Cottarton Cottage

Aristotle in Love

2012-02-08T01:49:00.000-08:00

In Episode 3 of Sophia Through Time, Sophia gives the venerable philosopher a lesson in love. Not only his syllogisms fail to rescue him when he most needs them. He discovers aspects of himself that he cannot readily categorize.

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They’re Taking Away our Jobs!

2012-02-04T01:49:00.000-08:00

Refugee Camp - Calais

There are few more divisive issues than immigration. It’s not a subject for a dinner party unless you like people shouting at each other. Xenophobes claim that immigrants come here for our generous public benefits. Pro-immigrants try to prove that immigrants work hard, taking jobs that the locals don’t like to do anyway. The British tabloids know that an immigration “scare story” will sell copies.

Here are recent headlines from the Daily Express:
MIGRANT FAMILY WHO ‘BROKE EVERY RULE IN BOOK’ TO SWINDLE BENEFITS

HOW ILLEGALS USE HUMAN RIGHTS LAW TO STAY IN UK DEPORTING ILLEGALS

HOW MUCH ARE YOU PAYING IN WELFARE TO IMMIGRANTS?

The injustice of it all!

And so to our Tory Government was elected with a pledge to reduce UK immigration from hundreds of thousands a year to tens of thousands. They’re facing an impossible task, as most immigrants come from EU countries and have a right to work in the UK.

Coming from the US, I’m familiar with the never ending debate on what to do about our borders in the face of migration pressures that never seem to ease. Build a fence and shoot immigrants on sight? Unsurprisingly the issue is hot in the current US presidential race. The debate is much the same across European countries.

For an excellent article on immigration, see the recent article “Europe at Bay” by Jeremy Harding published in the London Review of Books.

While I have no energy for the political discussions, I’m deeply concerned about the issue. People migrate for economic, political, religious reasons. For thousands of years they’ve braved every danger to secure a better life in another land. During the coming decades, global warming will be major cause for mass migration --- northward to cooler climates. Countries close to the equator and low lying lands, will first bear the brunt of rising temperatures. What would you do when faced by hunger, in a land that no longer supports you? You'd move. Today there are refugee camps near Calais with thousands of immigrants trying to cross the Channel to the UK. Tomorrow we’ll be faced with boat people. How will we respond to the challenge?

Our attitudes in the face of social stresses will determine the sort of world we will create. A dystopia from a science fiction book, where immigrants are incarcerated or shot? A lifeboat swamped by too many people? A multicultural multi-ethnic society?

In my novel Gaia’s Children, and in the short story, The Lottery, my protagonists take in illegal migrants in the face of social opposition much in the way that many during WWII took in Jewish families. I wasn’t trying to make a political point for or against migration, except to say that, when the s***t hits the fan, many indigenous people will host migrant families, whatever the cost. My intuition found partial confirmation in Harding’s article, where he writes:

Plenty of people are disturbed by the consequences of European immigration policy, whatever they think of the principles. In France, when the Interior Ministry began detaining illegal immigrant children at the school gate in 2006, there was a surge in political fostering by indigenous families. Dozens of French children acquired temporary siblings, as their parents took in threatened minors. This radical solidarity prefers the moral case over any argument about national borders. In France, the deportation of Jews in the 1940s is still a vivid precedent.

In Scotland attitudes to immigration are softer than in the rest of the UK. Scotland is still largely mono-cultural, with low diversity, owing to its lower levels of immigration. In a recent survey, Scots support higher immigration targets compared to the English. Though the issue is still divisive, there’s an increased perception here that immigrants, rather than subsisting on benefits, are here to create a better life by working for it. Polish migrants are viewed as hardworking, educated and entrepreneurial. So far Scotland has fewer migrants from warmer climes compared to the rest of the UK, maybe because the place is so bloody cold. Something that may change with global warming.

While I don’t advocate open borders, or an electric fence around the country, I’d like the debate to shift from where it's been stuck for decades. We must first acknowledge the fact that people migrate from country to country. It's a pattern that will never change. Migration will continue, especially in the face of global warming. Building fences and destroying migrant camps won’t stop migration. In facing this fact, we can shift our thinking away from our fears to discover more creative solutions.

Twitter Adventures (or how not to network)

2012-01-28T05:10:00.000-08:00

So, everyone has been telling me to get on Twitter. My daughters, friends, well wishers --- those who would like “Gaia’s Children” to be as successful as Harry Potter. After a lot of procrastination, I decided to swallow the bullet. So, Twitter fans, I’m there with the pompous sounding ID of @paulauthor. (I refuse to use Kieniewicz as only Poles know how to spell it.)

A week on Twitter has sobered me to the realities of social networking. It’s not as if I haven’t read and taken to heart good advice on how to attract followers. There’s a ton of it out there but like reading about driving a car and actually doing it --- well things don’t quite go as expected.

What’s my purpose --- it’s to connect with people who read science fiction, who may appreciate a book review, recommendations on interesting books, who may even want to sample “Gaia’s Children”. Plus I want to get closer to the zeitgeist and find out what people are reading and what they’re thinking about.

After choosing an ID, and building a profile that I though might not be too offensive, I started following people. Twitter is a time commitment. You can spend an hour on it and find you’ve barely moved from home base. Using various search engines I quickly found science fiction fans. Most are science fiction writers, publishers and editors. Where are normal people who don't write, but love to read?

Perhaps the readers don’t always list “science fiction” in their profiles. To find them I searched through tweets that contained the name of one of my favourite authors (Ursula Le Guin, Margaret Atwood, Philip K Dick etc.) I did find a few SF readers that way, though I was never sure if the tweet I latched onto was a one-off. After hours of searching I found 65 people I wanted to follow.

I started tweeting --- about interesting books, book reviews,science fiction small news and so on. Also retweeted some tweets and replied to a few. I never mentioned "Gaia's Children" as I didn't want to appear to be selling a product. My followers began to grow. I now have 6. Of those, four are women who are promoting porn sites. Maybe the tagword "fantasy" threw them off? The two others are people I'm glad to connect with. I'll find out soon whether my future followers will maintain the same ratio of 2 porn-site followers to 1 SF reader.

I have a lot to learn about how Twitter works.

Gaia's Children --- Kindle Edition

2012-01-15T00:21:00.000-08:00

The Kindle Edition of Gaia's Children is now available for download. Please pass the word on to your friends, facebook friends and tweet-ees, those who'd like science fiction, wolves, a uniquely Scottish story, or just a good read. You'll meet some unforgettable characters that you'll want to spend some time with. Try out some sample chapters.

Sophia Through Time

2012-01-08T10:07:00.000-08:00

Sophia Through Time tells the story of a woman who has fallen from heaven to find herself trapped in our world with no memory of how she got there. Alone, but immortal, she searches for the way out of the world. Her path crosses the lives of many eminent philosophers: Lao Tse, Socrates, Aristotle, Rumi and others but none of them can tell her why she is in the world. In a series of vignettes (taken from my unpublished novel Aristotle’s Beard) we follow her journey through time, confused and perplexed by our world, to finally discover liberation.

Individual installments will be posted monthly. Click on Sophia Through Time

Scottish Rain Dance

2012-01-02T05:30:00.000-08:00

Over here you don'r expect to see a rain dance. In Scotland there are only three certainties: death, high rail fares and constant rain. Last year, while England had record-breaking droughts, Scotland had record-breaking rain. The met-office pundits wagged their heads and claimed that they’d expected it all along. A consequence of global warming. However prolonged dry spells do happen. For several weeks we haven’t had a decent downpour. Plenty of gale force winds to tear slate tiles from the roofs; a few snow flurries, but no rain. Last April we had a month-long dry spell that made me start watering --- something I almost never have to do.

Perhaps because of those dry spells the locals, for hundreds of years, conducted weather spells to open up the heavens and dump some extra rain on the land. According to “Description of the Parish”, 1726, every May 3, there was a fair held in Botriphne (today’s Drummuir). Among the festivities, a woman ritually washed a wooden statue of Saint Fumac in a nearby natural spring. We don’t know who she was, other than her function, as the keeper of the statue. Presumably that statue was passed down to a designated family member upon her death. The purpose appears to have been to secure plentiful rains for the fields. If the ritual smacked of witchcraft, that didn’t seem to bother the locals much as there’s no record of any censure by the Kirk.

As far as we know, Saint Fumac, an associate of Saint Columba, established a mission at Botriphne in 570, close to the natural spring. Because springs were venerated as healing centres, and sacred places, Christian churches tended to be built nearby, to give a Christian meaning to the old practices. Pilgrimages to the wells were banned following the Reformation but despite the bans, such pilgrimages were common until recent times. People still sought out the help of the Well Guardian for healing, rain, wealth or protection from damaging winds and rain.

Botriphne Kirk, built 1820 on the ruins of an older Kirk

According to MacKinley's, "Folklore of Scottish Lochs and Springs", the statue-washing at Botriphne ended in the late-nineteenth century on a memorable May 3 when the skies opened with a vengeance, and the nearby river Isla broke its banks. The statue was caught up in the flood and washed downstream. It came to rest at Banff where the local minister, a bit less tolerant than the folk of Botriphne, declared the statue as idolatrous and ceremoniously burned it.

Today the spring still flows strong. Recently, the Rev. J. S. Stephen conducted several baptisms there. A curious irony. Despite all our attempts to construct our human temples over the spring and officially suppress it, the spring’s ancient power still makes itself felt.

‘Tis the Season for gathering

2011-12-14T02:30:00.001-08:00

Christmas time --- What comes to mind is getting together with family. Not necessarily the family in which one was raised. More often people who have a special significance for you.

Last week on a night when the winter gale blew trees sideways, tore slate tiles from the roofs, and the snow spirits danced in circles in Huntly Square, Amber and I went to the Huntly Area Cancer Support Centre’s Christmas party. Usually I’m allergic to parties and have to be dragged out to them. So many words get thrown about that mean little and are quickly forgotten, that I tend to zone out. But not this time. This was the first Christmas season with my new, extended family. There were volunteers I knew from Thursday afternoons at the Centre. Some had a recent bout with cancer, and were still undergoing therapy. Some I met for the first time.

Fiona, Magda and Bobbie lay out a beautiful spread for us. The punch bowl was filled with sweet but lethal punch . Alistair made sure that our wine glasses were filled. And so once the food and wine took hold we all felt like singing. Liz Hunter led off with several beautiful solos of Christmas carols, and then we joined in. Her angelic voice made ours sound a bit raspy but no one seemed to mind. Or appeared particularly self-conscious.

We traded many stories that night. Pam Heinemeier apparently lives in the house where George MacDonald spent his early life. When I was much younger his fantasy books cast their spell on me. I still regard him as a mentor. We talked about how the railway line first came to Huntly, about several springs in the Huntly area that traditionally have curative properties. Ian Clive Hunter, an artist who lives in Andalusia, described his work and religious Spanish art.

We'd have stayed longer, but the howling wind outside let us know it was time to go. And so, after saying our good-byes, we went off into the swirling snow.

AWAKENINGS (On the Perth-Aberdeen train)

2011-12-08T00:18:00.000-08:00

We all know them.
Unasked for moments when the veil is drawn aside.
And then we see; not only see but understand
What’s so clear; so obvious.
How could I have missed
What's been staring me in the face?
Days or even years?
You bask in the morning sun on a new landscape
With no room for thought,
Or that it’s only a glimpse.
That the veil may be drawn again
And leave you among grey shadows.

And mama, with an old brain
Riddled with plaques and tangles
Looking at me for days, but not really looking,
Not knowing who she is. Where she is.
She awakens.
That smile, half laughing on her lips
Is there for me.
Her open eyes sparkle,
Dewdrops in the morning sun,
A look of more than a thousand words.
She takes my hand; an iron grip
That will not let go.
A moment, a minute or an hour.
Then she looks away.
Withdraws from us,
Returns to the twilight world
Or to a place beyond that I know nothing of.
Not yet.

Huntly Area Cancer Support Centre

2011-12-05T00:43:00.000-08:00

On Thursday afternoons I volunteer at the Huntly Area Cancer Support Centre. Set close to Huntly Square, it's a place where those touched by that dreadful disease can find support, advice, friendship and healing.

Cancer is a scary word, so doctors don’t like to speak it when delivering their diagnosis. Families don’t talk about it. Children are most often shut out. I remember, because 18 years ago my wife was visited by cancer. We were bewildered, confused by the range of options, decisions to make, whom to tell and when. Nothing was simple or certain --- except for the reality of the scourge. Luckily we had a supportive network of family and friends. I leaned heavily on whoever was within earshot. Help appeared from unexpected sources. There was a box of oranges that turned up on the doorstep. People who offered to pick up the kids, or keep them for a few days. Or stay with them while I was away on a business trip. Warm soup was often delivered to our kitchen. A religious minister came by regularly and gave my wife a healing. But not everyone is as fortunate as I.

Which is why, when I first heard of the Huntly Centre, I asked if I could help man the front desk. Having traveled the road from cancer diagnosis through various stages of treatment and death, I know something about the way. Also that a cancer diagnosis does not mean that death is inevitable. Most important when confronted by the unknown is to live each moment to the full, not to shut down or succumb to fear or despondency. All medical studies have shown that those who maintain a positive spirit tend to survive. Ones attitude often affects the efficacy of the treatment. Which is where the Cancer Centre comes in.

I found an extraordinary group of people dedicated to helping cancer victims their families and carers maintain their quality of life. Carers are often equally battered by the disease. Depleted. After sharing our stories I felt that we’d known each other for much longer than a few hours. All volunteers have a strong empathic sense. Some worked as nurses or as alternative healers. Others like myself have a history with cancer.

Clients walk in unnanounced, some referred by friends or doctors; others see the store sign and open the door to see what's inside. Often they just need someone who will listen to them; help them deal with concerns or fears, in a non-clinical setting. Sometimes they only need information or a referral to a MacMillan nurse. For clients struggling with the side effects of chemotherapy or radiation, the centre offers Reiki, Reflexology, and other complementary therapies.

On my first day at the Centre a woman came in. Distressed, and in obvious pain from cancer treatment, she asked for a Reiki treatment. Reiki is an ancient, non-invasive treatment where the healer’s hands move above the body, but do not touch it. The treatment relaxes the client, eases pain and helps restore their energy levels. It's effective not only for patients but for carers or family members who need an energy boost. Therapeutic Touch, a similar healing art, originated among nurses in the United States. It is practiced by thousands of nurses in many hospitals.

Pam took the woman to the therapy room. An hour later when the client emerged, she had a more peaceful look about her. Not healed, but with more energy and in less pain. Perhaps not as overwhelmed by the disease. The treatment must be doing her some some good, because she keeps coming back for more.

New Website --- under construction

2011-11-28T07:48:00.000-08:00

Scottish wolf

It's been a while in coming, and I'm almost there with the new website, www.paulkieniewicz.co.uk designed to promote Gaia's Children, share short stories, and offer information on the Gaia Theory. Because wolves play such a dominant role in Gaia's Children, I'm planning to post material pertaining to wolves in Scotland and their ecological importance. So far, they are confined to a few wildlife sanctuaries, but by 2050 --- who knows what their range may be.

Gaia's Children is scheduled to hit the bookshops on March 1, but if you want your copy earlier, let me know and I'll dispatch one as soon as I receive the first batch. It will also be available as an ebook. In the US, you can order the book on Amazon. Meanwhile, feel free to peruse or download the opening chapters.

Also, you may want to download The Lottery, a short story set at the same time as the novel.

Her head was missing!

2011-10-28T06:29:00.000-07:00

I’m sitting comfortably in my cousin Basia’s living room, and looking at the picture of Jan, her father – my favorite uncle. A poet and story-teller, he was always funny and warm-hearted. Also my worst critic when it came to my early writing attempts.

“Why are you writng this rubbish?” he’d say after reading my manuscript. “Write your own material – not this stuff borrowed from those books that you’ve been reading.”

Among his most memorable stories were his harrowing experiences with ghosts during the summer of 1941 in Pitmilly house – a sprawling manor outside St.Andrews. The estate, formerly belonging to the Moneypenny family was commandeered for military purposes. His army unit, the Polish First Rifle Brigade, assigned the task of patrolling the coast, was stationed nearby. A Scottish Major, with his wife, and his daughter Mary lived in the house. A Polish officer, Jan had a room in the house. Also, he was interested in Mary, and following a short courtship they were engaged.

Staying overnight in the manor house wasn’t a lot of fun. It had already a reputation for hauntings. According to legend a spirit once lived in an ancient yew tree on the grounds of the house. Somewhat ill advisedly a gardener chopped it down with the result that the ghost had to find a new home --- the main house.

One night Jan was sitting up in bed, reading, when he happened to look up, across the room. A large oaken wardrobe standing again the far wall stirred into life, glided across the floor to halt by his bed, where it proceeded to rock to and fro threateningly. Of course he jumped out of his bed and high tailed it out of the room, and out of the house. The next day the Major complained that the wardrobe was not in its place. It took four soldiers to lift the wardrobe and shove it back against the wall where it belonged.

Engagement to Mary took its toll on him. One day upon returning to his room he found all the furniture scattered around the room. Books all over the place. Another time while watching Mary’s mother walking across a carpet, he saw the carpet catch fire where she set her feet down. Jan and a servant grabbed blankets and doused the flames before they caused major damage.

He actually encountered the ghost one moonlit night. He was on patrol in the grounds, when he saw a figure approaching him. As was customary, Jan called out, "Halt." After receiving no response or password he cried out, "Halt or I shoot." The unknown person continued to walk among the trees. Presumably a woman,because of her dress but curiously short. Only after she disappeared from view did he realize the reason for her short stature.

Her head was missing.

“How did you feel?” I asked my uncle.

“A cold dread down my spine,” he said.

Evidently the spirit inhabitants had a reputation, as was evidenced by a letter that Jan happened to see lying on the Major’s desk. From an insurance company. The insurance agent, in the most apologetic tones, said that the company was declining fire coverage on the house, on the grounds that “apparently the house was haunted.”

Granted that Jan, a poet, was also known for his sense of the dramatic,and for his tendency to exaggerate. Listening to those chilling stories on a winter night we wondered how much to believe. Fast forward to 1968 when I enrolled at St. Andrews University. I was determined to find out the truth behind the goings on at Pitmilly. At the cathedral grounds I found an old man who worked as a tourist guide. He must have been there for twenty years as I remember him from my youth as the bloke who always led us up the never ending stairs to the top of St. Rule’s tower.

“Pitmilly?” he asked. “Why are ye asking about Pitmilly? There are chairs jumping up and down there.”

“Pitmilly is no more,” chimed in a second guard.

They gave me directions, and so I biked over to the spot. I found what had once been the manor, now a burned out shell. It had recently burned down. No one knew why. For some time no one had been living there.

Around the end of the war, Mary broke off her engagement to Jan. Reportedly in response to family pressures. My father theorized all along that the Major had mediumistic abilities, and the house’s apparent hostility to Jan was an expression of the Major's dislike of the prospective son-in-law. But evidently that wasn’t the entire story. The house was sold, the buyers tried to make it into a hotel, but with little success. The spirits had a nasty habit of moving furniture around in front of the guests, opening toilet stalls while they were inside. Then came the fire.

Today the house has been rebuilt and is functioning again. Anyone know what happened to the ghosts?

Celebrate Life

2011-10-15T04:26:00.000-07:00

By Amber Poole

What I like most about getting older is giving myself permission to be messy again. Not in the sense of physical disorganization as I must admit I do like tidy, but in the appreciation of drawing outside the lines. With each passing day, I am more and more bemused by my younger self so desirous of acceptance and recognition; the yesterday me surrendering to a social order composed of individuals who themselves are in a similar predicament of framing their lives to fit the equation of “doing the right thing” or “the smart thing” in hopes this will bring about some kind of personal satisfaction. I suppose if society were a static creature, one might be able to reap a reward, a nod of approval from time to time, a cushy place that says “you’re part of the tribe” but the problem with this exchange rate is society is anything but static: it’s a moving target subject to caprice, unpredictability and cruelty.

I’ve spent too much of my life living this way; adapting it to suit some one else’s idea of the way things work and I don’t want it anymore.

I like it that not all my arguments are rational. I like that I look like a jumble sale when I’m walking down the street. I like Flemish paintings. I like still life and split pomegranates oozing their juices and dead pheasants lying on a pine table with robust men and women leaning into each other, tilting their steins heavenward. I like a woman peeling turnips with a faraway look in her eye. I like domestic life caught here in the in between: in between one motion and the next. For that moment, the artist has frozen the full swing of life for us to view in great detail and in deep meditation.

Paul and I have been staying in Dorset these past days, talking long hikes, eating sumptuous meals, sleeping long hours, underground with our dreams and all that is in the mystery. We read to each other.

My life is a blessing, that in my age and wisdom I am learning to celebrate just as it is. I don’t need to be understood or lavished with attention anymore. But I do need to flood my soul with those things for which it hungers; for those things it implores from me.

It says: Draw outside the lines, make your own still life, walk slowly, thoughtfully, write your life into a poem that one ponders and reads again and again. Laugh with yourself like a best friend. Love your imperfections. Hold gratitude up as the most sacred understanding of this chaos and mystery we call life.

These are the thoughts that I’ve been having at Champs Land in Dorset.

My life is like a still life set to motion.

On Jurassic Coast

2011-10-09T01:50:00.000-07:00

Our home --- for now

Our annual attempt to cheat Scottish weather --- grab some extra summer days that, under the rules of the game, we're not entitled to, sent us to the Jurassic Coast, Southern England. Standing below the red cliffs (Triassic --- having formed over 200 million years ago) you sense their immense age.

My geologist's eye immediately focused on the rocks' internal structure: ripples and waves left in the sand. Vast rivers used to flow there, greater than any river system that survives these days. Over millions of years they deposited the sand, moved it about. The climate was arid, about 5 degrees hotter than today. Imagine the Arabian desert criss-crossed with rivers that flooded, receded, dried out for some years, then flooded again. That was the land.

Note that the shallower layers cut down into older ones
the way a fast flowing river cuts into its banks

Back to today's beach, I'm among a sea of rounded pebbles, the water transparent green, as the Adriatic. And a much cooler climate. It's a clean beach without any shells. Some washed up kelp is the only living matter.

Farther East we walked on a cobble beach under the Jurassic black shale, once a shallow sea teeming with swimming dinosaurs. We could tell that it is prime fossil territory because people everywhere were digging at the cliff with small hammers.

An old woman, easily in her seventies, carrying a bag leaned on her stick. With one end she poked at the rocks. She told us where to look for fossils --- under a light marker called the "ice age marker". That's where she uncovered vertebrae bones of a Pleisaurus. She almost had all the pieces. I happened upon a vertebra fragment, now filled in with silica. Holding something so ancient sent the mind reeling back in time, in a real sense that no Spielberg movie, or geologic textbook could accomplish.

I was back in an alien landscape, in days when we not only did not exist, but nature hadn't conceived that we might one day be born. That we would one day dominate the Earth.

Why men don't listen and no-one reads maps

2011-10-06T01:37:00.000-07:00

A map of England!!

A typical guy, I don't boast about my listening skills. But I do read and understand maps. Unfortunately my forte is rapidly going the way of the manual typewriter and the dinosaur.

I learned this to my chagrin when Amber and I piled our stuff into the car and pointed its nose South --- destination Dorset. But we had no map of England! All the Scottish petrol stations, service areas and supermarkets, somewhat chauvenist, only have Scottish maps. Or glossy, expensive atlases of the entire UK. No problem. I'll pick one up after we cross the English border.

Not

England has other map issues. There are none. We checked several petrol stations, supermarkets, WH Smith etc and found maps of Carlisle, the Lake District --- Ordinance Survey Maps, maps of postage stamps, but no map of England. My initial disbelief finally gave way to a glimmer of understanding. Of course, these days everyone has Satnav / GPS in their cars--- except for luddites like me who insist on using maps. If you must have one, you print it off Google-map, then crumple it up on arrival. There's not much demand for a published map of England. Perhaps the Scots still hang onto maps because they're a bit behind the times.

I suspect I'll get some sarcastic comments, referring to me as a curmudgeon who resits the inexorable march of modern technology. Yet I feel that something is lost in losing the map and relying on technology to get you from A to B. A bird's eye view of the country, the way that an Eagle sees it, or a satellite. The broad perspective. Call it also the grand picture where we and our problems are small, less significant than specks, rather than the perspective of a mouse that sees everything close up. Impossibly large but limited in scope.

A map can take us in imagination to farther off places, away from the small vehicle where we happen to find ourselves, creeping along some manufactired highway. They're magical. You can use them to locate buried treasure, dowse for water, prospect for oil or minerals. Psychics even use them to find lost objects.

If your only purpose of travel is to get from A to B, then Satnav is all you need. But your journey will likely be one-dimensional, with only fences, houses, hedges and other angry motorists whizzing by. You'll have no idea of where you actually are, because you won't know where you are in relation to. Neither will you know what is out of sight, just over the hill. For that greater perspective you'll still need a map.

Witnesses to an execution

2011-09-23T23:16:00.000-07:00

I realize that the following is not a light-hearted story out of northeastern Scotland. However the recent execution of (possibly innocent) Troy Davis in Georgia demands a response, regardless of the country one happens to live in. Some years back I stood outside Huntsville penitentiary in Texas while Dominique Green was put to death. This is the story of that evening.

The night they killed Dominique they did it professionally.

The white room had been vacuumed; its cement floor scrubbed free of any stain. The gurney had a freshly laundered cover; each belt and strap was lined up with the pad’s top edge. Glass vials containing the chemicals lay on a clean tray. Down the hallway a plain coffin of unfinished pine rested on a pair of saw horses, custom made to receive the body of a man who was still alive. Sitting alone in a nearby cell, he listened to his breathing. He didn’t feel dead; he wasn’t even ill. He knew he was about to be ritually sacrificed and he resented it.

The guests had been invited. Dressed formally for the occasion they waited in the hospitality house outside the prison. To pass the time they chatted with inquisitive reporters. No one looked at the walls. Intended to bring consolation they were decorated with oil paintings that depicted scenes from Christ’s passion.

A handful of people in a nearby parking lot waved picket signs at a yellow police tape drawn tight across the main driveway. Guards wearing khaki uniforms with broad brimmed hats paced behind the line to make sure no one crossed it. They chatted in low voices, occasionally cracked jokes and tried to appear nonchalant but they kept up their guard. Like soldiers in a battlefield they never made eye contact with their adversary, but they stirred uncomfortably whenever someone moved quickly toward the yellow line. The protesters were mostly silent. Most had been there before and knew that the time for words was over. Besides, no one could talk for long before a nearby bank of sewer pumps burst into a noisy rattle that drowned out their voices.

A tall man with a thick beard leaned against a chain link fence. He had the informal look of a professor, and indeed he taught criminology at a nearby college. Two or three times a month, whenever an execution was scheduled, he’d be standing by the pumps holding a candle in a glass jar. If the evening dragged on, and it often did, the candle would go out before he left.

Next to him were three female students in jeans and t-shirts. One fingered a rosary. They came regularly, said their prayers and usually left without speaking to anyone. This evening they were joined by a corpulent man who held a bible under one arm and who introduced himself as the pastor of a church in San Antonio. He’d been asking everyone if they wanted him to lead a short prayer. Most protesters were cool to the idea, but the students appeared interested.

Two black youths in low-slung jeans and baggy t-shirts kept apart from the others. If anyone tried to approach them, and several roving reporters with shoulder cameras often did, the brothers moved away. The older one, severely overweight, paced restlessly, his hands in his pockets. His frozen face didn’t reveal any emotion; his downcast eyes were turned inward. His brother talked to him in short sentences, hoping to start a conversation or to at least elicit a response but eventually he gave up trying.

Soon all eyes focused on the driveway beyond the yellow line, and the gabled entrance to the Walls that contained a large clock. Its wrought iron hands were both almost vertical. Usually within minutes of the appointed time a guard would cross the driveway to the hospitality house, and return leading a line of witnesses. They would climb a short flight of stairs and enter the doorway beneath the clock. Six o-clock came and went. Five more minutes passed but the driveway remained empty. The brothers shook their heads in dismay but protesters appeared to take heart. An empty driveway suggested that a Supreme Court judge had delayed the execution to listen to a defense lawyer’s last argument.

The sewer pumps kicked into life and rattled noisily. A black man in a dark suit who had been trying to speak on his mobile phone moved away from the pumps to continue his conversation.

“What boxes is he talking about?” he said. “In Houston? And, what's in them?” He turned to his neighbor, also wearing a suit. "The lawyer thinks there's some lost evidence in a bunch of boxes."

"Like what?"

"Nobody knows."

"What boxes is she talking about?"

"The ones they found when the inspectors shut down the Houston Police Crime Lab. Three hundred of them."

"Man, how long will it take to go through those boxes?"

"A long time. Dominique's said all along he never fired the shot. Never handled the gun. Maybe they’re looking for the gun."

While phones buzzed in justices' offices across the country, the black man in the cell waited. He had refused his last meal. He no longer cared what they did to him as long as they got on with it. However a guard told him that his appointment was delayed. No one knew for how long. Perhaps until someone searched through three hundred boxes. He’d given away everything he owned including his rosary of 101 black and blue beads. The guards assumed that it was gang apparel. They didn’t allow him to wear it when he entered the visiting cubicle even though he was separated from his visitor by reinforced glass. As his appointment approached Dominique wrote about the rosary, that he'd added a bead every time he had to say good-bye to a friend or mentor on the Row who was executed. He thought of his wife, Jessica, whom he'd never see again. Soon after landing on the Row he sent her away, telling her that his life was over and that she needed to take care of hers. He didn’t want her to witness his execution because he knew she couldn’t take it.

Daylight faded rapidly. Guards posted above the walls in corner boxes, scanned the parking lot with binoculars fearing that a prolonged wait might make the protesters restless; more prone to violence. Lights came on along the red brick wall, and encased the tall building in a ghostly hue. Clouds of mosquitoes buzzed around the sewer pumps. Behind the yellow tape the guards paced back and forth. Their captain told them they'd have to stay a while longer, at least until midnight when the execution warrant expired.

A reporter with a shoulder camera ducked under the yellow line and ambled up to the protesters. A badge from a local TV station was prominently displayed on his white shirt. The past hour he’d been up at the hospitality house with the witnesses. He scanned the protesters, a rapid once-over to see if he anyone there was worth interviewing. Turning on a small searchlight, he flashed it on an old man who held aloft a handwritten sign, reading “Lord Have Mercy”. The reporter produced a microphone to interview the man, coughed to get his attention but then unexpectedly put it away.

He’d noticed the brothers, now standing by a grassy knoll next to the police line. They had been joined by a diminutive, black woman with long curly hair. The reporter crept up to them, slowly to avoid flustering his prey. When he was within a few feet of the trio he turned on his spotlight. The boys turned their backs to the camera and pulled closer to shield the young woman.

The pastor whispered to the students. "We need to get that man away from them."

"Who are they?" said the one with the rosary.

"The La-strapes boys. I don’t know the woman.”

Twelve years earlier four boys attacked Andrew La-strapes outside a convenience store in Houston, shot him dead and robbed him of a hundred dollars. When they were caught, two of the four identified Dominique as the shooter. Despite his protestations he was given the death sentence. The two black boys who co-operated, both African American, were given prison sentences. The one white boy in the gang did not spend any time in prison. La-strapes's sons, Andrew and Andre, were four and six years old when their father was killed. The following years they clung to their mother, Bernette. They knew something terrible had happened, but years would pass before they understood. They were often left alone in their small apartment while Bernette worked in a restaurant to support them.

One day when the boys were in their teens a small white man called at the door. He was balding, wore a loose shirt and khakis, and introduced himself as a person opposed to the death penalty. He said he wanted to visit with her and with Andrew and Andre. Talk to the family about their father. Bernette offered him coffee. She spoke to him about her husband, the boys and their hard life. After listening to the story, he said he was deeply sorry. He told them that another man would soon die, the man accused of killing her husband. How did she feel about it? At first Bernette couldn't talk, but then she found the words she'd kept to herself over the years, that killing was wrong no matter who did it. She'd seen violent death and didn't want to see any more, not of the man who’d killed her husband. Not anyone. An execution wouldn’t bring her peace. It could only re-open her wound.

Some weeks later her visitor returned and said that Dominique's wife, Jessica, wanted to meet Andrew and Andre. She and Dominique had met when they were teenagers and had fallen in love. Andre thought that seeing Jessica would help him heal his anger. Bernette and Andrew weren't sure but they agreed to the meeting. The moment Jessica appeared, Andre knew he’d like her and that they would stick together during the coming ordeal. All shared the same sorrow, the reality of violent death and the loss that it brought.

Bernette wrote to the Texas governor, saying that she had forgiven Dominique and that no one in the family wanted him to be executed. Andre participated in a press conference. Bewildered reporters asked him why he didn’t want justice to be done. He couldn’t find the words to tell reporters what he felt. He mumbled that killing was wrong. His dad was gone, and nothing would bring him back.

The governor didn’t reply to Bernette’s letter, but remarked to an aide that the family’s wishes would not factor into his decision whether to pardon Dominique.

The pastor asked the professor. "Who's the woman?"

“That's Dominique's wife.”

“With the boys?”

"I understand that they're very close."

Two more reporters discovered the trio. Flashes went off, spotlights shone in their faces. A reporter stepped forward, microphone in hand, and asked for an interview, but the boys turned sharply away, linked arms and drew a cordon closer around Jessica. She was trembling and had to hold onto them for support.

The full moon, now high above the trees cast its silver light on the walls. The guard boxes and the men with the rifles were silhouetted against the pale sky. Several bright stars gleamed above. The cosmos of stars and planets knew only a higher order and appeared uninvolved in the affairs of the prison. Nevertheless Jessica looked for a long time at the moon, as if deriving some comfort from its steady light. She disengaged from the boys and walked a few paces away from them.

The sewer pumps kicked in. They rattled louder than ever, determined to break up the silence. Conversations halted. The moonlight that had brought Jessica solace appeared to withdraw into an unattainable world far from human chaos.

The suited man with the mobile phone received another call. His face stiffened, and he shook his head. He spoke to his friend, but his voice didn't carry above the pumps’ rattle. In any case his strained expression said it all. The Supreme Court had denied the appeal concerning the unmarked boxes.

All eyes turned to the entrance below the clock, now lit up by yellow lights. Before long a guard came through the door and crossed the street. A minute later he returned leading a line of people across the street. First were two black women who held onto each other, followed by the man who had introduced Jessica to the brothers. Bringing up the rear, were two women in business suits. With clipboards in hand they walked briskly as if heading for a routine meeting. Reporters’ camera flashes caught the witnesses as they climbed the prison steps.

Still shielding Jessica, the La-strapes brothers moved across the street to an empty spot in the parking lot. The reporters decided not to follow them, but continued to film. The pumps cut out. Silence fell, broken only by the Jessica's sobbing and the boys' attempts to comfort her.

“Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us…” The students and the man with the bible repeated the prayer and flipped rosary beads.

Ten minutes passed since the witnesses entered the prison. Jessica had fallen to her knees on the bare asphalt, her body convulsed with cries. The boys leaned over her, each holding a shoulder. Scarcely moving the three clung to each other. They all knew what had to be happening behind the ghostly wall. The man Jessica loved would be strapped to the gurney while technicians injected a cocktail of chemicals into his veins. A doctor waited nearby. He was there only to pronounce the victim dead
because he’d sworn an oath to do no harm.

A spotlight shone on the trio. A TV reporter's camera buzzed, gathering material for a human interest story. The man with the handwritten sign walked over. "Would you mind leaving them alone?" The journalist grunted "Okay," but continued to film the trio. The pastor planted himself between the brothers and the camera. The old man joined him along with the professor and several others to form a barrier that shielded the brothers and Jessica from the camera. For several minutes the spotlight played on the protesters’ faces, but then turned off. The reporter decided that no one in the studio would want footage of protesters in a parking lot. He decamped and moved across the police line to ambush the witnesses as they exited the building.

The guards paced the line as if cold and talked in subdued voices. One removed his hat to swat mosquitoes. They were relieved that there had been no trouble that night. The crying from the parking lot had thankfully stopped.

One by one the witnesses appeared in the main doorway and climbed down the stairs to the driveway. The women in black still held each other’s shoulders. The reporters with clipboards who had walked in confidently now stumbled as if drunk. Cars started in the distance, turned on their lights and rolled down the driveway. The guards pushed the tape aside to let them through. The friend who witnessed the execution walked alone down the driveway, his head bowed. He found the brothers and Jessica in the parking lot. After he hugged each of them, he told them about Dominique's last moments: that Dominique died peacefully. He thanked everyone there for their support and wanted them to keep up the fight. He was sorry he wasn’t strong enough and wanted Jessica to know that he loved her. That he regretted her ordeal.

Jessica listened to the account but said nothing. She wanted to feel gratitude for the sunny days she and Dominique had shared or remorse for not having spent more time with him after his incarceration, but she found herself staring at a void that no one could fill. Not her friend; not Andrew or Andre.

The guards wound up the tape. Talking in loud voices they bid each other goodnight. Their captain thanked them for their work and for staying late. It had been a clean operation without any incidents.

Ridin’ the ol’ folk’s bus

2011-09-18T01:16:00.000-07:00

“How much is a return ticket to Aberdeen?”

The woman I asked, the youngest-looking of several queued up at the Huntly bus stop, returned a puzzled look.

“I really don’t know. I have a bus pass.” The others smiled. They all had bus passes.

So do I. Every Scottish resident older than 60 holds a bus pass that gives bus trips, at government expense, anywhere in Scotland.That day Amber and I decided to take the bus instead of our usual train, thinking that we’d save a few pennies.

The big blue bus pulled up at the stop. We loaded our suitcases under the bus. I swiped my ol' folk's pass, then paid Amber’s fare. £16.80. That’s £4 more than the rail fare would have been.

While we squeezed into the seats, with legroom less than a RyanAir flight, I sucked a mint to settle my stomach. The constant vibration made me too nauseous to read a book. So I had time to ponder both the meaning of the universe, and also why the bus is so expensive to take, despite taking 40 minutes longer than the train and being more uncomfortable.

One possible answer was in front of me, all the q-tips poking out above the seats, my own grey head included. Amber was the only fare-paying passenger on the bus. Her £16.80 was bankrolling the entire trip. The rest of us were freeloading.

The money behind
Stagecoach Buses

The Secret Life of Fungi

2011-09-07T13:47:00.001-07:00

They're back!

I’ve always had a symbiotic relationship with the fungi kingdom. When they’re ready to pop up, they speak to me in a dream. That’s where I first see them. And then there’s Cottarton --- this year again the Saffron Milk Caps (a.k.a Lactarius Deliciosus) spring out each morning in my garden under my spruce trees. Amber sends me out regularly to collect them for breakfast. I know of no other house that can boast of such an illustrious visitors. I’m convinced that they are there for Amber and I. Personally.

It’s not such a reach to believe that the mushrooms are endowed with high intelligence. Underground, away from out eyes extends a vast network of hyphae, tiny tubes complex enough to make the human network of brain neurons appear simple. The mushrooms we see are only the small fruiting bodies that pop out here and there.

The lactarius mycellium on a tree root

The lactarius mycelium has a unique relationship with the Scots pine and spruces, such as surround our house. The fungus actually interpenetrates the tree roots. From the tree, the fungus gets sugar and nutrients. Meanwhile the tree gets water and minerals from the fungus. It’s a symbiosis that benefits both parties, one that is common with many edible mushrooms. The fungus’s hyphae extend far underground and are able to tap water that the tree roots couldn’t possibly reach, helping the tree to survive during a drought.

In a recent study of a Douglas fir forest in British Columbia, by Kevin Beiler of UBC, isotope tracers were inserted at specific trees and revealed that all the trees of the forest are connected to one another, by pathways that appear to be laid down by the chantarelle mycella.

Interconnectedness between trees
provided by the chantarelle mycellium

There are certain hub trees that dominate the network. This astonishing discovery also suggests a greater interdependence between trees and communication than anyone previously thought. Dare I say intelligence? The destruction of a hub tree might have a greater detrimental effect on the forest as a whole. Maybe this complex network is what we sense when we're sleeping. Our way of communicating with the fifth kingdom.

How did the milk caps find their way to Cottarton? They weren’t there for two years after we moved in, but we did find a few stray ones three hundred feet away at the end of our driveway. I suspect that they found their way to our house via their underground network. The network of thin threads, searching for nutrients found the trees around our house and them established themselves in the tree roots. As we don’t use artificial fertilizer or weed killers, the fungi found a pleasant home.

The following August --- Surprise!!

The Return of the King (Bolete)

2011-08-04T09:29:00.000-07:00

It’s usually around the beginning of August each year that King Bolete appears under the trees, along with his subjects. A warm spell such as we’re having now of 15-20C, along with a soft rain brings them out.

My Polish compatriots are already poking about the woods from the beginning of June. Soon tongues wag furiously that, Basia S--- already spotted a bolete in such and such a wood. Directions are always vague. The excitement is not even surpassed by the latest episode of East Enders.

Usually I don’t get serious until I see a few Fly Agarics by the side of the road. Fly Agarics --- what people around here refer to as “toadstools” are not to be tried unless you want an acid trip, sometimes a one way trip at that. Yet they have a curious symbiosis with the bolete. You tend to find them in the same part of the wood, not in the dense centre but close to the edge. Over here they prefer conifers. Boletes are usually found in pairs. If you find one, look around for its brother, a few feet away.

Fly Agaric (Amanita Muscaria)

And so to our recent haul --- from our local woods, and the forbidden woods patrolled by the fearsome Sir Gibbie, who has a particular dislike for wandering Poles with a bag under one arm. He chases them off when he sees them. That suits me to a T, as those woods are very prolific in boletes. No marauding Poles to put up with there. I know the back paths that take me to those woods.

Then the party begins! Whisky in one hand you clean the mushrooms --- brush off the dirt and duff, cut away any maggot eaten parts. Some go into a pot, the others on the drying tray. You can get a commercial dryer from Poland that will dry the mushrooms in a few hours. Air drying them, in our climate, takes a couple of weeks.

Drying for winter storage.

During the dark months we reconstitute them and serve with pasta.

Fresh boletes can be fried in a little butter and marjoram. After 15 minutes when they’re slightly brown,and the liquid has boiled off, serve them in an omelette. Browned onions and garlic add an interesting flavour, but be careful not to overwhelm the boletes' woodsy taste with too many onions.

Enjoy the mushrooms! Don’t tell anyone where you found them, as this is one instance where Charity is not usually rewarded.

Broad Beans a.k.a. Habas (Sp)

2011-07-29T11:54:00.000-07:00

We grow broad beans at Cottarton. It’s about the only bean that does well in our challenging climate. We gather bushels of them. Each year we wonder what to do with them.

They’re not part of Amber’s kitchen repertoire, drawn mainly from Italian and French cuisine. The internet has some recipes. Complicated enough to make you suspect that the chef is trying to disguise the flavour of the beans.

And so I end up taking a bucket of bean pods to Scone where my kid sister Munia, newly arrived from Ecuador is taking care of my mother.

“But of course,” she said. “Those are habas. We lived on them for twenty years in Zumbawua.”

Zumbawua, in the high Andes at an altitude of 14,000 feet, has a climate not unlike Scotland. But there is no Tesco nearby. You subsist there on what you grow locally --- a diet high in potatoes and broad beans. And you learn to be creative about it.

That evening I picked up Munia’s boys at Prestwick. Coming from Northern Italy, they took the Ryan Air red-eye to to spend a few days with their mum. Actually, I had the “red-eye” having to pick them up at Prestwick (a two hour drive from Scone) --- at close to midnight. While driving there, I pondered what I would do to future guests who inflict such torture on me. No doubt some action that would make a tabloid headline. My flinty heart melted on meeting the kids, Juan, Simon, Estevan and Santiago. What could I do but give each a bear-hug!

When they arrived at Scone, after greeting their mum, they unloaded their bags --- Italian coffee, cheeses, cakes, pasta. I swear that half of their carry on luggage allowance (10 kg on Ryan Air) was food.

They’re different from kids I’ve known both in the US and in Europe. Growing up in the high Andes among the Indigenous People, something of the wild nature, unspoiled by civilization, rubbed off on them. They never saw a television except once in three years when they came to Europe. Never cared for fads or designer clothes. In the mountains they spoke a mix of Spanish and Quechua. Lived among people who had absolutely nothing. And they subsisted on broad beans.

Beans (double-peeled) and other garden fruit

Yesterday Juan and Simon double-peeled the “habas”, slowly as if it were a meditation. Double-peeling means shelling the beans then removing the outer husk from each bean. It was a daily chore they carried out for over fifteen years. Many times the volume I had brought because Munia had to feed fifteen people. Perhaps the activity awoke some nostalgia for the clear and cold mountain environment they’d left behind. From Juan I heard about the many ways of cooking the beans.

1. Deep frying in oil.
2. Boiling single shelled beans, salting, then eating the inner beans individually with your fingers while discarding the husk. Goes well with some bread and cheese.
3. Soup --- Juan’s favourite. You cook double shelled beans with bacon, then you puree them.

We had both the deep-fried and boiled beans. Both tasted extraordinary. Was it only the beans, or something of “soul” that had been added to them during the preparation?

Turning on the Heating

2011-07-23T23:46:00.000-07:00

Weather talk in Scotland is usually pleasant, boring conversation. “Nice day isn’t it?” is a common greeting. However the subject can also be controversial.

Today I turned on our central heating.

I ought to feel sympathy for all our friends in the US who are suffering under sweltering heat. I read about it in the news, of temperatures over 100F (42C) in Houston, New York, Washington etc. Hot enough to cause significant distress. Perhaps it has also reignited the global warming debate. But how am I to muster any sympathy for those living in air conditioned rooms, when here at Cottarton, for most of July, night time temperatures have hovered around 6-8C ( 45F)? Daytime temperatures have rarely topped 60F. Last night, after returning from Scone to a cold cottage, I stayed awake half the night, shivering in bed.

No --- I said no, I will not turn on my central heating. Think of your carbon footprint. This is July!! Today I caved into the inevitable. With temperatures unlikely to break 50F, what else am I to do?

Today, Metcheck issued a frost warning for parts of rural Scotland, Omeomeomi! What will become of my dahlias!

FLOWER POWER: by Amber Poole

2011-07-19T04:54:00.000-07:00

Should we sell them or give them away? If you read this, you must write me back and tell me what you think.

It has never occurred to me until this moment that flowers might not stir the heart of another quite like they do mine. In a similar way: poetry. Flowers and poetry, I suppose, are perceived subjectively. I could not say they are themselves subjective in nature. I’d have to ask, whose nature? Therefore they must have an authentic center independent of my projection, a hallmark of the Land like that of a tree, a brook or mountain. So do they influence outside the limits of our interpretation? Have they that power in their beauty?

Paul went out in the rain this morning and came back with the loveliest bunch of flowers. Their variety and freshness enchanted me. Their fragrance, full of grace. They sparkled beneath the layer of moisture that rested on their petals. Holding them in my hand was like the memory of a great poem. Life is a stream/on which we strew/petal by petal the flower of our heart. (The start of Petals, a poem by Amy Lowell)

Cottarton Flower Farm is at a loss in how to define itself. Paul would like to see a conventional outcome for his labor of love and the months of muscle demanded in the preparation of new beds, planting and so forth. I’m more the romantic sort and see them in a wholly different light.

The problem with selling our flowers is in part lack of visibility but in a greater part their competitive cousins from South Africa and Holland who dominate the market. They’re smartened up with packaging and food filled sachet packets, psychologically placed at the front of the store near the cashier, just in case you might grab a bunch on you way through the check out. They’re pretty too. (Goodness, how could one think otherwise of a flower?) But they all look the same. The same, freesias, daisies, carnations, roses and lilies are raised in protected environments, maintained by generous doses of fertilizer, watered by irrigation systems, in short, fostered for one reason: commerce.

If a Cottarton flower comes to full bloom, it has had to partner with the wind, the rain, our bashful sun whose rays are rarely seen, and bugs and snails and other beasties. These are hard working flowers with a radiance that shouts individuality and character. Yes, Cottarton Flowers have character. Ever beyond into infinite ways/We alone stay/While years hurry on/The flower fared forth, though its fragrance still stays.

It wasn’t so long ago that the types of flowers in our garden were the pride of every manor house in the county. Few women had the means to enjoy such luxury of freshly cut flowers on a windowsill in summer. The Canterbury bells, Michelmas Daisies, Sweet Peas, and the local wildflowers were the show of every well appointed household. But like so much else in our world today, the flowers that can be marketed to the masses are the ones raised and produced in greenhouses and poly-tunnels in far away places.

When I lived in Houston, Texas and a friend of mine asked, “If you could write your life in exchange for the one you have now, what would be different?” I had to think about it for awhile because Zach and I were not flush with money and resources, but we were happy and we laughed a lot and we told stories and we listened to music and we ate very well – even if the phone got disconnected (which if often did) our table was full of wonderful, homemade delights. I eventually answered, “Flowers.” If I could change anything, I’d have the money to put fresh flowers on my table every day of the year.

So I have this idea that there are elderly people out there who can’t get to the store for flowers or who can’t actually afford the luxury of them and I think of taking Cottarton Flowers to them, to brighten their windowsill. I think of the homeless who by a stroke of luck end up in a council flat starting a new life. I would like flowers on their table.

Would it influence them in ways of compassion and kindness? Would they treasure these flowers? For those of us who can buy flowers like a stick of gum, who give little thought to them, who perhaps don’t even change their water or split their stems, have they become just “another household item” to us? How do we bring back the divine, the poetry in the flower that sits on our kitchen table? I think it will return when there awakens a deep appreciation for the gift from the Earth, this gift that grows wild in concert with the four elements and produces the most heavenly flowers. Angels and garden sprites abound, dancing in and out of Cottarton Cottage Garden, as high as the treetops and as deep as the roots where the magic takes hold.

The Clootie Well

2011-07-16T03:50:00.000-07:00

While on one of my walks up Kinnoull Hill I took the wrong turn and, not unlike Dante Alighieri, found myself in an unfamiliar wood. Upon emerging from a thicket I came across the extraordinary sight of several small saplings whose branches were hung with small flags and other memorabilia. In their midst was what appeared to be a small pond --- not merely a pond. Water drained from it into a small creek, suggesting the pond was replenished by an underground spring. Upon closer inspection I saw a pair of beads, and a match box suspended by a ribbon. The scene had the trappings of a religious ritual, but which one? Modern day druids? Hippies?

I recalled my sojourn in Trinidad where people of Hindu origin often hung small flags near their house. Prayer flags to their various deities, asking for favours in money, health or love. The flags were left there and usually rotted and fell to the ground, a sign that the prayer was granted. In the Trinidadian back country I stumbled across a site similar to the one at Kinnoull, next to a spring that gushed out of the rock and into a pool. Nearby were several lighted candles.

Recently I heard of another such site: Munlochy well on Black Isle, near Inverness. The tree branches over the well were covered with rags. Apparently it’s a Celtic healing ritual associated with certain springs. On a nearby tree, usually an ash, you hang a strip of cloth, a piece of clothing or an object belonging to the sick person, in the belief that the magical power of the spring would thereby reach the sick person.

A short meander via Google brought me to the Clootie Well.

I knew the word, but only from Robert Burns where he addresses the devil,

O Thou! whatever title suit thee
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie.

From Amber I heard about Clootie Dumpling, a desert often served on Burns night. It’s cooked in linen cloth --- or cloot. Hence, Clootie Well.

I wasn’t surprised that an ancient well associated with healing would subsequently become associated with the devil. Isn’t that the way that a new religion supplants an indigenous one? The gods of the old religion become the demons of the new religion. A typical example being the god Pan, whose horns and cloven hoofs became associated with the features of the Christian’s devil. His trident was borrowed from Neptune.

Some of the Clootie Wells have been Christianized. St. Mary’s Well near Culloden is one where people hang crosses and rosary beads in addition to the traditional cloots. When Christianity arrived in Scotland the priests originally tried to stamp out the old beliefs associated with healing springs, but finally realized that people weren’t about to give them up. So they renamed the wells with their own saints. The original Celtic names have only rarely survived.

And so back to Kinnoull Hill and the mysterious spring. On the Internet I found a reference to a Clootie Well on Kinnoull --- Lady Grey’s Well. No doubt she was a person of note associated with the history of the hill.

If you come across such a spring, take it as a stroke of good fortune. You’re in a spot that has been long regarded as sacred; where the spirit of the land is strong. Also, don’t touch the cloots. According to ancient lore, removing them or interfering with them can bring bad luck. In some cases the disease of the afflicted owner.

Who will buy my Canterbury Bells, two blooms for a penny?

2011-07-13T00:13:00.000-07:00

And so it’s flower season again. This year we have a new flower stand and a new location, at the end of our access road, by the Smiddy where the flowers are visible to motorists on the main road. The Canterbury Bells are there, a mixed bunch of perennials and wild flowers, and our dry flowers. I confess that I find them all stunning, and not because I happen to have raised them. Dry flowers keep their sunny looks for at least a year. The Bells last for two weeks as long as you change the water and trim the ends every few days. Each morning they seem larger; catch more sunlight. The atmosphere in a room with Bells is transformed as if each bell were playing a tune.

Am I the only one who is so impressed? Over the past week we sold only one bunch. I don’t think that the price is too high --- £2 for small bunches and £3 for Bells. Tesco prices for their flower bunches are higher. What gives?

One issue is that this is summertime --- even though it may not feel like it. Last night’s morning temperature was 4 degrees Celsius. Be that as it may, many of our neighbours already have flowers ready to pick in their gardens. Selling flowers in the Scottish countryside may be like trying to sell ice to an Eskimo.

There’s also tradition and familiarity. Culture. Canterbury Bells, while stunning, are “not in”. They were popular in Victorian days but today no one knows what they are. I get puzzled looks from people to whom I gift the flowers. Forty years ago when my father had his nursery, Bells were common in flower shops. But since that time public tastes have changed, possibly due to the flowers imported from Holland and displayed at each supermarket checkout. The popular flowers are roses, carnations, Gerbera Daisies, gladiolas, alstromeria, freesia, spray chrysanthemums and various Asiatic lilies. These days they are grown in polytunnels, in warmer climates than Scotland.

At Cottarton, we specialize in local flowers, ones that do well in our climate. Also flowers with a strong natural scent. I’m a strong believer in growing things locally, sustainably and out in the open. Our spirit-infused land supports an abundance of many beautiful flowers. Why should we settle for Dutch or Spanish flowers, trucked here over a thousand miles? Or flowers grown in the stale air of polytunnels, prone to polytunnel pests and inevitably sprayed with various poisons? Of course, economics, globalization and advertising have changed public tastes, but Scotland does host an abundance of its own flowers. Flowers that fit into its unique landscape.

This year we have a bumper crop of acroclinium --- paper flower that dries easily. Also heliochrysum, a flower we add to our dried bunches. Canterbury Bells, planted in the summer always survive our cruel winters and shoot up when the snow disappears. Among other early flowers are various wallflowers --- heavily scented, and sweet williams. Up and coming are our sweet peas, dahlias, asters and single blossom chrysanthemums. We grow most from seeds or cuttings. Next year we’ll expand into michaelmas daisies and other perennials.

The main challenge in raising cut flowers here is to protect them against our legendary winds. They’ll batter the blossoms and knock over any stem taller than a couple of feet. Traditional flower netting solves this. Interestingly I have to use “pea and bean” netting then trim off the excess. Flower netting is no longer available. There’s no demand for it. I put a plastic roof over Chrysanthemums to keep the rain off their delicate blossoms.

We need sun! A couple of sunny days a week will do, but we need at least those. Whenever the sun comes out, the acroclinium and sweet peas open up. The chrysanths too. Warmth is even more welcome. It brings out the scents. I'm reminded of days before intensive cross-breeding, when more flowers were scented.

On August 6th we’ll take our flower stand out to the Huntly Fair. It will be our opportunity to talk with customers. Maybe I’ll finally find out --- what is it about Bells and Scotland?

Dandelion Wine

2011-05-05T01:37:00.000-07:00

What do I have in common with Ray Bradbury? A love of the fantastic, good stories, science fiction and dandelion wine. Since my late teens when I read Bradbury’s biographical fantasy, “Dandelion Wine”, I always wanted to taste the stuff. Then one dark winter evening, Charles ladled out a glass for me, from a large tub in his kitchen. I became addicted.

Depending on its maturity dandelion wine can be tart, or sweet, contains a distillation of warm May garden scents. Above all it gladdens the heart. Guaranteed to lift you out of a dark place, it’s perfect for the Scottish winters when everyone is hunkered down a bit. Drink it with friends, and you’ll all turn silly in short order. For some reason the jokes you tell make sense while drinking the wine, but not afterwards.

And so to our annual carpet of dandelions, not an infestation as many gardeners would say, but one of nature’s unasked for gifts. Yesterday Charles came over with the kids and we gathered a couple of buckets of the flowers. They have to be picked around noon on a warm and sunny day when the flowers are fully open. Preferring a sweeter wine I pick only the petals. Not too much of the green calyx. The recipe calls for a minimum of two quarts of petals.

1. Pour a gallon of hot water over two quarts of petals (the minimum quantity). Let it stand for two days. Not for longer because the mix can turn sour.

2. Add the zest from four oranges. Boil the mix for a couple of minutes. After it has cooled, strain through cheesecloth. The finer it is the clearer your wine will be.

3. Add 2-3 pounds of sugar. While waiting for it to dissolve, drink a glass from last year's batch. The more sugar the stronger the wine. Add the strained juice from the oranges. Add dissolved yeast. I usually use baker’s yeast that has the fewest additives.

4. Place in a fermenting jar --- ceramic, glass or a special plastic that doesn’t add a taste to the wine. Attach an air lock, and watch it ferment for 2-4 months. The bubbling will keep you entertained most of the summer.

5. When the mix has almost stopped bubbling. Siphon the clear liquid to another container, leaving behind the dregs. Let it sit and bubble some more. Once it has finished, siphon the liquid off again. Let it sit. Finally siphon into clean, sterilized wine bottles. I usually use ones with screw caps so as not to hassle with corks.

Finally, let the wine mature. Charles reckons that three year wine is highly valued. I wouldn’t know as I’ve never been able to hold onto it for that long. Besides our guests keep demanding to drink it. This year I’ve resolved to stash away a few bottles.

And forget where I put them.

Any feedback?

2011-04-28T11:48:00.000-07:00

If you particularly like an entry, Amber and I would like to hear from you. Often we're not sure whether the blog is something people read when they wake up at 2 AM and have trouble getting back to sleep. Do our entries about country living read best at 2 AM? Or do we need to get your blood boiling by posting a controversial, political or religous polemic --- ala Christopher Hitchens? More short fiction? Book reviews? Humour pieces maybe? Alas, Amber assures me that my days as a standup comedian are over.

We promised to keep the blog interesting, and hope that it keeps you awake.

I realize that this somewhat clunky blogsite requires a Google account to post a comment on the page. But --- there's our email:

Paul: paulmmk@yahoo.com
Amber: zoe77006@yahoo.com

Salt and Eggs

2011-04-25T09:32:00.001-07:00

Easter is most likely my favourite holiday because it falls in April, the month of my birthday. It’s an amiable month even if March does go out like a lion there are still showers and flowers and warmer weather to look forward to. This is the time that Persephone returns home to her mother, Demeter, who restores vitality to the earth after a bleak, bitterly cold winter. A time on the Judaic/Christian calendars when Jews around the world observe Passover or Pesach and Christians celebrate the resurrection of Christ. Children ready their baskets in Poland with the symbolic ingredients of butter shaped into a lamb or a cross, salt, horseradish, eggs, bread, meat and a candle covered with linen while it waits the blessing of the priest. And children everywhere dye or colour their eggs for rolling and hunting.

This time of year encourages new growth and change. In the sermon yesterday Jens-Peter (our minister) said that it’s a time to come out of hiding. No longer can the nourishment and the beauty that wants to break forth from deep within the soil remain there; it must express itself, the bloom and the grain. At the Seder supper, there is a piece of matzah that is held back (or hidden) for later in the service and when it is at last uncovered it is known in Hebrew as Tzofun or Out of Hiding. The dipping of the vegetable in salt water prompts the children to ask “why?” In both the Polish basket and at the Seder, salt presents a dual significance: salty tears shed from suffering and salt as a cleansing ritual.

Easter is a time to come out of hiding, to remember the tears and then to heal what caused them, to break bread, to celebrate each other, to sow new seeds, to activate the inner life of the soul so passionately that it sustains you over winter.
We spent the afternoon with the Ashton children colouring eggs, rolling them, hiding them, hunting them, finding them and then finally eating them. It was a day of friends and feasting and greens from the garden; a day of abundance and gratitude that so much around us is fertile, full of potential. Happy Easter, Sweet Pesach.

Time when trees bloom...

2011-04-22T01:18:00.000-07:00

It was the time when trees bloom,
When bushes leaf
Fields grow green,
And every bird singing in Latin
Sweetly greets the morning
And all nature is aflame with joy
That the son of the widow dame
Of the lonely wild forest
Arises and saddles his nag...

Thus opens the epic poem of Chretien de Troyes (around 1185), Perceval --- or the story of the Grail. The boy enters the woods, encounters knights whom he mistakes for angels, and decides he wants to become one. And so to his adventures.

At Cottarton the birds have been singing in Latin for almost two months. We’ve barely seen any rain. Each morning Amber and I look out at a blue sky and say, “Here’s another sunny day in southern California.” It’s warm --- possibly the warmest April on record. Evenings we eat dinner at our outdoor patio, something that in past years was a rare treat.

The locals are also mystified. And a little bothered by the endless summer. Technically it's barely springtime. Shopkeepers wag their heads.

“Beautiful day,” I say when I reach the till.
“Aye,” says the shopkeeper. “But we’ll be paying for it.”

Things aren’t supposed to be this good. This is after all Scotland. This time last year we were under at least a foot of snow. Now that's the way it is.

A boon for the garden? Not exactly. It’s true that the cold frame is already bursting with plants, large enough to be planted outside. The greenhouse is emptying of seedlings. Tomatoes and zucchini are too big for their pots. But very little that I’ve sown or planted outside is growing. The ground is dusty. Parched. Without water from the skies, things aren’t about to move. Only buttercups, unfazed by the drought and delighted by the lack of competition, are making hay.

So, a Texan will tell me --- turn on the hose! If my plants start struggling for life, it may come to that. But at present I prefer to leave the plants alone. By not watering, I encourage them to send their roots deeper in search of damp layers farther down. Also, there are the slugs --- mollusks that just love the water. Every year we do battle with the buggers. Whenever I watered outside, they would come out at night for a drink, and then have their midnight snack on my broccoli plants. They eat everything except for buttercups. By not watering, I don’t let them know that there are tasty snacks out there.

The onion and garlic crop.
Lovage in the foreground.

Here at Cottarton we hardly have any water pressure. Our water is sourced from a well, gets pumped into a water tank in the attic, and that’s all the water head you have. Not enough for a sprinkler. At best, I fill up watering can with our Evian water, walk out to my field and stand there stupidly, looking like a bloke out of the TV program, “The Good Life.”

What’s going on? Where is our Scottish weather? Curiously this long spring is a mirror image of the dreadful winter we had a year ago, and an equally nasty December 2010. The North Atlantic Jet Stream has tied itself into a loop that takes it far to our west. The high pressure system that normally covers most of Europe now extends over the UK. As I hoped, when we experienced a continental winter, we’re being compensated by a continental spring. That means, long, dry and hot.

It’s time to get out the bull-roarer and perform a Scottish rain dance.

Flash Fiction --- The Ornament

2011-04-16T03:45:00.000-07:00

A few years back the following story came to me in a dream. I've never told it to an Analyst. I've no idea what it means. However I thought that it may entertain, so here it is. We're not in Scotland, but deep in the heart of Texas....

Mark Gerald had to be in trouble, otherwise the feds wouldn’t have called at Seven Acres. I knew who they were from their pressed suits, the rented van and the cell phones in their hands as they circled his ranch house, poking their heads in the windows. The tall thin one saw me by the juniper tree, my rifle ready.

“I’d keep your hand away from that,” he warned. “Mr. Gerald around?”

“He stays in Austin. Here on weekends.”

I rarely saw Mark. His father and I had been close for many years. He would have wanted me there to protect his son's place from the goons. I stood by the door while they checked under every bush, all the time talking on their phones. An hour later Mark’s pickup rolled up the driveway. A door slammed.

“Are you Mark Gerald?” the tall one asked him.

“He’s in the ranch house,” Mark said hardly looking at the suit.

“There’s no one there. We’re Federal Agents. AFT. Lying to a federal agent is a federal crime.”

“That’s right.”

Mark came round the corner. He saw me by the tree, nodded in recognition and entered his house by the back door. His overconfident grin made me even more nervous. He didn’t know what he was up against.

The tall man knocked on the front door. Mark opened it.

“Mr. Gerald?” the man asked coldly. “Drake Evans, AFT. Can we have a talk?”

“Greetings Mr. Evans,” Mark cried, slapping the agent on his back. “Of course. We’ve talked on the phone.”

I walked up to the house, eyes on the smaller man. He was sitting in a wire chair, his feet propped up on a log, cell phone at his ear.

“Yes,” Mark’s voice came through the open window. “You’re here about a Chistmas ornament. Which one? See if you can pick it out.”

I didn’t catch the agent’s question.

“You got it. But be careful – it might fly away.”

Another question.

“It’s all plastic. What? It circles the tree when people sing. Want to try it with your favorite carol?”

Two weeks ago, I saw something flying around Mark’s driveway. At first I thought it was a bird. Whatever it was, it glinted in the sunlight and flew off with a buzzing sound. Maybe it was only an unusual bug. But what if it wasn’t?

“Energy source?” Mark asked. “I dunno. What’s that?” After a pause during which the agent mumbled some more. “You think I use my mind to make it go? It’s nothing to do with my or your mind. It’s clothes. You need to wear cotton. It bounces off cotton and flies faster – see those cotton hangings on the tree? My kids made those.”

He had to be crazy.

“Watch it go.”

Mark’s clear voice sounded out singing : ‘Rudolf the red nose reindeer…’

A buzzing sound came from the window. I glimpsed something small darting through the indoor shadows.

“No, it’s not a gyro,” Mark added. “No moving parts. It’s got water in the middle. That’s all. Each Christmas I make one and give it to a kid who has nothing. Really nothing. Have I patented it? Who’d want to fool about with that thing.”

Silence. The man said, “A photo?”

“No sir --- keep your camera away. If you want a picture of it, go look at the Ranch News. Ten years ago someone ran an article about it.”

The tall man soon reappeared and rejoined his partner. He walked unsteadily as if drunk. His white face trembled as if he’d had news of a family death. They spoke in low voices as they walked to their van. They drove off.

Mark met me in the garden, said ‘howdy’ and asked how the calving was progressing. Nothing ever bothered him, and right now his blue eyes sparkled as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Mr. Gerald,” I said. “It’s not my place to butt into your business, but I think you need to be careful about those men. They’re after something you have and won’t stop until they get it.”

“My ornament? No one will deprive a poor child of their present.”

Mark was that way. He spoke another language.

“Like I said, I don’t want to be nosey,” I persisted. “This is about you. You don’t have a family, and there’s no one here to help you except for us neighbors. I’m concerned. People who get involved like you sometimes turn up dead. Those men looked scared, about to do something serious.”

It was hard to talk to him when I didn’t know what I was talking about and he didn’t want to help me either. It made no difference. By the following February Mark was dead. An eighteen-wheeler slammed into his pickup. He never had a chance.

In the town library, I scanned all the back issues of the ‘Ranch News’ for a picture of Mark’s ornament. I found a picture of him standing beside the town Christmas tree, surrounded by a troop of kids. He wasn’t looking at them though, but at something like a butterfly floating next to the tree. It was no butterfly, not unless the butterfly had a body like a sphere with curved wings.

Mark did have a family. Somewhere in Texas were kids who each had his ornament, assuming they hadn’t broken it. They’d never be able to copy it, so it wouldn’t make them rich. They might not even know how special they were.

Of Couch Grass and Buttercups

2011-04-01T00:32:00.000-07:00

‘Tis the season to fork over the soil while whistling a merry country tune and extolling The Good Life. Like in a Broadway musical. The reality is different. You drive the fork into hard, heavy soil and what comes up is a mass of roots --- two local scourges, couch grass and buttercups. For several minutes you pound a heavy chunk of upturned soil. With your bare hands extract the roots and dump them into the barrow. It’s slow, heavy work.

Who doesn't smile at fields of buttercups? So romantic. Is someone in love? You hold a buttercup under the chin and interpret the golden light that it reflects. As a gardener, you don’t dare let them go to seed. Buttercup seeds remain viable for at least eight years. Once established, you’ll never get rid of them.

Couch grass, cum roots extracted from a bed

Couch grass (The link extols its medicinal uses) must be one of the hardiest weeds, propagating mercilessly by a network of underground rhizomes. In Polish, it’s called “pesz” (pronounced, pesh) and that sums up what the Poles think of it. Couch grass grows rapidly in August, just when your veggies are most vulnerable. Before you can get your spade out, it has formed a thick carpet that squeezes the life out of your produce. My friend Charles Ashton, curious about how deep you need to bury couch grass before it expires, performed a little experiment in which he buried clumps at various depths. It took five feet of burial before the grass expired. He drowns the roots in a bucket and makes wine out of them. I would need a small pond and would end up with 30 gallons of wine of dubious quality. I compost it under a thick layer of grass clippings that generate enough heat to scorch the life out of the buggers.

I’ve always suspected that organic gardening is the cause of my problem. Couch grass tends to grow heavily after an application of dung. Not surprising, as it often grows alongside barley and is incorporated into the barley straw. I was once tempted to use a strong weed killer, but it eradicated the couch grass for only a couple of months. By August it was back again.

How about crop rotation? My parsnip and carrot beds are almost devoid of both couch grass and buttercups. Perhaps they emit pheromones that make our weeds feel unwelcome. While I can’t turn the entire garden into one parsnip and carrot patch, I can move various crops around to help eliminate the problem.

Buttercups on the left; Couch grass on the right

Yet for all their trouble, couch grass at least has one benefit: its roots break up large clay chunks to produce a well-conditioned, fertile soil. I realized this when moving earth to build up sunken beds --- sunken because of the volume of weeds I had to extract the past few years. The soil pile was built up from topsoil scraped off in a construction project, and is topped half by couch grass and half by buttercups. Note how the soil on the right under the grass is crumbly, loose, while soil under the buttercups remains chunky and heavy.

The compost heap is the one place where you want to import some couch grass so that it can aerate the pile. Perennial nettles will also benefit your compost's soil structure. Maybe what we need is a peace treaty with our unpalatable brothers. We’ll set aside some designated areas in our garden where they can grow and be appreciated. Will they in turn agree not to bother our flower and vegetable beds? In the Findhorn Garden they make such treaties, supposedly with amazing results.

Cabrach --- The Deer Thicket

2011-03-21T03:09:00.001-07:00

Take a step over the hill from Glass and follow the winding Deveron to discover a different world, not unlike Brigadoon that wakes up for one day in a hundred years then disappears again into the mists. The Cabrach, as the land is named is remote. The hills, covered in heather and broom, provide a home for red deer and rabbits --- as populous as in “Watership Down.” Like other Highland regions, the Cabrach was densely forested and home to wolves. They kept the deer and rabbit population in check and maintained the vitality of the forest.

Eking out a living on the land is hard as the heavy snowfalls are legendary; the growing season a month shorter than at Cottarton. The ground is less fertile.

You pass a single pay phone, a school and a post office then to reach a way station. Surrounded by a small cluster of houses The Grouse Inn is incongruous for its size and vitality. It’s the only country inn for miles around. How on earth does it survive in that sleepy community? Entering the bar you realize just how special the Inn is. They have at least 700 whiskies, most of which you can sample. An institution over two hundred years old, it's been operated by Ian and Wilma McBain since 1939, before that by the Watt family, before that the Stewarts. And so Amber, Adam and I sat down and tasted a rich, peaty malt, while Wilma told us about the land. The longer version is here. I was particularly interested in the chapel at Shenval, apparently the first Catholic chapel built since the Reformation. Because the Cabrach was so remote, and so cold (the Scottish Siberia), Catholics felt safe practicing there. The chapel apparently has an escape tunnel, for use by the priest in case the authorities came to arrest him.

Wilma has four rooms to rent, including one that’s haunted by various ghosts. Her tea room is well frequented. The Inn was and still is the social centre of the Cabrach. Once popular with fishermen catching salmon and trout in the Deveron and Blackwater, these days it survives thanks to busloads of summer tourists that stop by for afternoon tea and to sample the whisky. Amber and went to a Hogmany Party there and met many of our present friends.

I’d already noticed many empty houses that dot the landscape; standing shells with flocks of crows circling above. They tell their own story, that this was once a vital land of crofts and farms but for the past two hundred years has been losing population. The Cabrach School is still open for primary grades. Last year it had two students, hardly enough to keep going, yet the school clings on. Most of the land is owned by absentee landlords, interested more in preserving the land for grouse hunting than in renting or maintaining property. It's a trend that began two centuries ago with the Highland Clearances. There were cases only a few years back of empty houses being burned so that they’d be rendered uninhabitable.

In September 2007 the residents took matters into their own hands. They met at the Grouse and formed the Cabrach Community Association,
with the goal of returning land to local ownership and halting the depopulation. It’s a fledgling movement, but it shows how people can come together to preserve their community and their heritage. We wish them success.

Carmen-3D; Confessions of a purist

2011-03-12T01:05:00.000-08:00

I confess to all the angels and saints, that I’m a purist where opera and theatre are concerned. The entire experience must be real --- that means actors on the stage walking in front of you, an orchestra pit and no electronic amplification. After all, you’re watching a real drama unfold in front of you. Real people --- even if they’re acting the part. That way you can totally enter into their world. Once you transfer opera or theatre to celluloid, the images become two dimensional,images instead of people, and the film a dead object; no longer real. You’re reduced to a spectator whose visual experience is manipulated by the director. He decides whether you see a close-up of the principals, some minor characters or the ensemble. He directs your attention and your gaze. You no longer have the freedom to participate in the action as if it were really there.

However not everyone lives in London where theatre and opera are available daily. Not everyone can shell out £100 for a ticket. When Amber bought £8 tickets to an Aberdeen movie house, for us to see the Royal Opera's performance of Bizet's Carmen, filmed in 3-d I was skeptical. My skepticism vanished after the curtain rose on the Seville plaza. I found myself there, walking among the performers. Participating. Granted, the movie with its camera panning interfered with what I wanted to focus on, but nothing seemed to separate me from the action. At times the actors appeared to emerge from the stage and walk among us. When Carmen (Christine Rice) danced around and all over Don Jose (Bryan Hymel), I wasn’t surprised that the poor bloke’s head was turned. I was there. Add to that the superb voices, and we found ourselves wishing that the piece would never end. Christine Rice's presence dominated the stage. You could not avoid avoid her. Maija Kovalevska as Micaela had a particularly stunning voice. The French diction was so clear that I didn’t need subtitles, but they were there anyway, floating above the audience. As with real opera, we had a twenty minute intermission during which time the actual audience murmurs from the Royal Opera house were broadcasted through the speakers.

Unfortunately it wasn’t an experience we shared with many others. The audience were largely grey-heads like us, what my daughters call – Q-tips. Granted, we were at a weekday matinee when younger people were working. However I suspect that opera still has a stigma of an elitist recreation reserved for intellectuals. Not cool in other words. I’m hoping that 3-d opera will change those attitudes, make the fabulous world of theatrical music accessible to everyone. In May, the same theatre will be screening Wagner’s “Die Walkure” in 3-d. Amber and I will be there.

3-d opera may not be the same as sitting in a wooden seat in Bayreuth and watching Wagner’s Ring, but right now it’s the next best thing.

The Witches’ Parking Lot

2011-03-07T03:02:00.000-08:00

Walking through a Scottish forest, you occasionally run into the curious sight of several poles with wire mesh paddles. Actually, they’re the new and improved model. The early model I remember when I was seven resembled a collection of brooms with birch twigs. I reckoned they were witches' brooms, parked there while the witches attended a sabbath. Of course my dad gave me the rational scoop, that those brooms were for putting out forest fires, but his explanation never made sense to me. If I find a forest fire, I'd need to trek 2-5 miles to the nearest “parking lot”, grab a broom and fly back on it like Harry Potter, "tae pit oot the fire". The only way the brooms can possibly do any good is if a fire is lucky enough to spring up close to them. Besides Scotland is quite wet. It takes a really hot dry spell to create the tinder conditions for fire; hence the rusting fire brooms. They’ve sat there for fifty years unused. I thought my explanation, that the brooms belonged to witches, was far more plausible.

Coming across the strange brooms reminded me of the Giant Sequoias (Sequoiadendron Gigantea) in Old Scone, and their relationship to fire. They were planted in an arboretum along with many native California trees by David Douglas back in the early nineteenth century. A native of Scone, Douglas travelled the world, gathering saplings and then planting them in the Scone Palace grounds. He died tragically in 1834 in Hawaii, after falling into an animal trap on Mauna Keia. The Douglas Fir is named after him. The Sequoia, and many other trees in the arboretum are fire adapted to the tinder conditions of the High Sierra. Its bark is fireproof. The seeds need to be scorched by fire before they germinate. It needs fire to enrichen the soil and to thin out competing firs and underbrush. I witnessed a forest of tiny saplings emerging in Sequoia National Forest, the spring following a controlled burn. There aren’t any saplings in the Scone arboretum. That forest hasn’t seen a fire. But the pine straw must contain many seeds, still waiting for a fire to burn off the outer husk, so they can germinate.

Could I propagate them? They’re stunning to look at; their wood has extraordinary properties. It doesn’t rot, resists insect decay and is beautiful to carve. For whatever reason, the Sequoia grows rapidly in the Scottish damp climate. I know, they're not native, but I don't believe that my plantation will cause ecological disaster.

I gathered a pile of duff and straw from the base of a couple of trees along with several green pine cones. The little nest with the eggs is now drying in the greenhouse. In a couple of months I’ll set fire to them and spread out the ashes on compost. Who knows? Maybe we’ll see the birth of a redwood forest at Cottarton.

A Story in Stone

2011-02-25T01:21:00.001-08:00

While fitting together the angular stones to make our new patio, a task that resembled the assembly of a large jigsaw puzzle, I began to dream about the stones' fabulous story. “If those stones could talk!” --- Who said that? Who said that they can’t?

We found them piled up on the side of a drainage ditch. The County, which occasionally spends a penny of our Council Tax to benefit us directly, sent in a backhoe to dredge the ditches that line our main road. They were clogged with mud and stone. Frequently overflowing after it rained. The backhoe excavated mounds of slate : dark blue rocks that cleave naturally along mineralized layers; also some pink, streaky quartzite. Between 3-5 inches thick, the rocks are perfect for laying out a pathway or a patio. For centuries the farmers used them to build walls separating various pastures. Charles A. came by with a trailer. We hauled several piles off to Cottarton.

The rock hadn’t grown in the ditch or anywhere nearby. There isn't a slate outcrop for miles. The closest outcrop is of Archean quartzite, a couple of miles up the road. It may have been the source for some of the rocks. Archean rocks formed around a billion years ago; long before the first shell fish and creepy crawlies evolved in our oceans. Life had already begun in the form of bacteria and the first cellular plants and animals, those that don’t leave any fossils.

Our slate may have crystallized around that time. But imagine in what forge the stone was melted and cooled. The dark minerals, amphibole and hypersthene that give the stone its colour form only under intense pressures and high temperature, not found anywhere close to the surface of the Earth. You have to dig 15 miles down before you find such conditions. Close to the Earth’s upper mantle. An unnamed rock, could be sandstone,shale or granite, was partially melted there. Under intense pressure little mica type minerals crystallized to give the rock its streaky fabric. Its cleavage. Then the rock was brought up to the surface. Not by a volcano the way basalt or granite are exuded but by active faults, fractures in the Earth's crust, moving over millions of years.

How did the slate fragments reach Cottarton? Either on the back of a glacier or pushed by a one as it advanced from the north, scraping up any rocks in its way; like a snow plough with a blade several miles long. That was recent history, within the past hundred thousand years. Due to small changes in the Earth’s orbit, the planet cooled a few degrees --- not so much as you might notice over a few winters, but enough to trigger an ice age. Starting in the Arctic, glaciers formed and migrated southward, carving the valleys that we admire so much these days. The Scottish Highlands, Kings Canyon and Yosemite. The slate and quartzite outcrops were crushed, their pieces churned up and pushed along to fill the valley floors. Smaller pieces altered chemically to form clay minerals: the heavy soil where today I grow vegetables and flowers. Fodder for our buttercups. I swear that the resilient buggers lasted the entire ice age under the ice and were the first to pop up once the ice disappeared about 12,000 years ago. If the ice couldn't kill them, what hope have I?

And so the forests returned to an altered landscape, the rounded hills and valleys of today. Great Britain, which had been connected to the rest of Europe became and island. Stones whose story began over a billion years ago lay fragmented in our glen until the backhoe dug them up. Now they grace our patio. Treat them with the respect that the grand old rocks deserve.

Is this my house?

2011-02-20T03:26:00.000-08:00

Notes from Scone --- 6 AM, one grey February morning.

She’s sitting up in bed; more anxious than usual. You can see it in her hollow eyes. Though she’s barely able to articulate the words, she asks, “Is this my house?” She asked the same question several times the previous evening. “Where are my keys?” was a common question when she was at hospital, whenever we’d take her out for a drive or for a hair cut. Questions that I'm unable to answer rationally, in a way that would satisfy her.

Well, might she ask. Decades ago she lost her house; at least twice. The first house wasn’t sold in order for her to move. It was taken from her by force. Wójcza was the centre of a large farming estate in the Kielce region of Poland, where she and her siblings were born. During WWII the Germans burned it to the ground. The second house was Ruszcza, a mansion outside Krakow where she and my father settled three months before the war broke out. They barely had enough time to complete one harvest. She spent the war years there while her husband was locked up in a POW camp. A 19 year old girl, just married, she had to run the estate, deal with farm production, personnel issues plus provide a home for refugees, for dislocated family and even the occasional Jew. This was the war occupation, as in “Schindler’s List”.

When the war was over, she emptied the house,sending flatbeds of furniture to family homes in Krakow. She turned the key in the lock for the last time and walked away. Her husband, recently freed from the stalag, was waiting for her to join him in Germany.

A new home waited for them in Scotland, a one bedroom cottage provided by the local laird. No plumbing or electricity; no rental agreement. Just a handshake; an understanding that they would be allowed to live there. The agreement could be rescinded if the laird decided he needed the space for someone else. They were exiles, separated from family and home, and that’s how they felt. My father also lost his home at least twice. The first being a forest estate on the banks of the Prypiat, now in Bielorus. The Red Army ransacked the house then set fire to it. His second home was leveled along with all of Warsaw in 1945.

They bought the present home in Scone in the mid 1970s. But even owning the house outright doesn’t bring security. Not when you are burdened by such a past. The questions go on: “Is this my house?” Amber reassures her that it is but the answer doesn’t end the questions. Mama has lived there for years; she has lived in many other houses but I wonder whether her question, following her recent brushes with death, doesn’t contain another meaning. That at the end we are gypsies in temporary lodgings, and we’ll all be moving on.

Ah, the manure!

2011-02-12T01:05:00.000-08:00

Gardening sustainably in north-eastern Scotland, presents its challenges. Not the least being how to maintain the fertility of the ground. Without artificial fertilizer. We have heavy, acidic clay soil that sticks to every part of you. Infested with creeping buttercups and couch grass, dandelions, daisies and dock weed…Arghh!

You might think that a dollop of dung will sort it all out. Easy there. Raw dung will often bring you even more couch grass. Scorch your tatties too. Plus it tends to make your soil even more acidic than it already is. Welcome creeping buttercups! I knew you’d like it here too.

You need compost. Mountains of it! What in old Scotland was called a midden. We’ve had a mild winter. It’s the perfect time to load your matured compost into the wheelbarrow and spread it out on freshly turned beds. Then sprinkle them with lime. The buttercups don’t like lime, but then I don’t like buttercups. At least not in veg or flower beds.

This year I’ve finally succeeded in accumulating enough compost to cover most beds. Two ingredients every compost pile needs in order to mature are heat and air. Heat in Aberdeenshire? You’re joking. For half the year the temperature remains in single digits. During the winter months the sun skims low over the southern horizon for a few hours before dipping below. That’s why you need biofuel. Grass clippings and dung are two best friends. Pile your grass clippings onto the mountains of couch grass and buttercups extracted from the beds over the summer. The heat generated by decaying grass is intense enough to kill the weed seeds. And scorch the weeds. By the following spring, the compost under the grass clippings is clean enough to use.

The scenic view

Our main compost pile is formed from kitchen waste: vegetable and flower cuttings. The trick is to make sure that there's enough air for the bacteria, worms and insects that decompose the waste. They need to breathe. I build the pile in layers, first straw or plant stems from peas and beans, kitchen waste and nettles, grass clippings and dung.It all goes into a wire frame so that air can get in around the sides. I also add Comfrey plants. We grow Comfrey in large quantities and extract the juice to fertilize tomatoes and courgette.

When the pile is a a few feet high, turn it. That’s when you’ll appreciate the reek of the compost. “Ah the manure!” you’ll say with pleasure. Putrification --- the word comes from ancient alchemy, is a perfectly respectable alchemical process necessary for refining the philosopher's stone. There's gold in that thar pile! After another couple of months you’ll turn the pile again. And so you have several piles next to each other in various stages of maturity.

The key to your garden’s success is to replace whatever you remove from the soil. If you cart away five loads of weeds, you replace them with equivalent compost. Nitrogen, phosphorous, potassium all need to be replaced. Sprinkle your wood ashes on beds where tatties will be planted. They're a good supply of potassium. Unfortunately planting beans and peas doesn't fertilize your garden. Not unless you plough them under, along with their fruit. Don’t apply lime and dung in the same year. They cancel each other out. It's why I also apply compost and dung in alternate years.

This sort of gardening isn’t the most glamorous. You don’t take your photo standing beside your compost for “Gardening and Good Housekeeping”. But it’s what keeps your garden alive.

Glass has got talent

2011-02-08T07:38:00.001-08:00

Cottarton Cottage is located in Glass. To those who ask: “Where the hell is Glass?” I usually reply: “It’s a small Aberdeenshire town, the home of the Glass Symphony Orchestra. The name has Celtic roots, meaning “grey”. Yesterday the symphony orchestra didn’t show up in Glass Hall and so we were treated to the local reality show, “Has Glass got talent”?--- An evening of music, song, recitation, dance and comedy.

Remarkable the talent that appears when people aren’t trying to compete with the hotshots on the X-Factor. Miranda played us a scale on her new viola. Not bad. Mike Taitt, our local wizard of Oz played a jig on a harmonica; danced a jig too until the game was up. We realized the music was coming from a 78 recording behind a screen. Nick showed us how to pull a thread from nose to ear, Anne recited her beautiful poetry. Of the talented Yuill family grandmother Christine was the hall’s favourite. Her recitation of “The honey bee from the old town of Effen” had the room in stitches. Note the double entendre of “Effen”. I’ve no doubt that by now the Effen residents are tired of the jokes at their expense.

Vivienne McIntosh treated us to a medley of highland dancing. Her feet moved with breathtaking precision that instantly drew in your eye. She appeared totally weightless. Moira Watson and Liz Brown, “The Local Miracles”, sang in perfect harmony. Great standup comedy from Bob Yuill. He had us in stitches while he embarrassed his family. I swear that Rob, Katie and Christine had red faces. Glass definitely has talent.

Who stole the show were the five sexy ladies, Lilian Cameron, Frances Harrold, Ruth Wright, Sue Brown and Margaret Slorach, known as “Over the Hill.” Dressed in burlesque and swinging their furs, they performed the red-light district song, with parent advisory lyrics “Let’s Do it!” Ooh la la! With a direct reference to a romantic couple in the room. After walking away with the top prize, they were called back for a reprise.

None of the performers appeared to feel ill at ease. They were all having fun on the stage. I often wish that performing art was no more than fun; not the cutthroat competitiveness of “Strictly Come Dancing” or the “X Factor”. Which doesn’t mean that the artist isn’t striving for excellence if that’s what they choose. It’s the drive for recognition that ultimately puts a chokehold on the art.

Our compere, Gary Coull, with a perfect Glass accent kept us laughing between acts. I will use some of his jokes, so watch out. Thank goodness the symphony orchestra didn’t show up.

The Queen will pay for it

2011-02-03T03:15:00.000-08:00

“Is this new greenhouse expensive?” I asked my dad forty years back. Old Scone Nursery, his business for over 25 years, contained hundreds of cold frames with seedlings, fields of chrysanthemums, dahlias, lettuce, cabbage. You name it. And here was a new, 100 foot long greenhouse taking shape in the field. “The Queen will pay for it,” he replied. He meant that he’d received a government subsidy for the project.

Back to the present. When I arrived in the living room I found mama sitting in her chair, perky, irascible and funny. Her eyes were bright as if nothing had happened. Frailer than before; she can no longer walk alone; needs assistance going to the toilet. She’s conversational but often not understandable. The stroke left its mark on her speech.

She came home from hospital to a new bathroom --- built at taxpayer expense: slick, white walls, a shower, toilet, small lavatory and a wide doorway to fit a wheelchair. Wow! Not only has she a new bathroom but a twelve foot long ramp so that the house is handicap accessible.

Before...

After...

How did all that happen? A year ago when I first heard that the Scottish government is in the remodelling business, my first reaction was --- “You’re joking.” For thirty years I lived in the US and no one came barging in to remodel my house. Over here, they’ll not only pay for your doctor and hospital but they’ll re-do your house and your home decorations. Even if you're not on welfare.

The wheelchair ramp

The logic goes something like this. A few years back the Scottish government committed to providing free care for all elderly people; at least for those with savings below a certain threshold. The others have to fork out a co-payment. It’s a lot cheaper for the government to keep the elderly in their houses and to send over carers to assist with dressing, washing and food --- in mama’s case four times a day, than to pay for the elderly to be cared for in nursing homes. Plus, there’s a quality of life issue. Everyone wants to be cared for in their own home. So the government will spend the dough to make your house handicap accessible, and upgrade your bathroom so that you can be easily cared for. Of course, you won’t be given a choice of bathroom style or colour, but I haven’t heard too many complaints about the government's taste in decoration.

Conservative as always, mama took one look at the new shower and declared that she hates all showers. She won’t use it. Too bad, said no-nonsense Agata, our live-in carer. You’ll be using it. Mama bowed to the inevitable.

A Cottarton Burns Night

2011-01-26T05:05:00.000-08:00

Burns Night celebrates our poet’s birth. By January 25, we already notice more daylight when we wake up. This year's mild January even has a touch of spring. Traditionally the dinner menu is haggis, neeps and tatties, eloquent toasts and speeches that speak fondly of the bard, despite the fact that he was a scoundrel who seduced every lassie he came across. If you have the space in your house, a ceilidh. At Cottarton we do it a little differently, with a focus on poetry, song, good food, and conversations on deep philosophical issues and controversial ecology, all chased down with high quality whisky.

Amber procured the haggis at the Forbes-Raeburn butcher in Huntly. A necessity. There’s nothing worse than supermarket haggis, stuff with the consistency of glue that sticks to your mouth and refuses to be swallowed. Unfortunately US residents are deprived of the real haggis. People have ended up in jail trying to smuggle in Scottish haggis. It’s made of sheep’s heart, liver, lungs minced with onion and oatmeal, simmered for an hour in the sheep’s stomach. How to describe the sensation of eating it? You’ll taste a symphony of spicy meat, sweetness, all perfectly complemented with Amber’s classic, mashed potatoes and neeps (known in the US as rutabagas).

Alex, from Drummuir castle, read an abbreviated address to the haggis, standing with a knife to make the first ritual cut:

“His knife see rustic labour dight,
An’ cut you up wi steady slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright
Like onie ditch;
And then O what a glorious sight,
Warm reekin, rich.”

Makes your mouth water, then heat up like with good Mexican food, thirsting for a splash of whisky. Amber and Annie stayed with white wine. Rachel drank last year’s dandelion wine brewed at Cottarton, while Charles and I mixed the dandelion wine with cheap beer. Quite a cocktail. We decided that 2010 was a good year for dandelion wine. We had a Texas contribution to Burns Night --- chicken marbella, made of marinated chicken in a sweet prune sauce. An amazing complement to the haggis, that should from now on be added to the traditional menu. For dessert Annie made crannoch pudding, made of oatmeal, berries, cream and whisky.

Once we’d all not only eaten our fill, but lubricated our brains and tongues with more whisky, we struck up the poetry and song. We sang a capella, when we knew the choruses. Annie led “Ae fond kiss”, Rachel “Ca’ the Ewes”. The lassies have a great repertoire of which we were treated to only a few selections.Charles sang “Cald kale in Aberdeen” --- a poem that references our nearby river, the Bogie. I made an attempt at my favourite, To a Mouse, set to music by Battlefield Band.

Why the poet’s enduring appeal that crosses all classes and education background? He was the first poet of note to write in the people’s dialect, on every topic from misadventures with sheep and cattle, his romantic exploits, the mythology of the land and of politics. Very sympathetic with the plight of the common man, expressing his conviction that class and money have nothing to do with a person’s worth:

“A man’s a man for a’ that!”

He was a pacifist who saw war in all its forms as evil. He watched many young men march proudly away, never to return. Most biting are his words o politicians in “Logan’s Braes”

“O wae upon ye men o’ state
That brethren rouse to deadly hate!
As ye mak monie a fond heart mourn,
Say may it on your heads return!
How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow’s tears, the orphan’s cry?
But soon may peace bring happy days
And Willie hame to Logan Braes”.

His compassion extends also to the mouse, whose house he one day destroyed with his plough. The experience made him ponder the fragility of all our lives, in the final stanzas, lines unfortunately a bit overused.

But, Mousie thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ mice and men,
Gang aft a-gley,
An’ leave us nought but grief and pain,
For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee;
But och! I backward cast my e’e
On prospects drear!
And forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess and fear.

Yes – some days I feel myself a lord, and other days when things “gang a-gley” I’m no higher than that mouse. Quite a normal feeling I suspect.

The Anti-Poet

2011-01-20T01:47:00.001-08:00

January 25 is almost here, and that means Burns night --- a celebration of our most celebrated bard. At Cottarton we’re expecting 11 people over for our party. Amber is cooking up a storm. After dinner, the musicians will strike up some music, and we’ll have poetic recitations and singing.

Scotland also boasts of a great anti-poet --- whose poetry is recited at parties, even in the US, and garners more laughs than Burns because it’s so unashamedly bad. I refer to the great Dundee poet, actor, tragedian and quintessentially tragic William McGonnagall (1825-1902).

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!
With your numerous arches and pillars in so grand array,
And your central girders, which seem to the eye
To be almost towering to the sky.
The greatest wonder of the day,
And a great beutification to the Tay.

Six more stanzas follow about the bridge's architecture. Let’s try another one, written later after the bridge fell down one stormy night. Apparently as a result of poor engineering…

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silvery Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879
Which will be remembered for a very long time.

Get me out of here!Two pages of verse carry on the story, each verse ending with,
Which will be remembered for a very long time.

There are more --- about 200 poems. Have someone read them and see if you don’t end up splitting your sides. He recited in bars, in music halls; even in a circus where people would pelt him with flour, eggs and the like. His performances --- and yes he was a great performance poet, what today you’d call a slammer, often resulted in riots. He certainly wasn’t ignored. People turned up always, expecting a great show. While reciting “The Battle of Bannockburn” in a Montrose hall,he waved a sword and thrust it this way and that, sending the orchestra members running for their lives.

Then King Edward ordered his horsemen to charge
Thirty thousand in number which was very large;
They thought to o’erwhelm them ere they could rise from their knees,
But they met a different destiny, which did them displease.

McGonnagall became a poet following a mystical experience. He writes,

"I was sitting in my back room in Paton's Lane, Dundee, lamenting to myself because I couldn't get to the Highlands on holiday to see the beautiful scenery, when all of a sudden my body got inflamed, and instantly I was seized with a strong desire to write poetry, so strong, in fact, that in imagination I thought I heard a voice crying in my ears- "Write! Write" I wondered what could be the matter with me, and I began to walk backwards and forwards in a great fit of excitement, saying to myself-- "I know nothing about poetry." But still the voice kept ringing in my ears - "Write, write," until at last, being overcome with a desire to write poetry, I found paper, pen, and ink, and in a state of frenzy, sat me down to think what would be my first subject for a, poem."

He certainly remained true to his vision. Despite the universal derision, he remained convinced that he was a great poet. A genius. That people were merely stupid. Tone deaf to poetic metre and metaphor, he couldn't figure out what people were laughing at. Perhaps therein lies his genius. I certainly couldn’t write such poetry. You have to hand it to the man that he never gave up, and that all the egg pelting never shook his self-esteem or his faith in himself.

Yet, I hesitate to call him a tragic figure, though numerous anecdotes point that way. Once when playing the part of Macbeth, he refused to die as required by Shakespeare. He drew out the sword fight until his exhausted adversary threw down his sword and bodily tackled him. I suspect that McGonnagall was craftier than people give him credit. The crowds did after all turn up, if only to be entertained by his performance, his inane lines, and to pelt him with cabbages. He knew he was successful. He must have loved the attention. Yet, as with most poets, he must have felt lonely.

And today, a hundred years later, his poems are best sellers. Guess who’s laughing in his grave?

A Little Night Reading

2011-01-15T06:28:00.000-08:00

Those of you who wake up at night and can't get back to sleep may want to try out my story Ghost Writer, posted recently on the website ABC Tales. Nothing deep or philosophical here, just a story set in Aberdeenshire, a few years from today.

Narration

2011-01-12T02:45:00.000-08:00

“Do you know who I am?” I asked.

It was ten in the morning, and I’d walked uphill along icy roads and pavements to the hospital, hoping to find Mama fresh and alert. Agata said that mornings were better for Mama. I found her lying quietly half asleep. I shook her gently, she opened her eyes to look at me but the most recognition she offered was a nod. She looked away, at the room, at the woman who sat in her chair opposite and one diagonally across from her. She’d had a stroke and hadn’t spoken for at least two weeks. Her family visited her each day and presented her with bills to sort through.

With an irritated smile Mama replied, “Do you think that I’d forget my son?”

She indicated for me to raise the head of the bed. Once she’d settled comfortably she asked me about how I’d slept. It’s cold outside. She nodded at the snowy hill just outside the window where a fresh load had fallen overnight. Had I been warm enough in the upper bedroom of her house? Though they were all familiar questions that I’d heard often, spoken obsessively, I felt that she was concerned for my welfare. As always she asked about the kids. Even about my writing. How was it going? Our conversation lasted about ten minutes before she drifted off again. The fixed look returned. She wasn’t sleeping but she no longer appeared interested in what I was saying. Her eyes followed the morning sunlight, the way it caught on the snow and made it sparkle.

I was left wondering what she is thinking about. What thoughts occupy her while she remains unresponsive to me? Very few, I suspect. Not having Alzheimer’s, I can’t imagine what it must be like not to have the ability to retain short term memories. Does that leave you in a Zen state where you are intensely aware of the present, of everything that is happening now? Each snow hillock, that tree branch bent under a heap of snow? Our normal consciousness involves a constant internal narration, where we go over our thoughts, one after another, each thought awakening new associations and generating the next. Our thoughts are so important to us that we narrate them constantly, either consciously or unconsciously. Watching Mama, I don’t get the sense of internal narration. When she looks at the snow, it’s without any thought filter. She doesn’t wonder about it, associate it with the past. The past doesn’t have the importance it once had. She’s accepted that she doesn’t remember it. She doesn’t ask questions about it. Or about me, just sitting beside her. It’s a peaceful place to be --- the place we all eventually must come to the moment we take our last breath, when we must let go of everything. Including the body.

Is this newfound peace a result of her stroke?

A few months ago, when she lived at home, anxiety was the order of the day. An implacable anxiety that came from nowhere and would not listen to reason. Where are my keys? Who is upstairs? Did anyone bring me Holy Communion today? How long have I been in this house? She repeated the questions, and even when she didn’t, her hollow eyes told us that she was terrified. She knew that she was losing her mind, that her memories were drifting away. There she was, trying to nail them down before they floated away. After enduring her for an hour or so, I’d take a blank paper and write down in large letters answers to all her questions, so she could read them to herself. It usually calmed her down for a while. The anxiety was the most visible sign of her suffering. Driving home, I would ask Amber wearily --- Isn’t there a better way to die than this --- consumed by fear?

I hope that there is. Mama’s anxiety is now gone. She’s been in hospital for over two months, in a strange surrounding, with no clear plan for the future, but it doesn’t bother her. We're probably more worried about her than she is herself. She's happy to have us sitting beside her and the pure white snow sparkles outside the window. She doesn't need the rattle of useless conversation or narration.

Scottish Social Services are putting together a care package --- a plan that would allow her to come home, with a helper to visit her up to four times a day to help Agata take care of her. It’s all funded in full by the Scottish Government. But Mama doesn’t need to know any of that.

It’s time for my train so I get up to leave. The moment I stir she’s right there focused on me. She asks me when I’ll be back. In a few days. We give each other a good-bye kiss. For now.

The Forest and the Trees

2011-01-09T02:48:00.000-08:00

Just as our oil storage tank began to flirt with empty, our long awaited delivery arrived. The Brogan Fuels truck sputtered up our dirt road, the driver unfurled his hose, engaged his pump and pumped in 800 litres, enough for the next four months. Yesterday came the bill, £560. High, oh yes --- 67pence a litre. Last October we filled up at 58p/l. The previous year at 42p/l. Auto fuel also jumped over the New Year from £1.22/l to £1.35/l, the highest it’s ever been, but that was due to Mr. Cameron’s bright idea to solve our economic woes by raising fuel taxes and VAT. If anyone tried that back in the US, they’d be out on their ear within a month, or facing an armed rebellion. But this is Britain, and we bear such matters stoically, a little like our proverbially nasty weather.

We do all our cooking on an Aga type oil stove. It heats our hot water. A small pump circulates it through our radiators. It's an ingenious system that combines cooking, hot water and central heating. Is there an alternative to using home heating oil and paying criminally high prices, not to mention the high carbon footprint of burning fossil fuel? There’s wood. We have a wood burning stove, which we light in the evenings and on cold days. During the long winter nights the open fire keeps away the winter blues; takes the chill out of the air, but it can’t do the work of our Aga.

Our friends over the hill, the Ashtons of Coldhome, also use wood for their energy needs. They’ve taken pot belly stoves and encased them in a layer of cobb --- that’s home-made adobe made of clay and straw to increase the heating surface area; even to make a small oven. A neighbour delivers a pile of wood which they saw up and split. A job that also keeps me busy during the winter months. Heating and cooking with fire works for them except in days when a northerly wind blows the smoke down the chimney into the house. At Cottarton we also have that problem; every two or three months. There’s no remedy except not to burn wood until the wind changes.

Recently our neighbours at the Mains of Blairmore installed a wood-burning system for their hot water and central heating: a huge magilla of tanks, a furnace, regulators and pipes in a disused steading. They buy ready split pine wood. The furnace needs attention only two or three times as day, and stays warm even during the night. It all cost them over £10,000 to install, but their house is now warm as toast and is heated at a fraction of the cost of oil. Within 10 years they may recover their investment. At Cottarton we could exchange our Aga for a wood burning one; an ironic reversal, as the previous owners went from wood to oil. In those days oil cost only 20 p/l.

However, the cost of firewood is rising rapidly. As more people switch to wood because it’s cheaper and more ecologically friendly, guess what's happening to the price? Five years ago farmers let you pick your own wood for free, but now realizing that they’re sitting on a pile of gold, they’re selling their wood. These days buying a forest doesn’t look like a bad investment.

Or you can plant your own forest. Economically it’s not such a crazy idea as long as you take a long term view of the project. Indigenous trees such as pine, birch, willow, sycamore and rowan grow large enough to harvest in 12-15 years. Oak and ash considerably longer. Harvesting involves selective thinning and inter-planting or coppicing --- a traditional English approach of partially cutting the trunk and allowing the stump to send out new growth. Of course you have a long initial wait during which you’ll have to protect the young trees from deer.

My thoughts turn to our open pasture: three acres we use currently as a horse pasture. Should we plant trees there? We’d have to build a deer fence or plant our saplings in protective tubes. Both expensive propositions. By time the forest is ready to harvest, Amber and I will be pushing 80, and may have little energy for the chain saw and the splitting mawl. But Cottarton’s next owner will have a bonanza --- a sustainable wood supply and one that is carbon neutral. Free energy? What’s there to complain about?

Cottarton Christmas

2011-01-04T03:32:00.000-08:00

This year we didn't expect to spend Christmas at Cottarton, but as the day approached, we all realized that there was no better place for the family to gather. Amber lit all the candles.

Photographs, courtesy of Johanna and Jon.

L-R Amber, Paul, Natalia, Johanna, Adam, Iain, Theresa.

Johanna and Jon

The view toward Blairmore

Barb wire fence

Crystals

Earth and Sky Meet

Winter flower

Natalia --- ambushed on a walk

Touchstones

2011-01-01T03:17:00.001-08:00

Communication. Crossing the Tay by train and heading back north toward Cottarton, I find myself asking whether we understand what the word means. I’ve spent a couple of hours by mama’s bed and we hardly exchanged a word. Certainly there’s been no exchange of what would pass as information. Neither was there any activity that you’d normally associate with thinking, or the activity of thought. Yet we communicated.

From a few feet away, she greets me with a broad smile, but no words. She knows who I am and my name. To speak it requires energy, something that she doesn’t have much of. She’s conserving it. I start to talk, telling her about our house, what we’re doing, about the children --- all the stuff that I feel she wants to know about. She listens politely but I have the impression that my talking tires her. It takes effort to pay attention to words and to parse them. She doesn’t mind me talking; it’s okay with her, but it’s not strictly necessary. In any case, she can’t reply using words. For two months now she hasn’t had that ability. She can’t tell us what she’s been thinking of during that time but I suspect that she’s come to a new understanding, that words and language are overrated. She’s just as happy with Amber and I sitting close by and saying nothing.

For several minutes we sit in silence. It’s more difficult for me than for her, as my mind whirls with countless thoughts. Should I ask her this? What might I say that would elicit more response than my previous conversation? I tell her of a recent dream I had of Tata. She smiles hearing his name. In the dream he was back in Old Scone Nursery with me, ploughing a field and then marking it out for a new sowing. I ask her if she misses him. She nods.

We’ve visited on other days when she has been even less responsive. One evening after such a visit, Amber asked me, “What touchstone does she have with reality?” "Only us," I say. Lying in a hospital ward, she’s not sure why she’s there; how long she's been there, or what is home. She points at other patients; her eyes appear to ask who they are. People she ought to know? At times her memories may be so jumbled up that she doesn't know who she is.

The following morning we brought her several photographs. Mama lit up like a candle seeing the picture of her husband and of her parents. As if they were all paying her a personal visit. A veil had drawn aside to reveal her as she once was. She started to talk, not too clearly, but using two or three words. “Are you cold?” she asked. “How is the house?” Again I was tempted to talk, tell her everything while the going was good. About how we spent Christmas, but I realized that my conversation tired her.

I'd brought with me a volume of Czeslav Milosz’s poems,so I read her one of my favourites, in Polish. My translation follows:

HOPE

Hope exists when you believe
That Earth is not a dream but a living body
That your sight, touch and ear don’t lie
And all things that you’ve known
Are but a garden in whose gate you stand.

You cannot enter, but it is surely there.
If we could see clearer and more wisely
We'd find many a new flower and star
In the garden of the world.

Some say that the eye deceives us,
That there’s nothing there; we only think there is.
But those people don’t have hope.
They think that when their back is turned
The entire world will vanish
As if abducted by the hands of a thief.

While I read the poem she smiled, nodding when I spoke a line that meant something to her. After I’d finished she looked away.

“Are you tired?” I said.

She shook her head, and replied, clearer than she'd spoken yet, “I’m thinking.”

The Great Thaw

2010-12-28T03:16:00.001-08:00

“They’re here!” my little sister would cry ecstatically from the bedroom window when she saw our cousins’ VW bus pull up, each Christmas Eve. Over the past fifty years that battle cry hasn’t changed. “It’s here!” I shouted, glimpsing a long awaited guest --- the thaw. My father, who like most foreigners couldn’t pronounce the sound “th”, called it “The saw”. Its arrival was like a sudden awakening. There was a new gentleness in the air, a sense that it cares for you again. Gone is the severe bite that lashed out at you if you dared to step outside. The wind, newly awakened from sleep, blows over the snow and ice for all it’s worth, and brings the first raindrops. Out on the land heather bushes emerge into daylight again. Our river, the mighty Deveron rises and doubles its size. In the last thaw it burst its banks.

This year’s thaw came on Boxing Day --- so named because the gentry used to set out Christmas leftovers in boxes for those less fortunate. Not only the land came to life but so did Aberdeen.

I set out with the kids for the Aberdeen bus station so they could catch the Edinburgh bus. Soon after passing the Haudagain Roundabout (Also known as the intersection from hell) I noticed that we were progressing at 20 mph, then ten, then five. After crossing Union Street, our speed dropped to one foot an hour. An Accident? A terrorist attack? What the hell was going on? Side streets we passed were just as clogged. Finally Natalia and Adam decamped along with their luggage to walk to the station. An hour later when we reached it, located at the edge of Union Mall I saw the problem. Shopping! And there were the police, diverting traffic away from the mall, in an attempt to keep people away from the shops. When I tried to turn into the parking lot a harried cop yelled for me to drive elsewhere. So I headed down side streets for a parking lot that should have free space, only to land in another frozen traffic line. Everyone else evidently had the same idea.

Luckily Jon’s phone GPS came to the rescue and directed us to available street parking. Getting out of the car brough little relief as we ended up in an impenetrable mass of people all pushing us along the sidewalk, all headed for the mall. Like a scene from Lang's film Metropolis. The mall crowd was so thick that you could hardly turn without bumping into someone. Everywhere signs of 70% off and Clearance Sale dangled cheerfully. On all sides people snatched up piles of clothing, stood patiently in endless cash register lines. I couldn’t have bought a handkerchief if you paid me to; evidently Aberdonians will endure any amount of hellfire if the price is right.

During the three week long freeze leading up to Christmas, shops were so deserted that two assistants would jump up to help you as soon as you darkened the doorway. No assistants around in sight amid the current feedling frenzy, where shops unloaded their goods at fire-sale prices.

We were so hungry we each could have eaten a horse. But our restaurant of choice had a one hour wait for a table. The others had lines snaking out into the mall escalators. Except for Pizza Hut, which neither we nor other shoppers were crazy about. Half-alive and disoriented we staggered out of the mall, and headed for Musa, a delightful restaurant I knew of. Our moods didn’t improve when we found the place closed. No doubt, the employees were all at the mall. Finally we settled on a small pub across the street, where we ordered toasties (1) and stovies (2). A dark beer miraculously soothed our frazzled nerves. Though the pub was only a stones throw from the mall, only a few people were there. We sat drinking our beer and waxed philosophical about the evils of consumerism and shopping.

Outside, snow turned to slush and icicles dripped and fell from the eaves. Traffic lines remained solid, barely budging. The thaw had definitely come.

Glossary

(1) Toasties --- a Scottish panini made on white bread.
(2) Stovies --- A hot dish with potatoes, Swedes and ground meat; served with oatcakes.

Here Comes the Cavalry

2010-12-20T04:56:00.000-08:00

In the midst of our winter snows, blizzards, freezes, airport closures, broken down trains, a lack of road salt, yes the general travel paralysis, there’s one good story. No, it’s not news of a thaw. Forecasters say that there’s no end in sight to our current ice age. The good news is that two tankers have docked at Inverness and Aberdeen, carrying 2 million litres of home heating oil. Most rural Scottish homes have no other source of energy; they cook with oil, heat their homes and their bath water with it. Lately, supplies in many homes have been low, and oil deliveries unavailable.

Each house has a tank containing 1,200 litres or more. When the level drops to less than half, you call a supplier and they fill your tank, usually within a week Not these days. Two weeks ago Brogan Fuels gave me an estimated delivery day of mid to late January. Their stocks are down; demand is up since mid November when the first snows fell. We’re lucky. In addition to oil we have a wood burning stove to warm our house. Our neighbours offered to loan us some oil if we run empty. But many others don’t have those options and must cope in cold houses. Here are some stories.

Everyone blames the winter chaos on government policies. Complacency. After all if Canada and Russia can handle their winters why can’t we?

We can’t because we’re in the midst of a paradigm change. Climate shock. This is our second severe winter that’s worse than anyone remembers. For over fifty years we’ve had mild winters. Our culture evolved around them, allowing us commutes of 50 miles to work, and unrestricted travel in good or bad weather. Suddenly we find that no longer realistic. Last years severe winter did little to prepare us for this one, because no one really believed it was coming. We bought some extra road salt, but not enough. Employed more gritting crews, but not enough. Heating oil budgets were way off. Airports left with too few de-icers and snow blowers. Even if they had them, incoming planes couldn't have landed safely.

When climate change happened before, it didn’t happen gradually. It didn’t give societies time to adapt. The medieval warm period lasted 300 years and ended in 1309. That winter caught everyone unprepared; was so cold that the Thames froze over. The following winter was no better. Then came the disastrous summer of 1315, cold with constant rain. Trading with the continent was disrupted. Corn varieties adapted to a warmer climate no longer grew. There were widespread crop failures and famine, especially serious because England and Europe’s population more than tripled during the medieval warm period. No amount of preparation could have mitigated the disastrous effects.

Following Scotland’s recent paralysis, the transport minister Stewart Stevenson resigned. What will his successor do differently? He can decide that we’re in a mini ice age, buy up new fleets of gritting trucks. Go to Russia for lessons. Or he can shake his fist at the weather. Despite our technology, weather often has the last word.

Father Frost

2010-12-18T00:39:00.000-08:00

In an attempt to cheer us up, convince us that the typical Cottarton winter is not that bad after all, and to dissuade Amber and I from moving to southern France, our neighbour Anne Christie sent us these pictures from Russia. Father Frost is laying it on pretty thick there, but at least Russians have tractors and diggers when they need them, and don't have to rely on local councils for spreading grit. Their council taxes are also much lower than ours.

I guess I can fix the phone problem

The readiness of the dreaded Russian army

Here comes the plumber. Now where did you say you had a burst pipe?

Call this a highway?

Man, do I have to dig out this car?

Who left the car windows open?

Let's get this bus moving.

Let's count the strata. For how many years has this car been lost?

Does it blow this hard at Cottarton?

Blowin' in the Wind?

2010-12-14T03:18:00.000-08:00

The lack of wind adds to the oddity of this winter. Winter --- yes it began this year not in December but in mid November when the first snows fell, like giants clouds, large flakes drifting down aimlessly. When it was over, I measured a constant 18 inches in our field. Usually we’re snowed in by gigantic drifts but not this time. The ski resorts opened and recouped their losses from several years back, but the renewable energy folk (those who cover our hills with clusters of steel giants with whirling hands) gritted their teeth. And not for the first time. Last year their production was down by at least 10%. From January to March while we waited under the snow, the wind giants stood still as sentinels. If this is the new pattern for our weather in the coming years, it doesn’t bode well for renewable energy, or our plans to derive our future energy from wind farms.

Usually it’s the gales and hurricanes, roofs blowing off, or flattening whole fields of barley that make a good story. Where’s the story in still air? It’s always windy in the northeast; we often stagger from the car to the door, bent double, while our shopping bag sails down the driveway behind us. Trees bend this way and that, their branches in an epileptic frenzy. I curse the spring wind that shrivels the seedlings that I've set out. I usually plant with an eye on the wind forecast. But when in November or January, the windy months, the air is breathless and the trees stand stupidly like they don’t know what to do, when the land feels like a tame puppy rather than a wolf, I know that something is amiss.

The pundits at the UK Met Office say that a long-term blocking high over Greenland has separated us recently from our Atlantic depressions, those that usually blow over us every three days bringing soggy but mild weather and a lot of wind. Now we’re getting cold air from Siberia. Father Frost from Russia has crossed over to Scotland and is now stalking our hills. He’s surrounded by snow clouds, has a bright red nose and piercing blue eyes. His hoary breath freezes rivers and lakes. The last time he came over was 200 years ago. From 1805-1820 Europe had very severe winters. In 1816, cold temperatures and excessive rain caused widespread famine. Ah Father Frost. In 1812 he came out to meet Napoleon’s troops, marching in their short sleeve shirts toward Moscow.

The pie chart, developed by 19th century statistician Charles Minard, tells the story of the appalling military disaster. The beige chart shows the French advance on Moscow, the black chart is their retreat. Line thickness indicates the size of the army. The red curve is the air temperature during the retreat. You can just see how the French army froze during their retreat.

The first wave of snow has gone.We're looking out at our green hills, and the sheep cropping the grass. But the air is suspiciously still. We're expecting Father Frost's return in a few days. It's time I chopped some more firewood.

Failed Service

2010-12-10T03:46:00.000-08:00

The dreaded words come over the PA system while your train is stuck in the middle of a snow field. “Blah blah blah…This delay is due to a failed service ahead of us…” Translation, “Broken down train.” And so we wait; an opportunity to contemplate the meaning of life. That we’re all gathered in this tin can, all victims of “extreme weather.” Do any of us know each other? Know the same person? How might some of us be connected?

For once family members can no longer tell me…”But of course you have snow. What can you expect if you choose to live in Aberdeenshire. It’s so nice and sunny where we live. ”

The picture from on high tells a different story.

Despite the blizzards and freezing temperatures, I was determined to make this journey down the length of Britain. My daughters, Johanna and Natalia had recently moved to London. Natalia was singing in the chorus of Handel’s Messiah, something I didn’t want to miss. Amber volunteered to stay home, keep the house warm and feed the cats.

The train sits helplessly yet no one complains. Back in Texas, you’d see people pacing up and down, demanding to know who is in charge anyway. Scottish people are used to muddling along without being too vocal. Failed service is to be expected; actually no service is more common when temperatures dip below -10 Celcius (20 F) because the railway points freeze up. And so when I started the second leg of the journey south, I found no trains leaving Perth. I hopped on a bus headed for Edinburgh. The driver, a small chubby man enjoyed tormenting passengers shivering at the bus stop, telling them, “A’ve nae room. I’m a’ fu.” He waited till their faces dropped before waving them on board. We drove through a white landscape, so still you could hear your own thoughts. After crossing the Forth Bridge, a bridge similar in length and design to San Francisco’s Golden Gate, the bus started to make thumping noises. The driver pulled over; opened the door. A loud hissing coming from under the bus was not encouraging. He radioed for help, then turned to us and said. “Sorry, we’ve broken down.” (No euphemisms of a failed service).

“Ye can wait here for another bus or ye can get oot and walk.”

“Where’s the replacement bus coming from?” asked a passenger.

“Inverness.” He waited to take in the terrified faces before winking.

Actually we only waited for a minute before an Edinburgh local bus pulled in behind us and took pity on us. And so we limped into Edinburgh, where I boarded the London train. Because of subsequent failed services, the train rolled into Kings Cross four hours late.

On the train journey back to Scotland, my cousin Basia and I sat opposite two men who were involved in a conversation about music. I was astonished to hear the older man talk about a superlative performance of Handel’s Messiah he’d participated in.

“A performance in Spitalfields?” I asked during a lull in their conversation.

The older man was Bill Hunt, the violone player in Natalia’s concert. Johanna and I had noticed him, and wondered about his instrument, a cross between a cello and a double bass. What are the odds that out of twelve million Londoners you will find yourself sitting opposite a man who participated in the concert you just attended? Odds as small as winning the lottery. The concert had been extraordinary. The choir, known as the Nonsuch Singers, with the sharpness and discipline of a professional choir, produced an enchanting effect. Of the top-notch soloists, most interesting was David Allsopp, the countertenor. Countertenors produce a high voice similar to an alto, the same range as that of Baroque castrati. David sang the alto part in the Messiah. His high voice was so unexpected that it sounded supernatural. Small wonder that Baroque women used to swoon when a castrati sang.

And who was the second musician opposite us? He was a countertenor though not the same one as in our concert. There aren't many of them, but here was one. We talked for a while about how he produces the high singing voice, as his speaking voice is quite low. When you scream, you’re apparently using the same vocal technique that countertenors use.

The train slowed down then ground to a halt. Yes, another failed service near Newcastle was the problem. Here we were, five hundred people aboard a train. I’d met two connected by only one or two degrees of separation. How many others might there be among the others? Many more than one might expect.

The Hills, the Views and the Cats

2010-11-30T01:15:00.000-08:00

The sun rising over the hill lights up the snowy landscape making it gleam like a mirror. I'm reminded of our last Christmas, a White Christmas and the last time that Mama was here at Cottarton. We were eleven around the Christmas Eve table; luckily the snow didn't keep anyone away. One morning, while she lay in her bed, she saw Cocia Renia (Cocia means Aunt in Polish), walk by on her way to the bathroom.
Mama asked , “Who’s that old woman I saw?”

“Cocia Renia.”

“Oh, then I must look old, like that.”

These days unfortunately we can no longer have such a fluent conversation. Her stroke has affected her ability to form words. But we do communicate. She's always overjoyed when Amber or I appear in the ward room. Amber introduces herself as, "Your best Presbyterian daughter in law." Mama always asks where we came from, as if we'd dropped from the moon. She'll say a word or two that I can make out; her eyes ask the question. Often she has to try a couple of tries before I understand.

“You’re asking where I live?”

She nods.

“Cottarton --- you’ve been there.”

Her eyes look puzzled; they ask me to explain.

“It’s the house in the hills, with the beautiful views and the cats.”

Her smile indicates that she’s made the connection. She asks again, trying to form a couple of words. At first I don't reply but she can tell from my look that I don’t understand. After a couple more attempts, I realize that she’s asking about Johanna and Natalia. Do I have any news from them? I begin by recapping that they live in London and about what they do for a living. Natalia has an upcoming concert of Handel’s Messiah. Johanna is enjoying her work at the British Library. She has a boyfriend. The girls call often to ask about their grandmother.

Mama smiles, a crooked smile where the right side is lower than the left but quite endearing. Her broadest smile is reserved for Natasha, when she runs into the room and flings her arms around her Cocia’s neck. The past five years Agata and her daughter, Natasha have lived with Mama and cared for her The three have grown close as blood family. Twice a day, at mealtimes, Agata is at the hospital. Yesterday she trudged for two hours through kneehigh snow to get there. She feeds Mama, spoon by spoon, a process that sometimes takes two hours. Mama must be reminded what to do with each bite. That it must be swallowed. The process doesn’t always work, and for Mama it's often exhausting. But it’s the only way to feed her.

That's on a good day. Last week when I was there, Mama slept the entire time, a deep comatose sleep that lasted 48 hours. But when I held her hand, her fingers tightened about mine. For two days she was out. Phones buzzed between Cottarton, Scone and Edinburgh. We waited. Wondered if her turn meant that she was in a terminal process. Then Mama woke up and asked for breakfast. She greeted Agata and Natasha with a smile, then asked what the fuss was all about. Can’t she go home yet? Why not? Her Consultant (the doctor who takes care of her) shakes his head, telling us he doesn’t know what to make of Mama’s condition. Her brain, shot through with Alzheimers has only limited regenerative ability to deal with the effects of the stroke. She may never speak as before, or be able to feed herself. But he admits that he doesn’t have a prognosis.

Mama has surprised us before. Like many women who lived through the war years in Poland, she emerged tough as nails. She’s not about to give up. Over the past couple of years she received the Last Rites at least ten times. Every time we think we’re about to lose her, she’s back, asking for breakfast.

A few days after her last stroke, I told her that Amber, presently in the States, was coming home early to be with her. Mama laughed. She mumbled out more clearly than usual: “Does she think I’m about to keel over?”

The Day after Tomorrow

2010-11-27T01:28:00.000-08:00

So, there’s this action movie playing in the neighborhood, where the Atlantic freezes over as a result of climate change, the Statue of Liberty is encased in ice, and Scotland disappears under a mountain of snow. Unfortunately the theatre where it’s playing, is our back yard. The first sprinkle was on November 22, then came Apocalypse Now . A dump like this, in November, hasn’t been seen for 20 years.

Just in case some of you try to accuse me of fraud, of using snow pictures from last year create a sensational blog that will make a lot of money, I'm including a picture of our garage. The green doors were painted last summer. So Amber and I are back in our snow routine. The car, with its snow tyres is parked at the end of our access road. The fridge is stocked. Anticipating this show, I planted long garden stakes to mark where to dig up carrots, leeks, turnips and parsnips. No more digging exploratory trenches to look for vegetables, thank you very much. I’ve also inserted a post in the garage to shore up the roof.

The weathermen point to their charts, incomprehensible except to the expert. They reckon that the Atlantic Jet Stream somehow lost its way, and doesn’t know where to find it. And so the frigid weather in Poland and Scandinavia has wandered over to the UK, to help find the lost Jet Stream. Actually, last April, Professor Lockwood, a climatologist at Reading University published a paper in which he warned us that this would happen. That it is linked with a period of very low sunspot activity. Here's the article.
Low solar activity link to cold UK winters
Climatologists have long recognized that the solar cycle affects our climate. Sceptics of man made global warming seized on this factoid like pit-bulls and won’t let it go, saying, "Our climate change is all the sun's doing, so tighten up folks and keep driving your cars." However solar variability cannot explain the Earth’s temperature --- still rising, or Greenland's melting glaciers. What Lockwood and others showed is that the solar cycle can explain changes in local weather patterns, such as the position of the Jet Stream. So, while Scotland shivers, the Spanish and Italians are baking. Even places in Greenland today have highs of 8 Celcius. Looks like the Scots drew the short straw of global warming effects.

Because of the sun’s role in our climate, I regularly check out solar activity. The website Spaceweather.com shows the latest pictures of sunspots, solar flares, and spectacular movies of the Northern Lights.Even comets. Lately solar activity is picking up and the sun is putting on a show for anyone who is looking. This also gives me hope that, if Lockwood is right, the coming winters won’t be as severe as last winter. But we may have to plough through one more.

As Mark Twain remarked, “Everyone talks about the weather but no one does anything about it.” So what next, now that the Day After Tomorrow is here?

We keep the house warm, the fire roaring in the fireplace and look out over our austere landscape. And we write, without the distraction of shopping or joy riding in the outer world. I like to take snow walks down our road. We rarely meet any vehicles. The white landscape contains an unearthly silence that belongs to another order than ours. Years ago on a business trip to Calgary, I tried to capture the sensation in this poem.

WHITENESS

Is not information.
Information is time, knowledge, the computer.
Our information age of
Where, what, why, how and when.
Words we value most.

But whiteness is the other.
It blinds your earthly eyes.
Buries under its cloak
All knowledge, information and memories.
And in its silence you discover
Earth and the deep sky’s ornament.
Certainty - and a vision of how things are.

A Scottish Thanksgiving

2010-11-23T05:01:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving: Messy, Complicated, Forgiving, Sentimental and Pecan Pie with loads of Whipped Cream.

While I celebrate my fifth year wedding anniversary in Scotland, Americans dish up turkey and dressing, sweet potato pie and green bean casserole. This is Thanksgiving week. A harvest festival: a week to be grateful for family and friends, football, Black Friday and Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Even those who are less fortunate can queue up at the local shelter and enjoy a meal fit for a king. But in the average American kitchen this week, you can count on sheer pandemonium. Men and women who normally microwave their supper will wake before sunrise, to chop endless piles of onions and celery for cornbread stuffing, oyster stuffing, sage stuffing, chestnut stuffing; it depends on what part of the country you boast before happily getting on to the next project of more endless piles of chopping for yet another Thanksgiving favorite. Do you stuff the turkey, bag the turkey, baste the turkey, deep fry the turkey or simply order it from Central Market (if your roots are Houstonian)? There is much to organize on this popular American holiday, from how many pies to prepare to what time the feast is served to who will drive Aunt Jess and Uncle Nick home.

It’s not always easy being affluent. It has its shadow side, like loneliness and families who are fractured and so deeply wounded they must have two Thanksgiving feasts because of a history of pride and poor choices. (As is the case in my family: sadly, it's what we, the older generation, bequeathed to our children, my son, my nieces and nephews; it's their legacy).

I think it’s important to remember these ugly bits about the holidays because it gives such potency, such poetry to gratitude. Most of you reading this blog already know my family history and its unflattering tales and most of you will remember that in spite of this my mother and I and my son, Zach, actually managed some very pleasant, in fact memorable Thanksgiving moments together. Of course, on the other side of town were the rest of her family, her son and his wife and their children, her grandchildren celebrating without us; the shadow of Thanksgiving.

We simply gorge ourselves on this feast and even take another plate from the table to the den to watch football, when not far from this bounty, more food than is found in some small, under developed villages more than their population could consume in a week is the awareness that we eat and they eat less.

These are the polarities of life, the light and the dark, the old and the young, the sick and the healthy, the happy and the sad, the wounded and the new born of all our lives that bring us together in concert at Thanksgiving.

In the far northeast of Scotland last week, where the gale force winds hold you sideways and the sky casts a muted light, Adam, my nephew, came to visit. We didn’t celebrate a national holiday together, we just celebrated being with each other. We cooked and laughed and engaged in polite debate: the British way. Nothing escaped us, not religion, abortion, spirituality, psychology, the dying and the newly born, our immediate family members and their children and our respective trips back to the States, we covered much ground.

Adam and Paul played music to entertain the chef by and I must say we ate like Royalty, maybe better than. In this pre-Anniversary week, I was completely conscious of the goodness at the table here at Cottarton: the goodness of the people, their kindness and their generosity, the spirited conversations and the unreserved laughter – it was all here and yet…

I know what loneliness is: I know loneliness in a most intimate way and because I know, my gratitude for the family I do have and for the loving relationships active in my life, I am so very thankful this Thanksgiving season.

To paraphrase Joseph Campbell: “It doesn’t matter what seat I’m in at the opera, I’m just so grateful to see the show.”

At this American Thanksgiving Table, this season, don’t forget to pass a little shadow along with the cranberry sauce.

Kinnoull Hill

2010-11-21T23:48:00.001-08:00

Kinnoull Hill has been part of my life since early childhood. Its tall cliff face surmounted by a small tower looks over the River Tay, and dominates the Perth skyline. The first time I climbed to the top, my father held onto me, as I was determined to walk right up to the sheer edge and watch the world drop away into nothingness. The winter of 1963 Munia, Jim and I sledded down the slope facing Perth. Though not a sheer drop, the slope is steep enough to generate enough speed to bring your heart into your mouth.

Whenever Amber and I visit the old nest in Scone, we try to fit in a walk up the Hill. There’s something unearthly about the place. It feels like a temple, a place of magical power, more majestic than anything built by human hands. Though the Hill is not a tall mountain, it makes you feel small, coming face to face with something vast; not unlike the sensation that may arise when you stand at the foot of a Giant Sequoia. There’s rarely a time after a climb up the hill when I don’t feel refreshed and ready to take on the world. On the Hill daily troubles and concerns retreat to where they appear paltry.

On the summit, there’s no barrier to prevent anyone from jumping over the cliff, and some people have. There’s only a wooden sign that reads, “Dangerous Cliffs.” Unlike the United State, Scotland doesn’t have serious litigation problems. If you want to take your life, nobody is going to stop you.

I’ve long felt that such a place has many stories to tell, and I set myself the task of uncovering them. The small tower, known as the Folly, was erected in the 19th century by the fifth Earl of Kinnoull, who wanted replicate the castles he saw overlooking the Rhine. Built as a ruin the tower never had any other practical purpose. According to some sources the hill was the site of an earlier castle, long gone by the twelfth century, however the site has never been excavated.

Less generally known are the early legends, about a dragon that, back in the sixth century, had his lair in a cave below the summit. True to his nature, he slaughtered cattle and abducted beautiful girls. Supposedly he was slain by the Christian saint. St. Serf. I say supposedly, because what’s more telling is that the dragon was consecrated to Belinus, the Celtic sun god. The great festival of Belinus is Beltane that is celebrated on May 1, one of the two main Celtic festivals, the other being Samhain --- or Halloween. On Beltane, people celebrated the birth of the sun, with fires, dances and debauchery. Even all marriage vows were suspended for one day. Beltane was celebrated on Kinnoull in a small hollow below the summit called Windy Cowl, a place reputed to have of multiple echoes and eerie sounds. Finally in the sixteenth century the Scottish Kirk, declaring Beltane to be mostly frequented by papist monks and other unsavoury characters, put an end to the fun.

I wasn’t surprised to hear that a dragon is associated with the Hill, as the dragon appears frequently in British mythology. He’s often called “The worm”. Many places whose names contain the phrase “worm” or “orm” are named after a local dragon.

The following site, Mysterious Britain, contains links to many British dragon stories.

I suspect that the dragon’s legendary wickedness is as undeserved as the big bad wolf’s rapacious reputation, and is more a result of the attempts of monks and priests to Christianise the old religion of Britain. In China, where there was no attempt to suppress the early beliefs, the dragon is a benign force --- celebrated with song and dance. The great worm appears to represent overwhelming power that we have no control over, often disruptive like a gale storm or earthquake that periodically changes our lives. If we're religous or spiritual, we might attribute that power to a deity or deities. Long ago that power was believed to reside in prominent physical features of the land: mountains, caves, or a stone circle such as Stonehenge.

Kinnoull Hill is such a place. Its dragon also bore the distinguishing feature of a stone in the centre of its forehead. Whoever possessed the stone would himself have the power of the dragon, including the gift of invisibility. Back in the seventeenth century a certain James Keddie found the stone in the cave. For a while he enjoyed being invisible; playing pranks on his friends, but he eventually lost the stone, and it hasn’t surfaced since. Perhaps it’s in a cave, waiting for Bilbo Baggins to drop by.

Today we inhabit a different world. Dragons and magical stones of invisibility belong to the world of fable; we’re most comfortable relegating fables to Halloween or Harry Potter movies. Ours is a rational world that values working a job, no matter how humdrum, and making money. We imagine that we’re in control and that we don’t need to propitiate any deities. I’m not sure that we are in control. Life has its way of dealing us the unexpected. Nor can we dismiss what the dragon stands for --- an awesome power that makes itself felt in our psyche, whether we invite it or not.

Take a climb up the hill and you’ll know what I’m talking about.

Wayside Cafe

2010-11-17T02:29:00.000-08:00

Off the A96, a few miles from Inverurie you’ll find the quintessential Scottish honky-tonk housed in a single-decker bus parked permanently in a small lay-by. There are always several cars parked there, testifying that people do frequent the bus. Whenever Amber and I whizzed down the road from Aberdeen toward Cottarton, we’d notice an official road sign pointing right, saying, “Hot Food”. As if this was the last chance to eat before you headed off into the bare hills, where the only residents are sheep. We’re not great fans of local eating establishments. They're genuine but sparse. In a Huntly cafe, if you inadvisedly order a cappuccino, they serve you a cup of --- get it, “instant cappuccino.” To make the coffee appear Italian, the waiter cups a hand about his lips and makes fake cappuccino sounds. In an Inverurie café, the waiter froths your milk, then adds drip coffee to it, and calls it a cappuccino. Toto, somehow I don’t think we’re in Italy any more. So, when we stopped by Roy’s Bus, as it’s locally known, we didn’t try to order cappuccino. Amber had just got off a transatlantic flight from Houston. Her nerves were shot. She doesn’t pretend to be anything but the most nervous flyer. We were looking for something to help her feel the ground under her feet.

The Bus, analogous to Doctor Who’s Tardis, is a bus on the outside and a café on the inside with two rows of tables and chairs. Space is distorted so that the bus’s inside feels much larger than its outside. Several other customers were there; the waitress moved rapidly taking orders and delivering them. We ordered coffee --- no European funny business please --- and she brought us a cup of hearty, brewed coffee. Couldn’t have tasted better. Jerked us both awake. Then came the Scottish Breakfast, comprising of fried eggs, bacon, ham sausage, black pudding, baked beans and a fried tomato. Perhaps in such a charming place with windows on every side,giving us a 360 degree view, the food tasted especially good. I savoured every bite. The Scots are unpretentious about their food. They don’t try to compete with chefs from other countries. What they cook, they cook well, whether haggis, soups, breakfast, savoury pies, stovies or fish and chips. Scots are good with simple meat dishes. If you want healthy, organic meat or fish, there’s plenty of it here. Local butchers will sell you meat, derived from animals and farms that they know well. In Aberdeen you can buy fish that comes straight from the docks. For most people, eating out is not as common as in the States. Home cooking is preferred, partly because restaurants tend to be expensive, and most people feel that their home cooking tastes better. Plus, there’s the ambiance of a warm home, and the home table that’s special.

Roy’s Bus is special, a true wayside café for travellers on their way somewhere else, and who want something more than to gulp down a pre-packaged sandwich and a bag of potato crisps, all the time with one hand on the wheel. It’s definitely a place to relax, and to hang out. Local kids call the bus, “The Hangover Bus” because it’s a good first stop on Sunday mornings, to cure the hangover from a Saturday night blow-out. One local said he liked to sit there with his coffee and do research. Others study for exams. I can’t think of a better place to write. You’ll meet every character you might want to put into a story. I think I’ll start my next novel there.

Flying

2010-11-13T03:45:00.000-08:00

Do you ever fly in your dreams? Like the woman in the picture? Like Superman with your arms stretched out? It’s good to find that ability when, in the midst of a nightmare, you’re in a tight spot, pursued by baddies or demons. In such situations your legs are usually not much use, so the only way to escape is to fly away. Sometimes you just skim the surface of the land, and at other times you soar above the trees. It depends on the lightness or weight of your heart. The places you visit are likely to be unfamiliar as a temple in Papua New Guinea, or a shanty town in an unnamed country. Curiously, on your journey you meet people you hadn’t seen for a while, but who know you very well.

The evening Gabriella Nissen invited us to her photographic studio in the Heights had its special magic, because we found ourselves surrounded by friends we hadn’t seen in three years --- Quin and Gabriella, Chris, Pat and Jim. Shirley had just flown in from LA to see us. I met Quin over twenty years earlier. We canoed together and worked with a group that was trying to establish a Waldorf School in Houston. We picked up conversations where we’d left off, as if no time had passed. We drank dark beer and ate the mythological Star Pizza. Gabriella’s images added to the dreamlike quality of the evening. They contain movement, often dramatic and expressing deep emotion, such as the photos of Dominic Walsch from the Houston Ballet. Some recent images were for fashion magazines, such as the flying woman; she had mastered the force of gravity; the watery element too. There she is sleeping underwater. The studio also contains Quin’s wood art, such as the bench carved out of a single cedar. Every whorl and knot in the grain stands out, emphasizing that this is an object carved out of a living thing.

What did we talk about? Things we all felt passionate about. Our art, as many of us are artists, whether we use images, words or wood. Politics cast its shadow too. With election not far off, the Country stood at the edge of a precipice. We felt that many opportunities had been missed because of fear. Fear is the force of gravity that prevents us from flying. Adds weight to our hearts. Despite the insanity of politicians, bankers and the powers that be, we knew that we had each other, our lives and our vision. If we allowed ourselves, we could fly like the woman in Gabriella’s picture.

The real world broke in --- the watch, that pocket dictator, told Amber and I that we had to drive off soon so we would reach Tomball before our friends went to bed. And so, awkwardly we had to get up, say our good-byes, at least for now. We might see each other again, but that moment in the studio was over. Walking back to our car felt like coming down to Earth, landing, the inevitable waking that follows any dream.

Wolf Talk

2010-11-08T02:56:00.001-08:00

Perhaps you’ve seen wolves, in a sanctuary or at least on a TV documentary. But did you ever hear them talk? The wolves we saw at the St. Francis sanctuary in Montgomery, Texas, appeared at first to be large dogs, but upon a closer look their eyes were nothing like a dog’s. You sensed an intelligence behind them, that the wolf studied you closely, reading your mood and your character. It knew more about your feelings and impulses than you knew yourself.

They talk to each other. Listening closely to their howling, you soon realize that there’s an elaborate conversation going on. Each cry contains, words, vowels and consonants strung together in a way that’s not haphazard. As in our conversations, the wolves aren’t talking at once. First one calls out, a long drawn howl modulated; more like a song with words. Another wolf responds, but using different words and then a third. You’d swear that they’re having an elaborate conversation. No doubt you’ve heard a dog howl at the moon, but not like this. Unfortunately we've no Rosetta Stone to help us understand that the animals are saying. We can only surmise.

I’ve known Jean LeFevre for almost twenty years. She and her husband John settled on the rolling hills near Montgomery about the time I moved to Houston. They built a church and a retreat centre there. Also a wildlife sanctuary to take care of sick or wounded wild animals that people brought to them. Among their patients, there soon appeared several wolves, brought often by police or rangers. Now that they are in the sanctuary, the wolves can no longer be released into the wild. But --- do they have a bad life being fed and cared for by Jean and her volunteers? Click on the link for a look at the cast of characters.

St Francis Sanctuary

I last saw the wolves five years ago and since then they’ve been one of my passions, to the extent that I recently wrote an entire novel around their lives. On this visit to Texas, while Amber reconnected with her family, I needed to reconnect with the wolves.

Duchess wasn’t happy to see Jean that day. I’ve no idea why Duchess was so displeased, but the moment that Jean drew close to her cage, the wolf bared her teeth and threw herself against the wire. Not only did she utter a medley of snarls, typical of a mad dog, but she spoke to Jean in a dark voice, words that only a magician could decipher, telling Jean precisely why she was angry with her. The antics didn’t fluster Jean in the slightest. She placed her hand on the chain link fence, inserted a couple of fingers and wagged them in Duchess's face, not only to try to calm her down, but to demonstrate that she wasn’t afraid. Anyone else would have ended up minus a couple of fingers. Placing her lips close to the wolf’s head, Jean spoke in English, telling Duchess that she was sorry for the misunderstanding, and that she would always take care of her. Duchess snorted, pushed away from the fence to land on fours and trotted off. A minute later she had forgotten the episode. I surmised that her anger was specifically directed at Jean because when I whistled to her she smiled at me. I wanted to greet her. She was barely a pup when I met her on my earlier visit and she had been extremely friendly to me then. I told her I was pleased to see her again. She walked over to me, looked me over closely and said she was happy to see me too.

The Earth's Curvature

2010-11-05T04:24:00.000-07:00

Penny drove us all the way from Fredricksburg out into West Texas. The roll of the land settled and the horizon grew in all directions. Near Big Spring, a town that boasted of having its own symphony orchestra, we saw a few open ponds, but otherwise the ubiquitous scrubby plants and dry river beds spoke of the lack of water. Wind generators, perched on the tops of mesas turned slowly. Not many people live out there. Once it had been a land of ranches but we didn’t see any cattle. The only inhabitants dotted throughout the landscape were the oil pumps, nodding their heads rhythmically. Some were no longer operating. My eye was drawn to the sky that with every mile grew overhead to where it encompassed the land. The horizon where Earth and Sky met was not flat but curved as you often see from an aeroplane. From that curvature you can tell that you're on planet Earth. A globe. If you're mathematical, you can even work out the Earth's circumference. The feeling of vast space left me breathless. Amber and I have our home among the Scottish mountains, a place of outstanding beauty. A beautiful view means vertical relief. I never expected beauty in a land that was so flat. Perhaps the feeling of expanse, or space , evoked in me the feeling of the numinous.

While driving, Penny related to us in great detail many stories of her mother's family --- the eleven brothers and sisters from Crane Texas, the youngest two being Edith whom we were about to meet and Joyce, Amber and Penny’s mother.

Several single houses each surrounded by bright green lawns, announced our arrival into Andrews. We pulled into one of the first driveways. Entering the kitchen we found Aunt Edith sitting by the table waiting for us. She greeted us with a broad smile. Her eyes, clear as an eagle's, looked at us through her large spectacles, seeing more detail than you could imagine. Her warmest smile was for Amber whom she hadn’t seen for many years. Aged 94, Edith still lived alone. The elegant furnishings and carefully chosen colour combinations spoke of a proud heritage --- the West Texas landed gentry. Every day Graciella cooked for her. Graciella spoke no English and Edith spoke no Spanish, yet their relationship was more than 30 years old. Anna would also stop by, pick up bills and handle the finances.

No sooner had we sat down at table when a Texas sized ham roast as large as a Thanksgiving turkey appeared from the oven. While we took bites of ham and roasted potatoes Edith asked us so many questions that we were left bewildered. She wanted to know everything about us. All our life stories. At first I could barely hear her over the blaring television --- tuned apparently all day to the Money Channel. I muted the sound. Edith didn’t appear to notice the difference. I suspect the TV was on only for background sound. Responding to her questions I talked about how I arrived in California almost forty years earlier, my astronomical research, teaching in elementary school, and of the odyssey that brought me to Texas. She listened carefully, interrupting if something I said wasn’t clear to her.

Amber pressed her aunt for stories about Joyce, but Edith did not want to talk about her. I suspected that Joyce’s mental illness cast a long shadow on the family. Neither did she want to talk much about her own past, which disappointed us as we hoped to learn some family history and scandals. We tried to force the issue by requesting to look at some family pictures. With one hand on a walker, Edith rummaged through various files in a closet, produced a few scrapbooks but only a handful of pictures.

“What do you think of Obama?” she asked me out of the blue.

She’d already sized me up as a liberal and wanted to hear my piece. I protested that living in Scotland, I wasn’t interested in the actions of the US President --- as long as he didn’t go off and start another war that involved Europeans. I pointed out that very few wars since 1945 ended in anything but stalemate. That remark ended our political discussion.

After lunch Edith retired to her bedroom for her afternoon rest but she asked us to sit with her. Hanging opposite her bed was an oil painting of a villa amid arid hills that reminded me of the Tuscan villa where Amber and I had spent last summer. Later, I asked Edith about the picture.

“Which one?”

“The one that looks like Italy.”

“A New Mexico painter did it.” After a short pause she added. “It’s yours. I want you to have it after I'm gone.”

I protested that this offer was extravagant, but Edith was not to be dissuaded. Once her mind was made up, that was that.

The next morning Amber asked Edith where we could stretch our legs before our long drive back to Frericksburg. Edith directed us to a small lake, but advised us to bring bread for the ducks, advice we should have taken. Arriving at the lake we found several ill-tempered geese that pursued us. Amber crossed the street to give the geese a large berth. They evidently felt cheated because we hadn’t brought food.

As we prepared to leave Amber found a cookbook on Edith’s bookshelf, a cookbook long out of print and which contained the Four Seasons Hotel recipe for “Stuffed shrimp in mustard fruit.” Vincent Price, because he was a celebrity, had been able to filch the recipe from the chef. I copied it down, but not fast enough before Edith spotted me and asked what I was doing. She demanded to see the book. After looking it over, she presented it to Amber, saying, “Take it home.” Amber protested that the book was valuable --- online copies sold for a few hundred dollars. Surely Edith’s daughter who loved to cook aught to have it. As with the picture on the bedroom wall, Amber’s protestations fell on deaf ears. Edith wanted Amber to take the book away immediately. Amber felt she’d been given the keys to the Kingdom.

We said our good-byes. Several of them, and then left. Soon we were once again out in the open land with the sky above dotted by fluffy clouds, and the curved horizon before us.

Touch

2010-11-03T01:07:00.000-07:00

I’m a tactile person --- I like to touch others and like to be touched. Not everyone is like that. No doubt the cynics have various names for me such as “touchee-feelie” but what the hell. Touching is a primitive, non-verbal communication that conveys a lot. Much more than casual words. Words will often lie. We aren’t always truthful when we speak, but our touch never lies. It’s direct, and expresses our feelings precisely. It’s the way we communicate with our natural environment, with animals and with those closest to us. Sometimes it’s the only form of communication with them.

So it was with Mama who had a stroke three days ago that deprived her of her ability to speak. Also to understand what was being said to her. Sitting across the dinner table from her, I saw it happen, though for several minutes I wasn’t sure what had happened. For several minutes Agata and I tried to elicit a response, then called for an ambulance. Mama’s eyes, half closed suggested she wasn’t aware of us, at least not visually.

In hospital, we saw no great change. She didn't respond to our presence, or to our words. As if she had drifted off to a place where we could no longer reach her. Then she lifted her left arm, moved her fingers as if searching with it for something. She wanted someone to take it and hold it. I took it; the fingers didn’t respond to my touch but there was a slight pressure. The face, frozen by the effects of the stroke didn’t reveal any expression but her eyes awakened slightly. She was there --- I was sure of it. What’s more, she knew that I was there. She also knew who I was.

The following day Mama’s eyes were open most of the time and they followed Agata and I. She moved restlessly in the bed, remained slack-jawed. Perhaps she was hungry, as she could not be fed normally. The stroke had affected her ability to swallow liquids or food. Every few minutes her eyes looked wider, a look of fear. She had to be terrified, finding herself in a place where she no longer understood what people were saying, and could not express herself. Again, taking her arm I rubbed it. No response from the arm, but the fear in her eyes appeared to recede. Agata spoke to her, telling her not to be afraid, but I had the impression that touch conveyed more than the words.

The doctor and his cortege of young assistants drifted in. After making his assessment he discussed it in a whisper with the others, before turning to us. “I think your mother has had a stroke,” he said. Not exactly breaking news. “The next few days will help us determine her recovery.” It’s all I could get out of him. I asked whether patients typically recovered the ability to swallow, but the doctor waffled so that I felt stonewalled. Later, Natasha ran in with a leaflet from the waiting room, with all the information I was seeking. That the ability to swallow often returns within weeks. I’m still not sure why the doctor’s at the very least couldn’t paraphrase to me the leaflet's contents. Why are doctors so afraid that anything they say could be used against them?

That afternoon Mama recognized our faces. She could answer our questions with a nod, or by pointing. An incremental improvement, but we were overjoyed to see it. More than anything she wanted to be held, to feel human contact and know that we were really there. That we weren’t phantasms of her imagination. The solid touch that didn’t lie was what she needed.

When the Zambian nurse, we know well from Mama's previous visits, came in, I asked her for a favour. “I know that hospital policy is that I can only visit from 3-5pm and 7-8 pm, but Mama is terrified. She needs someone there --- all the time --- holding her hand. I want permission to come at any time and to sit with her and hold her hand. I’ll get out of the way at mealtimes or if I’m in the way. The nurse was initially doubtful that such an exception could be made but she said she’d try. A few minutes later she returned and said that my request was granted.

The next morning our communication was different. I still held her, but now that I could use words to reach her, I sensed that she no longer needed or wanted to be touched. She even found it embarassing. Her eyes were awake, conscious of me, the sunlight on the window, my watch. She smiled, a crooked smile typical of a stroke victim. I explained what had happened to her and she nodded to indicate she understood. I was amazed at her rapid progress and hope that she’ll continue to develop the ability to swallow, and to speak. She has a fighting spirit that’s enviable.

Though I was delighted to be able to use language again, somehow I felt a loss of intimacy such as we shared earlier when touch was our only means of communication. Touch is reciprocal in that you cannot touch someone without experiencing touch. It takes a great deal of trust because with touch there aren’t any barriers. The boundaries between you are blurred. You’re with each other and whether you like it or not, you can affect each other deeply.

The Halloween Tree

2010-11-02T09:31:00.001-07:00

By Halloween --- “sicht a night” as Robbie Burns called it in his poem, “Halloween”, the Rowan tree’s leaves are changing. The red berries that hung in large clusters have morphed into withered, white berries. The morning sun rising at a low angle lights up the tree with so many colours that you stand in awe. Most Scottish homes have one or two Rowan trees --- what in America is known as the Mountain Ash, planted not far from the main doorway. It’s there to protect the home and the inhabitants from ghoulies and bogies. And Scotland has plenty of those. Perhaps it’s the damp Scottish climate that produces ghosts, so legendary throughout the world. I’m sure it isn’t only the Scottish imagination; wild though it may be. People I meet in the pub are quite happy to talk about football, the economy,girls, getting drunk or the like. Not about ghosts. Certainly not about fairies --- unless these are fairies in the American sense of the word. But if you find yourself alone in the hills on a desolate spot, you may feel that the land is alive. That you're not necessarily alone. Even those who aren't imaginative will experience it.

In Aberdeenshire Halloween is usually celebrated with a bonfire. Some people wait until November 5, what the English call "Guy Fawkes Night." It’s an opportunity for farmers to burn scraps of wood that have accumulated over the year; often to get together with friends for a dance or a drink while watching the flames soar into the sky. It’s a very ancient festival --- the Celtic Samhain, which predates Christianity and even resisted all attempts to Christianize it. Halloween --- the eve of All Saints Day? I don’t think anyone thinks of it in those terms. Long ago the bonfire had less to do with burning scrap wood. It was more about the welcoming of the dark cycle of the year, when “nights are lang and mirk.” The fire is lit in defiance of the night, a defense against the dark and what it represents. Death.

It was also a celebration of night, of the shadow --- all those forbidden impulses, the things we’d secretly like to do but for social reasons we don’t dare. Long ago the kids took over that part with their Halloween “tricks.” They used to stuff a neighbour’s chimney with peat, or tie a string to a row of turnips and pull on the string, so that the farmer sees his turnips marching across the field. Another favorite was to knock loudly on a neighbour’s window, at the same time smash a bottle against the wall. That gives the old geezer a start! Dressing up as ghouls was also part of the fun --- guising as it’s known here. That’s the past. Today in our present age of commerce, some chocolate manufacturer invented “trick or treat.’So out comes the big bag that must be filled with sweets. You see it in the cities here, but certainly not on the scale that it exists in the US.

The game of “dooking for apples” that children know worldwide as a Halloween game, may have its origin in a forgotten ritual of a trial by water, where the Celtic initiate had to go through water to reach the apples of immortality. A lesser known game, one I used to play with the kids when they were young, is the trial by fire. You attach a candle to a small board, balance it with an apple on the opposite end, and hang it six feet above your kitchen floor. With the candle lit, and the apple dangling on the other end, you spin the board. Jumping up you try to take a bite of the apple and avoid singing your hair. Again, there's the message that the gift of immortality is not cheap. You have to go through fire and water to attain it.

Halloween is a night for divination, so get out your Tarot cards, Horoscope, I Ching or whatever you use to take a peek at the future. Find out what fortune may come your way. Traditionally you'd make mashed potatoes with turnips and bury a ring, penny, a silver coin, a button. Depending on what lands in your mouth, you’ll either find marriage, poverty, riches or remain single. Or, you may also lose a tooth that year.

As for ghosts? I’ve never seen any but I know some who have. Later I’ll post a few stories that demonstrate that in Scotland the barrier between our world and the other is very thin.

MUSHROOMS --- LACTAIRES, BOLETES and CHANTARELLES

2010-09-01T01:08:00.000-07:00

The contents of the baskets are mushrooms, not any old mushrooms. These orange and blue caps that emit an orange milk when bruised are so special that they don’t have a name in our great English language, even if it is the lingua franca of global business. In Polish, they’re called “rydze”, in Russian it’s “грузды”. The French call them “lactaire” meaning the milky one. The botanical name is “lactarius deliciosus”. Neither Brits or Americans offer a name because they don’t come from the supermarket. The poet Shelley sums up the attitude of most English speaking people toward wild mushrooms in the words,

“And agarics and fungi, with mildew and mould,
Started like mist from the wet ground cold
Pale, fleshy, as if the decaying dead
With a spirit of growth had been animated.”

That description suits me just fine. When I walk in the woods, I feel that they’re mine. My only competitors are the #!$%& young Polish immigrants who pop out from the undergrowth dragging a large bucket filled with their ill-gotten goods.

Lactaires, as we shall call them, are the best --- with the consistency of steak, a sweet fruity taste and a characteristic tang that belongs to the wood. They only need to be fried in butter, served on toast along with a small vodka. After one bite you’ll feel that even the best caviar doesn’t measure up. For the Scotsman in me, that’s especially good news, as the mushrooms are free. Being so prized, they’re not easy to find. You have to get to them before the maggots find them, and that’s usually a day or two after sprouting. Not every year is bountiful. Some years you won’t find a single one. Then there are years when they crop up everywhere, and this appears to be such a year. At Cottarton at least.

After three years at Cottarton, the mushrooms found us. At first I thought I was dreaming when mowing the lawn I found one in front of the mower. After a small look around I discovered one patch, then the next and them the nextunder the line of trees surrounding our property. But when I found them growing out of the gravel, and out of the bed that Amber had weeded, I let out a yell that, had it been heard by any neighbour, would have summoned an ambulance. Restraining myself from picking them, I waited for Amber to come home from work. I wanted to hear her shrieks. She shrieked --- evidence that the Polish/ Russian mania had properly infected her. We gathered a basket full. They were only a day old and scarcely contained a single maggot. We ate some – for two or three days, cooked and froze several baggies full, and took the others to Agata and my mother in Scone. Agata loved them, even if she was insanely jealous. It’s not fair that some people have our luck to have lactaires crop in their back yard.

They kept coming. Each time it rained, the Lactaires sprouted and we gathered another basketful. Bewildered about how to handle the bounty, I salted many of them --- arranged the freshest caps in a jar, salted each layer and then pressed them with an oak weight I had cut for the job. After a day they let out their water. A process similar to making sauerkraut, it will preserve them for winter. I pickled a jar and froze the rest.

The mushroom crop made me wax philosophical. Our piles of winter snow made Amber and I wonder about how many more similar winters we could take. We’re hoping last winter was one of a kind and not part of Scotland’s new and improved climate. Last “spring” Amber was looking at real estate in southern France. Now,the very Earth is sending us another message, offering us a gift that probably hasn’t come to anyone else in Scotland, telling us that this is our home, and where we need to be.

Bambi --- aka “The Usual”

2010-01-20T01:47:00.000-08:00

I’ve been asked how we live off our vegetables with three feet of snow covering our garden. We dig for them. When Amber needed carrots to roast with a chicken I dug a trench three foot deep and twenty feet long to look for them. It took a few tries but I was able to find the carrots, well preserved under the snow. They were more delicious when baked than you can imagine.

Now that the snow is melted, so that we have less than a foot, we’re back to our battle with Bambi. Last night he came by and ate the remains of the sprouting broccoli, leaving only turds. He’s been a pest since his home, a nearby forest was clearcut. A couple of months ago the deer located Cottarton and stripped all the vegetables except the leeks. I have a reputation as a non-violent, anti-gun, anti-violence sort of bloke, but when the deer attack by veggies, I start seeing strips of venison hanging in my shed. Zackary already showed me where I need to build a deer platform, so that I can sit comfortably all night, a bottle of whisky by my side, gun in one hand and a lantern in the other, and root out Bambi. The problem is that nights are beastly cold --- can be -5 Celsius, and I like my sleep. But --- it’s not a bad idea if nothing else works, and we could have a good supply of venison.

You can buy venison at certain butchers, but not legally. The reasons may have to do with health rules, EU rules or something else. Forty years ago, my mother learned to buy venison from a butcher down the road. While standing in line she noticed a couple of people ahead of her asked the butcher for “the usual”. The butcher responded by giving them a wrapped bundle of unidentified meat from the back room, actually venison. He charged very little. So, mama also asked for, “the usual” and brought it home. We all loved the venison; had it regularly for a month or two, until the morning when mama went in search of “the usual”, but found the butcher’s shop closed down, a police padlock on the door. Later the Perth newspaper reported how the butcher was busted for selling poached venison.

Until Zack builds me the platform, or I scroung up the funds for a deer fence, or employ a pack of wolves to chase off the deer, I’m building an electric fence on two sides of the property where I think they are getting in. Roe deer, the most likely offenders, are quite good at jumping livestock fences, even without taking a run at them. From their snow tracks I located where they jumped the fence. Yesterday I strung out two strands of polywire, one above the fence the other knee level. For bait I attached aluminium strips coated with peanut butter, and then fired up the electric charger.

A good jolt to the tongue might help the deer forget about my vegetables, but what do I know about deer psychology? Are they so determined to come in that they don't mind the old jolt? The electric fence is a technological solution to an old problem. We’ll see how it works.

Mythological...

2010-01-07T09:57:00.001-08:00

Cottarton is mythological --- something we knew when we settled here, reinforced one morning when looking out on our driveway I found a large hare --- at least three feet tall. The rainbows we see don’t belong to this world. Neither do the gales that sweep past. And, yes, there’s the snow. You may have heard that the entire UK, as the tabloids say, is in “the grip of ice and snow”. But in our glen the snow, as with the hares rainbows and wind, acquires mythological dimensions. Icicles hanging from our eaves keep growing --- the record’s about eight feet, including the icicle that grew from the ground up. As in Narnia, it’s winter for as long as we seem to remember, and no end in sight of breaking the evil spell. The other night I passed snow giants, beings of snow reaching ten feet, walking with an indifferent nonchalance across the fields.

Viewed from space, the UK looks like the moon, or curst by a nasty spell which has relocated the missing polar icecap here. Try making out anything but snow and ice.

Closer to home, we haven’t seen a postman since Christmas, which is good, as we have a respite from our deluge of bills. The rubbish hasn’t been picked up either. Once a day a snow plough passed down the road, clearing the snow, but there’s no salt or grit. The county is low on grit and reserves it for major roads, once every two days.

Walking to our car, parked permanently at the end of our dirt road, we pass sheep that are making the best of the snow. Every day Robert or Mark Hamilton dump a load of turnips in the feeder for the sheep. You wonder where other animals shop for food. The deer shop at Cottarton.

They first appeared a couple of months ago after a nearby forest was clearcut, leaving the roe deer to forage elsewhere. Then, we still had cabbages, brussel sprouts, kale, Savoy, broccoli. No more. After three visits we were left with nothing but stumps. The locals suggested I buy a shotgun and a lantern, and sit out all night long, drinking whisky and waiting for the buggers to show up. A deer fence --- seven feet high is a permanent solution, but beyond our budget. I’m going to try an electric fence. However, in today’s snow it would be a foot under.

How about releasing some wolves into my field? Now, we’re really talking mythology. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to hear the wolves howling at night? Hear them calling the pack together for a hunt. Watch them gather? They’d have plenty of food, all the deer they ever wanted, and if they ran short of venison, well, they could help themselves to a sheep or two. It might not make for the best neighbours, and that would be a wee problem.

Have you ever looked at a wolf close-up? I was privileged to, at the St. Francis Sanctuary in Magnolia, Texas. They study you, understand you, can welcome you or dismiss you with a glance. These are no just a breed of dogs, but are highly intelligent.

The wolf used to run here, long ago when the land was heavily forested, a thousand years ago perhaps, or farther back. Exterminating the wolf, and clearing the forest for agriculture and farming went hand in hand. Once the wolf was gone deer multiplied. Without the wolf to control their numbers, they had no predator other than us. Unfortunately the deer eat small trees and bushes, my berry bushes and my veg, meaning that forest cannot re-establish itself easily, and I end up tearing out my hair.

Maybe we need the re-establish our ancient relationship with the wolf.

Blue Moon

2010-01-01T01:57:00.001-08:00

Last night the world never got dark. Yes, I mean last night, December 31, Hogmany as it’s known over here, what should be almost the longest night, usually so dark that you could be looking into a deep well where you can’t see the hand in front of your face. Not last night. Around midnight Amber and I stood outside the house and looked around, surprised that we could see our snowy landscape extending all the way to the horizon in every direction. Nothing moved in the whiteness, unless it was that lone car winding its way on a country road to a Hogmany party. Or a dark haired bloke going “first footing” --- the custom of visiting your neighbour, whisky bottle in hand. It brings good luck if the first footer has dark hair, which is why with my brown hair, I don’t do it. Call it being DQ’d for life.

Under the hazy skies you can’t see the moon; you wouldn’t know where to look. The lighting appears to emanate from every direction and casts no shadow. Perhaps it emanates from the Earth itself from its unbroken snow cover. What’s going on? Isn’t it supposed to be dark? Well, yes, but once in a blue moon --- the name given to the second full moon in December --- it doesn’t get dark in winter. The Earth covered in a thick layer of snow acts like a mirror, a source of lighting that reflects the diffuse moonlight, scattering the rays isotropically. There’s the scientific explanation. Does it satisfy you, or would you rather stand with us in the winter midnight twilight, quietly, and look around you at every detail, the bushes sticking out of the snow, heavily laden tree branches, houses half buried, flustered sheep wandering around in the nearby field. They can't make anything of the twilight either. Look at them all so that you don’t miss a unique moment, one that won’t return.

Morning saw a new snowfall, that erased all signs of several days of snow shovelling and buried our access road. Our car’s lost somewhere in the whiteness. The icicles dangling in front of the study window grew another foot, some of them now almost four feet long. We’re in a snow house as in Lean's Doctor Zhivago, except that the house in the movie set had fake snow and was filmed in the boiling Spanish summer. The actors did a good job shivering and looking cold. At Cottarton we have the real thing. It started falling about December 20. This is the longest siege that the local people remember, but them they tend to say every year. The house stays warm thanks to a wood fire in the living room stove. My mother sits in her chair nearby where she can stay warm and look out over the snowy landscape. She's been with us over a week, keeping us entertained with her often acerbic humour. To her the landscape has an unearthly beauty. She’d like to go to church today but we probably won’t be going. It’s New Year, the world is hung-over, still asleep, including the snow ploughs and road gritters.

Outside, it’s begun to snow again.

A New Life --- Up the stairs

2009-12-19T01:53:00.000-08:00

There’s something almost religious about building on an upstairs room to a house, especially if you undertake the project soon after leaving an office job you’ve done for over twenty years where you mostly sat in an office staring at a screen. Now you have to use your hands, make them work as more than appendages for your brain. They have to hold a drill, a hammer, a saw, a drill. You are building a new floor onto an existing structure, making the place where you’ll eventually move. Maybe you’re also preparing the space for the greater move that you’ll make sometime between now and eternity.

Enough of philosophy. We have to thank Pat Grant for the seed idea, that our attic could be somehow transformed into an attic. But it took more than waving a magic wand to accomplish it. About two winters and two summers. Philip Anderson built our stairwell, and the first walls. The first winter I created the space for a bedroom and bathroom. The bathroom space was originally a crawlspace only three feet wide, up against an old, slanting roof structure. To make it larger took some sleight of hand.

In the picture you can see the slanting roof under the shelving. Elsewhere they're hidden under the marble countertop.

The first job --- and it was a job, was to move the attic beams to open up the area, side beams a few inches left or right, top bracing beams up by six inches. 40 beams. It was cold, uninteresting work that left numb fingers, and me wondering if this was going anywhere. Not until Louis Charron arrived in early Summer and needed an architectural project did I get the oomph for the next phase --- even less glamorous, to trim out a beam and reinforce the roof structure for skylight windows. We had to grind off protruding slate nails, bolt on 2 by 4s to roof beams, insert cross beams. Our friends, the Ashtons and Roys cut two holes in our roof, inserted the skylights, and rearranged our roofing slates. Daylight appeared in the attic. We laid down a temporary floor. We barely started to install foam insulation in the ceiling when Louis left, and I had to wait for the next kid to show up --- Santiago my nephew. He grew up in the high Andes and is an accomplished carpenter. Makes amazing kitchen cabinets. Alas, I’m not ready for cabinets, only for insulation, 2 by 4s and sheetrock. When Santi was not riding the lawnmower --- he loved the riding lawnmower, he was up with me cutting up the insulation board or screwing in the sheetrock. Again the work stopped and had to wait until Jordan Poole arrived. Each kid had his passion, and Jordan’s was spackling (plastering as it’s called here). We were starting to see the rooms taking shape.

Around that time I managed to find a plumber and a sparky (Scottish for ‘electrician’). It wasn’t easy. Tradesmen generally don’t like coming out to work in the country. They’re busy people and prefer to work in town. We had several plumbers come out to look at out project, drink tea with us, and talk enthusiastically. But either the estimates never arrived or were so high as if trying to dare us to take them. Come on, make may day! I asked Paul F to do our plumbing, a good kid who had come out before. He wanted the job and did it well. Luckily we knew a good sparky. Once he was able to extricate himself from a heavy work load he came out --- two months later than scheduled, but he did appear. He did a great job and provided good conversation about my favourite Orcadian writer, George MacKay Brown.

Last summer I finished the plastering, endless sanding that made me look each day like a snowman, and then came the painting. The laminated wooden floor went down. Then the Swedish drawers were built into the wall --- Louis's idea, and --- Ta daaaaa!!!! Where’s the fanfare? Ah yes, there are no stairs! Philip Anderson, our joiner, is in Jersey, imprisoned by a dastardly laird who won’t let him out until he has finished building his castle. Christmas is coming --- argh! We need those stairs. So we contact various joiners. They come out, drink tea, look at our space, mutter something about planning permission to which I shrug. They go, and we wait for something to arrive in the mail or a phone call. One estimate did arrive, a high estimate.

Our neighbour Anne Christie mentioned Neal Donald, a joiner in the glen. He comes, and takes the job…and those are his stairs.

Amber and I now live upstairs, a cosy room that feels like a treehouse. We’ve hung up our Navajo dreamcatcher, and we’re expecting some big dreams.

The March of the Sheep

2009-12-06T07:10:00.000-08:00

When people think of the Scottish countryside, they usually think of sheep; masses of them crawling like tufts of cotton wool over grassy meadows or wandering the heather covered slopes.Where you don't see sheep, you'll find black cows, the Aberdeen Angus in our area, or endless barley fields. Dotted around the valleys you often see abandoned stone cottages, sometimes with a slate roof, but often little more than the walls still standing. They point to a dark episode in Scottish history. Two hundred years ago there was a different landscape, many such cottages with two or three generations of a family and a few acres of land that grew potatoes, oats, barley, some root crops, hay to feed a few cows, and several scrawny sheep bearing little resemblance to today's fluffy Blackface sheep.There were few if any of the towns you see today. It was a tough life, living at the mercy of bad weather, potato blight or other farm diseases. As most smallholdings were rented from a laird, there was rent to be paid no matter the weather. Every ten years or so when crops failed there was widespread famine.

What changed it all? The march of the sheep. Beginning in the 1750s, they came from the south, a relentless white tide that swallowed up farm after farm. Landlords, who often ran up huge debts from dubious financial gambles, soon realized that a large sheep farm would give them four times the income and much less bother than the rents from so many smallholdings. Wool fetched a premium price as did mutton, with very little outlay of cash. New sheep breeds appeared that had more meat, ample wool, and withstood the frigid Scottish winters. As often happens, the financial factors were only part of the reasons for change. Poor people, living on the land where you can't control them, are inconventient for politicians. The Clearances lasted over a hundred years, a slow process of forced eviction and land confiscations leading to the establishment of the large farms you see today. The population density in the highlands fell, while the sheep population soared. During a particularly dark chapter, violence broke out between the people being evicted and the sheep farmers. Land administrators, known in Scotland as factors, were known to burn cottages to prevent them being re-occupied. Economists suggested that people would just fit into new jobs on the new farms, but mechanization resulted in much fewer people being needed. More benevolent landowners resettled their tenants in newvillages that took root in those days. Many emigrated to Canada or to the States.

What about the future? Todays farms are scarcely profitable; many exist for mainly two reasons 1. Cheap diesel oil and fertilizer 2. European Union subsidies. When the price of oil rises, as it must when the effects of peak oil become felt, the high price of diesel and fertilizer will make the present system unsustainable.
George Monboit, a writer for "The Guardian" looks at one scenario.

Higher food prices already are making people see the advantages of growing their own. Vegetable allotments so popular that, in big cities you often have to wait for years to get one. Some cities are changing their parks into allotments. It doesn't take much imagination to see the trend extend into the countryside. We may be coming full circle, back to the old crofting days.

Riding the train with Dundee United

2009-11-24T01:41:00.001-08:00

Returning from Scone last weekend, after being two days with mum, Amber and I expected a leisurely train ride back to Huntly. Arriving at Perth Station we encountered a crowd of mostly young men with flushed faces, cider bottles in hand and wearing football colours. Several tall policemen and women paced back and forth trying to look impressive. We knew that the lads were coming home after a football game, but had their team won or lost? If the latter, they could be mad enough to trash the station, or anything breakable in their path. Where were they heading? You guessed it, our train.

Waiting among them on the platform, we were treated to a chorus of chants. Less musical than Gregorian chants, with parent advisory lyrics, what the chanting lacked in musicology it had in sheer volume and emotion. You didn’t have to know the lexicon to know that the team had won, and yes…”Weeee’re the Dundee boys”. I yelled to Amber, who stood bewildered and deafened by the spectacle, “Here’re a bit of local culture.”

Train pulls up at the platform. With sinking hearts we see that it only has four carriages, and it’s pretty full. Doors open. Covering Amber with my left arm, we board, are able to take two steps before the horde presses in behind us, sandwiching us on all sides. “Can you breathe, my dear?” I ask. It gets tighter. I have visions of winding up beneath a stack of bodies, when I notice that we’re up against a pair of doors leading to First Class seats. We don’t have tickets, but so what. I open the door. Rushing in with the crowd falling on top of us we find two seats, which we grab. At least we’re sitting down. Dundee United squeezes into the aisle. Slowly, as if feeling its extra load, the train crawls off and lumbers over the Tay Bridge.

A lone voice intones, “We’re Dundee United….” And ten others join in. With the cops gone, beer and cider bottles multiply, get swigged, passed around. Names of players appear in chants, how this or that hero slew one of the Celtic “c—ts” I ask one of the guys what the score was, 2-1. They are ecstatic about the win that came from behind. Other passengers, like us sit bemused by the spectacle. No train conductor shows up; in that press no one can possibly move.

After half an hour we pull into Dundee and the fans stagger out of the train. We watch them disappear down the platform, still chanting. Silence, except for a giggle from a couple of little old ladies. The experience made their day.

EVERYONE’S A CLIMATE EXPERT

2009-10-18T09:35:00.000-07:00

It’s been a pleasant autumn at Cottarton with long stretches of dry warm days. The farmers are happy, because they were able to harvest their barley ahead of schedule. Our vegetables this year were stellar: gigantic zucchini, tomatoes, carrots, parsnip. Amber greets them in the kitchen with a mixture of elation and dread. More pickling to do? This year’s success story is our chrysanthemums --- still going strong, decorating every room in our cottage. We give many bunches to our friends.

These days I’m engaged in the long job of forking over the vegetable beds. Our neighbour, Hugh, is delivering a load of dung that will be spread out over winter so that it properly rots in, to be ready for next spring’s planting.

Meanwhile I’ve taken out a library card at Aberdeen University to study the Earth’s climate. Not the global warming thing. I want to know how the climate changed over the past 100 million years, and why. The story reads like a whodunit. As a geologist I’ve studied for twenty years the oceans rise and fall, because these result in deposition of sandstones and shales that we drill for to find some reserves. Its no secret that every 20-100 thousand years during the past 10 million years the oceans go through a cycle of rising and falling. The Earth gets warmer and cools, mostly a result of changes in the earth’s tilt. But several extraordinary anomalies are evident. During the Eocene, 50 million years ago the Earth was 6 degrees warmer than it is today --- but the sun was somewhat cooler. What gives?

Before I offer an explanation I’ll say that I am not a climate expert. The internet is full of those who make that claim. If you check out the blogosphere you’ll find that everyone who has taken a science course is out there pontificating about climate change, claiming to be a expert. In their recent book, “Superfreakanomics”, Steven D Levitt and Stephen J Dubner, two economists, argue that global warming is nonsense. Even if it’s true, then why not spray some stuff into the air to counteract global warming? A much cheaper solution than for us give up driving our SUVs. I have a Master’s in Astronomy and one in Geophysics, two disciplines that are necessary if one is to understand climate change. Yet I feel totally inadequate to enter into a scientific debate on the subject. Remarkable that those economists who have less background in the field, don’t have such srcupules. Their book will no doubt be a best seller. There’s also the science fiction writer Michael Crichton who wrote “State of Fear” a SF novel that suggests that the global warming movement is a global conspiracy. The guy was called to Capital Hill to testify in front of the US Senate as a “climate expert.” I can think of many people they might have chosen, but then those --- real experts, might not have given the Senate committee the answers they wanted to hear.

So why was the Earth so warm in the Eocene? One source I consulted suggests that it was caused by a sudden emission of methane. Then, as today, there are large amounts of methane stored under the ocean floor in the form of gas hydrates. A small warming could release the methane into the atmosphere. Once there, methane, even more than carbon dioxide makes our atmosphere more impervious to heat, so that our earth behaves like a greenhouse. All this makes me think of what might happen to the gas hydrates that I saw in seismic data while I worked for ExxonMobil, should a small increase in our present temperature result in an analogous warming. It would be scary. I’m no climate scientist, so I’ll defer to those who are in that line of work.

Meanwhile, I’m reading about the recent ice ages. I’d like to know why the last one came to an end about 14,000 years ago, to give us our present, very pleasant climate.

What Does It Mean To Be Of Service?

2009-09-18T10:07:00.000-07:00

Everywhere we are talking about a peaceful humanity, a peaceful world. This is not from prayer, not from technology, not from money, not from religion, but from mother. This is my fundamental belief. Mother, I consider, our first teacher. (Women of Tibet, The Great Mother), Dalai Lama

My sister in law Munia lives with the poor in Ecuador. “I am not necessarily a good person,” she says. “I was just born fortunate. I had a good mother, a good father, food, education, and love. It is my duty to give it back.” Not everyone is called to live and work with the poor but everyone is indeed called to something greater than themselves. Whether or not we hear the call, or even recognize the call is another matter entirely.

So what does it mean to be of service? Is it volunteering your time to a local charity? Calling in on the sick? Tossing the proverbial 10% at the collection plate on Sunday morning? We all periodically do this throughout the course of our lives, but this is not what it means to be “of service”.

Being of service is a relationship, a state of mind, a way of life. (Which might in fact include the above, volunteering, visiting the sick, etc. but not an end unto itself). It is a meditation of unending gratitude for those of us who have to keep us ever mindful of those who have not. I believe that in this gratitude, this eternal state of gratitude lies grace and out of grace is born compassion and compassion gives rise to empathy. “Why do we complain all the time?” asked Munia this morning over coffee. “We have so much,” she said. “Yes, but still wanting more, still incomplete,” I added.

She was only here for one night, visiting Cottarton with her beautiful daughter, Anita and her twin girls, Teresa and Margherita. It was as splendid as any ballet to watch the two of them in concert with each other, laughing, singing, sharing the responsibility of the babies. I got the feeling that they knew each other so well they didn’t even need words to communicate the next step. Like Nureyev and Fontaine they glided across the floor from cue to cue. The hungry cry, the sleepy cry, the wet cry, and the frustrated one they responded artfully, intelligently with humor and fatigue.

It is truly a remarkable occasion to witness the numinous in the domestic. The numinous at table, in a small kitchen feeding a hungry baby and then the peace that comes with the last bite.

Not all of us are favored with the presence of a good mother, in fact some of us are actually injured by the birth mother who was never taught or never learned how to mother herself. I have a small photograph in my collection of framed pictures on top of the china cabinet in the hallway that very few ask me about, which surprises me because it’s obviously antiquated and doesn’t look anything like my family or friends, but Anita did – she asked. “Who’s this?” “That’s a picture of the fantasy mother and me,” I said. “It’s a picture of the way I would have liked it to have been. An image.”

I’m sure you’re wondering now the link between service and mother and it’s this.

If mother is the point of entry, then mystery is the point of exit. It is the relationship between the good mother and the Great Mother, the mystery that beckons us to be of service. Like Munia and Anita in the dance of the mother at my kitchen table last night, the good mother reflects the magnitude of the Great Mother in her attention to that what is vulnerable in all of us. It is our cue as humans to listen for the call from the Great Mother, the mystery to listen for what we should be giving back. We must give back – it is the road to home.

PS Munia is Rose’s daughter and Anita is her granddaughter. I have been gifted in the company of women that have come into my life through marriage; Theresa, Basia, and Ciocia Renia….how fortunate am I.

10 percent in 2010

2009-09-04T12:39:00.000-07:00

In the UK global warming is seen as real, and not a left wing conspiracy, supported by radical scientists. The summers of 2007 to 2009 saw unseasonal rainfall and flooding, people losing their houses. The affected County Councils are spending money to shore up flood defences to prepare for rising seas. Latest studies of Greenland glaciers show those glaciers are melting at a much higher rate than predicted by current climate change models. If they melt, sea level could rise within the next 100 years by several meters.

A natural Earth cycle or a result of human activity? No argument will silence all doubts. The debate will continue until the last debater is shot. As a geologist I can see that natural climactic cycles, visible in the rock record, are part of our Earth's history. Regarding the present changes, I defer to scientists who have studied the data. With few exceptions, they speak with one voice, that the present climate changes are due to the human impact on natural ecosystems --- burning fossil fuels and deforestration being the chief activities. This has become particularly acute because of our growing population.

Politicians talk and debate. In London, they discuss whether to cover the island with wind generators or put them all offshore. In Copenhagen, they bluster about who should make the first carbon dioxide cuts --- Americans, Chinese or Europeans who caused the problem in the first place? The Brits propose that we pay third world countries not to develop technologically, so that Brits can go on, business as usual. A convenient solution. One can conclude only one thing from the debate--- that we'll all fry before policicians come to an agreement that's likely to make any difference.

Or, the people can take action and show the bastards how it must be done.

Last week, "The Guardian" daily newspaper threw its support behind a grass roots movement, for every household to cut its carbon footprint by 10 percent in the year 2010. So far 10,000 people have pledged their support including many multinational corporations, all of Gordon Brown's cabinet, movie stars etc...According to the climate models, an immediate 10 percent global cut in carbon emissions is what is required to avoid an increase of 2 degrees celcius in our global temperature. Such an increase is likely to cause ecological changes that will result in further temperature increases. The carbon cuts have to start somewhere. Given that the UK only produces 3% of the world's carbon emissions, a 10% cut is not a large portion of the global budget. But it may generate the political impetus for other countries to follow suit, and for politicians to take meaningful action.

We may be too late. Arctic ice is melting more rapidly than predicted. Are we past the point of no return, where the Earth will grow warmer regardless of what we do? Nobody knows. To accept this scenario as true and to do nothing, will make a disastrous global warming of several degrees celcius an inevitability. Or, we can bury our heads in the sand and hope that none of this is real. That God will come to our aid, or that the sun will cool off. We can hope we'll all be dead before the disaster comes to roost.

I think about my children, the legacy we are about to leave them. Will they see scenes of mass starvation, wars fought over scarce resources, and mass migrations all because our generation was unwilling to make the right choices? The latest scenes from Bangladesh where 20 million people will have to move from areas inundated by rising seas, are a sample of things to come. http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/south_asia/8240406.stm

Amber and I are taking the 10:10 pledge. We are not sure how we will make good on the pledge but we will do what we can. We may cut down on car journeys, take the train more often, install more home insulation or fly less. We have more options than many people. We will keep you posted.

Fifteen Minutes to Execution

2009-08-28T00:33:00.000-07:00

When does a clock decide between life and death?

The tower clock in Dufftown, a short distance from Cottarton Cottage, has been called, “The clock that hanged McPherson.” On November 16, 1700 the clock, located then in Banff was put forward by 15 minutes to allow for the execution of Jamie MacPherson before a rider bearing a pardon could arrive.

Jamie MacPherson was the illegimimate son of a Scottish laird and a gypsy woman. After his father’s death, Jamie was adopted by his mother’s family. He grew up to be a good swordsman, a poet and musician. As the leader of the gypsy band, he lived by rustling and selling horses and lifestock. Even detractors admit that he never murdered anyone or was guilty of any act of cruelty. Though popular with common people, for whom he was a kind of “Robin Hood”, he earned the emnity of the landed gentry, in particular the Earl Duff of Braco. Among his many supporters were the Grant family who held considerable influence in the Northeast, still do today where they are the owners of the Glenfiddich, Glengrant and other distilleries.

MacPherson’s band would often march into local fairs behind a piper. The day they appeared in Keith market, Braco’s men ambushed them, killed most of the gypsy band and captured McPherson. In a Banff court, he was charged with theft, being a vagabond and a gypsy --- then a criminal offence, found guilty and sentenced to death, as follows:

For sae muckle, as you, James MacPherson, are found guilty of being Egyptians and vagabonds and oppressors of his free lieges. Therefore, I adjudge and decern you to be taken to the cross of Banff to be hanged by the neck to the death.

While awaiting execution, MacPherson is said to have composed his lament, later the basis for Robert Burns’ poem – “MacPherson’s Farewell”. Upon reaching the gallows, he played a tune on his fiddle, then asked the onlookers whether anyone could play the violin. As no one raised their hand he broke the violin over his knee, declaring that “Hence forth no one would play McPherson’s fiddle.”

Meanwhile Jamie’s supporters prevailed on the Lord Grant to stay clemency. A rider was dispatched with the stay of execution, but Braco saw the rider at a distance. Suspecting correctly that the rider carried a padon, he arranged for the Banff clock to be moved up by 15 minutes so that the execution could be carried out before the pardon arrived. For years afterward the Banff clock was set fifteen minutes ahead of the other clocks, to commemorate the execution.

Today there is no capital punishment in the UK. Jamie MacPherson’s story is the stuff of legend, but less mythical is the parallel case of Michael Richard, executed in Texas on September 25, 2007. A last minute appeal for a stay of execution was rushed by his lawyer to the office of Justice Sharon Keller, nicknamed “Killer” because of her well known support for the Texas death penalty. Because of computer printing problems, the appeal arrived after 5pm, only to find the court doors closed. Though the lawyer had phoned the court to tell Keller that the appeal would be late, she ordered the court clerk to close the doors on time. Richard was executed two hours later.

Some things don’t change.

Gardening --- In Partnership

2009-08-25T11:10:00.000-07:00

Back in the sixties, many of us wanted to get back to nature, live off the land. That meant growing our own food and eating nettles. Forty years on we’ve come full circle, but not to the same starting place. Global warming and a shrinking food supply are the new realities. Many fertile regions are turning into desert because of low rainfall, or poor farming practices. Even economists recognise that food is not produced by a factory but by a growing, breathing and living land. The UK produces only 60% of the food it needs. A recent government report says we must produce 100% if we are to meet the challenges of a burgeoning population and global warming in the coming century.

Can it be done in Northeastern Scotland which has a short growing season, no dependable summer warmth, and strong winds that blow for days on end?

I started our vegetable garden to rediscover the lost art of working with the natural cycles and to produce vegetables whose taste arouses all your senses. Make dining a different experience. Thanks to our global marketplace you can buy any vegetable, year round. In December strawberries are flown in from Chile. Most are mass produced with artificial fertilizer, varieties bred for quantity and shelf life. They may not taste like much but they’re there. However they have no connection to the land. Unsurprisingly many kids these days aren’t sure where vegetables are from, other than that they come from Tesco.

Rather than rely on heated polytunnels, we plant what grows well in our climate ---potatoes, garlic, onions, large stands of broad beans, all the root vegetables, and vegetables that can be stored away for winter when very little grows. I’m not a purist. We grow tomatoes, courgettes and Mexican pepper (for our salsa) in a greenhouse, and cucumbers in a cold frame. Our long summer days give us a short but very rapid growing season. In July lettuce, radishes, turnip and rocket come and go so fast that you have to plant successions to keep your kitchen supplied. We dry wild mushrooms, or freeze them cooked, pickle beets make jams and Mexican salsa. By September the garden slows down. Leeks, kale, brussel sprouts and yellow turnip still grow but not as fast. Last November we still lived mostly from our garden: roasted vegetables, tomatoes that ripened indoors, potatoes and so on. By January we draw on our stored carrots and beets. We draw on mushrooms and beans from the freezer or from our dried supplies. Leeks, turnips, parsnips and brussel sprouts can still be dug up when the frost lets up.

I have much to learn about sustainable practices. This year the overall production is down, in part due to soil depletion. Neither I nor our friends have sorted out how to rotate crops to keep the ground fertile, use the right amount of dung, find the best varieties and plant the correct quantities. There is a lot of discussion of permaculture techniques, where you disturb the soil as little as possible. It works in England and Australia, but I’m sceptical about using it in Scotland.

Our plot is about, 60 by 40 feet --- a large plot by local standards. It barely supplies enough vegetables for our home, and our house in Scone. If city people are to grow their own in future, much more allotment space than is available today will have to be set aside.

We’re not self sufficient. Rather than raise hens we obtain eggs at the Smiddy --- the house at the end of our road. We buy fresh salmon from Buckie, a small coastal town. The local Deveron river has got salmon, but I don’t have the patience to catch it. I make rhubarb wine, dandelion wine and blackcurrant liqour, but they don’t satisfy our craving for French or Italian wine.

Celebrating Rose

2009-08-24T03:19:00.000-07:00

Character used to be spoken of in terms of the “heart” of courage, or the “heart” of generosity and loyalty. This heart heartens the downtrodden, cooks a hearty meal, and has a hearty laugh. It has heart for the fight and beats for what’s right: family, friends, comrades, causes.
James Hillman, The Force of Character

Paul and I drove down to Scone last week to celebrate Rose’s birthday. She was eighty nine.

I met my mother in law in the summer of 2005 on my first trip to Scotland, in the period just before she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, at a time when she could still, with artless charm, tell a story late into the night. And what a captivated audience she had in her daughter in law who never tired of hearing them. The vitality in her voice, the animation in her recall had not quite disappeared so the stories were tenacious and full bodied.

“If you had told me in 1939 that in six years I would be living in Scotland for the rest of my life, I would have said you were from the moon.” But by 1945, this twenty five year old woman who had courageously survived the war in Poland, together with her husband freshly released from a German stalag, made their way to Bankfoot to do just that – build a new life in Scotland.

She spoke French and of course Polish; French because it was the language of the aristocracy, what they spoke at table and the language in which she was educated, but not a word of English when she crossed the border into Great Britain carrying only the clothes on her back.

Clearly anyone who knows Rose or is related to her will know her story of colossal loss. They will know the childhood home that was burned down by the Germans as her father and sister stood witness. The loving and devoted mother she lost before her twentieth birthday; the family portraits, the furniture, the clothes, the friendships, the land, the last good byes don’t need to be recapitulated here for us to remember her extraordinary journey.

In the back garden of New Scone when sun was promised but the rains came, we carried on with our modest barbeque in typical Polish style – meat only, accompanied by the occasional slice of marrow. Rose sat beside me confused by the events of the day, by the many guests who came bearing chocolates and flowers, bewildered as to why we were even sitting outside under grey skies eating ribs.

This frail wisp of a woman who once commandeered a houseful of forty refugees and stood up to the German Gestapo pollinates my heart with the eternal in her story. Amid the intersecting conversations, the smell of grilled meats, the occasional drippy sky, I thought to myself it’s perhaps what a person loses and not what they acquire that defines them so completely. Of course during times of war there are many more stories of unspeakable horror that one might say pale in comparison, but this is not how we measure story or suffering or loss. I regard my mother in law as in part Naomi, in part Mara. She is ambassador to those who have lost their families, to those who live in exile, to those who make a choice to live their lives with as much dignity as they can possibly muster under the circumstances.

Rose Kieniewicz lost everything during the war but her beloved her spirit, and her faith. These are the things she brought with her to a new land. She came in part bitterness and in part anticipation but she never came believing or accepting she would never return to her homeland. She never believed she wouldn’t see her father again before he died, or not be able to attend the funeral of her sister who was killed in a car accident. “I think I cried all the tears I had on that day,” she says. Rose did not always graciously accept her destiny and railed against the fates for obstructing her will to go back to Poland. According to her husband’s memoirs, she suffered this loss long and hard.

When I moved with my husband from the States to Scotland in June, 2006, my parents were both deceased but I lost the friendship and communication of my dear brother and his family, my great nieces and nephews and other extended family members. I didn’t lose them to war but an equivalent kind of stupidity, fear of change. Rose would never understand this kind of emotional recklessness as family means so much to her; the preservation of what is significant in life is paramount.

But like the Book of Ruth, passed down to us through the centuries, Rose does not need to know my story for her story to be a blueprint of love, loyalty and redemption.

In times of quick fixes, fast food, desires unfulfilled, and short lived relationships there is something inspirational in the person who summons their strength from a storehouse of integrity and simplicity. Rose is not perfect by any means, but then, perfection is not what is remembered when we tell the story of one’s life; it is the essence.

From Rose I take her courage, her doubts, and her acceptance of circumstances, her trials and her defeats as a yardstick for my own life. Will I live it as humanly as she has lived hers? I will certainly try.

“Love the Lord with all your heart, be happy be happy today.” This is what she would tell me. I love you Rose Kieniewicz. Thank you for being my mother in law, my Naomi, my Mara, my Rose, and my north star.

Justice Tempered with Mercy

2009-08-21T02:09:00.000-07:00

I was hoping that our blog would be non-political. I’m not sure I can add much to the passionate opinions voiced in many blogs on the release of Ali al Megrahi. But it’s not often that Scottish and United States interests clash in such a visible way. Perhaps our friends in the States would like to read how people view the release on this side of the pond. In American media there’s widespread disbelief and condemnation of Scotland over the release of the one man convicted of the Lockerbie bombing where 270 people lost their lives, of which 189 were Americans --- the view that that even if he was terminally ill, at least he should die in jail.

Sentiments are different here. Most Scottish people polled do not believe Ali al Megrahi is guilty of the atrocity; rather,that he is a convenient scapegoat, a pawn chosen to take the fall so that Libyan and US/UK relations could be normalized. A lot of undiscovered oil in Libya was at stake. Secondly, people are divided over whether it serves any purpose to keep a terminally ill convicted murderer in jail for the last days of his life. Even a mass murderer. Every blogger has their opinion.

Questions about Megrahi’s guilt grew soon after his conviction. The following story by the BBC http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/scotland/8211596.stm summarizes the issues that include the possibility of mishandled forensic evidence, mistaken identity, evidence withheld by the police, Megrahi’s possible motives --- whether he was acting alone. The British justice system is generally very thorough about conducting an appeal or an inquiry into how well the system works. An appeal had been filed, but because of Megrahi’s ill health, he would have been dead before the appeal could start. Dropping the appeal is the worst possible outcome for this affair, because now we will never know if Megrahi was guilty.

A recent US Supreme Court decision in the case of Troy Davis (See NY times story) http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/19/opinion/19wed3.html
points to another difference in which guilt or innocence is viewed in Scotland and in the States. Justices Scalia and Thomas point out that the US constitution does not prohibit the execution of people who can prove they are innocent. What counts is whether the legal process was followed correctly. Luckily the court majority, and hopefully most Americans do not agree with this sentiment, and a court decision, rather than a constitutional amendment will suffice to clear up whether people who are factually innocent may be executed. In the UK such arguments are viewed as shocking. Whether Megrahi was guilty or innocent does matter. It’s not enough to lock up a scapegoat and call the job done, then let him die in jail because he’s the only one we have. Unfortunately, we’ll never know.

If he is guilty, should he die in jail, or be released? In the UK it’s common to release a terminally ill offender who has only a month or so to live. Keeping him locked up is viewed as a moot point. Less weight is placed on retribution as the reason for locking someone up, especially someone who is terminally ill. Would his death in jail, a month from now, ease the suffering of the many victims of the Lockerbie bombing? My experience working with victims of violent crime in Texas, suggests that executing an offender rarely brings solace to the bereaved. Often they go away feeling that the offender did not suffer enough. On the other hand I met many people who lost a husband or children to a violent act, and who opposed the execution of the offender. See the following page for such testimonies : http://www.journeyofhope.org/pages/index.htm
In the UK, those who lost a family member in the Lockerbie bombing do not speak with one voice about Megrahi’s release. Even those who believe he is guilty.

With some justification, one can argue that the role of the judicial system is justice, and not mercy. Especially to someone convicted of mass murder. Yet in both the US and in the UK we do not endorse cruel and unusual punishments. Recently the US Supreme Court ordered a moratorium on executions until they could establish whether lethal injection, the main method for executions in the US, is a humane --- painless method. We make a show of treating our prisoners humanely, because we’re embarrassed to do otherwise. When discovered, we try and cover it up. Like it or not, as societies we do believe in justice tempered by mercy.

The Golden Key

2009-08-19T10:25:00.000-07:00

“There was a boy who used to sit in the twilight and listen to his great-aunt’s stories.
She told him that if he could reach the place where the end of the rainbow stands he would find there a golden key.”

So begins the George MacDonald story, The Golden Key. As in McDonald’s story, our glen is often visited by rainbows, often complete arcs that contain two or three secondary rainbows. We can often see the end of the rainbow in the field. More about about finding the golden key in a moment.

A late nineteenth century writer, MacDonald was born near Huntly, a stone’s throw from our glen and Cottarton Cottage. He is best known for fantasy novels, Phantastes and Lilith, children's novels such as At the Back of the North Wind and The Princess and the Goblin. Many of his fairy stories are imbued with the windswept hills where little but heather grows, the babbling streams, occasional forests. During the long summer days you can read by daylight at 11 pm, but in winter the sun barely appears over the horizon before it sinks again and gives way to a long night.

Often the sunlight on the waving corn, or the dry grass makes the hill glow with an unearthly light. Snow clouds that charge up the glen swirl create so many shapes that you can see the entire army of the snow king on the move. You can watch the wind in the field, travelling as a series of corn waves. Mists roll in unexpectedly, as in the MacDonald story, The Carasoyn, where a girl is lost in the hills, discovers a stone cottage temporarily inhabited by a mysterious old woman who takes her in for the night, then disappears at sunrise. The constantly changing landscape evokes so many images that a writer is tempted to forget about the humdrum world of everyday life, take the golden key in hand and with it step into a world beyond ours, where magic is real.

Most local farmers no longer look at the landscape that way. They raise sheep, cattle, barley and animal feed. They all work hard. Life is a repetitive routine with little time left over to stop and look around. We exchange services with the locals, provide fruits and flowers from our garden. We can always count on their help with a tractor, or for a load of dung to fertilize our garden.

From our living room we have a full view of the valley and the opposite hill surmounted by a small protuberance. Many nearby hills have similar structures, the remains of Iron Age forts, or ancient burial sites. In those days people built their communities on hill tops for defensive reasons. Nowadays a constant wind blasts the hilltops; you wouldn’t want to build your house there but long ago climate may have been warmer and less windy. Across our landscape stone walls assembled without any cement mark the borders between fields. Over the past two hundred years not much has changed except the advent of power lines, telephone lines and asphalt surfaces. Farm hands lived on the land. Many were needed for ploughing, planting and harvesting. Today a five hundred acre farm is worked today by two people armed with an array of farm machinery and contains the same crop of barley, year after year.

What will the glen look like in a hundred years and who will live there? If the climate experts are right, the glen’s climate will be warmer than today, but still pleasant. It could become a home to refugees from countries whose climate no longer supports them. With the golden key you can open a door and see a small village at the bottom of our field, another colony on the hilltop near the ancient fort. People of many races live there, happy to have a home, but uneasy with the monocultural Scottish society. New forests cover the landscape, and the wolf that used to stalk those hills is back again. It’s the stuff of stories.

Website Under Construction

2009-08-17T09:56:00.000-07:00

I must admit I hate Facebook and I hate the word blog; for no reason, logical or otherwise. The philosophy of Facebook unnerves me and the word blog does not inspire me to write like its synonyms diary, journal, memoir, or letters. But that’s what it is and I’m not interested in why it’s that way because I’m not thirty anymore, Thank God, and have earned my right to add more vinegar to my diet than sugar, if I so choose.

However, I do like the idea of a website address because it lends itself to a kind of technological nobility, a kind of certitude or poise, if you will. I can pick and choose to whom I send this address and in that way it becomes more like a letter to me, personal, something on a more human scale as Paul might say. Something else about a website that appeals to me is the individual design of it, how it echoes a room of one’s own. In this era of sweeping acceleration, fast food, instant communication, and disposable packaging, Cottarton Cottage is a quiet place with a measure of modernity (we have appliances) certainly, but of a time past when the day moved a bit more slowly and without such competing ambitions. It is an interesting life, though not immediately noticeable because of its contemplative nature. There are no art galleries or concert halls; films released in the States take a whole extra season to find the village of Glass, by Huntly, and we can’t boast any three star restaurants. But we can walk down the road and buy our eggs, fresh, from chickens we can see – the Happy Girls, they’re called. I can walk out into my garden and cut flowers, make bunches and walk them to the end of my drive and maybe someone driving past might stop to take one home. I hang my wash out on the line and I must wait for the bread to rise. In late summer, I can pick berries from the bush and bring them in for cereal. True, in many ways an elitist lifestyle. But I think there is something else going on here and that’s one of the things I want to explore in the website as well fun stuff like recipes, pictures and the occasional fairy sighting.

I do live on the bones of Druids.

Be well, dear friends and look forward to our website coming soon – meanwhile, we’ll keep you informed on things happening here at Cottarton, what we’re doing, what we’re thinking.

Amber

Flowers in the Wind

2009-08-16T03:17:00.000-07:00

When we moved to Cottarton Cottage, our neighbours raised their eyebrows when I spoke of starting a flower farm. No one had ever done it, at least not in this glen where the wind blows steadily. The only certainties are not death and taxes, but blowing wind and a good sprinkling of rain every second day. As for winter time, snow stories are the makings of many legends.

Two years later, flowers are blooming around our cottage, so many that we place bunches each morning at the end of the driveway, with a notice for people to take a bunch and drop a couple of pounds in an attached can. Though the road doesn’t have a lot of traffic, we always sell a bunch or two. Others we give away to neighbours and friends. Not everyone wants to taste our beets and broad beans but they all appreciate flowers. Faster than a nip of whisky they lift that depression brought on by cloudy weather, and they don’t give you a hangover.

Unlike during the sixties when stores sold flowers grown locally, all flowers in supermarkets and florist shops are trucked in from Holland, southern England or Europe, where a flower farm means acres of poly-tunnels. We’re doing it differently. We use the greenhouse to start seedlings --- everything we grow is from seed, but after leaving that nursery, the flowers grow in the open, in the most sheltered part of the garden, supported by netting. We have a four month blooming season from mid July to mid October and have no desire to lengthen it. Our sweet peas are into their second month, fuller and more heavily scented than usual, dahlias and asters are close to their peak. This year we’re trying out single stem chrysanthemums, more common at flower shows than at supermarkets. Most successful this year are flowers that preserve their blossom when you dry them --- acroclinium and helichrysum. In case you never heard of them, neither did we a year ago.

Gardening appears less common than it used to be. These days, between making a living, and babysitting the computer, people have less disposable time on their hands. Retired people typically tend small, manicured gardens where everything is grown in straight lines and not a blade of grass is out of place. A good show for the guests. Donald, who each year rents me a large rotovator, says that it’s rarely in demand. Vegetables and flowers are so cheap at Tesco that most people don’t see why they should grow them.

I can’t offer a convincing reason for growing flowers. Not the money we receive, which will only buy a few bottles of wine. Bees love the flowers. They hover about them in clouds, and then go on to pollinate our vegetables. But honestly, there’s very little practical about flowers. Perhaps that’s why we appreciate them.