Nature study today

Rose

 

When the time comes to trim the climbing rose

One see’s her other face,

The strength behind the delicate flower;

Delicate my eye! 

The straggly little root that was planted

Deceived big time.

One year later pretty rose fulfils her promise

Of fragile beauty,

As like an alien invader her roots grow strong

Under the earth. 

She takes hold, takes nourishment, digs deep her base

As we turn a blind eye.

The second spring see’s her spectacular growth

A proper little madam

Lapping up admiration for her youthful beauty

Budding precociously

Bursting into flamboyant flower in every direction

Rose shows her best side. 

One can only marvel at her grace and elegant style

Once seen, you’re lost

Musing as to how something so fragile and delicate

Has such force.

Rose bewitches all who pass by her, her perfume

It fills the air,

Her heavy hypnotic, seductive fragrance envelopes

We submit joyfully.

Try to pass her by without stopping to compliment

And Rose will clasp you back.

She spreads her limbs, demanding total domination

Throughout summer.

Then, as the air grows cooler and the days shorten

Her radiance fades.

Her adoring public suffer too as Rose sheds her leaves

Come summers end.

 

She will fight with the last of her power to stay strong

Against the secateurs;

Grasping, clawing, as offending pruning surgery comes

To her last season gasps

Sweet Rose gone now, as she cruelly draws first blood

Rose Virago will fight again.

Carer

Care, Carer, Caring, Cared

Recently a friend asked me how I had coped during the twenty four years of living in the same house as my now departed, Mother in Law. All I can truthfully say is that I did just about cope, barely. It was only the last few years that got difficult, and then a couple of years that got progressively more difficult to the point in the last eighteen months, that it was very close indeed, to unbearable. The person enquiring was newly placed in the position of taking care of a close relative after the death of their marital partner and this only brought about then, because the surviving parent had then suffered a stroke, making them completely dependant on a ‘From this day onward’ basis.

A family has to make their own choice as to whether they will continue to look after their elderly relatives themselves or  firmly, and maybe wisely, stand back a step and support them as they are taken into a home. It seems the sensible thing to do when you have a very busy professional life yourself, because let there be no doubt, it is a life changing commitment taking on that carer role yourself.

When you watch the parent going into a home for the elderly, you can be assured that they will be correctly cared for, with all the daily needs attended to. They will be given regular meals, washed, waited on and medically overseen professionally. They will get everything they need, everything that is, except love. They will get kindness, but not love.

My own mother came to stay with us for a couple of months after my father died but quite quickly wanted to get back to her own home, even though we had made it clear that she was welcome. Being an outspoken person, she said that she didn’t like our meal times, she didn’t like our food; it was too fancy and we didn’t cook the vegetables how she liked them. We went to bed too early and we got up far too early. She missed her sisters in her home town of Worthing and her friends and neighbours. She did not feel comfortable and wanted to go home.

She was not a well woman, but could still walk on her own and straight as a poker at that. There was no arguing with my mum, she stood straight and she spoke straighter. After settling her back in her house, she told me that it would be enough if I went over to check on her and do her shopping, pick up washing and any jobs that she could not manage, just a couple of times a week. Of course it was a bit harder for me, even though she only lived eight miles away, because of the time going back an forth but it worked reasonably well until she was taken in to hospital with renal failure toward the end. In my opinion, she helped that to progress, by not drinking any where near enough, because then, she would have another trip to the toilet. That was her story anyway, and a lot of old people fall foul with that problem, due to cutting down on trips to the loo. The painful truth was she would be happy to see her husband, my dear old dad, again as soon as possible.  She survived him by just eighteen months.

What ever you try to do, it will still be painful and nothing will run smooth. All I can say is that I cared as best I could for our elderly family members. Having had, it’s true, a very unpleasant time of it as their health went slowly down hill.

 It became a full time effort just keeping up with soiled washing and the mess of accidents on the way to the bathroom, that are, without doubt, so humiliating for the poor soul suffering them, without them feeling doubly horrible because somebody has to deal with it. It is quite shocking and at those times you do sometimes wish you had taken the nursing home option, and then feel mean because you even thought that.

However;  a year and a bit after my mother in law died at the age of ninety four, after a quite short stay in hospital. I am beginning to feel better and I am getting over the guilt I suffered for a while because I felt that I was not always as patient as I could have been. What I know now is, that I did my best beyond what was my ‘Duty’ if you like, and gave my time and I gave her companionship and love.

Caring for an elderly relative should not be taken on lightly. It takes courage and patience and a big block out of your life. We must all make our own decision bearing in mind how it affects the rest of the family.

The following poem was written during the last six months of caring for my mother in law. I don’t think it shows me in a flattering light, but it does show the degree of stress I felt. I do thank our cousin Sally, who would come to visit and chat with her aunt, whilst I had a couple of hour’s peace, generally taken in the grounds and gardens of Arundel Castle a few miles away from home, scribbling in my note book and enjoying the quiet and beauty of the surroundings. 

Going Dark 

If one is not a natural nurse type

Then it can get hard.

It can get very wearing.

It can get to the point where,

 It is almost impossible,

For the one who sadly, feels stuck

In a situation forced upon them.

Who feels, rightly or wrongly,

And I doubt that it is wrong,

That their own life

Is constantly,

Day by day being pressed

Closer and closer into a hold pattern;

The press ganged carer.

And without even the King’s shilling!

There is no reward,

Only an exceptionally high cost.

Unpaid forced into service.

Staff,

For that is what they have become,

Will feel unavoidably resentful.

The resentful feeling will increase

Exponentially.

Out of control.

They are trying desperately

To hold on to a life of their own

But are being made

to feel guilty for that.

Constantly made to feel

That they are wrong.

Wrong for trying not to be

Totally trampled underfoot.

Anything that is done

Simply for needs of their own,

Is held up for examination,

As if, they are the selfish one.

When the compulsory carer

Needs to take a break,

It is treated as though

It is an unforgivable sin

To the invalid, and by the invalid.

The only way

To make the one who is cared for

Totally happy is

Is to completely submit to their will

Thereby giving up any hope

Of maintaining an independent life

Giving up any intention

Of keeping a free will. 

For this reason it is essential

That regular breaks be taken

Complete breaks.

Totally out of contact breaks.

‘Going Dark’

As the crime writers put it.

And for long enough amounts of time

For the dictator invalid

To get the message.

Though that will not happen.

The message also needs to be

Accepted as necessary

By the press ganged carer,

Without any feelings of guilt.

Mmm! That won’t happen either.

Spirit, Heart and Strength of Will

Spirit, Heart and Strength of Will

Versus Logic, Caution and Common sense 

Common sense means what to you?

Carefully weighing up what to do

Playing life safe and not making waves

How the practical person behaves

Wishing and hoping and carefully saves

Or clawing out of our respective caves

Searching inside for our spirit’s aim

Not settling for a life so ordered and tame 

An every day schedule from nine to five

Sinking into the shadow or coming alive

Grasping the nettle and feeling the sting

Take heart to search for a road with some zing

Striving with real effort at everything

Teeth gritting for a better tomorrow to bring

That little pump working as hard as it can

Not to end back exactly where you began 

Summoning up deepest strength of will  

To start again each day is too bitter a pill

Never believe that you cannot do better

Following the safe school word to the letter

From fear of becoming a loaded debtor

Struggle and work to be a go getter

Speak loud enough to be audible

Performing to a standard more laudable 

Proceed with caution but not with fear

Keep the principles you hold most dear

Never stop when the going gets tough

Push on relentlessly as the path gets rough

Dig deep when you stand at the edge of a bluff

When as hard as you try it’s never enough

Live goes on well past that first high peak

Your own strength built to the goal you seek

The Bells

Tinnitus 

It’s like it’s not true

Because whatever you say or do

Nobody else can hear

This endless, relentless din

Can’t turn it off or down, can’t win

Only I, am here to hear

The cruelty of the level

Of ringing noise from the devil

Me alone to bear and hear

It seems that nothing can be done

My invisible torturer seems to have won

Everlasting, on my own I hear

Even my husband, gentle as a foal

Hasn’t a clue how it plagues my soul

S’a miracle I can hear over what I hear

There isn’t any actual pain

A constant irritant will still remain

In here,

So near

Sheer noise

I hear

Arun and the Shingle Banks

This is my own personal slightly mad theory about the wicked intentions of the spirit of the River Arun in Littlehampton where it meets the sea. The river has been diverted umpteen times over a very long period of time, centuries actually. The most outrageous of these, seems to have been to have the river past in front of Arundel Castle at the whim of an earlier Duke of Norfolk. I stress that that is just, as I see it, and only delving into records would prove or disprove this idea worrying, pecking, itching in my fanciful brain.

A few years ago, after a prolonged series of winter storms, a new shingle bank appeared just a little way off the beach just about half a mile east of the point where the river meets the sea. Later on several lesser shingle banks have arrived at points in the direction of Worthing further to the east.
These banks are now well settled. They are very interesting to explore and at low tide on a nice day are much fun to dog walkers and kiddies. The banks seem to disappear from sight almost entirely at full tide. There is this wrap around effect that I very much enjoy watching when you study the incoming tide on a rough day. The water swells up and passes either side of this ever growing barrier, first from the west and then from the east before crashing down on the beach. To my mind, the  water seems to be ending further and further up the beach towards the promenade and Sea Road beyond.

Well, there you have it, the latest ramblings of an imaginative old bat. The poem on the subject written some time ago follows here.

Coming of Rage 

The River Arun has long been prone to flooding

Thru past centuries Arun fought against being fought

Unruly child of nature; a vandal in the budding

Long since held his own reins sending spurs clubbing

A whole history of lords and dukes who thought

They could bring him to heel though gain was naught 

The same head banging mistaken work repeated

Diverting the course wrought by flow now defeated

A rivers irritating curves gentleman farmers cut

To suit whim and pocket trimmed where banks jut

Each submission with arrogant air was greeted

The rich men lodging in homes next to the river abut 

Brought down to the sea by a more convenient route

Every spiteful cut, a simple line, flow now money serves

The powerful gloat and at nature cock a snoot

Greed becomes a spiteful, fearless, insatiable brute

The graceful snaking river slakes off luscious curves

Turned into an obedient, servile service chute 

Now again rebellion rises when abuse becomes too cruel

Resentment starts to boil within the independent heart

Distant memory of past times of original current own rule

So summon up medieval skills formed inside dark art

The temporarily tamed spirit calmed from centuries school 

Longs to return to follow it’s since hidden ancient chart  

Enough of changed direction and industrial domination

Slow returning to his one time impetuous youthful rage

Call upon the eddies and undercurrent tools to swage

Recalling from swirling rapids clutch where he came of age

Tear free from what they made by force an ignorant mutation

Deepest anger simmering slowly through violent gestation 

So many natural curves hacked away who can answer why

Greatham Bridge, Houghton, Offham, Burpham, to Arundel haven

Piers built at the mouth to snap the great sand bar once so high

The tidal water separated so from the sea cut that sea river array

Lashed away from it know pattern spitefully and deliberately graven

Twitching riffles deep power surges form the roiling rivers cry 

Biding time to turn back the clock drifting into new age silting

Work the currents strength and mesh into elaborate quilting

Empowering the undercurrent long enslaved and wilting

Rebuild the shingle bar piece by piece to reform old ways

Rise up into the light old glory days again to praise

Patience of centuries cast of like old reptile skin flays 

Then shall the River Arun at long last from servitude rise

To greedily reclaim all the his stolen canals and ditches

Where once he gracefully flowed now to flooding he switches

Again to create his own artistic work and sing his own reprise

Without warning stealthily usurps his old wealth, his prize

Useless resistance swept away like gnat bite twitches 

Only then shall the River Arun once more make peace

Where once a regal river did glide tranquilly the valley through

Will be the calm waters of Lake Arun thus anguish release

Gratefully in freedom of the watery habitat white swans who

Declare new safe nesting sites, man and river wars cease

Nature standing on the winning side on this occasion, smiles

 

In a Stable on Christmas day

In A Stable

Years ago, we used always to go away at Christmas. We had to take a break in this tradition for a number of years when we were caring for my husband Steve’s elderly mother and did so up until her death last December. Now we have restarted our preferred Christmas holiday. There are good reasons for doing this; one being that our small family antiques import/export business dies the proverbial death during December, and does not recover usually until mid January. The other reason is that we find the, spend, spend, spend and drink yourself silly at office party’s and eating fit to bust, quite distasteful.

My husband Steve, was brought up in a Catholic family, my dad played the cornet in the Salvation Army band, and my mum sang in the choir of St Peters in Brighton as a youngster, which meant that both of us were taught, and therefore do know the meaning of Christmas. And having that inbred, prefer to be away from the sort of Christmas so many people now prefer to celebrate, that seems to us to be almost pagan.

So for many years we enjoyed spending Christmas in Switzerland and although we are not a heavy duty religious pair, we prefer to enjoy a traditional celebration that does not include baubles and sparkly Santa figures climbing over balcony’s, and the strange growing habit in the UK of smothering the front of your house with gaudy lights. When I mention this, people say to me, “Well, Christmas is for the children isn’t it”. Well, no actually, in my view, it is not. Or rather it was not once upon a time. For me, and I hope still, for many others it is about the birth of Christ.

December for us is also a month of remembrance since so may of our elder family members have died around Christmas time. This is why we try to get away to a hotel or better still a small apartment where we can spend a less commercial time quietly together mixed in with some sport; swimming and walking in the picturesque mountains. Christmas in Switzerland is far more tasteful and does include the Christmas Story.

Walking in the mountains helps restore our spirits and even though we are thinking of lost loved ones we are also seeing the beauty of nature and following healthy pursuits rather than stuffing ourselves to bursting, and drinking ourselves under the table to the point where each morning comes with a hang-over rather than holiday joy.

Our plan for Christmas day this year, was to have a good swim as usual and as we do most mornings at home, we are a sporty pair. Then we took a light breakfast before setting off for a reasonably arduous hour and a half long walk up a mountain path through a wooded valley. The path eventually leads to a point 1896 metres high, where it links to a tiny railway station, a little halt on the Rhätische Bahn, where what was once the original station waiting room that has been moved to adjoin the old stables. The waiting room and the stables of long ago, stand sandwiched together. Here we had our Christmas dinner, in a tiny shed refurbished with pine panels, simple and plain as could be.

I could say that we ate bread and cheese for this meal but that would be making us sound much more pious than we actually are. Putting it in a more truthful way we wanted to make our day as far from the gluttonous feast that the main meal of December 25^th has become in these modern times, when people gathered with their families, eat so much that they cannot move for hours. We did not want to stuff ourselves with three times the food we would normally eat at a lunch or dinner. In fact at home we do only eat lunch OR dinner. Boil it all down to the fact that we are not going along with the bigger and bigger portions competition of the times. 

Our meal was in fact one of the national dishes of Switzerland and Austria, cheese fondue, the down to earth farmhouse invention where everybody digs in with a piece crusty bread stabbed on to a long fork, you then make a figure eight shape to coat the bread with the cheese mixture and by doing also keeping the hot cheese stirred. Apart from the pan of liquid cheese, it is sometimes served with little gingham lined sack of small plain boiled potatoes as an alternative to the plain bread.

By the end of our meal we were very happy that we had made that choice and full enough to be looking forward to an equally energetic walk back. The return hike was more challenging since it was by that time dark and once we had moved away from the building we had eaten in, it was totally dark. When we were in the planning stage of our Christmas outing, the moon was full, that was I think on Christmas eve so we had thought that our way would be lunar lit, a bright arch light overhead, since it was a maximum of one day past the full moon phase.

Ah! We had not taken in to our calculations that we were in a narrow valley with enormous mountains almost surrounding us. We were only saved by our foresight in that we had brought torches with us for the parts where the path led us through thick forest. So we set off jauntily with just the torchlight to try to prevent accidents, caused by tripping on a rock, of which there are many, or going off the path and getting lost. Nobody else knew where we were.

The other things that you do not think of in the light of day is that in the mountains there are a number of dangers present; Slipping in the river, stepping off a ledge, tripping and hitting your head on a rock or a tree or of course the darkness starts to seep into your imagination…. Getting attacked by a bear! All these things were possible in the darkness.

We picked the pace up a little and my husband grasped my hand so that at least if one of the above did occur we would meet that fate together.

As it happened; we did take a wrong turn along the way and did not realise this for some time because in the pitch black, the path is just a metre or so in front of you, and you cannot see the view all around for orientation as you had in daylight. We knew we had gone wrong when some way lower down the valley, we found ourselves on the wrong side of the narrow gauge railway line. Since it was an open stretch of central line between stations or crossings, it was well banked up, with almost a ditch of rocks, and then a rise up to the actual rails and the same repeated the other side before a fairly steep embankment, where with the torches both shining we could actually just see a woodland fingerpost. We were in a clearing and in the completely clear night sky, stars were now peaking out. Sirius had just climbed over the mountain tops to the right of us, was bright enough to be giving a little light and actually flashing his ‘Dog Star’ blue and white sparkling shards.

Steve stood for a few moments before stating that we would have to cross the line. There was no choice apart from trekking back to where we had obviously taken the wrong direction. My husband is not a man who turns back!

That made my little heart jump and miss a beat, but I did say that I thought we should not climb across the line and were they not electrified and anyway you’re not allowed to go across the line willy-nilly, except at the allocated crossings? He laughed loudly and said “Of course we’re ‘NOT  ALLOWED’, to cross the line, but unless you want to walk back a couple of miles when we are both tired enough already, we have no option”. He then pointed up to the overhead electric power lines as if that made it all instantly clear.

I held my position of opposition to the line crossing idea for a moment or two longer before caving. He was right about one thing; I didn’t fancy an uphill walk back to where ever we went wrong. If it was a couple of miles, then it was of course a four mile round trip. This logic was competing against that of clambering a mere fifty metres across the track.

Before I could raise any further objection, Steve was hoiking me up the bank ahead of him then he climbed up to the centre of the track and down the other side turning again to help me down the rocky slope into the indentation on the other side. From that point we had a steep-ish climb over rough terrain up to the point where the foot and mountain bike path signage was. By the time we got there I was quite out of breath. We stood in our tracks for a few minutes until our pulses got back to normal.

I did have to concede that this was the path we should have been on and that it was nobody’s fault that we had strayed, bearing in might the lack of the moonlight we had expected. The only sign of the moon rising was that on the other side of us the top of the mountain was illuminated by this time; the moon rise being a lot later than we had thought, due to being in this steep valley of huge rock walls.

We both admitted that we had the odd aches and pains as we strode with a renewed determined vigour; we just wanted to get our adventure over with and if we had to suffer a bit on the last couple of miles, so be it.

We were chatting cheerily by the last stage of our trek, encouraged by coming level with the lights of the town across the valley, where we started our outing, getting brighter and brighter all the time. We talked about our choice of how to spend this special day and the choice most of the people we knew had made. We came to the conclusion that we were most likely seriously outnumbered but who was to say which group was right and which was wrong. We are all entitled to our opinions and only not allowing people to think as they pleased was wrong if anything was.

For our part, I was recalling a passage from book I had once read that claimed that Jesuit priests’ would say “Show me the child at seven and I will show you the man”. Well. At seven, my parents were sending me to morning children’s service at the Emmanuel chapel at 9am on Sunday mornings, the main church service at St Georges Church at 11am and after lunch to Sunday school at 3pm. Our neighbour’s children were out playing in the street, looking scruffy but happy, whilst I stood in my clean and pressed, cream, old fashioned Sunday coat and hat and old but shiny shoes. Is one wrong and one right or shall we just say, “I blame the parents”.

 

Portrait of My Soul

During our almost forty years together we have moved quite a few times. We have had all kinds of neighbours some good, some bad and at one of our homes a neighbour from hell who would take a swing at Steve any time they passed. So it is such a joy to have all the lovely neighbours we have in our home in Toddington Lane, Littlehampton. Helen across the road who apart from giving me friendship, keeps my wildish hair under control, and her lovely family who I have seen grow up. Jan and Christine live right next door, both play saxophone in bands and I find their devotion to practice comforting that I am not the only freak with a serious obsessive hobby. They also play ping pong in the garden and I hear their happiness over the fence. Christine is also a stunning artist a painted a portrait of me in 2002. Christine's image of me hangs by my desk and watches me work, sleep and sees how I feel and everything I write.

Portrait of My Soul

 

At first glance she dares you to look away

Then makes you think about what you will say

Attention fixed ‘No nonsense please’ to convey

Challenge

Her bright red, dyed head of naturally curly hair

A stop light helmet of protection to be aware

The falsehood misleadingly shouts; take care

Guard 

The eyes lock firmly on to the viewers gaze

Time stills or ponders on some old yesterdays

Sitters hazel eyes (now painted blue) appraise

Think 

Wearing lenses coloured to the artist’s choice

Once garrulous woman now has a quietened voice

Imprisoning frame holds one no more able to rejoice

Restriction 

Concentration cannot unlock her from your face

Determined stalking rather than a heated race

Following the intruder around a limited space

Control 

She silently takes in all within her placid sight

Dimming but still held still throughout the night

Relentless no matter if movement be left or right

Helpless 

The carefully painted eyes seem slowly to change

A rainbow of emotions expressed within their range

To have been put there by a brush seems so strange

Incredible 

Searching my mind whilst concentration stays in abstention

A moment in time hovers forever in spiritual suspension 

An invasion of my soul if this be skill by intention

Fear 

An exploratory operation undertaken to find the cause

To remove faults with scalpels, claps and shiny saws

Delicate remedial work cut, stitched, then held with gauze

Fright 

I see myself clearly in my artist friend’s patient work

The mouth reflects a secret humour too polite to smirk

Neath the surface of her strokes, my inner truth shall lurk

Confidence