitated. ‘You see what you want to see,’ he said, smiling mysteriously.<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK7GrotWjEC0OZtpO4ygX-DsOCT2AOFsKCTH3xis62QBIsVrgVpxOorvpwd7Kj6rskrrqeuqWB1t84sESWqsklcB31f8JZ25M0ZWLhIKST36FCTzyk-0-Ln2R2I7kyIrztEucWjd5wdtQozHFcnbk6RQk1BCumPnvbGDD-_8hLxbkUoYj_CZDrIDwJlw/s640/Iron%20bar%20RR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK7GrotWjEC0OZtpO4ygX-DsOCT2AOFsKCTH3xis62QBIsVrgVpxOorvpwd7Kj6rskrrqeuqWB1t84sESWqsklcB31f8JZ25M0ZWLhIKST36FCTzyk-0-Ln2R2I7kyIrztEucWjd5wdtQozHFcnbk6RQk1BCumPnvbGDD-_8hLxbkUoYj_CZDrIDwJlw/s320/Iron%20bar%20RR.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />In another painting, we are looking out across Strangford Lough to an island. I don’t know which one; there are so many. ‘It’s from the gates of Mount Stewart,’ he said, so I go there and stand, looking for him. Can I feel his presence in this space? The beauty and texture and colour are him as much as the final moments of despair. He cannot be defined by the manner of his passing. Van Gogh’s sunflowers still scream life and beauty.<br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKlngFHnONBjyJhMd6BrhJXQFGHmUcNRlthRbcY7UdbEDWyKVSgk8RVBBbF78X_bYT7T9LfSffxaLfPQXVkw_Qfo4DrNIs-SxPs2--xNQ5V_JthIzwm3teoVSjx6ochi_BgOyR5MURSCxbJfhOSqwgh3wtwYngpWteBI4g-PUzxhkj19c-Y0rmOQQbQ/s640/From%20Mt%20Stewart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaKlngFHnONBjyJhMd6BrhJXQFGHmUcNRlthRbcY7UdbEDWyKVSgk8RVBBbF78X_bYT7T9LfSffxaLfPQXVkw_Qfo4DrNIs-SxPs2--xNQ5V_JthIzwm3teoVSjx6ochi_BgOyR5MURSCxbJfhOSqwgh3wtwYngpWteBI4g-PUzxhkj19c-Y0rmOQQbQ/s320/From%20Mt%20Stewart.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />There is a wall beside the lough. I climb onto it and walk along its flat but uneven surface. The tide is slowly seeping in. A cheeky seal pops up and gives me the once over. I am nothing to him; for me it is a wild encounter. Like the heron who soars suddenly overhead and settles gracefully on the rocks below. Thank you, thank you. He gazes out to sea. Waiting. He only stirs when the spirit moves. He is standing on one leg, like in the painting. <br /><br />I too am just about standing up – one spindle holds me steady, keeps me connected to mother earth. The other is curled beneath me in a crippled spasm of guilt and fear. If he cannot go on, what life is left for me? For all of us who loved him?<br /><br />Some people cannot live with the 'tormented mind tormenting yet'. Hopkins lifts his eyes to the 'skies betweenpie mountains,' but sometimes the heart is just too heavy.<br /><br />In my hideaway, I caress the bird’s lumpy feathers and am overwhelmed by a grief that threatens to steal my very breath. ‘Please, please don’t be dead,’ I plead. The heron is silent as the grave. <br /><br />‘It’s not the sea at all,’ he said, holding the painting at arm’s length. ‘It’s a study of daylight playing on a rusting iron pole. It’s about contrast.'<br /><br />I laughed. ‘No red sail, then.’ <br /><br />‘No red sail.’ <br /><br />‘It’s still a thing of beauty,’ I said. <br /><br />There is only one creator, all else is imitation. If an artist can transform death and decay into roaring life and colour, so then can his God. With him, there is no ending. I rest in the transformative power of unfailing love and gently close the door of the heron house behind me. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">Written in memory of my friend and fellow creative, Robert Robinson.</span></b></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div>Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-37831603938093336582021-12-24T12:47:00.000+00:002021-12-24T12:47:25.189+00:00Sweet Caroline<p>It's Christmas Eve 2021 and my littlest sister, Caroline Lilian, is 61. </p><p>Her big birthday was actually last year, but Covid-19 regulations put paid to a party. We lifted a glass shivering round the fire in her back garden - in shifts because of social distancing - gave her presents and guzzled cake, but it was all a bit low key.</p><p>Bizarrely, something similar happened on her 50th birthday. On that occasion, a burst water pipe disrupted the planned celebrations and we all had to hurriedly help her to consume food that was going to waste. No speeches or words of appreciation.</p><p><span>There is </span>a list in my head of my favourite people who have influenced my life for good along the way. Caroline is a constant - loving, forgiving and exuding the beauty of Jesus.</p><p>I was only three when she was born. Our mother had three girls in three years and then a boy - a tradition I upheld many years later. Pauline and I thought she was our little doll with her porcelain skin, hazel eyes and blonde curls. She also had what mother called a rosebud mouth, which made her so very cute. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkjX2s_6AKEfL8BslCoHMQQV4uiop6TsITapabMsW_8eL4YElGlzhP1r_e7OFkRqre4lD0jhve4RKfPhKX9Cc1FdVAOtv_V9QaPGTmMZOfhQmzLaIIKV16lWGiNGTo2xSR5FIa0blDlvk6LbHsFei7xgj1CG240IkuFpmS2rGq1MYD2dD1iOAB9omnyQ=s640" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjkjX2s_6AKEfL8BslCoHMQQV4uiop6TsITapabMsW_8eL4YElGlzhP1r_e7OFkRqre4lD0jhve4RKfPhKX9Cc1FdVAOtv_V9QaPGTmMZOfhQmzLaIIKV16lWGiNGTo2xSR5FIa0blDlvk6LbHsFei7xgj1CG240IkuFpmS2rGq1MYD2dD1iOAB9omnyQ=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Caroline, Pauline and Ruth</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></p><p>The adorable toddler grew up into a beautiful girl, although as a teenager she was quite naughty. She has always had a mischievous sense of fun, getting into all kinds of scrapes. On a Scripture Union trip to Tollymore Forest, she somehow thought it was a good idea to go skinny dipping in the river. The teacher had words with our father. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXvTQLNZODqFOf3B6pUWawctsWZMCfkUZoz_-xk7se8AKcr1Im9y8xCTPxShlGep5XlN-oQauB7MUbdVinGyCmkEMltRRTP_Ss9NwRpYPBDDh-3llR5OBoZFD3CMV3CeW-qHQeliMxXCcucbKkKd55aRdwBCywORPLg7cPOXKCQaTK49eN0eMuXR3EJQ=s1024" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiXvTQLNZODqFOf3B6pUWawctsWZMCfkUZoz_-xk7se8AKcr1Im9y8xCTPxShlGep5XlN-oQauB7MUbdVinGyCmkEMltRRTP_Ss9NwRpYPBDDh-3llR5OBoZFD3CMV3CeW-qHQeliMxXCcucbKkKd55aRdwBCywORPLg7cPOXKCQaTK49eN0eMuXR3EJQ=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>With precious brother, Robert</i></td></tr></tbody></table><p>She took her enjoyment of being in the limelight onto the stage at Movilla High School. I loved watching her perform as Dorothy in <i>The Wizard of Oz</i> and Eliza Doolittle in <i>My Fair Lady</i>. She was mesmerizing as she pranced and sang, winning plaudits from the great and good of Newtownards.</p><p>When Caroline left school and went to college, I was at university. She and Esther, her partner in crime, came to do work experience on the north coast and they delighted in embarrassing me by singing and dancing their way along the streets near my digs in Portstewart. </p><p><span>H</span>er first job was at Killard House where she was so beloved of the little group who called her 'mummy' that one of them, Glenna, became her flower girl when she married Clive. I so admired her determination to study social work as a mature student and get her degree. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9Tyl8akQ-wDhOm2jKgrv28-5Ndcz0gh3Vkcn7FgBEGiFEcel3hr7arn9_UStFhwc4XhyJvweDT-taGlVVw4OHOpkSgPheWEWanv3YOBokn7qMTvMAEPv6umO-xkNnjtEcjMEZgeZFQCd4UeyLFp4YuH55_AQpCucAYNvW7Ye701GZ43GdYN5ny6fpMg=s955" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="955" data-original-width="703" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj9Tyl8akQ-wDhOm2jKgrv28-5Ndcz0gh3Vkcn7FgBEGiFEcel3hr7arn9_UStFhwc4XhyJvweDT-taGlVVw4OHOpkSgPheWEWanv3YOBokn7qMTvMAEPv6umO-xkNnjtEcjMEZgeZFQCd4UeyLFp4YuH55_AQpCucAYNvW7Ye701GZ43GdYN5ny6fpMg=s320" width="236" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Clive and Caroline</i></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>Caroline's love of and commitment to vulnerable children runs through her career like a golden thread. Out there are hundreds of families whose lives have been enriched by her care and attention to finding homes where children can be happy.</p><p>One of Caroline's finest qualities is her non-judgmental attitude. She always gives people the benefit of the doubt and tries to see the humanity behind the social problems. If loving unconditionally is one of the qualifications for getting into heaven, Caroline's place in the angelic choir is secured. Caroline was always singing. Our parents were singers and we sang with them. We girls were often dressed alike and we must have looked like the Von-Chestnutts. Caroline progressed on to various choirs, finally finding her happy place in Belfast Community Gospel Choir. As part of that huge, supportive family, she delights audiences with songs of joy to the world. </p><p>Caroline is such a lovely mother to her own children, and grandmother to four boys and her precious namesake, Lily. She is selfless in giving her time and energy to making the world a better place for all of them, going above and beyond to support and encourage. She sets a fine example of godly womanhood: 'Her children arise and call her blessed'. (Proverbs 31)</p><p>Caroline is beautiful, inside and out. She is a very loyal and dedicated friend to many. She is joyful in adversity, facing challenging times through the years with courage and fortitude born out of her steady faith in the God who loves her. </p><p>This year, chef and second cousin, David Chestnutt, cooked a delicious meal for us in celebration of her six decades. We told stories, listened to Gary Barlow's Christmas album (she's a big fan) and ate her favourite cheesecake. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhliD3nTzeIT6aKDgJ7hQJDoXMvMrEvi0IBAqat9bo4UniKJlY8dEMwXh6LVUQ9AAJE_L7lchAYvAQUWtHwqKnwVmoAeVagx5dL3b87r6wVFGA0OUG6zbaYQ1Qe6ttko4GG8HmqfCWWyhOcSV9eBz9s11D0oeqy5Rlry2l1dIOHgD6katWfFpEXAaXJMQ=s754" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="590" data-original-width="754" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhliD3nTzeIT6aKDgJ7hQJDoXMvMrEvi0IBAqat9bo4UniKJlY8dEMwXh6LVUQ9AAJE_L7lchAYvAQUWtHwqKnwVmoAeVagx5dL3b87r6wVFGA0OUG6zbaYQ1Qe6ttko4GG8HmqfCWWyhOcSV9eBz9s11D0oeqy5Rlry2l1dIOHgD6katWfFpEXAaXJMQ=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Sisters Three</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div>Caroline, I am so glad that you are my sister and that God has given us sixty+ years together. I am a better woman because you are in my life. You deserve to be loved and I hope we get to love you until the end.<p>On your birthday, here's a blessing from John O' Donohue:</p><p><i>May you learn to see your self with the same delight, pride and expectation with which God sees you in every moment. </i></p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Thank you for being you, with us. </p><p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span><span> </span>HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY</span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-84980886163588886132020-11-11T16:48:00.000+00:002020-11-11T16:48:15.856+00:00Armistice: Loss is the Great Lesson<div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">One hundred years ago today a nameless British soldier was lovingly borne from a muddy battlefield in France to Westminster Abbey where he was buried with great ceremony. To mark the occasion, poet laureate, Simon Armitage, has written a tribute using the analogy of sleeping rough and finally coming home to lie at rest. <br /><br /></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">On the coffin lay a wreath of red roses interwoven with bay leaves; women who lined the streets carried white chrysanthemums hoping that the body might be their husband, their son. Always flowers at a funeral to mask the horror and symbolise the life that will go on, no matter how bloody the battle. In her poem, <b>Poppies, </b>Mary Oliver, writes that 'loss is the great lesson,' but that it is also an invitation to happiness which can be 'palpable and redemptive'. </div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">The losses we are facing in this pandemic threaten to rob us of all meaning. My hope is that I learn whatever lessons are here for me and do not die 'none the wiser and unassuaged'. (from <b>A Bitterness </b>by Mary Oliver)</div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsuIRh59TcBTio7VH3GV13bBaQw6438R0xEizNlFyxEGcVY4kwUpHZdaW36VYXuFVuEHrvR99Uy554yR2WtN07lqw7HpHNftxl0MUI-qCnhue2Fh5kgGLzmFM8gYSyOk3hJJbiJ3txDFdu/s345/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="146" data-original-width="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsuIRh59TcBTio7VH3GV13bBaQw6438R0xEizNlFyxEGcVY4kwUpHZdaW36VYXuFVuEHrvR99Uy554yR2WtN07lqw7HpHNftxl0MUI-qCnhue2Fh5kgGLzmFM8gYSyOk3hJJbiJ3txDFdu/s320/download.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><i><br /></i></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;"><b>The Bed by Simon Armitage<br /></b></div><div style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;"><b><br /></b><i>Sharp winds scissor and scythe those plains.<br /></i><i>And because you are broken and sleeping rough<br /></i><i>in a dirt grave, we exchange the crude wooden cross</i></div><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>for the hilt and blade of a proven sword;</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>to hack through the knotted dark of the next world,</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>yes, but to lean on as well at a stile or gate</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>looking out over fens or wealds or fells or wolds.</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>That sword, drawn from a king’s sheath,</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>fits a commoner’s hand, and is yours to keep.</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>And because frost plucks at the threads</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>of your nerves, and your bones stew in the rain,</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>bedclothes of zinc and oak are trimmed</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>and tailored to fit. Sandbags are drafted in,</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>for bolstering limbs and pillowing dreams,</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>and we throw in a fistful of battlefield soil:</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>an inch of the earth, your share of the spoils.</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>The heavy sheet of stone is Belgian marble</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>buffed to a high black gloss, the blanket</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>a flag that served as an altar cloth. Darkness</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>files past, through until morning, its head bowed.</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>Molten bullets embroider incised words.</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>Among drowsing poets and dozing saints</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>the tall white candles are vigilant sentries</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>presenting arms with stiff yellow flames;</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>so nobody treads on the counterpane,</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>but tiptoeing royal brides in satin slippers</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>will dress and crown you with luminous flowers.</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i style="font-weight: inherit;">All this for a soul</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>without name or rank or age or home, because you</i></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: "Open Sans", sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; margin: 1em 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>are the son we lost, and your rest is ours.</i></p>Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-15692032624232992872020-07-06T11:23:00.000+01:002020-07-06T11:23:47.971+01:00Farewell to Raymond<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Easter seems like a long time ago, but I have included a lovely painting by Sebastian in South Africa in this the <b>final chapter of <i>Rattus Runs Amok</i>.</b> Also featured is our wonderful Easter Bunny aka Uncle Stephen. The original rat came to a soggy end in our garden...I wonder if Raymond will survive? Thanks for reading. 😃</div>
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<b>Chapter Ten: Raymond Meets the Easter Bunny </b><br />
Raymond could not have moved even if he’d wanted to; he was frozen with fear. The buzzard was hanging low in the sky and had spotted him with its beady eyes. Raymond braced himself for the attack and when it came he felt a talon clutching his soft fur and hoisting him into the air. Below them, the field was getting smaller and smaller. <br />
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So this is what it feels like to fly, thought Raymond. They were right over the garden now when suddenly the unthinkable happened: the buzzard dropped him and swooped down, picking up a baby rabbit, that had hopped out of the bushes, instead. It was all over in seconds: the rabbit was flying away and he was falling, falling… <br />
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He plummeted through a gentle broom bush and did a belly flop on top of something very soft and spongy. It was Orange Cat who was settling down for the night. She was not best pleased. <br />
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‘Get off me,’ she mewed. ‘I’m the one who’s supposed to have nine lives.’ <br />
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Raymond lay there breathing in the scent of coconut as delicate yellow petals drifted round him like snowflakes. He crawled back to his nest and licked a puncture wound in his side. As he fell asleep he thought how glad he was to be alive. <br />
In his dream Raymond was being held down by something heavy and a hooked beak was about to dismember him. He struggled awake. It was late morning and Smudge was frolicking around excitedly. <br />
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‘I was having a nightmare,’ said Raymond. ‘What did I miss?’ <br />
‘I think it’s Easter,’ said Smudge. Something else Raymond did not know about.<br />
‘Himself has just put a sign on the gate and Missus Daisy is out in her boots carrying a basket of eggs.’<br />
‘Let’s go and see,’ said Raymond. They set up a lookout post in a gnarled elder shrub, concealed by luscious black berries.<br />
‘This place smells,’ said Raymond.<br />
‘God’s stinking tree,’ said Smudge and then he puffed out his chest and recited:<br />
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<i>Bour tree, bour tree: crooked rung </i></div>
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<i>Never straight and never strong; </i></div>
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<i>Ever bush and never tree </i></div>
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<i>Since our Lord was nailed to thee. </i></div>
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‘I don’t know what you’re saying,’ said Raymond, confused, ‘but it sounds depressing.’ <br />
‘It’s a poem,’ said Smudge, ‘about Easter and the elder. I think the story turns out all right in the end, though.’<br />
‘I don’t understand how you know things,’ said Raymond, ‘and what have eggs got to do with it?’<br />
‘Now that I don’t know,’ said Smudge, ‘but they’re fun to find.’<br />
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Missus Daisy was wandering round carefully hiding colourful eggs behind clumps of daffodils, under thick hedges and shoulder high in trees. <br />
‘She makes it too easy,’ said Smudge. ‘Look, she’s putting out little signposts to show the way.’<br />
‘But why is she doing this for us?<br />
‘It’s not for us, silly. It’s for them.’<br />
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Two cars were pulling into the driveway spilling small children from doors right and left. At the same time, the visitors tumbled out of the house with shrill shouts of welcome. <br />
‘Oh no, not him,’ said Raymond as he watched Georgie carefully lifting something out of the boot of the car and carrying it into the garage. It was some kind of complicated wooden contraption with a platform, a lever and a pulley.<br />
‘I wonder what he’s up to?’ said Raymond.<br />
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The two little girls, Ruthie and Rose, were dressed alike in pink frocks and pretty bonnets. Rose was waving a stick with ribbons attached, twirling round and round. Someone was blowing bubbles and Ruthie was spinning too trying to catch them. <br />
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Joy and Bastian were conspiring together in a corner, trying to pull a long worm out of the grass while Nate and Teddy chased a beautiful butterfly. <br />
‘What a cheerful scene!’ said Raymond.<br />
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Adults were calling the children indoors for lunch and through an open window Raymond and Smudge could hear the clatter of cutlery, the scraping of chairs and the laughter of family. <br />
‘Now!’ said Smudge, scampering across the grass. Raymond followed him into the dense undergrowth in the far corner. They double checked they could not be seen from the house, then they located the first of the eggs. Smudge unwrapped it with his tiny paws, cracked it against his teeth and handed Raymond a piece of the shell. Raymond sniffed it.<br />
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‘Chocolate?’ he said. ‘You didn’t say the eggs were chocolate.’ <br />
Raymond loved chocolate but he couldn’t help feeling a little bit guilty about stealing the children’s treats.<br />
‘We won’t eat them all,’ said Smudge, tucking into a second egg and licking his lips.<br />
The partners in crime found and gobbled ten or more eggs and were starting to feel rather sick.<br />
‘I think we’ve had enough,’ said Raymond.<br />
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‘Indeed you have,’ sounded a deep voice. <br />
Lolloping across the lawn came the biggest rabbit Raymond had ever seen. It was whiter than white with fluffy pink ears, big teeth and a wide mouth.<br />
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As usual, Smudge leapt into a tree leaving Raymond to face the music. <br />
Raymond was perched on the lower branches of a magnificent pink magnolia whose velvety flowers were budding into crescents reaching for the sky. He had gorged on milky chocolate and did not really want to run away…again.<br /><br />
He took off round the side of the house with the white rabbit in hot pursuit, literally. He seemed to be struggling to breathe and Raymond could smell the sweat. When he looked back, the rabbit was bent double groaning with the exertion. ‘It’s the Easter Bunny!’ squealed Joy. The children came running out of the house to embrace their furry friend.<br />
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Smudge was nowhere to be seen so when Raymond came out of hiding he made his way back to the oil tank alone. All in all it had been a good day: he had escaped death, made a safe landing, learned about Easter, stuffed his stomach with chocolate and outwitted Himself once again. <br />
‘He’s not in great shape,’ said Himself, shaking his head. ‘One beer too many, I fear.’<br />
‘No,’ gasped the white rabbit, ‘there was a…’<br />
‘Never mind,' said Himself, ‘let’s get on with the Easter egg hunt.’<br />
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Missus Daisy was distributing little plastic buckets to the girls while the boys ran on ahead, searching for the sign that read START HERE.<br />
He passed by the front of the open garage and something yummy caught his eye. Georgie had placed a square of peanut chocolate on the little platform of his wooden toy. A peace offering?<br />
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Maybe I have misjudged him, thought Raymond. He’s a kind boy, after all. I think I have room for just one more nibble before bedtime... <br /><b style="text-align: center;"><b>THE END</b></b><br />
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Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-80154056414112765022020-07-03T12:17:00.002+01:002020-07-03T12:22:49.600+01:00<b>Chapter Nine: Raymond Finds Food </b><br />
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Raymond’s nostrils were filling with water and he felt as if he had no strength left. A torrent was still pouring from the tap and he was getting hotter by the minute. His body was swirling in a little whirlpool, round and round, and all he wanted to do was to give up and sink to the bottom. Suddenly, something hit him on the head. What now? he thought. <br />
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He couldn’t see anyone in the room but objects were flying into the bath from above: a metal tank which disappeared below the surface; a yellow rubber duck; a toy soldier and…happy days... a green plastic yacht! Raymond could not believe his luck. He struggled across to the boat. It was also turning in the swell of water and it was difficult to make it stay still. It was this or the end so Raymond summoned his last bit of energy and managed to haul himself in over the side. He fell face down and coughed water from his lungs. He was not safe yet. Things were still raining down on him and he could now see a little child’s hand chucking toys for all he was worth. <br />
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The boat smacked against the side of the tub just below the taps. Raymond spied a hanging chain. He quickly reached out and grabbed it. He was not sure if it would take his weight but he had to try. With a struggle he pulled himself out of the boat and clambered up the few inches to the rim of the bath. On the other side all he could see was a gorgeous mop of blonde curls. <br />
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‘Teddy! Teddy! What on earth are you doing in there?’ shouted Missus Daisy. <br />
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There was no time to lose. Raymond leapt onto the ledge, knocked over a plant and escaped out of the open window under cover of steam as shouty people entered the room: <br />
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‘They’ve filled the tub!’ <br />
‘What a waste of water!’ <br />
‘Well, let’s just bath them now.’ <br />
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Outside, Raymond shook his fur like a dog and droplets spun everywhere. Keeping to the flowerbeds, he made his way back to his den. He was never, ever going back inside that house again! <br />
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After his ordeal, Raymond slept for most of the day, snuggled up in Missus Daisy’s bloomers. It was hunger that drove him back over to the seeds at the foot of the bird table. Late afternoon was a good time to eat because the birds were settling for the night and there was a whole day of pickings to be had. <br />
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‘Aren’t you tired of seeds?’ asked Smudge. He was sitting in the tree crunching a hazel nut. <br />
‘I had some cheese earlier, but I didn’t care for it,’ said Raymond. <br />
‘I know where we can get something more substantial,’ said Smudge. <br />
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Himself had left a gap at the bottom of the garage door again and the pals squashed themselves under. <br />
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‘I don’t see it,’ said Raymond looking round. <br />
‘See what?’ said Smudge. <br />
‘The bicycle built for two.’ <br />
‘It’s just a song,’ sneered Smudge. <br />
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Raymond was annoyed that Smudge was such a know-it-all. He felt stupid sometimes, but the squirrel was his best friend, his only friend, because Orange Cat who was watching them through the window didn’t count.<br />
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‘Look here,’ said Smudge. Against the stepladder leaned a large lumpy bag. <br />
‘What’s in it?’ asked Raymond. <br />
‘Potatoes,’ answered Smudge. ‘The farmer brought them yesterday. Fresh as anything.’ <br />
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Raymond sniffed the bag. It was made from thick layered paper. This was going to be easy. <br />
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‘We’re a team, you and me,’ said Smudge, as Raymond began to nibble a small hole, which became a medium-size hole and then a huge hole in the bottom of the bag. A single potato, round and hard, dropped out onto the cement floor. Smudge picked it up and headed to the door. <br />
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‘You chomp; I’ll carry,’ he said. <br />
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They worked quickly and before long they had built a small pile of stolen spuds beside the oil tank. </div>
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‘That’ll last us all summer,’ said Smudge. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Raymond did not like to admit to his friend that he did not know what a potato was, much less how it tasted. He licked soil from the surface of one and spat it out. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
‘No,’ said Smudge, ‘you have to bite into it. We’ll eat one for supper later.’ </div>
<br />
But just at that moment Missus Daisy was also thinking about supper for her visitors. <br />
<br />
‘We’ve got some lovely Comber earlies,’ she announced, trundling out to the garage. You could hear the screech for miles. <br />
<br />
‘My potatoes! Look at what that filthy rat's gone and done!’ <br />
<br />
Himself was at her side in seconds, two tan skinned boys in tow. <br />
<br />
‘Right lads,’ he said reaching for the gardening implements, ‘we’ll flush the rascal out.’ <br />
<br />
The boys were excited. <br />
<br />
‘They talk funny; are they foreign?’ whispered Raymond, watching them beating the life out of the budding camellias with a trowel and a gardening fork. <br />
<br />
‘Australian, probably,’ said Smudge. ‘Now that’s an accent!’ <br />
<br />
Himself was armed with a long handled hoe. He was advancing with it thrust out in front of him like a spear and he was getting much too close for comfort. Smudge had long since taken to the trees. So much for friendship, thought Raymond. The whole stealing potatoes thing was his idea in the first place! <br />
<br />
‘It’s like a hunt,’ said the younger boy. <br />
<br />
‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you elephants and lions like you’re used to,’ Himself said, ‘but this fellow is just as dangerous.’ <br />
<br />
Raymond beamed with pride. Dangerous, was he? He’d show them dangerous! The older boy must have had a sixth sense because he was creeping through the bushes towards Raymond’s nest. Instead of making his escape into the shuck, Raymond lurked among last year’s fallen leaves and waited for the boy to reach out his trowel and poke the cardboard box. <br />
<br />
‘I’ve found something,’ shouted Bastian, ‘and here’s some potatoes.’ <br />
<br />
With that, Raymond sprang forward and sank his sharp teeth into the back of the child’s hand. Now it was the boy’s turn to wail. <br />
<br />
‘He bit me! Something bit me!’ <br />
<br />
Raymond scurried off into the field while a mummy’s voice reassured her sobbing son and Missus Daisy ran for the antiseptic lotion. <br />
<br />
‘Ha!’ chuckled Raymond. ‘Round two to me.’ <br />
<br />
He gave a leap of delight and was instantly sorry. Riding the thermals above him was a big brown bird, its talons spread like knives and it was looking straight at him…</div>
</div>
Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-44212379710009306952020-07-02T19:07:00.001+01:002020-07-02T19:07:21.244+01:00<br />
<b>Chapter Eight: Raymond has a Bath</b><br />
<br />
When Himself appeared outside the greenhouse, his face was red and swollen with rage. Smudge and Raymond only had a few precious seconds to decide how they were going to avoid being torn limb from limb by the salivating dog. <br />
<br />
‘We have the advantage,’ said Raymond. <br />
‘How?’ said Smudge. <br />
‘There are two of us and only one of him.’ <br />
‘But he’s much bigger,’ whimpered Smudge. <br />
‘Brains are better than brawn,’ said Raymond. <br />
<br />
As the door slid open, Himself released the dog who hurtled into the greenhouse, like a bullet from a gun. Smudge was crouched at the far end of the small space, trying to be invisible. Raymond had climbed up onto a low shelf crammed with plastic pots containing tiny green shoots. <br />
<br />
‘Dodge!’ he yelled, when the dog’s jaws were inches from Smudge’s face. <br />
<br />
This was a new word to Raymond and Smudge. They had heard it when the children were playing games at the party. The daddy threw a ball and shouted, ‘Dodge!’ and they had to jump out of the way. <br />
<br />
‘Dodge!’ he screamed again, and Smudge threw himself sideways, coming within a whisker of getting mauled. The dog was running too fast to stop and he slammed into the glass wall with a loud crunch. That bought the pals some time. Smudge sprang for the door where Himself was waiting with a heavy spade. The squirrel hurled his body against the man’s chest, knocking him to the ground as Raymond scurried out under his legs. It was all over so quickly and the dog simply lay down licking his bruised snout. The friends did not wait to see what Himself intended to do with the spade. Smudge scampered high into a tree and Raymond ran straight towards the house. <br />
<br />
Raymond knew that the dog would soon recover and sniff him out so he clambered up onto a sill and slipped in through an open window. It was quiet inside. Raymond’s heart was pounding as he crept across a bedroom carpet and out through another door.<br />
<br />
As he slid along a slippery floor he got a shock. Coming towards him down the hallway was another rat! The rat had clearly spotted him and was watching him intently. Raymond stopped in his tracks; the other rat stopped too. Raymond tilted his head to one side; the other rat did the same. <br />
He’s copying me, thought Raymond. Who does this guy think he is? <br />
He was not pleased. This was his patch. <br />
The rats slowly crawled towards each other, neither one averting his gaze. <br />
If he doesn’t back off, I’ll have to fight him, thought Raymond, but I’m exhausted. <br />
Still they kept coming, closer and closer, until their twitching noses were almost touching. It was a stand-off. Raymond’s whiskers felt the air in front of him. They touched something cold: cold and hard, like glass.<br />
<br />
Suddenly a door banged somewhere behind him and Raymond dashed into the nearest room. When he looked back out along the hall, the other rat had mysteriously disappeared. Raymond’s problems were not over yet. Against the wall on the far side of the room stood several creatures he could not name: one was grey with a very long, snake-like nose; another was spotted yellow with an equally long neck and in a tree were three cheeky looking brown animals with long dangly arms. <br />
<br />
A tree? thought Raymond. Indoors? He took a closer look and laughed. The creatures were not moving; they were not real. The room was filled with toys, cushions and little coloured pieces of hard plastic. It hurt Raymond’s feet to walk on them. So he looked for somewhere to hide and rest. Inside a little red tent he found exactly what he needed: a pile of soft toys. He chose a brown teddy bear with a furry tummy and curled up for a snooze. <br />
<br />
It was early morning when he woke. Someone was shouting: ‘Teddy! Teddy!’ <br />
They must know I’m in here on the teddy bear, thought Raymond, filled with fear. They’re coming to get me! <br />
He could hear loud voices in the hallway. Raymond crept to the doorway and saw someone plonking down a big heavy suitcase. House guests, home for the holidays. Missus Daisy was crying and hugging and dabbing her eyes with a hanky. <br />
<br />
‘Come and see the play room,’ she said, leading two small blonde boys by the hand. <br />
<br />
Raymond did not wait around to meet the visitors. He made a dash for yet another room. How many rooms were there? He was walking on cool tiles. Raymond explored a wet space. A big lump of cheese was sitting on a dish in the corner. If there was anything Raymond loved to eat, it was cheese. He didn’t recognise the brand. It was paler than cheddar with a red label: Imperial Leather. <br />
<br />
‘Posh!’ said Raymond, taking a huge bite. He swallowed it without chewing. It left a funny taste on his tongue so he slurped water from a shallow puddle and was surprised when a big bubble burst out of his mouth, floated up into the air and popped. Cool! he thought. <br />
<br />
Raymond clambered up the side of a wicker basket filled with dirty clothes and hopped onto a smooth glossy surface. ‘I wonder what this is for?’ he said, looking down into a large tub. <br />
The door behind him opened and, caught off guard, Raymond felt himself slip sliding down a slope. It felt like fun, except for one thing: he was deep inside a huge cavern and he could not possibly climb out. The white walls rose on all sides like a glacier. <br />
<br />
‘Bastian, please go and use the bathroom,’ called a mummy’s voice, ‘and don’t forget to wash your hands!’ <br />
<br />
A boy with hazel eyes peered over the edge of the bath. He saw Raymond but did not utter a single sound. Raymond waited. The boy reached down, pushed a small metal plug into a hole and turned on a silver tap. A huge jet of hot water spurted out and before he knew it, Raymond was wading up to his knees. This isn’t funny, he thought. He hoped the boy would rescue him but instead he turned on his heels and left the room. The water was getting deeper and deeper and Raymond started to struggle. <br />
<br />
‘Help, somebody!’ he squeaked. ‘Please!’ His little feet were paddling frantically and his mouth was full of suds. <br />
<br />
He hated getting his fur wet, but that was not the worst thing. <br />
<br />
'Help!' he spluttered. ‘I can’t swim…’<br />
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<br />Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-86057695299650555342020-07-01T10:51:00.000+01:002020-07-01T10:51:55.131+01:00Raymond Again<div>
<br /></div>
<b></b><br />
<div>
<b><b>Chapter Seven: Raymond has a Rest<br /></b></b></div>
<b>
</b><br />
<div>
The world was upside down. It looked very different to Raymond and it seemed to be swinging from side to side. The boy was carrying him towards his own lair between a cypress tree and the beech hedge which bordered the road. Someone was waiting for them there: a younger boy. <br /><br />
‘Look what I’ve got, Nate,’ said Georgie. <br />
He dangled Raymond in front of his brother’s face. <br />
‘Oooh!’ said Nate, reaching out to touch Raymond. <br />
‘No,’ said Georgie, snatching him away, ‘he’s mine.’ <br />
‘Are we going to kill him?’ <br />
‘No, I’m going to keep him.’ <br /><br />
With that, Georgie plunged Raymond deep into his camouflage trouser pocket and zipped him in. <br />
It was dark in there. The zip had strong metal teeth so Raymond focused on the pocket’s satin lining. He began to nibble. Outside, he could hear parents calling for their children. It was time to go home.<br />
‘Let’s get you strapped in,’ said a daddy voice. Doors banged with a loud clunk and Raymond realised they were getting into a car. He nibbled faster. In the kerfuffle he managed to make a small hole and drop down the leg of Georgie’s trousers. Of course, the boy felt him wriggling and he started to yell. <br />
‘My rat, my rat!’ <br />
‘Stop that noise and DO NOT get out of your car seat,’ commanded the daddy, starting the engine. <br />
<br />
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<br />
Raymond had managed to squeeze between the seats and was now in the boot of the car surrounded by wellington boots, heavy outdoor clothing and a child’s bicycle.<br />
The car was reversing slowly down the driveway. Raymond looked out of the window, feeling desolate because he was leaving his home, possibly for good. Smudge was watching from the tree and he gave a little wave. A tear trickled down Raymond’s nose. <br />
<br />
Suddenly, someone was screaming, ‘Wait!’ <br />
Granny Daisy emerged from the house with an armful of tiny paper packets. <br />
‘Party bags!’ said, Joy, excitedly. ‘Granny forgot the party bags.’ <br />
Missus Daisy yanked open the boot, set down the bags and slammed it shut, but not before Raymond had seized his opportunity, launching himself out of the car and dashing into the laurel shrub panting and sweating. <br />
He could hear Georgie wailing all the way up the road. </div>
<div>
Raymond wondered about the goodies in those bags, but he and Smudge feasted on sandwich crumbs, sticky bits of icing and discarded sausage rolls long after it got dark. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
‘People who live in glasshouses shouldn’t throw stones,’ said Smudge wisely. <br />
The next day, he and Raymond were hiding in a magnolia tree watching Himself inside a glass cage. <br />
It was chilly out and they were looking for somewhere warm to have their afternoon nap. Orange Cat was splayed at her master’s feet, fast asleep as usual. <br />
‘Who’s throwing stones?’ asked Raymond. <br />
‘No one,’ said Smudge. ‘It’s just a saying.’ <br />
‘But what does it mean?’ <br />
‘How should I know?’ answered Smudge <br />
They gazed into the greenhouse. <br />
‘It looks so cosy in there and we need to get inside,’ said Smudge. <br />
Raymond looked at Orange Cat. <br />
‘We’ll have to get her out first,’ he said. <br />
The cat was a lazy lump who wasn’t going anywhere. <br />
‘If we can lure Himself out, then she might follow,’ said Smudge. <br />
They tried everything: rustling the tree, pushing over the garden bench and even trying to imitate the purring of a cat. <br />
Himself kept busy with little plants in pots and Orange Cat did not bat an eyelid. <br />
<br />
‘You’ve given me an idea,’ said Raymond. He scurried back down into the garden and round the corner to where the edge of the lawn met the house. <br />
‘Look!’ he said. <br />
Smudge was baffled. <br />
‘Stones,’ said Raymond. <br />
There was a narrow bed of small pebbles running the length of the wall. Raymond began to lift them up one by one and gave them to Smudge who gathered as many as he could against his chest. <br />
‘Now what?’ said Smudge. <br />
‘Now we do battle,’ said Raymond. <br />
The pair crept along the low wall towards the summer house. They had to make several runs before they had carried enough stones onto the roof. From there, they had a good view of the greenhouse. <br />
‘Oh, I see now,’ said Smudge. <br />
‘We’ll be like gunners arming the canons,’ said Raymond. ‘I’ll pass the stones to you and you can fire them, I mean throw them.’ <br />
‘Ok,’ said Smudge, warming to the task. <br />
The first stone simply tinkled on the glass and the second missed completely. <br />
‘Throw harder,’ said Raymond. <br />
Smudge drew back his arm and launched a sharp stone with all of his might. He overbalanced in the process, lost his footing on the felt roof and tumbled towards the flowerbed. Just as he hit the ground, he heard a loud shattering sound. He joined Raymond behind the summer house, their nosey noses jutting out. <br />
<br />
Himself was shouting and leaping about to avoid the broken glass which had smashed at his feet. Orange Cat was covered in little splinters and was trying to lick her fur. She mewed in pain as she ambled away to get help. Himself carefully lifted the bigger pieces of glass and then humphed off towards the house. He returned with a broom and a dustpan and soon the floor of the glasshouse was swept. Smudge and Raymond waited patiently until the coast was clear before slipping in through a little gap near the door and settling down for a well-earned rest in the humid heat. <br />
<br />
When he woke, Raymond sensed immediately that something was wrong. There was no sign of Himself or Orange Cat, but he could hear a snarling sound nearby. Just outside the door of the greenhouse was a gigantic black dog. Raymond woke Smudge and they sat quite still watching the beast who was watching them. Raymond was relieved to see that the dog was tied to a tree, but he was straining at the leash, slabber dripping from his cruel mouth. <br />
<br />
Smudge looked for an escape route and was horrified to see that, while they were sleeping, someone had covered the broken pane with thick black plastic. Raymond edged towards the hole where they had come in, but it too was blocked by a wedge of wood. <br />
They could hear Himself stomping angrily up the path. <br />
Oh no! thought Raymond. We’re trapped…</div>
Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-18251006892942948422020-06-30T10:53:00.000+01:002020-06-30T11:00:32.209+01:00Raymond Returns<br />
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Hi all, As lockdown eases, I thought I would post the rest of the <b><i>Raymond Rattus Runs Amok </i></b>chapters this week. Enjoy!<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Chapter Six: Raymond
Gets to Fly</b><br />
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<br />
When Raymond woke the following day, the sun was shining like an orange ball in the sky. <br />
‘A good day for it,’ said Smudge, lurking nearby. <br />
‘For what?’ Raymond yawned. <br />
‘The party. Do try to keep up.’ <br />
‘I’m not exactly sure what a party is,’ said Raymond, excited. <br />
‘Put it like this,’ said Smudge, ‘when it’s finished, we will dine like kings.’ <br />
There was a lot of activity in the garden. Himself and Missus Daisy were rushing around setting out tables and chairs and there was a delicious baking smell coming from the kitchen. Smudge and Raymond stayed out of the way until the guests started to arrive with banging doors and the squeals of little people. <br />
<br />
‘It’s someone’s birthday,’ said Smudge. ‘Probably one of the grandchildren.’ <br />
He could read the banner pinned to the front door which read HAPPY BIRTHDAY in large letters. Raymond was not sure he liked children. They were very noisy and ran here and there so quickly, in and out of the bushes, so that it was not easy to know where to hide. Loud music was blaring from a portable machine and there was laughter and the clinking of glasses. Raymond decided to scramble up the climbing frame in the garden to get a better view of the goings on. He scurried up the back and along the plank from which was suspended a swinging seat. He made it across to a little hut and peered through the bars at the gathering below. Little girls in party frocks and boys looking uncomfortable in new shirts and trousers were scattered on the grass. The adults were mostly standing chatting and trays of goodies were floating through the crowd. <br />
<br />
Suddenly there was a puff of exasperation and a shuffling of shoes. Someone was coming up the little wooden ladder. Raymond crouched in the corner as a tousled head appeared at eye level. The boy saw Raymond immediately but did not scream or even speak. He just stared as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. He wore a birthday boy badge and he was looking at Raymond as if he was a birthday present. The boy was on his tummy now; they were lying nose to nose. Raymond sized up the boy, wondering whether he was friend or foe. <br />
<br />
A high-pitched voice in the garden shouted: ‘Georgie! Georgie! Where are you?’ <br />
He and the child were invisible to the people below. Anything could happen in this enclosed space. Raymond decided not to wait around to find out what the boy intended to do with him. Just as Georgie reached out with a sticky fist, Raymond leapt onto a red ridge just above him but the surface was slippery and he could not get a grip with his claws. In full view of the parents and grandparents, Raymond slithered his way down a slide, gathering speed as he went, and shot across the grass, tumbling head over heels into a prickly rose bush. <br />
<br />
‘Ouch!’ cried Raymond, trying to pull away from a huge thorn which had snagged his fur. <br />
No one was listening to him, however, because just at that exact moment, Granny Daisy had emerged from the house carrying a platter on which perched a cake in the shape of a space rocket. It was probably top-heavy to begin with, but when Missus Daisy spied Raymond she let out a piercing shriek, threw her arms up in the air and the cake did a slow dive towards the ground. A gentleman managed to catch the spaceship’s nose but the rest plummeted to earth like…well, like a rocket falling from the sky. One of the ladies jumped onto a chair with her flowery dress gathered up round her knees.<br />
<br />
In the commotion that followed, Raymond managed to sneak away, bruised but not broken. <br />
He made it back to his den from where he could hear singing: <br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Happy Birthday, dear Georgie. </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Happy Birthday to you. </i></div>
Raymond thought he was the only one who heard Granny Daisy sobbing in the shed close by. He did feel a bit sad for her. It was a lovely cake. <br />
<br />
There were races and games to follow, but Raymond thought it all looked very silly, so he lay low. <br />
The children had all gone round to the front of the house where they had disappeared inside a massive inflatable dome that had mysteriously popped up on the lawn. It was bright blue and yellow with fat steps leading up to its entrance which gaped like the mouth of a whale. Raymond sneaked round the outside, taking care not to be seen. Granny Daisy seemed to have recovered from her shock and disappointment and was slouched in a chair, knocking back red liquid in a round glass. <br />
‘I want to see what’s in there,’ said Raymond. <br />
‘No good will come of it,’ warned Smudge. ‘You’re on your own.’<br />
<br />
The inflatable was secured to the grass by a series of ropes. Raymond was able to scale one of these and drop onto the shiny surface where the children were playing. He backed into a corner and watched them. Two girls dressed in identical frocks were clearly called Ruthie and Rose. Their excited mother stood outside telling them to jump. <br />
Jump? thought Raymond. The girls were joined by another girl. This one was older. She was wearing red leggings and a green T-shirt with a huge hawk on it. Raymond shivered and resolved to stay away from her. <br />
Without warning, the older girl started to jump up and down on the slippery surface. <br />
‘Well done, Joy dear,’ called another mummy. <br />
<br />
Ruthie and Rose joined in and before Raymond knew it the air was filled with bouncing bodies. His underbelly was pushing up into his spine and he could feel himself rising up from the floor. He wanted to get out but he could do absolutely nothing to stop the upward movement of his body. He was bouncing like a kangaroo.<br />
<br />
It was not an entirely unpleasant experience. Raymond felt as if he was flying! He was weightless as he spun into the air but when he landed again he could not keep his balance. Nor could he keep watch. Once he managed to get the right way up, he realised to his horror that Georgie had climbed into the big mouth and was now jumping with his sister and cousins. When he saw Raymond, the look on the boy’s face was delighted glee. As Raymond soared up high, Georgie reached out and grabbed him by the tail. <br />
<br />
‘Gotcha!’ he said. <br />
<br />Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-35595856604574184012020-05-08T16:37:00.003+01:002020-05-08T16:42:40.175+01:00VE Day 75 <br />
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<br />
On this special day, I am remembering my father, Robert Moore Chestnutt, who flew with the R.A.F. in the second world war. In 1944 he bailed out of a burning plane – thankfully not over enemy territory. In recognition of his bravery, he was given a tiny gold caterpillar with a ruby red eye. It is no longer than a fingernail and is now among my most precious possessions. I am wearing it today to say thank you to those who fought and lived, as well as those who fought and died.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-0-z9WRlqkqE39GU2gUA-AFS7GHLqUngSakNswCsOrluiWc_-WqglP1DBXB7tZsIP0R4mrsqJhLc5O0GuuhZgHq-Vyp7s0-V1cUKkN0-vW4FEM5FI4Ha91GJiSRH8nbygMDwMrdBnkMTb/s1600/caterpillar+pin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="280" height="126" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-0-z9WRlqkqE39GU2gUA-AFS7GHLqUngSakNswCsOrluiWc_-WqglP1DBXB7tZsIP0R4mrsqJhLc5O0GuuhZgHq-Vyp7s0-V1cUKkN0-vW4FEM5FI4Ha91GJiSRH8nbygMDwMrdBnkMTb/s200/caterpillar+pin.jpg" width="200" /></a>The Irvin Air Chute Co. started the Caterpillar Club in 1922 and the practice of awarding the tiny gold Caterpillar Pin to anyone who saved his life by parachuting from a disabled or flaming aircraft. Each recipient of the Caterpillar Pin was living testimony to the life-saving ability of the Irvin Type Air Chute. The Caterpillar is symbolic of the silk worm, which lets itself descend gently to earth from heights by spinning a silky thread to hang from. Parachutes in the early days were made from pure silk. <br />
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In 1919 Leslie Irvin, a 24-year-old stunt man from California, demonstrated the first "free drop" parachute. He had made the chute himself on a borrowed sewing machine. Flying safety experts were so impressed that the American Air Force and British R.A.F. promptly adopted the parachute as standard equipment.<br />
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During the height of World War II, production of parachutes at the Irvin Air Chute Co. factory in Letchworth, England reached a peak of nearly 1,500 parachutes per week. By late 1945 there were 34,000 members of the Caterpillar Club. It is estimated that at least 100,000 people’s lives have been saved by Irvin parachutes.<br />
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A few years before his death my father wrote down all of his war memories in One Man’s War. He was a wireless operator flying in Lancaster bombers and his account includes details of no fewer than thirty-two bombing missions over enemy territory.<br />
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Stuttgart, Kiel, Paullae, Stetten, Russelheim, Frankfurt, Leeuwarden, Essen…he records a long list of European towns where he and his crew dropped bombs. Although their targets were mainly in industrial heartlands, however I think of it I cannot escape the fact that my father was responsible for the deaths of many people. War is a nasty business.<br />
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Sitting on the edge of that hole he promised an invisible God that if he got out alive he would become a believer and serve him for the rest of his life. He survived and became a preacher and a fisher of men. We didn’t have a TV for most of my growing up and when we finally did get one we were definitely not allowed to watch the silver screen on the Sabbath. Yet I can recall coming home late one Sunday evening when I was in my teens to discover my father glued to the box. He was watching the film The Dambusters and reliving his days of terror seated high in the Astra Dome with 100 Squadron.<br />
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What strikes me now is that my father was only 18 when he joined up. He spent the next four years flying both during the war and afterwards in India, Burma and Ceylon (Sri Lanka) with Transport Command. Most wars are fought by teenagers – they give their best years when others are going to university or starting careers. When he was demobbed he left with his civvies, a meagre gratuity and memories of comrades lost.<br />
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Dad - you died too young aged 60, but you are still my hero. In the words of poet, Wendell Berry, I am<i> 'the inheritor of what I mourned.'</i> As my dad, you shaped so much of who I am and you are still here in every moment when I struggle to overcome and to grow into who I am meant to be. I wish I had half of your courage and determination, but you are always before me as an example of what it means to fight the good fight and finish well. Thank you. </div>
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<i>A lonely impulse of delight<br />Drove to this tumult in the clouds;<br />I balanced all, brought all to mind,</i></div>
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<i>The years to come seemed waste of breath,<br />A waste of breath the years behind<br />In balance with this life, this death.</i><br />
(From An Irish Airman Foresees his Death) <a href="https://www.poets.org/node/45485">W. B. Yeats</a><u> </u></div>
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<br />Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-40823990760694566162020-05-01T12:56:00.000+01:002020-05-01T12:56:23.184+01:00Where She Was From<div style="text-align: left;">
My daughter, Bethany, set a challenge on her Instagram to write a poem about where and what we're from. On what would have been my mother's 94th birthday, I decided to pen one for her in loving memory. </div>
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<b>Constance Mary Helen 1926-2010</b></div>
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She was from carthorse and cauliflower<br />And taking baggin to the men<br />From lay preaching<br />And pulpit teaching<br />From polishing again and again<br /><br /></div>
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She was from learning not to ask for salt<br />In college days on the Mound<br />From book reading<br />And Africa needing<br />From Wesleyan hymn singing sound<br /><br /></div>
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She was from meetings and mission hall<br />And wishing she’d given Him more<br />From five day clubs<br />And vapour rub<br />From coughing until she was sore</div>
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She was from needle work and knitting<br />And serving with all of her love<br />From make do and mend<br />And hallelujah to the end<br />From kneeling before God above<br /><br /></div>
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She was from teaching to speak and to sing<br />And visiting the shut-ins and infirm<br />From compassionate care<br />And selling Tupperware<br />From piano and the Robin’s Return<br /><br /></div>
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She was from watercolour and delicate art<br />From kindness and earnest endeavour<br />From cake baking<br />And dress making<br />Leaving a fragrance lasting forever</div>
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Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-57935711786803821592020-04-29T10:24:00.001+01:002020-04-29T10:24:48.775+01:00Raymond in the DarkHi all,<br />
Half way there. The creature in today's story really does exist in the part of the roof space we call Narnia. Let me know if you want me to continue with the final chapters. Love Granny Ruth<br />
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<b>Chapter Five: An Encounter in the Dark</b><br />Raymond clambered out of the box of sticks and lay on the cold garage floor. He had never felt so sick in all of his short life. He gazed up at the little blue sweets arranged carefully on the window sill. Who keeps sweets in the garage? he wondered. And then it hit him. Poison! Someone was trying to kill him, probably Himself.<br /><br />The desire for revenge - to pay someone back when they hurt you - is very strong. Raymond gathered all his remaining energy and shimmied up the waxy side of a tall, green Wellington boot. He managed to reach the top and wriggle the upper half of his body over the edge. Clinging on with his tiny claws he began to retch. He coughed and vomited the entire contents of his stomach into the boot before sliding back down, exhausted. That’ll teach him, he thought.<br /><br />He now had a raging thirst, so he decided to get back outside where the heavy rain had left sweet deep puddles. After a long drink, Raymond lay in his cardboard box for the rest of the morning. <br />The rain had washed the day clean and spring was bursting out in yellow everywhere. Smudge offered words of wisdom: you can eat the broom, but don’t touch the forsythia or the dandelions. 'After the morning I’ve had, I’m not touching anything,' said Raymond.<br />
<br />Later he dandered round to the front of the house where there was a flowerbed with lush foliage. On his tour of the property he had spied broken pieces of roof tiles lying in the valley between the house and the return. He reckoned if he could just get up there he might be able to find a way inside. Himself and Missus Daisy were in the back garden so the coast was clear.<br />
<br />Raymond found a strong shrub with toothed leaves which was well established and securely attached to the wall. It took his weight without shifting as he began to clamber up its spiny stem. It was easier than he’d thought and very soon he emerged into the light and dropped into the gutter. It was soggy in there but he quickly stepped onto the roof tiles and scurried up the valley. As expected the cement was dislodged and some of the edge tiles were broken. There was a hole. He squeezed under the roofing felt and he was in!<br />
<br />But where was he? He walked along a beam and peered down into the room below. It was a windowless space, gloomy and dark. There was no furniture, only boxes and boxes. As his eyes adjusted to the half-light he could see a wooden rocking horse abandoned in the corner. Nothing to see here, he thought. Or to eat.<br /><br />He sniffed around the floor when all of a sudden he had a creepy feeling, like he was being watched. He glanced at the horse, but he was staring into the distance. Was there someone else in here? The ceiling of the room slanted down on two sides and in the far corner was a pitch-black space. Raymond crept closer until he could just make out a shape, a sinister shape with a ghostly white face. He jumped back in fear. He knew that shape. It was a shape like that that had made off with his father one day, picking him up in the field and carrying him high into the sky. Raymond and his brothers never saw him again. <br />The shape did not move. It sat totally still with round eyes staring ahead. It was a barn owl – the kind that sits on fences lying in wait for unsuspecting rodents like him. Its plumage was buff-coloured speckled with tiny dots and its claws were gripping a piece of wood.<br />
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<br />Raymond was not a stupid rat. He knew that it was strange for an owl to be lurking indoors. Who on earth does he think he’s going to catch in here? he wondered. <br />The owl did not seem to have noticed him. Perhaps he’s ill, thought Raymond. He grew braver by the minute and pressing his body close to the floor he inched forward to get a better look. The owl was worse than ill: some of his feathers had been torn loose and one of its wings was obviously broken. He was in a bad way and Raymond felt sorry for him.<br />
‘Are you all right, old man?’ he asked.<br />Silence.<br />‘How on earth did you get in here?’<br />Silence again.<br />‘Be like that, then,’ said Raymond. ‘See if I care!’<br />The owl stayed absolutely still and Raymond started to feel like a predator. He ran at the owl and knocked him over. Now who was the bully? He could not believe that he had attacked a bird of prey and got the better of him.<br /><br />The owl offered no resistance but still Raymond felt powerful. He bit into the owl’s side expecting to find juicy intestines. Instead he spluttered and spat. His mouth was filled with feathers and musty grains. What? <br />Raymond was greedy so he ate a few mouthfuls until he felt completely stuffed. <br />Stuffed! Of course. That was it. The truth dawned slowly. The owl was stuffed! <br />Raymond glanced round to see if the horse was watching. Still wooden. He was embarrassed. Did he really think an owl would let him get close enough to make mincemeat of him? <br />It was time to leave. Raymond took one last look at the poor owl and leapt up towards the roof. Feeling very foolish, he descended the pyracantha bush and slunk home.<br />
<br />‘Having fun, are we?’ smirked Smudge, the squirrel, when he appeared on a nearby branch.<br />Raymond ignored him. Smudge could be really annoying. He did, however, know things. From his vantage point high in the tree he could see everything that was going on. He had been watching Himself and Missus Daisy draping colourful bunting on the big wooden structure in the back garden. <br />‘I think there’s going to be a party,’ he said smugly. <br />‘Are we invited?’ said Raymond.<br />‘Of course not,’ said Smudge, ‘but that won’t stop the likes of us…’<br />Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-54789247000136273972020-04-24T15:23:00.001+01:002020-04-24T15:23:29.618+01:00Partners in Crime
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Enjoy Finlay George's drawing of Raymond in this chapter. Other illustrations by Maria. GR<br />
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<i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><b>Chapter Four: Raymond Makes a Steal</b><br />
<br />Raymond braced himself for the powerful jet of water which must surely come. Nothing! The man in<br />
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the cap did not even notice him. He stomped around the tank and then removed a black cap and inserted the nozzle. There was a droning sound as the tank filled and then it was all over and the lorry was gone. On the ground were a few drops of black sticky oil and size eleven boot prints. <br />Raymond surveyed the scene. All that was left of his den were some squished leaves and a broken nutshell which he had been using for a pillow.<br />Dear oh dear, he thought.<br />‘Dear oh dear,’ echoed a voice above him. <br />Smudge the squirrel was watching from a nearby branch. <br />‘I feel right sorry for you,’ he said, looking down his nose.<br />Raymond noticed that Smudge had a funny accent as well as attitude. <br />‘It’s as if you don’t really belong here,’ he went on. ‘My ancestors have been here since 1873, wreaking havoc in orchards and market gardens; destroying bulbs; damaging roofs and electricity cables. We have really carved out a place for ourselves.’<br />‘Where did you come from?’ asked Raymond.<br />‘North America,’ drawled Smudge. <br />‘That explains the accent,’ said Raymond.<br />‘I don’t have an accent,’ said Smudge, indignant. ‘It’s you Irish who have the accent!’<br />‘Northern Irish,’ corrected Raymond. <br />Suddenly Smudge jumped up onto one of the bins which sat along the garage wall. He managed to open the lid of the blue bin and pulled out a box which he plonked down beside Raymond. It was long and narrow with a picture of a lady’s summer sandal on the side. <br />‘Will this do?’ asked the squirrel.<br />‘For what?’<br />‘Your new home, dumb-ass.’<br />‘Language, please!’ said Raymond sniffing the box. <br />‘We’ll have to furnish it,’ he said.<br />‘Less of the “we,”’ said Smudge, but as Raymond headed off across the lawn, the squirrel was not far behind.<br />In the centre of the garden stood a large wooden structure with a sturdy platform. Raymond had absolutely no idea what it was for, but underneath it was a square pit of dry sand. Well, dryish. It was compacted but with a bit of digging it would make a perfect lining for the box. How to get it over to the oil tank, though? That was the problem.<br />Sticking out of the sand were several abandoned vehicles: children’s toys bleached by the sun and winter days’ neglect. Smudge was pulling at a lorry – a dump truck.<br />‘Perfect!’ they said in unison. <br />What a comical sight! Smudge did all of the digging and heavy lifting. He also pushed the truck across the resistant grass. Raymond, however, was director of operations; he sat at the tiny steering wheel shouting instructions. It was a mammoth effort, but they got there.<br />‘No thanks to you,’ said Raymond to Orange Cat who was watching them with her eyes almost shut as she draped herself along a low hanging branch.<br />
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<br />‘There now,’ said Raymond pleased with his efforts. The box was lined with fresh sand and good to go – except for one thing. I need a bit of home comfort, he thought, maybe a blanket. He looked round for inspiration. <br />Above the lawn the washing was snapping and waving. At one end of the fashion parade was a foundation garment belonging to Missus Daisy. A pair of white bloomers trimmed with pink lace flapped in the breeze for all the world to see. Size large.<br />
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Has she no shame?’ muttered Smudge.<br />
‘I have an idea,’ said Raymond.<br />The friends stood looking up at the forked pole which vaulted the washing line high into the air. <br />‘I’m not going up there,’ said Smudge.<br />‘Me neither,’ said Raymond.<br />Raymond had not got as far as praying and yet his prayers were suddenly answered when a sudden downpour sent Missus Daisy running from the back door, bareheaded and in her carpet slippers. She pulled the pole down, grabbed at her washing, snapping coloured pegs all over the place, and dumped her damp smalls into the wicker basket. She did not notice Raymond and Smudge crouching under the crimson azalea. Orange Cat had dawdled off in search of cover. <br />A distraction was needed and Raymond was happy to oblige. He didn’t even have to do anything; he simply sauntered along the low patio wall, making sure he was seen. <br />Getting wet was worth it. As hoped, Missus Daisy screamed, dropped the basket (running, no doubt, to fetch Himself, or the rolling pin) while Smudge casually swiped her knickers. The pals retreated quickly, draped the stolen underwear on the oil tank to dry and high fived each other. Job done! <br />The rain persisted all afternoon and Smudge crept high into the tree for shelter. Raymond was on his own and struggling to keep dry. Time to investigate the garage.<br />The garage door was a heavy brute on a roller which always closed with a loud clang. Himself had been out washing the car when the rain came. <br />‘No need to rinse,’ he chuckled as he carried the bucket and sponge indoors. <br />He was in a hurry because the rain slid too easily off his bald head and dribbled into his eyes, so he did not pull the door down quite far enough. There was about an inch of a gap at the bottom which was more than enough space for an inquisitive rat with a flexible skeleton. Raymond tested it out with his whiskers and squeezed underneath, flat like a lollipop, before you could say wet Wednesday. <br />There was a large window in the garage, but it was still quite dark and gloomy inside. Untidy too. There were tools arranged on the walls but tins of paint and bags of turf were scattered on the rough cement floor. The lawn mower was sleeping in the corner so without disturbing it, Raymond climbed its handle to reach the windowsill. Something brightly coloured had caught his attention: a small jar lid had been placed on the ledge and it was filled with little blue sweets. <br />‘For me?’ he said. ‘Did they know I was coming?’<br />Raymond sniffed the sweets warily. It had been a while since breakfast so he thought he would allow himself a tiny treat. If I want to get back in here, he thought, I need to watch my figure. He snaffled one of the sweets and then dropped down to search for somewhere dry to have a nap. At the back of the garage was a wooden box containing chopped sticks. This will do, he thought, with a sleepy yawn.<br />A short time later he woke. His tummy ached and he needed a drink. He felt so poorly.<br />‘I’m too young to die,’ he whimpered.<br /><br />
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<br />Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-37383316409979011772020-04-20T16:48:00.001+01:002020-04-20T16:48:10.663+01:00The Girls and Orange CatHi all,<div>
Today's chapter is a tribute to my friend Elaine's real life Orange Cat. Enjoy the photograph taken by my son, Joshua, in his beautiful garden and the drawings by the lovely Maria. More in a few days. Granny Ruth x<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Chapter Three:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Raymond Meets the Girls</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKUvpSPeb1PamjsScj3j5nHDXRSWheStHMZShD_whQRc2NyB6Qz7fHgxOaucWhey7BQOKmxyFwzER5tMMvE13CzXlTLPKQiRyGV9UdN30R2BCnGK82qsNRMqbLCtgT6j6MN6Z5m44meAJD/s1600/Goldfinch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: right; color: #0066cc; float: right; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"></a>Squeezed flat in a narrow space underneath a large oil tank, Raymond tried not to breathe. Whatever it was lurking in the undergrowth, it surely could not reach him here. Oh to be able to fly! Or climb trees. <br />
Light played with shadowy shapes as the creature slunk towards him. A tiger in the rain forest could not instil a greater sense of terror.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was this the end? His mother had warned him about cats’ eyes:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Stay off the road, Raymond, or you’ll be squashed like cats’ eyes. This was something different.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvuK_6FZnjHhpkxqxdxeVDS8iiFR21lEBlQpneTz9CPCli7hs7aj29lJ86GHAMahhTq0KZPkPpcpZ7v1iAiRBryhTvVFcezVOEx6jLVDr3_qpzdEzY9G4u52zHLKv_Te10OnYWcM2O7oUy/s1600/Orange+Cat.JPG"></a>When he presented himself, however, Orange Cat was less feline foe and more fat friend rubbing his furry bottom along the side of the tank. He sneezed twice, wiping a paw across his snotty nose. He’s got a cold, oh happy days! thought Raymond. He can neither smell nor see me and anyway he’s too out of shape to give chase. All the same, he stayed where he was until the cat lost interest and wandered off. Raymond fell asleep, snuggled in his own smallest of spaces, hedged in by bits of crispy leaves and garden debris. <br />
He woke hours later to a terrible cacophony of sound. Above and around him was trilling, piping and singing. The indigo sky was melting into pink and blue pastels as the sun pushed its way above the horizon. Raymond felt like he’d been through a mangle as he stretched out his flattened muscles and shook his fur free of fungus. What <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> that noise?<br />
Keeping to the edge of the flower bed, Raymond crawled stealthily towards the dawn chorus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were everywhere, preening, gossiping and feeding. It was breakfast time at the bird table. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKUvpSPeb1PamjsScj3j5nHDXRSWheStHMZShD_whQRc2NyB6Qz7fHgxOaucWhey7BQOKmxyFwzER5tMMvE13CzXlTLPKQiRyGV9UdN30R2BCnGK82qsNRMqbLCtgT6j6MN6Z5m44meAJD/s1600/Goldfinch.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: right; color: #0066cc; float: right; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKUvpSPeb1PamjsScj3j5nHDXRSWheStHMZShD_whQRc2NyB6Qz7fHgxOaucWhey7BQOKmxyFwzER5tMMvE13CzXlTLPKQiRyGV9UdN30R2BCnGK82qsNRMqbLCtgT6j6MN6Z5m44meAJD/s200/Goldfinch.JPG" width="200" /></a>There were fancy feathers everywhere: tawny chaffinches, hooded great tits and, loveliest of all, multi-coloured goldfinches pecking at a separate black seed feeder. Their red faces made them look like guests at a masked ball. </div>
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Pretty girls! Of course, the rolling pin woman’s pretty girls!<br />
The last thing Raymond expected was to be shown to a table by a waiter. A huge bird had landed in the garden, lord of all he surveyed. The little birds scattered at his approach.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He strutted along the lawn wearing a black jacket over his white waistcoat, his long midnight blue tail feathers brushing the dew. He was huge and self-important, intimidating anyone who blocked his path. Not that anyone dared. The finches and tits had taken cover in the nearby bushes and the wood pigeon was fumbling about on the grass. <br />
Having surveyed the scene, the huge magpie rose into the air and then hurtled back towards the garden like a dive bomber. What on earth was he doing? Soon it was clear to Raymond that there was method in his madness: he was hitting the suspended bird feeder with his strong wings trying to dislodge it from the nail. But why?<br />
The first few attempts failed, then, with a clatter, the full feeder hit the deck, spilling its lid and contents into the flowerbed below.<br />
Geronimo!<br />
The well-dressed bully was first to the feast, and when he had had his fill, the wood pigeon plodded over to help herself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Raymond was salivating with desire. He edged closer, unsure of his welcome. There was none. The great brute of a magpie screeched in his face but then he lifted up and flew to the fence, watching him with beady eyes. <br />
He crunched and nibbled and filled his belly without lifting his head. When he did look up he realised that it had started to rain – huge globules of spit. Raymond hated the rain because he was vain and did not think the wet look suited him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He retreated to his new home under the oil tank to think. <br />
Aside from Smudge, no one had spoken to him, except the crazy woman who wanted to kill him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What had he ever done to her?<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvuK_6FZnjHhpkxqxdxeVDS8iiFR21lEBlQpneTz9CPCli7hs7aj29lJ86GHAMahhTq0KZPkPpcpZ7v1iAiRBryhTvVFcezVOEx6jLVDr3_qpzdEzY9G4u52zHLKv_Te10OnYWcM2O7oUy/s1600/Orange+Cat.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; clear: right; color: #0066cc; float: right; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1059" data-original-width="1280" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvuK_6FZnjHhpkxqxdxeVDS8iiFR21lEBlQpneTz9CPCli7hs7aj29lJ86GHAMahhTq0KZPkPpcpZ7v1iAiRBryhTvVFcezVOEx6jLVDr3_qpzdEzY9G4u52zHLKv_Te10OnYWcM2O7oUy/s200/Orange+Cat.JPG" width="200" /></a><br />
Nevertheless, Raymond decided to hang around for a while: big garden, plentiful supply of seed, ingenious birds – what was there not to like? Even Orange Cat seemed to be too lazy to pursue him, preferring to lounge around on the grass. <br />Raymond was in paradise: in among the shards of bark which covered the flowerbed he found wheat, maize, millet and his favourite: sunflower seeds.</div>
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Raymond felt hungrier than ever. He hadn’t eaten a thing apart from a lick of sugar in twenty-four hours. </div>
Now that he had decided to stay for a while, Raymond wanted to <br />get the lie of t<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1A4u5y3RRHlbvZeLXxBA18YqryvzQHQBtx4byWGO0Jthnl58ajDqN3GFGrm_tr16ge2W6Q8VlGj25-fZML2sgF6LYc_fd50wX1W6ZfJ-TAbwrwOGlhz_JO4KCFyTINhJlsdLjALI6Z4fB/s1600/Raymond+feeding.JPG"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1A4u5y3RRHlbvZeLXxBA18YqryvzQHQBtx4byWGO0Jthnl58ajDqN3GFGrm_tr16ge2W6Q8VlGj25-fZML2sgF6LYc_fd50wX1W6ZfJ-TAbwrwOGlhz_JO4KCFyTINhJlsdLjALI6Z4fB/s1600/Raymond+feeding.JPG"></a>he land. Once the rain had stopped, he moseyed along under grey skies and made a tour of the garden. <br />Round the far side of the house, he saw smoke seeping out of a half-open window. Fire! He thought, but no one was raising the alarm. In fact, Himself was singing. Singing in a fire?<br />Raymond c<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_92oxKgtU05g-NQLxK2Pw55cyLWAis5p8-7c91KDxl6EA7yyTJa3o7dP9ZiqI8KGGQt_NzDGW-INFmH4FffHcKlwMcTAvPBfJaKyWSjRdvX6pyPl6ua3xq1KbZBh_x3y1AAyLjJSNcVj/s1600/Raymond+feeding.JPG"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu_92oxKgtU05g-NQLxK2Pw55cyLWAis5p8-7c91KDxl6EA7yyTJa3o7dP9ZiqI8KGGQt_NzDGW-INFmH4FffHcKlwMcTAvPBfJaKyWSjRdvX6pyPl6ua3xq1KbZBh_x3y1AAyLjJSNcVj/s1600/Raymond+feeding.JPG"></a>rept closer and realised that it was not smoke, but steam. He hid in a bed of lesser celandine, lying among glossy <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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heart-shaped leaves, the delicate yellow flowers closed waiting for the sun to reappear. The song rang out in a warbling tenor voice:<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do.<br />I’m half-crazy all for the love of you.<br />It won’t be a stylish marriage,<br />For I can’t afford a carriage.<br />But you’ll look sweet up on the seat<br />Of a bicycle built for two.</i></div>
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Now <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>I have to see, thought Raymond. Note to self, get into the garage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He continued on his journey through the rose bushes with their tightly closed buds, past tulips standing to attention like soldiers and back to his den. <br />
And not a moment too soon. All of a sudden the rumble of an engine shook the earth. A huge lorry had driven into the driveway. Raymond stayed where he was, watching. There was a wrenching noise and down the side of the house came striding a tall man wearing a cap and overalls. Behind him snaked a long pipe. He was getting closer and closer. A huge nozzle was prodded through the bush directly in front of him.<br />
Oh no! thought Raymond. He’s going to flush me out…</div>
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Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-91583378901620042172020-04-18T11:08:00.003+01:002020-04-18T15:32:18.840+01:00Thinking Green<br />
Thank you for the feedback on yesterday's chapter. Here is today's offering. I love the beautiful drawing of the falcon by Edith Joy, aged 6. When I asked Maria for her illustration, she wasn't thinking seasonally - the seasons are different in SA anyway - but isn't Raymond cute? Enjoy!<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Chapter Two: Raymond Thinks
Green</b><br />
Raymond cowered in the grass and slowly turned his eyes
upwards. He tried to roll them back in their sockets without moving his head.
Instinctively, he knew that moving his head or any other part of his body would
be a mistake. Big mistake. Above him loomed a huge bird, blocking out the sun. It’s probably
a peregrine falcon, he thought. He did not, in fact, know what a bird of prey
looked like, but he had heard about them, how they lived in the old quarry on
Scrabo Hill and made silent forays into the countryside.<br />
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Why would a big bird like that be interested in a seed
feeder? How could it possibly get its beak into the tiny little holes?
Ridiculous! Raymond had begun to believe that the kindly lady had put the seed
out for the regular residents, like him. Well, he was hardly a regular, not
yet, anyway. But he was certainly not a blow-in from the stone quarry. Let them
get their own seed!<br />
The air became cooler as the bird started to fall out of the
sky. Raymond started to wish he was a chameleon as he pressed himself deeper into
the spongy lawn. Think green! Think green!<br />
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‘That’ll never fill you,’ his mother used to say when he
picked at his food. <br />
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‘That’ll never fill you,’ he murmured into himself as the
bird craned its neck to see what was on the tall table – a few crumbs from a
dried up bread roll and an apple core on the turn.<br />
Seconds later, Raymond did not know whether to feel foolish
or afraid. The bird was not looking at the feeder; it was looking at him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course it was after him. Who wants a seed
starter when there is raw rat on the menu? The whole ‘think green’ thing was not working. Inches away,
however, was a freshly aerated bed of brown soil. If he could only ease himself
over there he would have a fighting chance. Well, not really. If it came to
fighting, he had absolutely no chance against a creature with sharp fingernails
who could take to the skies with him suspended like a hang glider.<br />The bird rose again into the blue. Raymond shivered and
shifted sideways ever so slightly until his little feet felt less resistance,
sinking into the sandy loam. The bed was filled with soft green rounded leaves scattered
at intervals. He snuck under the nearest one, closed his eyes and lay quite
still.<br />
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Suddenly there was a flapping and fluttering and a gentle
movement of air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Raymond knew that
something had landed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He braced himself.
Nothing happened. He peeked out from under the leaf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where was the scary shadow bird? Gone.
Circling high and away.<br />
Nearby, on the grass was a much stupider creature
altogether. It had tiny claws instead of talons and was purring like a cat. Not
a falcon, then. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wood pigeon? Its coat
was iridescent – shifting shades of grey blue and purple, with feathers that ruffled
softly as it waddled towards the foot of the bird table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe she is a vegetarian, he thought
hopefully. The bird was gazing at the feeder. It was too small; she was too
big.<br />
Bolder now, Raymond sized up the competition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed as if neither of them was going to
get at the seed any time soon. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll make
a dash, he thought, to scare her away and then I’ll devise a plan of action. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> D</span>ash he did, but he did not get very far. Somehow, as he
wriggled in the soft soil, his foot had become entangled in a piece of string.
Not string, something thicker and stronger. A red coil was wound round his
right leg, pulling tighter as he struggled.<br />
What on earth? he wondered.<br />
Just then a shrill shriek pierced the air.<br />
‘Get out of my strawberries, you pesky vermin or I’ll skin
you alive!’<br />
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The housewife stumbled out of the back door wielding a
rolling pin with sugar falling from it like snowflakes. It’s surprising how quickly the brain works when you’re
under threat. While he was desperately trying to extricate himself from the
strawberry runners, Raymond was also making a mental note of where the sugar
grains were landing so that he could come back for them later. That is if there
was a later.<br />
The woman was screaming, the pigeon had taken off and was
watching from the crossbar of the garden swing and with a final yank Raymond
managed to pull himself free and make for cover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He narrowly missed being pulverised as the
hysterical woman flailed about in the bushes. If he hadn’t been so scared, he
would have laughed. The angry woman retreated with a shrug of her shoulders and
a slam of the door.<br />
‘Vermin, is it?' said a silky voice nearby. ‘There aren’t many of us left who can
claim that particular sobriquet or nickname.’<br />
‘What?’ said Raymond gazing up into the branches of a tall tree. The creature looking down on him had a superior air.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘If it’s seed you’re after, watch this.’<br />
A small nose descended from a bough above, followed by a long, hairy tail. The
creature lunged himself at the wall, scurried upwards, clinging to the rough
rendered finish, and snaffled a snack from a clear plastic box stuck to the
window of the house. Another feeder.<br />
‘Simple,’ he said as he scampered away, disappearing in a grey smudge.<br />
What just happened there? thought Raymond. <br />
Suddenly he gasped. Through the dense bushes he could see two large yellow
slanty eyes glowering at him. Raymond was sure he could hear someone licking
their lips…<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-18984371032760781312020-04-17T15:12:00.000+01:002020-04-18T10:22:29.273+01:00Writing Raymond<div>
It's a while since I wrote a blog, but I have been writing - my own stories and those of my friends. In this lockdown hiatus I was persuaded to pen a bedtime tale for the Seven: Finlay, Edith, Jasper, Sebastian, Teddy, Eleanor and Beatrice. These are my precious grandchildren and it has been a pleasure to amuse them in these times of enforced distancing. </div>
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The story of Raymond Rattus is a personal one. The real Raymond taunts us in the garden everyday. Watching him nibbling bird seeds was my inspiration - that and Finn's obsession with trapping rodents on the farm in Annahilt. The illustrations and photos were provided by family members. Thanks especially to Maria holed up in Port Elizabeth, who is not allowed out to walk and even if she were there is no alcohol on sale. African sun down without sundowners. </div>
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For those who have requested it, here's the first chapter, with drawings by Stephen Bradley and Maria Oosthuysen. </div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Raymond Rattus Runs Amok </b></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">by Granny Ruth</b></div>
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Chapter One: Raymond
Roots Around</b><br />
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Raymond was long, brown and very ugly.<br />
<br />
Even his own mother rejected him. It was something to do
with his nose – too flat and pointy, not aquiline, like the others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
‘See if I care,’ he said aloud on the sunny spring day when
he left.<br />
He took nothing with him as he wriggled out of the nest and
set off along the line of the shuck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
had absolutely no sense of direction so he threw caution to the wind and followed
his nasty nose. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
That was his first mistake. On the other side of the ditch
which bordered the farmer’s field was an interesting heap of something smelly. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He paddled through the shallow stream and
skipped up the bank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Concealed behind a
tall spruce was a dump – not plastics and tins, but refuse. Biodegradable, he
sniffed – peelings, grass cuttings, bits of branches and even some ash from the
grate. He nosed around the rotting vegetables and felt his stomach churn. He
was hungry but he also felt sick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was
not averse to a slice of watermelon or a chunk of carrot, but he wanted
something fresh. Not this putrid mess.<br />
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There was someone in the garden. Himself was out and about,
seduced, no, doubt, by the seasonal sunshine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was bent over, fiddling with the lawn mower which had been rusting in
the garage and was reluctant to be roused from its winter hibernation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Raymond was not prepared for the deafening roar
of the engine and he dashed like one demented under the purple heather as the
mower began to gnash the long green blades with its teeth and spit them out.<br />
<br />
‘It shouldn’t be permitted,’ he whimpered, as he lay flat on
his grumbling stomach, ‘disturbing the peace like that.’<br />
<br />
‘Stay in the fields,’ his father had warned. ‘Too many
perils in a garden, not to mention the traps.’<br />
Raymond had never actually seen a trap and so he did not
know what to look out for. He reckoned he would most likely know one if he came
across it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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From his hiding place, Raymond could see the back door of
the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A portly woman stepped out with
a large basket balanced on her hip, a woolly hat pulled low over her ears.
Round her neck was a pouch on a string. It contained small coloured clips with
which she proceeded to attach clothing to a high wire suspended between two
poles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon sheets, shirts and socks
were smacking in the morning breeze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
gave a sigh of satisfaction, wiped her hands on her pinny and then she spoke.<br />
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‘Oh dear, nothing to eat, my girls.’<br />
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Who was she talking to? Raymond could see no girls, or boys for that matter. She was
looking up into the sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Raymond
shuffled forward on his cushion of last year’s leaves and looked up too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Uninterrupted blue with the sun blinding him
and blinking him. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could still hear
the distant rumble of the lawn mower.<br />
<br />
The woman disappeared inside with the empty basket and
re-emerged carrying a bag. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She strode
over to a high wooden table embedded in the soil and detached a long cylinder
with a domed lid from a nail. Raymond was curious; he had never seen such a
thing before. She set the cylinder on the table, dislodged the lid and proceeded
to pour something from the bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
contents rustled and whispered as they slid out, packing together in a
kaleidoscope of brown, black, creamy white and yellow. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
‘Come and get it, girls,’ called the woman as she padded
back to the house. <br />
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The feeder swayed gently.<br />
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A feast, thought Raymond. Dry, clean delicious seeds. Oh my!<br />
But who and where were the girls?<br />
<br />
Raymond waited for ages. A minute, at least. Then he eased
himself out from under the spiky heather, like a commando.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sky above was clear.<br />
<br />
He eyed up the distance to the table, the height of the
wooden post and the swinging container. How exactly was he going to do this?<br />
You’ll get nowhere if you don’t at least try, he thought, as
he edged forward in the damp mossy grass. He scaled the post and curled his wiry body round the cage, but he could not get at its contents.<br />
<br />
Suddenly, the sun went out. ‘Night already?’ he squeaked, dropping back down to the ground. The sky above him grew ominously dark.<br />
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He felt the fur on the back of his neck bristle. Something was
wrong…<br />
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Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-69475354806398011322019-07-26T08:22:00.001+01:002019-07-26T08:22:28.303+01:00Immortale AmorThe man and I have been married for forty years and he asks me to buy him a precision edged blade. Should I be worried? We are in Switzerland so we purchase a Hercules Swiss army knife with all the accoutrements he will ever need.<br />
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We are on a second honeymoon. In July 1979 we drove our little yellow mini from Comber through France and into Switzerland. We stayed in the beautiful medieval cité of Gruyères (where the cheese comes from), a château town with a castle (now a museum) and magnificent views of the lower Alps, some peaks with splashes of snow. Our room now, as then, overlooks a cradle between the mountains. Little has changed in the landscape and we can still hear the cowbells clinking against the silence of the early morning.<br />
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Château de Gruyères</div>
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As I sit on the balcony and breathe in the clear air emitted by the pine forest below, it reassures and somehow humbles me that these mountains have stood here immutable for forty years while everything in my life has changed. I am a mother and grandmother; I have worked and retired; I have travelled and stayed put; I have loved and lost; I have been foolish and grown wiser. With the poet of old I lift my eyes to the hills and acknowledge that my help comes from the Lord, who like the mountains is eternal, unchanging and foundationally faithful.<br />
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The man and I have been counting our blessings and naming our loves. On the anniversary, we stood face to face at the altar in L'église Saint-Théodule. Through tears we thanked each other for forty years of faithfulness, kindness and trust and vowed again to keep loving to the end. Sadly, this is a more daunting prospect than it seemed in our youth when we said 'for better for poorer, in sickness and in health'. Although in good spirits we have seen enough of death and suffering to know what loving to the end may mean, and we are as up for it as anyone basking in the Swiss sunshine can be.<br />
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The vagaries of love has been a theme of this grand tour in Italy and Switzerland. On the streets of Verona I followed a travelling production of Romeo e Giulietta as they ran to and from the terrible consequences of loving across a divide. In the ancient amphitheatre we also watched the desperate Aida sacrificing herself for love of Radames, sharing his fate in a sealed crypt as they sang of 'immortale amor'. Two pairs of lovers who choose to die together rather than renounce their love. We truly hope that our end will not be a tragic as theirs, but desperate love tears at the heartstrings and leaves us enchanted and deeply moved.<br />
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Italy's landscape is dotted with the magnificent Tuscan cypress with its pencil straight back reaching into the blue. I am reminded of Khalil Gibran's musings on marriage:<br />
<br />
<i>'Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.</i><br />
<i>For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.</i><br />
<i>And stand together yet not too near together:</i><br />
<i>For the pillars of the temple stand apart,</i><br />
<i>And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.' </i>(The Prophet)<br />
<i></i><i></i><br />
Speaking of Hercules, further south we visited Pompeii and Herculaneum and considered the fate of thousands who fled or failed to flee the magma and ash of Vesuvius, still brooding over the Bay of Naples. I have been reading Elena Ferrante's Neopolitan novels which focus on lives and loves over a lifetime of friendship. In her fourth and final book of the series she writes:<br />
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<em>'Each of us organises memory as it suits him.'</em> <br />
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Of course we all want to erase the bad and focus on the good. Together, the man and I have reminisced and remembered and there have been difficult conversations as we address our fragility and failures, but our abiding sense is that we are enveloped in the outstretched arms of the mountain maker. For the briefest of moments we get to join in the worship that emanates from all the majestic beauty declaring his glory. That is ours to do, whatever comes our way in the next forty years. <br />
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Thank you, husband, for loving me so well.<br />
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<em>'If I say I love you...then I love you.'</em> (Mumford & Sons)<br />
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Verona</div>
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<br />Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-86761357892564028212019-04-04T13:25:00.000+01:002019-04-04T13:25:28.387+01:00I Bless the DayThe attic room at the top of the tall Belfast town house was chilly, even in summer. I shared the slanting space with my little sister, Pauline Mary. She is just sixteen months younger, but littler than me, nonetheless. The house faced the busy Oldpark Road, a wide thoroughfare which led up to Cliftonville Circus and onwards towards Ballysillan. The bus stop was right outside the house, a fact that irritated English visitors, but never us. We were used to the slither and smack of doors and the regular expiration of air, like a sigh from a large animal. A garden the size of a picnic rug protected us from the road, the narrow space bordered by a low wall sprouting a dusty hedge. There was also a fuchsia bush, a splash of colour against the grey, and I showed my sister how to suck honey from the base of the waxy flower.<br />
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It matters where you come in a family. I am the bossy big sister. On Sundays we were taken to church at least four times: morning Sunday School, morning service, afternoon Sunday School and evening service, at our own church or in one of the mission halls where our father worked. In between (was there any in between?) we were allowed to engage in Sunday activities only: no ball games, riding bikes or reading comics. We did not own a television. <br />
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I can recall assembling my siblings in the parlour where the two bar heater took pride of place. I arranged them on the settee and the meeting began. I led the service, chose the hymns and preached the sermon. I think I put my sister in charge of giving out the hymnbooks. She was compliant, as ever. <br />
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Our mother made our clothes. One year our Sunday-go-to-meeting outfits consisted of blue grey tweed skirts and bolero jackets with matching hairbands. I vividly remember suffering agonies of shame in case the fabric bands did not properly constitute a head covering. Would God be happy with the hairbands? My sister was not worried. I was older, so if there was any divine retribution, it would fall on me. <br />
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I always got the blame. She discovered early on that if she kept quiet and stayed under the radar, I would fight the battles for her. And battles there were aplenty: wearing trousers to church, reading non-Sunday books, begging to go to the cinema, refusing to go to the Girls' Brigade/Christian Endeavour/Sunday School. <br />
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Our father was a preacher and as we grew older, he took us with him to the meetings. Too young to play the organ or give our testimonies, we trundled up to the front to recite Bible verses or perform. We cannot have been more than seven or eight when we sang acapella:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Clean hands or dirty hands,</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Brown eyes or blue,</em></div>
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<em>Pale cheeks or rosy cheeks,</em></div>
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<em>Jesus loves you.</em></div>
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I was dark-haired with wan skin, so I dirtied my hands for dramatic effect and splayed my fingers on cue. My eyes are blue so I twinkled them in harmony with the notes. My little sister has brown eyes so the song worked, but as I recall the experience I am amazed that our parents allowed her to point cheerfully to her rosy cheeks. She was, in fact, born with a birthmark on her face which may have added weight to the spiritual message, but now feels like exploitation. Pauline bore it all without complaint.<br />
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Pauline and me</div>
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Back in the attic, the room glowing orange from the streetlights, we sang the Everly Brothers in two-part harmony: 'I bless the day I found you/I want to stay around you/ Now and forever/ let it be me.' At Christmas we lay together listening for Santa's sleighbells and squealing with delight at the discovery of an orange in the toe of one of our father's old socks.<br />
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When we moved to Newtownards, our lives went in different directions: different schools; different friendship groups; different careers. At one point, however, we did date brothers: John and Sandy and wasted innocent sunny days together among the yellow broom in the Easter Field. My quiet sister worked in Cafolla's after school and on Saturdays - always earning her own money, always independent. She became a nurse, riding a scooter to work in the Ulster Hospital and going on to qualify as a midwife. She married the naughty boy she always complained about in school and is the mother of four lovely young adults and grandmother to her precious Evie.<br />
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Now she is sixty and I am blessed to know her. She has shown great resilience and love in supporting her husband through unimaginably sad family loss; she leads the local community midwifery team with justice and fortitude; she has helped all of the women in the family through the traumas of pregnancy, childbirth and breast-feeding; she meets crises with inner calm and she demonstrates a spiritual strength borne of a faith that has survived a plethora of meetings and a big sister who would only let her hand round the songbooks.<br />
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Congratulations, Pauline, on your sixtieth birthday! I love you and am glad God gave you to us - born in our parents' bed and beloved by all. <br />
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Thank you for being my sister.<br />
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Pauline</div>
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<br />Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-87622662358857762282019-03-07T13:05:00.000+00:002019-03-08T09:04:50.470+00:00Pushback<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">The airport at Port Elizabeth is blurry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The man on the security desk asks me why I am
crying and I tell him that I am leaving my baby behind. I can see her waving
through the greasy glass. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">We left her babies on the stoop. They were crying too
- the four-year-old because granny was going and the one-year-old because his
brother was upset. Right next to us a Cape Turtle Dove hunkered down on her
nest observing the farewells with a wary eye. Frangipani flowers were
crushed into sickly perfume beneath our wheels as the huge iron gate
clunked behind us.</span></div>
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Maria and Willem with Teddy</div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I am alone for the first time in two weeks. My sighs subside and I am intrigued by the intricacies of human interaction in an airport lounge. Everyone in an airport wants to be somewhere else so eyes are alert, glancing at screens and elbows are used as weapons to secure a seat against the probability of delays. Most nationalities speak in stage whispers, conscious that they are sharing a tense and sacred space. The English and the Americans do not. <br /><br /><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">In front of me a couple of Londoners plonk themselves down. She produces an encyclopaedic size hardback which she scratches open with her talon-like nails painted in holiday cerise. She does not get the chance to read her tome, however, because he has just purchased the latest copy of Hello! magazine. She is a listener, which is just as well. In that irritatingly loud rasp used by people who enjoy the sound of their own voice, he begins to regale her, the woman in the sari sitting beside them, an elderly Afrikaans couple and me with the latest in celebrity and royal gossip. <br /><br /><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I have chosen NOT to buy the magazine precisely because I do not care that John Torode is engaged and what will they eat at the reception or whether Kate Windsor is broody again and how many nannies it might take to manage her growing family but I'm going to hear it all anyway: Doesn't that Charlotte look just like the Queen and what kind of a name is Louis, isn't that French, oh yes Mountbatten, came to a nasty end, those Irish! <br /><br /><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I shift my attention to the next aisle. A mother moves purposefully towards her young teenage daughter who is clinging on to summer in her jersey shorts, her feet on the seat under her, legs splayed. Her mum feigns interest in a phone while gently nudging the girl's knees together. A protective gesture. The girl complies but does not know why.<br /><br /><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Confusion reigns as passengers begin to surge away from Gate 6 to Gate 5. Which one? The flight is already late. There is no announcement but an African albino employee with burnt blotches on his face holds his phone close to his eyes and gestures vaguely. It appears that both gates are open to speed up boarding. I am all for that.<br /><br /><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">In Johannesburg I am lost. The airport is huge and famous for misdirecting luggage. I get my case and finally manage to find the drop off. Heathrow here I come! When we arrive at Terminal 5 in the wee hours, I walk cautiously along the jetty. This is the exact spot where I suffered pulmonary embolisms four years ago but this time the tight socks, the midnight meanders and the dreaded Clexane have done the trick. <br /><br /><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I am in BA's North Lounge for eight hours! I decide to have a shower. I remove my watch and then discover that my bracelet is missing. I rush back to security where I know I have left it in the tray because it always sets off the beeper. I wish I'd just beeped, because now I am bereft. The manager looks but finds nothing. Report to missingx.com. I lose perspective and weep my way along the concourse. It's not the financial loss, it's the sentimental value of the little charms which remind me of my grandchildren - a kind of rosary: a bow tie for the sartorial Finlay; a flower for green-fingered Edith; a jewel the colour of God for Jasper; a red rose for Eleanor Rose; a bee for Bea; a South African flag for Sebastian and a teddy-bear for...Teddy! </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">I see a gangly man dancing towards a cluster of people and I actually hear him announce excitedly 'OMG, I love y'all, I am American!'<br /><br /><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Back in the lounge I lunge towards a young mother battling with a crying toddler, a buggy and a mound of bags. I ask her if she is travelling alone. She gestures in contempt at a good-looking but useless man tapping on his phone, oblivious to his wife's struggles. I melt into my seat as he lifts the screaming infant and tries to walk manfully down the aisle pretending to be a father. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><br />Young men in suits sit at a glass shelf with computers
connecting them to a better world while the colourless morning presses against
the window. Above the drinks stand are suspended plastic curved train tracks, glittery pink like
something in a pre pubescent girl’s bedroom. A woman tries to pour a glass of
wine but struggles to extricate the bottle from its metal holder and so lifts
bottle, holder and all. Making a meal of it. <br /><br /><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Beside me there is a family reunion: a loud curly-haired little boy is the centre of attention. Can I have a hug, an aunt
gushes. No. Pushed back. She remembers and is embarrassed. The boy is not. He is clutching
an oversized iPad, housed in a bright blue soft-edged plastic cover, supplied
no doubt by the education authority. He is listening to something through red
headphones. He should be wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with Please Do Not Touch
Me. It would save a lot of trouble. <br /><br /><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">We sit on the tarmac and wait. The man who operates the pushback tug has broken his headphones. The pilot cannot hear him. We cannot move. I gaze <span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">out at the grey mizzle. Who rubbed out all the colour? Africa is big and scary but bright and beautiful and I yearn to go back to its wonder. Nature's Valley on the east coast is a paradise of amber lagoon, raging seas and fynbos that kisses the tide. Port Elizabeth is a bustling port with towering cranes like huge giraffes astride the beach. Lots of wet but no water for a bath. They live there; I do not.
<br /><br /><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 12pt;">Belfast is the same as ever - familiar and smelling of mouldy earth. Home.
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Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-68125338815533414402018-09-16T17:30:00.000+01:002018-09-16T17:30:30.423+01:00The UninvitedI met my first Syrian last week. Amer (note to self it's pronounced Amir) came to a class for immigrants to learn English at The Link in my home town. He came with his family: wife, little daughter, mother and brother. Amer is intelligent and eager to understand and contribute to the country that has welcomed them. I am interested to learn their story, but for now all I know is that they came via Lebanon. <br />
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Inspired by the promise of this new friendship I bought Khaled Hosseini's book, <em>Sea Prayer</em>. It is hard to believe that it was three years this month that the photograph of Alan Kurdi, the three-year-old Syrian refugee who drowned in the Mediterranean Sea trying to reach safety, was splashed in all its raw horror across our newspapers. He would have been six now, the age of my eldest grandchild. Little Alan's limp body, his too short life and his cruel death accosted our hearts and briefly challenged us all to do something about Syria. At least to pray. <br />
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Alan Kurdi</div>
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Hosseini did more than that. He penned this beautiful tribute to a child he would never meet and the city of Homs which is not his own. The voice is that of a father speaking to his son about the country of his birth, the beauty of the landscape and the bustle of the Old City: the souk, mosque, church and Old Town Square. He records the sounds of his grandmother's clanking pot, the bleating of goats and the smell of fried kibbeh. He is trying to fix memories in the mind of a child who may never return for they are about to embark on that most dangerous of journeys, the flight to freedom.<br />
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The book's poetry floats on pages awash with beautiful illustrations. Dan Williams' water colours capture the essence of Syria in greens, golds and warm ochres. A mother and child walk through a field 'blown through with wild flowers' where poppies spill down the page in prophetic poignancy. The political changes from protest through siege to war are chronicled in colour, or lack of it. Blues and greens bleach to inky hues and then to black, white and smoky grey as the city burns. <br />
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A bomb crater becomes a swimming pool and still the children play. The rubble is their schoolroom and they learn that dark blood is better than bright. <br />
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One double page needs no words at all. A huddled mass of humanity trudges wearily from bottom left to top right - sepia toned men, women, children and the elderly broken and beaten by despair. Those who bear witness to many deaths are as dead on the inside as those who die. <br />
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Now the father waits with his child. Hell and the devil are behind them and they face the cold waters of the deep blue sea. 'Hold my hand. Nothing bad will happen,' says the father, repeating the age-old lie of parents who hope against hope that the world will be kind. The father prays that the sea will know and care how precious is the cargo as they embark on their last voyage. They are at its mercy. The colours are stormy black and fomenting ocean green. Inshallah.<br />
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In another beautiful book dabbling in the water theme, Mary Oliver writes about teaching children:<br />
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'Stand them in the stream, head them upstream, rejoice as they learn to love this green space they live in, its sticks and leaves and then the silent beautiful blossoms.' (<em>Upstream</em>)<br />
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It is too late, sadly, for little Alan Kurdi and the thousands of other innocent children who have perished since 2015, but we who remain can and must work and pray for peaceful places where our little ones can flourish. <br />
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<br />Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-27157089103359147972018-01-31T18:31:00.000+00:002018-01-31T18:34:28.351+00:00Heart's SkinI have been a parent for thirty-four years and I am the grandmother of seven darlings but this week, for the first time, I had a little one in bed with me all night. <br />
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When the man and I were getting engaged someone gave us a piece of advice: <i>'Never allow your children to sleep between you in the bed.'</i> That seemed ok to us and was consistent with the good parenting practices of our peers. In fact, we didn't even have our babies in the room with us. They slept next door in a cosy smaller room where I went to feed. I breastfed them all for a year and so have no regrets about bonding, but the received wisdom now is that babies need to be close - all the time. This looks as exhausting as it sounds. My daughters carry their babies next to their bodies and sacrifice their sleep to reassure them during the night.<br />
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The man is away in Pakistan, Bethany was camping with her two eldest in a pod at Castlewellan lake so I agreed to have her eighteen-month-old baby overnight. <span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Jasper Nathanael is grandchild #5. In </span>the daylight hours he is the cutest, sweetest little boy, trotting along behind his big brother and sister, joining in their mischief: climbing trees, exploring woodlands and wetlands, jumping in puddles, jumping in the sea and happily playing in all kinds of muck. He is joyful child with a sunny disposition and an inscrutable smile. When he turns his brown eyes on me, my heart melts.<br />
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Come the midnight hour, however, he turns into a werewolf. When you put him down to sleep he goes from nought to distraught in seconds, howling to the moon like one of the abandoned infants of Shakespeare and so many fairy tales. His heart-rending wail is impossible to ignore. I tried sitting in the dark patting his back until the sobs settled and the breathing was steady, but as soon as I stood up to sneak out of the room he lifted his strawberry blonde curls and fixed me with a look that said, 'Don't you dare!'<br />
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So I brought little Jasper into bed with me, where he slept soundly till morning. I did not! He is a wriggler. He stays still for a few minutes and then lifts his whole body and hurls himself through ninety degrees to lie at right angles, his head hanging dangerously close to the edge of the bed. I dozed fitfully, my hand clutching his sleep suit to save him from falling. The sleep deprivation was worth it, however; for one night only, I might add! It was a joy to cuddle my beautiful boy because he is in my heart.<br />
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In the car the next day I listened to Poetry Please on Radio 4. Viral poet, Hollie McNish, had selected her favourite poems and I wept as I listened to this one by Hull great grandmother, Norah Hanson:<br />
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<strong>Grafters</strong></div>
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They come into your life, naked,</div>
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have no defence against. They</div>
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desires on your heart, take sleep</div>
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and reason from you and cast</div>
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a spell on you which you can't</div>
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or won't break.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
They strengthen their hold with</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
every passing year, grafting their</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
joys and sorrows onto the throbbing</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
pulse of your life, and their children,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and <em>their </em>children, graft on the grafts</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
of generations until your heart's skin</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
is patched and stretched and aching</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
with the love and hurt they bring you.</div>
<br />
This week I also heard the fabulous Aslan singing, <em>Crazy World</em>, and I cried some more:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
'How can I protect you in this crazy world?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It's all right, it's all right.' </div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-39028584396017594492018-01-26T16:25:00.004+00:002018-01-26T16:44:31.624+00:00A Different Kind of PsaltyIt was Christmas morning in Nature’s Valley in the Eastern Cape, South Africa. The rain poured down as we walked to the community hall nestling in the trees. It was 7 am and we wanted to make it to the early church service delivered in both English and Afrikaans. We sang alternate verses of carols and I did my best using A level German pronunciation – not quite right, but as close as I could manage: ‘Ons buig in blye aanbidding’ (O come let us adore him) ‘Verlosser en Heer!’ I held my newest grandson, four-month-old Teddy, in my arms and sang praise for new birth and hope. Alternate verses in different languages is just about right for him, with an Irish mother and an Afrikaans father. Big boetie, Sebastian (3), is fluent in both and, recognising the sense of worship and thankfulness, he asked if this was 'a different kind of Psalty'.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1126" data-original-width="1488" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVBtSMivPqfno72VJdte4JTLbpEQpY1FU25rOWK8J29dDmsGKREL_9122IGbnSGenZEtPqyRsgecfeRpLCDFp7e1baVz7P3wriCiZo_jFvRsoPxAw2EfZfmildrVbvEokgNmXAETj4kU6m/s320/IMG_2693.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Willem, Maria and Sebastian</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The American singing songbook accompanied us and our four children when we lived in Zimbabwe and travelled to South Africa in the school holidays. On one occasion we drove the twenty-four hour journey from Bulawayo to Cape Town, where my daughter now lives, and it is wonderful to hear the old songs again and see the same calming effect on my grandchildren.<br />
Nature’s Valley is an absolutely beautiful place. A steep road descends through the mountain into lush forest floor dotted with holiday homes surrounded by indigenous plants. It is a conservation area on the edge of the Tsitsikamma National Park housing bush buck and leopard in bountiful Fynbos undergrowth. Tsitsikamma is a Khoisan word meaning 'place of much water' and although it was not safe to dip in the churning ocean, I loved swimming in the brackish waters of the lagoon, like bathing in cold tea - the amber colour drawn from the roots and minerals in the surrounding hills. We stayed there for two weeks with my son-in-law’s family – a generous, warm-hearted house party with at least 16 people staying and many more stopping by on their way through. The heart of the house is the stoep, where people gather for coffee and rusks in the early morning, collapse after a swim or a sup (stand-up paddle board) and congregate in the evening for G&Ts, good conversation and the inevitable braai or potjie. There we stood breathless and watched as a pair of magnificent green loeries swooped down and perched on the wooden rail with a surprising flash of vermillion. <span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="534" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPg7k1Bzr9M9ajGwxfNZAJjxO6B6rYY877xyRBwUGEIYCLdcFYgKPxrdQjHwkofMVA2sci5KGOC34k2_Bqk_2muzPtunseb3vaOluPfgqD77VzMInKDcSPLX70NcDa4mm0gWcxNqzQHxHF/s320/knysna-loerie.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">South African loerie</span></td></tr>
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The stoep is the place of stories: how many dolphins, how strong the current or how long the cycle ride. Everyone brings their own flavour to the feast: the surgeon who told of how no one is allowed so much as a whisper while the heart patient is under the knife; the farmer’s brother who described a bush fire which destroyed acres of Knysna; the Polish girl who raved about boiled cabbage and the accountant who caught someone fiddling the books. We laughed together and shared each other’s lives, but the most special moments were when we stood together holding hands and gave thanks before we ate: for holidays, for friends, for food and for family. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJMsEK0SvN0cs-IZ2B6TAo7aCuj6Y5sl516kf7qACSm1KNaHP_XqOoPlAQme-sLp4qf84xloOp9Xryw5jk2cCCLdcfuDSFv-0j1KKV4ok4gM3v16PL1ODcZTxk3JgwCDnuuD2V5GpV0-EM/s320/stoep.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1500" data-original-width="1124" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgunhahoOvuZMwXZ6YLEeXaYLmklSs8iwM7WuDeyCmGoXq0IRznX1oyqZBPVWWZ0IGZIqPdForW5q3XMnIbnFdmH_Prh9UoPetLjDxW1NPieR4EIvW0Cs85bPmZw4tzjkmlJwSIIs6VjYm5/s320/IMG_2690.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="239" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial";">Teddy bear</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It behoves travellers to educate themselves about the places they visit. While the man took himself on <em>The Great Trek Uncut</em>, I have been on <em>A Passage to Africa</em> with George Alagiah, in a personal intimate portrait of the continent during his time as a foreign correspondent with the BBC. He traces its wars and sorrows in the countries where he worked, from the new dawn when Ghana first achieved independence to the more recent hopes for a rainbow nation in South Africa. He is unwavering in his harsh judgement of both the black leaders who disappointed their people and the white rulers who failed to accept personal responsibility for their blindness and greed. He describes Africa as a blighted continent but also imagines how the knarled and twisted baobab trees of Zimbabwe have seen it all and do not despair because no condition is permanent and Africa is stronger than she looks. <em>Nkosi sikele Africa.</em><br />
Before leaving Africa, we returned for a few days to the windy city. We traversed the southern tip of the continent along the Voortrekker Road through the mountains with their haunches bent together like huge giants huddled in a rugby scrum. We visited a wine farm at Boschendal where I found this amazing metal wire sculpture of Ouma Sarah, sitting on the vertebrae of a whale and musing on the lives of her offspring yet unborn. The book lying beside her is open at the following poem:<br />
<br />
<em>It's 3.23 in the morning<br />and I'm awake<br />because my great great grandchildren won't let me sleep<br />my great great grandchildren<br />ask me in dreams<br />what did you do when the planet was plundered<br />what did you do when the earth was unravelling<br />surely you did something when the seasons started falling?<br />as the mammals, reptiles, birds were all dying?<br />did you fill the streets with protest<br />when democracy was stolen?<br />what did you do <br />once you knew? <br />(Drew Dellinger)</em><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 8pt; text-align: left;">
<em></em> </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfTDX7bJJ0APwTaaBVk2T3ciXTGBcyrlxu2jYXl15-qk4MVEeSqz-5_uoklVOOsRYyTo16lhD0xa_PhY20pxf-AMgwViDMIUi_1avT9AgaJdhiOLh0nJOMHf_gog8qSyHPmyhT6cz9uLlF/s320/Ouma+Sarah.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="240" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ouma Sarah</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
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Cape Town sits cradled where the mountains sweep down to the sea like our own beloved Mournes. The stark difference is that in Northern Ireland water is in plentiful supply. The Western Cape is in the grip of severe drought. My son-in-law is digging a dry toilet in his back garden because there is now no question of showers or flushing the loo. It is reckoned that Cape Town will finally run out of water by 12 April, already declared 'day zero' and will make history as the first modern metropolis to exhaust its clean water reserves. Very soon there will be one tap per five thousand people and my daughter will have to queue for her allocated 25 litres. ‘How will I carry it?’ she wailed on the phone. ‘On your head, of course,’ I replied. She is dreading the moment when nothing at all comes out of the taps. I am preparing the guest room!</div>
Like Ouma Sarah, I am concerned about what we are doing with the world. These are, indeed, troubled times. Apparently Yeats’ poem <em>The Second Coming</em> has been quoted more in newspapers in the past twelve months than in the previous thirty years: ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold.’ The only antidote I know to the fear that this engenders is another wise man’s assertion that: ‘Jesus is before all things, and in him all things hold together.’ Or as Psalty sings, <br />
‘Anytime I don’t know what to do, I will cast all my cares upon you.’Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-40191674634778163092018-01-26T09:00:00.001+00:002018-01-26T09:00:20.238+00:00Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8988330459573327094.post-79675025792572231482017-10-16T18:23:00.000+01:002017-10-16T18:23:21.483+01:00Birds and Babies<div align="left">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Back in my little heron house
after another overseas trip, I am minded of the changing seasons. I can now see
Scrabo Tower clearly as Ophelia dances across the fields tossing her hair,
leaving trees reaching after her with their bare arms. The roads are awash with
mud as tractors trudge their weary way home with the remains of the harvest.
The mornings struggle to get out of bed and the sun seldom makes an appearance
at all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The weather was similar in Cape
Town last week.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>There it is the end of
winter and the wet is welcome in a time of severe drought. My grandson bathes
in a few inches of water and it lies in the bath all the next day so that they can
use it to flush the toilets.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>A long dry
summer lies ahead for my daughter and her family, but it is impossible to feel
sorry for them living in Cape Town, sitting as it does in spectacular scenery
dominated by the beautiful Table Mountain.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>Their home is in Bellville and they overlook the Door de Kraal
recreational dam which is teeming with life. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Across the road is the Majik Forest where the
pathway is bordered by young trees with magical names, planted by woodland
lovers or in memoriam: milk wood, stink wood, ironwood, the sausage tree and my
favourite, the boer-bean bastard saffron. There I encountered my heron, or one
very similar, preening himself on the riverbank.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We walked round the dam most days
and I was enchanted by the profusion of arum lilies growing wild, each one a
milky white bowl upturned like a chalice.</span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Spectacular red-eyed Egyptian geese and their
babies waddled in the shallows and fussing along under our feet were hundreds
of guinea fowl, with their comical mottled square bodies and blue heads, as
stupid as their farmyard cousins. Most wonderful of all, however, were the weavers, abundant in their fluorescent colours which flashed through the
rushes.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I was excited when one paused
for a few seconds swaying on a reed nearby. It was a southern red bishop, brilliant in
its orange and black feathers and busy, busy, busy.</span> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4cugHV1Jg8wNvGev84DjU3jOYD4IGshxohEORBYGBKJElQ9dTMlCZh3Q2rGimGGXYkTOeq_mVYCBqqW24TgMg_NZwUKy0kosHYZ3XF-FDGwtDTz1_HdgJgJ3fJ6TNRMrU4oNTKyAB3stf/s1600/red+bishop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="327" data-original-width="327" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4cugHV1Jg8wNvGev84DjU3jOYD4IGshxohEORBYGBKJElQ9dTMlCZh3Q2rGimGGXYkTOeq_mVYCBqqW24TgMg_NZwUKy0kosHYZ3XF-FDGwtDTz1_HdgJgJ3fJ6TNRMrU4oNTKyAB3stf/s320/red+bishop.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</span>
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<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">A much larger bird is the hadeda ibis
which foraged in groups in the grass. An ugly grey bird in the distance, his
plumage has an iridescent sheen, almost like purple scales which reflect the
light close up.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>The problem with this
bird is its call, extremely loud and distinctive and much too like the cry of a
baby. I know because I was lying awake listening and in the early morning
it was impossible to distinguish which was which.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I was in Cape Town to mark the
arrival of our seventh grandchild, a second son for Willem and Maria. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Little Edward Richard was born six weeks ago
and I flew out to meet him and reconnect with his big boetie, Sebastian. <span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>A new baby brings joy mixed with sleep
deprivation so that the joy is temporarily diluted in exhaustion.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Willem is also studying in the wee hours and
in the evenings so the pressure is on.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>I
was reminded while there of the gift that a new baby is. I knitted a sleeveless
pullover for Teddy and left him a little card with God’s promise that he was
knitted together in his mother’s womb. He is a gorgeous tiny boy, thriving on
his mother’s milk and starting now to settle into something like a routine. It
has been a rough few weeks for them, separated as they are from both families,
but they are strong and the blessing of the God who made and gave them Teddy
bear is on them.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>Sebastian’s favourite
phrase is, ‘It’s so huge, Granny’ and it is: God’s love for them is so huge.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxJ-Q_iSOAFqIjgRiWx5cFgYs6301FwBYfmQ5zrKvULGj7vYHvQjI9nIbxiw0QgpGZs7NAYYkzFpE8nJRwj4UB6kAeM-UCLgqbxievIej_DRsUptZfMDUa-zMacUGtczTyjQaUGw3Oq0lK/s1600/Teddy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxJ-Q_iSOAFqIjgRiWx5cFgYs6301FwBYfmQ5zrKvULGj7vYHvQjI9nIbxiw0QgpGZs7NAYYkzFpE8nJRwj4UB6kAeM-UCLgqbxievIej_DRsUptZfMDUa-zMacUGtczTyjQaUGw3Oq0lK/s320/Teddy.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">
</span>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 11px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">On my return journey, I was
delayed in Cape Town airport for five hours.<span style="margin: 0px;">
</span>There was some consolation to be had from the array of blue and silver
Christmas trees which lined the concourse. ‘Tis nearly the season, and we’ll be
back!</span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span>Ruth Joy Morrisonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07488811897168742188noreply@blogger.com0