And so we reach the end of the alphabet. Zenith is defined as the highest point reached in the heavens by a celestial body or the culminating point. And this then is the culminating point. I have enjoyed rereading earlier blog posts. Occasionally I have said to myself “That’s pretty good, clever, dreadful..” or whatever. But mostly I have been happy with my shared thoughts. and even my rants and raves.
So there you have it. And. let me share the poem The Journey by Mary Oliver. You may be aware that she is one of my favourite poets. Over the 12 years of my blogging journey, I have shared snippets of this poem with you. Today I am reproducing the complete work. Enjoy.
One day you finally knew what you had to do, and began, though the voices around you kept shouting their bad advice –though the whole house began to tremble and you felt the old tug at your ankles. “Mend my life!” each voice cried. But you didn’t stop. You knew what you had to do, though the wind pried with its stiff fingers at the very foundations, though their melancholy was terrible. It was already late enough, and a wild night, and the road full of fallen branches and stones. But little by little, as you left their voices behind, the stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do — determined to save the only life you could save.” ― Mary Oliver 1935 – 2019
As a very new blogger in March 2011 I had plenty t say although I didn’t know whether the only one reading my blog was me. In that month wrote about the life I had lived up until that time. Oh and on reading the post again, I am pleased to note there were 19 comments.
Yesterday when I was young The taste of life was sweet like rain upon my tongue, I teased at life as if it were a foolish game The way an evening breeze would tease a candle flame, The thousand dreams I dreamed, the splendid things I planned
I have just been listening to the local radio and they have played Charles Aznavour singing “Yesterday when I was young”. Charles Aznavour has always been a favourite and I am happy to listen to him at any time, so I started thinking about when I was young.
The words of this song don’t really apply to me; in fact, I think when he wrote this song he must have been feeling his age and counting all the things he had missed. See what you think by listening here.
As I have said before, I don’t think I have missed out on anything in my long life, and I have plenty of happy, happy memories. So I prefer to listen to Dean Martin who sung Memories are made of this in 1945, and it just keeps keeping on.
But Aznavour plays a large part in my memories. I remember seeing him first at The Royal Albert Hall in London in 1967. This was a particular birthday treat for me. Then in the 70s, we saw him in Paris. Lovely memories of a fantastic singer.
So – Yesterday When I Was Young I married my handsome young Scotsman, and after a few years had my first child, a daughter
Proud Nana with first grandchild
Two years later I had a son. So now two children to love.
Big sister and her brother
The taste of life was sweet like rain upon my tongue –I was a very contented young mother, loving watching them grow and learn.
Spain 1967
The thousand dreams I dreamed, the splendid things I planned – we moved from Scotland to New Zealand and then to Montreal. My dreams came true. My children thrived wherever we dropped them (figuratively of course).
Yesterday the moon was blue and every crazy day brought something new to do. We decided to move back to New Zealand to live life on the beach but it didn’t last for long as we moved south to Wellington.
every crazy day brought something new to do – new city, new home, new friends. Everybody settled in and we loved our life here.
Then children moved on. They left home and made their own way in the world. They both married and subsequently had their own children.
Grandsons 2005
Family dynamics changed. And so much pain my dazzled eyes refused to see. Mother died followed shortly thereafter by my dashing (now not-so) young Scotsman and life moved on.
With Mother shortly before she died
And then some years later my darling, energetic, supportive 95-year-old father died. Didn’t see him often as we lived a world apart, but he was always there for his daughters.
Much younger Dad circa 1945
Yesterday the moon was blue – and I have so many lovely memories of family and friends around the world. There are only a couple of changes I might make, but one cannot bring back those who have passed on. So The thousand dreams I dreamed, the splendid things I planned – are being replaced by new dreams and plans as I now move into a new phase of my life alone but never lonely.
So many posts have the title What a Difference, sometimes followed by “a day makes” and sometimes it is a year, but always making a difference. Many years ago I wrote this post and yes, truly what a difference once the tree was cut back.
“What A Difference A day makes 24 Little hours From the sun and the flowers Where there used to be rain.”
Well, what a difference. Yesterday the large tree that overlooked the back courtyard and bugged me with falling leaves, stood keeping light and what sunshine there is at this time of the year, away from the back of the house.
I saw a man working on a tree across the road and asked him to look at chopping my tree. Incidentally, he told me it was a sycamore tree, not a plane tree as I have been calling it.
He took one look and said he could chop it right back but would leave some of it there as in all probability it was holding up the bank. He gave me a very reasonable quote to chop it back, remove all the debris and also remove much of the German ivy that was trailing across the bank killing other things that had been planted there by an earlier inhabitant of this house. And he could do it right away.
Well, all things considered, it was an offer to good to pass up. So he set to work. He told me that by chopping it back the tree wouldn’t be killed but would grow again. He said in 20 years that it would probably be as big again. Of course, I then told him that was OK as I wouldn’t be around then.
Before the rain set in he had the ivy removed and the tree partly chopped back. When the rain stopped he cleared all the mess he had made and transported it off in his trailer.
What a lucky thing that I was home in the morning to see him working across the street.
This morning there was no rain and the sun shone giving extra light into my kitchen. And there are very few leaves in the courtyard today.
So tomorrow I have only to tidy the courtyard, replace the dead plants in the planter boxes and wait for ‘the man’ to come back and finish the tree lopping.
“A man has made at least a start on discovering the meaning of human life when he plants shade trees under which he knows full well he will never sit. ” D. Elton Trueblood, 1900 – 1994, American Quaker author and theologian.
I think WordPress is playing games with me today. Nowhere and Nohow could I find the post that I was updating – and of course, there were no other posts starting with the letter U. I do know that it was about a blogger I had discovered 10 years before. After reading Eliza’s post, I wrote a post in 2012 titled I know this place But shortly after I published the missing post in January 2022, the blogger decided to no longer write in English, her second language.
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UPDATE TO YESTERDAY’S POST
“Friendship … is born at the moment when one man says to another “What! You too? I thought that no one but myself . . .” C S Lewis
Firstly, apologies – I didn’t give you the link to the earlier post on Africa. If you read it through you will see what I missed. – Related articles – Musings from Africa.
While I was able to open the post in the morning, I sent a comment to the blogger – “Many years later looking back on some of my earlier posts , I came across yours. In rereading, it is more attractive to me, but I think you have to be born there to appreciate its beauty, both in the people and the beauty that surrounds everyone. Are you still blogging? I can’t find anything from you for the last few years. I hope if you are no longer blogging it is because you found something else to do. With best wishes from far away New Zealand“
Imagine my delight to receive a response this morning – Dear Judith, thanks for your kind words. I have indeed stopped blogging in English as it is my second language. I have continued, with some periods of inactivity, to blog in Afrikaans (my first love). If you still read Afrikaans, even after years in NZ (as are some of my closest friends), my Afrikaans musings (and fiction) can be found at https://wordpress.com/posts/julioagrella.wordpress.com
I have yet to respond and tell her that I don’t speak Afrikaans.
Over the years we have read of kidnapping, the kidnappers, those who were kidnapped and the reasons for the kidnaps. We have read and I have written about the Boko Harum kidnapping of the schoolgirls in Nigeria, and we all know about the earlier kidnapping of Charles Lindbergh’s infant son. Now I offer the story of Terry Waite, the Special Envoy of the Archbishop of Canterbury.
I have this old, dog-eared copy of Terry Waite’s book, that I have read several times in the 20 years or so since his release.
I bought a copy when it was released and enjoyed it so much that I gave copies to various friends as Christmas presents. I was reminded again of this man when reading about a recent failed attempt to free hostages in Nigeria.
In 1987 Terry Waite, as the special envoy for the archbishop of Canterbury (though not a clergyman himself), went to Beirut to negotiate the release of several hostages, including John McCarthy, Terry Anderson and Brian Keenan. He had already successfully negotiated the release of hostages in Iran and Libya, but when he arrived in Lebanon to meet with Islamic Jihadists, he too was taken captive.
As he said on his release, he foolishly believed the words of an intermediary that he would not be taken. As he says “I went without guards, arms or a locator device”. So far from being a hostage negotiator he found himself a hostage. He was taken to various houses to shake off any followers and then eventually to a prison cell in Beirut.
Besides being chained to a radiator, he was regularly blindfolded, beaten on the soles of his feet, subjected to mock executions, and moved from place to place in a large refrigerator. But he maintains that the mental torture of being in solitary confinement for so long, far outweighed any physical torture.
We have heard tales of prisoners retaining their sanity by practising their golf shots, running marathons or as in Waite’s case, writing their autobiography in their heads. Waite spent 1,760 days in solitary confinement, his only contact with the outside world being through wall tapping to his fellow hostages. Apparently, these hostages had a radio and could listen to the BBC World News.
In his book he reveals the inner strength that helped him endure the savage treatment he received, his constant struggle to maintain his faith, and his resolve to have no regrets, no false sentimentality, no self-pity. of photos.
Waite was released in November 1991 some 20 plus years ago.
After his release and giving one interview to the media, he realised he needed time to readjust to life and so with his wife Frances and their four children he stayed away from the spotlight for a year to recover and convalesce. During this year he put the harrowing account of his ordeal down on paper and then published it in his book, Taken on Trust .
Then, rather than dwell on his own suffering, he turned his energies to helping others in desperate situations. He campaigned for the welfare of prisoners, and gave support to families of hostages through Hostage UK; he even offered to negotiate on behalf of military personnel held captive in Iran in 2007.
This is a difficult book to read, but one that is also difficult to put down. We are told that “Waite no longer works for the Church of England, but retains the faith that kept him going through nearly five years of captivity. His experience as a prisoner, he says, also helped him to see the shallowness of modern materialism. In 2009, angered by the MPs’ expenses scandal, he considered running for office as in independent candidate, but now believes he can do more good as an active humanitarian rather than as a politician. And despite his religious affiliation, he is sympathetic to the Occupy London protesters who have set up camp at St Paul’s Cathedral. “Our society is going to fragment unless we are very, very careful,” he said in an interview with the Guardian last week. “ We have a responsibility for the elderly, for the sick, for children and for those who are casualties of society.” Source The Irish Times, November 26, 2011.
Every job is a self-portrait of the person who does it. Autograph your work with excellence. Anonymous
Other books to read by fellow hostages: Some Other Rainbow by John McCarthy and Jill Morell An Evil Cradling by Brian Keenan
One of my favourite authors, Zoe Sharp and her protagonist Charlie Fox, can have me sitting and reading for hours. I have read all the books in the series. And I am not the only follower of this author and her characters. Lee Child said, “If Jack Reacher were a woman, he’d be Charlie Fox.” High praise indeed. Now you can read what I was doing in 2012.
“If you stay involved with Sean Meyer you will end up killing again,” my father said. “and next time, Charlotte, you might not get away with it.” Charlie Fox’s father in Road Kill.
Yes, I am still reading and following the adventures of my favourite heroine Charlie Fox. I have somehow got them out of order, but as I have already said, each novel stands alone and one doesn’t have to have read any of the others in the series.
In Road Killwe find Charlie involved with a group of bikers who are really so innocent that they get themselves involved with an unscrupulous gang of thieves.
Charlie is taking time out to sort out her life and her feelings for her boss, Sean Meyer.. She is refurbishing her parents’ cottage and instead of overseeing the refurbishment is doing much of the hard work herself. Into this scene comes a friend to advise that a really close friend has been seriously injured in a motor cycle accident and a second person has died.
Leaving the demolition work unfinished she rushes to Clare her friend’s side and is relieved to find that the dead man is not Clare’s partner but some other man. Jacob, Clare’s partner is away in Ireland on a buying tour for his business. Stories about the accident flow around; there is bad feeling towards Charlie from the biking group and when Charlie is brutally attacked by Jacob’s ex-wife and her strongman thug things begin to get out of hand.
Clare is very vague and secretive about what she was doing with this other man and how she came to be riding with him on his motorbike instead of riding her own beloved bike. Gossip has Jacob’s son involved with Clare (surprising to Charlie given how close Clare and Jacob are) and Charlie decides to investigate further. She learns that there is to be a trip to Ireland for the motorcycle group and is determined to become part of the trip, partly because Clare and Jacob have asked her to look after Jacob’s son, but also because nobody will or can give them a straight answer as to why the trip has to go ahead even after the tragedy. After proving herself capable of riding and keeping up with them, she is allowed to join them. Sean is also allowed to go along after he proves to the group that he would be a good person to have along.
I won’t go into more detail as it would spoil the story for any one else but it is well written (of course) and has a good plot, with our heroine (is there a better word for this) coming up trumps once again.
Needless to say, this novel is full of motorcycles (both Zoe and Charlie’s favoured form of transport), guns, shooting, good guys and plenty of bad guys; innocents abroad who really should not be allowed out on their own, murder, mayhem and some good love scenes between Charlie and Sean. I wonder where this relationship is going.
So as you can see a jolly good read and again, one that I recommend.
And I still have the next two books in the series sitting patiently waiting for me to get to them. So look out for more on this feisty woman, her lover and her exploits.
Good friends, good books and a sleepy conscience: this is the ideal life. Mark Twain
Way back in 2016 following my near-fatal accident, I noted and celebrated each small step towards recovery. Earlier this month I wrote about going for a walk and now I should like to share this with you. As Zig Ziglar, a favourite motivational speaker said – “You can eat an elephant a bite at a time.”
I went into town today to meet a friend for coffee. Unfortunately for me but fortunately for her, she had promised to take her grandson to the movies, so it was a very short meeting. After she left, I had another coffee and thought about what I would do until my driver picked me up one hour later.
So here I was out on my own for the first time in 12 weeks. It seemed like some retail therapy was called for. I made it to only one department store almost opposite where we had coffee, but I felt pleased with myself for trying this.
I bought some tights, some makeup and a new perfume. So al in all a good use of an unexpected free hour. And to finish off, while I waited for the driver, I bought some handmade chocolates from the chocolate shop.
Then home again with my caring and careful driver. I’m so lucky that I have access to these women in Driving Miss Daisy. They are all in their 50s and 60s and really look after me.
A quick lunch and then onto the bed for a nanny nap.
“In individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations and epochs,it is the rule.” ― Friedrich Nietzsche
Last year I was pondering again, the evil men do to others. Today I am still pondering. Nothing changes. Man makes war for whatever reason, and still they do the same things in the same way, and expect a different outcome. Einstein labelled this Insanity.
Then I compared the then current day (2016) with the life I lived as a young child during the Second World War. In 1940 there was one war. in 2016 according to the Heidelberg Institute of International Conflict Research there were “226 politically motivated armed conflicts worldwide during 2016”. many are described as minor but they are still conflicts if not total war.
Of course, the one that we saw news about daily on our televisions was Syria. What began as a peaceful uprising against the president in 2011 still the civil unrest/war continues, with no end in sight.
And today we have Ukraine on our TV sets night after night. We can take sides and decide whether Russia and Putin are wrong, or we could say they are only defending their place in the world. Putin is quoted as saying Ukraine was a constant threat and Russia could not “feel safe, develop and exist”.
So 10 million people inside Ukraine and beyond have been displaced and as the Russians pull back leaving death and destruction behind, has he won the war?
. And what does Mary Oliver have to say on the subject?
“I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed.” Mary Oliver
Deep thinking from this elderly mind today. Never mind, the cheerful JB will be back with some simple social activity with which to bore you. But the questions remain- what has gone so wrong, and will we never learn.
If you didn’t already know it, I love alliteration (even if I have to make up words). Into every life, there come one or two major hiccups. This was the first in mine. Looking back I wonder how I managed so well during this awful time.
“The bathtub was invented in 1850 and the telephone in 1875. In other words, if you had been living in 1850, you could have sat in the bathtub for 25 years without having to answer the phone.” ~Bill DeWitt.
I read today’s post from the Good Greatsby and it reminded me of my most favorite Bob Newhardt skit – we always refer to it as Nutty Walt. Click here to view the video.
Then, as often happens, after reading this post about phones my thoughts went to a time when a phone would have been very useful for me.
My late husband had retired early at 56 and wanted a less hurried lifestyle. We looked around and we decided upon the Marlborough Sounds in the South Island of New Zealand. We had been to the Sounds many times with our boat and it seemed like an idyllic spot in which to retire. I was rather young to be considering this retirement thing at 48.
However, we found a lovely house in a small bay with only four other houses. The house sat up above the beach with a path leading down to it. A perfect place to retire and to write my book. The book didn’t happen but that is for another post.
Willow Bay
At the time all telephone services in New Zealand were run by a Government Department. To get a new connection in the city took about 7 days if you were lucky. To get a new connection in a rural area took forever and ever.
So, we moved to Paradise. And applied for a phone to be told there was a long waiting list and we had to be patient. Bear in mind that we lived some 60 kms from any town and the last 5 kms of the road was unpaved. I had never lived anywhere there weren’t shops and buses and people. It was quite a revelation to me.
Anyway, back to the telephone. We managed with difficulty. Remember this is 1986 – few cellphones and very few people had access to the internet. No phone, no internet, no communication with the outside world. Very peaceful but frustrating.
One of our neighbours offered the use of their phone if we needed it.
So on a lovely Sunday while Robert was away further south playing bowls I was applying paint over the awful wallpaper in the master bedroom. And that’s also another story. I was surprised when Robert walked in as I wasn’t expecting him until the next day. He looked grey and obviously was quite unwell.
The next morning he was worse. I ran to my neighbour’s and used their phone to call a doctor. He told me to bring husband in immediately and had to give me instructions as I didn’t know the town in which he was located.
After driving the 60 kms with husband groaning at each bump and turn in the road, we arrived at the doctor’s house. He took my husband inside and left me sitting in the car. When Robert came out he said the doctor thought it was not serious and gave him a couple of pessaries.
So we went home but in a very short time, he was writhing in agony. So another call from the neighbour’s house and I was told to bring him into the surgery. More instructions needed. Well to cut this long story short, the doctor took one look and declared “This man should be in hospital”.
So with more instructions, to the hospital, we went. They admitted him immediately but as the only ward open to admittance on this Sunday was the Children’s’ Ward that’s where he went. The surgeon was called and he later told me he was grateful to be called out as his wife had been entertaining a rather boring group of people.
I was offered a bed in the nurses’ home but had to return to Willow Bay as my spaniel had been left there. On the way home I found a telephone box (yes they were still available then) and called my son in Wellington who agreed to get the first plane in the morning to be with me. He also agreed to call his sister who was in London and tell her.
The next morning bright and early I was back at the hospital. The surgeon had examined Robert again and said the only way to find out what was wrong was to operate.
I called the phone company to check on progress – none!
The cause of Robert’s problem was a ruptured duodenal ulcer (that nobody knew was there) so that was the good news. Other thoughts were unthinkable. But Robert was sick for a long time and kept in a coma for several days.
I called the phone company again – no progress although I was on first name terms with the operator at this stage.
I used to spend all day sitting with Robert. I learned patience which was positive. I used to call one friend in Wellington using the hospital phone. Still no result from the telephone company. This friend, in turn, called other friends in Wellington to pass on the news.
One day I arrived at the hospital and Robert greeted me with the news that our son was in hospital in Wellington having had an appendectomy the night before.
This was the final straw. At this time I had a husband in hospital in Blenheim, a son in hospital in Wellington, a Mother in hospital in London and a Father-in-Law in hospital in Glasgow and still no telephone
Another call to the phone company – I told the operator my tale of woe and he said ‘You really need to speak to my supervisor’ Well, I had tried to on several occasions previously. As soon as the supervisor heard my problem he arranged for a phone connection the next day – but it was a party line, shared with a couple of other customers. And yes, that’s another story – but at least we had a phone.
A pretty scary episode in my life made more so because of my lack of ability to communicate with the outside world. It was 25 years ago but I still remember the feeling of being cut off.
Needless to say, we didn’t stay there long. After about 9 months we decided to come back to Wellington. Another adventure in this wandering life of mine.
“Health is the greatest gift, contentment the greatest wealth, faithfulness the best relationship.” Buddha
Today, I am still on the subject of World War 2 and how so many children became part of an experiment that went so wrong. And how this experiment affected them. What follows is a movie we went to see early on my blogging journey.
Since posting the early blog, I have learned via The Guardian, that after a six-year battle, “Students who were sexually and psychologically abused at a New South Wales school have won $24m in a settlement which will be the largest for survivors of mass child abuse in Australia’s legal history.”
This is the movie that I saw at the weekend. It was such that I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. Click here to see the trailer.
I had heard of the government programme called Home Children and in fact, met a man in Toronto who, when gathering information for his own book on evacuation during the Second World War, had come across several of these deportees.
My very tattered copy.
Ben Wicks, the man I met on a sunny afternoon sail in Toronto wrote the book “No Time To Say Goodbye” and that is a sorry account of a plan made with the best intentions that went horribly wrong.
The movie shows another plan that went horribly wrong. It concentrates on those deported to Australia and follows the trials and tribulations of Margaret Humphreys a social worker from Nottingham in England as she brought to the public attention the British government programme of Home Children. This involved forcibly relocating poor British children to Australia, Canada, New Zealand and South Africa and often without their parents’ knowledge. Children were often told their parents had died, and parents were told their children had been placed for adoption elsewhere in the UK. Margaret Humphreys believes that up to 150,000 children were resettled under the scheme,some as young as three, about 7,000 of whom were sent to Australia.
The movie shows how Humphreys was approached by a woman from Australia who had been sent away at age 4 and who wanted to find her mother. This set Margaret Humphreys on the quest that was to take over her life.
In one scene, while Humphreys is celebrating Christmas in Australia with her family and friends she had made during her investigations, presents are distributed. One person asks Margaret’s young son “What are you giving us for Christmas?” to which he replied “I’ve given you my mother.”
This is a movie showing the hard lives many of these children lived under the harsh conditions imposed by the Brothers at the Fairbridge Farm School. Many of these children now into middle age, have joined together in a class action. We are told that “65 former students of the Fairbridge Farm School began unprecedented court action, suing the organisation and the Federal and State Governments claiming they turned a blind eye to years of abuse.”
Author David Hill “The Forgotten Children” who was an inhabitant of Fairbridge although for a short time as his mother reclaimed him said “It wasn’t until 2006, after teaming up with an old classmate to produce a book and documentary on Fairbridge, I learned of the horrific abuses many of the children had endured and the magnitude of their betrayal by the authorities.”
This isn’t an easy movie to watch but I urge you to see it if/when it comes to a theatre near you.
I choose how I will spend the rest of my life 
