An Idiot with a Pruning Saw

Trees, Derbyshire

Today could go one of three ways.

I could do something creative. There are millions of unused words out there and I could knock some into shape and make a poem. That sounds like hard work. Obviously to the millions of people out there getting dusty or muddy or oily it doesn’t sound much like work, but it is.

Or I could wake Julia with a cup of tea and a kind word. If I want to live dangerously I could wake Julia and tell her I need breakfast . . .

Or I may just write more blog. It’s not demanding, and I can pretend it’s practice for poetry. Seems like a good idea. Certainly better than waking Julia before she is ready.

So, an acacia tree, as mentioned in the last post. It was about thirty feet tall, almost dead and sited between two neighbours. It was actually in the garden of the lady who lived behind my customer. The two of them were not happy with each other over various disputes and I was usually caught in the middle. My customer objected to the virtually dead tree hanging over her garden, and worried about something dropping off. The neighbour, who was usually very big on enforcing her rights, wasn’t quite so keen on fulfilling her obligations (ie spending money on getting a specialist to take it down)  and clearly had no intention about sorting things out.

Eventually, I told my customer that I would get rid of the offending branch and we would have to leave it at that. So out came the pruning saw and the extension pole. I couldn’t quite reach, so I unfolded my general purpose platform and stood on that. I could at that point stretch up and saw into the branch.

You may already have spotted the basic flaw in the plan. I was about to saw a fairly chunky branch that was directly overhead as I strained to reach it.  In order to get it done before the neighbour noticed I decided to get it all done in one cut. This was another problem. It would generally be bad for the tree too – you should really do this sort of thing with a couple of cuts to keep it all tidy, but as the tree was almost leafless and clearly failing I decided not to worry too much.

Trees near Slaidburn

Anyway, I got sawing. It was a lovely sharp saw (until one of the kids used it to “help” me in the garden one day) and the cut went well. As it got to the final quarter I realised the weight of the branch was about to complete the job for me without waiting for the cutting to finish. That’s why I should have cut it into pieces and made two cuts for the final “cut”. I knew the theory, but the theory doesn’t allow for things like argumentative neighbours and wanting to get it done quickly.

It was round about that point that I realised the branch was falling, that I was balanced precariously and that my hard hat was still in the car.  It was about four feet long and 4-6″ in diameter.  And it was accelerating.

I’m not particularly quick or athletic, so jumping out of the way wasn’t an option, and I styled it out, bent backwards to avoid it hitting my head and casually diverted its fall by shoving it away with my left forearm.

It made quite a dent in the ground, and took about ten minutes for the feeling to return to my arm, at which point I wished it hadn’t bothered. Eventually it stopped hurting and I felt a great feeling of relief that it had all passed off so well. The notable thing about it was that for several weeks after the incident the scab on my arm kept casting out bits of bark which had forced there way in when it hit me.

And that is the story of an idiot with a pruning saw. It ranks up with the story about how I fell out of a pear tree and learnt to use my own ladders instead of trusting those provided by customers. However, enough of trees and stupidity for one day.

Trees are not your friend.

Wingfield manor. Mary Queen of Scots stayed here.

From Three to One

When I finished my last post I had three ideas for poems in my head. I have written two down ad they are half complete. One of them will stay that way as I have hit a snag that I probably can’t get past. The third, I forgot. One in three is actually not bad for me. Then another thought starts – even the one I’m working on isn’t as good as it sounded when it was in my head. It’s about a robin singing outside the chapel at the crematorium.

Robin at Budby Flash

I need a flower bed for the poem, and I can’t for the life of me remember what was in the bed I saw, apart from holly. I don’t want holly as that’s something for winter poems. I could have lilac, I like lilac. I could then mention the scent and maybe weave in a bit of death symbolism, but that would mean that I would have to make the poem occur a month earlier, at which point I have to be careful about adjusting other things which may appear. it all become more difficult to match up. I will, I think, go for rhododendrons. Not as good as lilac, but OK. They are flowering now and they are evergreen and a bit barren underneath – like holly. On the other hand, I do like lilacs . . .

But I wouldn’t get the space and the rustle of dry leaves if I used lilacs.

Then I need a robin. Not a problem. The problem comes because we have so many superstitions about robins. I have been checking them up as background reading (I like to check facts, even in a poem). I am now going to have to sift through and make sure I avoid becoming diverted.

Robin

Finally, there is the tree it flew into. It was a birch, but I always end up with birch trees. There are some nice acacias outside the doctor where I had my blood test in the morning before setting off. It needs to be a tree where you can see it singing, so an acacia will do, but it’s probably better to keep it as a birch.

I once came close to injuring myself with an acacia tree, but that’s a post for another time, or for a poem entitled “An Idiot with a Pruning Saw”.

 

A Film Show a Surprise and a Superstition

Robin

I went to the funeral of one of my aunts yesterday. I used to be well-supplied with aunts – thirteen that I had met and there were several I never met, so haven’t counted.  They have now dwindled to two. Several of them were actually great aunts (and several were great-great aunts) and two were actually second cousins who were approximately aunt age. One is still alive and another, in South Africa, hasn’t answered a letter for a year or two, so it’s a Schrödinger’s Cat situation, where she is still alive until we get a letter to tell us differently.

I have been very bad at keeping in touch. As such, I have spent most of the night awake, contemplating ways I could have done better and thinking about family history.

There was a screen in the crematorium chapel, displaying my aunt’s photograph and (mis-spelt name). At her mother’s funeral the vicar used the wrong name all the way through – using her official first name when she was always known by her second name. Her father, in turn, was sent medals by a grateful nation in 1919, where his name was spelt wrongly on them and when the King sent his widow a memorial scroll, they spelt her name wrong too.

Some people are destined to achieve greatness, some are mere footnotes in history and, dragging along at the rear comes my family, with its name spelt wrong.

In a way, it was good to see the extension of family history into modern times – a century of misspelt names.

It was, as funerals go, well organised and upbeat and, as a final touch, a robin came out after the rain and sang us on our way. Of course, it’s only a superstition about robins, but, as they say, other superstitions are available.

Robin - singing

Robin – singing

Part of the slide show featured my aunt’s wedding photo in 1961. It was wet and blustery day. I was given some confetti to throw, which I did. Nobody had told me I had to wait for the bride and groom and it fell in a lump into a puddle. On being told of my error I tried to retrieve it for re-use, but was told to leave it and try again with a new, dry batch. What struck me as I looked at the picture, was that I think there are only three of us left who were there that day. Possibly two (see note about Schrödinger’s Cat). My sister had been left with a babysitter as she was considered too small for the weather. She still nurses a grudge about that.

It’s a surprise to look round and realise that you are the oldest in the room. It’s time for a poem, I think. First published in Contemporary Haibun Online 20.1 Spring 2024.

The Next Funeral

Amazon reviews indicate I am not the only person to have searched for a black tie with next day delivery. I could have sworn it was in the car’s glove compartment, neatly folded from the last time I wore it. My one white shirt hangs, ghostlike, from the bedroom picture rail and my timeless drab tweed jacket hangs next to it. The tie, I suddenly remember, is in my jacket pocket.

Tomorrow, as I nod to cousins, we will remark that we really must try to meet without someone dying. My uncle, who has just turned ninety, tells his brother in law to wrap up warm or he’ll be next. One day, I suppose, I will realise there is no obvious candidate to be next . . .

in church the sun
shines through an angel’s robe
bubbles trapped in blue glass
I wonder whose breath is
captured forever


					

Following Up and Bits & Pieces

I was recently asked for a description of various forms of Japanese poetry. I think you should find all you need here.  There are links in that one, which is about tanka and tanka prose, which will take you to haiku and haibun. One of the tanka links no longer works. If I remove it I them have to change the text, so am leaving it as I am short of time and am not a perfectionist.

The real way to write poetry of any type, as I have said before, is to pick up a pen and start writing. Eventually it will need typing but you’re a blogger, so you can already do that. Then email some off to editors.

If they are accepted, you are a genius. Well done, come back and tell me how you did it. Then tell everyone you learnt it all from me.

If your initial poems are rejected, join the club. Write some better ones and send them off. Each rejection hardens you up to cope with rejection, so failure is useful.

This year I have made 44 submissions and have had 18 acceptances, 17 rejections and have 9 answers pending. It’s not such a good rate as last year, but I’m writing to more places rather than just the ones that suit me. The point is to do something new rather than rack up an impressive ratio of accepted poetry.

Orange Parker Pen

I am, as i have said, looking at changing things round a bit. It may not see me improving or becoming more successful but it will get me out of a rut and make me use my brain differently.

Meanwhile, Sunday brought two emails, one accepting a haibun and one accepting a haiku. The ones that weren’t used (six haiku and two haibun) can go into the submissions for the coming month.

I need one lot of 10-15 and one lot of four for the 15th of the month. I now have enough. It’s a help and takes some of the pressure off.

Having said that, I just went to look at what I need to do. Even with this progress I still have quite a lot of work ahead of me. OK, I have three weeks to do it in,  but I am at a funeral in Norwich later today and on Thursday I will be messing about delivering the car for repair.

My Orange Parker Pen. I just wrote a poem about it, as all my hints to parker have come to nothing. It was rejected. So I sent it to somebody else.

 

A Few Notes and a Count – (Day 157 Post 158)

As things stand it is Day 157 as I write and this will be post 158, so I have caught up with my posting after the time I took off for the wedding.  This has been assisted by finding a couple of drafts which I have brought back to life, which meant I just needed to add a few bits and pieces to the already existing text. I’ve also wiped off a few drafts which were clearly going nowhere.

In the last week or two I have also sneaked in a couple of extra poetry submissions to proper poetry magazines (I have decided that a move away from the Japanese forms is required at this moment. It’s a change of emphasis rather than a career change. I need to expand my horizons again and, now that I am (almost) immune to rejection I am pressing forward.

Pomegranate wallpaper

So far I have made six submissions in the last 10 days and had three rejections. I’m trying not to read too much into the speed of rejection. However, I clearly have work to do.

Talking of which, I need to start my numismatic writing again and get a few more things in hand. It’s OK saying I’ve caught up with the posting on the blog, but there’s always more to do. Lots more to do. Really, I should have started 50 years ago. I always meant to, but other things sort of took over.  If there is an afterlife, and if they run a version of Mastermind my specialist subjects are likely to include Goof Intentions, Procrastination and Unfinished projects. And we all know where it ends up when you pave a road with good intentions.

That’s it for now. If I don’t post now the count will become inaccurate.

Purple Poppies

Heroes – how do we write history?

This is another resurrected draft from the past (last edited in 2020 to be precise). It was originally titled Ten Heroes, but faltered after the first three and started lookin g out of step with modern standards. I try not to upset people, so it sort of faded away.

It is presented here with a few additional notes and a new title.

I could probably list a thousand heroes, and these ten aren’t necessarily the best of the bunch. They are also mainly white, male and violent, because that was how boys were, growing up in the 1960s and 70s. We didn’t grow up wanting to work in a laboratory or sit at a desk writing computer code. We knew about scientists, because Mad Scientists were a staple character of the sort of fiction I used to read, but, I didn’t even use a computer until I was 29. I then didn’t use another one for another five years.

Number one is Edward Wilson. He was part of Scott’s expedition to the South Pole. All polar explorers in those days were heroes. We see people at the Poles these days with modern fabrics, high energy rations, sat-nav and an armada of back-up vehicles. They tell you how cold it is and how hard they are finding it. Wilson and his contemporaries didn’t have all that back-up and technology. The Norwegians knew a bit about snow and dogs, and they were first to the Pole but despite this un-British efficiency (and killing their dogs to feed to the surviving dogs) they were still heroic. The British were bumbling idiots by comparison, but nearly made it despite all their disadvantages (including a leader who was most definitely not in the same class as Amundsen).

-Edward_A._Wilson

It could have been Amundsen here, or Oates, or even Shackleton. In fact, I went straight to Oates as my first pick, but then reconsidered. They would all have been worthy of the place, but Wilson’s mother bred poultry (as many fine people do) and, like me, he’s called Wilson. He was also a naturalist, a doctor and he caught TB whilst working with the poor in London. He’s a much more rounded character than Oates and that’s why he’s here.

Number two is Eric Liddell. Every list of heroes needs a rugby player. You could probably list ten rugby players who were all heroes, but that seems unfair to football. I will be listing one footballer later in the list.

Liddell is probably best known from Ian Charleston’s portrayal of him in Chariots of Fire. He refused to take part in the heats of the 100 metres because they were on Sunday and his religious principles stopped him doing that. The film wasn’t quite accurate about all the details, but that’s film for you. He raced in the 400 metres instead and won it in world record time. It’s difficult to think of a modern athlete doing that.

Eric Liddell

He was also a Scottish Rugby International with seven appearances in what was then the Five Nations Championship.

He turned his back on sporting success and returned to China, the country of his birth, to work as a Christian Missionary. You could argue that this was just the acceptable face of Colonialism and racism, if you want to put a modern interpretation on his life, but you can’t deny that he was a sincere man and that his last years, spent as a prisoner of the Japanese, were appreciated by his colleagues in the camp. One went as far as to say: ‘ It is rare indeed that a person has the good fortune to meet a saint, but he came as close to it as anyone I have ever known.’

In these days of rewriting history it is good to know that the Chinese have a statue to him, and in some of their record books he is claimed as the first Chinese Olympic medallist. As he was born in China, died in China, and spent most of his life in China, you can see their point.

There are of course. other rugby players who could have filled this slot- Edgar Mobbs for one, and  James Peters for another. They were both heroes in their own way. Mobbs is a typical Great War story and Peters is England’s first black player, though much of the interest in his story is also about the clash of cultures between the two codes of rugby. For the sake of completeness I will add that the first non-white rugby union international player was Alfred Clunies-Ross, who played for Scotland in the first ever international match in 1871. Scotland won. However, being the first to do something isn’t necessarily the same as being a hero.

My third hero is Bert Trautman. This is despite him being a footballer and a foreigner. He was a decorated war hero, despite fighting on the wrong side in WW2 and he went on to sporting immortality when he carried on playing in the 1956 FA Cup Final despite breaking his neck. At this point I started to run out of steam on this project.

Part of the problem was that many of my heroes are, as previously noted, white, British and violent. And men. It felt a bit out of step to carry on so I suffered a crisis of conscience and let it drift.

This is a bit unfair on the men of the Shangani Patrol, who deserve to be more widely recognised, but Rhodes was coming in for a lot of criticism at the time and I didn’t want to get involved, particularly as it is also known as Wilson’s Last Stand. Not that too many liberal historians read the blog. Rather than fall into the trap of writing something that can be criticised as being out of step with modern sensibility I will leave it to a Matabele leader called Mjaan to have the last word.

We were fighting men of men, whose fathers were men before them. They fought and died together. Those who could have saved themselves chose to stay and remain and die with their brothers. Do not forget this. You did not think the white men were as brave as the Matabele: but now you must see that they are men indeed, to whom you are but timid girls.

Not only does this prevent me being racist, but brings sexism into the argument on how we write history.

 

 

Third Post of the Day

Julia’s new bowl – finished with wax so not to be used with food. You will be OK with nuts. Myself, I don’t see a problem but she has been lectured on it. If reports are to be believed, a little wax is not the worst thing I have eaten from shared bowls.

Spoiler Alert! Brace yourselves. This is the third post of the day. Number One is here and Number Two is here. You can probably get the gist of things but you will miss my masterful buildup of suspense. It probably isn’t worth worrying about, just thought I’d warn you.

Number One is an old post resurrected from 2018. I didn’t get on with it but when I cleared out my drafts I could never bring myself to trash it. I even managed to find the photographs to go with it.

Number Two poses a question about whether or not my keyboard change over was trouble free. And here is my answer.

No.

I unplugged the old one, plugged in the new one and . . . my world fell apart. Despite the promises from the manufacturer it was not a trouble free substitution. The screen size kept moving as I scrolled. I made sure that all my keys were set right and tried again. Same thing. When I tried to search for a way to remedy this I kept getting a strange screen coming up.

I was not happy.

So I plugged the old keyboard in to search for a remedy.

But it kept on doing it.

An idea formed. If the new keyboard is playing up and the old one is now playing up when it was OK before, could it be that the computer is at fault?

Switch off. Wait 15 seconds. Switch on. Plug the new keyboard in. It works!

I have no idea what went wrong, but I’m not really bothered as long as the fault doesn’t return. The new one is crisp in action, has no saggy keys and is much quieter in use – something that Julia used to complain about when I stayed up late to type. So far it only has one crumb in it. I needed a sandwich to keep my spirits up and one dropped. I tried to get it out but it disappeared under the “m” key and I don’t feel inclined to start dismantling a brand new keyboard.

And, talking of returns, the woodpecker came back. Well, almost. The one that came back (we missed a photo) had more extensive and more colourful underparts and had a red spot on the back of its neck, meaning that we had a female yesterday and a male today. It had a good time hacking away at the fat balls. We are hoping it will return.

Header picture is Julia’s new bowl. Then a heron and a gannet. They are always good and, being big, are easy to photograph.

Gannets at Bempton

 

 

 

The Keyboard Arrives

Young starlings gather on a neighbour’s TV aerial

Two days ago, I wrote a post, left it and never resumed it until it was past midnight, thus missing a day. Again.

Yesterday, on posting it, I found I had a new badge – for a palindrome post. It was 434 words long. Is this really something worth celebrating? Would it not be better to improve the system rather than develop a fatuous reward system?

As I struggle to keep up with the “improvements” and find the money to pay for them, do I really need to be treated like a child too?

I had another a few days ago – “Got carried Away”  – for writing a comment longer than the post. It was either a six word story or a picture with a short caption. They weren’t specific regarding which post it was (it could have been either) , but either way, it doesn’t take much effort to exceed the length of the post and even if it was worth mentioning, it’s not a significant number of words.

Dunnock on the fence – a study in brown

After writing the words above (using my new, efficient and quiet keyboard) I went to read up on the so-called “achievements”. I found a way of switching them off, or thought I ddi, but, as usual, couldn’t manage the instructions. Then, as you will already know if you are reading in order, I decided to finish a draft from 2018. I was amazed to find I have 75 drafts as I was sure I kept clearing them. Obviously I kept some. I will be culling the rest soon as most of them are going nowhere. Some, in fact, are just titles that I decided to save, but have never used.

It looks like those “achievement” badges have got under my skin and made me do something. Curse you WP!

As for the keyboard, I took it out of the box, removed the plastic bag, thought of waste, and plugged it in.

Female blackbird – nature lies to us again – it’s brown!

Did it all go well?

No, of course not.

Am I going to tell you what happened? Yes . . .

. . . in my next thrilling installment.

Photos are Julia molesting topiary – she can never resist it – and some brown bird photos. Life can’t be all about woodpeckers.

And again . . .

 

 

Cleethorpes Pier – an old draft resurrected

Here we have a post that has been hanging around since September 2018.

Most of it is self-explanatory. I was obviously having a bad day and enthusiasm was not in great supply – a trip through North Lincolnshire will do that to you. I never did get on with the book on piers (just like I never get on with the book about anything – it’s over 50 years since I formed an ambition to write a book and I still haven’t done it. This is pitiful, I admit. However, I have learnt a lot along the way. As we started visiting piers my arthritis and walking began to get worse, we slowed down a bit and then, the next year, we had lockdown. That’s my excuse. I will now pass you over to the original text of the draft and go to see if I can find photos. If not, it will be published without photos. (I did find the photos – they were in August rather than September 2018).

Freddie Frinton’s Blue Plaque. The term “entertainer” was accurate in the 1960s but I fear it wouldn’t apply in modern times. I’ve seen “Dinner for One” and can only marvel at it’s long-running success.

The reason that I’m resurrecting this? I was reading an article on those “achievements” that keep cropping up, and, after getting annoyed at the manipulation involved, I became immersed in reading about them. Yes, it’s another rabbit hole, be warned. Anyway, it inspired me to look at my drafts, and I thought, that though I hate myself for falling for it, that if I’ve saved this for seven and a half years I really should finish it.

Since saying I was going to write a book about visiting piers I have found it increasingly difficult to actually write about visiting piers. I suspect this is what often happens.  The words below this line were written in 2018 and have not been altered. You will then find some more words from 2026. How time flies.

We went to Cleethorpes a couple of months ago but I haven’t written about it yet. This is probably what writers call writer’s block, but I’m a blogger and we just call it laziness. As I’m going to visit a few more piers next week it’s probably time to get on with some work.

Julia pressing a penny – a fascinating machine.

We approached Cleethorpes through Grimsby, which is not a name that inpires confidence. It’s a throwback to Lincolnshire’s Viking past, the suffix -by is a Viking word meaning homestead. Lincolnshire is full of village names ending in -by. Grim is a name often associated with Odin, the top man in Norse mythology, so may not be a grim as it sounds.. He was also known as Woden, so when we visited Grimsby on a Wednesday we have two Odin references in one trip as Wednesday is Woden’s day. Even after a thousand years the Vikings are still present.

As Kipling said –

That if once you have paid him the Dane-geld
You never get rid of the Dane.

Grimsby and Cleethorpes don’t have a great reputation for affluence and the road through Grimsby, though clean and neat, didn’t look overly prosperous. It had the look of a place stuck in the 1960s with a number of more modern shops offering discount carpets and things of that nature.

Prize Winning Fish and Chips on the pier  – claimed, at the time of our visit, to be the largest fish and chip restaurant in the country. It doesn’t seem to say that these days.

The docks, which we drove past, seemed full of gleaming cars. I’m not sure whether they were coming in or going out, but I assume they were coming in as there are no car factories in this area. That would suggest there’s money somewhere for new cars.

I’ve only been to Cleethorpes once before.

(At that point, on 9 September 2018, the post stopped. I now start it again for a few lines.)

The last visit was for a junior rugby match. I can’t remember the details, but several of us went to Cleethorpes afterwards. It was a bit like Shangri-la for me, if Shangri-La had shops selling buckets, spades and rock. When we lived in Lincolnshire, many years ago, Cleethorpes was always just above the area my parents would visit, so I always had to make do with Skegness and dream of the exotic delights of Cleethorpes.

A sight that is growing less common as time goes on.

In truth, there are none. It’s a decent enough place but no better than Skegness, though the remains of the pier do house an award-winning fish and chip shop. It’s just an accident of geography that It’s a lot easier to get to Skegness rather than Cleethorpes. If it were the other way round, I would be happy to visit Cleethorpes and give Skegness a miss.

The Pier

A Mosaic of a Life

We had a great spotted woodpecker in the garden this morning – Julia saw it and managed to get to a camera before it slipped away. She only managed one shot, but it was good. They are not rare in gardens, but we have been waiting eighteen months to see one.

Not the world’s most impressive bird, particularly for those of you who live in tropical paradises, or even Maine, but it’s quite bright for Britain. I could probably have edited it slightly better, but this way you see less of the fence, which needs painting. It has no red on its head so is probably a mature female. Males have a red nape and juveniles have a red cap.

She washed a yellow happi coat  in what they call a hygiene wash yesterday. It used to be a boil was, even though it only gets up to 60 degrees C. The yellow dye is not colourfast at that temperature and we ended up with a lot of yellowish underwear and tea towels. That doesn’t matter, but she also dyed a favourite t-shirt and is a little downcast by it.

Bouncing back from yesterday’s adversity I have found a poetry magazine that is accepting submissions, and it will suit the five I had returned yesterday. Tonight I will tighten them up and then I will send them. Even if they are returned again, it will be good to show confidence.

These are the small things that make up my day.

Poppies growing from cracks in concrete – I really must try to get some established around here.

And, of course, naps.

We also prepared a box of stuff that No 1 son left behind on his visit, and presents for the grandson’s first birthday. International postage has got more complicated over the years, and more expensive.  I cut the box down to make sure it passed as a small parcel in both height and weight, then arranged for the Royal Mail to collect it tomorrow. It is considerably cheaper if you book it via the internet rather than taking it into a Post Office. About £11 in this case, which seems wrong. The Royal mail and the Post Office should work together. Soon all post offices will be closed down, I expect, through lack of business, and people won’t have anywhere local to conduct business as the internet will have taken over.

Puffins at Bempton – they are lovely birds, but always seem a bit glum. This one appears to be contemplating throwing himself off a cliff. However, along with that mournful expression his creator gave him wings, which will prevent any unfortunate events.