Category Archives: Uncategorized

Countdown to September

So this is the way it is done? Wonderful!

Waking up on the Wrong Side of 50

Since my daughter entered school, I’ve always thought of September as the beginning of the year.  So in August I do a lot of organizing/housekeeping things.  This is a glimpse into the crazy that is my brain:  my August to do list.

  1. Use all food that is in my pantry and freezer.  I like to know that there is no food product in my house that is over a year old.  I will use every can, box, grain or frozen thing before the month is up.  I don’t have a large pantry- but I end up with an odd assortment of grains- half container of quinoa, half container of barley.  There are also cans of soup that we pick up “just in case”- this never happens- my family hates canned soup.  And there is always an errant chicken breast or half bag of shrimp loitering in my freezer- I want…

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My Sunday Poem … #23

I hope this will be reblogged by all who can. Thank you Chris White

1951 Club

My Sunday Poem … #23

Some weeks ago I published a two verse poem on here called At Turnebyry in Starlight. It was inspired by the current debate over Scottish Independence. Seeming incomplete, I have since lengthened the poem to five verses. It can be set to the ancient tune of Slane, as in the hymn ‘Be Thou My Vision’. Hopefully it will journey far and wide. Scotland will prevail, independent or no. May hope always dwell in peaceful hearts.

At Turnebyry in Starlight

At Turnebyry in starlight a warrior stood,
A King for all Scotland, a soldier for good.
With eyes looking landwards, his thoughts they did turn
To Freedom won dearly at yon Bannockburn.

Would I have the courage to stand in his stead,
Where hundreds have fallen and thousands have bled.
Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Fair Caledonia, the bravest of all.

The pipes they…

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The Continuing Saga of Our Own Orphan Annie, Who Turned Out Not to Be Exactly That

Perhaps there are those who are able to go about their lives unfettered

by such concerns. 

But for those like us, our fate is to face the world as orphans,

chasing through long years the shadows of vanished parents. 

There is nothing for it but to try and see through our missions to the end,

as best we can, for until we do so, we will be permitted no calm.”

Kazuo Ishiguro, When We Were Orphans

It seems quite strange that the one descendant that could be classified as an orphan, and who grew up in an Orphanage at 51 Avon St. in Stratford, Ontario, arriving in 1888 at the tender age of four years old, was not strictly an orphan, AND that this information was not known until she was seventy-nine years old in 1963.  So really, in her mind and the minds of her family she was an orphan all those years. 

She had randomly given herself a birthday of May 1883 just so she could say she had a birthday. Annie Dorothy (called Dolly then) Frampton suddenly, in 1963 knew her mother and father’s name, where she was born and what her address was in Hackney.  On February 14, 1964 the family held her official eightieth birthday party. She died a year later.

annie's 80th birthday

At the tender age of fifteen she married her one love, James Henry White, who was nineteen at the time, on December 20, 1899.  The marriage was held at the orphanage, the Annie MacPherson Home at 51 Avon St. in Stratford Ontario.  Annie went on to have fourteen pregnancies, eight of which lived to adulthood.

I knew nothing else and had no idea how to find out more about her parents, and the “why’ of her apparent abandonment.  I mean how does a child be born into a family and four years later be one of the British Home Children living in Canada?

Of course there was much speculation, especially by Annie herself as she grew.  As human beings we try to make sense of who we are and where we are and how come we are.  Annie had told my sister more than forty years ago that she thought she remembered her father’s body lying in the parlour.  I was pretty sure that might have been something her young mind wanted to remember.

Having no idea how to go about finding out information I reached out to the Divine Ms M I mentioned the other day. Not THE Divine Miss M of course.  So a half world away, a cousin who is experienced in genealogy came to my rescue and what a wonderful job she did.

So as Paul Harvey used to say, “Here is the rest of the story.”

It turns out that Annie had not just a mother and father but a sister, a brother, and a half-brother.  Her father had been married and widowed before he wed Edith Davies Frampton, and had produced a son named William Francis Frampton who was born in 1871, thirteen years before Annie’s birth.

Tomorrow I shall go into detail on the who, and a bit of the what, and why of it all.   It is exciting, sad, heartwarming, and reassuring.  Annie died in 165 not knowing any of this and all of her children are now gone, but our generation and those that follow will finally know.

 

 

This Writer: The Unsuspected Truth

When I first wrote this I was puzzling over the appearance of how and what we perceive. Today the search for truth continues the layers of which remain elusive and undulating.

bridgesburning

My mind sometimes rides on an endless roller coaster trying to sort out unsortable things.

Truth is one of those – the truth we think we see and the truth as perceived by another.

I had an old friend long ago.  She was old in tenure and age with friends of all ages.  As a matter of fact I and many others called her ‘Mum‘.  She was born sometime around 1916 and lived in a large stately home her father had built in the town of Preston.  She and her sister grew up learning good housekeeping from a very young age and when their school day ended they dusted both banisters of the front and back staircases.

She grew up well mannered, polite and demure as was expected of all ‘ladies’.  She was always a lady.

We became friends in 1967 when I was a nursing student

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The Thing About Writer’s Block

Led here by a reblog of the wonderful Chris White at Routine Matters. I just love finding new treasure! Enjoy

Secret Diary Of PorterGirl

Not just the scourge of authors, writers and poets – anyone who has ever sat down in front of a blank page will, at some point, have experienced the phenomenon popularly known as ‘writer’s block’. I have come to an important conclusion about this most maligned of conditions and it is somewhat controversial, probably won’t be popular, but I thought I would share it with you anyway.

It doesn’t actually exist.

The natural flow stops not because of some mystical interference from the literary gods, but rather because something somewhere isn’t quite right, the narrative has gone awry or because something just doesn’t work. When the words dry up for no apparent reason and everything comes to a grinding halt, go back and look at it again. Retrace your steps, find out where you’ve gone wrong, look for the bits that don’t fit. There are all manner of things to…

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You Were Born 1, 2, 3, 4

Never ever …

The Chatter Blog

When you were born you needed me for everything.  And you were everything to me.

When you were one you started to realize there were other people in the world.   And though I reveled in your brilliant little self, my heart broke.

When you were two you toddled around to explore and learn.  I was too busy chasing and saving you from falling to stop and cherish the moments of craziness.

When you were three you spoke words of wisdom, I just couldn’t understand it all.  Though your little voice was a song to my heart.

When you were four you started to want other playmates and you were well on your way to determining who you were going to be.  Your temper and disposition were already evident.   It made me laugh.   It made me cry.   It gave me hope for the world.

When you were…

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Petrichor

My sister, not of blood but if choice, who dwells in a land down under, NZ, wrote this, but her thoughts are mine, and after all, I love a rainy night,….and day and the smell of the earth after…way to go J.

I choose how I will spend the rest of my life

Another new word for me today.  You may know that I am a pluviophile – a lover of rain.

Pluviophile

I have written about walking in the rain several times in the past.  More particularly last year when the only independent way of getting around was to walk.

And today I found another new word Petrichor – the smell of the earth after the rain.

Wikipedia tells us “Petrichor (/ˈpɛtrkɔər/) is the earthy scent produced when rain falls on dry soil. The word is constructed from Greek πέτρα petra, meaning “stone”, and ἰχώρ īchōr, the fluid that flows in the veins of the gods in Greek mythology.”

I am sure you all know that smell.  It’s almost as if the earth is saying, OK time to wake up and start reproducing the flowers, trees, vegetables etc.  I love that smell and am…

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World Access in Isolation

Nothing changes

bridgesburning

World Access in Isolation

depositphotos_2823384-Access-denied

I should start by saying this is not a complaint. Merely an observation.

It seems almost paradoxical. The way of things today I mean. Everywhere you look people are focused only on the device in their hands. Out on the streets heads are bent as fingers fly across small keyboards. Are they even called keyboards anymore? No one makes eye contact anymore. Okay there are some.

I used to comment it was only the young people ( meaning anyone younger than I), but I notice on the streets, in stores, in cars (a no no) eyes are cast down and some of them belong to pretty old people. If you speak or otherwise engage and the head comes up, the eyes seem out of focus if they meet yours at all.

What I find strange is that at the very same time we have personal access…

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My Near Perfect Day which was not a day at all but a morning, and, far from perfect, unless you are the really really optimistic sort.

bridgesburning

I love the neighborhood I moved into almost a year ago. It is a lovely subdivision with wide lawns and large mature trees, and has a peacefulness about it that makes going for a walk pleasant indeed.

I have been considering finding a church to attend for some time now, although I am not sure why, but the thought persists often enough that I first considered what church it should be. You see I have attended and joined many churches in my lifetime; christened in United after birth, baptized in water at age thirteen in the Baptist Church, converted to Roman Catholicism through RCIA at the age of fortyish, and joined the Salvation Army at my last unfortunate attempt at marriage. The Church remained, husband did not. I was happy and active in each of my churches, largely I believe, because I am comfortable in my faith, and I will…

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