Two months and two days after my mother’s funeral, we buried my dear canine companion, Jack. We wrapped him up in my muslin skirt and his old towel, and placed him carefully in the hole we dug for him in a raised garden bed. We covered him with sweet, soft soil, and wept, before giving him a makeshift headstone, a remnant of the many earthquakes we had been through together. That was 6 months ago, on March 6th. Today Jack is coming up daffodils ( soon to be followed by tulips, plus unavoidable weeds! ), thanks to a friend’s gift of miniature bulbs. We planted them in Jack’s grave a few weeks after his death.
Coming up daffodils
I miss my small friend. We loved each other for 13 years. I love him still.
My parents loved Jack, too. I like to imagine he is keeping them company wherever they are. And that they are giving Jack treats, as they once did, subversively, at the table; behaviour utterly discouraged by me; completely encouraged by my mother and father. Jack’s particular favourite was toasted crumpet crusts from my father’s hand, but vegemite toast crusts were almost as good. It was the hand that mattered more than the food, sometimes.
Vegemite crusts, treats
Jack anticipates the drop
Gran, Pop, dog collude
A treat or pat always welcome
When the bulbs start to die away, I will scatter wildflower seeds on Jack’s grave. They will bring joy in their flowering.
Remembering Jack in Summer.
ps Jack died at home, on his bean bag, after being particularly unwell for about a week. His heart failed, and he was gone. I was with him.
pps The ornamental duck was a Christmas gift from my children many years ago. It has led a hard life in the garden!
I know! I know! I told you last month that I was one step closer to a special occasion involving a little someone and her new friend. But here I am in September, still not ready, and still not properly dressed in purple, for our get together. My friends and family will tell you that’s typical of me. These days I take forever to get ready for anything, because I am easily distracted, as per my previous post where Mrs Cockalarum suddenly waylaid my attention.
And, now, thanks to a couple of queries from my lovely commenters, concerning the whereabouts of Mrs Cockalarum’s other half, I am skipping jauntily down memory lane in search of Mr Cockalarum, almost entirely forgetful of present and future social engagements.
I can’t be sure where Mr Cockalarum is today, but I have encountered him ( or possibly his relatives) in numerous locations. But the first time ever I heard him I would have been about this size i.e. pint-sized.
Mother and Child, Lautoka 1956. Churchill Park in the background.
The first time ever I remember hearing Mr Cockalarum I would have been about this size and revelling in a fantasy world (what’s new!); that of Toad of Toad Hall.
And the first time ever I tried to record those remembrances I was in my late thirties, and living in Cairo. I typed them into our smart, new computer, and later read them as a bedtime story for my two children.
“In the half-dark of early morning I heard a rooster crow. Dear Daughter, you said you heard a rooster crow in the summer, but I don’t remember hearing him. A rooster crow is not a normal sound for our part of Maadi. It made me wonder if one of our neighbours were fattening poultry for a special dinner.
When I was little I often heard a rooster crow in the early morning. It was a sound which belonged to my waking. In the summer, or the rainy season, a rooster would crow about 4 or 5 o’clock in the morning. I remember that time as the half-light of early morning. In the colder season, or the dry season, the crowing started at about 6 o’clock, just before the sun rose. That time always comes to my mind as the half-dark of early morning.
I hear the sound of the trains here in Maadi, too, but it is not the gentle, warming-up sound of slow, old trains which I knew as a child. Rather, it is the high speed whistle and whine of a fast, modern train. ( In fact, they are so fast we haven’t seen them, have we? Perhaps the sound we hear floats all the way from the Metro Line next to Road 9, and not from the tracks next to Kimo Market.)
Another sound of my morning, more regular than the trains or the rooster, was the call to prayer from the mosque.
Although we seem to be surrounded by mosques in Maadi, I have yet to hear an early morning call to prayer. I hear all the other calls, but not the first one. In Lautoka, I often heard the first call, and, sometimes, the evening call, but I don’t remember any of the others. Perhaps I was busy at school or swimming at the club, or playing with friends during the day. I liked the first call of the day. The mosque was on the other side of Churchill Park, catty- corner to our house.
Home, Verona Street, Lautoka
The call floated clearly over our neighborhood. I didn’t know what was being said, but I liked the song of it; the way it wove through and over the early morning air and out to an endless beyond. Later, when I was slightly older, the call changed in tone because it was delivered through loud speakers. The sublime purity of the call was masked as it struggled with the crackles and harshness of the new technology of speakers. The change made me sad for a while.
In Maadi, the mosques have loud speakers, too. Sometimes, I wish I could hear the solitary, unaided call of the muezzin again. I miss its beauty; its resonance.
What do you hear as you wake in the morning? ” Maadi, Cairo, November, 1994.
There was no YouTube in 1994 to give my children an opportunity to hear a call to prayer similar to the one I knew as a child. Today I found this clip.
This took me home again to a time of great happiness and love; a time when, by and large, my small world was a friendly, welcoming place, rich in experience, and a delight to play in.
As for the elusive Mr Cockalarum; perhaps you hear him, or have heard him, in your neighborhood.
It’s ‘best foot forward’ and one step closer to the special occasion mentioned in my previous blog post , but before we get there,
One step closer, best foot forward
I want to take one step (plus several hundred more) back to a dear character who entered my life in 2012. If you are a long time follower of my blog you will have met her before but I am sure you will agree that renewing acquaintances is often as much fun as making new ones.
So, let me introduce you to ~~~~~~~~
who arrived on Christmas Day , complete with name. She is, in her regular domestic life, a decorative paper weight, only, most of the time, she decorates a chest of drawers and no paper comes near her.
She has a few animals to keep her company, including some of her own kind. However, every now and again, even a paperweight can do with a change of scenery and a new point of view, so I decided to take Mrs Cockalarum on an autumnal excursion.
Starting indoors, we tried out the floor,
then a higher peachy perch,
but her view was obscured so we went outside, where she dusted her feathers with the light scent of alyssum and
pecked at the sweetest red berries.
After which she looked at the world from a seat made of corn and silken tassels
and took a swing in a hanging basket.
Today, the world was full of surprises for me and Mrs Cockalarum, not the least of which was finding this in the tree outside my house!
Footnote: The berries are called New Zealand cranberries. They are delicious but are not much like any cranberries that I have ever tasted. Their real name is Chilean Guava ( Ugni molinae (Mrytus ugni)). Apparently the berries were a favourite with Queen Victoria. Mrs Cockalarum and I have given our unroyal seal of approval, too.
Another footnote: Are you wondering about the word, Cockalarum, like I was? I am not sure I would like Mr Cockalarum (wherever he is), yet Google tells me that cockalarum heroes were popular in their day. I have seen Seba Smith’s Major Jack Downing referred to as a cockalarum hero. Whether or not that is true, he is certainly an interesting character, a “beloved American hero, whose name was synonymous with Yankee Doodle…”.
Yes! the prodigal blogger has returned. Did you notice that I had been away, flirting with Instagram and loafing about on tropical beaches? Probably not. In any case, no need to rush to greet me with the fatted calf et al. What I would appreciate, dear readers, if you are willing to indulge me, is some ‘sartorial’ advice, on the ring and robe side of things. Good Lord, how I need it.
Fashion Failure or Fashion Follower? Foto failure for sure.
Yes, well, moving on from odd assortments and mix and unmatch couture….
Very soon, I will be meeting a little someone’s new friend. It will be a special occasion and I would like to honour it by wearing some purple accessories. ( Purple is such a perfect colour for important occasions. 🙂 ) Please give me your opinions on which jewellery I should wear for our meeting.
Circles and Hearts
As a thank you for your indulgence today, and your patience with my absence, I give you the first, small posy of spring flowers from my garden.
The first floral offering from my spring garden 2019
If you are curious to know who the little someone and her new friend are, stay tuned to my blog. In the meantime, here is a BIG hint.
Meeting Myrtle 2017
TTFN. Hopefully, I will have a few holiday shots to show you soon, too.
One of the most satisfying aspects of blogging is accompanying (and hopefully supporting) fellow bloggers as they discover, pursue, and, eventually, achieve their dreams.
As writer, architect, traveller, and dreamer, Virginia Duran, explains in this video clip, achieving dreams requires persistence, strength, skill, creativity, and a great team of supporters. To her list I would add courage.
Virginia has courage as well as all it takes to be an achiever of dreams. I was thrilled to see her latest post announcing the publication of her London Architectour Guide , which has been described as an “exquisite travel book for anyone passionate about architecture”.
Other blogging friends with oodles of courage and talent, namely Cynthia Reyes and Marisa Alvarsson, have delighted me and many others recently with their latest achievements.
Much admired and loved blogger, Cynthia, and her lovely daughter, Lauren Reyes-Grange, have just written and published the second book in the Myrtle the Purple Turtle series. As Cynthia recalls in this guest post bringing Myrtle’s Game to us, the readers, was no easy task, and getting it off the harvest table into our hands became a full-on family affair. They had to adopt Myrtle-like persistence and determination to achieve their dreams. In ‘Myrtle’s Game’, ” Myrtle and her friends are turned away when they try to join in a game with others. The friends walk away, feeling hurt, but that’s just the start of the story.” With persistence, patience, and practice, Myrtle and her friends prove that even a slow turtle can play the game as well as anyone else. And, more than that, Myrtle shows us that the best team is the one which is inclusive and allows you to believe in yourself.
Marisa, who has been a dear blogging friend almost from the beginning of my blogging days in 2012, began her social media life unwilling, like so many of us, to even mention her real name. We knew her only as Miss Marzipan, mother to a toddler, and confined to bed rest with a difficult pregnancy. Today, thanks to Marisa’s creativity and courage, and the support of her loving family, she has given herself permission to embrace the dream of being the author of a fabulous cook book ‘Naturally Sweet Vegan Treats“. She is also a wonderful, kind (almost magical 🙂 ) presence on Instagram, with 146K followers.
Another achiever and blogger, whom I have come to know in recent months is A Voice from Iran, Laleh Chini. Like Cynthia she lives in Canada, and, like Cynthia, Laleh and her daughter Abnoos Mosleh-Shirazi worked together as co-authors to produce ‘ Climbing over Grit’. “The story follows the journey of Najma as she is forced into a marriage at the age of eleven and faces the challenges of motherhood with an abusive husband, all while the eight-year war with Iraq is taking place.” The story is a tribute to Laleh’s mother. And a tribute to Laleh’s determination to write stories important to her and her family, and which, she believes, are important for the rest of the world to know.
Now, if, like me, you have places to go and things to do, and if, unlike me, you have your own dreams to pursue, you may not have time to buy or read the books I mention here, but I would urge you to take a closer look at, at least, one of these strong, creative women and their achievements.
I celebrate them all. And I thank them for letting me be a small part of their dream journeys.
Special note: the photos in this post are not mine. They belong to the authors and illustrators of the books featured.
ps I may not be on WordPress very much for a few months, but I will do my best to check your posts whenever I can.
Borage is the silent star of my garden. Silent to me, but a siren song to the bee. How differently we hear silence.
“How can one who does not hear a sound contrast noise with silence? Most people use their ears so constantly, they do not realize that the skin of our bodies is so sensitive that we perceive countless vibrations in the air and in objects we touch. For instance, I am extremely susceptible to the noises of machinery, whistles and the irritating jar of multitudes out of step. In the peace of my little garden I usually can escape from disturbing vibrations, but at present I am greatly annoyed by the metal hammers pounding on the new subway that is being constructed through Forest Hills.”
Come you cats of every colour
Kittens, too, of every size
See, the Lord who made the tiger
Lowly in a manger lies.
Praise him all his little tigers
Let your joyful purring rise.
Siamese and stately Persian
Homely black and Tabby gay,
Leave your cushions, leave your roof tops
Call a truce with mice today.
Swift and silent, velvet footed
Hasten now down Bethlehem way.
See, he smiles to see you coming
Mary welcomes you within.
Joseph with a friendly finger
Gently strokes your furry chin.
Ox and ass are there beside you
Sheep and camel peering in.
All creation sings his praises
Voices, music, sharps and flats
Join the chorus, cats and kittens
Praise him, just by being cats.