Do you know, I've been blogging for over five years. I have. That's more than 10% of my life. One of my early blogging favourites, Wife in the North, popped up in my reader the other day, saying she was coming back to blogging after a break. I left a comment saying "Oh, it's all changed, you know", and then started thinking about how, exactly, blogging has changed in those five years.
I have had phases when I've got a bit sad about the development of blogging. In my time, I've written the odd post bewailing this: "oh, it's going all commercial", I've lamented. But mostly, I've enjoyed watching it. Watching it? Heck, I've not just watched from the sidelines. I've been part of it. Because that's one of the great things about blogging. You can be part of it, just by doing it.
So, how has blogging changed over the past five years? Here are my thoughts.
It's just so much bigger. I remember the days when I didn't have a reader, but just scooted round blogs from blog roll to blog roll. If a new blog appeared, it felt like everyone popped over to check it out. A new writer on the block. Now, I imagine it must be much harder for new bloggers to jump in. Perhaps that's why it feels as if there's an "in-crowd" (always a favourite topic for a whinge in the blogosphere). I used to deliberately have a look round blogs I hadn't read before, on a frequent basis. Now, I hardly venture outside my comfort zone of known friends. But that's mostly a function of my changing needs as a blogger. I'm not in search of new readers, particularly, so I'm not in search of new reads. But if I was, I'm aware that it would be tougher than it used to be - there are more readers, but there are a lot more writers.
Yes, blogging has got more commercial. But here's the thing. It doesn't have to be. There are people making money out of blogging. There are people making a living out of blogging. There are people using their blog to support and promote their business. But there are still plenty of people like me, who blog for fun, and are happy to have the odd perk, but who would, and do, willingly blog without perks.
Because it's bigger, blogging is more fragmented. Niches are no longer niches, but whole communities. I don't read blogs about new babies any more, because (dare I say it) once you have left that world behind, you lose the intensity of interest in the issues. I clearly remember the day I read a blog post on baby led weaning, and thought "what the heck is that?" I didn't know about it, and so I couldn't have an opinion. I felt a little excluded. It was a moving-on moment. I still found the post quite interesting though, whereas now, my attention isn't grabbed by baby or toddler issues at all. My conclusion is that most people write blogs that are about the generality of their lives, but that they'll only really attract new readers if they are writing for a specific audience, and those audiences are pretty segmented. Those of us who enjoy the luxury of having made bloggy friends in the early days, find that we can drag them along with our general wittering about life. But I'm guessing that you couldn't really start out that way these days (correct me if I'm wrong).
Blogging is no longer just about writing. Once upon a time, people who had fancy blog designs were in the minority. Now, the design is a crucial part of the blog. Blogs have become much more visual. Photography is a huge element of blogging. Just look at the popularity of Tara Cain's Gallery. Writing takes its place alongside other forms of creative expression: photos, videos, music. It's a richer mix than it used to be. Writing has always been the central interest for me, but I love the variety. There are some blogs that I follow exclusively for their photographs.
Blogging used to be just a little bit shocking. It started with people confessing to imperfect parenting. This is something that we now take for granted, but five years ago, confessing to having lost your temper with your children, or to beginning your anticipation of the 7.30pm post-bedtime glass of wine as you clear away breakfast - these were things that you only revealed to a good friend, jokingly. That's one thing I think blogging has seriously influenced. The general perception of parenthood is much more real, and less sugary than it used to be. There are other areas of life that used to be whispered about, that blogging has made it ok to talk about publicly: infertility is a big one, miscarriage, stillbirth, cancer. It's hard to shock now, in the blogosphere. When I wrote about having cancer, it felt very exposing (I wouldn't do it now - it only felt possible when I was pretty much anonymous). But now the blogosphere is dotted with photos of bald chemotherapy heads, mastectomy scars, blow by blow medical details.
Most obviously, blogging has ridden the wave that has been the surging development of social media. Now this is where I have to go quiet, because I'm immediately out of my depth here. I used to feel protective of blogging, feeling that it would be submerged. Remember that song by The Buggles: Video Killed the Radio Star? I used to fear that social media would kill blogging. But it hasn't, and it isn't. It's giving it new platforms, new opportunities. I'm going to stop on that subject, before I reveal my almost total lack of functional knowledge.
Those are my thoughts on how blogging has changed in the past five years. What about you? What do you think? I'd like to tag a few bloggers who've been around a while, to invite them to share their views. It's an interesting topic. So, consider yourself tagged:
Expat Mum
Potty Mummy
Nappy Valley Girl
Who's The Mummy?
Sticky Fingers
A Modern Mother
The American Resident
Rosie Scribble
More Than Just a Mother
Crystal Jigsaw
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Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
I would like to be a medieval peasant
I would like to be a medieval peasant. 11-yo has been learning about them in History, and I’ve decided I want to be one.
No waiting in for Telecoms Engineers.
No seven-week wait for internet access.
No phoning PlusNet because the promised router hasn’t arrived in the post. After seven weeks.
No having to take back a faulty mobile phone to Tesco to be exchanged.
No aggravating washer-dryer which shrinks your fleeces and your sons’ favourite team sports tops, even on the lowest setting.
No customer care helplines who purport to want to register your appliance so they can activate the warranty, but who in reality want the opportunity to sell you various options for extended warranties, which you can’t say “no” to until you’ve listened to the tedious details, because you’re too polite to interrupt someone talking at you in full flow.
No wrangling with moving companies about insurance claims for broken items.
No having to decide whether to start the laptop in safe mode or not, on the basis of less than zero knowledge of what that means.
No intermittent fault on the new microwave, so that it cuts out randomly. Alas, I see another customer care helpline in my near future.
No having to set the date and time on endless appliances to the sound of electronic beeps.
No having to choose between thirty-five thousand different house insurance companies.
No lengthy forms to fill in register at a GP’s surgery.
No having to remember to put the paper between the name tape and the iron, unless you want a white sticky mess on the plate of the iron.
No having to going to Pilates.
And I bet a first class stamp didn’t cost 60p.
It’s back to the Dark Ages for me. Bring it on. Scratchy clothes, cold house, mud everywhere, matted hair, warty face. Untreated verrucas on your children’s feet. Wattle and daub (whatever that was). Nothing to look forward to except jolly wassailing at Yuletide, followed by the Black Death. I suppose I might miss my creature comforts, but at least no-one would say to me “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
Friday, May 18, 2012
Blogging, 1883 style: Part lV
The final installment. Bessie arrives in Barbados in good spirits. She and George are married.
March 2nd
Cast anchor at six o’clock this morning. I sat at the port in my cabin, watching for the little boat that would bring my darling. I stayed there, as I did not care to be up on deck, & have all the eyes of the passengers upon me. At last a tremendous knock at my door, & I was once more face to face with my darling. Soon after we came on deck, & George introduced me to a friend of his, a Mr. Meade, to whose house I was taken. His wife is such a gem, only 23 years of age & Scotch. They have one baby, like a little doll. I am perfectly spoiled & every body is so kind to me. George lives at Mrs. Masson’s (an English family). This is Friday & I am to be married on Monday in the Barbados Cathedral at 11.30a.m. I have been confined to the couch ever since I came with rheumatic inflammation in the ankle joint. I was so terrified, for my feet were all swollen. It came on two days before I left the steamer – I could scarcely put my foot to the ground.
March 3rd
Still on the couch, & every body very busy preparing for Monday. I am to be married in my white satin, veil & wreath. People have got to hear about it & intend to see the ceremony. Mr. Meade is to be father giver, Miss Masson bridesmaid, & Mr. Shields groomsman.
March 4th (Sunday)
Still have to keep to my couch – indeed no one will allow me to do a thing for myself. I am afraid I shall be spoiled – every body is extremely good & kind to me. Mrs. Meade is only 23 years of age (I have just noticed that I mentioned this before).
March 5th
My wedding morning. Lovely flowers have been sent from all parts – baskets full – & an exquisite bridal bouquet. Such a stillness in the house – every one more excited than another. I am to be married in the Barbados Cathedral. The bridesmaid has covered a stool with white satin & put a lovely wreath of flowers all round the edge for me to kneel on in church.
At last the hour came & I went off with Mr. Meade in a carriage & pair to church. A great many people were there who had heard of me. After the ceremony we walked down the aisle & showers of flowers were thrown from the gallery & all parts. We got home through crowds of people. We had invited a few friends to a splendid lunch when the cake was cut & toasts given.
I have been staying at Hastings Hotel, a most beautiful part of the country, about four miles from Barbados. We have been driving about every day seeing all there is to see. I should have been perfectly happy if only all those dear ones at home had been here to share all the pleasures. However, that is not possible, & I must be content. I shall have to close this diary as the mail will leave soon.
We sail for Antigua on Sunday, March 11, as George is forced to get back to his practice again. He is the same dear old boy he always was. I have had a job to get all this written as George is such a dreadful tease – I cannot get anything done for him. We have had our photos taken – mine in my bridal dress, & both together. I shall write after we arrive at our own home at ‘Longlane’ & tell you all what every thing is like there.
The sugar-cane crop has just commenced, - it is very funny to see the people going about with great sticks, sucking away at it.
I must now close as I am going out shopping. I hope you will excuse all mistakes in this hasty scribble, written under great disadvantages. My only reason in sending you this is to endeavour to please you all, & to show how much I have thought of those I have left behind.
God bless you all. Good-bye.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Blogging, 1883 style: Part lll
Bessie continues her journey. The initial excitement has worn off, and this is a week of mixed emotions. I have left unedited some politically incorrect terminology.
Feb. 25th (Sunday)
Had a run of 270 miles – temperature 73 degrees. Saw the drill of all the sailors on deck, & afterwards retired to the Saloon where Divine Service was read by the Captain, followed by a discourse by a dissenting Minister on board. In the evening a tropical storm got up, accompanied by thunder & lightning, the latter being extremely brilliant & appalling.
Had a few hymns – “Eternal Father, strong to save”, & some others which I enjoyed exceedingly.
Feb. 26th
Run today 283 miles. Tremendous storm on – sea washing the decks – everybody sick & miserable. The captain imagines that the storm is the tail end of one raging in more northern latitudes. Strong sun & almost cloudless sky. I spent the whole day in my cabin, I did feel so ill again. Indeed it takes me all my time to write, the ship rolls so fearfully that it makes it a great effort. Any amount of flying fish to be seen. Last night one flew on deck & was captured. It is quite a treat to hear the poor sailors calling out, after eight o’clock when all is dark, “All’s well”, at every half hour & hour. Looking over into the water there is quite a flame of phosphorescence.
Feb. 27th
Run 296 miles. Nothing very special today – lounging about, talking, & eating is about all one can find to do. Temperature 76 degrees. It is so pretty to see every one in their light costumes – I wear my pink, it does look pretty. Fancy in February – I wonder how England & Scotland are looking.
Feb 28th
Run 291 miles. Weather nice & warm – such a splendid breeze. I like it immensely & the passengers seem all sorry that our voyage will soon be at an end. The “nigger entertainment” came off tonight & was great fun. Miss Usher, Mrs. Davis and myself have been very busy all day stitching up the most remarkable costumes & sewing on paper cuffs & collars. Every one seemed to enjoy it immensely & we had a proper laugh. A few of the officers took part.
March 1st
Run 297 miles. Every body is very busy this morning packing up &c., as we expect to arrive at Barbados tomorrow morning. I do feel so strange when I think I shall see my darling so soon. We are to have our photos taken today by one of the passengers. A dance was got up this evening & the deck was all hung round with lamps. The ship was gliding along so beautifully & the sea was like a sheet of glass.
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Monday, May 14, 2012
Blogging, 1883 style: Part ll
Continuing my great-great-aunt Bessie's diary of her voyage from Southampton to Barbados, February 1883. Bessie is settling into life on board ship, and finds there is much to enjoy.
Feb. 22nd
Had a run of 316 miles. We passed the Western Islands about 12 o’clock last night. There was great excitement today watching a vessel, five miles off, ‘homeward bound’. We have seen only two vessels since the time we left England & even then ‘twas only a glimpse. The weather is simply charming – only once have we had a slight shower of rain. Had plenty of music this eve. The gentlemen are getting up a concert for Saturday eve, & have put my name down on the programme for a song. The officers on board are getting up a ‘Christy Minstrels’ for next week, so that will be a nice change. We are getting into the Tropics now – it is really beautiful on deck. The awning has just been put up.
Feb. 23rd
Had a run of 320 miles. Nothing very special to speak of today, except that a lady got a dreadful fright about one o’clock in the morning. The sea swept up with such a force against her port, that it broke the glass & swamped her cabin. She was sound asleep at the time but awoke with the fearful noise of the crash. She was literally drenched, poor thing, & has most of her clothes destroyed – she naturally thought we were all going to the bottom of the sea.
I am agreeably surprised to find how extremely social people on board ship can be; they seem to lose all the stiff formalities of society & are glad to converse on the most friendly terms. It is amusing & interesting to find out the destinations and occupations of the different passengers on such a voyage as this. Here, you have a British Consul from the Orinoco, & there a commercial traveler bound for Santa-Fe-de-Bogota. Again, this old man is, I am told, the wealthiest planter in Barbados & that stout-set middle aged man comes from the centre of Mexico. Two of our passengers are from the S. Kensington Museum, & are going out to the Caroline Islands, a small uninhabited group in the S. Pacific, to view the transit of the Moon across the face of the Sun. They expect to meet the American Expedition at Colon, from whence both parties steam across to their destination.
Feb. 24th
Had a run of 290 miles. The weather is lovely – everything seems like dreamland & every one is as happy as the day is long.
This morning the fire bell was rung (for practice) & in a moment all the sailors were on deck with blankets, pails, & anything else they could lay their hands upon, & the hose was set to work at once. Then they ran a bell & a boat was lowered into the water in a few seconds.
Our concert came off tonight & was a great success. The place was all decorated with flags & draped at each side of the open doors of the cabins – it just looked like the boxes in a theater. We all swelled ourselves up so that the effect was really splendid. When I went into my cabin to dress there was a lovely button-hole for me, sent with the chief officer’s compliments. He had cut the beautiful geranium from the plant in his room & I have been teased ever since. It is greatly surprising to find what an immense amount of musical talent there is on board, & how indefatigable all are in their efforts to amuse. We had an interval for refreshments, during which time a collection was made on behalf of the widows and orphans of the seamen in connection with the company. We subscribed 11 pounds, which was splendid.
The passengers have already changed their clothing & it looks so nice to see them in their sun hats & white trousers. The evenings are lovely,- the stars are so beautiful & clear, & the moonlight shining on the water. It all makes us very happy. No one seems to have a thought of care. The sea is covered with the Gulf Stream weed – we have been fishing it up. It is so pretty, - with green berries hanging from it.
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Friday, May 11, 2012
Blogging, 1883 style
When I was at my mother's house last summer, she showed me a diary that was kept by my grandmother's aunt (is that my great-great-aunt?). It dates from 1883. One of my cousin's had typed it up, though my mother has the original.
I think you'll enjoy it. Bessie and her sister Rachel (my great-grandmother) had been brought up in Edinburgh. Bessie got to know a young medical student, George, who lived in Antigua, and had come to Edinburgh for his medical training. They became engaged, and he returned to Antigua. The diary tells the story of her journey to join him, to be married.
I first read it last summer, soon before returning back here. It gave me pause for thought of course, how different it was in 1883, when leaving was truly leaving. No email, no phone, no Skype. Now I've read it again, and I find it strangely circular that Bessie and Rachel grew up in Edinburgh, because that's where I'm headed next (I've been coy about telling you specifically where I'm moving to, but I think you might as well know). I love the language - old and quaint. Some of the things she says are the kind of thing an old-fashioned me might have said - or am I just imagining that, because I want to feel a connection to her?
I'll edit a little as I go, but I find it hard to take anything out - it's all pretty interesting. The italics in parentheses are my comments, but I've kept them to a minimum.
Oh, and one last thing. I'm going to let you in on a fact that Bessie didn't know about her future. You'll pick up from her letter how hard she found it to leave her sister Rachel. Well, she needn't have worried. Rachel found herself her own student from Antigua, Ralph, who came to Edinburgh to train as a lawyer. She married him, and joined Bessie and George in Antigua. It almost feels like cheating, to know that while reading the journal, but I thought you'd like to know.
Here's the first instalment.
I think you'll enjoy it. Bessie and her sister Rachel (my great-grandmother) had been brought up in Edinburgh. Bessie got to know a young medical student, George, who lived in Antigua, and had come to Edinburgh for his medical training. They became engaged, and he returned to Antigua. The diary tells the story of her journey to join him, to be married.
I first read it last summer, soon before returning back here. It gave me pause for thought of course, how different it was in 1883, when leaving was truly leaving. No email, no phone, no Skype. Now I've read it again, and I find it strangely circular that Bessie and Rachel grew up in Edinburgh, because that's where I'm headed next (I've been coy about telling you specifically where I'm moving to, but I think you might as well know). I love the language - old and quaint. Some of the things she says are the kind of thing an old-fashioned me might have said - or am I just imagining that, because I want to feel a connection to her?
I'll edit a little as I go, but I find it hard to take anything out - it's all pretty interesting. The italics in parentheses are my comments, but I've kept them to a minimum.
Oh, and one last thing. I'm going to let you in on a fact that Bessie didn't know about her future. You'll pick up from her letter how hard she found it to leave her sister Rachel. Well, she needn't have worried. Rachel found herself her own student from Antigua, Ralph, who came to Edinburgh to train as a lawyer. She married him, and joined Bessie and George in Antigua. It almost feels like cheating, to know that while reading the journal, but I thought you'd like to know.
Here's the first instalment.
S.S. Medway
Lat. 38.47 N – Long 22.W
Feb 21st. 1883
My Voyage to the West Indies
Sat. 17th inst.
Left Uncle Ralph’s at 6.30 in the morning for Waterloo Sta:. Janet Harrison [Bessie’s cousin] & Rachel [Bessie's older sister] accompanying me. Uncle Harry was waiting patiently for us – he brought with him a beautiful Bible for me, which I prize very much. Mr. Bain & Mr. Muir had just left the station, thinking I would leave by an earlier train, as I had intended. They had to be in time for business so were compelled to leave without seeing me. I was very sorry I did not see them to wish them Good-bye. The train left for Southampton at 8.5 a.m. It was a very tiresome journey, as neither Rachel nor I felt very bright. On arriving at Southampton, Mr. Reith was waiting for us. I don’t know what we should have done without him; he was extremely kind & saw my luggage and everything right; for which I was very thankful. We went out in a tender to the ‘Medway’ & lunched there, Mr. Reith, Rachel & all those who were seeing their friends off joining us in the repast.
As the time of our departure drew near I could scarcely express my feelings. I only knew I was leaving dear old England perhaps for ever, & all those who had been so dear to me, for a foreign clime. I felt as though my heart would break but I dare not encourage it. We ‘lifted’ our anchor at 3.30 p.m. & as dear Rachel & Mr. Reith got on board the little tender, the ‘Medway’ moved quietly away – I started my first trip across the Atlantic. Wind rather fresh & my feelings far from so. [I love that sentence.] We reached the ‘Needles’ at 5.30 where our pilot left us. By this time dinner was ready. I had no sooner seated myself at the table, than I had to rise & go to my cabin. I was so ill. (I had the cabin all to myself). I lay there prostrate, more dead than alive, not caring for anything. I tried to get up on Monday but was only too thankful to tumble in again. However, I succeeded on Tuesday & went in to dinner for the first time. I soon began to get my strength back again.
Among the passengers, numbering about 80 in the Saloon and 14 or 15 children, there are some 16 ladies, two brides & bridegrooms, two twice chosen wives & ‘half a bride’ as I am described. The ‘Swells’ on board include Lord Combermere & his son, Major-Gen. McNeil, K.C.B., Col. Nugent, the Governor of Grenada & Dr. Freeland (the gentleman whom George has been acting for while on his visit to England), his wife & little girl. They are taking out an assistant, Dr. Davis & his wife, just two weeks married. She is a very nice person & we have become great friends. They always wait for me every where they go & will live about ¾ of an hour’s drive from ‘Longlane’ (my home to be). Then there is a Dr. Boyd and his wife, also newly married, who are going to St Vincent; Mr. Musson & his nephew have just been on a visit to England & are going back to Barbados. Mr. Goodhard, a very nice gentleman (on a pleasure trip for two months) always takes me in to dinner. We have a very nice company at our table. Mr Bicknell is retired & travels about for pleasure. He is also an astronomer & very clever, & has with him a great number of splendid instruments.
We have had marvellous weather, the passage being the driest on record for the time of year though the ship rolls greatly.
We have splendid living on board – a cup of tea in bed at 6 o’clock in the morning; then breakfast at 9 o’clock with three or four courses, & always potatoes; then dinner at 5 o’clock with eight or nine courses & tea at half past seven. Nothing but sleeping, eating & lounging about. There are very few people on board writing a ‘diary’, strange to say you can scarcely settle your mind to write on board ship, & besides it rolls so, the pen always seems inclined to slide right down the paper.
I wonder how all the dear ones at home are – if they could only see me in my little cabin. My port is open & I can hear the water splashing up against the ship. My thoughts are far away – cannot write more today.
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Monday, August 8, 2011
Iota's mother's loft: final instalment
I couldn't call this post Iota's summer holiday top tips for entertaining children: Part IV for reasons which will become apparent.
This last item was in a box of my own stuff. It's a copy of The Sun newspaper, dated Saturday October 19th 1985 - a month or so before my 21st birthday. The headline that day was
BUDGIE COOKED ALIVE IN MICROWAVE
Lads giggled as the oven went 'ding'
(You see why I couldn't bill this post as summer entertainment for children.)
Attached to the paper is a note from my older brother which says "This must be the best headline ever. You should keep this paper. It might be worth something some day."
So now, nearly 26 years later, who will make me an offer for this historic newspaper?
The thing is, even if I don't make any money from this loft item, it did make me laugh, and reflect back on family life over decades, and be grateful, and who could put a cash price on that? (It went back into my box of stuff, in case you were wondering. I couldn't put it in the bin somehow.)
This last item was in a box of my own stuff. It's a copy of The Sun newspaper, dated Saturday October 19th 1985 - a month or so before my 21st birthday. The headline that day was
BUDGIE COOKED ALIVE IN MICROWAVE
Lads giggled as the oven went 'ding'
(You see why I couldn't bill this post as summer entertainment for children.)
Attached to the paper is a note from my older brother which says "This must be the best headline ever. You should keep this paper. It might be worth something some day."
So now, nearly 26 years later, who will make me an offer for this historic newspaper?
The thing is, even if I don't make any money from this loft item, it did make me laugh, and reflect back on family life over decades, and be grateful, and who could put a cash price on that? (It went back into my box of stuff, in case you were wondering. I couldn't put it in the bin somehow.)
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Iota's summer holiday top tips for entertaining children: Part lll
And now we come to my two favourites. Both of them have strong memories from my own childhood, and both of them - hurrah - occupied my three children for hours.
Here's a crane.
The main body of it stands at just over 2 feet high. It was made by a friend, and when his children had grown out of it, we inherited it. It's fully functional: the arm can be raised and lowered, and then the hook wound up and down.
I remember spending hours with my younger brother playing "cranes" (although there was only one, we always talked about playing "cranes" in the plural). One child is upstairs, and dangles the crane hook down through the banisters to the other child, in the hall below. There is seemingly no end to what you can do with a crane. You can put something on the hook, and tell your playmate to shut their eyes, wind the object up, and guess what it is by feel. You can choose an object, and race to see who can wind it up the quickest. You can put something really heavy on the hook, and then let go of the wheel, letting it spin and the string unreel at speed, till the object hits the floor with a thud. You can hang a doll or a teddy bear by the neck. Oh, the possibilities are endless.
This is the kind of toy that grown-ups like, because it looks so educational. We like to think our children are learning about pulleys, weights, relative forces, almost as if it was a practical hands-on physics lesson. Well, I never got anywhere with physics, but I did have a lot of fun with this crane. And so did my children.
And finally...
Corinthian!
It's a precursor of the pinball machine This one is 30 inches by 15, to give you an idea of scale. Many of you will look at this and respond "Ah, Bagatelle!" But this version is called Corinthian. Here's a close-up of the rather splendid label at the bottom, in which Walter Lindman (who he?) asserts his preference.
The bit of the label which the photo cuts off states "The recognised tournament board is Corinthian 21T". Dang it! Our board was only a 21S! Just as well we didn't know about tournaments. We would have bullied our parents endlessly to take us to one. We fancied ourselves as Corinthian players (though upping our game to a 21T might have been a shock). I can't think of a toy that gave us more hours of pleasure than this one. It was also an absolute favourite of visiting children. I remember friends loving to play. Maybe they only liked me for my Corinthian board.
The minute my children started playing this, the plink-plink-plonk noise of the steel balls bouncing off the pins was so familiar. This came from my mother's childhood, so it really has done sterling service. Alas, the drumstick used to push the ball up the runway has disappeared, but there are still 19 balls - the number there were when we played with it, or when my mother's family inherited it from some friends. That's quite impressive, not to have lost a ball in two generations. My kids used the handle of a wooden spoon as a pusher, and of course it worked fine (though I miss that drumstick...) Of course the more upmarket versions of Bagatelle have a puller on a spring, to fire the balls into action. I like to think the drumstick requires more skill and finesse. There used to be a list stuck on the back, of the names of those who'd scored 1,000 or more, but that has been lost. It was only a short list, as 1,000 is well nigh impossible. I don't remember anyone in my generation scoring 1,000.
It's another of those educational toys, isn't it? Think how good for your mental arithmetic, adding up your score at the end of each go. My kids shocked their grandmother by whipping out an ipod with a calculator on it. She made them put it away and add up in their heads or with paper and pencil. Good for her!
That almost ends this mini-series on my Mum's loft. There is just one more object of interest for tomorrow... Just one...
Here's a crane.
The main body of it stands at just over 2 feet high. It was made by a friend, and when his children had grown out of it, we inherited it. It's fully functional: the arm can be raised and lowered, and then the hook wound up and down.
I remember spending hours with my younger brother playing "cranes" (although there was only one, we always talked about playing "cranes" in the plural). One child is upstairs, and dangles the crane hook down through the banisters to the other child, in the hall below. There is seemingly no end to what you can do with a crane. You can put something on the hook, and tell your playmate to shut their eyes, wind the object up, and guess what it is by feel. You can choose an object, and race to see who can wind it up the quickest. You can put something really heavy on the hook, and then let go of the wheel, letting it spin and the string unreel at speed, till the object hits the floor with a thud. You can hang a doll or a teddy bear by the neck. Oh, the possibilities are endless.
This is the kind of toy that grown-ups like, because it looks so educational. We like to think our children are learning about pulleys, weights, relative forces, almost as if it was a practical hands-on physics lesson. Well, I never got anywhere with physics, but I did have a lot of fun with this crane. And so did my children.
And finally...
Corinthian!
It's a precursor of the pinball machine This one is 30 inches by 15, to give you an idea of scale. Many of you will look at this and respond "Ah, Bagatelle!" But this version is called Corinthian. Here's a close-up of the rather splendid label at the bottom, in which Walter Lindman (who he?) asserts his preference.
The bit of the label which the photo cuts off states "The recognised tournament board is Corinthian 21T". Dang it! Our board was only a 21S! Just as well we didn't know about tournaments. We would have bullied our parents endlessly to take us to one. We fancied ourselves as Corinthian players (though upping our game to a 21T might have been a shock). I can't think of a toy that gave us more hours of pleasure than this one. It was also an absolute favourite of visiting children. I remember friends loving to play. Maybe they only liked me for my Corinthian board.
The minute my children started playing this, the plink-plink-plonk noise of the steel balls bouncing off the pins was so familiar. This came from my mother's childhood, so it really has done sterling service. Alas, the drumstick used to push the ball up the runway has disappeared, but there are still 19 balls - the number there were when we played with it, or when my mother's family inherited it from some friends. That's quite impressive, not to have lost a ball in two generations. My kids used the handle of a wooden spoon as a pusher, and of course it worked fine (though I miss that drumstick...) Of course the more upmarket versions of Bagatelle have a puller on a spring, to fire the balls into action. I like to think the drumstick requires more skill and finesse. There used to be a list stuck on the back, of the names of those who'd scored 1,000 or more, but that has been lost. It was only a short list, as 1,000 is well nigh impossible. I don't remember anyone in my generation scoring 1,000.
It's another of those educational toys, isn't it? Think how good for your mental arithmetic, adding up your score at the end of each go. My kids shocked their grandmother by whipping out an ipod with a calculator on it. She made them put it away and add up in their heads or with paper and pencil. Good for her!
That almost ends this mini-series on my Mum's loft. There is just one more object of interest for tomorrow... Just one...
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Iota's summer holiday top tips for entertaining children: Part ll
More items from my mother's loft. And by the way, what's the difference between a loft and an attic? Anyone know?
Look at these beautiful parasols. My mother doesn't know where they came from or who they belonged to.
They've evidently never been used; they're in beautiful condition. I'm guessing they were presents from someone's foreign trip. I don't know when they date from, but they belonged to my grandmother, and maybe someone before her. I remember enjoying them as a child. The pink one was my sister's, because she loved all things pink, and the blue one was mine, because I hated all things pink. I can't say that they kept 7-yo entertained for long, but she did prance around the garden with them a little. It's good to have the opportunity to teach children to look after things. In today's throw-away world, it's important for them to learn that things have value, by virtue of being old, or beautiful, or interesting. I taught 7-yo to open and close them carefully and gently, treating them with respect, as I was taught to do by my own mother.
The blue parasol lives in a parasol-shaped tin. The pink one lives in its original brown paper wrapping.
I love the curly writing, and the idea of the "modern shape" of sunshades. Lovely.
Here's another item that I remember from my childhood. It belonged to me.
It wasn't my everyday piggy bank. That was pink, with a removable stopper. The disadvantage with this pig is that it has no stopper. It's also very small - about 3 inches long, so it wouldn't hold much money. But it did have a few coins in it, and the children set about trying to get them out. They succeeded (that used up quite a bit of time), and were thrilled with the achievement of it. 10-yo presented the empty pig and the coins to me with pride: "We've got them out for you, after all these years!" What they don't know, is that I remember being perfectly able to get money out of that pig, sliding the coins out on a knife. I did it loads of times. I didn't tell them that, though. "Gosh, how clever!"
The coins were pre-decimal, so date from my early childhood (decimalisation was 1971, I've looked it up). There were a couple of sixpences - "these are what the tooth fairy used to bring" - and three threepenny bits.
10-yo is the magpie of my family. He loves collecting things, and is fast developing a taste for old items. Yesterday, he bought two farthings for 20p each in a local bric a brac shop, to add to the sixpences and threepenny bits. That's the beginning of an old coin collection (he already has a foreign coin collection). I'm not a collector or a hoarder by nature. I'm minimalist in what I keep. 10-yo is both a magpie and a hoarder. It's a dangerous combination, and it was quite an effort to ensure that a large proportion of the contents of the loft didn't simply end up in a big pile marked "keep for 10-yo". He's already made my mother promise to keep the typewriter.
Back to the pig. I remember being fond of this pig too, but look at it close up.
Don't you think that's a rather sinister grin? This loft clear-out could turn out to be the Return of the Evil Pig.
.
Look at these beautiful parasols. My mother doesn't know where they came from or who they belonged to.
They've evidently never been used; they're in beautiful condition. I'm guessing they were presents from someone's foreign trip. I don't know when they date from, but they belonged to my grandmother, and maybe someone before her. I remember enjoying them as a child. The pink one was my sister's, because she loved all things pink, and the blue one was mine, because I hated all things pink. I can't say that they kept 7-yo entertained for long, but she did prance around the garden with them a little. It's good to have the opportunity to teach children to look after things. In today's throw-away world, it's important for them to learn that things have value, by virtue of being old, or beautiful, or interesting. I taught 7-yo to open and close them carefully and gently, treating them with respect, as I was taught to do by my own mother.
The blue parasol lives in a parasol-shaped tin. The pink one lives in its original brown paper wrapping.
I love the curly writing, and the idea of the "modern shape" of sunshades. Lovely.
Here's another item that I remember from my childhood. It belonged to me.
It wasn't my everyday piggy bank. That was pink, with a removable stopper. The disadvantage with this pig is that it has no stopper. It's also very small - about 3 inches long, so it wouldn't hold much money. But it did have a few coins in it, and the children set about trying to get them out. They succeeded (that used up quite a bit of time), and were thrilled with the achievement of it. 10-yo presented the empty pig and the coins to me with pride: "We've got them out for you, after all these years!" What they don't know, is that I remember being perfectly able to get money out of that pig, sliding the coins out on a knife. I did it loads of times. I didn't tell them that, though. "Gosh, how clever!"
The coins were pre-decimal, so date from my early childhood (decimalisation was 1971, I've looked it up). There were a couple of sixpences - "these are what the tooth fairy used to bring" - and three threepenny bits.
10-yo is the magpie of my family. He loves collecting things, and is fast developing a taste for old items. Yesterday, he bought two farthings for 20p each in a local bric a brac shop, to add to the sixpences and threepenny bits. That's the beginning of an old coin collection (he already has a foreign coin collection). I'm not a collector or a hoarder by nature. I'm minimalist in what I keep. 10-yo is both a magpie and a hoarder. It's a dangerous combination, and it was quite an effort to ensure that a large proportion of the contents of the loft didn't simply end up in a big pile marked "keep for 10-yo". He's already made my mother promise to keep the typewriter.
Back to the pig. I remember being fond of this pig too, but look at it close up.
Don't you think that's a rather sinister grin? This loft clear-out could turn out to be the Return of the Evil Pig.
.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Iota's summer holiday top tips for entertaining children: Part l
Help your mum clean out her loft. Yes. Truly.
Mum's loft turned out to be quite organised on investigation, but there was still quite a lot of stuff up there. You know. Loft stuff. And the government want to contribute towards the cost of having it properly insulated, so down the stuff had to come. Husband did a valiant job, descending boxes, trunks, suitcases, parcels wrapped in plastic, from the hole in the ceiling, as the rest of us waited below, being showered with dust and dead insects.
The most unappetising item was an old badger pelt. It was given to my brother, when he was hitch-hiking round France about 30 years ago, by a taxidermist who stopped to give him a lift. And if that's not the making of a Roald Dahl story, then I don't know what is. It was falling apart and we didn't inspect it too carefully, preferring to jettison it out of the landing window for later retrieval, bagging and binning. Ooh, and once we'd got the taste of jettisoning things out of the window, there was no stopping us. The badger skin was joined by a mouse-nibbled leather pouf, flowery curtains, a heavy wad of black-out material, a bundle of orange carpet, a roll of kitchen lino, foam camping mats, lots of heavy duty plastic, black bags, bubble wrap, dusty cardboard boxes. Next time you're at a loose end, try a bit of jettisoning out of an upstairs window. Very therapeutic.
This process in itself provided entertainment for the kids. Holding the ladder steady - what a very long-lasting activity that can be. Brushing the dust and insect corpses and paper shreddings off the tops of boxes - another one. Marvelling at the tooth-power of mice (mice? well, we called them mice), who can nibble through paper, cardboard, plastic, A level notes. And then, of course, the anticipation and reward as each box or bag is opened. Lots of it deadly boring grown-up stuff, but from time to time your childish patience is rewarded by gems such as this.
10-yo and 7-yo spent a very happy couple of hours getting this to work. They succeeded. So long as your text doesn't need spaces (space bar still not working). And so long as you don't mind colouring in the ribbon with black felt tip marker every few letters. And so long as you don't mind dusting a layer of black dust off the table underneath where the typewriter was when you've finished. Ta da! Nearly a whole morning's activity with just one item. We reckon it's 1920's or 30's. What do you think?
Then there's always the fun of seeing what Mummy used to play with when she was a girl.
These are about 4 inches tall - just to give you an idea of scale. Small enough to be dwarfed by a Bionicle, should one chance by. I have a vague memory that they are in national costumes. That looks like a Chinese coolie hat second from the left, held on with a blue headscarf. (Is it un-pc to talk about coolie hats?) And if I saw women wearing the headgear on the right, I can't for the life of me think of what country I'd be in. Any ideas? Perhaps I'm wrong about the national costumes. I find it a bit sinister, the way their eyes are all looking off to stage right, but 7-yo has spent some very happy hours playing with them. I even sewed a press-stud back on one of their costumes. Talk about devotion to duty, especially since I can't even remember if they belonged to me or my sister.
You may have noticed that this post is titled "Part l". Yes... Meh... That's because, over the next couple of days, I'm going to show you several more items that came down from the loft, which have provided activity for the children.
Then I'm going back to America, where they have basements instead of lofts. Don't worry if you're in America, though. I'm sure my top tip would work in your mother's basement, just as well as in a loft (except for the jettisoning).
Mum's loft turned out to be quite organised on investigation, but there was still quite a lot of stuff up there. You know. Loft stuff. And the government want to contribute towards the cost of having it properly insulated, so down the stuff had to come. Husband did a valiant job, descending boxes, trunks, suitcases, parcels wrapped in plastic, from the hole in the ceiling, as the rest of us waited below, being showered with dust and dead insects.
The most unappetising item was an old badger pelt. It was given to my brother, when he was hitch-hiking round France about 30 years ago, by a taxidermist who stopped to give him a lift. And if that's not the making of a Roald Dahl story, then I don't know what is. It was falling apart and we didn't inspect it too carefully, preferring to jettison it out of the landing window for later retrieval, bagging and binning. Ooh, and once we'd got the taste of jettisoning things out of the window, there was no stopping us. The badger skin was joined by a mouse-nibbled leather pouf, flowery curtains, a heavy wad of black-out material, a bundle of orange carpet, a roll of kitchen lino, foam camping mats, lots of heavy duty plastic, black bags, bubble wrap, dusty cardboard boxes. Next time you're at a loose end, try a bit of jettisoning out of an upstairs window. Very therapeutic.
This process in itself provided entertainment for the kids. Holding the ladder steady - what a very long-lasting activity that can be. Brushing the dust and insect corpses and paper shreddings off the tops of boxes - another one. Marvelling at the tooth-power of mice (mice? well, we called them mice), who can nibble through paper, cardboard, plastic, A level notes. And then, of course, the anticipation and reward as each box or bag is opened. Lots of it deadly boring grown-up stuff, but from time to time your childish patience is rewarded by gems such as this.
10-yo and 7-yo spent a very happy couple of hours getting this to work. They succeeded. So long as your text doesn't need spaces (space bar still not working). And so long as you don't mind colouring in the ribbon with black felt tip marker every few letters. And so long as you don't mind dusting a layer of black dust off the table underneath where the typewriter was when you've finished. Ta da! Nearly a whole morning's activity with just one item. We reckon it's 1920's or 30's. What do you think?
Then there's always the fun of seeing what Mummy used to play with when she was a girl.
These are about 4 inches tall - just to give you an idea of scale. Small enough to be dwarfed by a Bionicle, should one chance by. I have a vague memory that they are in national costumes. That looks like a Chinese coolie hat second from the left, held on with a blue headscarf. (Is it un-pc to talk about coolie hats?) And if I saw women wearing the headgear on the right, I can't for the life of me think of what country I'd be in. Any ideas? Perhaps I'm wrong about the national costumes. I find it a bit sinister, the way their eyes are all looking off to stage right, but 7-yo has spent some very happy hours playing with them. I even sewed a press-stud back on one of their costumes. Talk about devotion to duty, especially since I can't even remember if they belonged to me or my sister.
You may have noticed that this post is titled "Part l". Yes... Meh... That's because, over the next couple of days, I'm going to show you several more items that came down from the loft, which have provided activity for the children.
Then I'm going back to America, where they have basements instead of lofts. Don't worry if you're in America, though. I'm sure my top tip would work in your mother's basement, just as well as in a loft (except for the jettisoning).
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Unfair competition
I took my three children to the British Museum yesterday.
On our return, I asked 7-yo to tell her grandmother what was the most interesting thing she had seen there.
"Nothing", she replied. "Lots of really boring things, but nothing interesting at all".
Ah well. Can't win them all. Except, on reflection, she had something to add.
"There was one interesting thing. The ice cream van. That was good. Although it wasn't really IN the museum, was it? It was outside."
Bad luck, British Museum. Hundreds of years of history - nul points. Provision of parking spot for ice cream van - 10 out of 10.
.
On our return, I asked 7-yo to tell her grandmother what was the most interesting thing she had seen there.
"Nothing", she replied. "Lots of really boring things, but nothing interesting at all".
Ah well. Can't win them all. Except, on reflection, she had something to add.
"There was one interesting thing. The ice cream van. That was good. Although it wasn't really IN the museum, was it? It was outside."
Bad luck, British Museum. Hundreds of years of history - nul points. Provision of parking spot for ice cream van - 10 out of 10.
.
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Seasonal offerings
I knew you’d all be fed up with the festive season by now, so I thought I’d give you a break from tinsel decorations and snow scenes, and reminisce with you about autumn. What? You think I took photos of autumn leaves a month ago, didn’t get round to writing the blog post, but am still determined to use them? You cynics.
I love autumn. It’s my favourite season, always has been. And I never knew how much I was missing out. The British autumn, I’m sorry to say, is really a bit thin, compared to the richness of the season here. You know how at the beginning of October, you get a few days where it is warm again and the sky is a deep blue, and everyone says how much they are appreciating this Indian summer? Well, this year, we had that kind of weather for about eight weeks, mid September to mid November. No rain, no wind, just day after day of perfect skies and exquisite warmth. The leaves that fell stayed dry, and raking them up was like building piles of cornflakes, rather than that sludgy mess that comes with raking wet British leaves. Altogether a different experience.
Nature seemed to appreciate the perfection of the weather too, and put on some beautiful displays. Trees in Britain have to get their shows done so quickly, and in the damp. A few days, and they need to get from green foliage to bare twigs. They manage a little colour, but have to speed on through to dead brown leaves pretty fast. The trees here have the luxury of week after week of slowly fading temperatures, and still have the energy to choreograph their colour changes with finesse. What impresses me most, is the way one tree can exhibit different colours at the same time. We had two trees in our garden that were, for days on end, red at the top, yellow in the middle, and still green at the bottom. Traffic lights. I couldn’t get far enough away from them to photograph them, more’s the pity, but here are some other examples I found.
Look how this tree shades itself from orange to green, left to right.
This one decided to do it from top to bottom.
These ones do it from the inside out. See how they’re red at the ends of their branches, but still green at the core, as if holding on to summer in their hearts while bravely waving their hands at the oncoming autumn.
Impressed? Just wait till you see this. Group choreography. These five babies have got together for a chorus line performance.
Great show, gals. (That isn't a floating roof, by the way. It's just that someone painted their store the exact same shade of blue as the autumn sky.)
Some trees are just too bursting with their own creativity to bother with that shading effect, and they mix up the colours in a great effusion. This one gives us a beautiful two-tone green and yellow.
I left in that stunning little red bush for you to see. What an effort it made – the least I could do was not to crop it out of the picture.
This one couldn’t wait to decide which colours to go for, so threw them all in together and mingled them up. The photo doesn’t do it justice. Click on it to enlarge it - go on, you know you want to.
I’m glad trees are rooted to one spot. If those British trees came over in the autumn, I’d hate to witness their feelings of inadequacy and embarrassment. It would be like meeting your best friends in Milan or Paris, and walking down the most fashionable shopping streets with them in their old cords and Fair Isle sweaters. We could console the trees with talk of differences in climate, and how they do their best against the odds, but I’m sure their branches would hang low and their leaves would droop. I’d hate to see that. Of course they wouldn’t really need worry, because the trees here, being American, would be supremely impressed by the sheer size of their towering British cousins, and their history. All those years laid down in concentric circles, from the time of their sapling youth when masked highwaymen hid in their shadows, and men in tights hurtled between them in pursuit of wild boar (my historical knowledge is poetic rather than factual...). Trees here are neither large nor old. Too many ferocious winds to which they must bow low, and too many ice storms to contend with, when their branches are broken off by the weight of the days-long accumulated ice.
To finish, here is a glorious display of autumnal splendour.
Look at the rich red, the startling yellow, the mellow ochre, the luscious green. Even that little shrub in the front is shimmering in maroon and silver.
Which one? Well, it's a bit small, I admit. You probably can't appreciate it properly.
I'll enlarge it for you - I'm sure it's well worth a closer look.
Those lovely autumn tones...
Hang on...
It’s a fire hydrant. I’m getting carried away here. But don’t think I’ll be moving on to Santa and polar bears yet. Oh no. This post was trees. The next is going to be leaves. Sorry.
I love autumn. It’s my favourite season, always has been. And I never knew how much I was missing out. The British autumn, I’m sorry to say, is really a bit thin, compared to the richness of the season here. You know how at the beginning of October, you get a few days where it is warm again and the sky is a deep blue, and everyone says how much they are appreciating this Indian summer? Well, this year, we had that kind of weather for about eight weeks, mid September to mid November. No rain, no wind, just day after day of perfect skies and exquisite warmth. The leaves that fell stayed dry, and raking them up was like building piles of cornflakes, rather than that sludgy mess that comes with raking wet British leaves. Altogether a different experience.
Nature seemed to appreciate the perfection of the weather too, and put on some beautiful displays. Trees in Britain have to get their shows done so quickly, and in the damp. A few days, and they need to get from green foliage to bare twigs. They manage a little colour, but have to speed on through to dead brown leaves pretty fast. The trees here have the luxury of week after week of slowly fading temperatures, and still have the energy to choreograph their colour changes with finesse. What impresses me most, is the way one tree can exhibit different colours at the same time. We had two trees in our garden that were, for days on end, red at the top, yellow in the middle, and still green at the bottom. Traffic lights. I couldn’t get far enough away from them to photograph them, more’s the pity, but here are some other examples I found.
Look how this tree shades itself from orange to green, left to right.
This one decided to do it from top to bottom.
These ones do it from the inside out. See how they’re red at the ends of their branches, but still green at the core, as if holding on to summer in their hearts while bravely waving their hands at the oncoming autumn.
Impressed? Just wait till you see this. Group choreography. These five babies have got together for a chorus line performance.
Great show, gals. (That isn't a floating roof, by the way. It's just that someone painted their store the exact same shade of blue as the autumn sky.)
Some trees are just too bursting with their own creativity to bother with that shading effect, and they mix up the colours in a great effusion. This one gives us a beautiful two-tone green and yellow.
I left in that stunning little red bush for you to see. What an effort it made – the least I could do was not to crop it out of the picture.
This one couldn’t wait to decide which colours to go for, so threw them all in together and mingled them up. The photo doesn’t do it justice. Click on it to enlarge it - go on, you know you want to.
I’m glad trees are rooted to one spot. If those British trees came over in the autumn, I’d hate to witness their feelings of inadequacy and embarrassment. It would be like meeting your best friends in Milan or Paris, and walking down the most fashionable shopping streets with them in their old cords and Fair Isle sweaters. We could console the trees with talk of differences in climate, and how they do their best against the odds, but I’m sure their branches would hang low and their leaves would droop. I’d hate to see that. Of course they wouldn’t really need worry, because the trees here, being American, would be supremely impressed by the sheer size of their towering British cousins, and their history. All those years laid down in concentric circles, from the time of their sapling youth when masked highwaymen hid in their shadows, and men in tights hurtled between them in pursuit of wild boar (my historical knowledge is poetic rather than factual...). Trees here are neither large nor old. Too many ferocious winds to which they must bow low, and too many ice storms to contend with, when their branches are broken off by the weight of the days-long accumulated ice.
To finish, here is a glorious display of autumnal splendour.
Look at the rich red, the startling yellow, the mellow ochre, the luscious green. Even that little shrub in the front is shimmering in maroon and silver.
Which one? Well, it's a bit small, I admit. You probably can't appreciate it properly.
I'll enlarge it for you - I'm sure it's well worth a closer look.
Those lovely autumn tones...
Hang on...
It’s a fire hydrant. I’m getting carried away here. But don’t think I’ll be moving on to Santa and polar bears yet. Oh no. This post was trees. The next is going to be leaves. Sorry.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Sweet Land
Whenever I've felt that moving abroad is tough and lonely and all those other self-pitying things that we expat wives notch up on our imaginary totem of hard-done-byness, I've always managed to find some comfort in comparing my lot to those of women in bygone ages. I always hated history at school, and wrote it off as boring and pointless. I now increasingly see the huge value of learning about the past, about past lives. Boy, does it make you thankful to be a 21st century woman.
The pioneers, those women who sat in covered wagons with their children, bumping along day after day after day, full of uncertainty, fear, loneliness, illness. No email, no telephone, no blogging, no antibiotics, no heating, no air conditioning. How pathetic they would think we modern day women are! "I don't understand the school grading system. I can't get decent sausages. The bacon is really fatty. Air travel is so expensive." I hang my head in shame.
Last night, I watched a movie "Sweet Land" - look it up on Netflix. It's set in the 1920s, when Inge arrives in Minnesota to marry a farmer she has never met. Because of her German background, she is unable to get the necessary papers to allow her to immigrate or marry. The local minister preaches against her from the pulpit ("her coffee is too black"), and life is bleak. It is a beautiful movie, which I thoroughly recommend if you're not in a hurry (emotionally, I mean, at 110 minutes the film itself isn't unusually long). Slow-moving (oh how those days must have dragged for her), with lingering shots of the land, the houses, the faces of the characters, it's full of the detail of life at the time, domestic, social and agricultural.
I loved Inge. Beautiful, composed, dignified, standing up for herself as best she can, treasuring her few possessions, a gramophone player and a smart hat. She arrives in a strange and hostile land, speaking only a few words of English, but has been sensible enough to include in her handful of learned phrases "I could eat a horse". That speaks to me of a woman who, facing her life's biggest adventure and biggest hardship, shrewdly and wisely decided where her priorities lay.
The pioneers, those women who sat in covered wagons with their children, bumping along day after day after day, full of uncertainty, fear, loneliness, illness. No email, no telephone, no blogging, no antibiotics, no heating, no air conditioning. How pathetic they would think we modern day women are! "I don't understand the school grading system. I can't get decent sausages. The bacon is really fatty. Air travel is so expensive." I hang my head in shame.
Last night, I watched a movie "Sweet Land" - look it up on Netflix. It's set in the 1920s, when Inge arrives in Minnesota to marry a farmer she has never met. Because of her German background, she is unable to get the necessary papers to allow her to immigrate or marry. The local minister preaches against her from the pulpit ("her coffee is too black"), and life is bleak. It is a beautiful movie, which I thoroughly recommend if you're not in a hurry (emotionally, I mean, at 110 minutes the film itself isn't unusually long). Slow-moving (oh how those days must have dragged for her), with lingering shots of the land, the houses, the faces of the characters, it's full of the detail of life at the time, domestic, social and agricultural.
I loved Inge. Beautiful, composed, dignified, standing up for herself as best she can, treasuring her few possessions, a gramophone player and a smart hat. She arrives in a strange and hostile land, speaking only a few words of English, but has been sensible enough to include in her handful of learned phrases "I could eat a horse". That speaks to me of a woman who, facing her life's biggest adventure and biggest hardship, shrewdly and wisely decided where her priorities lay.
Monday, August 13, 2007
The wanderers return
Well, we’re back. It was a very good holiday. When I said “a week or two”, I was understating a little. We were away, in fact, for 2 weeks and 2 days. Maybe the American week is bigger than the British week.
I made a marvellous discovery in Colorado. Now you know how much I like our neighborhood pool. I’m afraid to say that they do much better in the Rockies. Yup. They sure do. They have hot springs.
We tried out hot springs in three different towns. It made me want to move to Colorado. Imagine having neighborhood hot springs instead of a neighborhood pool. It’s like having a warm bath in the middle of the afternoon, under the guise of entertaining your children. The one I liked best was in Ouray, the Switzerland of America as it is known, where you are in a sort of basin surrounded by peaks, and can't raise your eyes without enjoying stunning mountain views [you have to click on "Today's Movie" to make this worth watching, by the way]. Whoever had designed the Ouray hot springs had put careful thought into the layout, and had got it 100% right. I hope he or she got an award. It was set out so that there was a bath-hot pool in which one could do some serious lounging, whilst watching one’s off-spring play in the adjoining ice-cold pool to which they were attracted by a couple of big slides. This seems to me to be the ideal arrangement: adults lounge in the warmth while children cavort in the cold. There was also an intermediate tepid pool to one side, where one could play with the off-spring when required, meaning that I never, not once, ever, had to venture into the cold pool at all. I should mention at this point that Husband earned himself huge totals of brownie points – that’s UK girl guide brownie points, not US chocolate brownie points, although he could have had those too if he had wanted, such was my gratitude – by accompanying the off-spring into the cold pool when necessary, which actually amounted to a very long time. So not all the adults got to do all the lounging. Those who have a long-standing love affair with the hot bath took priority.
I developed a theory. When you visit the Rockies, you are very aware of their history, and how the great gold rushes of the late 19th century led to this harsh country being populated. There is evidence of mining all around, of fortunes being made and lost, of hopes and dreams, of new beginnings, of hardship and adventure. I’m not sure this was all to do with gold, though. I reckon word got out about the hot springs. I mean, if you were a pioneer, in a dusty covered wagon, your limbs aching from the bone-shaking motion, your feet sore from walking, your children dirty and tired, wouldn’t the promise of hot springs have done it for you? Just one “there’s hot springs in them thar hills” and I’d have been leaping on the front horse and whipping it to within an inch of its poor beleaguered life, stopping for the briefest of moments when the baby fell out of the back of the wagon, and turning back for it only because the cries of the older children were so piteous when I suggested that we would have more chance of being first at the springs if we let another wagon stop to pick it up.
This was my theory, at any rate, until we got home to the plains. Back home on the range, I looked up Weatherbug on the internet, and was a little dismayed to find that the weather forecast for the next 5 days didn’t show any temperatures below 100 degrees. It has definitely hotted up since we went away. We had been warned, but as with all these things, you don’t quite believe it till you experience it. So I am pleased to be back to the neighborhood pool, which is open for another 3 weeks until Labor day. Neighborhood hot springs have their time and place, but I guess here and now is not it.
I have also to report, with some degree of smugness, that we only had ONE fast food meal in all our time away. Travelling with 3 children in America, this represents something of an achievement. The one fast food meal we did have was very well worth it. The lady behind the counter, on hearing our accents, went a bit dreamy and asked if we had ever met Sir Paul McCartney. I was sorry to have to disappoint her, but it was nice to be asked. Our visit to the establishment also meant that I could listen all evening to 3-yo talking about Burger Ting (she can’t say the sound “k” at the beginning of a word, not even in Tolorado), which was unbelievably sweet. Tute, one might venture.
I made a marvellous discovery in Colorado. Now you know how much I like our neighborhood pool. I’m afraid to say that they do much better in the Rockies. Yup. They sure do. They have hot springs.
We tried out hot springs in three different towns. It made me want to move to Colorado. Imagine having neighborhood hot springs instead of a neighborhood pool. It’s like having a warm bath in the middle of the afternoon, under the guise of entertaining your children. The one I liked best was in Ouray, the Switzerland of America as it is known, where you are in a sort of basin surrounded by peaks, and can't raise your eyes without enjoying stunning mountain views [you have to click on "Today's Movie" to make this worth watching, by the way]. Whoever had designed the Ouray hot springs had put careful thought into the layout, and had got it 100% right. I hope he or she got an award. It was set out so that there was a bath-hot pool in which one could do some serious lounging, whilst watching one’s off-spring play in the adjoining ice-cold pool to which they were attracted by a couple of big slides. This seems to me to be the ideal arrangement: adults lounge in the warmth while children cavort in the cold. There was also an intermediate tepid pool to one side, where one could play with the off-spring when required, meaning that I never, not once, ever, had to venture into the cold pool at all. I should mention at this point that Husband earned himself huge totals of brownie points – that’s UK girl guide brownie points, not US chocolate brownie points, although he could have had those too if he had wanted, such was my gratitude – by accompanying the off-spring into the cold pool when necessary, which actually amounted to a very long time. So not all the adults got to do all the lounging. Those who have a long-standing love affair with the hot bath took priority.
I developed a theory. When you visit the Rockies, you are very aware of their history, and how the great gold rushes of the late 19th century led to this harsh country being populated. There is evidence of mining all around, of fortunes being made and lost, of hopes and dreams, of new beginnings, of hardship and adventure. I’m not sure this was all to do with gold, though. I reckon word got out about the hot springs. I mean, if you were a pioneer, in a dusty covered wagon, your limbs aching from the bone-shaking motion, your feet sore from walking, your children dirty and tired, wouldn’t the promise of hot springs have done it for you? Just one “there’s hot springs in them thar hills” and I’d have been leaping on the front horse and whipping it to within an inch of its poor beleaguered life, stopping for the briefest of moments when the baby fell out of the back of the wagon, and turning back for it only because the cries of the older children were so piteous when I suggested that we would have more chance of being first at the springs if we let another wagon stop to pick it up.
This was my theory, at any rate, until we got home to the plains. Back home on the range, I looked up Weatherbug on the internet, and was a little dismayed to find that the weather forecast for the next 5 days didn’t show any temperatures below 100 degrees. It has definitely hotted up since we went away. We had been warned, but as with all these things, you don’t quite believe it till you experience it. So I am pleased to be back to the neighborhood pool, which is open for another 3 weeks until Labor day. Neighborhood hot springs have their time and place, but I guess here and now is not it.
I have also to report, with some degree of smugness, that we only had ONE fast food meal in all our time away. Travelling with 3 children in America, this represents something of an achievement. The one fast food meal we did have was very well worth it. The lady behind the counter, on hearing our accents, went a bit dreamy and asked if we had ever met Sir Paul McCartney. I was sorry to have to disappoint her, but it was nice to be asked. Our visit to the establishment also meant that I could listen all evening to 3-yo talking about Burger Ting (she can’t say the sound “k” at the beginning of a word, not even in Tolorado), which was unbelievably sweet. Tute, one might venture.
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