When a Country Village gets a name for being Picturesque, you may as well hang it.

Stanford was quite a nice little place when my mother moved there: a dusty little Victorian Village with a few houses huddled around a village green. Then it became famous.

I think it became famous for being pretty and quiet and out of the way, and possibly for having ‘atmosphere’. Of course, as soon as it became famous for being out of the way etc, it suddenly became very much in the way. Burned-out yuppies from every part of the country purchased land and built holiday houses. The village became a construction site. I knew the rot was terminal when they tarred the roads and put in street lights.

When a village this size suddenly becomes a tourist destination, the next step is the de-usefulization of the main street. This culminates in a situation where the tiny business district contains three antique shops that sell hideously expensive bric-a-brac, no less than five restaurants that change hands like hot potatoes, an art gallery and a tourist information center.

The only useful shops left are a general dealers in the old style, a filling station with convenience store, a greasy take-away foods and a library. Its not much use when you’re looking for chicken to serve up to an invalid – you can, however, purchase the ailing patient a painting or an antique brass whatnot.

The old, cheerfully doggy set with their scuffed walking shoes and shaggy sweaters have given way to the sort of 4x4 drivers who need tarred roads (which is probably why they tarred the things in the first place- for the 4x4’s) and who complain about everything from dogs (they bark, you know) to kid’s parties (a mad debauch at lunch time on a Saturday, for shame!).

I don’t like this town much any more, really.

Today’s pics: Stanford, of course. At least the mountains are still magnificent.

Sometimes, you smile anyway

There have been some really horrible times for me in the last weeks, but its funny how there are always things to smile about no matter how bad things get.

On the night Mom died, I dreamed that a strong wind was blowing, and when I jumped, I was carried for miles on it. It was fun. ‘Look mom, I’m flying!’. The next morning, I went to Windt Broers (Wind brothers) – the undertakers and made the necessary arrangements with them.

My aunt seems to think that my dream was deeply spiritual, but I think it was just a subconscious association with the name ‘Windt’. Whatever it was, it was a darned good dream, and I’ve no objection to being thought spiritual, especially since I'm not and would like to be.

Then there was the matter of the will. How I hunted for it. How my brother jittered about the fact that I was still hunting. I found it in the end - it was in the in the fridge. I love you Mommy.

My brother and I worked on each others’ nerves again, and after an incident in which he stormed out of the house in a huff because I insisted that I’d find the missing cat, and he thought I oughtn’t try, I made an excuse (I’d caught the cat) and drove the 400km home through pouring rain and in the middle of the night.

I’ve done the trip eight times in the last weeks with never a problem, but of course two ‘o clock in the morning in the middle of nowhere in the pitch dark and in a fierce storm is the worst possible time to have a flat tyre – so of course that’s what happened. Its funny, now – the cat and I, and him howling like anything while I wanted to howl like anything and the wind howling louder than either of us ever could while the rain came bucketing down out of utter blackness.

The only event of unrelieved sadness was having to put the oldest dog down. She collapsed next day and there was nothing for it. I suppose it goes with the territory.

Then there was the funeral: I didn’t want to go, but of course, one must. I dreaded it until a shaggy mostly-collie-dog walked into the church and investigated everything, running up and down the aisle and sniffing the organist and what have you. My mom would have loved that, and everyone knew she’d have loved it, so no-one chased the dog away. It was better than flowers, really it was.

Today’s pic: another part of my mom’s priceless legacy - Hamish 'ball-biter' Zoutendyk of I-forget-which kennel.

A Living Legacy

I'm back after a fashion. Its been a pretty torrid time. Mom's operation didn't go well, and shortly after we were told that her cancer is widespread, rapid and terminal she had to be re-hospitalized, had a heart attack, developed water on the lung and goodness knows what besides.

As I write, she hovers between life and death in Intensive Care. They've put her under sedation, so she won't know that I'm not there. There isn't any point in being there to watch her sleeping and wired up like the bionic mom anyway.

During the week that she was at home, I nursed her, but now there's nothing to do. If she temporarily recovers from this lot, I'll be needed, so its best I save my time off. In the mean time my brother and worse-than-useless sister in law turned up, and they can keep an eye on things.

I'm pretty proud of myself. I handled the single-handed home nursing darned well and tolerated various bodily secretions and excretions without turning a hair. I remained cheerful (at least on the surface) and in control (ditto).

On the night that she was re-admitted to hospital, I had a good cry and a rant and behaved like a mad thing, but there was nobody to see, so it didn't hurt anyone and it turned out to be constructive.

Then my brother turned up and the first thing he did was to point out which of her antiques he would like to have. I didn't murder him. I think I deserve a pat on the back for that.

My sister-in-law is a bit ghoulish and can't resist chattering about death and illness with hardly a pause for breath. I didn't murder her either, but its a jolly good thing I left them to it or I wouldn't have been able to hold it in and there'd have been bad blood or lots of blood depending on how badly I let go. As it is, we parted on good terms.

They're useless with mom's pets: one of the first things they did was to speculate as to how to stop them sleeping in my mom's room, which they've always done. I raised a hackle at that, and so the status quo remains intact, but I'll be rescuing them from the tender mercies on Sunday when they'll move to my house. I haven't had pets for a while, but now I'll have four dogs and two cats. My brother wants to have them put down, but I promised mom I'd take care of them and that's what I'll do.

If she recovers a little, she'll be moving to my town where she can either stay with me or, more likely, be in a hospice or frail care where I can regularly visit her. To be honest with you, I rather hope she dies while under sedation. It will be a mercy to her. Sounds brutal, but its true. She even said 'If I was a dog, you'd have put me down. I wish I was a dog.'

Oh well, I don't mean to post about this too often, but its pretty much what's on my mind at present. Today's pic: one of the dogs that's soon to be mine - a good legacy to be trusted with - and much better than a bunch of antique furniture I won't have space for anyway!

I want to have a breakdown too, damn it!

So I'm off to the charming village of Stanford to care for my mom after her operation. Poor mum. She's phoned me almost every day with 'contingency plans': 'If I die, do such and such. If I'm slow to heal, this and that must happen. Here's money for my funeral in case you need it.' Its more than bit depressing although I appreciate that she feels more comfortable knowing that there are plans in place.

Work, after two weeks of late nights and two disrupted weekends, should take care of itself. Like mom, I've been making plans and contingency plans. I might or might not get online while I'm away. I hope I will, I want to keep up with my blog and my blogging friends.

In the mean time, my number 1 'find', a part-time lady to temp in the office, has had a 'bit of a wobbly' to quote her own words, and won't be be back for work. The fact that she got her dad to phone in for her, along with the fact that she's supposed to be a friend of mine and could have spoken to me herself (I'm personnel officer - hardly a terrifying prospect) rankles slightly, but although her workload is zilch, she doesn't have to support herself, her own health is good and her parents aren't even thinking of dying, I'll take her word for it that her stress is extreme.

Sigh. I suppose I should be glad I don't have her problems (whatever those may be). Will ensure that she gets tons of sympathy even though I could use some myself.

I'll be seeing you all as and how I can.

Today's pic: a dam wall. Seems appropriate, somehow. I may not break! I must not break!

Millennium hand and shrimp!

I always liked the idea of being a mutterer. Terry Pratchett uses the word to describe a beggar called 'foul old Ron' who follows his targets while muttering sheer nonsense: 'Millennium hand and shrimp.. I told them, I told them...' until they pay him to go away.

Well, so far no-one's paying me to shut up and inflicting bad art and worse poetry haven't achieved my end, so I suppose I'll just have to come to terms with not being a proper mutterer after all.

It was always going to be a long shot though, because I don't smell bad enough. I don't think I'll work on that aspect of being a mutterer, because I have a nice bath with hot water on tap. I might have given it a shot at my old place, except that buckets of cold water seemed preferable at the time.

So if I really wanted to be a mutterer, I'd have been in a good position to do so, but maybe I don't want it after all which leads me to a song as follows: Ahem... twiddles guitar.. looks self-conscious... chunders forth a shaky riff...

Refrain:

I could get what I want

If I knew what I want

Wish I could find a way

To find out what I want!

Verse 1:

Met a guru so old

And he made very bold

He said do just what I say

You know I've found the way

So I gave him my cash

Guess it was kind of rash

I was trying to buy a way

To find out what I want

Verse2

Met a man with a pill

That could give you a thrill

He said: 'Try this little thing'

'The answer Lies within!'

Now I'm feeling so strange

And my mind's rearranged

And I still don't know a way

To find out what I want.

Verse 3

So I went up a hill

And I sat very still

And suddenly I knew

Exactly what I want

Now there's no hit and miss

And the answer is this

I really want

To know what I want

Bows out to thunderous applause and increased notoriety. Mutters 'Millennium hand and shrimp'

Today's pic. A hill on which enlightenment may or may not be found.

Poetry

Its time for something a little lighter, so I'm thinking of a poem I wrote when I was in my teens. I'm awful at poetry, so I really should inflict some on you. Brace yourself: barf bags at the ready! Here goes!

Filbert was a carpenter,

A man of some renown

He had a little corner shop

On the quiet side of town

One day, a block of solid teak

Sprouted legs and grew beak

Down it jumped from the storage shelf

Did a dance and shook itself

Imagine Filbert's great surprise

When it appeared before his eyes!

Then: 'Filbert!' it cried with a voice like a lash

'I want to know where you keep your cash!'

It grabbed up the safe and snaffled the key

And was off down the road just as fast as could be

The teak block ran as fast as it could

And soon you could smell the burning of wood

Filbert could see how before it got far

The teak was just a smear of ash on the tar.

And there is a moral in all this my sons:

If you're a blockhead, don't pull any fast ones!

***

Voila! Ridculosity rules!

More flowers - I haven't had time to do any non-work-related photography what with seven day work and suchlike.

Godliness and Lies

I really hate telling lies. It causes a lot of heart-searching at times. I like keeping my conscience clear, but there are times when the truth will have terrible consequences to the recipient.

I was in just such a quandary yesterday when my mother who is a very ‘on fire’ Pentecostal confronted me about my assertion on Facebook (Which it never occurred to me she might see) that I am agnostic.

To her, this is ‘rejecting Christ’ and a repentant murderer is more likely to see the pearly gates than I am. She finds it personally hurtful and I could sense her withdrawal from me. In her faith, you don’t even eat at the same table with filth such as I. I know this because the same issues tore our family apart when I was in my teens and I began to openly question matters of faith.

I could explain that uncertainty is not the same as rejection, but to her, the uncertain are as bound for hell as the evil. She’s just confided in me that she might have terminal cancer, and I’m to go and support her for two weeks during an operation later this month.

She has enough to worry about without having to worry about my immortal soul, and if she spends the entire two weeks attempting my conversion, we will both become frustrated and upset. She needs to trust me now. I’m her support in this difficult time.

So I lied. I spun an enormous and almost unbelievable yarn (Which I’m ashamed to even mention) and managed to convince her that I’m born again enough to be trustworthy. I hated it.

It made me feel sick telling such lies, though I’m not doing it for my comfort but for hers. It would be pointless to debate this with her, and now is the worst possible time to embark on a course that will end in alienation unless I give in – which means a lie sooner or later – as I doubt she’ll convince me of anything I’m not convinced of yet.

I didn’t sleep well last night. I feel awful, even though I’ve rationalized as follows: If a lie is told in order to ensure positive and unselfish ends – if it builds another person up in some way – then its ok to lie. The truth should be told, but only if its constructive.

So why do I still hate myself?

Today’s pic: I’m starting to get to know the camera…