Spiralling Histories

To start this spiral I needed to repost the "full circle"  story I wrote in 2018. Back then, I thought it was a closure, a completed circle of personal history. 

I was wrong

Last year my seemingly complete ring began to spiral in the most unexpected and wonderful way. It started with us taking a dear friend on holiday to see the Fochabers Folk Museum. We'd actually never been there ourselves. Most times Fochabers is a town we drive through travelling to somewhere else. 

First of all I can say it's a surprising Tardis of a seemingly small museum, full of unexpected twisty ways leading to all sorts of fascinating things. We all enjoyed it, but it was at the end, talking to the ladies who volunteer there, that the real magic happened. 

They have a display for Allen Wilson. If that name means nothing to you, then please read my blog post Full Circle or look up the Shangani Patrol. 

And this is where the circle became a spiral

My father's father, Gabe Frost, found a British Cavalry sabre from the 1800s Matabele wars, out in the wilds of Matabeleland in the 1950s. This is a photo of him. 

 

After my grandfather died, my dad became the owner of this beautiful sabre. I'm afraid to say, I used to sneak it out of my dad's wardrobe and have imaginary swordfights in the garden. I grew very adept at beheading my mother's flowers. But mostly it has stayed hidden away, wrapped in cloth and stored in chests and wardrobes. 

 

But no longer

 

 This month, August 2025, I donated it, and a military bugle, to the Fochabers Museum. They were very pleased. And today they phoned to say that they are going to wall mount it above the Allen Wilson display. Not just a full circle, but an ever spiralling portion of our mutual histories. 

I can feel my dad and his father smiling

A Light for Christmas

As much as I enjoy the giving and getting of presents and watching "feel good" Christmas movies, that's not at all what this season is about for me.

As far back as I can remember, the true magic lies in stars and wise men willing to follow them, simple shepherds experiencing the unimaginable and the most humble birth of a child. The fact they are woven through with older religions gifting us traditions like Yule logs, Christmas trees, mistletoe only adds to the magic and wonder of it all. For anyone with northern ancestors, across Europe and Asia, this is the season of darkness that will be rebirthed into light.

Every year, even as a child, I like to take some time to be quiet and feel that deeper meaning. I'll turn off the lights and sit by the Christmas tree (under it when I was little!), sit with a candle or stand in my bedroom and look out at the stars. Joy is great, fun too, but for me there has to be the counterbalance of stillness. A moment when the noise and frantic bustle of the season fades away, and I find myself in the light again.

This has become even more important as the years have passed. In part because modern advertising is more and more aggressively based in consumerism rather than caring, demanding we spend and SEE THIS SALE. But in larger part I need that quiet moment because the longer you live on Earth, the more empty chairs you have at your table. 

In December 2017, we lost my dad and that has taken a huge part of the joy out of this holiday for me and my family, but he is only one empty chair of many. I'm not unique or alone in having those empty chairs. Every single person I know has at least one. This particular year, I have two dear friends who have lost parents this December and another who is waiting for that inevitable farewell with her mom.

The empty chairs aren't only loved ones who have passed, but also friends who moved on and relationships that didn't last. Christmas can be magical, but it also reminds us of what we have lost or maybe never had. And that is painful, especially when the adverts and movies are all so over-the-top with the JOY and FUN. 

Sometimes, the only way you can rekindle your light is to take time to sit with your darkness.

Try it. Find a quiet moment or place and sit with the dark. You can choose your own variation, but sitting in an empty room with a Christmas tree or by a window looking at the stars are my favourites. The dark isn't the enemy or something to be feared. The dark is completely non-judgemental. Let it wrap itself around you like a mother's loving arms; it will hold you gently. Just be with it and let all the noise go, including the voice in your head with its list of things you should be doing or should have done. Let it all go...

... and look for the light. 

Even if it's only a tiny star or one candle; it's there, and it has always been there. The light that is life and love. It is the very core of everything, including you and everyone you love, have loved or will love. So, this year I'm wishing you find your light in the darkness, but also find the way to let the dark embrace you. They need each other as much as we need them both. And wherever you are... may the light of love find you and always guide you home.

In Gratitude

This week, I've realised something huge - the old South Africa and (some of) the USA are very much alike; which is why so much of the USA stuff triggers me. It brings back a lot of bad memories. Maybe I've just been exceptionally unlucky, or maybe I've just been more aware. Either way, it was often nothing huge, just constant small slap downs. Slap... slap... slap... until you either break and give in or burst into Fury.

And for how to control the Fury and use it... I owe that to my mom and dad.

I had parents whose motto was, "If you see wrong - fix it, help it, heal it, and ALWAYS SPEAK OUT about it."

I had great role models. Tiresome at times. As a teenager, I didn't always appreciate the fact my parents stood up and got involved. As a teen you just want to be popular. But even then, I learned a lot, and it's made me a better person. I am so grateful for their foundation.

And thank you, Srinivas Shastri, for constantly reminding me that the most powerful and healing Fury is tempered in kindness. You gave me a better view of my self.

And thank you to the women (my mom, friends and family) who taught me how to release the Fury. I tended to bottle up my anger, in fear of doing harm. I have often been the "self harmer" - preferring to be the one hurt rather than hurting. It took several wise women to teach me to trust my own voice and not back down when others tried to manipulate me. You all gave me my voice.

One Year

You left us one year ago, dad. This is for you... xoxoxoxo

Family Stories ~ Small Histories

Small Histories. 

It is summer in South Africa, 1990. I'm sitting in a garage, holding an old tin box. It is so worn by age that the colour has no description in the English language. I rub my hand across the scratched and worn away surface, feeling old friends inside. I know their faces without having to see them. If I open the box... when I open the box... I will know them and they will know me, but for now it is enough to sit here and listen to them whispering within their tin tomb.

The sun is bright outside the garage. I can hear cars in the distance and birds nearby. My grandfather would sit here for hours, squatting on his haunches with ease, even in his seventies. Sit and watch the world... smoke his pipe. Now he is gone and I am here in old clothes to help family remove grandpa's collections.

Grandpa was a pack rat supreme. There are at least twenty jam jars of screws and nails so rusted no-one could ever use them again. There are five books of wallpaper samples he used to decorate two generations of doll's houses and eight tins of World War two tank paint used mostly to repaint the concrete garden gnome that now sits on the front steps. There are Rhodesian TV magazines dating back to the sixties. Their covers show girls wearing mini skirts and enormous hair. Their adverts are for products and companies long gone and their TV listings are heavily nostalgic - Star Trek and Twilight Zone, Fred Flintstone and Skippy the Bush Kangaroo.

My dad puts them alongside the rest of the junk to be recycled or dumped. So much of my grandfather's collecting was junk and yet he could create wonder from it. Like the penny farthing cycle he built from scraps of wire and metal or the castle forts and doll's houses he meticulously glued together from old empty matchboxes. I actually hated the doll's house. I'd wanted a castle, but even at eight I'd been awed at the craftsmanship that was needed to create a luxury double-story, with cardboard roof tiles and real windows of thin plastic sheeting, out of matchboxes.

Sitting amongst the dusty dregs of a lifetime's collecting I sit with "the box" and remember. I can't lift the lid. As long as the box is closed the memories inside are dormant - frozen. Inside this box time stands still. As long as the lid is shut my grandpa is alive and we are sitting in his room in Rhodesia as he tells me all the small histories. Once I lift the lid it will be over. The photos are not mine - they are going to other family members as keepsakes. So I sit and hold the memories a little longer. I have asked permission to scan as many as I want, but it won't be the same. I have no-one I can tell their stories to, as my grandfather told me, and scanned pictures on a screen aren't the same as brittle dry paper held in the hand.

Perhaps my heart is as sad to let them go as it is to let him go... but I have one consolation. I have the tales and the memories - the small histories. No-one can take those from me. I smile and open the box...

Haunting Faces; Haunting Stories

Several years back, my dad was given copies of several old family photos. We never knew who they were, but yesterday a cousin managed to put names to the faces and a history I was absolutely not expecting. 

I've been on quite a journey lately. I took a DNA test and found some mind boggling facts about where my ancestors came from as well as a new cousin who was given up for adoption over 50 years ago. In piecing together how everyone fits, the extended family on my father's side came together to discuss this photo...

I knew someone in this photo was supposed to be my dad's grandmother (Heila Theron), but that was all. This is the side of the family that connected me through the DNA test to an already known cousin and a new one. But who were these women and how are we connected through their stories? I had no idea until yesterday when the cousin I already knew recognised her grandmother in the woman on the left.

We think the woman on the right is probably my great grandmother. Both sisters were adopted by their older sister (most likely the woman sitting in the middle) when their mother died. How do we know this? Because it's listed in the information from the Mafeking concentration records. They were both in their early teens when they were imprisoned. Their older sister was 27. 

WOW... that was a shock! My dad's family were Rhodesian so I truly was not expecting to ever find some of my family spent time in the concentration camps. When we studied the Anglo-Boer war in high school history it seemed as remote as the Napoleonic wars. And the story is a very tragic one. The oldest sister lost three of her own children in that concentration camp. How much pain was she holding in her heart... I can't even begin to imagine how it felt to watch your children die that way.

To put this into perspective for people who don't know South African history (this quote is from sahistory.org.za) ...

"Boer women, children and men unfit for service were herded together in concentration camps by the British forces during Anglo-Boer War 2 (1899-1902). The first two of these camps (refugee camps) were established to house the families of burghers who had surrendered voluntarily, but very soon ... the camps ceased to be refugee camps and became concentration camps. The abhorrent conditions in these camps caused the death of 4 177 women, 22 074 children under sixteen and 1 676 men, ... notwithstanding the efforts of an English lady, Emily Hobhouse, who tried her best to make the British authorities aware of the plight of especially the women and children in the camps."

  Photo of Lizzie van Zyl who died in the Bloemfontein camp

 

I've always been anti-war and this just added another reason for my firm conviction that we have to find a better way. This is also why I promote the white poppy as well as the red. Because it isn't just soldiers who die in wars... it's families. 

Thoughtful Thursday... All that we Share

Such a clever video and all the more vital to watch since the tragedy in Pittsburgh this past weekend.

Hold On

Pueblo Indian Prayer

Hold on to what is good,

Even if it's a handful of earth.

Hold on to what you believe,

Even if it's a tree that stands by itself.

Hold on to what you must do,

Even if it's a long way from here.

Hold on to your life,

Even if it's easier to let go.

Hold on to my hand,

Even if someday I'll be gone away from you. 

The Green Chickens of Mars

A long time ago, in a living room far far away... I discovered the awesome powers of the Green Chickens of Mars.

It began one average day. I was talking to a family member (you know who you are! :P ) and had a hunch that they weren't actually listening to me. I'd say something... they'd go "mmm?" or "mmm..."

A strange, mad power enveloped me... I opened my mouth and said, "They've discovered green chickens on Mars."

 
My non-listener replied, "mmmm..."

I finally had proof!

Since then, for well over two decades, I have used the Green Chickens of Mars whenever I'm in doubt that people are listening to me. It works brilliantly and instantly picks out who was utterly not listening... 

Me: "The Green Chickens of Mars are invading this summer."

Them: "mmm..."

from those who were half listening, but need to be refocused...

Me: "The Green Chickens of Mars have invented trans-dimensional time travel."

Them: "Uh... WHAT did you say? Chickens of WHERE?"

to the odd few who were actually listening...

Me: "The Green Chickens of Mars are famous for their minty freshness."

Them: "How does this relate to what we are talking about?"

 Whichever reaction I end up with, it's always fun. I love those Green Chickens!

Comic book cover thanks to Pulp-o-mizer.

Go check out the rest of Bradley's art. His Celtic shop is equally awesome.

Family Stories ~ Naming of Parts

Naming of Parts.

I am 14 years old and my mother's aunt and uncle are coming to visit. I've never met them. They are my mother's father's family - the Scottish Dutch side. My mother has cleaned the house for their visit and I've helped. We have swept and polished and dusted and now the house is beautiful and clean, but we are filthy. My mother is panicking because she wanted to wash and change into clean clothes and our guests have arrived early. She tells me to make tea and entertain them while she gets cleaned up.

I take as long as possible to make tea and hide in the kitchen, but I can't stay there forever. I take the tea through, and the tray with plates of little cakes and biscuits. They make me sit between them on the couch. My great uncle Laurence looks nice. He looks a bit like my grandfather, his older brother, but he's thinner and he smiles more. My great aunt Gertie looks okay. She has bright eyes like a bird and she's staring at me...

She says, "You have cousin Connie's ears. Do you see that Laurence? She has Connie's ears, but that nose… that nose is Doreen's."

Great Uncle Laurence smiles and eats a biscuit. He asks me some simple questions I don't remember any more.

Aunty Gertie is still watching me. She sips her tea and continues talking, "Your mother now. Your mother has the same eyes as great aunt Ida, but I think her face shape is more like uncle Len's. Not like your aunt. Now she is exactly like aunty Phyllis... although Phyllis has Margery's teeth and that's unfortunate."

As I sit there between them I feel myself disintegrating. I am floating away on a sea of unknown relatives who all have prior claim to my "bits". Who am I? I am a patchwork collection of family pieces. There is no "ME". There is only Connie's ears and Doreen's nose and Gaileen's smile. I always thought I was ME. Unique. Complete. But now I'm finding out that I'm simply a collection of family body parts. Nothing belongs to me. I feel lost and strangely taken apart, like a human jigsaw puzzle.

Many years passed and one day I found myself at Great Uncle Laurence's funeral in Johannesburg. After the service all the family gather at the old family home. They are all there, all my Scottish-Dutch cousins... blonde and built like Vikings, even the girls are over 6 foot tall. I am 5 foot 3 and dark. I feel like a pygmy. I wander around, squeezing between unknown people eating plates of food. I feel lost again. I go to sit on the floor by great aunty Gertie. She is smaller and thinner, but her eyes are still very bright. We sit in the corner and watch five generations of family talking, eating, remembering… An unknown relative asks who I am.

Who are you?

Who ARE you?

Who are YOU?

…and Aunty Gertie starts to talk, "This is your second cousin, Michelle. She is your grandfather's brother's daughter's daughter. Can't you see? She has your mother's ears, but when she smiles she's the image of your sister."

As she talks I feel myself being connected. Before I felt taken apart, but here at this funeral I am being woven into the family by my ears and my hair and the colour of my eyes. I start to see things. My cousin Al has his great uncle's jaw and his daughters  look like Aunty Gertie's daughter's daughter. And how come I never noticed before that we ALL have the family nose? It is a big nose, it's hard to miss. A long sharp Scottish nose. Cleopatra would have envied that nose!

I watch these unknown family moving and talking. Family groups laugh the same and their body language is the same too. I notice, to my embarrassment, that my own personal portion of family stand out like parrots in a flock of chickens. We may look like all the others, but we talk louder and we wave our hands around. My grandmother's Greek-Irish blood shows only in me physically, but all of us carry it in the way we talk. We are louder and more emotional. We are more fun… we are embarrassing. We are something I sometimes hate. We are something I cannot escape.

...and suddenly I understand. This is what family means. It isn't being torn apart - it's being created out of a hundred different people who are all unique and yet... we carry the same ears, the same noses, the same smiles. Wherever we go in the world we will take that with us. We will always have this "home" within us. It lies in our blood and our genetics. We cannot escape it - we are the sum of all those parts. We are family.

Family Stories ~ My Grandmother's House

I wrote several posts about my childhood in Rhodesia for (my friend) Prema's blog, Kombai. I have all of them on a page named FAMILY TALES, but have decided (family asked) to add them as posts here as well.

My Grandmother's House

 

All my childhood lies in my grandmother's house. No matter where I am, or what I remember, my mind takes me back to that house. It was the centre of the wheel for our entire family - aunts, uncles, cousins, friends... everyone met at my grandmother's house.

If I close my eyes now I am there at the gate, hot African sun scorching down on white picket fences and trellises heavy with honeysuckle, golden shower and coral creeper. A riot of creeping plants and flowers dripping bees. Below them, along the concrete path to the door, there will be sweet peas. Every summer there were sweet peas staked up against the freshly painted picket fence. It is cool under the canopy of green that leads to the door. There are two huge pine trees shading the back. They smell of resin.


  

Around the front there is a swimming pool my grandfather built himself, two aviaries of birds and the fruit trees. Down the side there is a dry sandy strip marked with little wooden crosses for all the many departed pets. Dogs, birds cats, rabbits and even a monkey have their sacred space in Granny's little garden. She pulls the weeds from around the crosses and drops a few tears and flowers on the "special" ones.

There are grape vines and a guava tree up where the pets are buried. Once my cousin and I stole an enormous guava and ate it together under the grape vines, hiding in the green shadows, taking alternate bites from the fruit gran had been admiring a few hours before. It tasted like sawdust to my guilty taste buds.

Inside the house, at any time of day, it is always shady and shadowy. All the trees and the deep covered front veranda keep the house from direct sunlight. In the scorching African summer this is a good thing, but I do always remember feeling a bit creepy going down the shadowy passage to the toilet. There are family photos along the walls in the passage and several generations of family watch me with shadowy eyes as I dash for the toilet. Great-grandma stands at the end of the passage, beautiful forever since she died so young. Her sad Irish eyes seem to know this photo will be the last memory held of her passing through this world. She watches me, the third generation of girl children she will never see grow up.

In my grandmother's bedroom everything smells of old perfume and floor polish. Mary stands on the window ledge, with her arms outstretched. She is wearing a pale blue cloak over her ivory plastic glow-in-the-dark body. I love her. I love the fact she glows in the dark. I used to have a glow-in-the-dark Jesus nailed to a wood and mother-of-pearl cross, but then my mom found out the "glow" came from toxic chemicals and threw him in the bin. Very weird memory that - a snapped up Jesus pulled off the cross and thrown into the dirt bin. I can remember going outside and lifting the lid to look at him lying there with his legs and arms scattered amongst the potato peels. My mom tells me Jesus will still watch over me and answer my prayers at night, but I do miss seeing his soft greeny glow over my bed. But in my grandmother's house Mary will not suffer the same indignity. Gran doesn't care that Mary is toxic - Mary will stay.

At the end of the passage there is a little iron and glass table on which stands the telephone and four brass ornaments - the sphinx, two pyramids and Buddha. Mary in the bedroom and Buddha by the phone… is there some hidden meaning there? Mary will hold you while you sleep, but Buddha is better for communication? Who knows! I only know I am allowed to play with Buddha and the sphinx because they are made of brass and indestructible. I will lie on my play rug with Buddha and the sphinx.

The sphinx was once a cigarette lighter and his head is hinged to open up the lighter. This will leave indelible scars on my understanding of ancient Egyptian history. For years to come I will think the sphinx's head comes off. The sphinx is okay, but I prefer Buddha. I smile back at Buddha while the grown ups sit at the table and talk. He's not as pretty as Mary, but he is more cheerful. Admittedly not as exciting, he doesn't glow, but gran says if I rub his tummy he will grant my wishes just as Jesus answers my prayers. I think to myself how clever God is. He has Jesus for prayers, Mary for comfort and Buddha for making wishes come true. It is a wonderful world with so many celestial beings to watch over your needs.

In my grandmother's house there may not be much sunlight, but there is always noise. There are birds in cages, radios and always people. People come and go in waves. Gran feeds them and makes them tea, but she never visits them. She is the hub and all spokes lead to her. The hub does not wander. It stays in the centre and keeps the wheel of life turning. That is gran - the hub of our wheel.

 

She is always in the kitchen, out in the garden or sitting in the dining room. I can't ever remember seeing her in the lounge watching TV. She is too busy for TV. She has plants to watch over, dogs, cats, tortoises, lots of birds… visitors constantly. Only the fish tank isn't her territory. Grandpa takes care of the fish. 

Grandpa has his small sections of territory staked and claimed - the fish tank, the outside room piled high with old junk and his own bedroom filled with fascinating things. If I am good he will take out the old tin boxes full of war photos. Then he fills his pipe and sits by the window, puffing soft smoke and telling me the stories behind the photos. I knew about Mussolini and the war in North Africa before I was eight. Grandpa has other photos too. Stationed in Egypt he went to every ancient monument and museum he could. Here there are photos of the real pyramids and sphinx. And if I get bored with desert stories there is a box of old toys at the top of the wardrobe. Paper dolls from the 1950s and marionette puppets. I love grandpa's room.

My aunt has the last bedroom. Here I can look, but not touch - except her big plastic bangles - I can play with those. They jangle on my arms, but I can't put my hands down or they'll all fall off. I walk around the house with my arms up to keep the bangles on. It's not as exciting as war stories or Buddha and the sphinx.. I go and put them back. For now I will sit with Buddha on the floor and be at peace. Here we will sit at the centre of the world and let it revolve around us. There will be dripping and tomato sandwiches for lunch and then later gran will let me feed the tortoises. Life is good.

Baking Frenzy

I was clearing out our digital camera yesterday and found a few photos I had forgotten were there. They're all cakes my mom has made recently. She's been in a baking frenzy. ;-D

Here's the first masterpiece - our Christmas fruit cake. I took this one on Christmas eve. You can see our blended countries decorations of Tartan and guinea fowl place settings. LOL

 This next one was made for my Hubby's birthday. It's a three layer almond sponge with whipped marscapone/cream, raspberry jam and fresh raspberries. It was sooo good that I've put in an order for one for my birthday. 

All you Need is...

I had an epiphany on Christmas day. It made me laugh till I was breathless, which is the way of all great life moments, and that's why I think it's worth sharing. ;-)

It started with frustration and irritation. My dad was trying to reply to a text message on his new mobile phone. The message was from a friend in South Africa and for some unknown reason the reply feature would not work. Hubby has the same phone, but he never texts, so he wasn't able to instantly offer advice.

Eventually, hubby decided to try sending a text message to our home phone, to see if it was perhaps actually sending, but not saying it was sending.  (don't you love electronic gadgets?)

 He was right. Although neither his phone nor dad's stated the message was sent, our home phone rang instantly. Hubby picked up, confirmed it was the message service and hung up. The good news was that dad's message had sent... probably about seven times, since he'd kept trying again when it gave no sign of having sent! Which was the bad news for his friend in Africa who must have wondered why dad wished him Merry Christmas over and over... and over.

And that wasn't the only phone message sending over and over. Our home phone rang again and I was the one to answer. It was a recorded voice from BT telling me we still hadn't listened to our sent message. Because while hubby picked up he never bothered to listen to his own sent text.

I figured I better listen to the thing, or that recorded voice "She" would be back nagging and nagging. I pressed #1, as requested and she told me (in her weird stilted recording voice)...

"Your text message is... uh?"

Uh?

I was so puzzled I asked for a repeat, went back to press #1 again and she said (again)...

"Your text message is... UH?"

I put down the phone and went to find my husband. I asked him what exactly he'd written. He was surprised I'd heard anything. All he'd sent in his test text was one letter of the alphabet.He'd sent an R.

"R?" I asked.

"R!" he replied.

 I started to giggle. Because depending on the emotional emphasis to your voice that one letter takes on an entire different meaning! Try it for yourself.

Say it as I did, and it sounds like a puzzled question, just like the phone recording voice!

 

Say it firmly and it sounds like a confirmation.

Say it in a seductive voice and it suddenly sounds flirtatious.



say it sweetly and you'll sound like an angel.

Best still - say it when you're angry. Give it depth and RoaR from your gut.

Better than a swear word and it won't offend anyone. ;-)

There's an R for every mood and human moment. All my years of talking, writing, and trying to communicate with others and all I needed was an R. It's so simple! All I can say is...

World's Toughest Job

Thoughtful Thursday ~ In Passing

A poem I wrote in 2010. (and yes, it is a true story)

In Passing

I passed by your bed
and wondered your story,
Tattoos and T-shirt
completely out of place
amongst the tubes and wires.
With arms so thin and eyes so tired,
watching the TV without seeing,
seeing me without watching
every time I passed through.
Watching you waiting…

I knew. Did you?

Did she know too?
I watched her pass through, with
rucksack and thermos, packets of snacks.
All the signs of the long term
traveller of wards and waiting rooms.
Holding herself together with
the busy brightness of a mother's love.

Others passed by too.

I saw them take turns
to hold your hand as you waited, and passed them
as they waited, in crooked huddles
over half cups of coffee.
Women talking; a man hiding
tears in a corner, as I passed through.

And I knew they knew too.

Though none of us spoke
in passing, in waiting.
Connected in such disconnection.
Brief greetings and smiles
in hallways, in passing,
and then they were gone.
Empty chairs.

Empty bed.

I passed by your bed
and wondered your story,
and wished you
safe journeys
in passing.

copyright the author Michelle Y Frost

Aspirations

I don't normally get involved in politics on my blog, but today a news headline caught my attention. It was this...

 David Cameron's 'slur' on stay-at-home mothers

Really? What on earth could anyone have against stay at home mothers! I went to read, to see what the fuss was about...

'David Cameron has been accused of a slur on stay-at-home mothers after Downing Street suggested that they will be excluded from receiving child care support because they do not want to “work hard and get on”.

When asked if Mr Cameron believed that stay-at-home parents were less in need of state help than working parents, the spokesman would only say that the Prime Minister wanted to support “aspiration”.'

I'm not going to get into the complexities of finance, benefits and taxation. What bothers me way more is the idea that a woman who chooses to stay home to raise her own children is not working hard! I wonder... does this mean we should stop paying nannies and nursery schools? After all, they're doing exactly the same thing as stay at home moms so clearly they must be a bunch of slackers, sitting about without "aspirations", as well!

Did you know that one of the ways scientists gauge the intelligence of animals is by how long the babies stay with their mothers? The smarter the species, and more complex the animal's society, the longer it needs to hang out with its mum in order to learn all the things it needs to know to socially interact.

Chimpanzee babies stay with their mums for about six years and  baby gorillas stay with their mums for four to five years.It's so important that some animal rights groups have campaigned to stop pet monkey breeders from taking babies away too young, especially Capuchin monkeys, as it leaves them with emotional and behaviour problems.

So we understand the vital need for a good solid long-lasting mom-baby bond in intelligent animals and yet we don't think we need it for human children? That's beyond stupid! 

And the facts support the science. Journalist/novelist Cristina Odone wrote about it last week in Motherhood, The Career that Dare not Speak its Name. She quotes Jonas Himmelstrand's article, Universal daycare leaves Sweden’s children less educated.  Here's a quote from that article:

'A full 92% of all children aged 18 months to five years are in daycare.

Then there are the questions about the social toll Sweden’s childcare system is taking. Sweden has offered a comprehensive daycare system since 1975; since the early ‘90s, negative outcomes for children and adolescents are on the rise in areas of health and behaviour. While direct causation has been difficult to prove, many Swedish health-care professionals point to the lack of parent involvement beyond the first 16 months as a primary contributing factor. Psychosomatic disorders and mild psychological problems are escalating among Swedish youth at a faster rate than in any of 11 comparable European countries. Such disorders have tripled among girls over the last 25 years. Education outcomes in Swedish schools have fallen from the top position 30 years ago, to merely average amongst OECD nations today. Behaviour problems in Swedish classrooms are among the worst in Europe.'

I'm not surprised, I'm just surprised that anyone intelligent didn't see this as the obvious result! Whether it's a dad or a mom who chooses to stay home, there's no way any stranger can match the level of care a love bond offers.  

glitter-graphics.com

What kind of society rates staying home to nurture and create emotionally healthy well-adjusted future adults as being less important (showing less ASPIRATION) than taking any old job just to earn money?

It is truly, in every sense of the word, pathetic.

For Mother's Day

HAPPY MOTHERING SUNDAY!

X X X X X

NEWSFLASH November 2012

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I used to do a newsflash at the end of each season, but I realised, looking back through my posts, that the last one I did was.. November 2010!

Here's the idea - give the everyday news update on my life in a format first started by another blogger, Jeff.

Nature Entertainment Wise words Spirit Family Lessons Artist Smiles Home

NATURE

Nature decided to get up close and personal this last weekend. Hubby was tidying up the garage when a field mouse shot out from behind a box. He took a closer look and discovered that a family of field mice had shredded the edge of a dust cover blanket and stuffed it into a box full of pots and pans stored in the garage. Field mice will come into buildings for the winter and we've had them trying to nest in our car and in the garage of another house we were in years ago. They store food for winter too. They filled our car radiator with peanuts once and they also filled my dad's golf shoes with seeds and nuts one year, but they are so darn cute that it's hard to get angry about it.

When hubby took the box out onto the lawn another mouse shot out and ran like mad, but a third one decided the box was less scary and stayed put, hiding under a small frying pan. Eventually even he made a run for it, but he ran to the house, squeezed through the grating covering the kitchen drain and.. vanished! It's a long deep drain. Hubby went across and sure enough - there at the bottom was Mr mouse paddling madly, unable to climb back out. Hubby took the cover off, stuck his arm down the drain and scooped the little guy out. He was gone in a mad scamper, this time away and into the hedge.

So the weekend was spent taking everything out of the garage to check, clean, and repack in safer places. They made quite a mess, but not too much damage, thankfully. The only things damaged were some curtain tie backs (real cotton fibre) and the old blanket edge. But they peed on EVERYTHING so we were fairly worn out with all the washing, cleaning and disinfecting.

ENTERTAINMENT

The best entertainment, recently, has been watching Masterchef Professionals on TV. Only down side is that watching the show makes everyone feel hungry! We all love the show and the food they create... wow. It's inspiring and makes me want to try more adventurous cooking; I always end up trying some new recipes after this TV series.

The BBC has some of the recipes from the show up HERE. Now if only field mice could cook like Ratatouille...

glitter-graphics.com

WISE WORDS

My Wise Words choice are always from a fellow blogger. This time I'm picking Cate of Infinite Sadness... or Hope?

"There is a lot of talk about invisible illnesses, and how difficult they are because others can’t see my hardship or pain. When I think about it, most illnesses are invisible. There’s only a few where we can see the physical effects of the illness, but even then do we automatically assume that means they are sick and/or in pain? Not always. And how do we see pain? Realistically we can’t. What a person experiences as pain is beyond the grasp of another. I know this well because I have a condition (fibromyalgia) that is known to be about chronic pain. But knowing that does not enable another to understand just what that pain is and how it affects me.

I’ve heard people say that it’s not fair that people with cancer apparently get more compassion than someone with an invisible illness. I believe that is a generalisation that isn’t helpful for anyone. The thing is that we are all struggling in our own way. My reason for not being able to maintain friendships to the degree I would like to is my physical health, but it could just as easily be something else, equally as valid.

Everyone is fighting their own battles. My battles are not necessarily and greater than yours.  They’re just different, but equally valid. I guess what it teaches me is not to jump to conclusions. Not to assume I know why a friend appears to have let me down. I hope my friends (and family) can do the same for me."

SPIRIT

The spiritual part of November links back to Cate's thoughts on pain and invisible illness. and how we need more compassion and love as well as more understanding. The hardest thing in the world to explain to anyone else is how trauma (grief, fear or pain) affects your life, because it is different for every person. I know people who take part in extreme sports that cause them physical damage who still go pale and weak when you mention a dentist. I know people who can endure high levels of physical pain, but have phobias about things as varied as heights to mice. We are all different and yet far too many doctors and health care professionals seem to dismiss or ignore that fact.


Far too often online this year I've seen people talking about doctors who think their ailments or fears are "in their heads" or  cases of people who become annoyed at how long another person is taking to get over a trauma like a death, an accident, etc. There are no time limits on things like grief or fear. There are no tests to gauge levels of sadness or levels of pain and to become impatient or annoyed with anyone who doesn't "get over it" is just completely unfair. It is understandable, we don't like seeing people we love suffer so we do tend to push and urge them to get better, be happy, let go of fear, but the truth is the only thing we can do is give those we love enough space and most importantly enough time to heal, even if that means an entire lifetime. 

FAMILY

Family news was the exciting find of the book my great great grandfather's sister, Evie Culling, wrote about her adventures during World War I. Evie also mentions a family tragedy in the book - the death of her niece, Marie Vetsera, who committed suicide with the crown prince of Austria. Hubby thinks I look like her. Here's me, age 24 at a fashion show modelling a caftan.  

  And Marie...

Actually, I think I look more like Marie's uncle, Aristides Baltazzi.

LESSONS

Life lesson of November has to be the experience of taking part in the first Book Week Scotland as one of their League of Extraordinary Booklovers. 

I did two morning sessions of giving book-related advice via email and twitter.Some questions were easy, when people wanted ideas for books in genres I know well, but some questions truly stretched my book reading memory to the limits. It certainly was both challenging and good fun. I learnt that I have read a lot of awesome books, but that there are still hundreds of wonderful books still left out there for me to read.

ARTIST 

My Artist choice for November is musical  - the glorious "Now we are Free" by Lisa Gerrard and Hans Zimmer. This song was used in the movie Gladiator, but I'm going with a YouTube video of beautiful photos rather than the movie clip.

SMILES

 


HOME

I wasn't sure what to write for this section and then I saw what I wrote two years ago in my last News flash...

Where will I journey next year? Where will you be on your life road? Who knows! All any of us can do is hold onto our map books and hope for good weather and safe roads but even more important - you need good travelling companions. :-) I've had excellent company this year, both in my literal travels with my family and in my online 'travels' with friends. I'm very grateful for both...

Through the Eyes of the Past

Last month I received a very exciting box in the mail - a special book called Arms and the Woman by E Culling. The reason I was so excited to get hold of a copy lies in the name of the author... or rather her name before she married. Mrs E Culling was originally Miss Evelyn Ongley, my great-great grandfather's sister. :-)

Here she is, in the centre of this photo, pouring coffee for the soldiers.

Evie ran a canteen during the first World war and the following war in Syria. I must admit, I had no idea what that meant before I read her book. I found a *photo of a canteen for French soldiers, dated 1917. it should give you an idea what they were like.

They  offered simple comforts of a warm drink, sometimes music, a sense of normality and amidst the chaos of war...

 

Evie's account of arriving at Revigny, where she worked for several years, is an excellent example of how her simple statement of facts makes those facts all the more powerful to imagine.

Evie's sister, Minna, also worked with her in France for a while. Both sisters had sons fighting in the war... and both sons died in that war. Evie's only son, Evelyn Culling, fought with the Canadians. He died in 1915. Minna's son, Humphrey Stafford O'Brien, was a pilot in the newly formed RAF. He died in 1918.

Even though the war years were full of personal tragedy and horror, Evie still managed to keep her sense of humour. Here's one bit from her book that make me chuckle - her description of the 'joys' of bathing in a war zone situation.

Evie's writing style is quite formal to our modern standards, but the stories she tells of death, life, humour and compassion are timeless. She shows a side to the First World war that I had no idea about - the realities of daily life of those living in or next to the battle zones. She speaks about a way of life that is gone forever, places and people changed forever.

We need to remember them.

*French soldiers clearing debris.

 *Photos from The Heritage of the Great War. This website has an impressive collection of war photos that are well worth looking at.

 The French awarded Evie the Croix de Guerre in 1919.

“Dear Madam -
“I have great pleasure in informing you that Marechal Petain, Commander-in-Chief of the Armies of the East, has, on my proposal, conferred upon you, as from February 27th 1919, the croix de Guerre with the following inscription:

“Mistress Culling, of the British Committee of the French Red Cross, Directress of Railway Canteens, has in the course of the campaign, unceasingly provided our soldiers with valued comfort, material and moral. Has carried on her beneficent mission under violent and repeated bombardments, in particular at Revigny, on September 5th, and 6th, and October the 4th, 5th and 7th, 1917, gaining the admiration of all by her presence of mind and indifference to danger.
(Signed ) Petain.”