Stories in the Stones

From the back of the cupboard as we clear small patches of this house--seemingly only to refill others, this photo emerged. It is a photo of the farm where we now live--although these stairs and the building behind it are now gone--victims of a fire several years ago now. I was drawn to it not only because it is from this place but also because I have not known this farm or the other farms around here to have so many people on them. This is a roup--a farm sale. My husband had the tenancy of the farm but the contents of the previous owner, who was retiring to a small house just down the road from here were being sold.

This photo came into mind as we went to a nearby farm to see about buying some piece of equipment or other. I took my crochet hook and my camera with me and went along mostly for the ride. Just before a bit of rain fell, I took several shots of the stairs there. The contrast with the hustle and bustle of this photo was much in my mind.

This farm is still an active farm but the farmer lives somewhere else. As with Isauld, which at one time had seven men working and living here, this farm is now managed on a shoestring and with fewer and fewer hands. Those of us living here and hearing the stories of the farms that are changing what they grow to match the amount of labour available or the young people who have to go south because they cannot find a job here call this another clearance. I suspect that the clearing of strath naver and the villages to the west was nearly as invisible as this one is. In the 19th century, the plight of the villagers caught the attention of socially conscious writers who championed their cause, to little effect, I am afraid. Now the Royal Society of Edinburgh, with a whole passle of academics in a variety of fields has brought together a well researched document of the plight of the hill farmer and the legacy of the current agricultural policy. I hope someone is listening, but in the meantime I'll keep going out with my camera.

The Box Brownie in the Cupboard

We all know of cultures who think that taking a photograph of them captures their soul, but what of the relationship between the camera and the photographer? What lingers inside the camera?

Not long ago I had one of those amazing interactions that stretches my thinking. I like that. I try to embrace a sentiment I got from Maxine Hong Kingston's autobiography years agoin which she has her alter ego express the goal to "make your mind large enough to incorporate paradoxes." The interaction came from an exhibit at the nearby glass works (North Lands Creative Glass in Lybster). I might not have gone to see the exhibit except that two of the artists had come to do a show and tell of their residencies at a closer to home venue--the new museum in Thurso.

The work that interested me the least --at first--was a young American whose work had been taken up with vintage cameras. He found them, repaired them as needed, took at least one photograph with them, and then used the camera as a mold--juxtaposing the permanent and the transient. Having long been daunted by the mechanics of photography, I did not expect to be captivated, but I am drawn to photographs, especially the anonymous faces staring so keenly out of old glass negative photos, so I listened and looked intently.

The artist shared some of the history of the cameras, including the democratizing of both history and art with the advent of the Box brownie camera. Now transient moments could be captured by more than the elite or the technocrat, and candid photographs were possible. Arguably, this ushered in an era of overload of vacation snaps of seaside visits or children in best clothes, but those were the photos of someone choosing a moment that they wanted to remember--to hold on to.

When my husband found this old box brownie in the cupboard, it brought back to me all those associations and a few more came with it. I remember a friend whose husband--now decades ago--showed me his collection of 19th century photographs carefully preserved and framed. They were beautiful, tiny photos of what I took to be sleeping infants. When he told me they were dead and that there was in the 19th century a tradition of photographing these infants as a last memory for the grieving parents, I was appalled. I remember sadly how hurt he was, "I thought you would understand," he said as he picked up the nearest photos and put them out of sight. Now I understand. I understand why the parents wanted, needed, and cherished those images. I understand why the photographer thought of it as precious gift to the parents. I understand why he saved those photographs. I also understand now why he thought I would appreciate them. I am honoured that he had such faith in me and very sorry that it took me so long to grow into that understanding.

And for all those reasons and more I took photos of this little box brownie out into the garden where it was many years ago. I photographed it on the garden wall overlooking the sycamores and in the honeysuckle and in front of the newly painted front door.

Sun Tea Summer Day

It is impossible to rank the things you miss most at any given time when you are in a culture other than your own. Occasionally I have missed iced tea, which I used to drink year round in my midwestern, central-heating chapter of my life. Mostly I have missed the heat that gave you a thirst for cold, really cold drinks. Recently, in desperation, I tried to get a cafe in Inverness to pour hot tea over ice for a semblance of iced tea. They would have obliged me but they explained, "We have no ice." I smiled through it all and thanked them. Of course. No ice. I don't have ice cubes or an ice maker in my fridge freezer either. It is a rare occasion when we have need for cold. It is usually one of the things that you can count on being in ample supply.

Today is one of those rare occasions. Not only is it hot enough for iced tea--it is hot enough to make sun tea! All right, for those of you who know better--yes, sun tea can be made even in cool weather as long as the sun is out, but for me sun tea needs hot weather because it is the heat that drives the desire for it and also drives us out of the kitchen when even air conditioning cannot keep pace with the heat.

Sun tea conjures the recollection of those days when heat sent everyone into a lower gear, an alternative domestic life on the exterior of the house--porches, back yards, patios.

I remember how cool the water felt as my grandmother would spray us with the hose while she sprayed down the concrete patio to help keep the house cool and then reading comic books under the trees while anticipating chasing lightning bugs in the first cool of the evening turning into night. My grandmother's iced tea was lightly sweetened. I remember how my mother made a storm cloud of sugar poured into the tall glass and stirred into a tornado. It was the summer equivalent of those snow globes--as vigorously as my mother stirred, as soon as the stirring stopped, the sugar drifted down into a drift at the bottom of her glass.

My next door neighbour back in Westfield made the best sun tea ever. I don't know how she made it. She always demurred, as good cooks do, that she did nothing special and patiently explained to me again just how she did it.

There is in my mind also an association of sun tea with life in the southern part of the US --soft, like hint of Texas still in my sister in law's mother's voice. The connection of practical and frilly with adorning the top of a simple jar with a crocheted doo dah seems distinctly southern. I should have beads on the edge, but I am having to improvise up here in this improbably sun tea summer day in the north of Scotland.

I linger by my reclaimed jam jars, despite a boatload of chores and appointments, to watch the river of colour move through the water as the temperature gradients begin to dance. Physics and poetry collide in my mind as I conflate the brown stained water in the jar with the little streams in Batso and the peat burns through the moors. I have great expectations for this American intervention with Highland water, British tea, and genuine British mint.

Surprises in the Garden

A warm day up here brings out everything. I was drawn to the garden. The sun was so warm that my snuggled up in my lap cat sought the shelter of the bushes at the back of one of the unweeded flower beds in the walled garden. I suspect I'll be combing goosegrass seeds out of her fur this evening, but the warm earth and the cool leaves are worth it not doubt to her and certainly to me. I won;t even chide myself (much) for having an entire bed unweeded so that pesky goosegrass can have its way with her.

The long days make for rapid growth in this time of year, so my foxgloves have gone from a single tentative stem to several well developed flower heads.

I spotted this little guy in the flower bed on the other side of the walled garden. I don;t recall making her acquaintance. If anyone can give her a name, I'd be grateful.



This iris started blooming the other day--a nice surprise. I thought the iris were so close together an possibly overcome with iris borer or slugs that they could never bloom, but this is one of the loveliest iris I have ever seen. And, when I went to photograph it, I discover it has an incredibly wonderful fragrance as well. If anyone can give me a name for this, I would appreicate that very much, too.



As we prepare for the "flit", I am taking cuttings or thinning bulbs or genrally trying to tidy up the garden and prepare for re starting from scratch. It makes me sadder to leave the garden than to leave the house.

Joanna's Cloud

Joanna and I were looking at the beach around Castletown in the long twilight recently. She saw this cloud and asked me to photograph it for her. We laughed because I was filling in for her daughter, Adrienne, who had been photographing very nearly everything. I know the feeling. The broad horizons, the shifting patterns of light on water, the dance of clouds and light are all too delicious and the thought of leaving them behind or not being able to share them prompts one to try to catch at least a hint of them in a photo.

The glowering grey of this cloud suggests that it was overcast or that a storm was imminent, but the rest of the sky was clear and the weather was mild. In fact, the shot to the left of this was a fragment of the lovely full-colour rainbows we got up here--you can see all the way to the V of the ROYGBIV (red-orange-yellow-green-blue-indigo-violet for those of you who did not learn that particular acronym).

I did not ask Joanna why it was this cloud appealed to her. I don't recall why--perhaps because I, too, liked it; perhaps because I cheerfully did something just because she asked; perhaps, and most likely, because we were talking so fast and on so many levels that the moment passed and we were on to something else. We always talk fast; and we talked even faster knowing that our time together was brief.

When Joanna returned to the States, I got an email saying that they were back safely but that her mother was in hospital. The image of the storm cloud landed on me. Was it some sort of sense of impending doom? Serious illness does silly things to our thinking.

So for a few days now I have been under this cloud, so to speak. Worried about Joanna and Adrienne as they face this worry with thier mother and grandmother, and aching for their mother whom I know in her own right. There is a peculiar ache in worrying about friends at a distance: It is both easier to forget and yet harder to let go of because you can do so little about it from a distance.

As I dozed in bed this morning, BBC Four broadcast their "Thought for the Day". These prayers/thoughts/stories are always interesting, especially in a multiculutral society, so I listen and always take something away from them. This morning's was about the useless agitation we cause ourselves worrying along with a reminder of the toll it can take not only on us but also on our friends and loved ones. Along with the advice to put our own concerns into perspective and to give the big ones up to God, came the simpler easier advice to recognize that there is "much sanity in small tasks."

So I will line up all the nagging tasks that have too long needed doing and get on with them today. It may do nothing for Joanna's cloud, but I will reclaim some peace of mind to free me for whatever else comes my way and I will at least get some small order in my own wee corner of the universe.

To Inverness Again

Inverness is already such a long way from Edinburgh that most official events for the Highlands and Islands--a region nearly as large as the rest of Scotland combined--take place there. I have gotten accustomed to a 120 mile trip (each way) in a day for hospital visits or collecting friends from the airport, or workshops. Yesterday was easy because my friend did all the driving, the weather was mostly pleasant, and the event was very rewarding.

Having discovered that getting published is not an impossible obstacle, but getting paid for it just might be, I have turned to Plan B, which is a sort of amorphous combination of crafting and writing and administration with some teaching thrown into the mix. That's why I was in Inverness at a HI-Arts workshop on crafting. And that is why I'll write a review of the day for them. The administrative part will follow.

I am hoping to take my cubicle-world experience, my fondness for almost anything textile, and my need/talent to write and make some sort of living out of it all. It must be the Highland air has gone to my head.

Craftscotland is an audience development agency. They want to get folks who have not thought about buying crafts--textile, jewelery, furniture, books, to think about buying them. And they want crafters to have some support and recognition. They are willing to wade in with media campaigns--in the jargon of the audience development biz--"forward facing" and then sector-facing. With crafters being the sector. I don't think I'll extend the forward facing metaphor too far. All the HI Arts craftscotland folks seemed both very energetic and willing to take on the job of actually listening to the folks they want to support.

It was a great day. Now I have a stack of handouts, a pocketful of business cards, some CDs and a headful of ideas. Now it's my turn to get down to work.

You can check out some of their ideas/activities here: www.craftscotland.org

Two Butterflies in Garden

It might actually be the same hardworking Small Tortoiseshell, who, according to my "Butterflies of the Highlands" can "be seen in any month of the year in almost any habitat". Well I thinkshe gives a great deal of class to the phrase, "common ordinary, garden variety."

Perhaps you are old enough to remember the toll that DDT took on butterflies. There was a time in my life when there were butterflies--lots of them--and then there were not. After DDT was banned, they were back again. That small taster of life without butterflies was enough to commit me to doing my little bit to make the world a place where butterflies could survive--if not flourish, so naturally when the countryside rangers up here asked for help to encourage butterflies (and bumblebees), I was tagging along trying to learn.

So for those of you with a fondness for butterflies or a more sophisticated knowledge of the economics of ecology, here's a wee contribution from my corner of the world and an invitation to look after the butterflies and the bumblebees where you are now.

A Tomato Named Molly

My friend Joanna is somewhere over the Atlantic en route with her daughter to visit us here. I have been cleaning and sorting like mad. My friend Heather has worked even harder than usual to make the place tidy, but there are so many things that still need doing.

As I wrestled with nettles and goosegrass in the garden in anticipation of Joanna's arrival, I started thinking about some of our shared experiences. I love gardening; Joanna didn't. She decided, however, one season, to see what I was so excited about. We dug the hard clay soil around the edge of her back yard. I forget what we planted, but I remember it mnade Joanna happy and we had some good laughs over it.

From time to time, she would mention her garden, but I did not get out to her house all that season. Finally, in triumph she announced that she had a tomato--not a tomato plant, mind you, a tomato. In her affection and admiration, she named it. She named her tomato, Molly. I am not sure why, but it seems a good enough name for a tomato.

I think Joanna ate Molly and enjoyed it. I thought that she was now a converted gardener. I mentioned at the end of the season, "We need to look at what you want to do next year and see about ordering seeds." "Next year?" Joanna responded. I nodded, realizing that something was not connecting. "Oh, I thought that was it for gardening."

Well, one tomato does not make a garden for me, but apparently it does for Joanna, and I suppose there is a logic in retiring at the top of your game.

From my Garden

It is much easier to remove weeds with my camera than by hand, so after some old fashioned weeding, I took the easy way out.

We are supposed to be monitoring and encouraging moths and butterflies, so I'll get my handout and give this guy a proper name later. For now, a quick cup of tea or juice and then back to work with the real weeding.