You Have to Go Home First

Dear Bill,

We had a lovely Thanksgiving, as I know you all did. After we’d finished the feast, everyone promptly fell asleep wherever there was a vacant spot. Even our little one-year-old grandaughter keeled over in a state of postprandial exhaustion. She’d eaten a great deal of cranberry sauce. The scene was rather like one from Gone with the Wind. There were moaning bodies strewn hither and yon. Out of politeness to our guests I’ll show you only one of them–that of my sweetie husband:

I joined the sleepers soon after taking this picture–please don’t think I was above it all!

Tonight my sweetie and I relaxed and watched a DVD–The Secret of Roan Inish. 

This is one of our favorite films, and that for several reasons. It certainly takes us back to our years in Scotland. We can almost smell the sea. My sweetie loves all the boating. In particular, some scenes remind him of the summers when he was a guide on the island of Iona. This was before I came on the scene. His scene, I mean. I was on my own scene somewhere else.

There’s a selkie in the movie. Selkies are seals that can remove their skins to become humans–and turn back into seals when they put their skins back on again. Woody (Bad Bill’s wife) loved folklore involving selkies when she was little. She had a story book about them that I read to her over and over until she knew it off by heart. She would take it to school to show her classmates. Anyway, in the case of the film the story is really not about selkies but about a little girl, Fiona, who’s sent to live with her grandparents near the island of Roan Inish where selkies are thought to live. Her baby brother had been swept away to sea in his wooden crib as the islanders evacuated Roan Inish, abandoning their old way of life. When the story begins the boy’s being raised in secret by a selkie until the people return.

Through her courage and ingenuity Fiona discovers this deep family secret and gets the old folk to leave the mainland and return to live on the island once more. The selkie gives back Fiona’s little brother, and the movie ends with him sleeping safely in his sister’s arms.

It’s a common motif in fairy tales. A little brother disappears or dies, and his big sister–after an adventure–somehow recovers him and brings him home. You’ll remember the movie Labyrinth, starring Jennifer Connolly as the sister and David Bowie (good grief!) as the Goblin King who’s stolen away her brother. Maurice Sendak wrote Outside Over There on the same theme–a far darker book than Where the Wild Things Are.  I think stories like this are probably related to the huge number of changeling folktales, where babies disappear and are replaced by pieces of wood in the shape of children or by children who fail to thrive–and then, through the strong self-sacrificial work of a hero, are replaced once again by the real babies. All this is about the loss of precious children–a common enough occurrence in human history–and the family’s deep longing to get them back. 

My sweetie’s mother lost a little brother when she was just a young girl–her only sibling. I lost a little brother as well. The Secret of Roan Inish is wrenching–but the joy experienced when the baby boy is found and brought back to his family is so great it transcends the sadness.  

Not going to happen on this side of Heaven–I fully realize that. But it’s just a matter of time. That’s what the folktales tell us. It’s what our New Testament stories tell us as well.  Meantime, the children are safe and sound in the care of our Hero.

Love!

Momma

Michigan Rituals

Dear Bill,

I’m sitting having my coffee here at the crack ‘o dawn. Well, that’s an exaggeration, as the dawn hasn’t actually cracked yet. My sweetie husband had us both up at around 5:00am as he’s going hunting with our younger son, who will have had his wife up early as well I suppose.

Not everyone likes the idea of hunting. They think of Bambi’s mother and fret. Younger daughter out in California opines on the phone, “I don’t understand what’s happened to our family! How did they become hunters?” How indeed. I don’t know. I’d prefer they were gatherers, myself. My sweetie husband says to think of deer hunting as a more direct way to do the grocery shopping, but neither he nor younger son ever go blueberry picking I notice. I suppose that isn’t as bonding. 

My sweetie’s new to this scene. He, with the help of younger son, went out and bought hunting gear–a camouflage suit along with a bright orange vest. The law requires that you wear the latter so you don’t get shot by mistake.

My sweetie wonders if the bright orange won’t scare off the prey.

“Don’t worry,” says younger son, “deer can’t see orange.”

“Well, if that’s the case,” says my sweetie sensibly, “why don’t we wear orange all over!”

“Dad, you don’t want to look like a dork, do you?”

No, he doesn’t. He just wants to come out of the woods alive. I want him to as well.

The other night younger son went hunting on his own. He sat in the rain for hours and hours waiting for a deer to appear. Nothing. Then he nearly hit one on the way home in his car. And yesterday afternoon a little herd came walking down our driveway as they’re wont to do. They began to nibble the grass on our front lawn. This always makes our Scottie dog Maggie go berserk. She barked and barked till I was finally driven to knocking on the window, hoping to shoo the deer off. They would have none of it. They saw that I was wearing a pink fleece and jeans, not camouflage and orange, and stared at me with astonishment and disdain. What’s her problem, anyway?

This second photo was taken last winter but you’ll see what I’m talking about.

Well, fine. There are wild turkeys galore out there too, but I’m not taking any chances.

I bought our bird yesterday at D&W. It’s safe in the fridge waiting for Thanksgiving.

Love!

Momma

The Family Nose

Dear Bill,

Oh dear. This weather is very dull. When there’s a tiny ray of sun shining into the house I go and stand in it. I need color! At the moment I have several sensible knitting projects on the go but I’ve simply dropped them for the following:

You can see this is the beginning of  the simplest of shawl patterns. I toyed with making another Charlotte’s Web shawl out of the incomparable Koigu KPPPM but decided to forego the lace and let the yarn speak for itself. And what it’s saying is–you don’t need the sun. Just look in your stash for bright colors! Which is what I did.

Now I’ve told you a great deal about my sweetie husband’s father’s side. Here’s an old photograph from his mother’s.

The baby is Catherine, my sweetie’s mom. (And who gave her that horrible haircut, I’d like to know?)  

Holding her is her grandmother, Katherine (my sweetie’s great-grandmother).

To the right of her grandmother is her mother, Gertrude Dorothy (my sweetie’s grandmother). 

And on the far right is Emma, her great-grandmother (my sweetie’s great-great grandmother).

Don’t you think the women are absolutely beautiful? Look at those aquiline noses and clear eyes. I love their hair, their tranquillity. Sweetie Jim’s mom didn’t inherit the nose–but it’s still evident in the family.

I’m not naming any names. You know who you are.

Love!

Momma

Dracula’s Castle

Dear Bill,

I’ve finished the Fiona top and will be mailing it to your house tomorrow. It’s for your three-year-old daughter. Do e-mail when it arrives and tell me how it looks and if you like it. (This is hopeless. I know you’re not reading any of this. Your wife, our daughter number 1, will deal with it. Most importantly, I want to know if I should make a smaller version for the one-year-old daughter or if I should move on to the two little white cardigans I have in mind to knit next for them.)

Here’s the photo from the pattern. I tried to get a good picture of the top I actually knitted but not one of my photographic endeavors turned out. They were all fuzzy. Why? Why, indeed. I don’t know why, and it’s put me in a bad mood.

You’ll have to trust me when I say that the Fiona top I knitted looks just like this only the blue trim is pink. I used Siena cotton yarn and US#2.5 and# 4 needles.

And no, Colo (son number 1), that is not your dad modeling it. 

So, daughter number 2 is reading Dracula apparently. The amazing thing is that Bram Stoker got the idea for his book while staying at Cruden Bay in Aberdeenshire, Scotland. Cruden Bay is a small town just south of Peterhead, where we used to live in the 1970s and about which I’ve been blogging pretty consistently. Isn’t this a good example of sychronicity in the universe? I certainly think so. 

 Here’s a picture of Slains Castle. This is the very castle that was Stoker’s inspiration for Dracula’s castle.

Often, during the time we lived at Peterhead, my sweetie husband and I would take the kids for an outing to this fantastic place. The children would clamber all over the castle and look through its windows–but always very carefully. You can see from the next photograph that the castle overlooked a very steep cliff, and in many places the walls simply opened onto it.

Yes, that’s the castle wall on the left.

The next and final picture shows the Bullers of Buchan–which were just a continuation along the coast of this cliff formation beside Slains.

This picture shows what was actually an ancient sea cave that’s collapsed in.

I can’t begin to tell you how terrifying the cliffs were. In order to look over and see the waves you had to get pretty close to the edge. It was very clear once you crawled up to it that there was nothing, nothing whatsoever, to stop you from falling or jumping off. Your were totally in charge of your own fate. I found it almost hypnotizing. Certainly, it was a very strange feeling and one I’ve had no place else. The possibility of falling or not falling, the freedom to jump or not jump was so clear, so chilling, that you could only stay with it for a few seconds before retreating, shaking like a leaf. I’d be interested to know if anyone else has experienced this dizzying kind of feeling.

Apparently, in 1012 a great battle took place in the area–between the Danes and the Scots, the latter under King Malcom II. Needless to say, the Scots won since Cruden Bay remained part of Scotland. Alas, there was a terrible amount of blood shed on both sides. I think it would have been better had the Scottish soldiers simply encouraged the Danes to get up close to the Bullers of Buchan and admire the view for a while.  Who knows how many would have simply disappeared over edge of the cliff in a trance. 

Back to Slains Castle: It had once been home to the Earls of Errol beginning in the 16th century. In 1916 the Errol line had to give it up, I suppose for financial reasons, and it was sold to a shipping magnate. He in turn had to give it up, also for financial reasons. In 1925 the roof was removed to avoid paying local rates which were calculated on a roof’s square footage. So, of course, the castle soon after began to fall into serious decay. Apparently some developer is planning to remodel it into holiday flats. A grand idea as long as the residents don’t lean too far out their windows or look down too long.

Love!

Momma

Fame!

Dear Bill,

I recently bought a second-hand book on Amazon–Home Life by Alice Thomas Ellis. It’s a collection of essays that originally appeared in the British Spectator. I’m loving it. The weird thing is, I realized once I saw its cover that I’d bought it years ago, hated it, and given it away. Some things change. Well, no. In this case the “thing” hasn’t changed. I have!

This is a very neat way to introduce something fun. This is for you, Kym–or for your sister, the Beatles fan. (See Kym’s blog entry entitled: Pilgrim’s Progress.)

Are you ready?

I was in the studio audience when the Beatles first appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show. 

Yes. Really. 

It was a historical moment and I was there.

Here are the pictures captured from YouTube to prove it. I’m the one with the white headband on the top left of the picture. My sister Pea is the cutie beside me and my cousin Jo is beside her. Have a look.

Yes.

And now, just to put the icing on the cake–the next week the Dave Clark Five (a group who’ve sunk into deep obscurity) appeared on the show and the people who designed the set used a photograph they’d taken of the Beatles audience for a backdrop. There I am with my chin in my hands looking dreamy.

For real enthusiasts, here are the YouTube links:

Beatles:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eYV185fQxLE

Dave Clark 5:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5-GPiITJlmA

Lest you doubt it’s really me, here’s a photo taken around that time.

And here I am with my sweetie husband-to-be (Oh, boy–we were just kids!):

This is me today (many thanks to my sweetie photographer in residence):

Yes, as I said at the beginning–some things change. 

Me, for example.

Yup, I’ve changed, but it’s all good. I’m happier now for one thing. I have everything I could ever have wanted–things that when I was that young thing I had no idea about.  I took so much for granted then and for years after–but not now. Everyday I wake up thanking God. As my sweetie husband says to me these days–I pray we’re given many, many years to enjoy each other and our family now that we’re old enough and wise enough to know what we have. It’s called the fullness of life. 

After I’m dead and gone, however, my image will live on–as long as people love the Beatles. Autographs are available for a small fee.

Love!

Momma

A Ship Spreads Her White Sails

My sweetie husband and I have a beautiful collection of stained glass windows. Here is a pane I gave him last Christmas. The image means a great deal to us. He has it up against his study window–hence the criss-cross of the screen you see behind the clear glass.

 

Bad Bill’s grandmother died yesterday. What a wonderfully sparky character she was–Bill takes after her in many ways. She was in her nineties and clear-headed to the end, a grand old lady and loved by her family. Truly a life to be celebrated and emulated! 

When my sweetie husband’s mother was dying and later when my own was, I found the following piece by Henry VanDyke comforting.

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until at length she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says,”There, she is gone.”

“Gone where?”

Gone from my sight. That is all.

 She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side, and she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port. Her diminished size is in me, not in her.

And just at the moment when someone at my side says, “There, she is gone!” there are other eyes watching her coming, and there are other voices ready to take up the glad shout, “Here she comes!”

And that is dying.

Dear Bill,

We’re thinking about you. All is well.

Love!

Momma

 

Let Them Eat Cake–Or Perhaps Worms

Dear Bill,

It’s getting dark early now. We’ve turned on our family tree.

It sits beside our TV in the basement den. No, it isn’t real. And no, it isn’t a Christmas tree. We leave the lights in it all year but there isn’t the need to turn them on till November or so when we can really use the sparkle. We call it the family tree because it originally lived in my parents’ home (but without its pretty lights). When my parents wanted rid of it I was glad to take it. What a business it was fitting it into the car, getting it across the border from Canada, and spreading out each of its little branches once we had it home! But now it cheers us greatly! Thanks, little fake tree.

Well, Bill, I promised you a knitting update and here it is. This is the back of the Fiona top, completed. It still has to be blocked, which makes an enormous difference as you know. Well actually you don’t know any such thing, but I’m telling you.

See the cute heart buttons at the back of the neck?

Yesterday I made a cake. I love baking.

The recipe is from Tracy’s blog Pink Purl, in her entry Ode to Autumn Cake–Foodie Friday. I have to say–her cake looks a lot nicer than mine, but I’m sure the taste was the same. It was GREAT! Ya’ll should try it. Thanks, Tracy!

The subject of cake reminds me of a story. Let’s face it, everything reminds me of a story–you know that by now. I’m very quiet in real life, though. Just want you to know that.

So, we lived in Dumbarton, Scotland, in the 1980s. (We moved every six or so years as must be obvious to you.) My sweetie husband was senior minister of Riverside Parish Church, a Church of Scotland congregation right in the middle of town. Our manse (the church-owned house) was up on Kirkton hill, above the town. We could see Dumbarton Rock and the castle from our windows. The church was very active. As well as the sanctuary it had three huge halls and was busy day and night. Not surprisingly, the Sunday School was big and bustling as well. The four-year-old children were taught by a wonderful woman called M., big in every way–height, weight, voice, and heart.  Grown-ups, including me, were a little nervous of her but the kids adored her. She had an opinion on most things and didn’t mind giving it to you. I wish you could have seen her teach the children the word and actions to the song “Waddle, Waddle, Duck”! It was a glorious sight! Our younger daughter Anna was in her class and loved it.

One of the things we did often was invite church people in for dinner. I have to admit this was always a small agony for me. It took all the energy and organization needed to move a circus from one town to another. Understand, we had by our time in Dumbarton four small children, no mod cons, and very little money. Anyway, we invited M. for dinner on the Friday night. I was nervous all week. She often said, “I ‘ay judge an establishment by its desserts!” I decided from the start to concentrate my efforts there and make a gateau.

In Scotland there are cakes, sponges, and gateaux–all of which would simply be called cakes here. The gateau was the glitziest of the cake clan. It was cake but with thick layers of sweetened and whipped double-cream throughout and on top. 

I made this exalted dish the day before, and it was looking good. However, there was the problem of storage.  I didn’t own–because they didn’t exist– a cake-tupperware-type thing to keep the gateau fresh. It had to be stored in the (teeny tiny) fridge and I feared the onions, fish, whatever, would smell up the whipped cream. Not to be deterred I hit upon a brilliant idea. I stuck five pieces of spaghetti upright in the gateau, put Saranwrap over them carefully so the cream wouldn’t be touched, then tucked the wrap under the serving plate. Not airtight certainly but still pretty good–into the fridge it went.

Do you see a problem here? I didn’t either.

When it came to dessert time, I went into the kitchen, took out the gateau, removed the Saranwrap, and began pulling out the spaghetti. Or I tried to. Alas, as I pulled, each piece of the broke off at the surface of the gateau. They had been softened and weakened by the moisture of the whipped cream. The long ends of the noodles stayed lodged deep in the cake. 

I cut the first piece where I saw a bit of spaghetti sticking out. Yes, there was the rest of it, meandering its way down into the bowels of the cake.I fished it out. Now there were four pieces left, and darned if I could see where they were.

A necessary aside, though I realize I may be repeating myself here: A bad-ass minister’s wife would have done one of two things. Either she’d have gone right back into that dining room and explained to the honored guest why there was spaghetti in the gateau or she would have cut the cake and heedlessly let the cards fall where they may. I was not a bad-ass then–nothing close to the bad-ass I’m becoming–and I took the cowardly route, one that relied on family goodwill, co-operation, and blind luck.

I called my sweetie and children one-by-one into the kitchen (the baby was upstairs asleep so was excused all this) to “help” me with various jobs. To each I explained my agonizing problem. There were worm-like things in the cake. If you find one, say nothing. Just put it on the side of your plate where it won’t be seen. OK?

They loved it.

Right. I cut the gateau into five pieces with utmost care, watching with the eyes of an eagle for anything that looked noodle-like. There were four of those suckers left but I didn’t hit one of them. Back at the table everyone began to dig into their helping–some with more abandon than others. My sweetie husband was the first to surreptitiously pull a long semi-hard piece of spaghetti out of his mouth. He gave me a wink of encouragement. Our son Colin was next. He looked me in the eye significantly.

OK, good. With the one I’d removed in the kitchen and the two found here at the table that meant three had been found, and there were two left. I could feel the sweat breaking out on my forehead. Our older daughter (Bad Bill’s wife-to-be) finished her helping and looked up cheerfully. Sorry, Momma. Nothing here. I finished my piece. Nothing. Meanwhile M. was eating with great gusto. Anna, our younger daughter, was eating ve-e-e-e-ery carefully, as well she might. The minutes ticked by.

Suddenly, Anna brightened and looked up. 

“Momma! Guess what! You said I might find a worm in my cake. . . . BUT I FOUND TWO!!”

Love!

Momma

The Color Purple

Dear Bill,

Dang. No knitting pictures again. I’ll have one of the Fiona top next time–for sure!

So back to Peterhead, in the far north of Scotland, in the 1970s. (My sweetie husband was the Church of Scotland minister of the Old Parish Church, and we lived in the manse, the church-owned house nearby. See past blogs to catch up!)

Here is an aerial shot of the town. You can see the fishing harbor on the right side of the bay.

Behind the town and into the countryside were farms, farms, and more farms. You can see that, too. My sweetie husband and I would often go for long drives, taking the children with us. The land was flat–not the way you’d think of Scotland at all.  It used to be said that, before there were phones, a woman who needed emergency help in the farmhouse would wave a sheet out her front door. It could be seen for miles, and the men would run to the house from the fields posthaste.

The history surrounding Peterhead was amazing. There were standing stones here and there in farmers’ fields–with no signs marking them out for passers-by. One day we all got out of the car and began wandering through a little copse for fun. Suddenly, through the thicket of trees we spied a castle. For all we knew we might have been the first to discover it, it was so unattended. Later, of course, we found out that people knew fine it was there. They had just taken it for granted. Here’s a picture of it.

It was as spooky in real life as it looks in this picture. I’ve since looked the place up and found that the structure itself was built in 1491–the year before Columbus discovered America, for goodness sake! It used to be called Craig of Inverugie but had been known as Ravenscraig since the 16th century. It became known as Ravenscraig because of the ravens (not surprisingly) that nested there. And here’s the amazing thing–the ravens were still everywhere, flying about, cawing–basically doing everything that ravens are known to do except quoth “Nevermore.”  They and their ancestors had been hanging aroung the place since the 1500s. Talk about lack of initiative! But I guess life was good there for them.

Here’s a story to end with.

Our elder daughter (bad Bill’s wife) started school in Peterhead at four year’s of age. This was normal. Our older son had begun school, at Hillhead Primary, a few years before when we’d lived in Glasgow. He, too, had been four. His teacher had worn a black graduate’s gown to teach the little kiddies, if you can believe it. Peterhead Primary, thankfully, was not this formal. Our daughter’s class was mixed in ability and in background. The children were taught not to speak Doric, the local dialect, at school. The idea was that they should learn proper English so they could get jobs out of the area if they wished. This meant that some words had to be relearned. Anyway, to make a long story short–every Friday the children were told to bring one or two objects from home on the Monday for the Color Table. One week it was to be red, the next yellow, and so on. This was to help those who still needed to learn their colors.

It never seemed to be first on the list of things we remembered at the manse on a Monday. On this particular morning it had slipped my mind completely. Part of the reason for this was that we had a newish baby in the house who wasn’t sleeping very well. I mention the baby also because my sweetie husband, while he had been doing pastoral visiting in Aberdeen hospitals on the Saturday, had stopped at a lingerie store to pick up some special somethings for me–to celebrate that baby’s safe arrival, etc. etc. The special somethings were purple.

So, back to Monday morning. Off went our little daughter down the street to school, clean uniform, shiny hair, schoolbag over her shoulder. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. It wasn’t far, there were no major roads, and yes, they walked it in those days.

Suddenly, I remembered. The Color Table! I opened the front door and called after her.

“Wait! Wait! You’ll need something for the color table, Sweetie-Pie!!!” 

“Oh, dinna worry Momma,” she said in her little Scottish accent. ”I haev somethin’ fer it in ma’ schoolbag.” 

Whew. What a great little girl. Such a help. I closed the door and went in.

And then a funny feeling came over me. I opened the front door again.

“And what would the color be that you’re bringing, Sweetie-Pie?”

“Oh. It’s jis purple, Momma.” Big wide eyes, innocent as the day she was born.

Yes. You know. 

Love!

Momma

Frost Moon

Dear Bill,

What a happy day my sweetie and I have had. Just quiet, really. He wasn’t teaching today so we sat together writing and reading. He’s working on a book, and perhaps I am too. I certainly have lots of stories to tell. We talked about these things and about our wonderful family. We agreed that we wouldn’t want to be at any other time in our lives. As he said, if only we could hit the pause button! But we do want to see the grandbabies grow!!

My sweetie cooked us a splendid and special dinner–roast lamb with fennel, rosemary, and wine gravy. Here it is–just before we tucked in!

Yes, you can probably see we’d already been sipping the wine.

Right after eating we left the dishes to do themselves and went to a performance of Rutter’s Requiem.  It seemed a very apt concert on this the week of All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day. 

We’ve just driven home now. On the way we had a good look at the moon, which was very low in the sky and very orange. It was full on Monday. In November the full moon’s called the Frost Moon. I like knowing this kind of thing.

Anyway, we’re just about to open the bedroom window wide, turn off the heat, and snuggle into bed. As I said–a happy day. All’s well.

In case you think I haven’t been doing any knitting, let me assure you that the little Fiona top’s coming on apace. Pictures soon. Also, I’ve taken up my cross-stitching again! It’s something I used to enjoy and then abandoned for a while. You know how that goes. Anyway, here’s the project I’m presently working on. The first photograph is from the front of the pattern. . .

and the second is to show you how far I’ve got.

Yeah. Not very far.

The quotation’s from Song of Solomon 8:7. It’s prefaced by the famous verse, “Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm; for love is strong as death.”  If life has taught me nothing else it’s the truth of this. Love really is that strong.  Instead of buying more new books (heaven help me–I’m swamped with books) I’ve been trying to discipline myself to reread the ones I have. Lately, I’ve been looking through The Orthodox Way by Bishop Kallistos Ware. My sweetie and I heard him speak here in Grand Rapids some years ago. Anyway, Ware writes, “To say to another, with all our heart, ‘I love you,’ is to say, ‘You will never die.’ ” Now, isn’t that a Good Thought.

More Peterhead stories tomorrow!

Love!

Momma

Two Ecumenical Failures

Dear Bill,

Our driveway a week or two ago . . .

Our driveway on Friday. . .

We live in Grand Rapids, Michigan. What can I say. The oak trees would be doing us a huge favor if they’d drop their leaves at the same time as the other trees.

I was going to tell you a little bit more about Peterhead. For those in blogdom new to my particular corner of it–my sweetie husband (now retired) was a Church of Scotland minister. I married him and found myself living in amazing places. Marry a minister and see the world! In the 1970s he was called to Peterhead Old Parish Church.

Peterhead is a small fishing town about 30 miles north of Aberdeen.  We lived in a manse (a church-owned house) not far from the church.  

I had been brought up in Montreal–in a modern city, in other words. My parents’ house had central heating, a dishwasher, a washing machine, a dryer, enough hot water to fill a bathtub, and so on. The manse had none of these things. If you want to read more, please look up earlier blogs. There are some pretty funny stories you wouldn’t want to miss.  

Anyway, here’s a photograph of one of the streets that led up to Peterhead Old or the “Muckle Kirk” (the “big church”) as it was called.

You probably notice one huge difference between Grand Rapids and Peterhead. Yep. No trees.

Well, there were some. When we lived there, however, the accepted opinion was that trees were dirty. They messed up the streets. Even grass wasn’t that popular. The manse had a small walled garden at the back of the house. I loved it dearly–not because we grew anything exciting, but because it afforded us some privacy and space for the children to play. There was very little of either in the front of the town’s houses, as you can see from the photograph.

We had a couple of trees on one side of the back garden. “Garden” is the British word for “yard.” It doesn’t mean flowers necessarily–and didn’t in our case. These trees leaned over the wall and onto the path leading up to the local Baptist church, which happened to be right next door. I would hear the churchgoers complaining about the leaves, about all the  “rubbish” from the trees, as they went in to worship. I’m sure this did little for the ecumenical movement, but the trees stayed.

Thinking about the Baptists next door has reminded me of the local Methodist minister’s wife. A battle-axe, if ever there was one. One day she arrived at the manse door with papers of some kind for my sweetie husband. His office was in the house–as was the case then with most Scottish clergy. As it happened, he was out visiting hospitals so I offered to give him the packet.

“Hmmm,” she said doubtfully. And then, “How lang ago wis it ye haed yer wee quine?” In the local Doric dialect this was, “How long ago was it that you had your little girl?”

I said our baby girl was now about a month old.

“Hmmm,” she said again, looking at my stomach. “Weel, ye’re surely takin’ a lang time tae gae doon, airen’t ye?” (“Well, you’re surely taking a long time to go down, aren’t you?”)

I’m learning to be a bad-ass. I’m so learning. That’s one of my chief aims as the years go by. However, I was not one then. This Methodist minister’s wife was a very stout woman. A very, very stout woman. I could have said so many bad-ass things . . . but nothing came to mind. I was simply too nice in those days. I blushed, took the papers, thanked her, and closed the door. The ecumenical movement! Humph!

Cow. 

Love!

Momma