My tree in November

30th November is St Andrew's Day so I've decided on a vaguely Scottish theme and gone for thistles.  

According to Scottish tradition, the thistle became the national emblem after a surprise attack by Viking invaders.  One night, the Vikings tried to sneak up on a sleeping Scottish army and, to stay quiet, they went barefoot.   One of the invaders stepped on a thistle and cried out in pain, alerting the Scots who woke up, fought back, and won the battle.

You may be wondering why I've added roses, the English national flower.  Simple really.  I had a birthday a couple of weeks ago and had my final birthday lunch yesterday.  One of the ladies brought me flowers, including roses.  But no thistles.

So, how's the hibernaculum?

 The hibernaculum is coming on nicely, thank you for asking.  

Fantasy hibernaculum

I've made my sitting room extra cosy with the new fireplace and "pretend" fire.  The electric throw which I bought a couple of years ago helps, and I have reduced the amount of stuff which is visible. I already had a set of LED candles and I've ordered a second set.  The overhead light rarely goes on and I rely on small lamps.   It's all very calming.  

Fantastic hibernaculum

I'm trying to get rid of stuff and had a fantastic opportunity.  One of my friends has an adult son who is autistic and who enjoys making things.  He wants to make some "borrow bags" for our local green refill shop and was very happy to take some of my surplus fabric for the purpose.  I've given him enough to make a very lot of fabric bags.  I win (the fabric has gone), he wins (he can make things) and the shop wins (they discourage plastic bags).  So it's a happy hibernaculum.  

Hibernaculum:-  winter quarters for Roman soldiers; a place for over-wintering plants; the lair of a wintering animal.

Crafty Cows

 

One of the groups of churches I help with has a social group for widows called COWs - Companions On the Wolds and although I am not a widow, I tag along as a chaplain.  Not much pastoring is needed from me as these lovely ladies take the newly bereaved under their wings and do mutual caring, but still, I am useful to have around.  They meet for coffee or light lunches, they have days out (the visit to the International Bomber Command Centre was their idea, and sometimes they have crafty times.  Yesterday they were being crafty.  So was I!  But not altogether successfully.  To put it mildly!

I didn't get the sequencing of the strips quite right.

And I made the whole thing wrong way around.

Oops!

(I have ideas how to rescue it, don't worry. It will become a basket of flowers.)

Remember, remember the fifth of November

 When I was a child I loved Bonfire Night!  The elfin satey lot would be appalled but we always had a small box of fireworks at home.   We longed for nightfall and Father’s return from work.  He would have a long and leisurely cup of tea – I think he enjoyed prolonging the agony – and then it was out to the garden for the fun.

First there would be the bonfire to be lit.  It would have been built during the previous few weeks.  I’m sorry to say that I don’t ever remember checking for hedgehogs!  

There was a slug of magic stuff, which looking back I think was probably paraffin, a strategically applied match and whoosh!  We’d stand around for a few minutes watching that and then there would be the first fireworks.  Daddy was the only one allowed anywhere near them but we would have told him the order he was allowed to let them off.  First would be the Roman Candles which my sister and I thought were very dull.  Then Catherine wheels – much more exciting as it wasn’t unknown for them to detach themselves from whatever they had been attached to.  My sister, despite being several years older than me, didn’t like Jumping Jacks or Bangers so she’d retire to a safe distance whilst those were let off.  Then the grand finale was rockets.  Aah, rockets.  Just a few seconds of pure pleasure.  Compared to the wonderful displays of today they were very dull but we thought them wonderful.

After that Daddy would rake around the ashes of the fire and pull out the old cocoa tins which had jacket potatoes in them.  As an adult I realise that they must have been cooked in the house because no way was there time for them to cook in the bonfire but we always said that bonfire night spuds were the best potatoes of the year.  There would be chestnuts and cinder toffee and we would retire to bed tired but happy.

  (This is a rehash of a post from many years ago.  It seemed to fit in with my recent reminiscing.)