A person’s a person no matter how small

Do you know what today is? May the fifteenth. The fifteenth of May. Ring any bells? Hmmm? Hmmm?  Probably not. For most people this is just your average day in May, but if you read your Dr Seuss closely you will know this--this is the beginning of  Horton Hears a Who. And so it begins:

On the fifteenth of May

In the jungle of Nool

In the heat of the day

In the cool of the pool

He was splashing enjoying the jungle’s great joys

When Horton the elephant heard a small noise.

The story continues with Horton locating the sound—a small dust speck inhabited by a race of microscopic people (The Whos) who are floating by and in danger. He rescues the Whos and the town of Whoville by placing the speck on a soft clover and thereafter is mocked, ridiculed, teased and taunted and bullied as other members of the jungle call him a fool and plan to boil the speck in Beezlenut juice to prove that small insignificant creatures who they believe are all in Horton’s head don’t matter. He pleads with them that this race of people are alive and have feelings and families, but no one cares. Out of sight out of mind. They can’t see them so why should they care? Horton finally gets the Whos to make enough noise right before they are slaughtered and they are saved and every animal has a change of heart and agrees to protect them “no matter how small.”

This story had a huge impact on my life. I loved the plot of standing up for what you believe in even when others try to destroy your hope. When I was in High School I memorized the entire book for a speech competition and won several prizes with it. I still recite it every year to classes on Dr Seuss’ birthday.

But to me the message is this—we must—if we have an conscience at all—stand up for those who cannot speak for themselves. Animals in factory farms are treated with appalling cruelty –if this were people who were treated this way we’d call it a Concentration Camp and everyone would be up in arms. But when it is animals—who cares? They can’t reason so why should we care about them? But I say, it is not can they reason but can they feel pain and suffer? In this life we should be looking for ways to avoid inflicting suffering on others and help those in need. Animals may not have the words to say that they are suffering but by their sounds—cries and moaning/bellowing or actions—biting themselves or other destructive behaviours—they let us know. Animals do have feelings and they do form attachments to their young and it is a cruel thing to take a child away from its mother while she cries for her baby so that humans can get something they WANT not NEED.

A person does not need to eat meat or milk or eggs or honey or wear leather to survive. We take from animals because we are bigger and stronger and we can. I can never understand how anyone with a shred of conscience can be ok with eating something that was tortured for their plate.

So I’m with Horton the elephant here. Look out for those who are small and weak and helpless and cannot speak for themselves—be it animals or people. Their only voice is ours.

My lunch is packed, I’m ready to go

This is what John Denver would have written before he went off on a jet plane if he had my new lunch bag. I am a pack lunch kind of gal. I pack a snack to eat at break time every day--usually a piece of fruit and some almonds. Almonds are high in calcium as well as being filling. 16 almonds is a serving so I actually laboriously count out 16 into a wee pot and bring it with me. For lunch I bring leftovers (if there are any) or a bag of goatmeal to tide me over until I can get home. If you have no idea what goatmeal is--look here. http://spidergrrlvstheworld.blogspot.com/2010/11/goatmeal.html 

But I needed a new bag. I had one that was just the right size but was getting fairly tatty. See it here? 

 It is small with a wide flat bottom and stands up fairly well (meaning it doesn’t sag) and it was a free gift from sister in law who got it from Whole Foods in Baton Rouge, Louisiana for me. It came as a set of two but the other one had already gone on to meet its maker. Now this one was wearing out.  So what’s a crafty Spidergrrl to do? Make it herself of course!

I had cut apart the first one to use as a template but trying to choose the correct fabric was a puzzler. I had previously tried to make one that was waterproof--meaning you could wipe it down if you spilled anything. I don’t generally spill stuff (well not in my lunch bag--everywhere else, yes) so that is not really an issue. I just really liked the cool wipe off designs on the plastic laminate tablecloth that I bought at the market. I tried to ignore the fact that it was plastic and  concentrate on the pretty design. That was a dismal failure. It wouldn’t sew. It was too thick and broke my needle. I bought a heavy duty needle for denim but the tablecloth tore. I scrunched it up and threw it in the bin and cursed myself for being seduced by plastic. That was a few months ago. Since then I’ve been trying to think of what to do to replicate the parts of this bag I like before it completely disintegrated on me. Then Saturday night--it came to me in dream. I know that sounds like mystical hoo ha but I really work that way. I often dream craft projects or short stories and whilst recovering from the horrible hysterectomy I dreamt (and subsequently wrote) a 60,000 word novel.

Anyway, I woke at 8:00 Sunday morning and I could picture what to do. I knew I had lots of scrap fabric that had pretty designs and was FREE just waiting in my fabric offcuts bin. I knew I had heavy duty iron on interfacing left over from making the pink backpack.  I thought about a bag we have that has a piece of something stiff in the bottom to keep it flat and help it hold its shape. I was sure I had some craft foam lurking in my crafty drawer just waiting to be used. I excavated the old cut apart bag and guided by my dream imagery, I went to work.

By 9:00 when it was time to get dressed for Meeting for Worship I had gathered my materials, cut them out and ironed all the interfacing onto the cloth. I went to church and then came home and finished the job.

Here is the completed bag. I am very pleased with it. I didn’t have enough of one fabric so I had to piece together different coordinating fabrics to make it. I had *exactly* enough iron on interfacing which did give the bag some stiffness and helped it keep its shape. I decided after putting a strip of craft foam in the bottom to put some in the side pieces as well. It really stands up nice and tall without sagging but the foam is flexible enough if it needs to get squashed into another bag. I modified the strap from the original because I like one that hangs on the crook of my elbow and not always in my hand as I am less likely to drop it. I decided some sort of closure would be nice so I dug around in my sewing drawer but couldn’t find a button that would work. I had to go to the Haberdashery stall at the market and buy a button. I spent a whopping 20p on a festive yellow button, made a button hole and sewed it on.

Voila! The new lunch bag!

I've also had another craft project dream and am in the process of making a new handbag! Hoorah! Stay tuned for the next exciting installment of Old bag/New Bag.

Watch out for falling prices

Anti-histamine and I are old chums. In fact, I cannot remember a time in my life where I wasn’t having to take the stuff. My first product was the green liquid Novahistine. I liked it because it had a slightly minty syrupy flavour a bit like crème du menthe (that delicious liqueur that I was allowed to drizzle on ice cream once a year on New Year’s day)  and it was green as if it came from the Emerald City in Oz. The green alone would have sold it to me in those days because I was an enormous Oz fanatic. Still am actually, but for that’s for another post. I recall when they changed the formula of my beloved Novahistine--I think it was to make it sugar free--and after it had a weird cloying aftertaste I could not abide. I moved on to anti-histamine tablets as soon as I could swallow pills. It soon became a lifetime of pill taking for me.

 Yes, I have hay fever. So the hay fever season can be particularly bad when pollen counts are high, but to be fair I have not suffered nearly as much since moving to the UK because I am away from most of my worst enemies.  Pine was particularly bad for me and I lived for many years in the town aptly named Pineville. Throughout those years I suffered constant headaches and sneezing fits that could have possibly earned me a place in the Guinness Book of World records.  But I have discovered a new enemy here. The fields of yellow that stretch for miles and look as though they are the property of a Winkie farmer (there’s another OZ reference--it is everywhere in my life as I am such an Ozophile) are the fields of oilseed Rape commonly know over here as Rapeseed and known to my US peeps as Canola. They make me eyes red and raw, but do not bring about the sneezing and headache of pine pollen.

But there are other enemies. I am forced to take the dreaded anti-histamine every day of my life and not just hayfever season. The enemy is the hair of the dog (not the hangover cure!) but the hair of the dog or cat or rabbit or guinea pig or rat or whatever hairy creature one can keep for a pet. And rest assured if it is hairy, a child has it for a pet and that child will be precisely the child I am meant to working with. There is nothing amusing about trying to help a small child learn to read and covering their book with your snot.

In the US I took Claritin and if my memory serves the prescription cost me about $30 a month or $360 a year. Over here on the NHS no prescription will  cost more than £7 which is good because in the US I routinely paid hundreds of dollars for meds every month. Spiderman even gets his thyroid replacement meds for free here as it is a chronic condition. When we moved here I went to Boots the chemist and bought a box of Boots brand Loratadine--which is generic over here for Claritin--for £7 a month or £84 a year. That sounds like a good deal, but wait for it-watch for falling prices.

A few years  ago Boots came out with an even more generic one. You paid £7 for a 28 day supply of pills (£84 a year)  if you got the blue box with the picture of the blue sky and the yellow field. But if you bought the white box with the red writing and no picture you paid £1.04 a week or £4.16 a month or £49.92 a year. That’s a huge savings just for going with the ugly packaging. Now that sounds like a good deal, but wait for it--watch out for rising prices. Ha ha--you thought I was going to say falling prices again, didn’t you? Well I can’t because VAT (taxes on items) went up and every thing went up in cost.

So my £1.04 a week or £4.16 a month or £49.92 a year went up a wee bit and became £1.08 a week or £4.32 a month or £51.84 a year. Not much of a change and still less than buying the one in the prettier box. But wait for it--now you can watch for falling prices.

Last month at Wilkinsons (think TG&Y type place) I found generic Claritin in a box for 88p a week or £3.52 a month or £42.24 a year. I like those prices even better. I don’t know if Wilkos (as it is known here locally by all the cool people-- well, by the people) will continue to sell this after hay fever season  so I am stocking up. Every time myself or Spiderman go in we buy a couple of boxes at that price.  And the boxes are a soothing butter cream yellow and have a pretty picture on the front of all the things it stops you being allergic to. The first is--I swear-- the actual picture of the blue sky/yellow fields from the £7 box of Boots brand Loratadine. It is followed by a photo of a Dalmatian dog--to represent pets which is definitely a problem for me. Next is a picture of a cloth--I assume to represent dust allergies and the last is a photo of someone’s hands in case you are allergic to your own hands. Although, now that I look at it, it probably is to represent skin allergies although to be fair it does look like someone who is allergic to their own body parts.  

Since I have to have to take it every day of my life it is nice to be able to save a bit of dosh to put toward the entertainment fund. Just going from the Boots generic at £51.84 a month to the Wilkos £42.24 a month saves us £9.60 a year--enough for 1 train ticket to Cambridge or ¾ of a ticket to London. No too shabby.

Disclaimer:

all of this math was done by me, scrunching up my face and gnawing the end of my pencil as I scribbled on scraps of paper because our calculator has died and gone to Silicon Heaven (all Red Dwarf fans know what I‘m talking about here.) I believe all my sums to be accurate, but in truth I cannot promise that. If you are a maths scholar, then forgive me. If you are my mother, you’ll think I’m a bloody genius.     

Sufferin' til suffrage

Because of our first time to vote in the UK (see previous post Election Day) I thought I would put in some of my favourite lyrics from School House Rock. Women in the United States earned the right to vote in 1920, but women in the UK had to wait longer. Only women who were householders over the age of 30 got the vote in 1918; women over 21 (the voting age for men) did not get the vote until 1928. I feel obligated to vote because of those women who "carried signs and marched in lines" and endured spectacular ridicule and abuse and imprisonment to give me that  privilege.

SUFFERIN' TIL SUFFRAGE
Yeah! Hurray!)
Now you have heard of Women's Rights,
And how we've tried to reach new heights.
If we're "all created equal"...
That's us too!
(Yeah!)
But you will proba ... bly not recall
That it's not been too ... too long at all,
Since we even had the right to
Cast a vote.
(Well!)
Well, sure, some men bowed down and called us "Mrs." (Yeah!)
Let us hang the wash out and wash the dishes, (Huh!)
But when the time rolled around to elect a president...
What did they say, Sister, (What did they say?)
They said, uh, "See ya later, alligator,
And don't forget my ... my mashed potatoes,
'Cause I'm going downtown to cast my vote for president."
Oh, we were suffering until suffrage,
Not a woman here could vote, no matter what age,
Then the 19th Amendment struck down that restrictive rule. (Oh yeah!)
And now we pull down on the lever,
Cast our ballots and we endeavor
To improve our country, state, county, town, and school.
(Tell 'em 'bout it!)
Those pilgrim women who ...
Who braved the boat
Could cook the turkey, but they ...
They could not vote.
Even Betsy Ross who sewed the flag was left behind that first election day.
(What a shame, Sisters!)
Then Susan B. Anthony (Yeah!) and Julia Howe,
(Lucretia!) Lucretia Mott, (and others!) they showed us how;
They carried signs and marched in lines
Until at long last the law was passed.
Oh, we were suffering until suffrage,
Not a woman here could vote, no matter what age,
Then the 19th Amendment struck down that restrictive rule. (Oh yeah!)
And now we pull down on the lever,
Cast our ballots and we endeavor
To improve our country, state, county, town, and school. (Right On! Right On!)
Yes the 19th Amendment
Struck down that restrictive rule. (Right On! Right On!)
Yes the 19th Amendment
Struck down that restrictive rule.
(Yeah, yeah!
Yeah, yeah!
Right on!
We got it now!)
Since 1920...
Sisters, unite!
Vote on!

Thanks ladies!

Election Day

It was our first election today since we were sworn in as British citizens and became eligible to register to vote. I have such fond memories of voting as a child. Voting machines were exciting and a treat—like going to the video arcade—because they made great noises and you could fiddle with knobs. I loved going to vote with my folks. When I was small I was allowed into the voting machine with them. You have to pull this enormous lever that requires a lot of strength—the kind you see on Dr Who these days that people have to strain to move during ensuing chaos because they have to close the portal or rip a hole in time—you pull the giant lever and KE-CHUNK! The drab coloured industrial strength fabric curtains magically close behind you with a dramatic swish. All people can see are your legs—it was like being a magician’s assistant and getting sawn in half—you weren’t really sawn in half it just looked like it to the audience. Then you get to flick the tiny levers beside the candidates or amendments you are voting for (or un-flick if you changed your mind) then when you are sure you have done the right thing, pull the magic lever again and ZING! The curtains magically fly open, the top half of your body is reunited with the lower half and your vote is registered. It was so much fun. I recall being allowed to pull down the levers as my mum pointed to them reminding me not to say out loud what we were voting for as it was nobody’s business but ours. I even recall once a family hike to the Pop Holland Scout Hut to vote followed by a picnic lunch then a hike home. Good times.

Well Spiderman and I went to vote first thing this morning at 7:00am when the polling station opened. I think we were their first customers. But listen to this—there were no big machines. We were given 2 paper ballots and told to stand in a cubby hole and put a big cross (X) in pencil by the ones you wanted, then fold up the paper and put it in a box with a slit in the top. Someone would then count all the paper votes later in the day and give the results. My Pilates teacher said her daughter’s high school was helping count the votes. Is that funny or what? It was so lo-tech and old fashioned. Like voting for prom Queen. But this is how they do it here.

I never thought I’d say this being someone who is noticeably technologically disinterested but I miss the machines. I liked the KE-CHUNK and the boring curtains and the joy of flicking the levers. How strange is that?  

The games are the same only the names are changed

Today at break time I noticed a group of kids playing a game. I got really excited and was flooded with memories because this was my all time favourite game—Chinese Jump Rope. How I adored this game. I had my own stretchy elastic rope which I wore as an accessory around my neck so a game could begin at a moment’s notice. I played this game every evening until dinner time for at least a year. It involves needing 2 other people to hold the elastic rope around their ankles (and gradually sliding it up higher as the difficulty increases) and one to jump in the middle reciting some cod Chinese—which now that I think about it may have actually been closer to counting in Japanese. You would jump a complicated rhythm of left and right (straddling the rope) then some jiggery pokery inside the rope with in and out leg movements like doing jumping jacks. Then the Pièce de résistance—you stomp on the ropes pinning them to the ground. All the while saying your fake Chinese—

Itsy

Mi

Sa

She

Local

Hotsie

Yotsie

 Kill it!

 Kill it obviously being the bit where you jump on the ropes. I managed to play this with only 2 people by employing this small pylon thing that probably wasn’t mean to be used that way—I don’t know if it held water things or electricity things but it was small and encased in a convenient kid sized box outside my neighbour’s house. Well, I’m not dead so it must have been ok.

Anyway, as I said I saw some children on the playground, leaping enthusiastically over some stretchy rope. I went to enquire and do you know what? It is called French Skipping here. Skipping means jumping rope here. And the words were different.

England

Ireland

Scotland

Wales

Inside

Outside

On it!

Fancy that! It was great to relive my old favourite pastime with a new generation of kiddies—even if it is slightly different.

Life with bells on

Today I spent the morning at the British Schools Museum for a May Day celebration. What a celebration it was! May day marks the traditional day where Briton's celebrate the first day of summer. I know--the real first day of summer in not until June, but in this cold and dreary land May is when the sun begins to warm us and life feels renewed. It was a glorious day--the bluest sky--the warmest sun with a breeze--and lots of traditional dancing!

There was Maypole dancing for a start. If you've never seen it it is a beautiful sight--a large phallic pole tied with multicoloured ribbons that dancers weave in and out of each other to music plaiting up the ribbon onto the pole then the other direction to unplait it. It was indeed often used in pre-Christian rites as a fertility symbol. Many village greens still have a permanent Maypole in place--Cromwell chopped them all down saying they would lead to "licentious" behaviour but after he was deposed they were all built back up again.

It was wonderful because they let the children do the Maypole dance. The older children on their own then the younger ones each with an adult helper to guide them (like a sheepdog) in the correct direction. I was there with my friend who has a set of 2 year old twins (what a handful!) and we managed to dance with a baby on each hip whilst the child held the ribbon. Whew! Packing around a wiggly toddler counts as exercise, right?

Next were my favourite--Morris Dancers! The art of Morris Dancing dates back to 1448. These traditional dancers--always men--wear coloured sashes and knee britches with bells and straw hats with flowers and dance waving white hankies or banging sticks together. it is a sight to behold! the music is usually on a small accordion or fiddle and the dances are merry and fun as they jingle with every move. This particular troop have come to recognise me because I turn up at all their local gigs. They say I am their best looking groupie! Ha ha!  Spiderman says it is sad to derive joy from being flirted with by old men waving hankies, but I disagree. At the end they let everyone who wanted to Morris Dance come up and have a go. I was so enthusiastic I was approached by a woman who does a traditional Women's Folk Group! I'm hoping to hear from her because I would *love* to join. Here was me thinking I'd have to grow testicles to be able to fulfil my ambitions as a Morris dancer.

Here is a link to the the website of our local Morris Men--  http://www.offleymorris.org.uk/ 


It was a lovely May day to celebrate the warm weather--so welcome after such a long period of grey. Since I am now a British citizen it is a legal requirement to talk about the weather.

Happy (almost) summer!