Random Distractions

Today, the first Friday in March, all over the world women will gather to share prayer, information and action. Each year, women from one country prepare the service to be used and this year it is the turn of the women of Chile, who have chosen  bread as their focus in How many loaves have you?

Women from all of our local churches will be joining together this afternoon and I have been busy baking the bread that will be shared. Although it is the Women's World Day of Prayer, the congregation will, we hope, be mixed.

It is really good to think that this world consciousness of the people of Chile began this morning at dawn in Tonga and will go on through 170 countries until it ends 35 hours later in Western Samoa. The idea of the women of the world uniting in this way is really thrilling. I hope you can join us.

On 60goingon16 today,   D writes about a campaign called Give and Makeup, which aims to provide toiletries and make-up for women who have escaped from domestic violence. The recent announcement that local authorities are withdrawing funding from services for victims of domestic violence means that the charities that do such vital work will rely more than ever on our support.

You will find all the information and links that you need on 60 going on 16 and here is a shortcut to the list of things the charity would like. This seems to me an easy way to do a little to make women who have lost  confidence in themselves to look and feel a little better.

I've just been reading about Victorian wash days. I was surprised to find that these were not weekly events but probably only took place about once a month. When I read the instructions for landering in the Girls' Own Paper of 1899, I understood why ordinary housewives, who had no servants to do the work,  would need time to recover in between what were wash weeks rather than days:

The next essential item after the washing line is the peg, or pin as our American friends would say. My mother had wooden pegs that doubled up as toys.
We would slot one peg inside another to make guns when we played at being cowboys in the garden. On rainy days, we would draw faces on the peg tops and drape them in bits of fabric to make characters in our little theatre, made from a shoe box.

Sometimes gypsies would knock on the door, trying to sell pegs they had made from two bits of wood bound with twine or, as in this picture, metal bands.
They were not very good pegs but people would buy a few because they felt sorry for the women who were trying to scrape a living.

When I had my first job and flat (apartment), I wanted the latest style in pegs; first some very flimsy plastic ones that used to break, leaving the laundry on the ground.
Then a different style but still plastic
These stayed on the line but were no good at pinning anything thicker than a handkerchief or a pair of tights. If I did manage to squeeze them on over a thicker item, I wouldn't be able to get it off again. And, of course, it took much longer to peg out the washing with coloured pegs because they had to be colour matched to each other and the clothes!

For years I used this type,
These are fine until the spring breaks and then the washing ends up on the ground again. So I now use some superior cushioned pegs that don't leave pressure marks on sweaters.
Unfortunately, the problem with colour-matching has resurfaced. (I hope no-one believes that!)

Where do you keep your pegs/pins? I have always favoured a bag
 but some people prefer a bucket

My mother-in-law always left her pegs on the line, ready for the next wash day. I could never do that. Some habits are so deeply ingrained that to change them would be to betray my Lancashire and Irish forebears. The washing should never be left on the line after sunset and the pegs should be put in the bag and brought indoors. I may never have whitened my doorstep but I have always brought in my pegs!

Next time - hanging methods and a very special line.

Fine Lines a celebration of clothesline culture  by Cindy Etter-Turnbull doesn't appear to be available in UK but Canadian and US readers can get it here. I was lucky enough to win my copy at Letters from a Hill Farm.  It is a highly entertaining as well as informative book and well worth the effort of tracking down a copy. Each section had me reminiscing, remarking on the changes in our domestic habits over the last 60 years or so and frequently laughing aloud.

I was surprised  to learn that in some parts of Canada and US clotheslines are banned! I haven't heard of that happening here yet but we all know that where America leads England tends to follow. I'm getting my "Hands off my washing line!"  placard ready, just in case. My first thought on a warm, breezy day is how much laundry can I get washed and out to dry? It would be a brave official who would try to stop me!

You might wonder, as I did, at the idea of a clothesline culture. Don't people just put their washing out to dry in the sun? Believe me, after reading just a few pages of Fine Lines, I realised that the how and where of laundry drying is embedded in our cultural identity. I don't intend to spoil the book for would-be readers but I am going to pick out a few aspects of clothesline culture to explore here over the next few days. Do join me with your own memories and observations.

Nappy drying service at Butlin's holiday camp 1955

My mother always had two long washing lines made of rope and supported by wooden props. She would have approved of the rows of nappies blowing in the breeze in this picture from BBC archives. However, she would not have had that tattered nappy on display for the neighbours to see! Less than perfect items were dried on an indoor rack in the kitchen.
 There were more wet Mondays than dry ones in Lancashire, so this ceiling clothes rack was in constant use along with the 'clothes maiden'
I think this was a northern name because when I moved to the south of England I could only buy this type and it was called a clothes horse:
I didn't see any props in the southern gardens, all my neighbours had pulley lines. My Lancashire soul needed a prop so a friend made one for me, a little more sophisticated than this one, but not much!


My cottage garden is too small for a proper washing line so I now have a rotary line that can be packed away in the garage when not in use and I have a tumble dryer and the Aga for those wet days.
Modern appliances are useful but not nearly as satisfying as the old ways of doing things. As a young mother, I loved to look out on my rows of terry nappies blowing in the wind. I loved the fresh outdoor smell of the dried laundry and was really surprised when one of my neighbours told me that she never dried her washing outdoors because she hated her clothes to smell of the sea.

My mother had very precise ways of hanging out the washing. It was sorted and folded and put in the basket in the order it was to pegged on the line. The basket was carried out into the garden with the bag of pegs and a damp cloth for wiping the line - skipping that would lead to trouble if she found a dirty mark on a shirt or sheet. Next time I'll look at pegs and how the clothes were hung out to dry.

The very best children's books are those that everyone enjoys, from baby to great grandma. Phrases from them are absorbed and become part of a family's shared experience, triggering laughter that cannot be explained to anyone outside the magic circle of that particular memory.

One of our family favourites is The Elephant and the Bad Baby by Elfrida Vipont, with wonderful illustrations by Raymond Briggs. My children loved it when they were small and we all still pick up on anyone in a restaurant, shop or on TV who fails to ask politely for anything by chorusing, "But you haven't once said please! You haven't ONCE said please!" Now it is granddaughter Millie's turn to love the book. She doesn't understand about manners yet but she loves rumpeta, rumpeta, rumpeta all down the road, joining in with gusto as I turn the pages.

I know that Millie will go on to find more and more to interest and amuse her in the illustrations and that sooner or later she will think the Baby is naughty and then begin to wonder about the morality of the Elephant. (I have a feeling that this book might be responsible for the increase in interest in philosophy among young people, since 1967.)
A few years ago, I was asked to speak at a conference of clergy and catechists. There were about 120 of them, from all over the south west of England. They had come, I'm sure, to enjoy a peaceful weekend in sunny North Devon, only to find the worst freak storm in years.

I was used to speaking to groups of teachers and medical practitioners in my professional life but to speak about the gospel to a bishop and crowd of Catholic priests was a real challenge. Who would want to preach to preachers? The gospel reading I had to speak about was John 4:3-30, the story of the woman at the well. After tearing up all attempts at writing something spiritual or intellectual (and most of my hair!) I decided to speak from a place that would be entirely unknown to my listeners - my experience as a mother. And I used my battered old copy of The Elephant and the Bad Baby as my visual aid.

I picked out the words of Jesus to the woman, "Give me a drink" and said how my family, listening to this story, would have cried in unison, "He never ONCE said please." I went through the Bad Baby book, linking the demands of the baby with the many demands that are made on priests and teachers, who frequently feel unappreciated. They loved it! I wasn't challenging their position in any way, I was being a Mum, recognising their tiredness and hurts and comforting them with a story. And, like all good mothers, I finished with a message of hope, if they were to take time over the weekend to listen, even amid the sound of those 12 foot waves crashing onto the rocks outside, they might just hear a "Please."

I bet Elfrida Vipont never expected her children's book to provide the basis of a homily! Or, as the Episcopal Vicar for Formation referred to it - a homilette. Well, he had to draw the distinction, I am a woman after all.

1. Barbecue cooking
2. Polythene hairspray (perhaps I didn't hear that right!)
3. Power brakes

But she is almost overcome when she hears the English responses:

1. Artificial flowers with electric lights inside
2. Tinned cat food
3. Composition soles for shoes
4. Childbirth - today it is quite painless
5. Plastic mirrors for budgerigars 

I wonder what answers we would hear if that poll were to be taken today?

Frances Woodsford is now 95 years old but she is as witty and articulate as she was when she wrote the letters. You can listen to an interview with her here.

Like most women, I love shoes. I have more pairs than I care to admit and yet always seem to need more.

This morning's Woman's Hour on Radio 4 featured artist Alice Instone talking about her latest exhibition Interview with a Shoe. The shoes in question are described as belonging to some of the most influential individuals in London and each pair tells a story, revealing something about the owner.

If you are lucky enough to be in the Bethnal Green area of London in the next two weeks, there are lots of reasons to visit the exhibition: love of contemporary art, curiosity about celebrities, interest in the role of shoes in literature or the history of fashion or in the ethics of the present day fashion industry. The charity Dress for Success, which helps promote the independence of disadvantaged women, will benefit from the proceeds of the exhibition.

The interview with Alice Instone reminded me of the significance of shoes in our lives. What woman can forget her first pair of high heels or the first pair of shoes she bought for her baby? Who can escape the impact of the image of the thousands of shoes confiscated from the victims of the Holocaust?
While out walking last week, I met an elderly lady from my church; she looked distressed so I stopped while she poured out her shoe story, a memory triggered by something she had just overheard. Maria is eighty years old, Austrian by birth but having lived in England since 1947. She was not quite fifteen when the Russian army invaded her village in Austria in April 1945. Already on the point of starvation, they had the added terror of stories of rape and violence as the soldiers advanced. Maria and her two older sisters fled with nothing but the clothes they were wearing and a little food. Maria was wearing an old pair of boots, passed down from her sisters.

The girls spent many weeks on the road, sleeping under hedges and eating whatever they could get. They eventually reached Bavaria, where they hoped to find the family of a German soldier they had met. By this time it was summer and Maria's feet were really suffering from the long journey and the heavy boots. The sisters found the family they were looking for and were taken in, although the lack of food and clothes was as bad as in their own village. There were no shoes to spare but the grandfather took his knife and cut Maria's boots to make her a pair of rough sandals: "The most beautiful shoes I have ever owned."

My own shoe story is far less noble but it taught me a salutary lesson.

I had an unfashionably happy childhood. We were not at all well-off but my mother contrived to dress us well and always took us to have our feet measured for our sturdy leather brogues and sandals, polished every night before we were allowed our cocoa. How she managed to keep four of us in the required outdoor shoes, indoor shoes, gym shoes, hockey or soccer boots, as well as wellingtons, slippers and play shoes I cannot imagine. But, when you are a stroppy teenager, such thoughts do not enter your selfish head.

I wanted a pair of fashionable slip-on shoes instead of the Clark's indoor shoes I was supposed to have for school. I was thirteen and "all my friends' mothers let them have fashion shoes." I must have worn my mother out, because I got a pair of cheap and rather nasty shoes with very pointed toes. They were very uncomfortable, more slip-off than slip-on but I strutted around in them and insisted on wearing them when we went to visit my Aunt Margaret in Cheshire, where everyone looks down upon their Lancashire neighbours.

We all went out for a walk after lunch but I couldn't keep up in the wretched shoes, which were really hurting by this time, pinching my toes and rubbing my heels. We had been joined on the walk by my aunt's friend and I heard them talking about my awful footwear. My aunt said, "Poor Winnie, she does her best but I expect they were all she could afford with four children to look after." I don't think I have ever quite forgiven myself for bringing such shame on my mother. I certainly never argued with her again when we went to buy our "sensible" shoes.

I suppose I deserved to have a daughter who insisted on choosing to wear her father's shoes to a party!

This picture (from news.bbc.co.uk) shows Susan Tsvangirai, who was killed in a road accident in Zimbabwe last week. Hers was not an easy life but she provided support and inspiration for the people of Zimbabwe who long for freedom and justice.

The following tribute "To a brave lady" comes from today's issue of the Bulawayo Morning Mirror.

In one brief moment in time Susan Tsvangirai stepped out of this world and into the next leaving behind her a nation in mourning and a formidable legacy. For millions of us wherever we are in the world, she is and always will be the "mother who gave birth to not only six children but also to a new Zimbabwe". She stood by her man and her family through what we can only imagine as terrifying, treacherous, dangerous and life-threatening years, committed in mind, body and spirit to the cause; namely getting out there and doing whatever it took to fight the good fight to bring hope, love, guidance and leadership to her countrymen and women.

Saturday morning in Zimbabwe was somber. An underlying feeling of sadness mixed with anger at the injustice of it all. I spoke to some of you who were deeply upset and clearly the impact of this tragedy will be felt far and wide for a long, long time. As we go about our days I'm certain that the Tsvangirai family will be in our thoughts, and as such, we would do well to honor Susan's sacrifice by remembering that she dies a true heroine of Henry Olonga's "Our Zimbabwe", of our hearts and souls. She joins the sacrosanct list of those who will never be forgotten in the struggle for the promised land. With her legacy behind us, embedded within her birthright her qualities of love, patriotism, courage, humility and grace shall surely shore up our own strength and commitment to continue this long walk to freedom. Let her ultimate sacrifice remind us to look deeply and honestly into our own souls to ask the same question Susan's life answered with a resounding "Yes";

"In the evening of my life, I will look to the sunset.
And the question I will ask, only God can answer;
Was I brave and strong and true?
Did I fill the world with love my whole life through?"

We will not forget. We will not falter when called to make the sacrifices needed to make the difference so that at the end of our own lives we may look back and know that we did all we could, gave all we could and ultimately helped to spread the light which enveloped the darkness hanging over our beloved land. God Bless you, our Prime Minister, and the Tsvangirai children. Your loss is our loss. Your pain is felt throughout the world. You are not alone. You have never and will never walk alone. We pay tribute to a great lady, in our prayers, thoughts, and actions. We are so, so sorry.

In the same issue, you can read the statement issued by WOZA (Women of Zimbabwe Arise) on International Women's Day, 8th March. This statement gives a clear picture of the daily struggles of ordinary women in Zimbabwe, where life expectancy is now 34 years.

Every year, Christian women around the world set aside a day to meet together and pray. Each year, the theme is set by the women of a different country and this year it is the women of Papua New Guinea who have prepared the prayer service. Their theme is Unity.

Papua New Guinea has the most diverse indigenous population in the world, with more than 800 different languages. They have a saying, "For each village another culture". But all the women of Papua New Guinea use the bilum, a traditional string bag. The bilum comes in different styles, colours, shapes and sizes according to the village, but it is used universally for carrying babies and market produce and as a cradle for small babies. So, the women of Papua New Guinea have chosen the bilum as a symbol of Christian unity for today's worldwide prayer service.

Here is their invitation to prayer:
In Papua New Guinea we are many and we are diverse. Our 800 languages represent the many cultures and traditions. Our rugged landscape can isolate us from one another but the love of God empowers us to embrace each other and to embrace you, our brothers and sisters around the world. We greet you with these words "Yum planti manmeri tasol long Kraist yumi stap wanpela bodi tasol" meaning "In Christ we are many yet one body."

You can find out more about Women's World Day of Prayer here. If you can't get to a local gathering, you could download the resources and join in at home.

Earlier in the month, I spotted a 'windows' theme developing on several of my favourite blogs. It has been fascinating to see more pictures appearing and more people joining in. Margaretha now has a special 'Today's window' feature and I hurry over every day to see what she has found to delight us.

I was sorting through some of my old books today when I came across this copy of Kate Greenaway's Under the Window.

I loved her illustrations when I was a child but (dare I confess?) I was never very impressed by her verse.

On my desk, I have a postcard of this painting by Caspar David Friedrich. It is called Woman at the Window. I have been pleasantly surprised this week to find similarly themed pictures on two of my favourite blogs. On 60goingon16, you will find Carl Holsoe's Woman seated at a window and Musings from a Muddy Island shows A length of thread by Eduoard Vuillard.

I was so struck by the coincidence that I entered 'woman at window' in my search engine and came up with the following on a single page:

• Window by Degas
• Ironing by Degas
• Woman at Window by Eastman Johnson
• Young sewer at window by Felix Valloton
• The Goldfish Window by Childe Hassam

In some of the paintings, the window is simply the source of light but in others there is a sense of wistfulness, a longing to be out in the world that is glimpsed through the window. I like to gaze, with the woman in my picture, at the forest and the masts of the yachts and imagine.

Early in 1994, my parish priest asked me to call on a woman who had breast cancer. "She needs a friend but won't let anyone near her," he said, "perhaps she'll talk to you." That's how I came to meet the most beautiful, vivacious, intelligent and angry woman who was Angela. She had been treated for breast cancer ten years earlier but it had been secretly spreading through her body and now it was too late for further treatment. She was going to die but she wasn't going quietly!

The one thing I'm good at is listening; Angela ranted and threw me out but I kept going back for more and gradually we developed a friendship that is still painful in its loss. I would take her to stand at the top of Baggy Point and together we would scream out to sea, at the cruelty and injustice of this awful disease. This helped her and I recommend it as a way of releasing all that pent up anger and fear. We had several relatively calm months when we put together a book of memories for her daughter and any future grandchildren there might be. she never gave up her anger but some of the fears were addressed.

Then on, January 9th 1995, I was diagnosed with a very aggressive form of breast cancer. On the way to the hospital for surgery the next morning, I forced my husband to call at Angela's house so that I could tell her myself. Our roles were reversed, she now became the strong partner in our friendship; as her condition deteriorated she urged me to fight for her sake as well as mine. She died on 4th November 1995. I'm still here and not a day goes by without my thinking of her. She ensured that by giving me the jug pictured at the top of this post; she called it 'the ugliest jug in the world' but most precious to her because her parents had bought it on their honeymoon in Italy and now most precious to me.

I always wonder why I have survived and many women, like Angela, have not. The treatments available have improved but there is still much more to be discovered and understood. Everyone is touched by cancer at some point in their life, either personally or through family or friends. Everyone has a story to tell and some, like Juliet on the Muddy Island, get into action. She is preparing (in her inimitably amusing fashion) for the Race for Life, raising funds for research into cancer. If you would like to boost her morale during the last few days of her training, you might like to pop over to the Island and leave her an encouraging comment and maybe even boost her fund-raising. We survivors and all who follow will be forever in your debt.

Thank you to everyone who clicked on the logo on the side bar. I see that the site has met 99% of its target with 5 days still to go. The advertising sponsors of the Breast Cancer site will donate 150 free mammograms to underprivileged women. Next time I'm tempted to grumble about the state of the National Health Service, I'll try to remember how lucky we are to have healthcare available to all in this country.

My friend Crinny has alerted me to this:

The Breast Cancer site is having trouble getting enough people to click on their site daily to meet their quota of donating at least one free mammogram a day to an underprivileged woman. It takes less than a minute to go to their site and click on 'donating a mammogram' for free (pink window in the middle). This doesn't cost you a thing. Their corporate sponsors/advertisers use the number of daily visits to donate mammogram in exchange for advertising.

As a privileged survivor of breast cancer, I would like everyone to have access to the life-saving treatment that I had, so I've added the Breast Cancer site logo to my sidebar. There are only 5 days left for the site to attract enough visitors for their sponsors to donate 150 free mammograms. They have reached 99% of the target, please help them to make it and CLICK now.

I have been so outraged by the recent attacks (by women!) against books and blogs describing domestic activities such as baking, knitting and needlework that I have decided to devote this post to a mixture of the lot! Yes, I'm contributing to what Liz Hunt of The Telegraph calls 'pinny-porn', "the insidious creep of the New Testament of Domesticity which is fast bringing women's simmering discontent to the boil."

I'm not a naturally gifted needle-woman but I was introduced to quilting a few years ago, as a way to pass the time in hospital waiting rooms. It worked well. My quilts are far from perfect but I enjoy doing them and the family appear to like receiving them. The joyfully awaited grandchild will have no choice in the matter: quilt#1 has been completed and #2 is under construction thanks to erp, who kindly sent me the template and instructions for her "literary quilt". I've started on the blocks and for the sashing I'll use the brown fabric. All the fabrics are from the new Anna Griffin 'Evelyn' range.

Of course, when I'm not sewing I am busy baking. Here is a recipe for Jane Austen lovers, one that might have come from the kitchen of Mrs Bennet herself:
Surly Curd Tart
1 pastry flan
2 pints milk
1 tsp. Epsom Salts
grated rind of 1 lemon
2oz currants (optional)
1oz butter
4 oz caster sugar
2 eggs
pinch nutmeg

Have to hand one 8 inch uncooked pastry flan case.
Make 8oz curd by heating, without allowing to boil, 2 pints of milk with 1 teaspoon of Epsom Salts. It will look slightly curdled. Strain through a fine sieve. The contents of the sieve will be curd.
Mix the curd with the fruit and lemon rind.
Beat the sugar and butter together.
Beat the eggs separately and stir into the butter and sugar. Gently stir in the curd and then fill the pastry flan case with the mixture.
Bake in a warm oven for 20 minutes until set and slightly browned. Sprinkle with the nutmeg and serve.

This little teatime treat can easily be prepared while your bread dough is rising, of course! Then off you go to meet your friends for a leisurely lunch, where you can swap recipes and knitting patters while the real women are busy keeping the world of commerce, politics and industry in order.

Today I met the delightful D of 60goingon16. We had lunch at the Fisherman's Cot, pictured in an earlier post. We have been developing a friendship via our blogs, finding lots of amazing coincidences in our lives and likings so we decided to risk disappointment and meet face to face. There wasn't any disappointment, we seemed to pick up where the blogs leave off and had been chatting away for an hour before we remembered to order lunch!

It was really good to meet you, D. I look forward to the next time. In the meantime, here's the recipe for that special onion tart (lots of cream and butter so not an everyday kind of tart!).

.... between the posts on poetry and banning of books with sad endings.

Reading Kipling's 'If' reminded me of a custom we had as children: we used to have autograph books, not for collecting celebrity signatures but for friends and family members to write in. As I recall, the entries were pretty standard because my book looked very similar to those of my sisters and cousins. 'Best friends' would write of their undying devotion, teachers would write something encouraging and uplifting, older siblings would attempt to shock or mystify and aunts and grandparents would write something 'worthy.'

My book was lost long ago but I can remember a few of the entries. Long before textese was invented, we had our clever ways of baffling the adults (or so we thought!):
YYUR, YYUB, ICUR YY4me appeared in all our books along with "Si senor, der dego, forte lores inaro. Desno lores, deis trux, fu lov cowsan ensan dux"

Someone would always write the final stanza of "If" in the boys' books while we girls had to make do with this:
Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:
And so make life, death and that vast forever
- one grand, sweet song

I have only just discovered that Charles Kingsley was responsible for this annoying piece of drivel. It enraged me when I was nine years old and it still does. There doesn't seem to be anything written for girls to equate with the stirring "You'll be a man, my son!" However, the effect of the soppy Kingsley lines in my autograph book was to stir me into rebellion against the image of the sweet maid forever doing noble things.

Now for the segue into this morning's post ... How far should we censor and control what our children read? Should we shelter them from everything sad, violent or frightening? Should Humpty Dumpty bounce back with a grin? How about a nice little kitten sitting on the tuffet with Miss Muffet instead of that nasty spider? Perhaps the fox should be kind and carry the gingerbread man (oops, person) gently across the river and send him on his way with a cheerful wave. The little match girl should be rescued from poverty by a handsome prince.

What a dull world it would be with all those happy endings. My mother, who was generally considered to be a kind and loving person, used to sing the most terrifying song to us as she tucked us in at night. I can't remember all of the words and googling hasn't come up with anything but it went something like this:
"Hush, there's a Grey Man coming up the stairs. Hush lest the Grey Man catch you unawares. For he's crawling and he's creeping, and his bogey eyes are peeping, just to see if everybody's fast asleep.
Hush, little one, don't let him catch you. Hush little one, don't let him see. Hide head beneath the clothes, count ten upon your toes. For where the Grey Man goes, it's black as night."

I'm sure there were more words and I would love to hear from anyone who can source it for me. Did it terrify us? Did it do permanent harm? Ridiculous! The fact that we all still sleep with the light on is totally unrelated.