A Magpie Story

A MAGPIE STORY

Australian Magpies are not the same as the European Magpie. We have several types in Australia, some mostly white, some mostly black.  Many people don't like Maggies. It could be their beady little eyes and hard pointed beaks, their protectiveness during nesting season and the aggressiveness that chases a boy on a bike, a goanna up a tree, or adults walking nearby. They dive at the head and shoulders and hit really hard. 

I have been attacked, and while being struck on the back with such force was frightening, I had to admire the bravery of little creature. When they think their nests are under threat the magpies are fearless.

I love their song. I love to listen to their choir practice though the demanding screeches of their young are not as melodic. They sing in harmony, all together or in groups. They sing rounds and duets and solos.

 I once lived in a house in the forest – not a forest like the three bears had, but a eucalyptus forest with an assortment of introduced trees that surrounded the house. The open veranda was a great introduction to the local wildlife. Magpies were frequent visitors and such friendly visitors, or is that pushy, that we had to keep the screen door closed to keep them out of the kitchen.

It was hard to resist throwing meat and fruit scraps out for them, especially when I saw how hardworking and patient they were with their demanding babies. The youngsters, who seem to be the same size as the group of adults who care for them, scream and squawk for food unless their beak is full. Sometimes it takes six adults - both parents, older siblings, aunties and uncles, to care for just one speckled baby.  No wonder the fast food outlet bowl of cat food, on our veranda was checked out daily.

I had a very touching experience with one magpie families. This group had been nesting near our house for several years and I’m sure I could recognise some of the individual birds. They always announced their arrival, loudly ordering food scraps and treats. Often one or two birds knocked with their beaks on the kitchen door to get my attention. This day their calling was different.

From the veranda I could see six birds standing in arc on the ground below, behind a crippled bird. It was small but all black like the adult birds. The right wing stuck out at an odd angle and the right leg was injured so the bird's body twisted to one side, trying to balance. The group ignored the toast crust I threw and one by one flew away, leaving the injured one behind, with me.

I didn't know what to do. I tried phoning the people who cared for wild birds in our area but there was no answer - this was in the early days of the local WILVOS.  I looked at the pathetic little bird. He looked back. When I went closer he moved away.  So, he was distressed - I kept my distance.

After an hour or so he decided to move. He walked away, limping. I watched and followed as he moved under the bracken and started up a steep slope, toward the nesting trees.  It was hard work for him. He pushed his way through ferns and long grass and it took him all afternoon to cover a very short distance. As it grew dark the little bird crawled into thick bladed grass and I had to leave him there. I thought about him all night.

I knew from TV documentaries that it's best not to interfere with the natural order of things. A vet once told me that touching an injured wild animal can kill it by causing extreme stress.  When I was young, and we had cracker night, people put their guinea pigs inside the house under blankets so they didn't die of fright.  I also knew the local goannas and carpet snakes saw injured birds and animals as easy prey.  It seems there is no compassion amongst animals.

The next morning I expected to find him dead or gone but the brave little fella was still there. He refused the scraps of minced meat I offered.  As the sun warmed the ground he started off again, heading up the hill to the line of trees that magpies favoured.

Again I followed at a distance.

Like a brave wounded soldier he struggled on, ignoring me unless I got too close. Finally he reached the top of the hill, and stopped, exhausted. I left water close to him and checked on him every half hour or so. He lay panting, in a bird way, occasionally lifting his head. I didn't want a goanna or the snake to find him. There was no way he get into the trees and no sign of other magpies. I got a large cardboard box and made a fence around him. I kept watch and talked to him about the trees and all the birds. At sunset he died and we buried him beside the track, under his tree.

I’ve never forgotten him.

--------------

This Magpie rhyme comes from England.  Apparently seeing two Magpies together is lucky. I must have a lot of luck.

One for sorrow, Two for joy,

Three for a girl, Four for a boy,

Five for silver, Six for gold,

Seven for a secret never to be told.

Eight for a wish, Nine for a kiss

Ten for a bird that you won't want to miss.

How to set a fire

HOW TO SET A FIRE  

I know setting the fire is not something everyone does these days, many people never set one during their whole lifetime. But when my grandmother, Eva, was born in 1888 everyone cooked over a wood fire, baked their bread, boiled water, heated their house, bathed children, dried hair and clothes before an open fire.  During her lifetime (until 1966) she used wood and coal fire stoves, oil, gas and eventually electricity.  She actually preferred a gas stove but mastered them all.

My Dad taught me how to set a fire when I was very young. Later on that knowledge was refreshed by instructions in a cowboy movie and though I survived over 40 years not having to set a fire, when the time came again it was like falling off a bike – sadly I’ve never been very good a riding bikes, I'm much better at fire setting.

The science of setting a fire is to get the flames under the wood. If you throw in a log with a few bits of newspaper on top you won’t get a good fire.

The instructions below explain how I set a fire in a steel firebox but would work in almost any fireplace.

You will need;

TINDER – dry fire starting material like newspaper, old phone books, dry grass/hay, dead leaves, dry tree bark, and twigs.

KINDLING – sticks, smaller than your thumb and some cardboard or heavy paper.

WOOD – sticks bigger than your thumb or larger pieces split open.

LOGS – dry wood from bigger than you thumb up to the any size you can fit into your fire space.

TOOLS – a small shovel, brush and tin bucket to clean out ash, a poker to move burning wood if necessary, heavy gloves for handling splintery or burning wood, a fire lighter or matches.

SAFETY – make sure the chimney is cleaned at the beginning of winter.  

Check your firebox for cracks, rust and crumbling fire bricks.  

Make sure other wood and extra paper is in a container at least a metre from the fire site, you don’t need two fires.  

Keep clothing or damp washing and towels ‘a metre from the heater' – as recommended by our fire service officers.

1 – Open the flue.

2 – Clean the glass door, if you are using a firebox.  Clean out the old ash. A new fire will burn onthe fire in a pan.  If lighting a fire outside you could dig a shallow hole, as a pan, and surround it with rocks, in an open fireplace a single line of bricks across the front holds the fire and in a steel fire box, like we have in our house, there is usually a shallow pan shape formed by fireproof bricks inside.
top of old ash, and a shallow layer is good, but I like to have

3 – Lay a base of cardboard or thick paper (not glossy) or thin bark.   Save cardboard boxes from cereal, crackers etc. A cereal box flattened makes a good base as do cardboard egg cartons, non-glossy magazines, old bank statements, bills, advertising brochures and other junk mail.  Paper will do if nothing else but cardboard, or heavy paper, burns slower.  Junk mail and envelopes inside a large used envelope or paper bag makes a good base for a fire, but not too thick.

4 – Put kindling on top of the base - scrunched up newspaper and parcels of dry leaves, very small sticks and twigs wrapped in newspaper.  Use twisted newspaper to make a ‘wick’ from front to back of the fire box, so that when you light it later it will burn into the middle of the space.

5 – Lay small sticks across the top of the kindling in a criss-cross pattern to allow air movement between the pieces.  Air is fuel for the fire.  The fire box should be about half full.

6 – Now we are up to the real wood. Select some sticks bigger than your thumb but not as big around as your arm.  Lay two or three of these bigger sticks across the top of the pile of the smaller sticks and stand about 8 or 10 more in front of the fire, leaning back on top of the kindling pile i making sure your newspaper ‘wicks’ poke through to the front. Ir this was a camp fire the standing sticks would be in tepee form around the kindling.

So now the fire is ‘set’ and ready to go. 

Light the fire by touching your lighter to the four wicks and stand back, or close the door if you have a glass door firebox.  You should see the fire burning through the paper underneath the bigger wood.

As the kindling burns the pile will collapse and you can add more of the larger sticks and finally the logs. From here on you need some intuition as every fire is different.

If you get a lot of black smoke try opening the door a little.  A little cool air going into the fire box helps to draw the smoke up the chimney.

Close the flue half way when the fire is burning well.

When the large sticks are glowing you can add bigger and bigger logs. The fire will eventually become glowing logs with a few flames and you will feel the heat radiating from the firebox.

Close the flue all the way and add logs as needed.

Surviving grief

1. GRIEF:  a multifaceted response to loss, particularly to the loss of someone or something that has died, to which a bond or affection was formed. Although conventionally focused on the emotional response to loss, it also has physical, cognitive, behavioural, social, spiritual and philosophical dimensions.

I thought I knew about grief.  I felt it when my grandmother died and definitely when we lost our mother, though my reaction to my father's death left a numbness that has never gone away.  I've felt the pain of loss over the death of family pets and friends and acquaintances, over broken relationships and distance between loved ones, over a close call on my own life  - and I thought I knew all about it .... but I didn't and I don't.

Five months ago a family we have known for a very long time, and who have been both neighbours and work mates, lost a daughter. She was 25 years old and had lived those years with cystic fibrosis.  I witnessed their deep and painful grief through friends, face book messages and on their faces when I saw them.  Their battle with grief continues and like ripples on the pond, has affected everyone who knows them, causing many people to examine their own lives and fully appreciate their family.

We are told that grief is a natural, healthy process that aids healing from emotional wounds but the journey takes us through shock, denial, anger and deep sorrow, and it is not a comfortable ride.

When, less than three weeks ago, our beautiful, friendly, happiest-dog-in-the-world, Rufous, died on the living room floor at 4.30am, in the two minutes of that night we were not in the room with him - we were (and I do not often use this word as it is over used) devastated. We were shattered, shocked, stunned, dazed, traumatised, crushed, overwhelmed, distressed and overcome with the deep sorrow of loss.

We had seen the vet the afternoon before, knowing things were not right - and they had not been right for several months, but, being in a state of hope, we didn't fully realise that. Rufous died a week shy of his 14th birthday. That made him about 98 in people years.  He was more than five years past his use by date after a diagnosis of cancer, he had problems with his pancreas and digestive system, arthritis in the spine and he'd had both knees rebuilt after wearing them out. Regardless of what areas of his little body were shutting down, I feel he died of old age - it was his time, we knew it was coming but would never be ready. I still weep as I write this because I miss him so much.

For three days we hardly ate, we walked around in a daze, crying in anguish.  We thought we were prepared, we had chosen a burial site five years ago and that made the first task a little easier.  But we kept hearing him in every creak of the house and seeing him out of the corner of our eye.  He was in every room, every part of our day.  We suddenly had the first of many, many things - the first mail delivery without Rufous, the first shopping trip without Rufous, the first washing day - the first visitor to not be welcomed by Rufous - our days were full of missing him.

There is no way our loss could be compared to our neighbour's loss, after all they lost their daughter, we only lost a dog. But our pain was the same. Possibly we will adjust sooner .......... whatever sooner is.

But it set me wondering about what we grieve for and I came up with relationship. We have lost a relationship that we enjoyed, treasured and were blessed by.  I feel that relationship with family and friends is the core of emotional life for human beings, especially as relationship is a two way deal.  We have a relationship with God, with animals, with our garden, and the loss is like an amputation as it rips away a precious part of us.

Many people have written about grief with more knowledge and understanding than I have, but I needed to gather my thoughts into words, so I can look at them.

RIP little man Rufous.  

The 14 years we had with you will never end as you live in our hearts forever.  

You were an angel, sent to teach us about life, 

about strength and survival,

about not complaining,

about unconditional love and forgiveness, 

about joyfulness and the miracles that joy can bring,

and we embraced all those lessons.

Thank you.

Rufous B the Happiest Dog in the World,  10.03.2001 - 03.03.2015

... saying please AND thank you

My grandmother lived by a list of rules that often only she understood - for example she felt saying 'please' and 'thank you' meant very different things and it was not necessary to say both for the same action. She wasn't able to explain details of the dos and don'ts but I remember she often softened requests with other words.

"Pass me that book, dear". - "Thank you".

"Please clean that up."  -  "Now, isn't that better?"

She didn't think it was necessary to say 'thank you' to someone who was being paid for what they were doing, such as delivery men or waiters, and this horrified my mother who was all about making people feel comfortable.

While working with exchange students some years ago I came across different customs regarding politeness. One student from Finland told me their language had no words for 'please' and 'thank you' - but another explained that 'kiitos' is used for both. 

A Canadian student complained that Australians overdo 'thank you'. She thought it should only be for nice things, like when receiving a gift. In her words "I handed the girl a bag of trash and she said thank you?  You don't say thank you for trash." 

In Italian the word Prego stands for please. It actually means I beg, or I pray, but in context it is used as - certainly, sorry, pardon, excuse me, you're welcome, don't mention it, no problem, it's alright.  And, when someone says 'Grazi', or thank you, the response is ... 'prego'. So many things sound romantic in Italian.

An old fashioned word, probably understood by my grandmother, is etiquette. This describes a code of behaviour expected by a particular society. Even if it was not technically accurate, etiquette demanded people at least appeared to meet a certain standard.  From the 1500s to the 1900s etiquette was a school subject in most English speaking countries and people were judged on their good manners.  Today there is an element of meaningless to some of these rituals.

One ritual is the handshake, originally a gesture of peace, because the weapon hands are held tightly. Polite language, "How do you do," "How are you?" developed to create an sense of respect and peace, even if people were talking through clenched teeth.

In English 'please' is short for 'if you please', or 'if it pleases you to do this', as does the French 'si il vous plait' and the Spanish 'por favor'.

When we ask someone to 'Pass the butter, please', we are saying - 'Pass the butter to me, even though I am not saying you must, it is a social obligation'.  Of course this can't be refused, even though it is not an order.

The English 'please' is used to add politeness to a request.  It is used at the end of a sentence, after a comma.

May I borrow your pen, please?

Could you wait for me, please?

And, 'please' is used in the phrase 'Yes, please', to confirm an offer.

Would you like more ice cream?  - Yes, please.

We also use 'please' to add a polite note to a single order or instruction, and then it comes at the beginning.

Please sit down.

Please be quite.

We do not use 'please' when giving a firm order or a list of instructions.
Stop that right now.  

Put the gun down and step away.

And 'please' is not used as a response to 'thank you'.  Other expressions are used instead.

Thank you.  -  You're welcome.

Thank you. - It was my pleasure.

We use 'thank you' when a compliment is given.    

You look lovely today.  - Thank you.

Your sponge cake was delicious.  - Thank you.

Offers can be accepted and refused with 'thank you'.

Can I get you a cold drink?  - Yes, thank you.

Will you come for a swim?  - No, thank you. I don't have time.

In English 'thank you' comes from the word 'think'. It originally meant 'In my mind I will remember what you did for me' (in order to pay you back).

The Portuguese 'obrigado' means 'much obliged' or 'I am obliged to you' or 'I am in your debt'.

The French 'merci' comes from 'mercy', as in begging for mercy because you are (symbolically) in your benefactor's power because a debtor is a criminal.

The Chinese have various ways of saying 'thank you' for a gift or a favour but not for a compliment as their desire for humility forces them to politely deflect compliments.  A forced humility can be seen in our culture at times, but is often translated as 'fishing for more compliments'.

The next stage of response is - 'You're welcome' or 'It's nothing' or 'It's my pleasure'. In French it is 'de rien' and in Spanish 'de nada'.  This is a reassurance that there is no debt, in fact it is often a credit position.

So the simple request at the dinner table can be a coded message.

"Would you pass the butter, please?"  (Pass the butter to me if it pleases you to do that as while this is not an order, it is a social obligation.)

"Certainly".   The butter is passed. (The favour is done.)

"Thank you". (I will remember that you did this for me and I am now in your debt.)

"You're welcome". (You are not in my debt as you have provided me with the opportunity of doing something that pleased me.)

But we can't write this off as being outdated because over 500 years these niceties have become signals that form part of our relationships. "Please' and 'Thank you' can still signal the difference between a requested favour and a demand for something owed.

Many people feel we should err on the side of overuse because the boundaries are vague and different values mean not saying the polite words can be misinterpreted. Others say that overuse, or incorrect use causes confusion.

Today, saying 'thank you' can be a great motivational tool - as a show of respect, appreciation and also encouragement.

We'd all agree it is very good to say "Thank you" when presented with flowers or a box of Belgium chocolates, and it doubles as a reward for the giver, and, if we have asked someone to pass us the bag of rubbish (trash), as appreciation or compensation for doing an unpleasant job, but, should we say "Thank you" when a friend repays money that has been owing for some time and causing great inconvenience? We do, but I think my grandmother would say no to that one.

will you still feed me?

My Aunty Joan is my living hero.  Now, almost 97 she has finally come to the place of knowing she can't live on her own anymore.  She is almost blind.  She's had a couple of falls, no serious damage, but enough to show it's not safe to be alone. The little timber cottage in Gatton has been closed up and Joan waited in the local hospital for the next step. That step was something she could not handle herself so her daughters, son and their spouses had to organise a residential home for her. It took a while, but finally she is installed in a lovely unit of a large bedroom/sitting room and a large bathroom, all kitted out with movement sensors and emergency buttons.  There is a dining room and a TV room, and a swimming pool.

"Will you swim?"  I asked.

Joan was never a highly sociable person. As a child she disliked helping with her mother's fund raising bridge parties when she wanted to crawl into a corner to read a book.  Through her teens she studied nursing and as a young woman she faced hard work in several areas.  Later she nursed her husband through heart disease and during his last days Joan slept on the floor by his hospital bed, just to be there for him.  She was 85 when he died.  So then she lived alone for almost 12 years, eventually adjusting to the busy social whirl of meals on wheels deliveries, a fortnightly home help cleaner, visits from a nurse/social worker and an occasional shopping trip on the bus for the elderly. She told me she loved the mango tree that filled the backyard. It was her retreat. When life got too much she'd go out there to feed her face and calm down.

I was interested to hear about social life in the new 'home'.  She is pleased to be one of only three at her table in the dining room. One of the other ladies is very  quiet, and that suits Joan. The other one chatters non-stop and Joan says she just has to accept she will be asked if she takes sugar in her tea over and over again throughout each meal.

95th Birthday cake

She said, "I thought I'd be nice to this poor woman so when she said there was a good film on the television I went with her to watch it. Of course I couldn't see anything as we sat at the back of the room, and I couldn't hear it but she seemed to be enjoying herself and I just tried to stay awake and think about other things. Then the next day I said to her, 'That was an interesting film we saw yesterday'.  And do you know, she didn't have a clue to what I was talking about.  She said, 'What film, I didn't see a film, I went to bed early'.  So that was a waste of time." This was presented in the tone of dry humour that is my Aunty Joan. The humour that wraps around ordinary things and makes them amusing from her point of view. 

I choose to phone her rather than visit because visits are physically exhausting for her.  Joan has children who visit her regularly and I have phone calls - and she phones me as often as I phone her.  That is very special.  She told me once that she has the names of her children and grand-children written in a notebook by the phone so she can remember who everyone is and who to ask about.  And one day I realised my end of the family is on the list too as she asks after my sister and brother and then our children in order, during conversations.  I'm delighted to be 'on the list'.  My daughter she calls 'your girl' and my granddaughter is 'the little one', as she knows them the best from the family gatherings for her 90th and 95th birthday celebrations.  "And I'm not having another one for 5 years", she said each time.  

It was wonderful that for the 90th birthday her cousin Ian came up to Brisbane, from Sydney, for the event. Their mothers were sisters and though Ian was a bit younger he spent a lot of time with Joan and my mother. Now he is no longer available for parties or anything else leaving Joan as the surviving member of that generation, in our family.

But, Joan was not born as an old lady.  She was a vibrant young woman who did well at school and wanted to continue studying. Her exotic looks were not appreciated by her blond haired, blue eyed mother so Joan grew up thinking she was not attractive and would have to fend for herself.  Careers for women were limited to nursing or teaching and Joan followed her mother and aunts into nursing.  The war came and she was patching up Aussies wounded in the mountain jungles of New Guinea. One wounded soldier staggered down the Kokoda track and into her life.

My uncle talked of their meeting at their 50th Wedding Anniversay celebration.  "Joan was an Army nurse. After being wounded on the Kokoda trail I was delivered to her at a Military hospital in Sydney in Dec 1942. Joan was an energetic business-like officer with two pips on her shoulders and me a lowly corporal with two stripes on my sleeve. I was a little the worse for wear but was slowly brought back to working order with her help. Then Joan was sent off to the war in New Guinea and I went to work in Sydney for a firm of wool brokers."

His elbow had been shot away so doctors gave him the choice of having the arm permanently set straight or bent.  He chose bent so he could ride a horse and shoot a rifle. As he had studied wool classing before he joined the army Don went back to that city job, but the 'bush' was always in his heart. When Joan returned from the war they were married and Don worked as a station manager, just west of Charleville and a year or so later moved to Murweh.

Joan told me, "Don finally won the soldiers ballot for free land. Mogera was 80,000 acres of rough country inhabited by dingoes.  We chose a paddock near a dry dam and pitched a big army tent for a bedroom. Don built an iron shed for a kitchen and a bough shed to 'live in'! Our fourth child was born at Mogera 1952."

The iron shed was too hot so cooking was on an open fire outside and the baby was hung in a sling from the tent post, to protect him from snakes. The children played in the dust under the gaze of wild dingoes - starving in the drought and on the lookout for easy prey.  They had no water, no fences and no grass. Don pushed down Mulga scrub for the sheep to eat and guarded them on horseback. Then the wool boom burst and the price went down overnight. Don had a fall from the horse and a long stay in hospital.

Eventually a house was built, the station sold and another bought closer to town. At least the children could attend school but the school burnt down and Joan had to teach them at home after all. And, as Don described it, this venture turned out to be a non-profit business. Life was a battle with heat, drought, snakes in the wood pile, distance from family, from friends, even from the post office. Visitors were few. Sheep had to be cared for, fed, sheared, drenched, sometimes killed and eaten. Dogs and horses had to be trained, fed and cared for. Shearers were accommodated and fed, cows herded and milked, fruit cakes baked, dingoes and wild pigs hunted, kangaroos discouraged, snakes killed, beggars and thieves chased from the door, children educated, clothes made, books read by lantern light, clothing washed by hand, wood chopped, fires put out, fire breaks burned, neighbours helped, illnesses treated, wounds bandaged, vehicles repaired and each day started it all over again.

Finally a generator added evenings to their day, better vehicles brought the town closer and telephones connected the family. The outback station was sold and a smaller produce farm, a few hours from Brisbane, became home. Four children turned into two nurses, an engineer and business woman, six grandchildren and two great grandchildren.   

The house near Charleville - Joan's sister Margaret (my mother) visiting.

Of course Aunty Joan is not the only person to live a life of struggle and difficulty and she told me that herself when she talked about the desperate situation of other families during the depression. She has memories of going in the car with her father to deliver food parcels, until the family business closed and they could no longer afford to help others as they were also eating wild caught rabbits and home grown potatoes. The family lost their home and when her parent's marriage broke up Joan was sent to live with her mother's sister - not a big disaster for Joan as her cousin Claire was her best friend. Little sister Peg stayed with Mother while Father moved in with his former secretary. The loss of her father that way hurt Joan deeply, a hurt that is still there today, though it lives in the shadow of losing her oldest daughter to cancer, the same year that Don died. 

Joan once said to me - "We each have our own life and how we live it depends on the bits we inherit from parents."

And so I asked about her new home.

"It's all very nice," she said. "In fact it's luxury but I suppose I'll get used to it."  lol  "I'm not sure about the pool though."

'What do you do during the day?

"I read, I've got a nice chair here and there is a library. In the afternoon someone brings me a cup of tea, it's all very nice. I have lots of little sleeps. I can go to the TV room if I want, but I'm not interested in television now."

"Do you need anything? A fruit cake or a packet of biscuits?"

"I have some biscuits in the room but I can't eat them because I'm always full."

"Maybe I'll bring you a little bottle of coke when I come."

"He he, yes, that would be nice. But I have to be careful because I only have rotten teeth left."

"How's the food?"

"Oh, it's ..... it's alright. There's plenty of it."

Hmmmm - change in tone. She won't explain unless I insist.

"What is wrong with the food?"

" Well... it's not what I'm used to."

"You were used to meals-on-wheels."

"Yes."

"And this is different?"

"It's .... the way they ... present it."

"How?"

"It's frozen."

"Oh!"

"Apparently, this is what all the big hospitals do."

"And the meals-on-wheels were cooked fresh each day."

"Yes......  it was like I used to cook myself."

"Some frozen food is okay."

"Some is."
"Even meals-on-wheels is going to frozen dinners in some places."
"That's a shame."
"So you're eating airplane food."
She laughed. "They do whatever they do to heat it and it tastes okay. Rice is a bit .......... well ... let's say I've had enough chicken and rice to last me."

I am so sorry. So sorry that we can't give our darling oldies fresh food, sorry that our infirm get microwave dinners served in cardboard trays, with instant mashed potato and dried out beef. So sorry that your reward for a life of caring for others is that we can't afford to feed you properly. Forget about the wounded soldiers, the dust and dingoes, the barefooted children and snakes in the woodpile - forget about the sacrifice, the pioneer spirit, the building of family, here - have a frozen dinner.  

Caring for our elders should be part of family life. Children who don't see their grandparents regularly, if not daily, are missing an important part of their development and they lose track of where they are in history.

In traditional societies people look forward to living out their last years surrounded by their children and aging friends. Ancient Chinese society was held together by the belief in family. The greatest virtue being devotion to one’s parents.  They still respect the declining abilities of the aged to tend gardens, care for babies, assist in the education of children - allowing the young adults to work. Value is given to craft work, sharing skills, knowledge and understanding of life and passing on the family stories.  In sedentary farming societies around the world, the elderly are fed and cared for and live in the same hut or one near their adult children.

With nomadic people the elderly can become a burden and occasionally tribes were forced to abandon their aged and infirm. There is even a word for it.  Senilicide. It loosely means doing away with the olds.  When there is enough food to go around, everyone gets a share, even those who are not productive. During times of famine not feeding the elderly often saved the young.  When desperate, the Inuit left their old folk outside to die of exposure or starve to death, considering it to be assisted suicide. It was often a mutual decision.

Today's elderly live away from their children. After they do the expected retirement road trip they're supposed to quietly disappear into assisted living villages or nursing homes - if they can afford it, or a council flat, out of sight, until required for weddings and funerals. They feed themselves, they feed cats and lap dogs and sometimes go without.

We are all part of the aging population. Grannies struggling to keep up with technology give the smart young things the impression that old people have no place in the modern world. These old people are eating food, breathing air, using up valuable natural resources and clogging the medical system - becoming a burden. Some hospitals have a policy of treating young people first, some doctors prescribe drugs with little attention given to good health for the elderly, it's easier and cheaper. A version of senilicide has been practiced in hospitals and nursing homes for centuries - withhold food and they fade away. 

Often they don't really mind - being very old is not fun. But what is old? It's getting younger every year. Applying for a job is difficult at 55 and TV ads tell us we should be buying funeral insurance in our 40s. The Protestant work ethic of measuring a person's value by their ability to work - has led to our youth centred culture in which we idolise individualism and independence. In 2004, France had to pass decree requiring citizens keep in touch with their geriatric parents after a heat wave killed 15,000 people - most of them elderly and many bodies were not found for weeks because of neglect by their families. Also, France had the highest number of pensioner suicides in Europe.

So what are we going to do? Maybe these huge modern houses with parent retreats, teenager's living area and home theatres should also include granny flats, for us - but that depends on our children becoming millionaires. The question of where we'll end up when we can no longer manage independently is a big one.

Will you still need me, will you still feed me, 
when I'm sixty/eighty four?

on the12 Days of Christmas

Another Christmas over, and all the crazy activity, panic gift buying, mind blowing decorations, and far too much food has been gobbled up and choked down. Sadly, the lovely songs, hymns and carols from Christmas will be packed away too and that is a shame. There is no reason we can't sing them all year.

I recently had an email about the song, The 12 days of Christmas - someone knows I am interested in origins, and so I had a look at the song and the known history.  I always thought of it as a folk song and as children we used it as a counting back song, having fun getting the gifts in correct order, especially at the end. Technically it is a cumulative song, that is each verse builds on top of the previous verses. 

The actual 12 Days of Christmas is the annual festive period on the Catholic calendar (and maybe Anglican) beginning on December 25 and going until January 6th - which is Twelfth Night or the Feast of the Epiphany.  Other importance was attached to the Twelve Days as the weather on each day was carefully observed to predict what it would be in the corresponding month of the coming year.

Each of the 12 verses describe a gift given by 'my true love' on one of the 12 days of Christmas.

Gift giving at Christmas time, during the middle ages, was not within the family, but wealthy people gave money to the poor on St Steven's Day/ Boxing Day. Servants, who had worked Christmas Eve and Christmas Day often had a holiday on the day after Christmas and were given Christmas Boxes of leftover food and gifts or money, to take home and share with their families.

Over hundreds of years, and with improvements in living standards, different groups developed various gift giving traditions with some giving gifts on Twelfth Night, some on Christmas Day and some on various days in between. If it were possible to give the gifts mentioned in the song, you might not get much change from $60,000 in today's money.

The oldest English version if the song was printed in children's book called Mirth without Mischief, in 1780. The rhyme, then called The Twelve Days of Christmas sung at King Pepin's Ball, was suggested as a Twelfth Night  memories-and-forfeits  game. This is what children did before television. A leader recited a verse, each of the players repeated the verse, the leader added another verse, and so on until one of the players made a mistake.  That player had to pay a penalty, such as offering up a kiss, for the teens, or a sweet, for the little children.  One hundred years later, a collector of folktales and rhymes, described how it was played every Twelfth Day night before eating mince pies and twelfth cake.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

On the 1st day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,

A Partridge in a Pear Tree.

On the 2nd day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,

2 Turtle Doves, And a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

On the 3rd day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,

3 French Hens, 2 Turtle Doves, And a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

On the 4th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,

4 Calling Birds, 3 French Hens, 2 Turtle Doves,

And a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

On the 5th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,

5 Gold Rings, 4 Calling Birds, 3 French Hens, 2 Turtle Doves

And a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

On the 6th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,6 Geese-a-Laying, 5 Gold Rings, 4 Calling Birds, 3 French Hens,

2 Turtle Doves, And a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

On the 7th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,

7 swans a swimming, 6 geese a laying, 5 Gold Rings, 4 Calling Birds

3 French Hens, 2 Turtle Doves, And a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

On the 8th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,

8 Maids-a-Milking, 7 swans a swimming, 6 geese a laying, 5 Gold Rings

4 Calling Birds, 3 French Hens, 2 Turtle Doves, And a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

On the 9th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,

9 Ladies Dancing, 8 Maids-a-Milking, 7 swans a swimming6 geese a laying, 5 Gold Rings, 4 Calling Birds

3 French Hens, 2 Turtle Doves, And a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

On the 10th Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,

10 Lords-a-Leaping, 9 Ladies Dancing, 8 Maids-a-Milking

7 swans a swimming, 6 geese a laying, 5 Gold Rings

4 Calling Birds, 3 French Hens, 2 Turtle Doves

And a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

On the 11th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,

11 Pipers Piping, 10 Lords-a-Leaping, 9 Ladies Dancing

8 Maids-a-Milking, 7 swans a swimming, 6 geese a laying

5 Gold Rings, 4 Calling Birds, 3 French Hens

2 Turtle Doves, And a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

On the 12th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me,

12 Drummers Drumming, 11 Pipers Piping, 10 Lords-a-Leaping

9 Ladies Dancing, 8 Maids-a-Milking, 7 swans a swimming

6 geese a laying, 5 Gold Rings, 4 Calling Birds

3 French Hens, 2 Turtle Doves

And a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

The lyrics have varied over the years, as happens with folk songs that travel. In early versions the gifts were 'sent to me' and later 'my true love gave to me'.   The 1780 version mentions 4 colly birds, a regional name for black birds.  This has changed through the years to canary birds, coloured birds and now calling birds in the popular version.  I was taught to put the partridge IN a pear tree, but some sing a partridge AND a pear tree. There is a suggestion that all the gifts were originally birds, the five gold rings being the markings on the ringed pheasant or five goldspinks (goldfinches) and those five gold rings have become five golden rings, possibly to fit the music.

In the north of England there were only 10 gifts and 10 verses, in others the last four gifts were changed around so the order of the Lords and Ladies were swapped with the musicians. As the song spread the gifts changed, this changed the song and some versions became alliterative tongue-twisters. That sounds interesting.

Far away in the Faroe Islands, which are between Norway and Iceland but belong to the Kingdom of Denmark, the gifts have changed to; one feather, two geese, three sides of meat, four sheep, five cows, six oxen, seven dishes, eight ponies, nine banners, ten barrels, eleven goats, twelve men, thirteen hides, fourteen rounds of cheese and fifteen deer.  In the late 1990's these appeared on a series of just two stamps. (Now that's fascinating trivia)

A novel published in 1862 gives us, my true love sent me five hares running, four ducks quacking, three fat hens, two turtle doves. a partridge and a pear-tree.  And a Scottish version includes an Arabian baboon and three stalks o'merry corn. Of course in modern times we like variety and there are versions that include Australian animals and whatever else you can think up.

There were several melodies for the song but the one we know
 today was added to the lyrics in 1909 by Frederic Austin. It was an
 arrangement of a traditional tune, to which he added his own 2 bar motif for five gold rings. He also added the four calling birds. Those who understand the history of music say the song's folk origin is obvious by inconsistencies such as - the introductory lines are made up of two 4/4 bars, while the lines of gifts have one 3/4 bar changing again on the Partridge. This is not an area I understand though it is vaguely familiar from music lessons I had at school.  The melody of the second to fourth verses is different in the fifth to twelfth verses .... which is understandable as there are more words. I think this is the beauty of folk music - no rules because the lyrics and the melody has been added to and embroidered like a crazy patchwork quilt, until we were able to record it and insist that it never changes again.

So, the email I was sent stated that the song in fact was a coded message for Catholic children. During the English Reformation of the 16 century the Roman Catholics in England were persecuted and driven underground. The story goes that this 'carol' was written as a catechism song for children. The gifts are codes for points of Catholic belief.

The partridge in a pear tree is Jesus Christ. Some say the tree represents the cross.

2  turtle doves were the Old and New Testaments

3  French hens stood for faith, hope and love.

4   calling birds were the four gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke & John.

5   golden rings recalled the Torah or Law, the first five books of the Old Testament.

6   geese a-laying stood for the six days of creation.

7  swans a-swimming represented the sevenfold gifts of the Holy Spirit - Prophesy, Serving, Teaching,   Exhortation, Contribution, Leadership, and Mercy.

8  maids a-milking were the eight beatitudes.

9  Ladies dancing were the nine fruits of the Holy Spirit-Love, Joy, Peace, Patience, Kindness, Goodness, Faithfulness, Gentleness, and Self Control.

10 Lords a-leaping were the ten commandments.

11 pipers piping stood for the eleven faithful disciples.

12 drummers drumming symbolized the twelve points of belief in the Apostles' Creed.

So, is this a secret, hidden for centruries, or is it a fun folk song that doubles as a counting lesson?

I don't give references with my research because anyone can find the same information on the net and if I give all the references it would fill up my page, and that's my job. Also, if someone else decided to check what I've said through google, they might find even better information than I have found.

This theory of an underground catechism song for oppressed Catholics was not mentioned anywhere until a Canadian English teacher, and part-time hymnologist published an article in 1979. A Catholic priest picked up the idea and wrote an article in 1982, claiming that there were old letters from priests and interviews with elderly Canadian Catholics to support it .... but in the end the evidence he offered was, "I can at most report what this song's symbols have suggested to me in the course of four decades".  Fair enough I think, in fact I rather like that as evidence.

But, historians, who know their stuff, dispute the interpretation and the underlying premise making comments such as;

"This was not originally a Catholic song, no matter what you hear on the Internet, neutral reference books say this is nonsense",

"Every religious song, every religious carol has at least depth in it, something that has some spirituality in it. This is frothy, light and frothy.""If you think of all the things being presented, you realize they're all gifts from a lover to a woman. Some of them are rather impossible to give, like eight maids a milking and nine ladies dancing. All those ladies and dancing and pipers and drums imply this is a wedding."

"There are the decidedly un-biblical fertility symbols — the partridge in a pear tree, for example. The pear is equivalent to the heart and the partridge is a famous aphrodisiac. And how about those six geese a-laying! Seven of the song's 12 verses feature birds of various kinds, all of them symbols of fertility. The whole song seems to me to point to a festival of joy and love more appropriate to a secular holiday like Valentine's Day or May Day than a religious holiday"

"The validity of the song’s second verse has always been questionable for the simple reason turtle doves leave English shores and begin migrating south from the end of September".

There is the French connection; 
"At least three similar New Years' or spring French carols feature a partridge, perfriz or perdriole, as the first gift.  The pear tree appears only in the English version, but the 'pear-tree' could be perdrix (Old French pertriz) carried into English as pear tree. There is a French red-legged partridge that frequently perches in trees.  A juniper trees apprears in some English versions and that may have come from the French 'joli perdrix' meaning pretty partridge.  The adjective 'French' in 'three French hens', probably simply means foreign.

 And  ... the argument was still going on in 2000,

"This is a genuine urban myth. There are a number of clues that give it away as a tall tale but most important is the fact that none of the supposedly secret meanings is distinctly Catholic. None of the twelve codes would have been considered anything but normal Christian orthodoxy by the Protestants which ruled England at the time, so it would not need to have been imparted clandestinely. If any of the meanings had been about the special status for Catholics accorded by Mary during her brief rule (1553-1558) or the theology of the Mass or papal monarchy, etc. then the story might be more believable. In fact "the 12 Days" is just one of a number of similar counting songs found in almost every European language."

So, it seems there is no evidence that underground catechism songs for Catholics were common, or even existed during or after the English Reformation.  There are a few examples of accumulative catechism songs, "Green grow the rushes, O," and "Go where I send thee", and there are "coded" nursery rhymes, Sing a song of sixpence and Rock-a-by, baby, but none of them qualify in terms of having hidden meanings  and also Catholic meanings.

Could it be that the "The Twelve Days of Christmas" originated as a religious song and was kept so secret or had such a covert meaning, that it was simply forgotten by the mid-1800s?  What do you think?