Clarissa et al.

This morning we said goodbye to Lisbet who has been our lovely parish priest for the past two years.

I think that this picture of her as Pippi Longstocking at my 50th birthday party last year shows just one of the reasons we all like her and will miss her so much.

She has had to return to her native Sweden to be near her elderly mother who is not in the best of health, and now has the added sadness of having to give moral support to her children whose father (her ex-husband) died last week.

Being the fifth Sunday in the month it was the group service and it fell out that it was Swallow's turn. It has to be admitted that these services are no always very well attended, but today the church was full - every pew occupied - which was particularly nice as it was the first time we were using the new service booklets.

[These booklets have been a long time in the planning. We have been using the standard red Common Worship booklets in modern language ever since we stopped using ASB rite B, which itself superseded Series 2. In discussion it transpired that we were almost of a mind in Swallow from the youngest to the oldest in liking the new order, but missing the traditional language (just one dissenting voice on the latter point) so we now have Common Worship in traditional language with a few alternate prayers taken from the modern language version. Daddy and I gave these booklets in memory of Mummy who died eleven years ago this week and who loved the language of the BCP, but disliked the narrow attitude of some Prayer Book Society members and would, I believe, have thoroughly approved of this compromise.]

After the service we had a buffet at the back of the church with donations of food and drink from most of the people there. A wonderful array and something to suit everyone.

Then there was the exchange of presents. A cheque from the group, plus a picture of all the seven churches in the group (a very nice pen and ink drawing). We had also done a collection in Swallow from people - not necessarily church-goers - who have been her neighbours for the last two years and bought a beautiful lino print of the Lincolnshire Wolds by Geoff (Swallow's resident artist), some art materials (Lisbet is herself a very good amateur watercolourist) and a lovely photograph of the church by Paul, the parish treasurer. My contribution was a handmade card depicting her as a one woman Viking invasion now sadly waving goodbye.

And she gave us a watercolour she had painted of Swallow Church which we will hang above the old harmonium where everyone will be able to see it.

Tonight she drives up to Chester-le-Street to stay with some friends there prior to sailing from Newcastle tomorrow.

Eldest godson is engaged!

Following Liz's example, and discovering I was only 50% cool on the test she put on her blog, I had a look at another of their tests. I like the result on this one better.

On the other hand, what has knowing the number of planets in the Solar System (I took a chance and included Pluto) or the number of US states on the Gulf of Mexico (educated guess rather than actual knowledge) got to do with how stupid or intelligent you are?

Now, I'm not what you would describe as a party girl. I don't like crowds. I don't like loud music. I drink very little.

But I do like a good celebration - plenty of food, people I like, good conversation and (perhaps) a few party games.

This is what I planned to do for my father who has a birthday ending in nought coming up on November 8th.

He doesn't want it.

"Don't tell anyone" he said, "they might start thinking that I'm a silly old fool."

My father is not a silly old fool.

Except in that he thinks he can hide his age when he admits to being old enough to have been in the homeguard and I make no secret of my age having celebrated my 50th birthday properly.

And talking of 50th birthdays, my brother-in-law Glen is every bit as bad, and refuses to have a party on December 12th. (This is the man who really pushed the boat out and ordered a Chinese takeaway for his Silver Wedding Anniversay!)

So I am not slogging my guts out making party food, but I am telling everyone these dates in the hope that cards and calls will force these two party-poopers into some small level of celebration.

In the meantime I will be buying some wine, nibbles and biscuits in anticipation of Christmas visitors - and if they turn up a month or so earlier I shall (ever the good girl guide) be prepared.

It's my Uncle Peter's 86th birthday today.

Here he is with great-grandson Luke.

To see a picture of the young man go back to my blog on his diamond wedding on April 27th.

Having tried fruitlessly to put my blog for the day onto the History Matters website where they are collecting blogs for 17th October, I have decided to put it here. This is the full version - the History Matters version has to be under 4000 characters so they got a truncated version without the mundane detail and the purple patches, but they still didn't want it.

Wednesday Update - my blog is now in place: there was a technical glitch which meant that everybody needs to tick the under 18 parental permission box!

Work days always start in the same way - 7.15 shower, breakfast (grapefruit juice, porridge, cup of tea), feed the cats, prepare pack-up for lunch (cucumber and cream cheese sandwiches today), then my lovely drive to work starting in the Lincolnshire Wolds, through the woods and parkland around Limber, then up to Barton with the magnificent view of the Humber Bridge coming ever closer, past Reeds Island, and then inland a bit to Normanby Hall with its park with deer, hares, squirrels, and birds of all sorts.

Sometimes Reeds Island is high above the river, surrounded by mudflats which are covered in wading birds, and sometimes it is closely flanked by the incoming tide. On a misty morning, when the sun is just trying to break through, it is a place of strange mystery, and Yorkshire a distant and magical land, while on brighter days they seem so close that you could paddle across in a matter of moments.

Today there was little magical in the view - indeed there was no view at all with a blanket of fog quite light and patchy close to home, becoming thicker as I approached the Humber.

Despite the fog I arrived not long after nine and went into the hall where I signed in and went upstairs to shed the twentyfirst century and prepare for my working day in 1897. First I carried through the boxes with the children's costumes into the corridor before opening the shutters in the classroom, writing the date on the blackboard - October 17th 1897 - changing into my costume with my uncomfortable shoes and stockings, tight 'onion' bun on top of my head, high-necked blouse, and long skirt, collecting the register and going down to the car park to meet the children.

Usually we work solo, but today Sharon was working with me learning the workshop so that I would be doing only part of the teaching. Sarah, back from her holiday in Cyprus, was also teaching in the hall taking on the role of Emma Harding, her predecessor of 1891 as housekeeper there.

The group arrived from Doncaster - 47 children, 2 teachers and 7 other assorted adults (classroom assistants and parents). They were not merely on time, but early: amazing considering the weather! After the necessary visit to the loos and thence to deposit their lunch boxes in the Park Education Room, I led them across to the hall where Sharon and Sarah waited on the steps to give the introductory talks to the two groups on the history of the hall.

Inside, Sarah settled her group in the entrance hall while Sharon and I led ours upstairs. The children were already in costume so only a few needed to borrow museum pinafores and waistcoats to complete the transformation to Victorian children. Sharon talked to them about the differences between a Victorian classroon and schoolday and that to which they are accustomed. We talk about class sizes, curriculum, discipline, getting the usual glazed look when we describe the tables of weights and measures they would have to learn in pre-decimal days and the excited frisson when we produce the cane followed by something akin to disappointment when we explain that in these re-enactments it is never used, and that we are all acting our roles. (Every now and then we have a cryer who has been wound up into believing in the totality of the accuracy of our re-creation of the past by some older child who came with their school on a previous visit, and we need to emphasise this point.)

My Victorian character is called Miss Jones (in honour of my grandmother and her sisters - all Miss Jones and all teachers at sometime in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries). There the similarity ends: my Miss Jones is a stern, humourless archetypal Victorian schoolmarm, while Nan believed that laughter was the best teacher and that you would remember a lesson that you enjoyed far better than one which had been forced upon you.

We file silently into the classroom, place the children into their tightly crammed desks, greet them, introduce them to the adults at the back (Mrs Jarvis, the vicar's wife - their class teacher - and members of the ladies' committee who have come to inspect the school: male teachers tend to be school inspectors), take the register (castigate the absent and imaginary Percy Sykes as well as the genuine late-comers with their well rehearsed excuses), inspect nails, say prayers, and sing a hymn (the ubiquitous ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’).

There follows a series of short lessons – recitation of a multiplication table followed by testing of individuals by ‘Mrs. Jarvis’; copywriting from the board on slates with slate pencils (severe telling off of left hander), out to the corridor for drill (I may be fat and fifty, but I can still touch my toes and balance in a squat better than the majority of nine and ten year olds – I also know my left hand from my right) then back into the classroom for reading from our primers, exercises for articulation (tongue-twisters) and choral recitation of a simple poem with carefully co-ordinated gestures.

After a few homilies the children say ‘good morning’ and are dismissed. In fact they remain in place while their teachers take photographs and then they ask us questions and we explain dip pens, dunce’s cap, back-straightener, finger stocks and left-handedness punishment in general, never absent/never late medal including why we make such a point of praying for the imaginary children absent with the measles, abacus, tonic solfa chart etc. all under the stern gaze of her late majesty Queen Victoria in her Diamond Jubilee portrait.

In the afternoon these children are put through their paces as prospective domestic staff, while the morning’s servants become our pupils for the afternoon.

We had been told that there was one girl with severe bahavioral problems, but she behaved quite well throughout other than not joining in the drill, (I have known children with no problems behave much worse) while the child with bladder problems did not need to be excused.

At the end we clear up, cleaning the board for the next school and packing away the pinnies and waistcoats, change into our 21st century comfies, sign out and thence to the PER to clean that for tomorrow's schools. (I think this is the thing we all most dislike that one of the economies made by North Lincolnshire is to have no janitors for Normanby Hall and Park so that we all have to do the cleaning. Hilary's son, Richard, who is a Ranger at the park was doing his cleaning stint when he encountered a former teacher who is now firmly convinced that something went sadly wrong with a promising boy's education and career and that he is now a lavatory attendant.)

My journey home (now in bright sunshine) included a brief visit to Lidl's in Barton for milk and carrots, then home to be greeted with the words "What's for dinner?" (from Joe) instead of those I would have liked to hear "Sit down and I'll make you a cup of tea". I did get the tea, but I had to ask. There should have been enough cold pheasant from Monday, but there wasn't so I cooked spaghetti.

Watched 'Lovejoy' on ITV3, and a bit of football, fed the cats and fell asleep.

Last night we learned that another village resident, Sid Hales, had died. It was expected, but his wife, numerous children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren are absolutely devastated - one middle-aged son-in-law cried quietly throughout the morning service, as did Joyce Thompson. We prayed for both families and for Dennis and Joan Hicks in Nettleton whose son died suddenly a couple of weeks ago.

If you read this blog and are of a praying disposition please remember these families in your prayers.

I came home at lunch time, after a morning spent showing historic toys to some delightful infants, to the most unexpected and appalling turn of events.

My first intimation was that the road was blocked by a row of cones and a ‘Road Closed’ sign. There was nothing and nobody to be seen, so I assumed that access was allowed, moved a couple of cones and let myself through.

I arrived home to discover that father, who had been on his way to an all day meeting in KingsLynn when I saw him this morning, was at home. It turned out that he had just been turning out of the drive when someone flagged him down to say that there was a car on fire just up the road – so he zoomed along to do what he could with his small fire extinguisher, but by the time he arrived there was nothing he – or anyone else - could do.

What he didn’t realise at the time was that the driver of the car was Daphne - Glen’s (my brother-in-law) brother’s wife. Only later did they identify the partially destroyed number plate which the police were able to salvage.

What we know is that the car hit a tree and burst into flames. There are rumours that somebody saw a vehicle driving like a bat out of hell, and that it forced her off the road, but what we hope is that Daphne had a heart attack or stroke and never knew anything about either the accident or the fire. The alternate scenario is too terrible to contemplate. It is bad enough knowing that the dog with her was killed so horrifically.

The only thing we can be thankful for at the moment is that it did not happen on her return journey after she had picked up her two small grandsons.

One of the problems with such events as this is that, however sincerely felt, your sentiments can only be expressed in cliches (see header) - there seems nothing new to say and no way other than offering practical support to express sympathy.

This morning I fielded a whole range of phonecalls to do with the Harvest Festival. Rector in bed with flu - will be unable to greet and assist visiting retired clergyman. Thank goodness for our tradition of relieving our own rector of one of her seven harvest festivals in the group - especially as there are a few of us who go to several of them so she needs a new sermon for each!

Organist still disgruntled - have substituted "All things bright and beautiful" for "All creatures of our God and King" which she claims not to know, and have got rid of "To Thee, our Lord, our hearts we raise" which everybody claims not to know. Less familiar than some harvest hymns, but by no means wholly obscure I would have thought.

It's at the wrong time - it used to be earlier. Yes, and everyone complained that they couldn't get turned around in time for a 6 or 6.30 service. Not to mention that a 7 o'clock start will make it possible to see the whole of the England match before rushing to church. (Not for me, alas, but for general congregation without additional duties such as my father.) (NB It was a lack lustre goal-less draw against Macedonia)

There are fewer people coming. Yes, we have had to move it to Saturday when people go out for the evening. And last year we were severely over crowded going beyond the numbers allowed in the hall by fire regulations.

Nobody put a flyer round asking for puddings. No, but it is the same every year and, despite the number of houses for sale at the moment, there are only two new families in the village who might not know our traditions.

Ditto church decorating.

To cap it all, when I arrived at the village hall just after the agreed time of 10.30, it turned out that those people on both the VH committee and the PCC had made a unilateral decision to start at 9.00 and had pretty well finished.

Much Later

Well, it all went very well. The service was excellent and you really understand why Limber was so happy to hang on to Canon Phillips for more than thirty years and why they were so sad when he retired - the whole service was almost an informal talk interspersed with bible readings, prayers and hymns which flowed quite naturally one to another, made the adults think and kept the children's attention with the directness of the language.

Sadly one man was taken ill during the service; fortunately my fellow churchwarden is a retired doctor and she went out with him, took his blood pressure and recent medical history, and packed him straight off to hospital.

Afterwards everything went smoothly - we had about two portions of fish and chips left over, and four portions of pudding; so we'd got that right. The raffle went well. The auction went well, although David Slater can't build up the frenzy of getting people to bid silly money which David Cleve could, he got reasonable bids on everything - no £20 cauliflowers, but no 20p ones either. With three accountants on the PCC you would think we would have a total of money raised: but we haven't. I managed to persuade quite a lot of people to gift aid what they could so there is more money to come.

However, the money may be nice, but more important was that it was a pleasant convivial evening enjoyed by all who were there.

I started the day feeling seriously Eeyore, came down to a Piglet level of mild anxiety, am now a touch Pooh, and may well wake up restored to Tigger.

Sunday Morning

I believe that if we lived in Germany I could be arrested or fined for what I did when I got home from Church this morning: I hung out the washing on a Sunday - tablecloths from last night's supper. I've had a cup of coffee (the thirst after righteousness, as my grandmother called it) and now I am off to the village hall to help finish the clearing up. Kath and I would have been happy to go straight from church, but Christine needs to hear The Archers.

And speaking of Christine, the man she treated last night refused to go to hospital, but went to bed instead and is a lot better this morning: his wife is going to exert as much pressure as she can to persuade him to get himself checked over. I know this because Betty Cleve has just rung to apologise for her friend's disrupting the service!

This morning I find that I am more Kanga than Tigger.

Usually we have the Harvest Festival and Supper on the first Friday in October, but this year the Village Hall was being decorated all week so we had the choice of having the fish and chip supper in the church or waiting until tomorrow when we will have to spend a good few hours cleaning before setting up. (Use of the village hall is free to the church so we don't argue about doing our own cleaning.)

Harvest Festival is the only service that you can guarantee country people will attend, while the supper and the auction of produce is our big money-spinner of the year. David, my predecessor as churchwarden, was a fish merchant who always gave the fish for the fish and chip supper (harvest of the sea) and his son has continued this practice even though he now lives in a neighbouring village.

So I've arranged flowers and dug up jerusalem artichokes today, while Joe cleaned all the silver and brass, polished the pews and hoovered the floor. In previous weeks I have designed, orgnised and printed the supper tickets, flyers and posters. Tomorrow I will pick fruit and make a harvest loaf (as well as join in cleaning the village hall), pacify the organist who wasn't expecting seven hymns, make something sweet to follow the fish and chips, and be at the church early to greet the retired priest who is taking the service. Meanwhile Christine, my fellow churchwarden, has distributed the flyers, sold most of the tickets, bought the drinks for the bar, made puddings, and will tomorrow arrange flowers and fruit in the church and help clean and set up the village hall.

I have a feeling that in town parishes the churchwardens have a slightly narrower spectrum of duties. The previous ones here did all cleaning and flower arranging throughout the year, but I have now instituted a rota - thank goodness!

Actually Issy has been 40 since Wednesday and has had several celebrations during the last week including a lobster and chips beach picnic last Sunday.

Last night it was the 'girls' - 4 friends, mother and sister - and we went to a concert at Lincoln Cathedral: the big attraction was Aled Jones who was supported by the Cathedral Choir (mixed version), a very young (17) violinist, and a young harpist. It was all very good, although the use of amplification was excessive which, together with Aled Jones's use of backing tapes, made it sound a bit like recorded music. I felt that everyone was much too good to need such electronic tricks.

Afterwards we went to the Wig and Mitre where we all opted for just a starter for supper - mine was turbot and wild mushrooms. It was very good.

Inge was in a bit of a hurry to get back. It was the first time she had left Tilly and by the end of the evening she was desperate to relieve the pressure on her breasts as well as making sure her precious baby was OK left to the tender care of father Nigel, big brother Joel, Mark, Jenni, Esther, Paul, James and Hannah - so obviously she would be suffering total neglect. Tilly was sound asleep; so was Nigel.