Speaking of old fossils…..

Accepting fairly and squarely, that there are many among us who say that there is no such thing as co-incidence, I confess that I do find I feel a little tingle now an again when they happen.

 

There has been a glut of them lately in my world. Holding myself back from reeling them off so that nobody falls asleep, the main theme that I have picked up, has been the somewhere between the mid 1930’s and my early childhood.  I was born in 1939. I can almost hear friends saying, “Well, she is getting on in years, a bit long in the tooth so maybe having a period of refection”.

 Books I have read of late have assisted this slide into the past. I have always been a fan of Tracey Chevalier, I think that like many, my first one of hers was, Girl with a Pearl Earring, that was made into a lovely movie too. (Steve and I made a trip to the Mauritshuis in Den Haag to see the famous painting by Johannes Vermeer). My most recent read by this remarkable story spinner was, A Single Thread. It is set in 1932 and the heroine of the story is 38 years old from a staid home where a father, brother and fiancée, had been lost during the previous war whilst in the book’s running time, war sabres already begin to rattle leading the WWII. I loved every sad moment in the poor woman’s ruined life and the rare glimpse of hope for happiness.  I lent it to a dear friend who told me she had read it in two days and loved it as much as I had. I have just passed it on to another friend/neighbour who is as big a book worm as myself. I couldn’t get it out of my mind, even though I have gobbled up two other books since that one, so when my husband asked me if I had any suggestions for the next audible book, for us to listen to in the car and over dinner, I mentioned The Single Thread and he didn’t need to apply any further thought to the subject. I am loving the book all over again hearing about Cathedral borderer Violet, given a voice by Audible. My man is thoroughly enjoying this very different story too, but of course he is often sitting opposite me whilst I work on my latest embroidery project. The poor man is used to stepping on needles every now and again in our home.

 

I thought I had read most of Tracy Chevaliers books and did a quick check this morning online, and ordered the only one I had not read which will be with me before I finish my present bedtime reading which is Patricia Cornwell’s Port Mortuary, that I found during a cupboard turn out searching for something else entirely. It is one of the many Kay Scarpetta books.

    Another Old Fossil photographed this morning in Arundel by her husband

A little while ago we watched a new movie on TV that we both really adored. That was, Ammonite with Kate Winslet and Saoirse Ronan as its marvellous stars. So one can see why I was not surprised when, after I had checked that I had missed any of Tracy Chevaliers books from my bedtime reading I discovered that the only one I have missed from at least a dozen of her published books was one with the title, Remarkable Creatures, from about 2010. I ordered it in paperback immediately before checking what it was about. The book is about Mary Anning who was fossil collector, as was Kate Winslet’s character Elizabeth Philpot in Ammonite. I will soon find out for myself if they are more or less the same woman. Both lived in Lyme Regis collecting snake stones and Devils toenails as they were called by some. DO NO TELL ME if you know

 

Before any of my friends should ask…..! Yes of course I have a few small fossils in my home, my coffee mug is standing on one of them.

 

 

 

 

 

Wendy Wonky Wing

My husband Steve and I have had a number of pets during our time together; that is getting on for but still a bit short of 45 years together all told.

We had a house with a fairly big garden and some out buildings for a time. We farmed rabbits for a few years and during that time we collected a few other four-legged friends.

We had a miniature pony called Hercules, who Stephen broke to harness and had a lot of fun driving around quiet roads with the small cart that he bought for the purpose.

We had a milk goat called Daisy and Rough Collie dog who answered to Tag.

We had and loved; about five cats.

We gathered eggs from about a dozen chickens. 

There was also a cockatiel called Custer.

The New Zealand White rabbit population was around 200 in our out buildings.

We had to trim that total animal population back hard when we moved from that house to look after Stephen’s Grandmother after his Grandad died.

 I have lived roughly by the sea most of my life and apart from my first five years during the war, I was born two weeks before war broke out.

My dad was in called up into the army and my mum gathered up her little boy of five and her new baby and took us to live with dad’s family in Yorkshire.

We did not return to Worthing until the war ended and it was time for me to go to school.

As children my cousins and I played unaccompanied on the beach during the school holidays whilst our parents were working.

 

 These days we only have Princess Birdy of Toddington, who was a stray black cat who slowly moved in with us little by little, training us along the way in how best to spoil her rotten.

Both Stephen and I love the sea and take the sea road on as many occasions as we can, which generally means going a few miles out of our way on drives to the shops or to call in to friends. The Littlehampton Wave, our local swimming and sports centre is right in the centre of Sea Road between Littlehampton and the Rustington/East Preston area, so we can take a look at the sea with sheer delight at the colour of the water, or the sand and rockpools when the tide is out. We love every aspect of the sea, in fine fair weather or when it is blowing a hooley and the waves throw pebbles all over Sea Road.

 In summer, tourists usually pour through the town, making their way to the River Arun and the seashore only a mile away from the station, passing shops, cafés and a good chippy on the way.   

They take it all in and mostly have a great time on the beach. The seagulls are a novelty that is part of the scene, so they even enjoy the noise the gulls make and the cheek they have even when they may just dive bomb the visitors and snatch a sandwich when they can, which always causes a laugh.

 Steve and I are not fond of the seagulls at all. We find them to be quite a pest, particularly on bin collection day, when some neighbours make the mistake of putting their black rubbish bags out, or even their thin kitchen bin bags, the night before the collection takes place. The seagulls have enormous fun tearing the bags to pieces and spreading a filthy mess all over the road long before the bin team arrive to clear it away. I have noticed on the many occasions, when I have tidied up the mess at the bottom of the garage compound, that people even put soiled nappies in their thin white kitchen bins. Surely this is not correct or am I just being old fashioned? Maybe so, for of course I am from a time long ago, when I washed my baby’s nappies by hand. Anyway, I find the seagulls a pain in the backside when they make such a mess.

 In our tiny little walled-in garden, I do like to feed the garden birds and we have a pretty stone bird table and an iron bird bath and mostly we like to see visits from dainty little birds like the Robin that lives in the Camelia tree next door, sharing the tree with a family of Blackbirds. We also see Sparrows, and Starlings and the occasional Blue-tits. Less welcome are the Magpies and the clumsy Seagulls. However…. I don’t mind which of them help themselves at the ‘open house’ table.

 

 

A few weeks ago, a female Seagull started bring her baby to our garage roof with her, I say baby, but it is almost as big as she is! The long-suffering mother seems to be a bit injured and cannot perform the acrobatics that would be required to get into our small garden. She has been picking up what the other birds drop, to feed her very irritating squawking child. Fool that I am, I have felt sorry for the poor old mum with her injured looking gait. I started throwing our little cat Birdy’s abandoned food for them after she has finished eating her meals. Birdy is such a spoilt little madam, that she now will only eat freshly placed food from her bowl, so I have been scraping it out onto the bird table once she had finished eating. Then, I give her fresh food the next time she asks for it.

 

Now, I have been feeding ‘Wendy Wonky Wing’ twice a day or more if I am home, supplementing the dead cat food with a bit of bread and milk, to give her some peace from the pesky baby that drives her nuts asking for food. Wendy Wonky Wing scoops up every scrap most efficiently as soon as I throw it up, before other birds can take it, then she regurgitates it carefully to give to young brat.

 

My husband cannot believe that I am doing this, knowing as he does, that I think inland housing estate Seagulls, are a the most awful pain it the neck.

I have sworn that it is just because poor Wendy W.W. is not fully functioning right now and has that mean little burden of her life, following her everywhere screeching at the top of its silly voice.

Steve has started calling me to say, “Your pet seagull is waiting to be fed”, and sure enough Wendy Wonky Wing will be up on the garage roof waiting and gazing hypnotically in through our kitchen window. Poor Wendy, can actually fly still but it seems she is not going far and is always ready for breakfast or dinner. She sits in wait.

 

I hope somebody would feed me or care a little for me if I was in need, but these have been telling times have they not? 

 

 

     

Heaven is here

 

The air was light, soft and sweet and I could breathe easily and normally as I could years ago, before I showed the first signs of the Asthma that my dear old dad had always suffered from. He may have passed the lung weakness on to me during my childhood when both of my parent smoked quite heavily. My dad smoked roll ups, that he taught me how to make for him with a little mechanical device. My mum started smoking when she was in hospital for months after smashing her jaw in seven places in a fast downhill fall from her bike, when the mudguard slipped down under her wheel and she was thrown over the handlebars. The Red Cross gave out cigarettes in the hospital she was taken to, which actually was a burns unit in East Grinstead.

 

I could fully inhale the fresh warm air, not the shallow breathing I had got used to being my limit over many years; my free easy breathing felt as it had when I was a child, young and strong. My lungs were not tight at all, which was a marvel in itself. I knew that I was dead immediately, but that knowledge was not distressing even with the thought that some of the people I knew might be sad that I was gone, my husband, family and friends. I knew who cared and who did not and I smiled lovingly at the thought of those who had cared about me. There was no pressure either physical nor mental. All worry, all concern, all stress had evaporated in the haze.

 As I gazed into the distance over the throng of faces, a million strong throng there in heaven, all the faces looked happy and at peace.

The aches and pains that had been such a plague of late to my octogenarian body had slipped away, replaced by a gentle freedom of movement that I cannot remember even when I was a teenager dancer, an acrobat, tap and ballet dancer. 

 

The reward for my arrival was the bliss of knowing that this was not a dream, not a dream at all. This was not simply wishful thinking, to have cares and torments removed. This was a joyous place, where I floated face to face with friends and relatives that I had loved when they were still in their earthly bodies. There was no endless flight, no climbing a heavenly stair to be greeted by the Archangel Gabriel as I had always imagined, no passing through the pearly gates after my sins had been forgiven. Instead, a sea of love enfolded me, wrapping me in soft warmth and ethereal bliss. I was expected and welcomed, as if I had been lost and now was found.

 

The heavy shackles of sadness, hatred, jealousy and envy had slipped off my shoulders fallen away. With no bodily restriction, no earthy halter, no resentment, no disapproval. Only lightness lifted me like a summer breeze takes hold of a lock of hair. No need for tears as I gave thanks in my reflection that I had done my best during my life time, that I had given love freely and worked hard to lead a good life, as I was taught by my family, schools and church. All my failings, though noted at the times I had slipped, were wafted away. 

 

In the morning I woke with tears streaming down my face, which contradicts what I have recalled from my short visit to heaven. I was not crying because I had not after all, gone on my final journey. It was more the weight of my earthy pain and stress sliding over my shoulders and back into my heart and I cry now as I write.

 

I give thanks here and now for the love I have constantly freely given from my husband and all who do care about me. I do not think that my experience was a dream, I am sure it was not, I know that I have been to heaven. I have felt the true love of heaven and all my personal dear departed family and friends; my lovely dad, my mum and her five sisters, Lily, Violet, Nelly-May, Gladys-Ivy and dear Betty-Pansy all of whom were a huge part of my life. My brother Peter who cared and protected me through my childhood. My best friend Joyce from my teen years, laughing as we jived for hours on end and cried at the movies together, who died before she was thirty of cancer. The many other friends and family who all died too soon.

 

The bottom line here is that having been part of a mystic trailer to the heavenly scene, the main feature promised to us for the future; I do not fear death at all because I know what happiness awaits. I will continue to try my best the live a good life for as long I am strong enough to be of use.

 

 

Be kind, give thanks, give love where you can.