Autumn Cottage Diarist

Los Angelitos, Little Esther - and Me.

Child's grave, Overton, Hampshire

November 1st, All Saints Day - and in Mexico, the day on which Los Angelitos, the souls of little children are honoured. So today, I want to honour an Angelito in my own family...one I never knew, and only heard about in fragments - but one who's death, I know, affected my mother until her own dying day.

I don't even know her proper name - Mam always referred to her as 'Little Esther' - my interpretation of the name, but it could quite easily have been Hester or even, I suppose, Hesta - its something I need to speak about to the sisters who still survive, one more thing on the list of family history research to be carried out.

But today I will call her Esther, and I will honour her as an aunt who I never had the chance to know, and an emblem of all those who make faint but indelible marks on our own histories. For in writing about her, I also write about some components of the past which have made me who I am.

Esther was only two years old when she died - in around 1922 from my mothers recollections. Mam found it profoundly difficult to speak about her, and when she did, it was always with a deep sadness in her voice. The only fragments that I retain were her memories that "She was playing hide-and-seek under the tablecloth in the morning - by the evening, she was dead...of meningitis". In the days before antibiotics, this was even more lethal and rapid an infection than it remains today -  though it is still an illness which strikes fear into the hearts of any parent.

(Image from Horsefield Funerals)

 Mam also remembered that "we had the black horses for her...the carriage with the glass sides and the horses with black feathers on their heads". This indeed must have meant that a very special effort had been made to pay for a more costly funeral than might otherwise have been held for an older member of the family, in a family where money was more than tight. As the hearse-horses hooves clattered on the (still existing) cobbles outside the back entrance to Mam's old home, waiting to collect its tiny burden, it must have made quite an impact on the mind of my mother, still then only a child herself.

As I write this, I realise there are still so many things I do not know - or only half remember from my mother's telling. No photographs of her exist, that I know of...and where is she buried? I have a recollection of being told that she was placed in the plot which later held my grandmother (her mother), grandfather, and her brother - my uncle. Four in a grave, where only three was the 'official' limit? Yet again, I seem to remember Mam saying that 'officialdom' turned a blind eye to the fact - but we will never know.

And indeed, the death of this two year old did, I believe, make me partially who I am - for as the years went by, I could see the profound affect that her death had on my mother, who was acutely sensitive to the way that small children were treated. Even before my own children were born, hearing the most mildly rebuking word to any little child would cause her extreme pain - and when my own boys were born, 'little Esther' would often be on her lips - especially when the boys were around the age that she was when she died - and especially when boisterous two year old boys needed to be (gently - I assure you!) themselves rebuked, simply to be taught where boundaries lie.

So today, I remember Little Esther - but I also notice myself. I notice how much I have written - about other parts of the story, the facts, but also the opinions...and then cut, and edited, and removed, and how I am still sensitive to my Mother's words and feelings. Feelings which, in turn were shaped by the very existence of her sister....and which in turn also shaped me....all for the sake of sensibilities of others who may read this, sensibilities which could still be wounded by the fuller telling of the tale. A later telling will be different - but all tellings are, in some way, true.

Little Esther is gone...but her memory...and its impact, still filter down through the generations. So many people touch our lives....and make us who we are - the fact that we may never have met them, in many ways, makes no difference.

Addendum: New additions to the marvellous Free BMD (Births, Marriages and Deaths) site mean that for the first time, only minutes ago, I discovered this information. 

DEATHS - June 1929 - Silcox, Esther M - 2 (yrs old) Newport Mon

Studium into Punctum.

Blessed be, Little Angelito Esther.

Love That Will Not Let Me Go

Lilian Latham      7 Sept 1915 - 1 Oct 1998

She taught me how to love, from her boundless resource

I walk with her memory every day.

For One Who Holds Power - John O'Donohue's Words of Blessing on this Special Day

Warm wishes to all my American friends on this good day - and for the rest of us, also, hope for Change.

Baby, it's Cold Outside!

Pip and Lissie are doing the most sensible thing on this New Year's Day - hunkering down as close to a comforting radiator as they can - (Lissie using it as a pillow) and turning their back on the dreaded Tax Return!

It has been bitterly cold here for days, and though we did not have the hard frost last night that we had the night before (temperatures down to minus 6C), there is still a chill wind blowing. The best place to be right now is in this office, warm and cosy, with a nice cup of tea, a blog to write and sending Good Wishes to all my readers for richness of life beyond the financial in 2009

A Very Happy New Year to you all!

One Good Man Deserves Honour... A Nobel Peace Prize Nominee

Deep in Holocaust studies at the moment, as I have just begun "Death in World Religions" - one of my two final taught modules for my Master's degree. I'm watching the whole of Claude Lanzmann's "Shoah" over the next few days, but can only bear it for an hour at a time, so for a break, I usually go to the BBC Radio 4 home page, and flick through the news - where announcements for the latest Nobel Prizes are being made each day at the moment.

Then I realised that the Nobel Peace Prize for 2008 has not yet been announced, so that there is still time to cross my fingers for a worthy nominee, a man with whose name I have been familiar for many years.

Sir Nicholas Winton is now an indefatigable 98 years old, but in 1939 was a 29 year old stockbroker, working in Czechoslovakia. In the months before war broke out, Sir Nicholas (who I have usually heard referred to as "Nicky") organised the escape for nearly 700 mostly Jewish children, who were brought by train to the UK, after he had arranged for them to be fostered here.

He is a remarkable but modest man, whose heroic efforts were unspoken for nearly 50 years (until his wife found a scrapbook of what he had done in the attic...moral - keep a journal!). The Peace Prize Laureate is announced on Friday morning - and I for one will be keeping my fingers crossed that this good and righteous man - still fundraising enthusiastically, could receive the acknowledgement which he richly deserves.

If you would like to know more of his story, here's a very interesting (and amusing) half hour video presentation about him, made this year by the Rotary Club of Great Britain, while here is more of the story of those whose lives he saved .

Listen out on Friday morning to see if he has been honoured by the Nobel Committee. Even if not, there are many thousands of people who hold him in the greatest esteem. Someone who can look back on his life and know that he has made a difference - and how many of us can say that?

1939 -  29 year old Nicholas with one of the fortunate few children.

Ten Years Have Flown on the Wings of Time

My Mother, Lilian Mary Louvaine Latham  1915-1998

(A tribute song below - takes time to download, but is worth it. Wait until the play bar appears if you would like to listen. Music - "This Love" by Bliss)

Few words from me today, as I am revisited by grief from more than one
direction. It hardly seems possible that it was ten years ago this very
morning that I had the privilege to sit in the sacred space of death with my
beloved mother as she left this life.

Instead, I turn to remembrance and memorial, in photographs of my own
and the words of others to express what lies on the surface of my heart.

 
Mam, two years old in 1917

The Dead

The dead are always looking down on us, they say.
while we are putting on our shoes or making a sandwich,
they are looking down through the glass bottom boats of heaven
as they row themselves slowly through eternity.

They watch the tops of our heads moving below on earth,
and when we lie down in a field or on a couch,
drugged perhaps by the hum of a long afternoon,
they think we are looking back at them,
which makes them lift their oars and fall silent
and wait, like parents, for us to close our eyes.

Billy Collins

Twenty one years old

Resurrection

Is it true that after this life of ours
we shall one day be awakened by a
terrifying clamour of trumpets?

Forgive me, God,
but I console myself that the beginning
and resurrection of all of us dead
will simply be announced
by the crowing of a cock

After that we will remain
lying down a while
The first to get up
will be mother

We'll hear her, quietly
laying the fire, quietly putting
the kettle on the stove and
cosily taking the teapot out of the cupboard.

We'll be home once more.

Vladimir Holan

At last - an unexpected and joyful Nana to baby Hugh

On the Death of the Beloved   

Though we need to weep your loss,
You dwell in that safe place in our hearts,
Where no storm or might or pain can reach you.

Your love was like the dawn
Brightening over our lives
Awakening beneath the dark
A further adventure of colour.

The sound of your voice
Found for us
A new music
That brightened everything.

Whatever you enfolded in your gaze
Quickened in the joy of its being;
You placed smiles like flowers
On the altar of the heart.
Your mind always sparkled
With wonder at things.

Though your days here were brief,
Your spirit was live, awake, complete.

We look towards each other no longer
From the old distance of our names;
Now you dwell inside the rhythm of breath,
As close to us as we are to ourselves.

Though we cannot see you with outward eyes,
We know our soul's gaze is upon your face,
Smiling back at us from within everything
To which we bring our best refinement.

Let us not look for you only in memory,
Where we would grow lonely without you.
You would want us to find you in presence,
Beside us when beauty brightens,
When kindness glows
And music echoes eternal tones.

When orchids brighten the earth,
Darkest winter has turned to spring;
May this dark grief flower with hope
In every heart that loves you.

May you continue to inspire us:

To enter each day with a generous heart.
To serve the call of courage and love
Until we see your beautiful face again
In that land where there is no more separation,
Where all tears will be wiped from our mind,
And where we will never lose you again.

John O'Donohue

Still filled with love and pride - a last photograph of Lilian Latham, my beloved Mother, with Hugh

 

The picture that says a thousand words - the abiding memory with which I am left  - in my mother's eyes, the love that lasts forever.

The Exceptional Glitter of a Dragonfly's Wing

On a writing list I belong to, Ellen Moore of New Life Stories quoted the lines from Henry James "Summer afternoon - Summer afternoon... the two most beautiful words in the English language....".

I misread them as "English summer afternoon" - and though I got the quotation wrong, it was pertinent serendipity - and the reason why I have not been showing up here - again - very often. I have been seduced by English summer afternoons - and mornings - in the garden, where I have been spending my time from (almost) dawn to dusk on many days.

We had very heavy rain last night - but this morning, everything is washed fresh and clean. The pond, which has been gravitating towards a congested puddle, has filled up again, as I discovered when I went to check it just now. Peering into the depths, I noticed how murky it still was under the surface - and then, in front of my eyes, a pair of glittering wings sped past. 

The first big dragonfly of the year - and from the iridescence of the wings I suspected that it was newly emerged from its nymphal exoskeleton. I inspected the foliage around the pond - and there, amongst the rushes, was another - just emerged (you can see the exoskeleton from which it has emerged just behind it - and that of the first dragonfly that I saw just below), sunning itself in order to allow its wings to expand and dry out. Is it not an exquisite sight?

There is a lot of work to be done out in the garden - but another reason why I am spending time in the garden is to dance with the music of nature - for as my  dear on-line friend Carolyn  whose husband Arnie is very seriously ill exhorts us on her own blog - "Dance while you have the chance". Fran Redondowriter tells you more of their story and offers her own thoughts and prayers here

Carolyn and Arnie have been an inspiration to me and many others on the two writing communities we mutually belong to for several years now. Carolyn's family motto is (or should be) "When Life hands you lemons, make lemonade" - but right now, even Carolyn is lost for words as she sits with Arnie in his battle for life.

And for me - when I feel pretty hopeless and not able to do much other than listen and witness to others tough times? I go into my garden - (as I know Carolyn so often does) and I sink my fingers into the earth, to
reconnect with what is important.

I inhale the scents of the herbs, I watch the buzzards flying overhead, soaring on thermals and hoping that those who struggle at this time are lifted up on Eagles Wings. I listen to the crickets in the field next door, I watch the tadpoles in the pond as they metamorphose into little froglets and strike out with their tiny little new-frog legs to swim from one side of the pond to the other.

When I struggle with my own emotions and the emotions of others, when I am looking for glimpses of hope in a seeming sea of difficulty, I go back to nature. Wendell Berry says it more perfectly than I ever could....I may have posted this before - but it easily bears repeating...

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair in the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my
children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water and the
great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with
forethought of grief.
I come into the presence of
still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting their light.
For a time I rest in the grace of the world
and am free.

Wendell Berry

Keep Carolyn and Arnie in your thoughts, good readers - Dance while you have the chance, and take time to notice the glitter of a dragonfly's wing.

Do You Have a Larder (Pantry?)

Dear Friends of Autumn Cottage Diary 

Its been a long time since I checked in with you all – the beginning of October 2007 seems so far away in many respects (and Lily and Pippin have grown even more!). Even the New Year has been slow in kicking into action here at Autumn Cottage. But I’ve finally been prompted to put finger to keyboard  after mentions of the Slow Food Movement by Britt-Arnhild and Chel of the Yahoo Armchair Travelling group .
 

Tim goes back to college tomorrow, and I had promised him that before he did, I would make and freeze a batch of home made soup for him. These soups are something of a tradition in our family – they are very much “slow food” in their preparation, but fast in the effect that they have of bringing people from the far end of the house to the kitchen, enticed by the herby, garlic-y fragrance which floats abroad when the soup is simmering on the cooker. 

So this afternoon was already designated “soup time”, but mentions of  the interest that others have in Slow Food inspired me to take a few photographs to show just how simple the making of this root vegetable soup really is. Here’s a little gallery of images to show how it progresses – and here is the recipe. You won’t find many weights and measures in it – this is cooking the way that my (our?) mother/s did it – with plenty of tasting along the way to make sure that the things which count are there!
 

We start with this - easy!

Autumn Cottage Root Veg Slow Soup

2 large onions

½ head of celery

¼ Swede

2 large potatoes

8 medium carrots

At least 4 large cloves of garlic

A bunch of sage, rosemary and oregano

About 2 tbsp olive oil

About 1 tbsp butter

2 tsp salt

1 tsp freshly ground black pepper

 

One of the most important additions - a bunch of herbs - can you smell it yet?
 

Put the olive oil, butter and chopped or crushed garlic into a large pan and allow to sweat on a very low heat for 5 minutes – (infusion rather than immolation!). 

Peel and roughly dice all the vegetables, then add to the oil and garlic. Give all a good stir, put the lid on the pan, and allow to sweat for 15 minutes. Meanwhile, boil a kettle of water. 

Add the magic ingredients – the bunch of herbs (add any that you have – fresh are better than dried, but if dried is all you have, Italian herb mixes work well – I imagine about a tbsp would do). 

Pour boiling water over to just cover the vegetables. Lid back on, bring back to the boil, then turn down the heat and allow to simmer for an hour. 

Add 1½ cups of red lentils; continue to simmer until all the water has been absorbed. A little more water may be needed as you go along if it gets too thick – different lentils absorb different amounts of water. 

Allow to cool, removing the bunch of twigs which will be all that is left of the herbs! 

Either eat “chunky” with good granary bread, or whizz in a blender for a smoother soup. Season to taste.

(Throw nothing away! Peelings  can happily be added to the compost heap - where they will miraculously turn into Black Gold for the garden over the space of a few  months - all for FREE!)

The contents of the compost bin - greens, peelings, old paper and cardboard. Magic!

My question in the title was inspired by opening the door to the larder to find the lentils (which I then dropped all over the floor when returning them to their shelf, but that is another story – Lily and Pippin have offered to clear them up – I don’t know if I should believe them?). Every time I look in that cupboard, I have a little thrill of pleasure, to see the shelves lined with packets, pots and jars - all manner of good things. 

I was determined to keep the larder when we bought “part 2” of Autumn Cottage (then called “Myrtle Cottage”) in 1995. So many people rip them out, in favour of “integrated” storage in a fitted kitchen, but, though small (what I really long for is the bliss of a walk-in Victorian larder, complete with slate and marble shelving), it is my cool repository of magical ingredients, which will transform a pot of water and humble vegetables into wholesome soups, purees, olives and pasta which will transport me back to Italy, powders and potions which will take me travelling to the Middle East and India., What a treasure nook it is! So, do you long for or have a larder? If you do, what do you keep in it? If not, what would your ideal larder be?

[I thought that these links may be of interest, noticing that several comments to this blog have noted the use of "Pantry" for what I have termed "Larder". I've certainly learned something myself - especially that there is even a website dedicated to "Everything Pantry"!]
 

Though we have travelled three months through the fallow part of the year, dear readers, there have been many changes at Autumn Cottage – and the coming year promises to see many more. Change is often difficult, and without burdening you with tedious personal details, I have found some of the changes more challenging than I expected. Looking back, I am now trying to do what I sometimes encourage my clients to do, to find the learning in all the events that have, and continue to occur. (I am SO much better at telling other people how to live their lives than I am at living my own!) 

Alec is seeking horizons new, after leaving the work he has done for 29 years. I, in turn, am now also open to the possibility of new things in my life, new directions, new adventures, new challenges – which I hope I shall continue to meet here at Autumn Cottage. 

I still continue to study at Winchester for the moment, though the openness to new challenges may include suspending those studies for a while, while I continue to build my counselling and psychotherapy practice, which will be extending more into on-line work in the next year, and also to offer many more day classes and courses here at the cottage. The new herb garden will be another place for my lovely workshop attendees to sit,contemplate, and write. here it is, in the depths of winter. Watch this space as it develops over the year.

In fact, I am returning to some of the things that first brought me to writing “Autumn Cottage Diary” on the Internet, some 12 years ago. I still want to share life here in an English country cottage with those of you who love such things – I want to return to sharing the changing seasons of the beautiful countryside with which I am surrounded, the old buildings in the interesting towns and villages which still exist – if you know where to look for them – the old bookshops, the antiques, the crafts, the good food and drink that can also still be found. 

Not every town has been completely taken over by plate glass-windowed emporia, clones of their brother and sister shops in every other town – all lookalike “Next”, Debenhams, Homebase and Tesco. The interesting and the downright eccentric still exist! (The superstores are also great – in their own way – but often very unlovely). 

So join me through 2008, as I bring the pleasures that I enjoy daily – here in the garden and house at Autumn Cottage, and when I travel in the towns and villages of England and abroad. I’ve missed you all – thank you, so many of you, for writing and telling me how much you have missed me. Your sincere concern has been heart warming to me. 

To bow out for today, who else could I leave you with other than Pippin, Lily, and Lissie (who decided to feast a day early at Christmas, ending up on the veterinary operating table the day after Boxing Day – but that, too, is another story!)

Who's bigger now? Lissie, thin and fragile but OK after surgery.

Another computer geek in the house!

 

A belated Happy New Year to you all!

Remembering the Beloved

Lilian Mary Louvaine Latham
Sept 7 1915 - Oct 1 1998

My Mother.

Is it true that after this life of ours we shall one day
be awakened by a terrifying clamour of trumpets?

Forgive me, God,
but I console myself
that the beginning and resurrection of all of us dead
will simply be announced by the crowing of the cock.

After that we’ll remain lying down a while
The first to get up will be Mother
We’ll hear her
quietly laying the fire,
quietly putting the kettle on the stove
and cosily taking the teapot out of the cupboard.
We’ll be home once more.

(Resurrection - Vladimir Holan )

Pilgrimage to a Poet of Hope and Humanity

Four of us from the West Berks Branch of Cruse Bereavement Care made a
pilgrimage yesterday, to have the privilege of hearing Professor Ted Bowman speak at a whole day workshop, organised by the Salisbury branch of the organisation.

I have heard Ted speak before, last year in a one hour lecture, which had whetted my appetite to see and listen to him again. I also know of his work with the National Association of Poetry Therapy (NAPT) in America, and also workshops held here for Lapidus, promoting the use of writing in personal development, of which I am a member.

Ted Bowman speaks straight from heart to heart - his words touch you in places that few others manage to reach. His theme yesterday, upon which
he has lectured extensively, was "Loss of Dreams" - which in the context of the audience was most particularly related to bereavement, but as we have all no doubt experienced, can touch many other areas of life as well.

The loss of our dreams, Ted pointed out, is not the same as disappointment, but can be something much deeper and often much more hidden and difficult to observe. He used an example of the small farmers in America which reminded me of the situation In the UK, after the devastation caused by the Foot and Mouth epidemic of 2001.

Farmers expect animal diseases to occur on occasion - it is what happens in Nature. Losses, from disease or predator are part of the cycle - they are disappointments. But what they did not expect was that whole flocks of sheep  and herds of cattle (including many specialised and rare breed herds, built up sometimes over centuries) would be destroyed by Government Order, in many cases making recovery and replacement of breeding lines impossible, and taking the livelihood of the farming families away, sometimes permanently . These were shattered dreams. Dreams of who they were and of what they thought they would be passing on down through the generations had been devastated - their future pictures had been taken away.

Ted then spoke in the afternoon of how we can help recovery from loss of dreams, by finding ways of creating new dreams, of discovering ways of being hopeful for the future - even when that future may perhaps only be short, as in the case of sufferers of incurable illnesses. Life can still be helped to become worth living.

His suggestions were intensely practical, and all the time, his observations were backed up by quotations and poetry. Ted talked about places where one may find joy, especially within the Natural World - pointing the way through this poem of Wendell Berry's (which I may have quoted before, but have no hesitation in quoting once again...)

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Wendell Berry

I have now heard Ted speak for an hour and a day - I look forward to the opportunity to perhaps spend even longer next year with this gentle, respectful teacher of humanity and how to share it.

I have found my own peace of wild things today,  with the gentle clearing up of the garden as autumn approaches. We are still blessed with blue skies and warm days, but now the nights
draw in and have a chill about them. Burgeoning floral displays are dying back, leaves are falling. So the afternoon was spent, blissfully, quietly repotting pelargoniums for over-wintering, giving the many
different lavenders a haircut and putting their pots in more sheltered places, re-arranging still blooming flowers, and bringing the citrus trees indoors.

But still, the garden is beautiful. The grapes become ever more purple
on the vine, the vine leaves turn even more gloriously to shades of
yellow, russet and gold.....and even the roses have found the energy to
give one last flourish.

So enjoy with me tonight the last roses of summer - and perhaps tell me
where you find your own peace of wild things....