I have a secret enjoyment that I am almost too shy to admit to - I have a fondness for war poetry. Well to be specific World War I war poetry and in particular Wilfred Owen.

I think it is the raw-boned honesty of the poetry I like. You can imagine when a poet was up to his kneecaps in water and mud in a trench, surrounded by dead bodies and rats, with an itchy skin because of the lice and someone was either trying to gas him  or bomb him, social niceties and conventions would be stripped away. In those days of uncertainty and despair one would be reduced to being honest.
 

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

             Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
             Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
             Can patter out their hasty orisons.

wrote Wilfred Owen who tragically died a week before the armistice was signed. His parents found out about his death on Armistice Day. Can you imagine how they would have felt when they heard the armistice had been signed but too late for their boy?
Owen told it how it was.
       
            Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
            Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
           Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
            And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
            Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
            But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
            Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
           Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind

This is an extract from his poem Dulce et Decorum est. (It is sweet and right) At the end of this poem he concludes if you had seen someone dying of gas poisoning you would not be so quick to believe the lie that it is sweet and right to die for your country which was the prevailing belief of the day.

Somehow I do not think we have learned the lessons that Owen tries to teach us in his poems.

I find the subject of opinions rather fascinating. Being an analytical sort of chick it is one of those subjects I like to ponder over and ruminate on.

I would define an opinion as a set of beliefs one holds on a given subject.  I really believe an opinion, the set of beliefs one holds on a given subject, should result from a careful analysis of the facts available and hope my opinions are like this. If an opinion is not based on fact then one starts to get on slippery territory. History is full of examples when someone’s opinion, not based on fact, became the governing opinion of the day and had disastrous consequences. Eg Hitler’s opinion about the superiority of the Aryans resulted in the genocide of millions of non-Aryans.

I have reached the place where I do not usually worry too much if people do not agree with my opinion. I do have some fairly left field opinions that are counter status quo and are a little too confrontational for some. So it is understandable people would not agree with them. But also I have realised thankfully in my old age that an opinion is simply that. It is just what I think. It is my perception of the facts that determines what I believe about a subject. It is personal to me.

So why is it are we so threatened by the opinions of others? I have noticed that this does happen. Is it because we think everyone should think like us and when they don't we get tetchy and defensive? I am not sure. Could it be insecurity, immaturity or pride?

In actual fact instead of reacting to someone’s opinion with an avalanche of reasons why what they believe is misguided, which is what often happens in conversation, I should be mature enough to say….. “that is an interesting opinion - tell me what led you to that conclusion? ”

I would like to listen to people without giving in to the temptation to tell them what they are sharing is wrong, because it is my impression, I was told that in my younger years. To be told that your opinions are wrong can be quite disconcerting. It can cause you to question your own worth. When someone tells you what you have shared is wrong, you can interpret that as meaning everything about you is wrong which of course is an erroneous conclusion.

One of my favourite how-to-communicate books, states a helpful way to think about what other people have to say, is to view it as a gift and be grateful they shared. So I guess that is a starting place then. If what people share is a gift, I can unwrap it, check it out and decide whether I want to keep it or not. I am not sure that is what the book meant but at least I have listened with an open mind and heard what the person had to say. That has to be better than trying to persuade people what they believe is wrong.

Because at the end of the day, when all is said and done, when the fat lady has finished singing, the final curtain has fallen and push comes to shove an opinion is just what someone thinks.  I have the choice whether I believe what is said or not. It has no power over me unless I give it power.

Mrs Newman said

Every since Mrs Newman's sixth form English class, where I learnt language evolves over time, I have had a growing fascination with helping the English language change. I think it is because I am a revolutionary at heart except I have not quite found what it is I am to revolutionise so I have settled for the English language in the meantime.

In fact I would have to say I have a perverse sense of pleasure in taking liberties with my noble mother tongue. The rules of grammar should only be guidelines in the use of the language, I believe. The only guideline that should really be enforced, much like a rule I suppose, is that people can understand you. I am not sure Mrs Newman would approve but it is another way I keep myself entertained.

For example I like modifying existing words. Bettera is the word that describes a situation that has gone past just being better. Brightera describes something that is gaining luminosity. Favouritist is something that is even bettera than favourite. By the way Mrs Newman would have to be one of my favouritist teachers of all time.

My workmates also share this delightful past-time with me and we now a workplace vernacular that really would have Mrs Newman perplexed.

Vanaging is the quick version of saying "We are driving the van back to where it is housed overnight."
Sconage time describes the habit of one workmate who usually at about 9.30am walks down to the shop to buy a scone for morning tea.

Lately I have also been experimenting with the pronunciation of words. For example gurrate is the way you feel in a situation where you feel like grinding your teeth and getting grumpy but in the interests of public decorum or keeping your job you smile sweetly and pretend everything is great. Burrzare is a polite way of saying this situation is bizarre and it gives me the shivers.

One day my aim is to invent a whole new voacbulary. That may be a way off in the distance though because so far I have not invented a new word.

I should quickly add this fascination of mine is a paradox because in my line of work I have to be very precise in the way I use language. I write to the age level of a 12-year-old and I am only allowed to paraphrase and quote what the people I interview say.

This means I have to be very circumspect about when I am inventive with language. Definitely not when interviewing people. Probably not a good idea in front of her majesty, the queen  nor at a job interview. Nor when talking to children, before whom one should always set a good example.

It is all about remembering who you are and where you are.

DeNiece and I went blackberry picking last week. We had been trying for several weeks to go out but the weather had been wet. We decided it was probably our last chance before the blackberries disappeared.

We have been excursioning into the countryside around the house for the past four years now searching for the tasty berries. I guess it has become a tradition for us.

DeNiece who is now eight years old likes to eat more than she picks. I don't have a problem with that unless she eats the ones I have picked. She tends to be a grazing sort of a picker. She spots a good one, picks it and then moves on. She usually does not notice the other ones on the same bush that could be picked. I don't have a problem with that. I follow behind her and gather the ones left. She also tends to have a short attention span and gives up picking after 10 minutes or so. I don't have a problem with that either. It is nice to have her company.

We have noticed a few interesting things about blackberry bushes in our time of searching out their fruits. For example often the best blackberries are found in the grass. That means if you don't look where you are going you can stand on the berries. The ones that are easy to spot have usually been attacked by flies who seem to suck the juice out but if you look below the bush there is often a branch laden with fruit that is snaking its way through the grass.

We have about five  places where blackberries grow well but each year one of the places has a turn at providing superior, quality fruit. If you visit the same place that had great fruit last year, it won't have such a good crop this year.

When we arrive back home scratched and with purple juice stains around our mouth if we are an eight year old, we make some of the blackberries into jam and put the rest into the freezer.

Later on in the year when we fancy a taste of autumn we can make a blackberry pie, more jam or make flavouring to swirl through homemade ice cream which all sounds Martha- ery Stewartish really.

Blah blah blah

I would like to move a motion that children are taught how to listen actively at school. You know. Show that they are really listening by making comments like
so what you are saying is...
how did that make you feel...
can you explain that a bit more...
have I got this right...
can you tell me more...
I thought I heard you say...

Now I know what you will say to this brilliant new plan of mine - that  the education system is full of subjects designed to fix all the problems of society. And you are right of course. Teachers are supposed to teach kids things like sensible eating, safe sex if there is such a thing, how to exercise, how bad drugs are for you, how to treat everyone nicely even those with different skin colour to you etc etc. Topics incidentally that parents should actually be responsible for.

However, it would not take much energy to teach active listening because in the middle of the sex talk teachers  could invite pupils to ask questions like, so what you are really saying is if you ....

Or in the middle of a don't eat junk food session, children could be encouraged to ask each other questions like have I got this right that potato chips are bad for me?

Now you might wonder why I want the people in the world to be better listeners. Well for a start off it might put an end to wars. And for a second off I am really tired of people not listening. I am tired of being in conversations that feel more like a tennis match than two people communicating.

You know the one? I share a story and then just before I have finished and sometimes even before I am finished whammo the conversation ball is hit back to me with them  telling me a story about themselves that my story has reminded them of.

Enough I say.

I want to take part in more conversations where the people I am relating to give the occasional grunt or mmmmm, smile encouraging, ask for clarification or check they have understood me.


I wonder if I should start doing this too?

Name calling

I was sitting on  my back porch the other afternoon staring across the paddock vacantly as I like to do and I saw a very mis-shapen sheep. It looked terrible. It was lying on its side looking very grotesque like it was dead and bloated. I stared at it for a minute or two and then realised it was not a dead sheep. It was not even a sheep but a pig. A big, white, fat kunekune pig. From the neighbours several paddocks away. It was lying next to our fence snoozing, a long way from home but 300 metres from my house.

Anyway this irrational desire to shout something like "you big fat pig" started to burble up inside me. Trying to resist shouting it out was too much so I gave in and shouted across the paddock "you big fat pig".  Normally calling something a big fat pig is frowned upon. It is not nice to name call. But this time I felt it was ok. It was big. It was fat. And it was a pig. No problem.

There is more to this story.

After a minute I saw the pig wriggle onto its stomach, open its eyes and stare at me. I could feel its little piggy eyes boring into me from 300 metres away. I felt a little bit uncomfortable.

It sat there staring. I sat there squirming.

Then I started to think to myself. How did that pig get there? If it had pushed its way through several  fences to get to our paddocks maybe it would keep pushing through fences and eat my vegetable garden? And although the gate to the paddock it was in was closed, could it wriggle its way under the gate and come up my drive towards my tasty beans?

At that point the pig rolled over and shuddered to its feet and at that point I started wondering who would win the race to the gate to my drive. Could I cover 50 metres quicker than an overweight pig could cover 300 metres.

I decided not to wait until the pig started running. Whistling casually I sauntered to the gate and shut it. The pig had not even put its running shoes on. It was munching on grass oblivious to me. Eventually it munched its way over a rise and disappeared.

I am not sure what the moral of that story was.

Fine young cannabulls

When I lived in Kolkata I met a vegetable delicacy that I grew particularly fond of... ladies fingers or okra. I used to fry them up with ground cumin.


Okra and I became a source of entertainment to both me and my Indian friends who while not seeming to share my enthusiasm for the little honeys, were amused by my okra adventures. For example once I was so glad to discover a man selling okra on the side of the road on the way home, I accidentally bought a kilo of them.  I did not realise how light okra were and how many you got for a kilo. It took several kilos of commitment to chew my way through that lot before they went off.


In NZ I discovered I could buy okra in Auckland but south of Auckland sourcing them was very tricky. Until that is I discovered I could grow my own in the tunnel house with moderate success. 


When I moved souther I gave up, thinking it was too cold. However, imagine my joy when I experiemented and discovered last year they grew very well in a bucket on the window sill at work. And if I was lucky I could get four producing at once for a decent feed.

The only challenge with growing okra at work is you have to take them home with you for a month over the Christmas holiday period. That can get tricky if your holiday destination is six hours away. It can also get awkward if the plants grow too big to bring back to work or if you were stopped by a friendly police officer who wanted to check out the vegetation being transported. Lucky I escaped both awkwardnesses.

This year the plants are only producing one fruit at a time. To fruit well they seem to need warm temperatures and sunlight which they do not always get in the southern region. 

The plants start producing flower buds when they are not very tall and then keep growing taller and producing new leaves and buds from the top growing tip. The bud grows between the stem and the leaf. As the plant grows more the leaf and flower bud end up perched on the side of the stem. Eventually the flower, a beautiful butter yellow colour with a deep red centre, opens up and blooms for one day. It would be worth growing okra just for the flower alone.

An okra flower. Okra are a member of the hibiscus family.

A week or so depending on growing conditions the fruit has grown to edible size looking suspiciously like well a ladies finger.


I am not sure why I like okra so much. I like their subtle flavour and the seeds. Maybe it has something to do with the fact they remind me of Kolkata and my dear friends there.