Treats

 Once my hibernaculum time starts I shall want a few treats.  I’ve had a few ideas of luxury on a budget but all suggestions gratefully accepted!

Retirement has taught me that luxury is not necessarily about having lots of money. It is about enjoying what you have, taking your time, and occasionally treating yourself.  

During the winter I often buy myself a cheap bunch of flowers at the supermarket.  I think my favourites are alstroemeria.  They are so pretty and they always last at least two weeks.  Spray carnations are another good buy  Flowers do not inspect their containers before agreeing to look pretty. A clean jam jar will do perfectly well.

A day with nothing in the diary is a favourite luxury of mine.  A comfortable chair, a cosy throw, an audiobook and a little knitting or sewing is a real treat.  There is a difference between being lazy and deliberately making room for rest. Retirement should surely allow us to enjoy a little more of the latter.

I really enjoy a properly set tray with coffee and a cup and saucer and maybe a small cake or biscuit.  Mugs are fine but when I use my pretty cups and saucers I feel as if I am spoiling myself. 

Sadly I can no longer take long hot baths but a hot shower, fresh bedding and nightwear and some lovely hand cream to use before bed makes an ordinary evening feel positively luxurious.

The secret is not to buy more things. It is often to make better use of the things we already own.  None of these things requires a large bank balance. Some require nothing at all.

Luxury is not about how much we spend. It is about how much pleasure we allow ourselves.  We have spent enough years saving things for best. In retirement, perhaps it is time to make ordinary days a little more special.

 

 

Immorality in the kitchen

 

Gradually, slowly, bit by bit, I am decluttering the kitchen.  It's not easy because I have to enlist the help of friends to reach some places but I am getting the feeling that I am winning.

However, there is one cupboard which still has to be tackled.  In that cupboard is a hotbed of iniquity and immorality.  It is the cupboard where I store my storage tubs. 

I save all sorts of recyclables to reuse as freezer and fridge containers.  I wash them carefully and put them away but tubs breed.  What’s more, because they are creatures of no restraint, the resultant offspring are totally unpredictable and lids and tubs are produced which bear little relationship to each other.

Whilst my views on many things are liberal, I find this sort of activity in my kitchen cupboards totally unacceptable and I have therefore decided to come the heavy and impose restraints.  No longer are unmarried tubs and lids allowed into the cupboard.  They have to be stored complete or not at all.

What's ahead?

I had a bit of a shock last month when Annie-the-home-enhancer told me she will soon be taking six months off from cleaning as she is expecting a baby (her fourth).  To be honest I'd noticed she had gained weight but the reason had never occured to me.  Bless her heart, she says she wants to continue doing my ironing (which she does at home) as she doesn't want to sit around getting bored.  My observation is that mums have very little time for sitting around!  We shall see.  

But how to keep my house clean, that is the question.  Step forward Jack.  He's helped me before.  Don't tell him that I said this, but he's actually quite good.  I shall get him to push the vacuum cleaner around the house but I shall do what I can.  I've also told him that we are going to clean out various cupboards while he's here.  I think he's hoping to "help" me clean out the freezer as he has his eye on my supply of home-made soups.   

The Bits About Ageing Nobody Mentions

 

Getting older is all very well, but it’s not all sunshine and roses.

Later this week I will score my three quarter century.  Not everything is fun.    Knees creak.  Feet are downright painful.  My guts do the occasional fandango.  I could go on

My memory isn’t what it was.  Sometimes I think my glasses have legs and they hide from me.  I can go through to the kitchen and wonder why I have gone there.

I find the world increasingly complicated.  For everything I want to do I need a password.  A new car is baffling.  

Ageing can be lonely.  When I retired I moved further from many of my friends.  Some friends have died.  Sometimes my house can be wonderfully peaceful.  Other times it is painfully quiet.

And the weirdest bit? Inside, I don't feel particularly old. I still have plans, interests and the occasional foolish idea.

There are good things about growing older. I care less about what people think, enjoy the simple pleasures and have become rather protective of my time. An empty diary can look remarkably attractive.  My plan is to keep laughing, keep learning, enjoy what I can and complain when necessary.

This is a rather unusual post for me but I felt that my blog is sometimes a little smug.  I wish I could get my act as much together as my blog sometimes implies. 

Please don't worry.  There's nothing especially wrong today except that I am getting more and more irritated by Facebook and Instagram!

The Doctor

If I had to choose a saint to have a chat with, I just might make it Luke.  He was a man who knew how to listen and he knew how to tell stories. It is his feast day today.

He wasn’t one of the twelve apostles but he was an important companion to St Paul who called him the beloved physician.  He wrote a Gospel and The Acts of the Apostles.  His Gospel is full of kindness, forgiveness and second chances. He tells us about the Good Samaritan, the Prodigal Son and the one grateful leper who came back to say thank you.

Luke seems particularly interested in people in need of a little TLC. His stories remind us that God's love often appears in the most ordinary places: at a meal, on a journey, or in an unexpected act of kindness.

St Luke reminds me that I can make a difference simply by listening properly, checking on a neighbour, or offering a kind word to someone having a difficult day.  After all, healing the world is a noble ambition, but we might as well begin with the person sitting beside us.

 

Seventy sleeps to Christmas

Yesterday I made a start on the Christmas puddings.  There is something deeply smug about making the pud in October.   I can almost feel like a woman who has her life together.   Almost.

My bungalow is about forty years old but when making Christmas pudding I can feel like a Victorian cook.  Weighing a huge selection of dried fruits into a bowl, stirring with a big spoon, adding booze, spices, suet, and all the other bits and pieces, makes me feel as though I’m in the kitchen at Downton Abbey.

I rather like the idea of making a wish while stirring. Mine would probably be for a peaceful Christmas, a tidy house and the ability to remember where I have put things.  

There is also something rather satisfying about preparing food weeks before it is needed. The pudding can mature quietly in its bowl while I get on with other things.  It will be stacked away at the back of the cupboard and over the next few weeks I shall see it and feel happy.

I say “it” but that’s not quite true.  I shall make around twenty puddings, mostly as gifts.  In return I will be given shortbread, sausage rolls, mince pies, Florentines.  Making the puddings is effectively doing most of my Christmas baking.

And now I can sit down with a cup of coffee knowing that I have made a huge start on my Christmas preparations.  I shall enjoy the feeling.   It won't last.

Thank you

Looking after Holly looms pretty large these next few weeks but looking after me looms even larger.  All my routine health appointments  fall in October/November.

Yesterday I went to my flu and covid vaccinations.  In a couple of weeks I am due to have routine blood tests.  Early November I have tests on my legs to make sure any complications as a result of old injuries are caught early.  A couple of weeks later I have an RSV vaccination.  (Older people often feel like pincushions as we are offered so many vaccinations!)  And when everything has been tested my regular medications will be reviewed.

Like many people I am concerned about the NHS.  I know we grumble about waiting lists, the difficulty in getting appointments, telephone queues etc and I too have the occasional moan. 

The NHS is not perfect. It is under enormous pressure, and those who work in it are often expected to do far too much with far too little. But every day, doctors, nurses, healthcare assistants, paramedics, porters, cleaners, receptionists and countless others turn up to care for people they may never have met before.  And they do all this for people from every walk of life.

But perhaps we could also make a little more room for saying thank you.  Small gestures cannot solve the NHS's enormous problems, but they can remind the people who work there that their efforts are noticed.  The NHS belongs to all of us, and so does the responsibility to value it.

So today, I simply want to say thank you, NHS.

 

What did Roman soldiers do in the winter

Roman soldiers used their hibernacula to shelter from the winter, repair their equipment, eat, sleep, play games and generally prepare themselves for the next bout of looting and pillaging and conquering.

They still had duties to perform.  Rust and rot were as much an enemy as were conquered peoples seeking to rebel against Roman rule.  Weapons needed cleaning, buildings needed repairing, and somebody had to stand guard.

I have no empire to defend, no barbarian hordes at the garden gate and very few weapons requiring polishing. My winter preparations are more likely to involve checking the heating, finding my slippers and making sure there is something comforting in the freezer.

The regular routine of training, eating, sleeping and so on would continue.  There was probably more time for socialising with one’s comrades and maybe even a little self-care.

There is one important difference between my hibernaculum and a Roman military camp. I am in charge. No centurion shouting at me to get up at dawn. No military drills in freezing weather. And absolutely no marching around in the rain merely to demonstrate my fitness.

Almost time

It's almost time for my hibernaculum!  This is the first time I can remember looking forward with pleasure to winter, which says a lot for how I found my first attempt last year.

Hibernaculum?  It's what Roman soldiers used to call their winter quarters when they took a break from looting and pillaging.  These days it's more commonly a place for over-wintering plants, or the lair of a wintering animal.   

I had read that the Scandinavian peoples are amongst the happiest in the world which seemed very odd as they have much "harder" winters than we do.  I wondered if I too could have happier winters.

One of my great sources of inspiration was "The Gifts of Winter" by Stephanie Fitzgerald.  She had started from a similar viewpoint to mine i.e Winter Is Bleugh!  I actually read an article from The Guardian first.  This takes several points from the book in a very short form.

This year I start with a little experience as to what helped me.  I've started to batch cook and freeze some of my favourite meals for days when cooking feels like too much effort.  I've dug out and added to my collection of LED candles.  I've draped throws over all the chairs in the sitting room.

I've also set aside money for a treat meal each week and some flowers.  It's part of my self-care.

Visiting Holly

 I've got quite a few nights with Holly Dog this month while G, her regular staff, has gone to America to visit her daughter.  Holly is a bit subdued at the moment.  She was distinctly off colour last week so G took her to the vet and she has been sorted but she's not her usual perky self.

I think she may have decided to train me rather better.  She wasn't very enthusiastic about her food when I arrived but she persuaded me that roast chicken might coax her appetite.  It did.  The smell of it roasting had her nose twitching and she found it necessary to do extensive tests as to its quality.  I think it passed but there is plenty for both of us for a couple of days.

And while I am here I have taken a picture of "my" tree.  It's still got most of its leaves but a few have fallen.  

Canadian Thanksgiving

Greetings to one and all but especially my Canadian readers.  There is something rather appealing about a country that celebrates being thankful in October, before the Christmas madness begins. 

Canadian Thanksgiving falls on the second Monday in October. The leaves are turning, the evenings are drawing in, and we English are wondering whether it is too early to put the heating on.

I understand Canadians celebrate with roast turkey, stuffing, gravy and pumpkin pie. Christmas dinner, almost, but without the expense of presents, the Christmas cards or the annual hunt for Sellotape.  I rather like the idea. Although pumpkin pie might leave me wondering what to do with the rest of the pumpkin.

Thanksgiving is about pausing to appreciate the good things in life. We have our own harvest festivals in England, of course, -  I led one yesterday.  But perhaps we could borrow a little of the Canadian spirit and set aside an autumn day for good food, friendship and a moment to count our blessings.

A quiet day of gratitude, with a roast dinner and perhaps a pudding, sounds splendid.  And if gratitude happens to come with roast potatoes, I am entirely in favour.

Harvest Thanksgiving

 

Harvest invites us to pause. Before we rush on to the next task, the next worry or the next thing on our shopping list, we are asked to notice what we have received.

 For there is so much for which to be grateful.  The harvest of farm and of field is top of our minds.   I live in the countryside and see it growing.  And there are tins and packets in my kitchen which came from distant lands. 

Then there are the harvests of friendship, forgiveness, companionship, laughter, that carry me through difficult days.

Not every harvest is what we would choose. Some people come to this season carrying grief, loneliness, illness or financial worry.   Gratitude does not make all our troubles disappear. But even in difficult times, we may discover small signs of God's presence: a listening ear, a helping hand, a moment of peace.

 Our gratitude, too, should turn us towards others. If we are grateful for God's generosity, we can become more generous ourselves. If we are thankful for our food, we should care about those who go hungry. If we are thankful for kindness, we should offer kindness. If we are thankful for the gifts of creation, we should do what we can to protect them.  Harvest comes in many forms and we need to remember that the earth is not ours to exploit but God's gift to us, entrusted to our care.

 May the harvest of our lives be rich in gratitude, generous in love, and faithful in service.

 

 

 

 

Where on Earth Have They Put Everything?

My Kia Niro aka The Empress

My old car and I understood each other perfectly. Now I I feel as though I need to learn to drive all over again. 

My first problem was the handbrake – it’s just a button to press!  I drove an automatic around thirty years ago but this is so different!

I had my old car nearly nine years and we had come to an understanding with each other.    For years, I knew exactly where everything was. Now I can't tell whether I'm indicating or washing the windscreen. There is something deeply undignified about spraying water everywhere when all you wanted to do was turn a corner.

And the wretched thing keeps beeping at me!  Am I too close to something? Have I crossed an invisible boundary? Is it trying to tell me I've forgotten my handbag?

Still, I'm making progress. Each journey brings a little more confidence, and I'm beginning to recognise which buttons matter and which can safely be ignored.  I’m taking things slowly, sticking to familiar routes and resisting the temptation to press buttons simply to see what happens.

Give it time. Before long, it will feel like an old friend. I'll know where everything is and the strange noises will become familiar.  Give me time.

 

The Freezer in Autumn

 

I am the sort of person who freezes things.  All sorts of things.  My vegetable garden is very small but it still provides gluts to be frozen.   Friends with larger gardens give me figs, apples, rhubarb so I freeze those in individual portions ready to eat with porridge or yoghurt.  So many vegetables are sold prepackaged but the packages are rather large so I freeze the excess.  And I buy frozen vegetables as well.

It seems silly to make just one portion of soup so I make a batch of eight portions and freeze seven.  It’s the same with stews and casseroles, vegetable side dishes and puddings. 

I’m quite good with labelling and I stock check my freezer every few weeks, but there’s such a lot in there.  And at this time of year it feels that not one more thing can go in there.  The door barely closes. Bags are wedged into corners.

And yet, beneath the chaos, there is something rather wonderful going on.  I am saving autumn.  Jack pulled up the tomato plants for me and I have roasted the tomatoes and pureed them before freezing (that takes least space) but there must be a couple of dozen small boxes in there.  Those single portions of stewed fruit seem too many to count but there won’t be too many to be eaten. 

There is something deeply satisfying about it.  Autumn may be the season of things dying back, but my freezer is quietly saying, Not so fast.

Soon my hibernaculum time will be here.  I know I will have very little energy in the depths of winter.  Those portions of tomato puree will be made into pasta sauces or delicious soup with very little effort.

The freezer may be chaotic, overstuffed and occasionally mysterious, but it is also my little time capsule.  Autumn is putting the garden to bed but I am making sure its bounty won’t be wasted.

How's your freezer looking?

 

Decisions! Decisions! Decisions!

 There are so many decisions to be made in retirement.  So many.

Do I need to get dressed yet?

What shall I have for breakfast?

Do I really need to empty the dishwasher?

Should I phone Anne? or Laura? or Jill?

Would coffee be better indoors or in the garden?

Which shoes would be best today?

Yesterday Ang wrote about procrastiknitting (having too many things to do so you knit instead).  I offer procaffeinating (needing innumerable cups of coffee before any decisions can be made).  

Maulifuff season is on the way!

(Maulifuff is an old Scottish word for a woman devoid of energy, who would happily do nothing for hours on end.  Clicking on Maulifuff on the side bar will give you more examples.)

Cousins

I was born richly blessed with cousins.  I had twenty seven of them.  Some we rarely saw, some were part of our regular social set-up.

Cousins are less close than siblings (I had one sister) but they were still family.  They knew which aunt always had a full cake tin and didn’t mind if it was empty once we had been.  They sympathised about the uncle who told dreadful jokes.  I spent many a glorious afternoon with one or another of my cousins getting up to things our parents wouldn’t have approved of and then going home.  Bliss

Then we grew up.  Cousins scattered across the country. Some married.  Years passed.  To be honest, I saw them very little during my working life.  Just the occasional funeral. 

But retirement is different.  I suspect that as a single woman with no siblings, my cousins are more important to me than they are to many people.  Several have died, with some it's just Christmas cards, but I still see about eight of them fairly often.  And they are the people I rely on most.

One cousin had four daughters and between them they can usually respond to emergencies.  Two cousins live here in Caistor.  One now lives in France but we still have long, hilarious phone calls.  One was widowed and appreciates my help in creating a new life for herself.  Another keeps an eye on me for DIY needs and he’s recently helped me change my car. 

But no matter what the spoken reason is for meeting up, we always have a wonderful “do you remember?” time.  We remember the people who have gone.  We remember the picnics, the Christmases, the family rows and the family jokes.

So here's to cousins.  They may not be the people we see most often.  But when we do meet, the years seem to fall away.  And for a little while, we're children again.

 

The Day That Didn't Exist

Imagine waking up on the morning of 5 October 1582, putting the kettle on, and discovering that the day had been cancelled. Not postponed or moved.  Cancelled.  Because in parts of Europe, 5 October 1582 simply didn't exist.

By the sixteenth century, the old Julian calendar had drifted out of step with the seasons. It was only a tiny error each year, but after 1,500 years, tiny errors become rather less tiny.  So Pope Gregory XIII introduced a new calendar.  He simply removed ten days.  In countries adopting the change, Thursday 4 October was followed immediately by Friday 15 October.

Gone were the 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th, 10th, 11th, 12th, 13th and 14th.  Ten days had vanished from the calendar.

But not here in Britain.  We Brits didn’t accept the Pope’s authority to cancel ten days.  In 1582 it was just Spain, Portugal and parts of Italy.   When Britain finally changed by Act of Parliament  in 1752, we had fallen even further behind. Eleven days had to be removed, so Wednesday 2 September was followed by Thursday 14 September.

But back to 1582.  The people affected hadn't actually lost ten days of their lives. Time carried on perfectly normally. It was the number printed on the calendar that changed.  (Now I’ve written that I’m thinking they probably didn’t have printed calendars.)

So spare a thought for 5 October.  A perfectly respectable date.  And yet, in some countries, it never got its turn.

 

Today is St Francis Day

Banner in South Kelsey Church

 I think Saint Francis of Assisi has always been a popular saint.  We’re all familiar with rather sentimental pictures of him talking to birds and animals.  It’s reckoned he’s responsible for nativity sets when he created a nativity tableau with real people and real animals.  He gave himself wholly to God and saw God everywhere.

Francis seemed to understand something that we sometimes forget: the world is full of small things worth noticing.  A bird singing.  The sun coming through the window.  A tree moving in the wind.

Francis also embraced a life of simplicity. This is where I feel rather challenged.  He managed to live simply without accumulating cupboards full of things that might come in useful one day.

For me, and maybe you too, simplicity is a work in progress.

Francis didn’t want to possess “things”.  He could look at a bird, a flower, the moon or a humble patch of earth and simply be glad that it was there.

Perhaps growing older is partly about learning to notice more and chase less.  To enjoy things without the need to possess them.  To watch the birds without knowing their names.  To sit quietly without feeling that you ought to be doing something.  And perhaps, if we are lucky, we learn to become a little more like Francis — not by doing anything extraordinary, but simply by noticing the ordinary with a little more wonder and thanking God for it.

That seems to me a rather lovely way to spend a life.  

 

Onward to October

 

October promises to be a very doggy month.  I have two stints of looking after Holly Dog.

I've booked a day at Eden Hall with my friend E.  This is our present to each other for Christmas LAST year.

I'm booked to lead worship every Sunday. 

It's a month which is stuffed with routine medical appointments.

I've arranged several meals out with friends and relations.

I shall start my hibernaculum project on my birthday which is later this month.  

And I need to get my Christmas preparations much further on than they are now!

So long, September

 

Writing my Autumn Alphabet has meant that I haven’t written about day to day things on this blog but plenty has been going on.

I’ll start with the thing which worried me most: glaucoma.  My late sister had glaucoma so I get tested every year.  When I had a test in August the optician referred me to a consultant for further investigation.  The consultant told me that everything was OK which was a huge relief. 

A local vicar retired at the end of July so I’ve been busy most Sundays.  It’s a group of churches which I’ve been involved with before and we like each other.  They are very good and help me as much as possible.  I’m hoping not to do funerals etc unless it is someone I have known.  Funerals are very tiring. 

I’ve had lots of meals with various friends and relations.  (I feel like Pooh’s friend, Rabbit!)  I cooked for one friend but had several meals at the local pub.  No complaints there.  I also went to a 90^th birthday party.  The birthday boy’s family had arranged for a magician to come and he was brilliant!

The house had its annual electrical safety check and it needs some work done but the big news is that solar panels are to be fitted.  Yay!

Jack and I cleared the tomato patch and I reckon we harvested at least a couple of stone of tomatoes.  I’ve already made gallons of soups and sauces but the rest of the tomatoes still need to ripen before I can cook them.  I’m trying to “eat down” the freezer but I just can’t keep up!

 I’ve been working on my Christmas preparations.  As you know, I am a Supply Elf and I am knitting scarves for various children.  I’ve made a small start on Christmas cards.  Next month should see quite a lot of progress. 

And the biggest thing of all is that I have bought a new (to me) car and a new Trundle Truck.  The TT is smaller than the old one so I have called her Mini-haha

Proud to be a Yellow Belly

 It’s Lincolnshire Day.   A day to celebrate Lincolnshire — a county famous for big skies, big fields, big sausages and people who are rather fond of calling themselves Yellowbellies.

I have checked my tummy.  It isn't yellow.  And no-one actually knows why we are called Yellow Bellies but we’re proud of it anyway. 

But Lincolnshire has never been short of peculiarities. We have our own accent, our own sense of humour and roads that seem to have been designed by someone who thought straight lines were terribly overrated.

We have the Wolds, the Fens, the coast, enormous agricultural fields and small villages

And then there is Lincoln with a magnificent cathedral sitting above the city as if it has been keeping an eye on us all for centuries.

Lincolnshire was made for me.  And I was made for Lincolnshire. 

I love its big skies, its little villages, its spuds, its sausages, its cathedral and my fellow Yellow Bellies. 

Happy Lincolnshire Day.

There are worse places to grow older, potter about, enjoy wonderful local food and talk with a very weird accent.