tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-23609365073224919392024-03-14T07:09:55.409+00:00Lonicera's World, Images & StoriesLonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.comBlogger241125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-30447720711418867932017-10-07T10:30:00.000+01:002017-10-07T16:16:38.961+01:00Saying Goodbye<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dear all, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As promised I include below the eulogy I gave for Caroline, along with some pictures of her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"<span style="text-align: justify;">I met my
Aunt for the first time when I was eight years old.</span><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify;">On that particular day, I was very
excited.</span><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span><span style="text-align: justify;">It was December 1988, the
height of summer in Argentina, and my mum and I were living in my grandparents
house in Buenos Aires.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Theoretically, this was a big deal. We had lived all my life in a flat which we
had now sold as we were moving to England to live with my future step-dad. However, these were not the reasons I was
excited. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I was excited because:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<ol>
<li>We finally had a pool in the back yard, and as it was nearly 40 degrees, this was a very good thing indeed and</li>
<li>Because the mysterious Aunty I had last seen when I was 2 was on her way from
the airport.</li>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I’m not sure what I was expecting, but someone
grown up and sensible are probably a good bet.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Surfacing
from under the water (where all the fun swimming was done) I saw my granny and
mum were back and standing on the lip of the pool. With them was a lady in leggings with a loose
shirt, huge 80s glasses and fabulous red hair.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">She told
me years later that I was looking at her with wide, slightly apprehensive
eyes. Being Caroline, she took an
instant decision.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Rolling her eyes, she exclaimed: ‘Oh <i>my god</i>, is it <i>hot</i>!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> And without another word, this crazy woman
jumped feet first into the pool with all her clothes on! It was instant love! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Within
days I was hugging her and calling her ‘tia’ – the Spanish word for Aunt – and
demanding that she play her guitar for me on command and to make sure that when
she did, she used <i>all </i>the funny
voices in the songs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">If I had
to describe Caroline, that is the image that immediately springs to mind. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The
feelings that follow any memory of her, are of laughter. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Lots of
it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I was a passionate devotee of Mills and Boons
in my teens and she would have us all in stitches by grabbing latest romance
out of my hands and in her most torrid, passion laden voice, reading out the
most innocuous passages about the
heroine getting her breakfast ready in the morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Of
course, there was a lot more to her than her irreverent sense of humour. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Caroline
was born on the 15<sup>th</sup> June, 1953 in Buenos Aires to Kenneth Bridger,
a well-known ceramics expert who thought wearing a flat cap was the height of
fashion, and to Chela Schiele de Bridger, a headmistress at one of the most
prestigious English schools in the country, and a woman whose nickname was ‘the dragon’. You can see she needed a sense of humour from
an early age!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Once, as
a toddler, when in deep trouble with her mum and under fire from the dragon for
her infraction, little Caroline wagged her wee finger and said censoriously:
‘Mummy, you compicated. Mummy don’t be
compicated!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">By the
time she was one, Caroline’s sister, Sylvia (my mum), who was 6 years old, was
already at boarding school. Caroline
would follow at 5 years old, but while mum thrived on the rustic conditions at
the little school in the camp and made friends that would last her her a
lifetime, Caroline’s memories of El Carmen were always complicated and
considerably less fond. She was removed
from there 3 years later, suffering from malnutrition. She later attributed this
event for starting a lifetime’s love affair with delicious food.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In fact,
for a variety of reasons, Caroline attended many schools over the years. I imagine having to start over so many times
is the reason she became so funny – it was a good way to make instant new
friends wherever she went.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Her sense
of humour was augmented with a sense of mischief. I remember the twinkle in her eye when she
told me how she used to sneak on the roof of her parent’s house with her friend
Michelle to have an illicit cigarette away from the ever acute nose of ‘the
dragon’. In later life she would loathe
smoking and develop a pretty acute nose of her own which John, her partner, was
always trying to sneak around. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">As a
teenager, she also delighted in greeting my mum’s dates at the door and, while
they waited for her, solemnly shaking their hand then holding her own up to her
nose, to give it a sniff. She would then
wrinkle her nose and say disdainfully ‘Ugh! Old spice!’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I never
knew her then, but she must have had quite an adventurous spirit, because at
the age of 20 she boarded a plane with just her bag and her guitar to go and read
Hispanic Studies at Bristol University, eleven thousand miles away from home,
family and everyone she had ever known. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQzW4L99qOSWLxm_Wd70I-V5l4a24vHjKQcv50QaoMbl06rsCxT8-Pt473w1g2RkEzFHt3CaPXdwxLJLmNYT7l0HQoxkvVjgAlfpttOf-2XkTZSylL9AMhPbvEogI6zpHXE05YUvXsyRE/s1600/1973+-+Aug+17%252C+Ezeiza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="758" data-original-width="555" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQzW4L99qOSWLxm_Wd70I-V5l4a24vHjKQcv50QaoMbl06rsCxT8-Pt473w1g2RkEzFHt3CaPXdwxLJLmNYT7l0HQoxkvVjgAlfpttOf-2XkTZSylL9AMhPbvEogI6zpHXE05YUvXsyRE/s320/1973+-+Aug+17%252C+Ezeiza.jpg" width="234" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It must
have gone well, because one failed engagement to fellow student John Marshall
and a degree later (the first in her family) she decided to make Bristol her
permanent home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkdcLzmLNuGhONHOB9LysRu9_i9mMLkNzvOy1fc5N6ZErsjLPgAeWBrqcDH7e919ur6fF-cp5EkFoev3_iPkT6fFGkjTvhL4HRMup5IhNlMKzj8MqmbTyudoHHjSINXdvYoSHnfPNgbHA/s1600/1976+Bristol+scan0001+Bristol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="894" data-original-width="1308" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkdcLzmLNuGhONHOB9LysRu9_i9mMLkNzvOy1fc5N6ZErsjLPgAeWBrqcDH7e919ur6fF-cp5EkFoev3_iPkT6fFGkjTvhL4HRMup5IhNlMKzj8MqmbTyudoHHjSINXdvYoSHnfPNgbHA/s320/1976+Bristol+scan0001+Bristol.jpg" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNbCg0dbEmnUM-Y0cHnBWeI5cY9jOEfAHtIzntxFIQyonRUnzUMDGdb3_oKvti5CICnhfomTnDRWogLkBtBwYnI-LFIYuR5VilWxGqDQUM4dezwWiNgRhcD0EqNkI5hTdUTtvB9EoxJf0/s1600/1975+scan0008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="992" data-original-width="606" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNbCg0dbEmnUM-Y0cHnBWeI5cY9jOEfAHtIzntxFIQyonRUnzUMDGdb3_oKvti5CICnhfomTnDRWogLkBtBwYnI-LFIYuR5VilWxGqDQUM4dezwWiNgRhcD0EqNkI5hTdUTtvB9EoxJf0/s320/1975+scan0008.jpg" width="195" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg-5Ubp0g50t_jIARgA049I_PfkR1Wr7W4PYH-WXiFrHr4A863TvOWBp2VQEyHqNWEY7M_ay9l53zpoyA_-RN0r2Qs0I7bu1w5SucE9QSyx2KSkU94kUC6A9CTZLmHJonr4xqGrTEyjCU/s1600/1976+scan0003+%252B+John.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="794" data-original-width="750" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg-5Ubp0g50t_jIARgA049I_PfkR1Wr7W4PYH-WXiFrHr4A863TvOWBp2VQEyHqNWEY7M_ay9l53zpoyA_-RN0r2Qs0I7bu1w5SucE9QSyx2KSkU94kUC6A9CTZLmHJonr4xqGrTEyjCU/s320/1976+scan0003+%252B+John.jpg" width="302" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAuJOAEvHDSXzkeSFQ2CqLWnJRa9LSHixs6XQnaMvzeAmQFq4HUBEsuikJTe5ktSmRHLI1O3-rKRDNyy304GHnp0mblR_EHO-Upj9waDb8pBGDIiriQCfdunI7s-2ABfzPzQXdRwqwKU0/s1600/1974+scan0031+Brighton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="545" data-original-width="434" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAuJOAEvHDSXzkeSFQ2CqLWnJRa9LSHixs6XQnaMvzeAmQFq4HUBEsuikJTe5ktSmRHLI1O3-rKRDNyy304GHnp0mblR_EHO-Upj9waDb8pBGDIiriQCfdunI7s-2ABfzPzQXdRwqwKU0/s320/1974+scan0031+Brighton.jpg" width="254" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Nwcaq1XS9qJsOgWH6fimjtI0pZhlNZ3GFfsoq42XbqdKeHnYC12NpvCy76CWdkoKCqz2ffEp-8rz2Zr6NpUUy719BDs3hdNQYdIFrCTeDdBOVhZkFWvDtuyO60FXywhB8ph4h_uYzBo/s1600/1977+scan0027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="865" data-original-width="598" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5Nwcaq1XS9qJsOgWH6fimjtI0pZhlNZ3GFfsoq42XbqdKeHnYC12NpvCy76CWdkoKCqz2ffEp-8rz2Zr6NpUUy719BDs3hdNQYdIFrCTeDdBOVhZkFWvDtuyO60FXywhB8ph4h_uYzBo/s320/1977+scan0027.jpg" width="221" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It was
around this time that Caroline met Simon Holder and fell in love. They were married in the UK and in Argentina in 1977 and Caroline acquired an extended
family in the form of the Holder clan.
Although the marriage was sadly to end in 1984 those ties continued
until her death.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDJw8P3JuFu5i0jO34qUnZPH_teG3KqBKWF0UJgfhZM0Wwee0LCOettfLCfm44bYfHR3uxJqt52RuVRD5oq3XcftSrZOEVpp60PA34xIWLlb4V3hxmmmNGdv9Bvk5eaAzmIC2jzI6t9io/s1600/1977+Oct+scan0012+Wedding%252C+B.A..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="776" data-original-width="1157" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDJw8P3JuFu5i0jO34qUnZPH_teG3KqBKWF0UJgfhZM0Wwee0LCOettfLCfm44bYfHR3uxJqt52RuVRD5oq3XcftSrZOEVpp60PA34xIWLlb4V3hxmmmNGdv9Bvk5eaAzmIC2jzI6t9io/s320/1977+Oct+scan0012+Wedding%252C+B.A..jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">With lots
of time on her hands, Caroline began to look for more creative outlets. She discovered photography, a hobby that she
excelled at. A member of the Blackwell
Camera Club for years, she spent every weekend dragging her new partner, John,
to whatever site provided the best opportunity to photograph that week’s camera
club challenge. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi69kmw8CxHvKfLMeRiRk1CFyyw3jejw7BBJaRgvp23wxtTJjSPW4WPqhzWtUzXjxHOsnZflDdmH0y-xHUzJkKPD3Hqz9gkJGOvXnKZ_F6mQph4iwQDh3SjUxfASclIVYiM2gnrtHizMxU/s1600/1990+scan0001+Gravesend.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="619" data-original-width="525" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi69kmw8CxHvKfLMeRiRk1CFyyw3jejw7BBJaRgvp23wxtTJjSPW4WPqhzWtUzXjxHOsnZflDdmH0y-xHUzJkKPD3Hqz9gkJGOvXnKZ_F6mQph4iwQDh3SjUxfASclIVYiM2gnrtHizMxU/s320/1990+scan0001+Gravesend.jpg" width="271" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Roll upon
roll of pictures were taken of hot air balloons, hundreds of photos of waves
lapping up on the sand, all with John patiently waiting in the background,
carrying all her cases, rammed full of lenses and other photographic
paraphernalia. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwcxUrgaO7-fjgPMHCKRkO-hEkQ9nUf7BYHY-XQtblbroAK6hGt9gyOU3moxuoX_QdT028wq1JYwUl-0goi9XWw4yo1XQIIYq8y1wn07HE_uF_-iKmqR8E6zerL5HO6dPW_SzTn9Dne-w/s1600/1991+scan0025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1168" data-original-width="790" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwcxUrgaO7-fjgPMHCKRkO-hEkQ9nUf7BYHY-XQtblbroAK6hGt9gyOU3moxuoX_QdT028wq1JYwUl-0goi9XWw4yo1XQIIYq8y1wn07HE_uF_-iKmqR8E6zerL5HO6dPW_SzTn9Dne-w/s320/1991+scan0025.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In fact, she
became so good, that the Bristol Rugby team hired her to be the photographer
for their programmes. She told me how
conspicuous she felt trudging to the middle of the field, lugging her camera in
front of hundreds of people to take the team photos, and how she much preferred
standing on the side lines, taking action shots for the cover while John roared
‘Come on, you buggers’ behind her.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">John
Humphrys was pivotal to Caroline’s life.
They met in 1987 and his infatuation with her was almost instant. Attracted to her bright smiles and sense of
humour, he pursued her for many years. Despite
Caroline’s uncertainty about their 26 year age difference, she was soon won
over by his gentlemanly character and cutting asides. John’s unquestioning love, devotion and
admiration became crucial to Caroline, who often said that he had shown her
what unconditional love truly looked like.
His loving indulgence, along with shared interests, led to a friendship which
slowly blossomed into a love that was to last till his death 26 years later. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxkdW_1_uZ0e1dV7N1QNnffHSDjCKetFEWryfSaqYOzBH7JmfLYVZsrCr3yX9rCM9-1ZX9RANqRv6c9WoMW7RGK28Oee4iRZeoydK0rq5Fnx652cqPPcmTl04xZtn5PSN552-0ZAcc6mU/s1600/1988+Feb+scan0004+Lanzarote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="523" data-original-width="470" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxkdW_1_uZ0e1dV7N1QNnffHSDjCKetFEWryfSaqYOzBH7JmfLYVZsrCr3yX9rCM9-1ZX9RANqRv6c9WoMW7RGK28Oee4iRZeoydK0rq5Fnx652cqPPcmTl04xZtn5PSN552-0ZAcc6mU/s320/1988+Feb+scan0004+Lanzarote.jpg" width="287" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Caroline
called him ‘Humph’ and he called her ‘Titch’ on account of her size, and their
relationship was filled with little in jokes that would delight them every time
they shared them. She would often tease
him that if he didn’t do what she told him, he would ‘feel the back of my hand’
and then, when he pointedly defied her, would stroke his cheek with the back of
her hand as promised. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When John
offered her a treat of some sort, she would pretend to refuse, unless he was
twisting her harm. He would take her
hand and give it a gentle twist that had her surrendering instantly to whatever
was being offered. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">John’s
death in 2013 was a terrible blow for Caroline. She turned to her cat Banjo for
comfort and once more found a creative outlet for her grief. She had been writing a blog for some time in
which she included short stories of family members and friends and little
vignettes of things she overheard while out an about. She developed a devoted following who would
tune in regularly for her latest post and many of them have expressed grief at
her passing online since she died. So
although she withdrew into herself during this period, she never lost all
contact with the outside world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpVTg4zaSJfkIke2PiTnb4u8A5K7I9FTiwsa9WmjbWOTguxkzidp9zEZ-EdzAFBmkXDAV0QmqIXo8LhmDwBQ2k_2LGRWbfpqQ018mvgUBrTvcSXxfmCSvjk4yvMd2JuR1Auiv6w6yKIxw/s1600/1997_Image2842.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1222" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpVTg4zaSJfkIke2PiTnb4u8A5K7I9FTiwsa9WmjbWOTguxkzidp9zEZ-EdzAFBmkXDAV0QmqIXo8LhmDwBQ2k_2LGRWbfpqQ018mvgUBrTvcSXxfmCSvjk4yvMd2JuR1Auiv6w6yKIxw/s320/1997_Image2842.jpg" width="244" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Caroline
was diagnosed with cancer in 2014. She
faced it with pragmatism, humour and unrelenting optimism. She was not above moaning that she’d ‘had
enough of ‘effing cancer’ when things got a bit much, but until she passed, she
was convinced she still had ‘tons of time’ left.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">If there
is one shining thread through Caroline’s life that speaks to her character,
it’s the value of her friends. Sitting
here today are her ex father and mother in law, Boggs and Maggs Holder. Her executor is Rob Holder, her ex brother in
law and her financial advisor was his son, Michael. Years after her divorce she loved and is
loved by them as if they are still family.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Messages
have come pouring in from friends from childhood – as you’ve heard – and in
this room are Caroline’s neighbours, who, in the last years of her life, gave
Caroline the care that mum and I were not always in a position to offer. From cleaning house, to gardening, to endless
lifts for hospital appointments, Val, Garfield, Claire and Claire’s family
(John & Frank), have shown us what special people they are, and how special
Caroline must have been to attract people like that into her life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ7fJoITHeFg_ENMM2A6bG3_JiCsoOU4xCG9mXHy80udY-Krqbs9dnNJv6obp5foNXPTr5nhUDU47QT0oyHGcZds-xx_wgf30mSpkrltxyiVfO7nAKtA7IC9hrOFuLjifyy2rDfmNIPh0/s1600/1973-Feb-scan0007-Nick.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1186" data-original-width="941" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ7fJoITHeFg_ENMM2A6bG3_JiCsoOU4xCG9mXHy80udY-Krqbs9dnNJv6obp5foNXPTr5nhUDU47QT0oyHGcZds-xx_wgf30mSpkrltxyiVfO7nAKtA7IC9hrOFuLjifyy2rDfmNIPh0/s320/1973-Feb-scan0007-Nick.gif" width="253" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">All the
people in this room have come together to say goodbye and wish her a fond
farewell. As testaments to life go, that
pretty good.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So it
with a light heart, that I can say: So long Tia. Thanks for all the laughs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-21167945489117798992017-09-14T17:11:00.001+01:002017-09-14T17:11:17.869+01:00Sad AnnouncementDear All,<br />
<br />
I'm sad to announce that Caroline Holder, my aunt and the author of this blog, has passed away on Wednesday 6th September, 2017 at 7:30am after a long battle with cancer and non alcoholic cirrhosis of the liver.<br />
<br />
As you will be able to see from her previous posts, as her illness grew worse, her energy and ability to post diminished and so it has been a long time since you had an update. However, though she was unable to write the way she wished, the many friends she made on this blog were still on her mind and she asked me make an announcement after she passed to explain her silence.<br />
<br />
She considered this blog one of the achievements of her life she was most proud of. From the few comments I've seen on Facebook from those of you who crossed over into other forms of friendship, she was loved and appreciated. She would have been touched and delighted.<br />
<br />
Her funeral will be held on Friday 6th October, 2017 in Bristol, where she lived. For those of you who might be interested, I will upload her eulogy the day after. <br />
<br />
I wish you well and thank you for making my aunt very happy.<br />
Veronica<br />
<br />
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Caroline Frances Bridger de Holder</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><b>1953-2017</b></i></div>
Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-12149804211261927552017-03-27T01:19:00.001+01:002017-03-28T22:04:53.627+01:00General Update<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It’s been far too long
since my last post, and there’s much to bring up to date – that is if I’ve got
any readers left. I’ve longed to write,
but just haven’t had the energy. I
switch on the computer, open a new Word page… and end up playing Freecell instead. It’s not that I can’t be bothered – I care
very much – but I’ve felt very tired for 3 years now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In early 2014 I was
diagnosed with ovarian cancer. I had an
operation, plenty of chemotherapy, all the usual, to which I’m told I responded
well, and they gave me about 10 years or so.
I was – and am – in no pain. I’m
now on a maintenance drug infusion every three weeks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">However I had to stop
work eventually purely because of the tiredness, and blood analyses kept
throwing up that there was something else, and 2 years or so later they found I
had NASH Cirrhosis, a non-alcohol related disease of the liver, probably a
consequence of diabetes, but totally separate from the cancer (so far). The prognosis was far worse, and it seems
likely – they say – that I won’t see another Christmas; it isn’t curable and
I’m not eligible for a transplant because of the other co-morbidity. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I get a build-up of fluid inside (ascites) which needs draining every
few weeks, a procedure which requires me to attend Bristol’s most overworked
hospital, the Bristol Royal Infirmary, situated downtown, with appalling
parking facilities. Door-to door it’s a
12 hour long day, and I’m very fortunate that my sister travels up from
Dorchester each time to keep me company, call taxis, keep me fed and watered,
and so on. My brother-in-law tackles any jobs around the house I'm no good at because I get giddy, and helps me fill out long forms about my pension. My neighbours all deserve
medals too. They get the washing machine going, the washing-up done, bring me shopping,
drive me to appointments since I’ve stopped driving, and pop in regularly for a
chat and to see how I am.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Nausea is my biggest
bugbear, and sometimes drugs make little difference. Weight has come off me dramatically from the
shoulders up, the rest looks much the same because of the ascites.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I’ve been trying to
put my affairs in order, but it’s a never-ending list of chores to do, and
progress is slow. As far as this blog is
concerned, I’ve asked my niece Veronica to update it when I no longer can. Mentally I feel reasonably upbeat, and
stopped taking anti depressants a few months ago because I want my brain to
stay sharp, whatever state it’s in. Last
December I thought I didn’t have long, but I feel alright at the moment – you
never can tell.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">All in all I feel
philosophical about it – one has to die of something, and there are plenty of
people in the medical profession who are doing their best to keep me comfortable. I’ll be 64 in June, not a bad age to
reach. I don’t mind talking or writing
about this; my way of dealing with it is not to keep it to myself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I can’t help but
wonder about the hereafter – will I see John again? The family who have gone before me? Or will I be reborn, another chance to get it
right this time – a sort of Groundhog Day?
The most difficult concept of all to grasp is that it’s none of the
above and one just ceases to be.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I have only two real
sadnesses which overwhelm me sometimes – the fact that I will never return to
Argentina, where I was born and lived till I was 20. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The other is that
despite the wonderful kindnesses shown to me every day, I’m dealing with this
alone. Except for my beloved companion,
my 16 year old cat Banjo, who knows there’s something wrong and sticks to me
like glue, I miss not being in a loving relationship where every fear can be
discussed and there are ups as well as downs to make life worth living. I wish I had had children.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Anyway, enough of the
glums. I’ve got at least three stories
to tell if I have the time, and I plan to start with selections of letters
written by my Uncle David to his family at home in Buenos Aires, describing his
RAF training during World War II in Canada and the Orkney Islands in northern Scotland, until 1943 when he was killed while flying
his Spitfire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">(PS I notice my
counter re-set itself to zero recently – all those hard earned visits…)</span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><b><u>Photo Finish - Digital</u></b></span></div>
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Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-13354384086120568522015-02-04T17:47:00.004+00:002015-02-04T17:55:32.943+00:00Chemo ain't so bad when you consider the alternative...<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Picking up from February 2013...</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I've</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"> been away from my blog for a long time, and before starting to write my stories
again, I’d like to explain what the last couple of years have been like. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I
realise I've lost all my readers and that it’s a slow process to get them back,
but I’ll be patient. More importantly I
love to write and I use the blog for practice; I’m still in search of my
‘style’. I imagine my blog as a sort of
magazine with articles, stories and pictures; broadly speaking my idea was to introduce
English speaking people to the non-political Argentina where I grew up and to
tell about people and events which might interest you and where no version exists
in English. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">It’s not a journal, none of
it is ‘yesterday’s news’ – there should be no difference if you look down the
left hand side of this screen and click on the links now or in ten years’ time. Each entry (or series of entries) stands
alone. Whereas old magazines are
discarded and journals become irrelevant, quite simply this is my legacy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">My
beloved partner John died on 18<sup>th</sup> March 2013, and he took part of me
with him. I longed to believe that I
could re-create “Ghost”, the film with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore, where for
a while they found a way to communicate from either side of the divide. Had it been possible I have no doubt
whatsoever that he would have done so, but there has been nothing, apart from
the odd puzzling (and slight) whiff of cigarette smoke every now and again. But I talk to him anyway, and my great
companion Banjo has the usual feline approach to these things (“She’s talking
to herself again. Oh well, as long as
she keeps me fed…”)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">2013
unrolled slowly, and work as research administrator at a hospital in Bristol
kept me thinking about other things for some of the time. In January 2014 I got another nasty surprise
– an ultrasound the previous November for something else, detected what was
later confirmed as ovarian cancer, and I started on chemotherapy in
February. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">It’s one of those stealthy
cancers that are rarely caught early because you simply don’t feel it. In my case it has not been caught in time,
but my oncologist tells me that although I probably will not go into remission, I've responded very well to several months of chemotherapy either side of a
surgical intervention last May, and they are very pleased with my
progress. My family and neighbours
helped me while I was weak from the treatment and the operation and wanted to
sleep all day, and after nearly 12 months I have returned to work, though only
for 2 days a week. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I
can honestly say I've had virtually no pain or discomfort, except during the
week I was in hospital and for a week after that. I have a physically lazy personality; you
don’t need to tell me to rest. I would try looking at my blog every so often,
but my brain couldn't seem to cope with it.
Freecell was as far as I got… I
have been surprisingly sanguine about the whole experience – I say “surprisingly”
because I don’t understand why I’m not scared out of my wits, why I’m not
neurotic about each stage of the treatment, why losing my hair wasn't the end
of the world. I’m told I’ll need chemo
again some time this year, and though the oncologist tells me they’ll keep me
going for a long time, understandably he won’t be drawn on specifics. But that’s OK too. Neither do I mind talking/writing about it, so if you want to comment there's no need to write "on tiptoe".<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">I
think it’s because losing John was infinitely more devastating to me and I feel
nowhere near getting over it – it will be 2 years in March. Such things as my body falling to bits don’t
seem as important.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">My
mother died of ovarian cancer in 2007, but she was at a very advanced stage and
detailed analyses and examinations were never carried out. Nevertheless we know these things can be
passed on in the genes, so for the sake of my sister and niece we took part in
a study to find out whether I carried the deadly genes – there are
several. All came back negative, and we've been told that until new genes have been discovered as carrying the mutation, they will assume that it was just coincidence. I have to say I don’t believe this, but my
niece’s husband is a doctor, and we will follow his advice on what we should do
next.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">This isn't all doom and gloom – there have been quirky, amusing times, such as the
old gentleman in the room next to mine in the hospital who was operated on the
same day as me, and though he never knew, we both shared the same gaseous
discomfort on that first night. I know
because at some point in the middle of the night there was a sustained trumpet
sound – astonishingly long actually – at the end of which I heard a very
Bristollian sounding “Aaaaah – BOOTIFULL!”
coming from him. I was horribly
jealous and didn't see the funny side till the following morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">My
hair – my vanity disappeared with it, during the 2014 hot summer when I was forced to
wear a windsock-looking thing on my head when there were people around. It was strange to discover how quickly I
could control heat and cold – remove windsock if hot, put back on if cold. It was essential to wear it at night. Banjo remained unimpressed throughout. When out and about I was so self-conscious and
worried that it would slip off the back of my head that I’d pull it right down
to my eyebrows. Mirrors were best
avoided, but it was quite nice not to have to think about combing my hair. </span><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; text-align: start;">It grew back straight up, at right angles to my head, and I made the transition from</span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">to a Mohican. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Did it grow back curly, you ask?
Well, there’s a kink that wasn't there before, but the startling thing
is the colour – I was originally mousy brown, then reddish, as per my blog
picture… and now I’m dark grey with white temples… and virtually black on the
top! Somebody asked me the other day if
I’d been dying it purple. It took 5
months for the upstanding hair to flop over.
I’ll lose it again when they put me on the stronger chemotherapy, which
I hope won’t be this year.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">There
has been plenty of time for my nails to grow, and to give in to the temptation
of painting them again. I found a
product on the market which will thin gummed up nail varnish leaving it as new,
so I painted them different colours every other day, and watched them grow
longer and longer as somebody else did the housework. Banjo’s reaction was interesting, to say the
least. He’s not an aggressive cat at
all, but clearly my nails became talons in his eyes, and when near me his eyes
would be fixed nervously on my hands. I
was sometimes scratched when trying to stroke him. This tendency has disappeared altogether
since I cut them short before going back to work, and have not painted them for
a couple of weeks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Judge
Judy</span></i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"> – I’m now a
self-confessed Judy Junkie, and if you know where to look, you can watch her
for large chunks of the day and night on British TV. I have a tablet, so I can watch her anywhere
I want, and lie in bed with it turned on one side… Lovely.
The cases are 10 minute ‘video bites’ my chemo brain can cope with, and
I like her Punch-and-Judy attitude to welfare spongers generally. The only thing I’m disappointed she doesn't deal with is people who have vehicle accidents when they were on their mobile
phones at the time. I've never heard her
condemn drivers who speak on their mobiles while driving. And … why does the show pay the
settlements? The losers never get
punished, and it seems crazy to me. The
British equivalent, called </span><i style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Judge Rinder</i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">, does the same thing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">Of
necessity there has been quite a lot of television in the past year, and apart
from the above, and enjoying <i>“The Big Bang Theory”. </i>I have come late in
the day to enjoy <i>“Everybody loves Raymond”,</i> where most of the
characters are funny in their own right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Not
for the squeamish but important if you have a gastric band: If there are any readers out there who
originally read my blog when I had a gastric band fitted to help me lose
weight, it might interest you to know that for me it has been incompatible with
my cancer treatment. This is simply
because chemotherapy can bring on nausea, and you have to take anti-emetic
medication (or life isn't worth living).
Conversely, to enable the gastric band to work you have to be able if
necessary to remove blockages by making yourself sick, and with anti-emetics
inside you, you can’t. After several
panicky events, I went back to the bariatric hospital where they fitted my
band, and asked them to unfill the band completely. There has been no problem since then.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">So
that’s it folks. It brings you up to
date. I’m doing fine, but the events
over the past 2 years have made me re-evaluate what I want from life, and that
it’s time to leave to one side what does not give me pleasure. I don’t know as yet what form this will take,
but I’ll keep you posted. All I know is
that my blog most definitely DOES give me pleasure. I continue to read all the blogs I store down
the right side of the screen, and am so glad you’re all doing well. I have several stories in the pipeline and
hope soon to be back to my old concentration levels to write them.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS";">-oOo-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-69110311076742465052014-02-20T13:43:00.001+00:002017-03-05T18:24:41.523+00:00The Story of the Village of Bell Ville, Córdoba, Argentina (Part 7 of 7)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 10pt;">The story so far</span></u></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 10pt;">:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 10pt;">My grandmother and mother were born in Bell Ville, originally named Fraile Muerto, and this series of posts is the result of my research into this village, later a town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were English farmers in the countryside and (mainly) Italian immigrants in the town, and I descend from both.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 1</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The history of the area up to the mid nineteenth century.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 2</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The arrival of the English farming pioneers as typified by Richard Seymour and Frank Goodricke, who resided at their farm Monte Molino from 1865-68;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>their first encounter with marauding indians;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>headman Lisada’s gesture of friendship to an indian scouting party.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville_9.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 3</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More encounters with indians; description of gauchos; characters in Fraile Muerto.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville_9.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 4</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The arrival of Richard Seymour’s brother Walter and his friend Hume Kelly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>RS’s stsruggles with farming, loss of all their livestock after an indian attack; the weather and the primitive living conditions.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville_12.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 5</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shepherd Harry’s story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another indian raid; war with Paraguay, effects of cholera on Fraile Muerto.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville_16.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 6</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Domingo Faustino Sarmiento newly elected president of Argentina; new farm machinery arrives from England; Lisada’s encounter with indians when incident related in Part 2 paid off; speculation why Richard Seymour gave up farming and returned to England.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The story of how Fraile Muerto was renamed Bell Ville.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Enrichetta Alina Maria Aloisi, my grandmother, </span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">taken in Florence in 1891, when she was 1 year old.</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Graciela Amalia Schiele, my mother, </span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">taken in Bell Ville in 1923, when she was 1 year old.</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 16pt;">The Italian Connection<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">The influx of immigrants from Italy seeking a better life in Argentina is the greatest by far, larger even than those from Spain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Between 1814 and 1970 the country has welcomed some six million Italian immigrants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They and their descendants, now 60% of the population, are the backbone of Argentine daily life and culture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, leaving Italy itself aside, Argentina is the nation with the highest percentage of Italians and with the strongest Italian culture.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">After Napoleon Bonaparte’s downfall and the Treaty of Vienna in 1815, Italy was governed by Austria as many separate states until the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Risorgimento</i> movement headed by Victor Emmanuel II...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">...started the unification of the country under Giuseppe Garibaldi.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">Despite its success, the decades of struggle had created social and economic chaos and disunity, with the richer states being in the north and the poorer in the south; and many dialects – 10 in Sicily alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Initially the infrastructure to enable them to resolve these differences simply did not exist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Corruption, unemployment and strong class-consciousness dominated their daily lives to an extent that drove many families to emigrate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Rinaldo Baronti, 1890s</span></em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">In the mid 1870s Rinaldo Baronti was one such hopeful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had been born and bred in the prosperous northern city of Florence, and as a young newly qualified architect met Amalia Bertani, the 15 year old daughter of a friend of his who lived with his family very near the Ponte Vecchio over the Arno river in the same city.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Amalia Bertani (my great grandmother)</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">as a girl</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">He fell in love with her, and asked his friend whether he would consent to their getting married one day, allowing via a long courtship for her to grow up a little.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bertani was shocked and obdurate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His daughter was too young to think of such things and he was to steer clear of her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despondent, Baronti opted for getting away from this forbidden fruit altogether, and he joined the stream of immigrants to Argentina.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">Amalia’s sister Enrichetta was older, but already affianced to Vincenzo Rosignoli, a sculptor of renown from Assisi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are many statues around Italy which were created by him and in the picture below from 1912, he and her sister Enrichetta - now his wife - pose in front of <i>Nymph</i>, one of them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is best known for his tender portrayals of St Francis of Assisi caring for animals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">Meanwhile Amalia grew up into a handsome girl with the accomplishments of the age – she spoke French fluently, wrote poetry of some merit, painted in oils, made all her own clothes, had a fine soprano voice and played the piano like an angel, being a fully qualified teacher of music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> My mother has told us that she was also fiercely proud of an uncle - <em>il Zio Colonello</em> - who had fought with Garibaldi. </span>Ten years after her aborted romance with Rinaldo Baronti, she married a marine engineer in Florence, Enrico Aloisi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">Enrico had come top of his graduating class in 1885 and had been presented with a gold medal by Umberto I, the king of Italy himself. Below is a postcard clearly used by the sculptor Vincenzo Rosignoli as a way of promoting his business, whose signature is appended. The statue in the picture is of Vittorio Emanuele II, King of Italy, with a half relief at the base of Umberto I, previous king, who had presented my great-grandfather Enrico Aloisi with his medal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">Enrico was five years her junior, so she lied about her age and incidentally did so for the rest of her life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She bore him a son, Enzo, and a daughter, Enrichetta (my grandmother, later spelt 'Enriqueta'), but his life was tragically cut short in 1890 when he died of pneumonia some months before little Enriqueta was born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The child was named after both her dead father and Amalia’s own sister. </span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">Top left is Amalia Aloisi, newly widowed</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">Amalia was now a widow in her thirties, still living in Florence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was fortunate to be taken on by the Contessa Piscicelli, who employed her as a live-in governess to her children; she taught them and her own children French and music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They kept close family ties with Amalia’s sister Enrichetta and her husband Rosignoli, and when possible stayed with them in Assisi.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don Vincenzo, aside from being a serious sculptor, also had a sense of humour, and liked to create tableaus which he would get professionals to photograph.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here is one where he is portraying himself as a dwarf (on his knees with shoes protruding) with his wife Enrichetta holding a puppy and her niece (my grandmother Enriqueta) front left, next to her older brother Enzo.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">This state of affairs continued until she got the surprise of her life one day in the form of a letter from Rinaldo Baronti, her former suitor, now settled in Bell Ville, Argentina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had married but his wife had unfortunately died a few years before and left him with three small children to bring up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had never forgotten Amalia, and was now proposing marriage to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He offered her a new life, a new beginning at the opposite end of the world, and she accepted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">He then sent her this fond card of himself sitting by a stream -</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p>...which said on the reverse in a touching mixture of Spanish and Italian: <em>A vos que antes y sola me enoblesisti mente y corazon, ofresco como peño de verdadero amor este ricuerdo simbolo di eterna fe. </em>("To you, who alone once ennobled my heart and mind, I dedicate this token of true love, a symbol of everlasting faith.")</o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">Amalia, Enzo (12) and Enriqueta (8) arrived in the port of Buenos Aires in 1898, where Rinaldo was waiting on the quayside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sadly their feelings on seeing each other again have not been recorded, but being a formal gentleman he had arranged for a civil wedding ceremony to take place immediately, and on the same day the four of them departed for Bell Ville, 450km (285 miles) away, to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Villino Baronti.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Enzo and Enriqueta in Bell Ville, </span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">a couple of years after they had arrived from Italy.</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">(The original is only about 2 inches high, hence the low resolution)</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">My mother described the house as large, with an inner patio and fountain, and large bird cages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was dark inside, and had tiles on the floors and some of the walls, therefore cool in summer, and the dining-room had splendid and imposing matching furniture in light oak – sideboard, carving table, huge table, chairs and grandfather clock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In time the furniture was sold along with the house, but the grandfather clock followed Amalia and later Enriqueta throughout their lives, my mother inheriting it eventually.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is now with me, beautiful but too large to look natural in most modern homes.</span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">It took little Enriqueta many months to settle down, during which she often cried herself to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">This might have been in part because of her new surroundings and inevitably less attention from her mother, but it could also have been because it was not always easy adjusting to her new step brothers and sister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pepe Bertani was the eldest, then Querubina, and Angelito was the youngest. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Querubina and Enriqueta had very differing personalities, but they were approximately the same age, and Amalia was anxious that her children should give her new stepchildren no cause to clash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don Rinaldo was kind to the little girl, but her only real consolation was her older brother Enzo, whom she adored.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">In her memoirs, my mother says –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">“Amalia kept busy with her music, the garden and birds, of which she always had a number in cages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The practicalities of housekeeping did not appeal to her, so that by the time my mother was fourteen, it was she who was running the house.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">In 1908 Bell Ville was officially proclaimed a proper town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rinaldo Bertani had a successful business as an architect, and had received various local commissions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The best known of these is a building still standing today which is regarded as one of the best known landmarks of Bell Ville, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hotel de Inmigrantes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><em>As it is now</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">This imposing building was designed to house immigrant families when they first arrived in Bell Ville and before they had found themselves somewhere to live.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">As they grew into young ladies, the girls socialised together and chaperoned each other, always immaculately dressed in the garments made for them by Amalia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This Bell Ville studio photograph is an example, with Querubina on the left at the piano and my grandmother Enriqueta on the right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Note however that they are wearing identical dresses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wonder how they felt about that...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">One afternoon in around 1914 her older stepbrother Pepe appeared with a friend of his, Manfred Schiele.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Manny belonged to a large family which farmed in the area, and was presently employed at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Estancia La California</i>, some 100kms away from Bell Ville, owned by the wealthy Benitz family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that time the young man’s job consisted in checking the state of fencing and gates over a large area, which he did on horseback.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the evenings he dined with the Benitz family, where old-time etiquette was strictly observed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Full evening dress, dinner jackets and black ties were required.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The relative informality of the <i>Villino Bertani</i> must have come as a welcome relief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Manfred and Enriqueta, engaged, in about 1912</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I love this portrait of Granny, and the dog is magnificent, isn't he?</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">He hit it off with Enriqueta straight away, and it was not long before he was making excuses to stop off at Bell Ville on the way to anywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It became official when his mother <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Agnes</span> Schiele made the long journey to meet her (or as was the custom in those days to ‘check on her suitability’) and was charmed by her, so they became engaged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Edward Constantine and Agnes Schiele, recently married.</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><em>...and in later life</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">After their marriage they lived in Bell Ville for several years for practical reasons because my grandfather held positions at different <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">estancias</i> which necessitated quite a bit of travelling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In due course they were settled at one of these, and their life consisted of life on the farm, visits to his parents on a farm 200 miles away, to her parents and family in Bell Ville, and to relations in Buenos Aires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Granny had five children; Dick, Vera and John born in Buenos Aires (“the expensive ones”) and my mother Chela and Fred in Bell Ville (“the cheap ones”).</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">From left: John, friend, Richard, Vera, friend, Graciela (Chela). Youngest brother Fred would have been too young to be in the photo.</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">John, Chela and Vera</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Chela in 1940, at 18</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">Chela’s earliest memories were of playing in the shady patio with the tinkling fountain, and being treated with affection by her grandmother and step-grandfather (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nonna</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nonno</i>).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The household spoke Italian, and she picked it up from them, remaining fluent for the rest of her life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mum and my uncles and aunts were all trilingual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her mother Enriqueta worked hard to learn English, as it was spoken by all her in-laws, and I remember well that she spoke it very correctly and fluently, although with a heavy accent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Wood in a basket” became “vood in a busket”, for example.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was very good natured about the inevitable teasing.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The Nonna - Amalia Baronti - in later life.</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><em>Enzo in later life</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">After the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nonno</i> died, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nonna</i> Amalia went to live with her daughter and family, who by now had a house in Buenos Aires so that the children could go to school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They remained very close, and my uncles and aunt remember the two women sitting close to the old wireless, listening to operas, tears of emotion streaming down their faces – and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nonna</i> exclaiming… “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ah poveretta! Ora muore</i>!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(“Ah poor thing!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now she dies!”)</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Enriqueta (Granny), at about 78 years in 1968, with my sister</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">Belle Ville has come a long way from those days, and even since the 1970s when Mum and I visited it on a hot afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is now a bustling, noisy town of 35,000 inhabitants which attracts its good share of tourists, particularly those interested in football.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has an enthusiastically supported team, perhaps a response to the outstanding success of one of its sons – Mario Kempes, who was the star of the World Cup in 1978, scoring 6 goals, the top individual score of the tournament.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">- or Osvaldo Ardiles, who was born in the same province, though not in Bell Ville.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">The city’s claim to fame these days is its thriving industry in football manufacture, with their products being sold all over the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Research first started on this subject in Bell Ville after the FIFA 1930 first World Cup held in Uruguay when the host team beat Argentina in the final, it was said unfairly because of the ball that the Uruguayans had selected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What resulted was a new type of ball with no stitching, which is still used today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">The environs are still devoted to crops and cattle farming, and though the sea of waving grass has shrunk considerably and is bounded by fences and bisected by country roads, it is still there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; font-size: 12pt;">-oOo-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">Bibliography:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">(1)<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span></i><span dir="ltr"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">Pioneering in the Pampas</span></i></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> by Richard Seymour. First published in 1869, reprinted 2002, Stockcero Publishers</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">(2)<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span dir="ltr"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">Fraile Muerto</span></i></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> by Juan Carlos Casas, 2002, Stockcero Publishers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">(3)<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span></i><span dir="ltr"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";">A Ramble through my Life, memoirs </span></i></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">by Graciela Amalia Schiele de Bridger (Chela), 1922-2007, unpublished.</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms";"><o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">(4)<span style="font: 7pt 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span dir="ltr"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Websites: </span></span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Wikipedia<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #d9ead3; font-family: "trebuchet ms";">http://</span><a href="http://www.bellville.gov.ar/"><span style="color: #d9ead3; font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">www.bellville.gov.ar</span></a><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br /></span><a href="http://www.fupeu.com.ar/varios/bellville_img.html"><span style="color: #d9ead3; font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">http://www.fupeu.com.ar/varios/bellville_img.html</span></a><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br /></span><a href="http://www.futbell.com.ar/futbell/site/historia.php"><span style="color: #d9ead3; font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">http://www.futbell.com.ar/futbell/site/historia.php</span></a><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br /></span><a href="http://www.ena.edu.ar/wp/about/hotel-de-los-inmigrantes/"><span style="color: #d9ead3; font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">http://www.ena.edu.ar/wp/about/hotel-de-los-inmigrantes/</span></a><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: #d9ead3; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><a href="http://www.benitz.com/BzWilhelm1815_10Family/BenitzKolmer_FamilyGen2.html"><span style="color: #d9ead3; font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">http://www.benitz.com/BzWilhelm1815_10Family/BenitzKolmer_FamilyGen2.html</span></a><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms"; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br /><a href="http://www.historiaderiotercero.com/?id=img&d=177&c=2&t=27"><span style="color: #d9ead3;">http://www.historiaderiotercero.com/?id=img&d=177&c=2&t=27</span></a></span></div>
Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-61646576953833402632014-02-16T01:30:00.000+00:002014-02-27T23:58:45.759+00:00The Story of the Village of Bell Ville, Córdoba, Argentina (Part 6 of 7)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">The story so far</span></u></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">My grandmother and mother were born in Bell Ville, originally named Fraile Muerto, and this series of posts is the result of my research into this village, later a town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were English farmers in the countryside and (mainly) Italian immigrants in the town, and I descend from both.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 1</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The history of the area up to the mid nineteenth century.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 2</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The arrival of the English farming pioneers as typified by Richard Seymour and Frank Goodricke, who resided at their farm Monte Molino from 1865-68;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>their first encounter with marauding indians;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>headman Lisada’s gesture of friendship to an indian scouting party.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville_5.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 3</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More encounters with indians; description of gauchos; characters in Fraile Muerto.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville_9.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 4</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The arrival of Richard Seymour’s brother Walter and his friend Hume Kelly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>RS’s stsruggles with farming, loss of all their livestock after an indian attack; the weather and the primitive living conditions.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville_12.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 5</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shepherd Harry’s story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another indian raid; war with Paraguay, effects of cholera on Fraile Muerto.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: large;"><strong>A new president</strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">The cholera continued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the city of Rosario rows of houses were boarded up, either because their owners had died or escaped to the countryside if they could – one French family managed to get away, only to fall into the hands of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indians, who kidnapped them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The disease swept its way onward, indiscriminately killing native and foreigner alike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was estimated that people were dying of cholera at a rate of one in ten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Richard Seymour himself was struck down with it, but was lucky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a very unpleasant twenty-four hours he took a turn for the better and recovered relatively quickly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">At a German colony in a village nearby called Cañada de Gómez a farmer witnessed every member of his household die in succession, and when he himself was attacked by the disease, he shot himself in despair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His holding became abandoned, with livestock wandering about at will, and the whole area was severely depopulated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It brought out both the best and the worst in people – the fear of infection was so great that the dead were being buried in great haste, and sometimes people left their relatives to die alone rather than set foot inside their front door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would then lasso the body from the outside and drag it out for burial.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">In May 1868 Domingo Faustino Sarmiento became the newly elected seventh president of Argentina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was welcomed with relief by the farmers, who saw in him their only hope of support against the incursions by the Indians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">Until such time as Sarmiento could solve the indian problem, they turned their attention away from cattle and towards crops such as wheat, maize and flax, purchasing 20 young bullocks to do the ploughing so as to prepare the land for wheat growing, after scorching the grasslands with fire to prepare the soil, as was the custom in those days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a method which in that area worked well because there was nothing but grass, though it was reported that in the province of Buenos Aires, which was well populated by thistles several metres high, serious damage could ensue if the fires were lit towards the end of the summer when the vegetation was very dry.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">Driving the bullocks required infinite patience, for the animals didn’t fancy going in a straight line, and only seemed to respond when the shouted orders were accompanied by coarse and hoarse epithets (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“...the gauchos ought to find their bullocks most obedient servants...” </i>Dick Seymour commented wrily.) The creatures were reduced to order at last, but were obstinate and tiresome to manage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was not helped by the fact that the native ploughs were very primitive, consisting as they did of a log with a nail in it, which barely scratched the surface of the soil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However the soil was so fertile and rich that there had been no incentive to improve the mechanism, until the European farmers settled there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later on when steam-driven ploughs from England eventually arrived, the locals could not believe their eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">Dick Seymour wrote that on a typical morning he would have ploughed up some dozen snakes, and there would be dense flocks of birds following to pick up seed, which, he said, in turn often provided food for the ploughmen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was also impressed by the number and variety of plants which flourished in those parts – their kitchen garden’s vegetables in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘the greatest luxuriance’</i> .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The onions and radishes grew to an immense size, one specimen of radish reaching a size of 18 inches in circumference.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The soil was perfect also for melon, pumpkins, cucumbers, and many trees, including peach trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He loved the purple and red verbena wildflowers particularly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">Sadly their prize English rams died off one by one with a mysterious swelling of the throat, and they concluded that European sheep were not meant to live at those latitudes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">Round about at this time Gumersindo Lisada, formerly the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">capataz</i> or foreman at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monte Molino</i> (<a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">see Part Two</span></a>) and latterly living in the village, had his most terrifying encounter yet with the indians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was visiting his friends at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monte Molino</i> for a few days with his little brother Stani and they were rounding up stray cattle one day, when a party of indians came upon them and kidnapped Lisada.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Stani got away because he was at some distance and his horse was not as tired, and he was able to raise the alarm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">This sort of action by natives generally meant that they needed someone of Lisada’s age and experience to act as scout, or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">baqueano.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everyone knew the sort of treatment meted out to both <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gaucho</i> interpreters and these press-ganged scouts, and in Fraile Muerto he was mourned as if already dead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Richard Seymour was in the village at the time, and was much cast down by the news of his cheeky, feisty and highly regarded former capataz.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Several days later he bumped into one of Lisada’s friends, who reported that he had returned home late the night before, safe and sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seymour hastened to Lisada’s home, where he found him tucked up in bed, resting from his labours and recovering from his fright.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a few restoring rounds of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mate</i>, he told him his story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">He had been seized by a party of some thirty braves, who were soon joined by an even larger number.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They informed him (through the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gaucho </i>interpreter) that he was now their scout and asked where he had come from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On hearing that it was the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monte Molino estancia</i>, they demanded him to guide them there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">Lisada was able to reply truthfully that thanks to the number of recent predations upon that property by their good selves, they would find nothing left to take – and he described the most recent raid (<a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">see Part Two</span></a>).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They held a council, and decided they would head instead for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Esquina Ballesteros estancia</i> belonging to the family of Casas, the Chief of Police.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When they reached there a group of them attacked the house accompanied by the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gaucho</i> and Lisada stayed back with the rest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He heard a lot of shouting and shots, and smoke billowing out of the windows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The interpreter told him later that the place had been bravely defended by three people, but the Indians had eventually got in and killed them all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They also took with them every horse, cow and sheep they found, the latter doubtless merely to feed them on the way to their next raid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">A while later they attempted to kidnap another <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gaucho</i>, who made a desperate attempt to escape but was caught after a chase over several leagues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They bound his hands together and ordered him to his knees, and after allowing Lisada to give him a cigarette, the fugitive’s last request, executed him with their lances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">Lisada was quite sure he would be next and was quaking with terror, but to his everlasting surprise learned that they remembered him from the raid to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monte Molino </i>when he had crossed the moat and shared his cigarettes with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had admired his bravery and appreciated his gesture of friendship, and would therefore spare him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They gave him an old horse, shook hands with him, and told him to go home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">Dick reported that his former capataz continued to live and flourish in Fraile Muerto, unless he was later called up to serve in the army in Paraguay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This would have been a severe trial for him, he reflected, fond as he was of sitting around drinking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mate</i> and – in Lisada’s own words – finding that his bedsheets “stuck to him” in the mornings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">Richard Seymour never spells out in his book why shortly after this he returned to England in 1868 for good and gave up his Argentine farming adventure, but his remarks make it easy to read between the lines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The climate and soil were perfect and permitted the growth of excellent pastureland for cattle, which attracted many foreign immigrants with whom they had established excellent relations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The communications with Buenos Aires and London were good, providing the market for their products, and the introduction of the railway was making the process faster all the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">On the minus side he had clearly been unprepared for the unknown diseases which affected his animals and killed them with no warning, the vast distance to Fraile Muerto because there was no bridge to cross the river which made errands a major chore, the regular locust plagues which left the cattle scratching for food and emptied their kitchen garden of vegetables, and the chronic lack of firewood on a sea of grassland with few trees.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Locust plague in progress</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">But all this was as nothing to the disillusionment he felt over the severity of the Indian problem and the government’s lack of reaction to this impediment to progress, let alone the loss of life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The constant depredations had almost bankrupted him, but his experiences had a lasting influence on his life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">The Indians themselves and the 30,000 who died in the last quarter of the nineteenth century became a shameful and forgotten chapter in the country’s history until the last decade, when the true facts about their systematic extermination have become known.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Many books have been written on the subject and many claims for their land still continue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">The indian campaign, 1879</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 16pt;">Fraile Muerto becomes Bell Ville<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">The time had finally come for Fraile Muerto, the oddly named town of Dead Friar, to shed its name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The moment and the place were set by the visit of the new President of Argentina, Domingo Faustino Sarmiento.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In late 1870 he was travelling to the city of Córdoba for the inauguration of the First Industrial Exhibition, and he made a stopover of several days at Fraile Muerto.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">The flags and the bunting were out, the schoolchildren let off school for the day, and a large outdoor barbecue was organised in his honour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sarmiento circulated among the guests chatting amiably to all and sundry, and presently asked to meet the oldest settler present.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was introduced to the brothers Anthony and Robert Bell, farmers originally from Dunbar in Scotland who had established themselves as farmers in the area some years previously, and were recognised as having introduced modern farming methods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">The President was an anglophile and had taught himself English many years earlier by translating Dickens novels solely with the use of a dictionary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He questioned one of the brothers closely about the quality of the soil, the clearing of the bush, the crops they were growing, how the cattle fared, and the rainfall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">Then he said “And the water – what is the water like in this area?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">Robert Bell smiled and replied “The truth is Mr President, I don’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I only drink whisky.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">President Sarmiento was very amused by this, and on impulse he proposed the name of the town should be changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Calling it after a dead friar did not reflect its new progressive image; why not call it Bell Ville?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two years’ later the name was officially changed and it has been Bell Ville ever since.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">Many variations of this story have been told since then, but my grandfather Manfred Schiele was present when it was related first hand to his father Edward Constantine Schiele, my great-grandfather, also a farmer and landowner in those parts, by an Englishman who was standing by on that day in 1870.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">My great-grandfather, Edward Constantine Schiele</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt;">Grandfather Manfred owned an <i>estancia</i> called <i>El Recreo</i> near Bell Ville, and later sold it to his brother Bertie, my great uncle, and in her letters home to her parents in England between 1912 and 1919, my great aunt Winifred described it as having a watchtower and a moat around it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drought and locusts seemed to be a constant in their lives.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><em>Winifred and Bertie Schiele</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: x-small;">-oOo-</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>For Bibliography see end of Part 7.</em></span><br />
<em><br /></em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;"><em>Next Post: The Italian Connection - my Italian ancestors</em></span></div>
Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-67293508557109780432014-02-12T01:30:00.000+00:002014-02-27T23:49:51.293+00:00The Story of the Village of Bell Ville, Córdoba, Argentina (Part 5 of 7)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">The story so far</span></u></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">My grandmother and mother were born in Bell Ville, originally named Fraile Muerto, and this series of posts is the result of my research into this village, later a town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were English farmers in the countryside and (mainly) Italian immigrants in the town, and I descend from both.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 1</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The history of the area up to the mid nineteenth century.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 2</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The arrival of the English farming pioneers as typified by Richard Seymour and Frank Goodricke, who resided at their farm Monte Molino from 1865-68;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>their first encounter with marauding indians;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>headman Lisada’s gesture of friendship to an indian scouting party.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville_5.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 3</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More encounters with indians; description of gauchos; characters in Fraile Muerto.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville_9.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 4</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The arrival of Richard Seymour’s brother Walter and his friend Hume Kelly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>RS’s stsruggles with farming, loss of all their livestock after an indian attack; the weather and the primitive living conditions.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Cacique Epumer</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 16pt;">Harry’s Story<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">With the loss of all their livestock there was nothing with which to mark Christmas day 1867, so everybody scattered around the countryside to forage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two stray bullocks were eventually found and sacrificed for Christmas lunch, at which friends and neighbours gathered to celebrate, totalling some fourteen people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">But New Year’s Day 1868 was not so pleasant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Richard arose to the shouts of their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">peon</i> Lorenzo who galloped into the yard shouting that the Indians were coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hastily scrambling onto the roof, their lookout, Richard saw with dread that the largest number he had ever seen was approaching them at speed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He calculated their number to be close to one thousand horsemen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They galloped past their corrals, where they swept up the few horses that had been left from the last raid, and continued onwards to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">puesto,</i> one of many small outpost habitations constructed on farms where shepherds lived with their families, the closer to be to the animals they supervised.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">puesto </i>at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monte Molino</i> was inhabited by Harry, a shepherd who lived alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Harry was a wanderer, German by birth, who had begun his working life as a sailor in the English Merchant Navy, moving on later to the US Navy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The vicissitudes of his life had at length brought him to the River Plate, where he resolved to turn shepherd, and following employment at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monte de la Leña</i> which was abandoned after a narrow escape from the Indians, he ended up at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monte Molino</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Richard says Harry was a good shepherd who as a former sailor could turn his hand to practically anything, and adds “…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">best of all, he was sober.”</i></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Cacique Calfucurá</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">When the marauders had passed, they made their way over to Harry’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">puesto</i> and saw a bedraggled figure approaching them on foot, wearing only his undergarments and a sheepskin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They learned that some two hours before daylight he had been awakened by his dogs barking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hastily dressed himself and climbed onto his roof.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He could see a number of horsemen in the dim light, one of whom called out to him in Spanish to get down and approach them, as they wanted to speak to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harry asked them who they were, and they replied <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Ranqueles”.</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was the tribe that usually raided the area, and Harry was very reluctant to move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The interpreter for the Indians threatened to burn his house down and murder him if he did not, and he realised he had no choice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Cacique Catriel</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">From experience he gathered as the gloom started to clear that these were not the usual <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ranqueles</i>,<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>and that they had a number of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gauchos</i> with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The chief started questioning him through the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gaucho</i> interpreter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How many soldiers were there at Fraile Muerto, how many people lived at the main house at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monte Molino</i>, how many foreigners and how many <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">peons</i>, how many at the old metal house, and so on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had evidently already amassed quite a lot of information about them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harry answered truthfully, except when he told them the old metal house was abandoned – Lorenzo, a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">peon</i>, was living there, and it was therefore thanks to Harry that Lorenzo was later able to escape unharmed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The chief ordered him to mount behind him, as he wanted Harry to show him the point at which they could ford the river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By his reckoning he was riding with a troop of five hundred braves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When they arrived at the river, they forcibly removed his boots and shirt, and sent him on an old horse with four Indians to wade across.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">It was still fairly dark, and Harry failed to find the exact spot which would avoid them getting bogged down in mud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They floundered about for some time; Harry was convinced that at any moment he would feel a lance going through his back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But somehow he persuaded the other four that it was due to the poor light, and they managed to return to the bank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The second time was more successful, though they had to swim the last stretch as the river was in spate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cacique</i> recalled them all, and taking back the horse he had been riding, told Harry to go, as he had served his purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">He hid in the reeds for a long time and then followed the river as far as he could to confuse any other Indians in the area who might have attacked him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He eventually got back to his <i>puesto</i>, where he found that everything in the world he had possessed had been taken, including his two spare horses and the 1200 sheep that were his responsibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He set off for the main house on foot, and this is where Richard Seymour found him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Later in the day, when Harry had rested and got fresh clothes to wear, he took one of Richard’s horses and tracked the Indians’ movements of that morning as far as he could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He discovered a trail of sheep corpses with part of their flesh removed and no traces of fires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When 500 sheep found their way back to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monte Molino</i>, they realised that the raiders had driven off the sheep merely to provide sustenance along the way, which they consumed raw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They clearly had no intention of taking the remaining animals back with them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">When the men attempted to trace some of their horses, they were unsuccessful, but were interested to observe some Indians in the distance who were trying to catch some of their bullocks but when they got close enough came upon a fence, clearly a new concept to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They studied it for some time, clearly puzzled, and then departed.</span> </div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Harry was unnerved by these experiences, and decided to go and live in Rosario, the nearest city, some 200 km (130 miles) away, where he obtained employment at horse stables.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Richard attempted to encourage local farmers to muster a small army to go into Indian territory to teach them a lesson, but although there was a willingness to fight, it was the general consensus that leaving their properties empty and undefended would be a grave mistake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead they petitioned the government for frontier protection, but the answer was the same as ever – President Bartolomé Mitre was too occupied with the war with Paraguay, where most of the government’s soldiers had gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This situation frightened off many potential investors who had come looking for land, and now left the area.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Then came cholera.</span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Paraguay in crimson, Uruguay in yellow, Brazil </span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: x-small;">in green and Argentina in lavender</span></em> </div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">In the mid nineteenth century Paraguay was a landlocked country of some 1,200,000 inhabitants, heavily dependent for its trade on the rivers which flowed through Argentina and accessed the Atlantic via Buenos Aires.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Its adjacent countries are Brazil and Argentina, and the boundaries set in the colonial days of the viceroyalty one hundred years earlier were vague at best, and the source of continual conflict between the three countries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">When Uruguay started a dispute with Brazil over its mutual boundary and Argentina did not give Paraguay permission to cross its land with troops so it could reach Uruguay, it was but a question of time before they all ganged up against Paraguay in a Triple Alliance which resulted in a 10 years war between 1865 and 1875.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Paraguay lost, and its population was reduced by 50-85%, with 90% of the losses being young men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I often heard it said in the 1960’s that the country had still not recovered from the loss, one hundred years on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">It was a brutal conflict, yet there is evidence that the majority of the losses were due to sickness, disease, a lack of hygiene and a chronic shortage of medical supplies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The main culprit was cholera, which gradually made its way south as the wounded soldiers left the front.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It reached the Fraile Muerto area towards the end of 1867.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Once it took hold, 800 people a day were dying in the province of Córdoba as a whole (within which Fraile Muerto was located), and the seminary in Córdoba city lost 32 of its 40 postulants.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dick Seymour reported a cruel incident which took place near Fraile Muerto told to him by a railway conductor who saw a dead body by the railway line and recognised him to be a local cattle drover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a jug of water by his side, but he had been stripped of his clothes and belongings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clearly when the thieves had found him he had already succombed to the disease but was still alive, and the jug of water was a salve to their consciences.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Makeshift hospital in Rosario for cholera sufferers</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">When Richard travelled to Rosario to transact some business he found the city in the throes of revolution and cholera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To English gunboats were standing by, summoned from Buenos Aires to protect English interests, and rebels were taking pot shots at it, to which the gunboats were retaliating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He met up with an English farmer just off the steamer who was making his way to the railway station on his way home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was grateful, he said, for the company of a motley assortment to protect him...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“...an English officer and his men, six or seven new acquaintances just arrived in the country, a thoroughbred horse fresh from England, a shorthorn bull named Whirlwind, some twenty sheep, and two or three carts laden with luggage...”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Richard sought out Harry at the stables, and was pleased to see him comfortable and happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the following day the owner of the stables contacted him to tell him that while cutting alfalfa for the horses only a few hours later, Harry had suddenly been taken ill with cholera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He rushed to see him and found his former <i>puestero</i> on a rough bed in a small hut by the alfalfa field.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">They tried all the traditional methods to cure him – mustard poultices, rubbing his hands and feet, getting him to drink a mixture of port wine, brandy and chlorodyne; but Richard already knew at first glance on seeing the pallor on his face and hands that he was doomed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Harry was clearly delighted to see his old master, but was despondent because he knew he was dying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He begged him to get him a doctor, so Richard rushed back into town to try and persuade a doctor to come out and see him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a fruitless exercise because many of the doctors were either worked to death or down with cholera themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their movements were also very restricted by the local militia due to the revolution, and all Richard was able to do was obtain prescriptions for medication which might help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Sadly on his return to Harry’s bedside he found that he had perished not fifteen minutes after he had left him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">“...He had been a faithful friend, and I believe felt a real attachment to us, and his sad death grieved us all much.”</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Bibliography will be given at the end of the final post.</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Next time: Sarmiento, the new president; Fraile Muerto changes its name to Bell Ville.</em></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">The story so far</span></u></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">My grandmother and mother were born in Bell Ville, originally named Fraile Muerto, and this series of posts is the result of my research into this village, later a town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were English farmers in the countryside and (mainly) Italian immigrants in the town, and I descend from both.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 1</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The history of the area up to the mid nineteenth century.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 2</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The arrival of the English farming pioneers as typified by Richard Seymour and Frank Goodricke, who resided at their farm Monte Molino from 1865-68;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>their first encounter with marauding indians;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>headman Lisada’s gesture of friendship to an indian scouting party.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville_5.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 3</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More encounters with indians; description of gauchos; characters in Fraile Muerto.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Dick’s brother Walter Seymour arrived to stay with him accompanied by a friend, <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Hume Kelly.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were thinking of buying land in the area and had been scouting around, but their progress was slow because of heavy rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other European farmers had put them up, but it had been muddy, uncomfortable and full of mosquitoes, made all the more frustrating because their cautious hosts feared indian raids and insisted for their own safety that they stay longer than they wished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">In addition, when they were traversing the vast pasturelands they frequently got lost in the waving sea of grasses which, they said, was like being at sea on dry land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As had been the case with Dick, Walter was tempted by the relatively cheaper land near the indian border because the war between Argentina and Paraguay was expected to finish soon, freeing the soldiers to defend this frontier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">On their travels they learned that when they were put up for the night, after breakfast the following day they were expected to pull their weight with farm chores such as ramming in posts for wire fencing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was because farmers suffered a good deal from what they called the ‘army of loafers’, young Englishmen who travelled from one farm to another, expecting to be fed, watered and entertained.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Walter and <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Hume</span> also had a grim story to tell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had been told about two Englishmen who, in the company of two other friends, started an expedition into Indian territory near the Andes, intending to trade with the Indians in exchanging their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aguardiente </i>(a coarse spirit) for cattle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As they approached the mountains they fell in with a party of Indians who seemed quite friendly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Free samples of the alcohol were distributed as a gesture of goodwill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few days later a further contingent of natives arrived, and delegations visited them continually asking for spirits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">It occurred to the four Englishmen at last that they were not advancing any further in obtaining cattle, and that they had got themselves into a trap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To show they meant business, they fortified their encampment as best they could and knew that they would not be attacked if the indians knew they were well armed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This situation continued for another ten days during which they refused to supply any further alcohol, while they tried not to feel unnerved by their nightly sight of indians round their camp fires eating raw meat and often quarrelling amongst themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Their mules and horses were appropriated too, and with their food fast disappearing, they became desperate to escape and were considering fleeing on foot when to their great joy a Chilean officer with a company of soldiers appeared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was because, in their attempt to gain something further from the Europeans, they had reported to the Chilean authorities that they had surrounded some Spanish spies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Englishmen explained the situation to the officer, who obliged the indians to return some of the horses and mules and escorted them across the Andes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before leaving they took the precaution of making a bonfire of all they couldn’t carry with them, including what was left of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aguardiente</i>, much to the disappointment of the natives.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Some months later the Englishmen tried again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They travelled with a Frenchman, who later told the story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time they took a herd of mules to sell near the Andes once again, but further north in the province of San Juan. Their friends had tried to dissuade them, and to wait till the volatile situation in the provinces had resolved itself, but they were brave – or foolhardy - and refused to listen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">This time the danger came from local revolutionaries, who cordially invited them to join them round their camp fire to drink <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mate</i> and then attacked them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They put up a fierce fight, and took several of their assailants with them when they were eventually killed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Frenchman had also been with them, and by playing dead was able to survive, thanks to the help of some friendly Indians, who helped to staunch his wounds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">At <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monte Molino</i> the problems continued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Richard Seymour was determined to introduce sheep farming at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monte Molino</i>, and on his way back from Rosario with rams he had purchased, he was met at Fraile Muerto by one of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">peons</i>, who imparted to him the unwelcome news that another Indian raid had cleared the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">estancia</i> of all its horses – some 100 – and cattle numbering 200 or so, which included bullocks and milking cows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently some days earlier the men had been engaged in erecting fencing round a large paddock when a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">peon</i> galloped up to advise that a troop of natives had driven away all the cattle, and were just glimpsed disappearing in the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was too late to give chase for they were too far away (and unbeknown to them they would have had no horses to use anyway).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">This was not merely a financial disaster for Richard and Frank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The disappearance of the horses and bullocks represented a more valuable loss – their time, because it was impossible to replace them at once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one consolation was that their small colony of a dozen pigs had escaped capture, as they could not be carried off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact they were flourishing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When they were purchased and brought by train as far as Rosario they were unloaded at Fraile Muerto, where they somehow escaped and were seen careering wildly down the high street, being pursued by Hume and a string of small boys who kept up, the closer to observe and laugh at the gringo unable to manage his charges.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had never had this much fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The creatures were eventually caught and loaded onto the carts which would take them to their new home at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monte Molino</i> and during they journey the pigs entertained themselves by eating the bottom out of the cart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maize, which was fortuitously cheap, suited them best of all, and they were frequently found wandering in and out of the house, snorting and snuffling about for cobs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The elements were often against them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tearing winds in the winter (known as the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pampero</i>) which whipped across the flat plains, turning it into a dust bowl and day to night and the violent thunderstorms in the summer, often with hailstones that could reach the size of a chicken’s egg and destroy everything in their path, including lambs on occasion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The enclosed vegetable garden of which they were so proud was destroyed in a matter of minutes round about the time all their livestock was stolen, which did much to dishearten them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Example of a self-assembly tin house imported from England</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">It was a relief when the brick house was finished, for the metal house purchased from England and assembled in situ was hot in summer, cold in winter, and noisy all year round.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Richard says –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">“...the kitchen was not yet finished, and in the meantime we used one of our sitting-rooms for culinary purposes... it was not quite completed according to European ideas, the walls not being plastered, no floors down, and a ladder still our only staircase – yet, to people who had lived for two years without floors or plastering, in a dwelling which freely admitted not only the winds of heaven, but also its waters, the present strong weather-tight abode was a palace of comfort.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">They eventually replenished their sheep livestock, and at shearing time discovered that whereas the <em>gauchos</em> were very rough because they wanted to clock up as many as possible and at times wounded the poor creatures severely, the women on the other hand were significantly slower than the men but were neater, gentler with the animals and rarely caused casualties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In those days there was no wool press available and the only way to compact the wool was for a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">peon</i> (or, on occasions, a visitor) to jump in to the very large sacks and stamp the wool down as it was stacked, being unable to get out until the wool level rose accordingly with him to the top.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The income made from wool was modest however, as the American Civil War had ended and United States exports to Europe had resumed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Bibliography will be given at the end of the final post.</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Next time: Harry's Story, and Cholera comes to Bell Ville.</em></span></div>
Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-35276152742123634722014-02-05T11:58:00.000+00:002014-02-27T23:38:29.567+00:00The Story of the Village of Bell Ville, Córdoba, Argentina (Part 3 of 7)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">The story so far</span></u></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">My grandmother and mother were born in Bell Ville, originally named Fraile Muerto, and this series of posts is the result of my research into this village, later a town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were English farmers in the countryside and (mainly) Italian immigrants in the town, and I descend from both.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 1</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The history of the area up to the mid nineteenth century.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 2</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The arrival of the English farming pioneers as typified by Richard Seymour and Frank Goodricke, who resided at their farm Monte Molino from 1865-68; <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>their first encounter with marauding indians;<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>headman Lisada’s gesture of friendship to an indian scouting party.</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 16pt;"><br />Of Native Indians and Gauchos<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">For the moment Dick Seymour and Frank Goodricke realised that cattle-farming was the profitable way forward; the conditions were ideal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The two English partners set about obtaining bullocks, but learned the hard way that it was only going to work if they were purchased a long way from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monte Molino</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were plenty available locally, of course, but they soon found that no matter how carefully the animals were locked in at night, they had often managed to escape by the following morning and returned to their previous abode.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After one such occasion when they had to recover them across great distances on three consecutive mornings, they raised the height of the gates to 6 feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On the fourth morning after another wearying foray into the countryside, they realised that the only solution was to get one of their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">peons</i> to sleep with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The creatures eventually settled down, but all the exercise had caused them to lose a lot of weight.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">And of course there was the matter of the indian raids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a pattern to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If they could get away with it they stole everything they could get their hands on at the farm – weapons, food, clothes – and were prepared to kill to do it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However the main purpose was to steal livestock to take back to their people.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Horses were greatly sought after, and cattle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sheep rustling however had not yet taken hold because the creatures didn’t move fast enough and shared the country’s custom of sleeping in the middle of the day, lying down on the ground and huddling stubbornly together for several hours in the early afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seymour and Goodricke thus judged that investing in sheep would be a good idea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Because of indian raids they had been unable to get the necessary shearing tools in time, so it was late in the season by the time they took their wool for sale, and made little out of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL6XIxu-2_1VsY27QkaSb9sqfsohJWeLxGKv4j0FuZdkn_BYehwDHHpOmeCkmYoVRzKtfwRK_8gDREHTAbW62ObdsmV3J5q8m4_vtjAQFTUBlx7VRjNpeKVMNtznOz8BeqRllLRt2QBn8/s1600/imagesCAS1US79.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_lm_751596="null" cua="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL6XIxu-2_1VsY27QkaSb9sqfsohJWeLxGKv4j0FuZdkn_BYehwDHHpOmeCkmYoVRzKtfwRK_8gDREHTAbW62ObdsmV3J5q8m4_vtjAQFTUBlx7VRjNpeKVMNtznOz8BeqRllLRt2QBn8/s1600/imagesCAS1US79.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">But there were other problems.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were easy prey to the local grey foxes and the puma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The puma is now only to be found in hilly areas or in the desolate parts of Patagonia, in those days it existed in plentiful numbers on the plains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seymour records in his book that they were forced to kill six in one year because a single puma could despatch 20 sheep in one night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He reports that the largest they ever caught measured nine feet from nose to tail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The worse Indian raid they were to encounter was in late September 1866 when Seymour and Goodricke rode the 15 miles to a neighbouring farm by the name of <i>Monte Llovedor</i> (Rainy Grove) to see how their friends John Pearson and Thomas Edwardes were faring in setting up their farm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that point they had constructed a small fort surrounded by a ditch, and were shortly going to build a house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pearson was away on business, but Edwardes and his <i>capataz</i> Dan Mulligan, two English and two local <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">peons</i> greeted them cheerfully as they worked on the ditch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a pleasant few hours Seymour’s party left mid afternoon, taking Mulligan with them because Edwardes had agreed to buy one of the <i>Monte Molino</i> horses, and the headman was to bring it back to <i>Monte Llovedor</i> the following day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The following morning one of the farmhands reported that the Indians were in the vicinity once again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mulligan decided to stay on for a couple more days at <i>Monte Molino</i> because he did not fancy his chances returning to <i>Monte Llovedor</i> with his horse and the other in tow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The day after his departure all seemed quiet so Goodricke and Lisada set out to check whether there were any Indians in the neighbourhood, and to pick up any stray cattle they might have left behind.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Nine miles later they came upon traces of a large Indian encampment close to the river where they found strewn around a number of worthless items, evidently the property of English settlers because one of them was a book in English with Pearson’s name on the fly cover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now seriously concerned, they quickly headed back to <i>Monte Molino</i> to get reinforcements, fast horses and weapons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With Seymour they headed for <i>Monte Llovedor</i> as quickly as possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">When they got there they saw with horror that the fort had been destroyed, and the only sound emanating from the site was a mournful howling of dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fire had consumed the area, there were charred remains of two carts with trunks broken open and all the contents which the Indians had not taken away such as letters and books, were scattered about in all directions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the ditch were the remains of three people – Edwardes and the two English farmhands.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Meanwhile Mulligan had got there several hours before them and had headed onwards to Fraile Muerto to report the incident to the authorities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Seymour and Goodricke stood at the ditch mourning the loss of their friends they heard the sound of horses galloping towards them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To their profound relief it turned out to be Nazario Casas, the village’s Chief of Police with a ragtag troop of nervous and trigger happy militia – Seymour himself narrowly escaped injury when one of the militia discharged his rusty gun close to his head.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Later they heard the story from one of the farmhands who had been there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The men were busy preparing their evening meal in their tent when they heard the sound of horsemen approaching at great speed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They seized their arms and ran to the recently finished fort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were about 200 riders surrounding them, the leader of which gave them to understand through the <i>gaucho </i>interpreter that if they gave up everything their lives would be spared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Edwardes told them they could take what they wanted from the tent, but that if they entered the fort they would be fired at.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Unfortunately as they had only just been digging the ditch they had not yet disposed of the spoil, which was piled high on either side, and this the indians used to conceal themselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With their lances they punched holes in the mounds, stuffed them with dried grass and set fire to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Surrounded by fire and smoke, the besieged men eventually had to run for it, and were murdered one by one as they tried to get beyond the fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <i>peón</i> telling the story was the only one spared because he had a wounded leg and had managed to hide in the ditch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When discovered the <i>gaucho</i> interceded on his behalf with the Indians, because he knew him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He eventually managed to limp his way to a neighbouring <i>estancia</i> and from there was taken to Fraile Muerto to get medical attention.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Monte Llovedor</span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"> was abandoned, and Pearson himself struggled on for three years, eventually perishing of sunstroke in 1869.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a long time before new settlers came back to the area.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">With these sorts of tragic stories it was small wonder that the Indian raid on an English farm at Monte de la Leña (Firewood Grove) merely caused amusement when it was later related in the village.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The indians had surprised the Europeans within while the latter were carrying out their ablutions and getting dressed early one cold morning and they had no option but to scramble onto the roof of their recently finished hut in various stages of undress, huddling together for warmth and watching helplessly while the marauders stole everything they could lay their hands on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">It was now fifteen months since Dick Seymour had arrived at <i>Monte Molino</i>, and the railway had at last reached Fraile Muerto, thankfully making the stuffy, horse-drawn coaches a thing of the past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The village now boasted a population of 1000 and many new houses had been built.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Chief of Police had increased powers to keep law and order and had twelve enlisted men to command, in addition to volunteers when indian raids threatened.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">It was a relief when that a bridge across the river had been built which gave access to the railway station, for up until that point getting goods home was a major exercise, taking up to three days to complete.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The raft was not large enough to carry carts, so everything had to be loaded and unloaded between the station and the raft, and after being ferried across, had again to be placed in carts to deliver to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fonda </i>in the village, there to await their own transport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Seymour was an acute observer of the people around him, and noticed that the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gauchos</i> and locals had the refinement and self-controlled manners of their Spanish ancestors, yet not their morals and religious fervour – and judged that missionaries could well do some good work there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Traditional gaucho with his constant companion...</span></em></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">“The </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">gauchos</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"> make a perfect jest of everything connected with religion, and are scarcely ever seen inside a church, appearing to think that the women can do all that is necessary for them. “<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">He had mixed feelings about the <i>gaucho </i>– so admired these days as the essence of the Argentine spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His experience of them in the mid nineteenth century was that they were rugged loaners of unsociable and reclusive disposition; wedded to their horses, they never stayed anywhere for very long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indian tribes often had a <i>gaucho </i>in tow to act as interpreter with the farmers, and these individuals led particularly tough lives.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">...in good times and bad (Molina Campos)</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">There were various interesting characters in the village which Seymour ably described.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3tvwdc_kRSwZF85Imk5gBN2HWsEO1yzBbuDpHT3p8UXQXW4WJKQhlYQolDxKaLtlzt5VgkAdukZVgDaHFlcNF9N9scCAflR99J4_fhNVUQGHba_Xwh1TE4YsgSQQbRJKK23fLFAoVQl0/s1600/imagesCA949PJ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_lm_751596="null" cua="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3tvwdc_kRSwZF85Imk5gBN2HWsEO1yzBbuDpHT3p8UXQXW4WJKQhlYQolDxKaLtlzt5VgkAdukZVgDaHFlcNF9N9scCAflR99J4_fhNVUQGHba_Xwh1TE4YsgSQQbRJKK23fLFAoVQl0/s1600/imagesCA949PJ.jpg" height="320" width="222" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The rough and ready bar where a man could get a meal – the <i>fonda </i>- was run by an Italian known as Don Pepe with his partner Luigi...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Don Pepe had previously been a priest, choosing to renounce monastic life for a bit more excitement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As he told Seymour, he was then able to give free rein to the swearing which had previously been denied him… that is until he had caught cholera a few years back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was so surprised and grateful to have survived that he vowed never to swear again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">One of the bilingual residents of the village considered himself to be a ‘gentleman’ of the highest order descended from one of the River Plate’s finest families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was considered local royalty, particularly in view of his fondness for the English language and Shakespeare, whose lengthy quotes held the locals in thrall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Don Nazario Casas, the Chief of Police who had a militia of 12 soldiers and some volunteers, the totality of their defence against the Indians in the area, took his job very seriously, and on one occasion had one of the farmhands at <i>Monte Molino</i> put to death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This man had deserted from the army, having murdered one of his officers and gone on the run, arriving at the farm looking for work, which was given him in ignorance of his past.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there it would have remained, had the man not given in to the temptation of going to the village on payday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even then nothing would have happened if he had behaved himself, but a pattern was established each month, whereby he started drinking and gambling, the former affecting his behaviour with the latter, and he became known by all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His luck ran out when an officer passing through Fraile Muerto recognised him, knew what he had done, and reported him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was arrested, tried and shot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Seymour was greatly impressed by the Catholic priest, who was Italian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He says<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>-<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; line-height: 115%;">“…He was not a very clerical character, but pleasant and good-natured, and having been educated as a doctor did all he could for the bodies of his parishioners, and I trust also for their souls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What curious vicissitudes of life had at length landed him in this secluded part of the Argentine Republic I do not know, but he was a well-informed man, acquainted with several modern languages and a very pleasant companion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He came into the </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; line-height: 115%;">fonda<i> at one time for his meals, while his house was building, and it was there I used to see him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the cholera time he exerted himself nobly for the people, and I hope may have made some lasting impression on them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The village’s doctor was Don Bartolo, a clever little man, well-informed about general things and devoted to gardening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He always welcomed the foreigners hospitably to his little house, where his pretty niece Doña Flores would serve them refreshments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had two club feet, so could only hobble around town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When as a result he was unable to go to the rescue of a farmhand who had fallen on a fence while carrying a sheep on his pommel and broken his leg, Dick Seymour helped out and set the man’s thigh; he recovered well and earned praise from Don Bartolo. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Dick was impressed with the general health of the population, remarking that they rarely got ill, and when they did they healed quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He calculated however that three people in five had at some point had smallpox in the past, but the epidemic had clearly been overcome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not so with cholera, which he witnessed during his years in Argentina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He makes one other comment – <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">“…The only peculiarity which I am quite unable to account for is that in spite of the large amount of fresh pure air, they find any cuts or wounds very difficult to cure, and lockjaw will come on from the most trifling accident.“ <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Unbeknown to him this was tetanus, for which a vaccine was not developed till 1924.</span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Gauchos barbequeueing their evening meal. Note the one on the </span></em><em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">right is holding the meat between his teeth and his left hand, </span></em><em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">while his right hand holds the knife or facón and slices it away </span></em><em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">from his hand. This is the traditional way of eating beef when </span></em><em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">plates are not available, or simply because they are outdoors.</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: x-small;">(P<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">ainting by Molina Campos)</span></span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p>-oOo-</o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p><em>Bibliography will be listed at the end of the final post. </em></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><o:p><em>Next post: The indian raids continue.</em></o:p></span></div>
Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-53320358869333356152014-02-02T00:30:00.000+00:002014-02-27T23:30:45.488+00:00The Story of the Village of Bell Ville, Córdoba, Argentina (Part 2 of 7)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: justify;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">The story so far</span></u></i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;">My grandmother and mother were born in Bell Ville, originally named Fraile Muerto, and this series of posts is the result of my research into this village, later a town.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were English farmers in the countryside and (mainly) Italian immigrants in the town, and I descend from both.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt;"><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/01/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Part 1</span></a>:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The history of the area up to the mid nineteenth century.</span></i></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Richard Seymour in later life</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 16pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The arrival of English pioneers</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">In January 1865 a young Englishman by the name of Richard Seymour sailed from Liverpool bound for the River Plate to make his fortune.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He and his friend Frank Goodricke purchased land in the south east of the province of Córdoba, in an area near the village of Fraile Muerto.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were beguiled not only by the low price of land, but also by the sweeping vistas of never ending, well-watered pasturelands with an attractive river flowing through them, imagining it full of contented sheep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was told he was close to the indian frontier, but they paid scant attention, judging that the government, so desirous of foreign investment, would protect them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The railway did not arrive for another few years, and at first Seymour was obliged to travel around the country by diligence, the most uncomfortable form of travel he had ever experienced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The carriage was pulled by 6-8 horses which were changed every 4 leagues (20km) –</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">A diligencia in the 1860's</span></em></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">“...A man rides on each of the animals, who pull from the girths and proceed at full gallop without the least regard to ruts, holes, etc ...<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>roads are not macadamised, being nothing in fact but a track over the prairie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About 6 unfortunate beings are able to go inside this machine, which looks rather like an aged coach, and two more can sit in front with the driver...<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">“The accommodations at the post-houses are not very splendid, the beds consisting of our own rugs on the floor; and our dinner... was usually walking happily about when we arrived, and not therefore remarkably tender when it appeared on the table. The country through which we passed was, as usual, perfectly flat, with only a few occasional bushes or a </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">rancho</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">, that is to say, a mud hut, to be seen; a few deer and ostriches sometimes appeared, but the most frequent objects were the large hawks called </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">caranchos<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, who were generally engaged in picking the bones of some dead animal; they are much hated by the sheep farmer, as they take every opportunity of killing his young lambs, by picking out their eyes...”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">He goes on to remark that English knowledge of South American geography was very shaky, for once back in England years later he was often asked by “intelligent people” what it was like to reside in a remote part of the Southern States of America, and how the Civil War had affected him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Seymour and Goodricke worked very hard to set up their farm, named <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monte Molino</i> because it was the name by which the land was known locally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was all very basic for a long time because they could not afford to build a proper house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They shared a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rancho </i>– a humble little abode made of mud and straw, along with many dogs who helped with the work, and the farmhands they employed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no fencing or moat to protect them at first, and they were soon to learn the disadvantages of being so exposed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><em>Traditional romanticised view of a 19th century rancho in Argentina</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">They staffed their new farm with what they could get – sometimes English or Irish, other times <i>gauchos</i>, the lawless men of European descent who roamed the pampas; or local residents, and wanderers on occasion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He frequently mentions their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">capataz </i>(foreman) Gumersindo Lisada, who clearly interested him as a character –<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><em>As Gumersindo Lisada might have looked in his Sunday best</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">“…<i>a handsome, clever man, to whom we at first took a great fancy – was celebrated at Fraile Muerto as being the very worst character in the whole country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He professed a great regard for us, but cheated us, I believe, on every possible occasion, and did no work he could possibly avoid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His redeeming point was his courage, and perhaps, in his own peculiar way, he may have had a liking for us… On one occasion he defended his wife and two children successfully in a mud rancho from a sudden attack of Indians, with no better weapon than an old horse-pistol, the unfortunate woman concealing herself behind the door with her baby in her arms, holding her hand on its mouth lest its screams should betray her presence…”<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><br />He was starting to find the tales of indian hordes descending on unsuspecting farmers a bit unnerving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a trip to a neighbouring village to try to buy sheep, he heard one such tale which clearly made a deep impression on him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The late owner of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">estancia</i> they were visiting and his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">capataz</i> had been killed in a fight with Indians just outside his house the year before, when the latter had stood bravely by his master and made an attempt to rescue their cattle from these invaders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was the first proper account of indian attacks that they had been told of but they consoled themselves with the thought that they were 60 miles farther from the frontier and therefore not very likely to attract the notice of the marauders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">They didn’t have long to wait before they were proved wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were by this time 12 people living at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monte Molino</i>, of which 9 were male adults as there was work going on – at last - digging a ditch round the property and round a further piece of land for the purposes of planting maize.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Some time after breakfast one morning Lisada, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">capataz, </i>was on the roof trying to work out where and how far the horses had wandered looking for good pasture in the night – the roofs of the houses were built flat for the purpose of serving as a lookout post – when he saw some hundred horsemen in the far distance advancing at full gallop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first they thought it was just horses, but as Lisada chillingly explained, it was the Indian custom on a raid to cling to the sides of their horses so as to conceal their true numbers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The men ran the bullock-wagon into the gateway over the ditch, blocking the entrance, and snatched up their guns and pistols.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seymour gave each of the men a weapon, took up his own gun and revolver, and waited for the attack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meanwhile, Lisada’s wife Salomé rushed into the house with her two children and a small trunk, which must have contained all her valuables, and concealed herself in a dark corner where, they afterwards learned, she kept up her spirits during those trying moments by smoking cigarettes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Ten minutes later the horsemen were within 400 yards of the house and they realised that the actual number of Indians was nearer 50, with the rest being unmounted horses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They halted, and the mounted men galloped to within 50 yards of the ditch, fanned out and surrounded them on all sides, and again halted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seymour instructed everyone in his party not to fire until it was clear that their intentions were hostile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They stood facing them, waiting until they came closer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“...Lisada now shouted out that if they wished to fight we were quite ready to accommodate them, at which intimation a short parley took place among the Indians, after which 3 of them rode close up to the edge of the ditch, first leaving their long spears stuck in the ground, and one who was evidently a </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">gaucho<i> acting as interpreter, said that the </i></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">cacique<i> (the chieftain) wished to speak with the owner of the </i><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">estancia</span>.<i><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">I therefore put down my gun and revolver, and walked forward to the edge of the ditch to meet the </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">cacique <i>and his two attendants, having first desired my companions to fire at once if they saw any symptoms of treachery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The conversation was conducted through the interpreter, as the two Indians could only speak a word or two of Spanish, and was begun by the </i>cacique <i>expressing a wish to come into our house, which polite offer I respectfully but firmly declined.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He then told us he had lost his way, the party having come out on an expedition for hunting ostriches, and had not the least wish to injure us, but was, on the contrary, extremely anxious for our friendship.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9tzHvsnsY14cAAFtglje0ADYGHAHRjlfoXcUt2YGlPZ7gPy3K3Bt1unfxh0GJUoV8UByAABJZdqiaFNKw6hmzYztqnMeET5wNo4kvGDCaiTgjmtvXzljJX-7tGi4PsWSllix-int9_Eo/s1600/Ranquel1.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_lm_139743="null" cua="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9tzHvsnsY14cAAFtglje0ADYGHAHRjlfoXcUt2YGlPZ7gPy3K3Bt1unfxh0GJUoV8UByAABJZdqiaFNKw6hmzYztqnMeET5wNo4kvGDCaiTgjmtvXzljJX-7tGi4PsWSllix-int9_Eo/s1600/Ranquel1.bmp" /></a><i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">While this conversation had been going on, the rest of the Indians had come up close behind the </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">cacique<i>, having also left their spears stuck in the ground; they talked rapidly among themselves, but of course we could not understand a word they said, and only two or three of them appeared to understand any Spanish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were small wiry-looking men, with very black hair falling over their shoulders, flat faces with high cheek-bones, and no beard or whisker, and dark coppery complexions....<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All were dressed in the </i>Gaucho<i> costume as far as they were dressed at all, some few possessing decent clothes; one, I remember, wore an officer’s coat, having probably murdered the unfortunate owner; but most of them were without hats, and had only a handkerchief tied over their matted locks, and all were excessively dirty.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">cacique<i>, an old man with grey hair, was better got-up than the rest, wearing a large gaily-coloured poncho.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their arms consisted of spears about </i></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">10 ft long</span><i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">, many of them ornamented with bunches of feathers tied round the handles; and </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">bolas<i>, which they carried either round their waists or attached to the pommel of the saddle.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The conversation continued in the same amicable tone, the </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">cacique<i> next mentioning that he was very poor, and would be glad if we would give his men some clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This request I at once complied with, and brought out a few old things, presenting him with an old straw hat of my own, which he at once placed on his head with evident satisfaction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also gave them some </i>caña<i> and tobacco, and Lisada and our other peon, seeing the friendly turn affairs had taken, crossed the ditch and handed cigarettes to our visitors, conversing with the interpreter, the only one of the party who dismounted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whether this excellent man had been previously known to our equally respectable </i>capataz<i>, I cannot say, but they talked to each other with great apparent interest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The </i>Gauchos<i> who reside with the Indians have usually committed some atrocious crime which places them beyond the pale even of </i>Gaucho<i> civilisation.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">cacique<i> made repeated declarations that nothing should induce him to injure his new and dear friends, or tempt him to touch their horses, and as we felt very uneasy lest they should fall in with Frank and his companions, whom we were every day expecting with the sheep, we said something about them, when the obliging cacique assured us again that, being friends of ours, they need fear nothing from him.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">After staying nearly an hour they all rode slowly off, but before they went we crossed the ditch one by one, and shook hands with the </span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">cacique<i>, who was able to say </i>“Adios amigo”.<i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were watching the departure of our unexpected and unwelcome visitors with feelings of extreme joy, when to our dismay, we suddenly saw them all draw up on the rising ground about a mile from our house, when half their party rode towards our horses, and in a few minutes they had driven them up to their own troop of unmounted horses, and the whole body were off like the wind, in a northerly direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was impossible to pursue them, as we had only three indifferent horses, on one of which however, Lisada galloped after them for some little distance, shouting like a madman, but I am sure he had not the least intention of overtaking them.”</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Lisada later explained to them that the troop had left them unharmed because they had observed quantity of weapons at their disposal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A neighbouring farm was not so lucky when they were raided the following day, its owner divested of most of his possessions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, their neighbour had recognised the straw hat being worn by the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cacique</i> and with sorrow concluded wrongly that Seymour himself had perished.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><em>Bibliography will be listed on the final post.</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><em>Next time: Indians and Gauchos</em></span></div>
Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-43049454305303393712014-01-30T00:47:00.001+00:002014-02-27T23:23:56.323+00:00The Story of the Village of Bell Ville, Córdoba, Argentina (Part 1 of 7)<div align="justify">
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I’ve long wished to tell this story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bell Ville is not that different from many villages which grew into towns the length and breadth of the Americas, but I feel strongly that not many of their histories are recorded, and they deserve to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve drawn extensively from a book written in the mid nineteenth century by Richard Seymour, an English pioneer farmer who spent only three years in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Argentina</st1:city></st1:country-region></st1:place> (1865-8) but managed to pack a wealth of experience into that short time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He lived between excitement and fear – excitement because he fell in love with the land and its climate; fear because he had not reckoned with the number of native indian incursions and the human, livestock and financial losses constantly sustained as a result.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The people to whom I refer as indians or natives are the original tribes of <st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Argentina</st1:city></st1:country-region> brutally wiped out almost completely in 1878-9, barely ten years after Richard Seymour had returned to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">England</st1:city></st1:country-region></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now we perceive them as wronged and cruelly treated, part of the population which was merely trying to survive in a world where being hunter gatherers had become an anachronism and threatened the lives and livelihoods of the rest, the agricultural society and the city dwellers. But at the time they were regarded as pests and standing in the way of progress. They were also unfortunate enough to inhabit some of the most fertile land on the continent.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The constant threat they posed was ignored for decades by a government far more concerned with sending soldiers to their war with <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Paraguay</st1:city></st1:country-region></st1:place> than in using them to defend the indian frontiers at home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pioneer farmers felt abandoned to their fate, and many such as Richard Seymour opted to return to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">England</st1:city></st1:country-region></st1:place>.</span></span></i></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Pink blob marks the location of Bell Ville</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: x-small;">Province of Córdoba - Bell Ville is in the centre of the red square.</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">-oOo-<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 16pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">When it was called Fraile Muerto<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">During a hot summer in the early 1970’s my mother and I were travelling by car to visit relations in the province of Córdoba, Argentina, when on impulse she suggested we make a small detour to visit the village of Bell Ville, where she was born in 1922 and spent her early years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps she could find the house – it had been at least forty years since she had last seen it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In the seventies the village was identical to thousands of other rural villages – laid on a grid system with very wide streets lined with plane trees planted in specially dug square holes edged in concrete at equal intervals on the pavement, pruned to within an inch of their lives and trunks painted white up to the six foot mark, looking like survivors of an immemorial flood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Overhead cables were lazily draped across the streets here and there, sagging in the middle and swaying when there was a breeze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was siesta time; the only life to be seen was the occasional dog scratching itself in a shady corner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a very large <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">plaza</i> in the middle of the village, complete with mature trees, criss-crossed at right angles by tiled paths and at the intersection the inevitable equestrian</span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"> statue positioned in the middle of a dry fountain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During windy periods dust swirled round the village making doors slam and old windmills clank.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">We found the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was now a couturier’s shop, and although the ground floor had been opened up and most of the internal walls removed, the front door and entrance hall were, she said, exactly the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It made her misty eyed to remember the design of the old tiles on floor and walls up to waist height, not to mention the heavy wrought iron door with its glass panes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I was about eighteen then, and from this distance in time very much regret that I had not yet become interested in photography.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus I have no record of that visit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My mother used to tell us about Bell Ville, a proud little village where Anglo Saxon adventurers had arrived in the mid nineteenth century in search of good land to farm and from which they hoped to become rich by dint of hard work; and later where Italian immigrants had sought refuge from conflict and poverty at the turn of the century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was a descendant of both.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Back then, a century before she was born, there were also wanderers from the capital Buenos Aires seeking their fortunes, where failure in one village made them move on to the next; soldiers turned vagabonds and vice versa; and always in the background the original native hunter gatherer peoples (the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ranquel</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tehuelche</i> tribes) who once had had the land to themselves and now regarded the settlers with hostility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indeed it was mutual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No longer able to roam as before, there were easy pickings to be had from the farms, and the tribes regularly staged long distance cattle rustling incursions which included violence to their proprietors and workforces. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Bell Ville’s story is typical of small urban settlements all over the world which grew into towns, weaving struggle and triumph with tragedy, achievement with failure; farmers gambling with the weather and waiting for help from the central government of the day in the form of soldiers to protect them and laws to safeguard their livelihoods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lives were spent surviving from one day to the next with no time to record these efforts in any detail, and there are few contemporary accounts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is therefore up to us the descendants to piece it all together so that it is not forgotten.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I have tried to assemble what little there is to give readers a flavour of how the area evolved, but have concentrated on Bell Ville as it was, trusting that there is plenty of information in existence about the modern day town.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Argentina had once been under Spanish rule, but achieved its independence in 1816. The turmoil continued for many decades afterwards, and short-term chancers aside, during this time few foreigners saw it as a good long term investment. This was to follow later.</span></span></st1:city></st1:country-region></st1:place></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The land itself is unchanging. Nowadays there are sweeping vistas of soya, wheat, sunflower and maize crops. In the beginning you would have seen gentle undulating pastureland of tufted grass; dark, richly fertile and humid topsoil 50 cm deep at barely 130 metres above sea level crossed by a substantial river, the <em>Río Tercero,</em> part of a system that eventually flows into the Altantic. In the early days the fauna and flora were rich and varied, the size of the river fish beyond myth - this we know from the memoirs of Richard Seymour - <em>Pioneering in the Pampas (1869).</em></span></span></span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: x-small;">The picture on the cover is in fact his brother </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: x-small;">Walter, who is mentioned later on.</span></em></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj3KX9yWKqJrIFicDLD4utaGlBDHTrujudOx2A4Opo10LunXRg3-jxWoR_1ffmWonXCoYA1hAyWIIlfVLrQkgICkU-cyN63i2Hc0yq42xGS1b3_URt4XFayuMM4y07AZxOSjRmwc__YCA/s1600/Walter+Seymour.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_lm_139743="null" cua="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj3KX9yWKqJrIFicDLD4utaGlBDHTrujudOx2A4Opo10LunXRg3-jxWoR_1ffmWonXCoYA1hAyWIIlfVLrQkgICkU-cyN63i2Hc0yq42xGS1b3_URt4XFayuMM4y07AZxOSjRmwc__YCA/s1600/Walter+Seymour.jpg" height="320" style="cursor: move;" unselectable="on" width="214" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It was natural therefore, that the region should be well frequented going back to the colonial days of the sixteenth century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was then part of the viceroyalty of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alto Perú</i> which at its height stretched from Patagonia to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Colombia</st1:city></st1:country-region></st1:place> at either end of the Latin American continent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The area was on the route travellers took while traversing all or part of the 3,200 km distance between <st1:city w:st="on">Buenos Aires</st1:city>, the large city in the south of the viceroyalty, and <st1:city w:st="on">Lima</st1:city>, its capital (now the capital of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:country-region w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Peru</st1:city></st1:country-region></st1:place>).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The only other choice would have been to navigate up the river Paraná.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The area was known unofficially as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fraile Muerto</i> – Dead Friar – because according to legend the body of a Catholic friar had once been found amid the carob and hackberry trees, fatally wounded by pumas or jaguars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Until 1650 it remained as a staging post, when an officer in the Spanish army and his wife purchased a large tract of land there and turned it into an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">estancia</i>, or large ranch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They called it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Our Lady of Pure and Clean Conception”,</i> but unsurprisingly it remained Fraile Muerto to most people.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">During the 18th century the area had become a fort for defence against Indian raids and later in the following century evolved into a village when the frontier moved a little further away to the surrounding land being purchased and occupied by European pioneer farmers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The village was located exactly half way between two flourishing cities, Rosario and Córdoba, and thus provided a convenient stopover for travellers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHXpccGOLHXCSNtjRgYa6qLjJ02hq_leWVtY5jRJT416rhf6j-SjPgwnx6u-0vxGWAjAiQ6o-vMV3Ui4HrFtRb1TlLGk4Jm5bjNaUA1u-4Avsfnr7cgSA5hZu0a68KJspsGDQkBLgWkXc/s1600/HilarioAscasubi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_lm_139743="null" cua="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHXpccGOLHXCSNtjRgYa6qLjJ02hq_leWVtY5jRJT416rhf6j-SjPgwnx6u-0vxGWAjAiQ6o-vMV3Ui4HrFtRb1TlLGk4Jm5bjNaUA1u-4Avsfnr7cgSA5hZu0a68KJspsGDQkBLgWkXc/s1600/HilarioAscasubi.jpg" height="200" width="143" /></a><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">For some there was no choice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1807 Mariano and the heavily pregnant Loreta Ascasubi, descendants of freed slaves, were making their way to Buenos Aires in a horse-drawn cart to attend a wedding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When they reached Fraile Muerto her waters broke, and she gave birth in the back of the vehicle to a little boy, Hilario.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When this child grew up he became one of the best exponents of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">gaucho </i>literature, as every Argentine primary school pupil knows.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In the environs there were pitched battles not only between the creoles and <i>Ranquel</i> Indians, but also between opposing political factions, the federalists (supporters of provincial autonomous government) and unitarians (who wanted a government centralised in Buenos Aires, the capital).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of its battles in November 1818 was so local in fact, that it was named <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">El Combate de Fraile Muerto</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The charismatic local leader, federalist Felipe Álvarez was captured and taken as prisoner to the city of Mendoza in the foothills of the Andes, where he was executed. <em>(Commemorated in the painting below. Felipe Alvarez is seated, and in uniform)</em><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">By government order his head was returned to Fraile Muerto, where it was put on display on a pike in the public <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">plaza</i>, until pressure from the family persuaded officials to take it down so they could give it a decent burial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The civil war was to rumble on sporadically for several decades until 1852.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In the meantime, the village was visited by a delegation from the Vatican in 1824 which was on its way to Chile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a great honour for the devout and God-fearing Catholic community of Fraile Muerto, which at this stage still only numbered some two hundred souls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nevertheless they spared no expense to make them welcome and the Delegation was so impressed in fact that as a sign of their gratitude, they promised on their return to Rome to send them a painting of the Virgin for their church.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This did indeed take place, though the process took a long time; the painting of the Immaculate Conception finally arrived 103 years later in 1927, and now adorns a parish church of the same name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><em>Iglesia de la Inmaculada Concepción, Bell Ville</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It was all the more venerated because one of the senior members of that 1824 Delegation – by name Giovanni Maria Mastai-Ferretti – became Pope Pius IX twenty-two years later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He served for 32 years, the longest reigning elected pope in the history of the Catholic Church and the first ever to have visited South America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He died in 1879, and my mother remembered her Italian grandmother – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">la Nonna –</i> referring to him as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">il Pio Nono di santa memoria</i> and quoting the oldest locals who remembered his visit as a young man when they were children.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In the 1850s there was at last an effort to deal with the village’s outlandish name, and it was re-christened San Jerónimo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The governor of the province declared that the old name was “inconvenient”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It did not however take off, and “Dead Friar” it remained.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The country as a whole was ripe for foreign investment, with vast expanses of very fertile land waiting to be used and few nationals able to afford it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Bibliography will be listed at the end of the final post. Anyone wanting credits for their photographs, please let me know. </em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Next instalment: the arrival of the English pioneers and their first encounters with the indians.</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: red; font-size: small;"><strong><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2014/02/the-story-of-village-of-bell-ville.html">Go to Part 2</a></strong></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It would have been John’s birthday today, 13th November.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He died almost 8 months ago, but to me it feels like only yesterday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In that time I’ve gone through various stages – and not necessarily the ones labelled by psychologists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A blogging friend in Chile said something that made sense, that I can consider myself to be over the worst when I can look back with nostalgia instead of pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m still wondering how long it will be before I stop feeling that I’ve been cast out to sea towards some unknown and distant shore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The legal issues when a person dies are only just being resolved now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were things of John’s I wanted to keep, and most of the rest were sent to good homes, but there were plenty I forgot about, and they have appeared around the house to surprise me and make my heart stop from time to time – brandy still in his brandy flask; his little stash of 50 pence pieces for the bridge toll; his favourite ginger jellies languishing at the bottom of a large jar; a box with his witty musical compositions; his metronome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Christmas is looming, and I wish I could disappear to a desert island till the new year, instead of avoiding invitations where I can, and sleepwalking through the ones I can’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not lonely and have always been fine in my own company – it’s the absence of John himself; the absence of his devotion, nobility, generosity and loyalty that’s the problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know that by shutting myself away I risk being forgotten about, but that will have to take care of itself when the time comes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Another sadness hit me in August – one of our beloved companions, our 12 year old ginger cat Rusty had to be put to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unbeknown to me he used to wander up the road – 10-15 houses away – and he had made friends with an old man who must have reminded him of John, and was there for him during the day when I wasn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This man fed him, and as Rusty was diabetic, I was therefore getting his insulin wrong because I thought his appetite had slowed down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In any case I was being very careful with the dosage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Giving him too much insulin had resulted in a terrifying hypo during April when the vet only just managed to save him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hadn’t reckoned with this new unknown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">One night he didn’t come in when I called him... and called him and called him till 1.30 a.m., and eventually gave up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish I had done what John would have done, to walk up the road calling his name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My neighbours discovered the following day that he had taken refuge in one of the old man’s thorny bushes when his hind quarters inexplicably ceased to function; unable to defend himself blowflies got to him and he was heard crying all night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have heard him if I had not been too nervous to walk up the road in the dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would not have been able to save his life, I know that, but oh I could have shortened his torment, poor little mite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Unaware of all this, I was anxious when I left for work the following morning and I asked my neighbours to look out for him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They called me at work a few hours later when he was found, and we rushed him to the vet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He explained gently to me that there was nothing further that could be done other than to numb his hind quarters and then put him to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stroked him till I felt his life ebb away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">His ashes will go on John’s grave when I put red roses on it today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Now it’s just his brother Banjo and me, and we’ve got closer than I ever thought a human and a cat could get.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I imagine he’s motivated by anxiety that his remaining meal ticket might get sick and go away too, but I also need him, and we comfort each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I’m obviously sad he sits very close and rests one or both paws on my knee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m so grateful he’s nervous of other people and is not the wandering type, which I think will help protect him from venturing into trouble as Rusty did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Blogger friends know I love to write, and it’s a good distraction – I’m perfectly aware that this blog has been silent for too long, and I’m struggling to write a post which is turning out much longer than I expected and will probably have several parts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve no idea if the story of a remote village on the Indian frontier in Argentina in the mid nineteenth century will be of interest, but I hope some will find it so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sure that readers from the North American continent will find it follows a familiar pattern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’d never make a good writer of history books – I need to be emotionally involved in what I’m telling you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want it to shock you as it shocked me, make you laugh and cry as I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Overall I suppose I’m trying to say “Argentina is a wonderful place; its heart and soul is not what you read in the newspapers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let me tell you about the extraordinary people who made this land.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(And sometimes about the quirks of my own family).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">To finish, I’d like to show you a scan of John’s last birthday card from me in November last year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been nagging him about the idiocy of owning a mobile phone and never leaving it switched on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brought up during the war, the “Don’t-waste-the-battery” litany was hard to break.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Don’t give up on me – I’ll be writing about more cheerful subjects soon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Meantime, don’t forget I’m still working at keeping my other blog going with daily brief entries – Eavesdroppings and Stories – <a href="http://www.eavesdroppings4u.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">just click on this link</span></a>.</span></div>
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Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-67002760751796279102013-08-10T02:34:00.000+01:002013-08-13T00:47:59.194+01:00Rescue in Somuncurá, Patagonia<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><em>(None of the pictures in this post are mine - alas. If the authors recognise their own pictures, would they please tell me and I'll be delighted to give them the credit)</em> </span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Somuncurá Plateau</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">When I visited Patagonia in 2008 and 2009 researching and photographing the background to the book I was translating, it was like going back in time to when Argentina was more relaxed and strangers were courteous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I loved the silent landscape, the endless horizons, the whistle of the wind and the view of the entire hemisphere’s Milky Way at night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I daydreamed of settling there, with my own little house in a quiet backwater at the foot of the Andes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">But life called me back to my place in Bristol, UK, and I made my regretful farewells.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Back in the real world I got into the habit of browsing online Argentine newspapers, keeping up to date with both my homeland as a whole and in particular the region of which I had grown so fond.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used to describe it – and the tendency has grown stronger over the years – as being a bird circling Patagonia on thermals, hovering high above and far away, looking down with affection at what was going on, yet unable to land.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">Last week I was captivated by a curious story in the online version of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Río Negro</i> newspaper, which took me on my thermal to the plateau of Somuncurá, a 35,000 square kilometre, stretch of basalt 1000 metres above sea level in the provinces of Río Negro and Chubut.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">It has expired volcanoes so ancient that the land is now only gently undulating, with occasional hills, shallow valleys and a few lakes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fossils prove it was once under the sea, and today it is home to unique species of flora and fauna, the most unusual being the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mojarra desnuda</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #d9ead3;">(</span></i></span><span class="st1"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #d9ead3; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Gymnocharacinus bergii)</span></i></span><span class="st1"><span style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif'; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">or a miniature species of river bream, measuring barely three inches in length and completely devoid of scales – hence it includes ‘naked’ in its name, and is found nowhere else in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<em>Mojarra Desnuda</em><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">There are said to be vast reservoirs of water underground, but little of it reaches the surface, where rare species thrive – long legged black and grey frogs measuring 2.4 cm, multicoloured lizards and small creatures known locally as rats without tails which are in fact a species of marsupial.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Research remains sketchy and there is much to learn; not only about the fauna and flora.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Recently a crater measuring 5km in diameter was discovered by means of satellite images; the eventual analysis of its rocks rich in nickel, aluminium and cobalt should yield much about the history of the earth at those latitudes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">For humans it is an inhospitable place – in the native Mapuche language, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Somun</i> means speaking, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">curá</i> means rock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rock that speaks – referring to the Andean and Antarctic winds that howl there for most of the year except in summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Temperatures fluctuate between -36 and + 35 degrees centigrade; 200mm of rain fall on it per year, some of it as snow.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">Its population per square kilometre is a meagre 5 and mainly consists of people from the original Tehuelche and Mapuche tribes – the only ones who are inured to the tough conditions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are in the main <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">crianceros</i>, or livestock herders, and live with their families in huts made of stone and move around on horseback, since there are few proper roads.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">They have no amenities, and their means of communication across the distances owes nothing to technology.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A type of resinous cactus bush grows there (probably the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maihuenia patagonica</i>), and specimens located at a high point when set on fire serve the dual purpose of boasting to your neighbours that you are the first up in the morning, or if you have not heard from them in some time, to ask them whether they are alright.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You then ride over to check on them if you have received no reply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">The story I read is about one such case last week. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is mid-winter.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">A shepherd had ridden to the town of Sierra Grande to report that an outpost 180 km away was experiencing difficulties.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Torres-Liempi family was composed of three people, two of which were of advanced age, and in poor health.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They had not been seen for fifteen days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">A rescue team was scrambled in Sierra Grande. Five fire-fighters and a male nurse with the shepherd as guide set off early on Wednesday 31st July in the fire engine, stopping off at the village of Arroyo Ventana to collect the council representative for the area,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a local resident and a further male nurse driving the village’s ambulance, and a policeman using his own patrol car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were therefore 11 people and 3 vehicles.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">It was very tough going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The convoy skidded about in the snow and mud and made very slow progress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By two in the afternoon all three vehicles had got stuck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The decision was made to continue on foot, and five of them -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> one of the</span> fire fighters, both nurses, the guide and the policeman - donned backpacks and set off cross country taking short cuts to reach the remote outpost before dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They trudged over the whitened landscape for 20 km skirting round hills and following guanaco paths, finally arriving at the home of the Torres-Liempi.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">There they were surprised to find the family in good health. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The wires had got crossed somewhere along the line and there was no emergency. The family admitted however that they were running a bit short of food and were rationing what guanaco meat they had left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">It was now dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The team left them the basic emergency provisions they had brought with them, and immediately departed again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Torres-Liempi, they said, were in fine fettle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">The return journey to the stuck vehicles was even more exhausting, as the cold of night had clamped down on them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By 9.30 p.m. they were back with the rest of the party, and their short wave radios were not working because of the cold, so no communication with the nearest village was possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ambulance was the only extricable vehicle, and six of the eleven people crammed into it and limped slowly back, reaching the nearest village at 3 in the morning.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">On Thursday 1<sup>st</sup> August Sierra Grande sent out a team to rescue the remaining six people who had remained with the fire engine and the patrol car in temperatures way below zero, and a trailer was despatched at the same time from San Antonio to collect the stuck vehicles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">The reporter writing up the story on Friday 2<sup>nd</sup> August told readers that as at the time of going to press, these last two rescue teams had not returned to Sierra Grande and could be lost.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">Since reading this story I have been thinking a lot about how we take our technology for granted, our modern roads, our easy lives. One phonecall would have sufficed ... and perhaps a four-wheel driven vehicle. I wonder if even in Buenos Aires, the modern capital, people are aware of how tough life is for some of their compatriots.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">-oOo-</span></div>
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Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-30145756634110650222013-07-30T23:44:00.000+01:002013-07-31T12:51:50.126+01:00Life After John<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">I was sitting on my back patio one evening a fortnight ago, looking out at the small garden which is very dry at the moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been a very hot day, with no rain for weeks – most unusual in this green and pleasant land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My thoughts were far away but I suddenly became aware of two things – firstly that my two cats had quietly joined me and were sitting at my feet, and secondly that the scent of honeysuckle emanating from the hedge was so powerful that it had interrupted my reveries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘That’s the lonicera’</i>, I thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">‘what a gorgeous perfume’…<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">From there it was just a step away from remembering that this is my blog name, and that I love my blog and don’t wish to abandon it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since then on several occasions I have sat at my computer looking at my last few entries, got bogged down and just stared into space.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But after several goes (when Freecell won), here I am, determined that I’m going to write a post.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Shortly I’ll be telling the story of Bell Ville, the village in Argentina where my grandmother and mother grew up, and have done all the research.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But first I would like to catch up with any readers I have left and who have been kind enough to ask me how I am.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">It has been four and a half months since John died, and all I can think of to say is that I could never have envisaged how hard it would be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I guessed at the crushing sadness I would feel, how much I would miss him, but didn’t realise how my mental state would dictate my behaviour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t want to go out, I don’t want to communicate, I can’t manage small talk, in fact I’d rather not talk at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hate bright light; I hate noise and bustle, I crave silence although I can’t shake off the feeling that I’m screaming in a void and nobody can hear me, not even myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">I don’t care much about myself either, and am very grateful to the happy few who help me keep the house clean, the garden under control, the cat litter changed and the light bulbs replaced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Long, soothing showers help, and as many hours of sleep as I can manage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the very beginning when I went to bed at night I would think – stupidly – that perhaps I would not wake up, or if I did I would find it had all been a bad dream; then later that John would come to me in dreams and talk to me – he didn’t -, and latterly it has just been a form of escape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Unfortunately it doesn’t stop there either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being the sort of person I am (this blog did after all start out as group therapy for living with the gastric band) I’m eating the wrong things, partly because I now have to do the washing up (!) and I can’t be bothered to cook properly except once in a while, and because certain foods give me pleasure to eat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t confuse this with comfort food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mash potato is comfort food.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ice-cream is just pleasure, and very bad for my diabetes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Merely giving myself a lot of insulin isn’t the answer, and I struggle to bring it under control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> to care; when I’m older and suffer the effects of my self-neglect I’ll certainly care, I’m sure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">I watch more television now than I have for years, staring at the screen and zapping backwards and forwards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The British sitcoms are all old, I’ve seen them a million times – but <i>Big Bang Theory</i> is new to me, and it’s the only regular programme that makes me laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has also been good to see films from start to finish without interruptions, and <i>Brokeback Mountain</i> has been a wonderful discovery, joining the pantheon of my all-time greats such as <i>The Shawshank Redemption</i> and <i>Silent Witness</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">I read a lot too, mainly on my Asus Eeepad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve become absorbed in biographies of celebrities I was fascinated by as a teenager – Jackie Kennedy, Grace Kelly, Natalie Wood, Elizabeth Taylor, Queen Sofía of Spain - because it’s easy reading and I don’t have to work too hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Last Saturday I read for seven hours straight; it was wonderful to forget about the world for that long.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Sometimes I deliberately conjure up John’s more annoying habits, but give up when I find myself wishing there were around to irritate me again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I sold his car I cleaned it out before it was collected, and in the door pocket I found a small pack of cigarettes with 8 of the 10 gone, and a lighter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had stopped smoking in 1999, so I was now looking at an aspect of John I had missed completely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No wonder he had insisted on continuing to drive right up until he went into hospital; it was the only place he could smoke without me to nag him, and it was hardly going to make any difference then to his lung cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fact that it was a small carton meant that it was occasional – there were indeed times when I said I smelled smoke on him, and he would reply indignantly that sometimes he found himself with smokers, and must he take the blame for them too?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perhaps it was his only pleasure, like me and my ice-cream.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The cats are my companions, they stick to me like glue when I’m not at work, and when I’m clearly upset Banjo jumps onto the sofa, sits down beside me and puts a paw or two on my knee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have the proof every day that cats are not merely self-interested animals, and that they are capable of great affection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know what I’d do without them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Plenty of humans have helped me too, and I’m grateful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For my 60<sup>th</sup> birthday in mid June my friend Michèle and her husband with her daughter and family came over from Argentina for a holiday and spent a few days with me, and my sister and brother-in-law joined me for the day when we all went out for a birthday lunch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A couple of weeks’ later we gathered on the south coast at the home of an aunt who had recently lost her husband of nearly 70 years, and when my niece, her husband and His Gorgeousness my adorable great nephew aged 4 came along too, as well as my uncle, aunt and cousin from Guildford.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My sister made a beautiful birthday cake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was unexpectedly<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>comforting to be surrounded by relations who had known me for so long.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">On the actual day of my birthday, Saturday 15<sup>th</sup> June, I had a houseful of people – seven of us altogether counting Michèle’s two grandchildren, when the doorbell rang and flowers were delivered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to sit down when I read the card that came with them – <i>Happy birthday Tich, from Humph</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learned later from John’s daughter Jo that when she had been visiting him in hospital in February, he had asked her that in case he wasn’t around for my birthday, would she send me something nice from him, and she promised she would.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And here, almost three months to the day since his passing, was a beautiful bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine from him (see picture top of post).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>My only thank you undelivered.</span><br />
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Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-45110040072054264032013-04-30T00:45:00.004+01:002013-07-17T14:49:02.395+01:00Help me to be a better driver<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span> <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Last Autumn I was visiting relations near Worthing on the south coast, and unbeknown to me was clocked doing 57 mph in a 50 mph speed limit area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The forbidding-looking Penalty Notice in bold black print arrived a week later, which informed me that I could either have points on my licence or I could attend a half-day speed awareness driving course in the geographical area where the offence was committed – a two-hour drive away from Bristol.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">I opted for the latter (most people do) and presented myself on a cold January morning just after New Year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been on one of these courses before in Bristol six years earlier, and knew what to expect, but was interested to find out whether the focus of the course had improved or varied from one region to another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not really in both cases: it left me once again wanting to have a rant – and this time I’ve got a blog on which to do it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The speakers rambled through the importance of keeping to the speed limit, the potential fatal results to yourself and others if you don’t, the distances you need in which to come to a halt after braking according to the speed you’re doing and the prevailing weather conditions, a terrifying video about an accident, quizzes to test our knowledge on speeds, distances, survival rates, percentage of different types of accidents in the United Kingdom, the dizzying multiple rules about speed limits according to what sort of road, how many lamp posts there are as you’re going through a village (yes, really) and so on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was all very worthy and valid, and it was important to be reminded of these facts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">My rant is that this is simply not enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Give me the facts, certainly – but it’s essential to address the psychological reasons why people speed, carve each other up and are generally inconsiderate on the road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We need to be forced to confront ourselves and our insane behaviour when we’re behind the wheel, and to be given the tools to deal with it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">This is what drivers need above all:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Road Rage</span></u></b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How to stop ourselves from feeling road rage – what anger management arguments will stop us in our tracks?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How should we react when others show road rage towards us?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How should we deal with a driving situation caused by another vehicle which is patently unfair to us?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Age.</span></u></b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The age factor – the younger and more hormonal men and women are, the more intolerant and quick to anger we are likely to feel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The older we are the more likely we are to make mistakes;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Unrelated problems</span></u></b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we’re on the road, how to compartmentalise our personal problems so that they don’t affect our driving;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Asleep at the wheel</span></u></b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How to deal with tiredness and general lack of concentration – apart from opening the window and turning on the radio;<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Competitive behaviour</span></u></b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How to deal with competitiveness on the road: I’m not talking about being boy racers here, but a situation that happens to me every morning, on a stretch of motorway with a 50 mph speed limit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The car in the next lane is large, and doing (say) 50 mph, and I’m in a small car being squeezed over, with another car behind me – so tempting to up the speed slightly to 55 mph “just to get passed him”, yet we risk being caught by speed cameras.</span></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Lorries</span></u></b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> E</span>uropean lorry drivers urgently need to be taught all this on refresher courses every year, as they drive for a living, and tend to use their large vehicles to gain advantage – like the classic bully in the playground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The type of accidents their mistakes cause are far more serious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m tired of hearing that x number of people were killed because the continental driver forgot that we drive on the left.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">There is one area – drinking and driving – where in this country all these aspects are dealt with strongly via powerful advertising and in other media, and I understand that drink and drive accidents are lower than in many other parts of the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I believe we have the Scandinavian example to thank for that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The course was a half day one – and I believe that what I’ve mentioned above needs at least another half day, and should not be restricted to people who have been caught speeding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We should all be forced to go on these courses with refreshers every two years, or risk losing our licences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The extra cost should be met by us the drivers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">At both courses six years apart I asked the question about dealing with these psychological issues, which after all lie at the bottom of most road incidents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was told there were no plans to incorporate this into their course, and it would be too expensive anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None of the speakers said “Good idea though”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the attendees was a barrister (lawyer) of some standing in London who drives a sports car and in a jokey fashion conveyed how he was rather proud of the way he had avoided speeding offences (up until this one, that is).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would say he was in dire need of being pulled up by his bootstraps and being forced to go on a driving psychology course, if it only existed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Is this a woman’s viewpoint then?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Does male pride come into it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">This is a crowded little country where most adults own cars, goods are rarely transported by rail and lorries from the continent are now permitted free access, including the very heavy goods vehicles, for which roads and bridges have been strengthened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is a lethal cocktail, and it is unlikely that drivers will be persuaded to give up their cars for public transport.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Do you have the same problems in your country?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do drivers respect speed limits?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do they respect drink and drive laws?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">I’d love to know your thoughts on this – if you think I’m wrong, do tell me why.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><strong><u><span style="font-size: large;">Photo Finish</span></u></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><strong><u><span style="font-size: large;">From Lonicera's digital archive</span></u></strong></span></div>
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Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-44626836433830203032013-04-07T18:08:00.002+01:002013-04-30T13:15:37.978+01:00Good night and God bless (II)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>John Dillon Humphreys, 13/11/1927 – 18/03/2013</strong></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is the text of my tribute to John given in the church where the funeral service was held, with images from the presentation on a loop given at the venue where refreshments were offered afterwards:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">"I was loved by a wonderful man for 26 years. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I met John in 1985, when I volunteered to help backstage with the Bristol Opera company as a way to recover from divorce.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was agreed that I should dress in a peasant girl dress and cap at the forthcoming sing-through of <i>Merrie England</i>, and offer round trays of marzipan in the interval.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m amazed to think of that now; I must have been really desperate to climb out of the hole I was in to do something so conspicuous and way out of my comfort zone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">John then invited me out for dinner, assuring me over and over that he wasn’t trying to date me because there were 25 years between us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I joined the backstage team at the Bristol Opera Company helping with the makeup during the week of the opera, and I gradually started to cheer up, <i>and</i> put on weight thanks to all the dinners to which I was being treated by John.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He has always called me Tich because of my height, but the irony did not and continues not to escape me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I learned about his working life as a civil engineer, and on one occasion we travelled round the country visiting various dams he had been involved in, notably Winscar, the first asphaltic concrete dam in England, of which he was the proud designer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still can’t believe that he encouraged me to bring along tapes of music I liked, because he told me he would be interested to hear them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were mostly folk music, to which he listened politely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Knowing now of his total intolerance to any music that wasn’t classical, I appreciate that he must have been trying to impress me big time by pretending to like my favourite group, Steeleye Span - or “Stainless Steel”, as he called them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took him to one of their concerts once, and he could barely restrain himself from covering his ears.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I got to know him and gradually his family - Simon, Alison, Jo and their mother Blanche, and sometimes accompanied John and his elder daughter Alison on days out, such as flying in hot air balloons, sailing round Bristol harbour and exploring local beauty spots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During this time I learned about <i>Clifton Town, </i>the folk opera about the Bristol Riots which he had written years before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He had already staged it at the Hippodrome by the time I met him, and a trimmed production took place in 1989 at the Theatre Royal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve always loved <i>Clifton Town, </i>and am grateful to Pam Rudge for singing “<i>The Song of the River Avon”</i> today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was Alison’s favourite song, and mine too, and in fact I named my house <i>Avonsong</i> after it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It would be a dream come true to be able to stage it again one day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’d like to say we shared our hobbies, but it was more a case of John sharing mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He supported me with my photography, always keen to take me on assignments, always questioning my judgment on apertures, composition or systematic errors, and using the tripod for stability to avoid camera shake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would soothe me when I panicked because the camera suddenly didn’t work, encouraged me with the results, even when they weren’t that good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We belonged to Backwell Camera Club, and he would push me to go on the evenings when I would have rather remained curled up on the sofa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A member reminded me this week that although he came to keep me company, he always had questions to ask the speakers, usually prefaced by <i>“I’m not a photographer, I’m just the stooge that accompanies Caroline Holder, and I’m known as Tripod Holder”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;">(See pic below)</span></span></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the dark as we watched the slide show of the evening you would suddenly hear the obvious sound of John noisily unscrewing the metal top of his hip flask, and saying in a loud stage whisper <i>“Fancy a tot of brandy?”</i> to everyone around him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">For 5 years he escorted me to rugby games at the Memorial Ground when Bristol were playing at home, back when they were in the first division and I was taking pictures of the game for their programmes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John and I would sit on the touchline usually in the pouring rain or sleet, munching his way through hard boiled eggs with bread and butter, Kit Kats, taking slugs of brandy while still managing to puff his way through a cigarette and hang on to my next roll of film, and call out instructions on which direction I should run to catch the try.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The miserable weather conditions which seem to go with rugby got to me in the end, but John was disappointed when I stopped.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the last few years I have discovered the joy of blog writing, and John insisted on vetting the text before I uploaded it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He always had valid points to contribute and mistakes to correct.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh yes, there was nothing he liked better than finding spelling errors.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He was unimpressed by my interest in languages though, sharing the popular belief that Englishmen are no good at foreign languages so you might as well stick to English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He certainly proved himself right once when he was designated by his firm to entertain a bus load of visiting French civil engineers on a tour of various dams, and in an attempt to communicate better with them, as they traversed and earth-filled dam he conveyed his preference for large dams (forgetting that the French for dam is <i>barage</i>) by saying <i>“Moi je préfère traverser les grandes dammes</i>”, which left them open-mouthed.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I regret to say I didn’t share most of <i>his</i> hobbies, among which was inspecting anything under water, such as newts in the pond and various fish and octopus in the sea with his snorkel – it all seemed sort of creepy to me, though I found it more interesting when he started photographing them with an underwater camera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The behaviour of ants was fascinating to him, and when visiting my parents in Spain over many years he would sit by the pool staring down at the patio floor studying processions of ants, which he would follow and feed with various choice morsels to see how they reacted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One year the ants carved a route through the kitchen, up into the cupboard with the pots and pans and through a hole in the wall to the bathroom, along the rim of the bath, up the wall and out through the window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He spent a lot of time in the bathroom that year studying them, and waited in vain every subsequent year, but they had changed routes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sailing was a great love, and I failed miserably at this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was in his family, he had shared the fondness for this activity many years before with his wife Blanche – and I was absolutely pathetic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t cope with the concept of clinging on by my fingernails to a very large object swaying through water which didn’t stick to the left bank and which you couldn’t stop by braking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We went sailing on the Broads once, and he could barely conceal his disappointment with my lack of enthusiasm for standing on the deck in bracing weather, legs apart, arms akimbo, being buffeted by icy rain, and instead took refuge in the galley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had said I’d be able to sit and trail my hand in the water and photograph birds, but it transpired I was expected to “help” – it was <i>tote that barge</i> and <i>lift that bale</i>, and dodge out of the way when the sail was swinging towards me while trying not to be sick over the side.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In fact if there was a requirement for curriculum vitae for starting relationships the “hobbies” section would have ruled me out straight away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I did however share his interest for his type of music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I enjoy opera entirely thanks to John.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His performing interests moved from light opera to grand opera and in the last 10 years back to Gilbert & Sullivan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was an enthusiastic supporter of the Bristol Gilbert & Sullivan Operatic Society, not just because he loved the music, but because he loved the people who formed part of the society.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><< John singing "A policeman's lot is not a happy one" - (or as they say - not a "nappy" one...)</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I doubt they’ll ever forget how he would encourage them into evil ways at rehearsals by - again - producing his hip flask with brandy at the drop of a hat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were his other family, and he didn’t miss a rehearsal simply because he couldn’t bear to do so, even near the end when he was so ill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m so grateful to them for singing “<i>For he is an Englishman”</i> today.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Four score years and five is not a bad age to reach, and he had lived life to the full.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People will remember him as a gentle gentleman, a modest man, a kind boss who promoted staff with promise and never took the credit for their achievements, and as his former secretary Marion has told me, the most civil of engineers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I would quote to him the testimonials given by friends and colleagues, he could never understand why people liked him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<i>And yet everybody said he was such an agreeable man, and he couldn’t think why...</i> “ </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This may have been because he understood his failings – <i>mostly</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His determination to only look at the positive side of people sometimes took on the naïve attitude of speaking up for Attila the Hun because he had always been nice to <i>him</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However this didn’t extend to his instinctive dislike of certain television personalities, which I couldn’t enumerate because we would be here all day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I will tell you about one though – during the endless questionnaires asked by different medical teams in his last few weeks, to the question “any allergies?” he would reply “yes, one”, then pause as their pens were poised in the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Tony Blair” he would announce triumphantly – it took them by surprise every time.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">During the early seventies he had cause to examine his own behaviour, and over a period of 3 weeks he knelt for twenty minutes each day in Bath Abbey, where he sought unselfish answers to many questions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He eventually experienced what was for him an epiphany.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He realised that in searching for genuine selfless love within himself he had been looking in the wrong place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Love was not something within him that could be shone onto others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a light – or a loving spirit - shining onto him from outside, and all he could do was try to <i>reflect</i> it onto others.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also felt it was reflecting onto him, forgiving him his past sins and telling him he wasn’t worthless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had sought and found a way to a possible future redemption, and he often told me that he was a different person from that day onwards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This Loving Spirit was always with him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an immense comfort to him during the very sad time when the Humphreys lost Alison, and when his brother Peter died, and it enabled him to bear his own final illness with the most astonishing fortitude.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can’t quite believe I shall never again hear his footsteps coming into my study as I’m typing away, and his saying <i>“Whatcha doin’ Tich?”;</i> or watching me park the car and unable to stop himself from commenting <i>“The trouble with women is that they’ve got no spatial sense”; </i>or coming back from Waitrose with his five oysters and calling out<i> “’Tis me, I’m back!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s Handsome Jack!”</i> or in reply to someone stating “You’re such a gent”, saying <i>“It’s just my very good <u>impression</u> of a gentleman</i>”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: 'Times New Roman'; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">He had a warm, generous, loving personality and great personal integrity, </span>and was immensely proud of his children and grandchildren Jack, Katy, Frankie and Rowan.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also loved our cats, Rusty and Banjo, more than he ever believed he would.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wasn’t just my partner but my best friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He helped me through depression, he spoke up for me when he could, always gave me his full support on every decision I made, and told me off regularly for under-valuing myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he was that most extraordinary of men in my life – he loved me for myself, and for a very long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was my oak tree.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i>“Go gentle into that good night”</i>, dearest Humph, and as you used to say every night first to the cats and then to me, good night Humph, God bless."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">-oOo-</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A Prayer</span></strong></span><br />
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<strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">~ Max Ehrmann ~ </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">(1906)</span></strong><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Let me do my work each day; </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">and if the darkened hours of despair overcome me, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">may I not forget the strength that comforted me </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">in the desolation of other times. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">May I still remember the bright hours that found me walking </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">over the silent hills of my childhood, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">or dreaming on the margin of a quiet river, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">when a light glowed within me and I promised my early God </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">to have courage amid the tempests of the changing years.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Spare me from bitterness and from the sharp passions </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">of unguarded moments. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">May I not forget that poverty and riches are of the spirit.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Though the world knows me not, may my thoughts and actions be such</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">as shall keep me friendly with myself. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Lift up my eyes from the earth, and let me not forget the uses of the stars. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Forbid that I should judge others lest I condemn myself. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Let me not follow the clamour of the world, but walk calmly in my path. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Give me a few friends who will love me for what I am; </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">and keep ever burning before my vagrant steps the kindly light of hope. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And though age and infirmity overtake me, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">and I come not within sight of the castle of my dreams, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">teach me still to be thankful for life, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">and for time's olden memories that are good and sweet; </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">and may the evening's twilight find me gentle still. </span><br />
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~oOo~</div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;"><strong>A few more pictures...</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>The willing model</em></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic6m1hiFvghT0CGHgm8ms4k8qXAkTb5DknJLeqN0VyG67lIALTPWfvg8AlZgfqn2XEdZ0Qrwyd9DEfh7h_U9LH8YSuwlGE2obIjdU5QJq6MVx_OW_jvuCyB5Q1Wycu88ZZkrjhfvkqUjk/s1600/094.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="310" mta="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic6m1hiFvghT0CGHgm8ms4k8qXAkTb5DknJLeqN0VyG67lIALTPWfvg8AlZgfqn2XEdZ0Qrwyd9DEfh7h_U9LH8YSuwlGE2obIjdU5QJq6MVx_OW_jvuCyB5Q1Wycu88ZZkrjhfvkqUjk/s400/094.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">In the Doghouse</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The Shy Photographer</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A Hand Sandwich...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Christmas 2001, with my family</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The earliest picture of us taken together - about 1988</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">-oOo-</span></div>
Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-34319476999887337722013-04-05T19:06:00.004+01:002013-04-05T20:48:43.137+01:00Good night and God bless (I)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>John Dillon Humphreys, 13/11/1927 – 18/03/2013</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Gentle, noble John, my beloved partner, passed away the day after I wrote the last entry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>On 14th February he had been diagnosed with lung cancer and secondaries in his spine and liver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Barely a month and four days later his exhausted body gave up the fight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had intended to nurse him at home where the two cats he loved so much would be close by, and with the assistance of district nurses, but he never returned from his second visit to hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">His younger daughter Jo spent many hours driving up and down the motorway to provide support and company, and the load was made lighter by her presence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The time we had with him was so very brief, but I would not have had it any other way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If he had sought clinical advice about his extreme tiredness over the previous three years he may well have discovered that he had not escaped his years of smoking, and that every puff of the cigarette had been one puff of air less when he needed it the most.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However this would have meant three years of uncomfortable and painful treatment, with his strength and morale being sapped little by little, and too long to have to live with the awful truth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At first when his mind was clearer we talked to him, and he was never in any doubt about how much he was loved, and by how many.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although he knew what was happening he remained philosophical throughout and showed little inclination to examine his feelings – as usual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jo asked him once if he was frightened, and he replied “Not really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i> curious about what’s going to happen the day after...”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the last two days in hospital he slipped into unconsciousness, and on Monday 18th March I had just left at 1 p.m. after sitting with him since 5.00 a.m., and Jo was with him when he peacefully took his last breath half an hour later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That evening my ginger cat Rusty was nowhere to be found, and for the first time ever in 12 years he didn’t come bounding in when I called him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried at fifteen minute intervals till 1.30 a.m. then had to give up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John would never have gone to bed until he found him, but I was just too tired and on autopilot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I left the cat flap open but there was no sign of him the following day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My kindly neighbours saw me unable to cope with all this, and set to work – one walked up and down the road calling him and shaking a box of biscuits, and the other called at every single house in the road asking the owners to check their outbuildings in case Rusty had got shut in by mistake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no sign of him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">While Jo sorted out the intricate paperwork required after a death and contacted the vicar and funeral director, I started advising people by e-mail, and tried to explain to John in my head that in a matter of hours we had gone from a household of four down to just two – just me and Banjo, my other cat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also begged him to help me find Rusty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t think I would ever see my little ginger cat again, wondering if a fox had got him or he had wandered too far and got lost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had a chip under the skin, but who ever cares about picking up a stray cat, taking it to a vet and having it checked just in case?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It all just about pushed me over the edge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So at 1 a.m. when Rusty casually let himself in through the cat flap in the study where I was sitting, I screamed and just about squeezed the breath out of him as I blubbed at him about his poor sense of timing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He just purred.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His fur was in perfect condition, with no sign of his having been in a fight, or slept rough in the field behind the house; he wasn’t hungry – just thirsty because he had had no insulin for 36 hours – he was warm and unharmed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perfectly happy, and glad to see me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was determined to write a eulogy which I would read out myself at John’s funeral – in fact I had started it a couple of weeks’ earlier when he was still at home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Whatcha doin’ Tich?”</i> he called out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stopped and went to sit on the bed with him.</span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“You’ll never guess.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Try me”.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“I’ve started on your eulogy”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Saying anything nice?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Nope, I’m telling people just what a nasty person you were”.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We smiled at each other.</span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Will you show it to me when it’s finished?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There could be spelling mistakes...”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Of course Humph.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Don’t forget to tell them about Bath Abbey.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Of course Humph.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But we ran out of time. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Afterwards I had plenty of time in which to write it – in Britain funerals take place at least a week after someone has died, and my employers at the hospital had been generous with me, insisting that I take as much time off as I needed to look after John and recover afterwards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also had time to prepare a slide show for my digital frame with over 360 images of him, his family and friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In between times I slept, the cats with me on the bed most of the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One morning a few days after his death, the doorbell rang at 05:17 a.m.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had just changed the doorbell a fortnight earlier, from a buzzer to one with a Big Ben chime, like an old grandfather clock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first half of the chime woke me, and I had jumped out of bed in fright as the second half sounded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had no intention of answering the door; I put my head out of the dining-room window and called, but there was no one there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Annoyed, I went back to bed, and as I drew the quilt back over my head I suddenly smiled to remember that John would get up between 05:00 and 05:30 every morning to let the cats out, and that – who knows – maybe he had made the doorbell ring to tease me, and to remind me to open the cat flap.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Rusty and Banjo followed me about the house all the time, and Rusty would bring me ‘presents’ of the feathered variety (alas) to cheer me up...<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then one evening I had to go out to John’s car to collect things from the back seat, and left the front door of the house open.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bleeps and flashing lights from the remote control added to the slamming of the car door brought both of them galloping out the door at top speed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rusty realised straight away it was only me and ran off, but Banjo came right up to the car to where I was standing having just slammed the door and stared at me with his eyes as big as saucers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was absolutely no doubt that they thought John had returned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">John had asked to be buried in a church cemetery in Bathampton.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the family plot there, his elder daughter Alison had been buried in 1996.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She died at the age of 43 of complex neurological problems which had beset her from the age of 27, and he wanted to be with her, as will her mother eventually.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We had expected some 50 people to attend the funeral on Wednesday last, the 27th March, but more than twice that crammed into the small church until there was standing room only.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A song of his composition about the river Avon was sung by a professional singer friend of ours, and twenty-five members of the Bristol Gilbert & Sullivan Operatic Society came to sing one of the best known songs – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“For he is an Englishman”,</i> (from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">HMS Pinafore</i>) which described John so well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> His friend Bill read out a beautiful poem by Max Ehrmann, and </span>I read out my tribute to him without mishap and was pleased and comforted when the congregation laughed in the right places and gave me a clap at the end.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thank you, thank you for the supportive comments, and to all who showered me with flowers, cards and kind words, and to my relations and neighbours who continue to keep an eye on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has buoyed me up when I needed it most. </span></div>
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On Monday 18th March 2013 the world stopped spinning for a brief while, but now it is back on its orbit, and I must take up my life again without John’s love and support.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">(I’ll share with you the text of my tribute to John in Part II, and the poem by Max Ehrmann)</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">-oOo-</span></div>
Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-32770243763412357122013-03-17T20:42:00.004+00:002013-03-17T20:42:59.274+00:00Update on John<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Thank you so very much to the 12 kind people who left such lovely messages in the comments. I've read every single one several times over, and have felt comforted. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">John is declining faster than any of us thought, and we will probably be moving him to St Peter's Hospice in the next day or two, where they will know how to keep him comfortable as he nears the end. There I shall be able to visit him whenever and for as long as I want (hospital visiting hours are so restricting). I had wanted to care for him at home for as long as I could, but he quickly became too weak and bedridden, and he's too heavy for me to manage on my own. His intermittent mental confusion also means that he wants to move around frequently, and the district nurses who help people who are convalescing at home can't be expected to be there 24 hours a day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">Today during my four-hour visit it was the first time he did not acknowledge that he knew who I was, and I feel as lonely as it's possible to be. I have in effect already lost him. May he not tarry to feel any more pain, discomfort and helplessness.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">-oOo-</span></div>
Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-39890325014530843462013-02-25T17:05:00.001+00:002013-02-25T17:05:08.395+00:00John is ill<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">My blogging has slowed down considerably in the last couple of months, but there's no question of "I can't believe how long it's been since my last post... promise to improve" etc - this is not a blog about to be abandoned. Writing is very important to me and I have lots of ideas, but my brains are scrambled at the moment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">My partner John hurt his back in early January while pulling weeds out of the pond, and when we learned that he had fractured a vertebra we understood why he had been in such pain and put it down to osteoporosis. Many scans and a stay in hospital later we know that he has tumours up and down his spine, with the primary being in his right lung.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">He's 85 and has had a very eventful life, but when you love them it's still too short, isn't it? We've been together for 26 years and rarely argued. We've led a gentle, contented life together and now I must come to terms - as must his loving family - with the fact that we have him for only a few more months or less. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">My employers - the NHS - are being very understanding and for now are allowing me all the time I need. There are numerous practical issues to deal with and many more to come, but I'm so grateful to live in a country with an efficient system in place. There's very little I've had to organise myself - i'ts all happening automatically. In addition I've been overwhelmed by the support from family and friends, and if I hadn't gone off my food anyway, I would have the wherewithal to stuff myself with chocolates all day long.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">As for John himself, he's always been a positive person, and has developed a faith of his own, so he has been philosophical about his situation. I don't know how it will be further down the line.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I'm not as brave. I'm frightened for him, particularly of his pain, and I'm frightened for my future. I know that most people go through this, but that doesn't help me right now. I'm losing my best friend and only true fan, and there's absolutely nothing I can do about it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">-oOo-</span></div>
Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-78348874562265836022013-01-28T23:19:00.000+00:002013-02-11T23:23:43.286+00:00Tales from Elsewhere: No comments please, we’re British<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I work for the National Health Service as research administrator at a Bristol hospital – no Florence Nightingale me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m a number-crunching, spreadsheeting, mail-merging, envelope-stuffing, letter-writing, one-end-of-the-site-to-the-other-walking, glorified filing clerk, with four years behind me in the job, and probably 6 years to go till retirement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The NHS is on the whole a kind employer keen on equal treatment for all, though perhaps a little anal on paperwork and bureaucracy generally (and don’t get me started on the parking problems).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">What I’d like to tell you about today is a typical NHS situation and the equally typical British attitude towards it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Last week I had to attend the latest monthly meeting to do with the new hospital which is soaring up relentlessly around us, and which will be finished in the spring of 2014. How and where we will all fit is a giant logistical jigsaw puzzle, and this meeting was to discuss with the architects where the various research departments will be located.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I attend representing my department, and report back to our professor what was said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time however I was in a mental fog as I left the meeting – I couldn’t possibly relate what the ‘salient points’ were.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Christmas interrupted the monthly routine, so it had been a couple of months since the last meeting when Gretchen, a laboratory technician, had turned up with her month old baby, a sweet little boy who slept angelically in his carry-cot throughout the whole meeting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had already started the meeting when she arrived 20 minutes late, so we stopped to ooh and aah at the baby and she told us how she had had a natural childbirth (ouch).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was still on maternity leave, but had insisted on attending to represent her department and spent the next 20 minutes whispering about babies with her neighbour as she constantly tossed her waist-length brown wavy hair, while we tried to resume the meeting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">This time we had been located in a meeting room which could comfortably seat 6 people, however by 09:30, the start time, 12 had appeared (to the surprise of the organiser) and we had all gradually shifted round the table, squeezing together to make room for newcomers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three architects (one short, one tall and thin, one tall and corpulent) were present on this occasion, and they shuffled their huge plans around as steaming coffee mugs were hastily withdrawn and put on the floor. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Twenty minutes later we were discussing the placement of offices, desks, windows and doors when in came Gretchen, a rucksack on her back which was full to bursting, and the (now three-month old) baby on her arm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything came to a halt once again as everybody cooed, and the architects shifted uncomfortably.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thirteen adults and one baby competed for the available air – one fart and we would have had to dive out the window.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Mama then proceeded to relieve the rucksack of its contents as someone else held junior, and then she peeled off all the warm layers till she got down to a waist-length woolly poncho.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Five minutes later the large architect looked over the rims of his spectacles to check that he could start again, and the meeting resumed, while Gretchen had a further five minutes of whispered chat with her neighbour.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were very cramped, with shoulders firmly touching, and I had a corner of the table wedged in my chest – one good shove from behind and it would have been death by misadventure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Presently junior whimpered slightly, and mama fumbled underneath her poncho (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no</i>, I thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">surely</i> not) and baby’s head disappeared underneath it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr big architect’s face was a picture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He faltered mid-sentence, got distracted, fumbled with the plans, stopped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All three looked profoundly embarrassed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other people stepped in with questions, he recovered, resumed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gretchen asked questions too, tossing her (now thigh-length) hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did my best to slam my jaw shut.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the odd silences as we scrutinised the plans, sucking sounds were heard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Then baby was whipped out from under mama’s poncho, his mouth was wiped and he was transferred to her knee, where she bounced him vigorously up and down for the twin purpose of burping (double check) and his entertainment (unimpressed).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>About five minutes later the child whimpered again, and the whole procedure was repeated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">The meeting concluded at 11:00, and the sheet of paper in front of me was still as white as the driven snow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I was drooling it would have had nothing to do with the baby, but because I was slack-jawed for almost the entire time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aside from the initial minute when Gretchen appeared at 09:50, nobody said anything; no comment was made about what we had all witnessed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">Oh to have been a fly on the roof of the architects’ car as they drove back to their office.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I asked one other administrator what she thought the following day when I ran into her and she confined herself to remarking ‘yes, it was a little distracting, I must admit’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">I consider myself to be liberal, laissez-faire, fine with natural behaviour such as breast-feeding in public and so on, but it struck me forcibly that there are times when it isn’t appropriate and when it is unfair on everybody else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gretchen wasn’t to know the room would be too small, but it clearly did not cross her mind to wonder whether we would find it distracting if she did not retire to the background.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve noticed that mothers often sit in a back row to breastfeed, or go briefly into another room, express their milk into a baby’s bottle instead ... or leave the child with someone for a few hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What will it be next time – will she expect to change the baby’s nappy too?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">The NHS adheres strictly to non-discriminatory behaviour for both patients and staff, which is admirable, but sometimes the non-discrimination can be mutually exclusive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You can’t champion a mother’s rights to breastfeed if it also means you are neglecting your staff’s rights to hold an effective meeting, at which approximately half the time was spent being distracted from the work in hand for one reason or another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The trouble is that mothers’ rights are such a Sacred Cow that no one would dare challenge them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Earth Mothers and work don’t always mix.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">The general response I received from colleagues was definitely non-committal, and from friends outside work to whom I made comments it was ‘aah, how sweet, why shouldn’t she breastfeed’ (hello?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have you been listening to what I said?).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I admit I’m not brave enough to take on the NHS about this – unless Gretchen changes junior’s nappy at the next meeting.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%;">-oOo-</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong><u>Photo Finish - </u></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large;"><strong><u>from Lonicera's non-digital archive</u></strong></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">(John's way of reminding me that it's my turn</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">to do the gardening...)</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">-oOo-</span></div>
Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-50561124580775485832013-01-10T23:22:00.001+00:002013-01-10T23:22:16.597+00:00La Honoria - Part Two (of two)<div class="itemdesc" style="margin: auto 0cm; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Clearly I had been gone from Argentina too long, for there were other horrors to face, and my reactions were just as limp.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">As I walked down the dimly lit polished tile corridor one evening I saw a black blurr right in front of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I leapt back in alarm, which is just as well, because it was a large black tarantula with hairy legs which had obviously lost its way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unnerved by the large screaming human it scuttled hither and thither, making this human scream even louder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But at least on that occasion I had somewhere to run to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh..................</em></span></div>
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<em><span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Trebuchet MS;">.</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Shortly afterwards I was having a shower in the Beatrix Potter bathroom and minding my own business when I happened to glance up at the showerhead as I rinsed my hair (as you do) and there on the wall behind was the tarantula’s younger brother or sister, just two feet above the suds on my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the water had suddenly run cold I wouldn’t have noticed, frozen as I was with horror and by the knowledge that the creature and I were going to have to get along for the extra few minutes it would take to finish washing and turn off the taps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To run screaming for the towel at that point was not an option.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t know how I did it, but my eyeballs never moved away from it as I went through the motions; in fact I’m sure I didn’t blink.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I slept in an attractive room where I could keep both door and windows open at night to keep cool with the through-breeze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had the inner verandah on one side, enclosed by mosquito screens, and the outer verandah on the other side, where the windows similarly protected me from mosquitoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One night I noticed that the dogs weren’t making their usual snuffly whiny sounds as they settled down on the outer verandah to sleep, and someone commented that they had been out earlier in the day with the riders herding cattle, and on their way back had been left behind sniffing about for skunks.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I fell asleep immediately in the quiet of the night with the singing crickets for company, but was awoken some time later coughing and choking – to the most appalling stench I have ever experienced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was as if something had grabbed me by the throat, and I gasped for air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then I heard the snuffly, whiny sounds, and knew straight away what had happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">One or more skunks had fought back with spirit in their usual way, by backing up against the perceived enemy and raising their hind quarters to emit a jet of the most evil, stinking, concentrated substance on the planet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The dogs would have run away howling, fleeing not the little animals but the consequence of their aggression, which was now fixed to their coats for a very long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Falling exhaustedly on the verandah just outside my bedroom window, they were now trying to get to sleep.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I burrowed under the sheet, preferring to perspire than have nothing but polluted air between me and the dogs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wondered whether even the mosquitoes were staggering about.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">There were of course, many compensations for the aggressive fauna.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The bird population on the farm was prolific. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: red;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></b>Bird photography is not my strong point, and I wish I’d had longer to practice. Among others, there were magpies, pygmy owls, parrots, ibis, whistling ducks, small kestrels, spoonbill ducks, grey blue tanagers, caracaras, falcons, lapwings, plovers, warblers, woodpeckers and the ubiquitous little ovenbird. </span></span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Woodpecker</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Parrots</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The sticky black topsoil on the farm is the type that gardeners in England swoon over, so rich in nutrients that due to the warm climate and the rainfall it took only four months to harvest time with vegetable crops.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Michèle had a small patch in part of one of the fields where she grew marrows, melons, water melons, pumpkin, squash, globe courgettes and other large vegetables. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">While I was staying there the women and children all went to work on this soil one day, and I went along just for the ride, and to take pictures while the children played.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The black mud was so sticky that the going would get harder and harder as it oozed between their toes and caked their feet until they looked like beings with ten league boots.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>...the mothers planted out the squash seedlings...</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>...while the children played in the mud</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The downside of all this was that there were no paved roads within the property, or beyond the gate and to the village 5 kilometres away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When it rained it was very difficult to drive into the village and it would have taken an hour to walk; when it poured the children cheered, because it was either a question of going to school on horseback or not at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes their father would take them all in the <i>carricoche,</i> a contraption he had made consisting of a large pony and trap with tyres and a cabin perched on the top, so that all seven could ride together.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The village is so small that the children at the little primary school all knew each other’s families, and it was quite common for Michèle’s children to go and play at someone else’s house after school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were no mobile phones then so their mother would drive into the village some time later and cruise around until someone called after her to tell her they had seen the children at so-and-so’s house, and she would head in that direction to collect them and take them home for dinner.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">From one day to the next the idyll became a nightmare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">There was only herself and her mother in the house on the winter afternoon of 24th June 2002, and she had lit the fire in the sitting-room to warm the rest of the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the time came to drive to the village to collect the children from school, she noticed that her mother was looking groggy, and concerned in case she had taken a double dose of her tablets by mistake, decided at the last minute to take her along with her, and they travelled the few kilometres to the school together in the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">On the way back with the children they stopped at the silos, where her husband had an office.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As she was looking at some paperwork she glanced out of the window across the fields and was puzzled by a curl of smoke in the distance.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">She wondered who was burning stubble in their fields, and as they drove back she saw one of the farm workers approaching them on the tractor.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Old José had no teeth whatsoever and it usually took a while to make out what he was saying, but this time there was no mistaking his words.</span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He pointed urgently towards the house and said simply “Your house is burning.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Her mind racing, she tried to shut out the hubbub that erupted in the car as she concentrated on driving safely towards the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When they got there they all spilled out of the car and gazed in horror at the conflagration around them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fire had caught hold and was already out of control. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nearest fire station was several villages away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Michèle ran round the house trying to gain entry where the fire had not yet caught hold to see if she could rescue anything – the priceless O’Dwyer documents dating back 800 years... her own family photographs… mementoes of her beloved father who had passed away 8 years previously… some clothes… Honor’s letters in the old biscuit tins… but it was too hot and she realised it was out of the question; she would be putting herself in danger if she tried anything brave.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">She picked up a hose and cast it down again – what use was a hose in such a furnace?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was vaguely aware of her eldest son grabbing it from her to use it in keeping down the surface temperature of a dangerously hot gas canister, and of his shouted commands telling everybody to move out of the way because the box where the ammunition for hunting guns was stored was inevitably going to overheat and set the bullets off.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">As the other members of the family were summoned and kept in touch by the various people meandering about anxiously, Michèle did the only thing of which she felt capable – she sat down on the ground with her back against the trunk of a tree, lit a cigarette and watched her husband’s family home for generations and hers for the <span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">dozen<b><span style="color: red;"> </span></b></span>years of turning it into her own, ascend in orange sparks and flying ash soaring upwards into the twilight sky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">“Will I lose my job?” cried the housekeeper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that point Michèle could not bring herself to think about it or reply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All she could think was “I’ve lost my home and all my belongings”, and kept silent.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Her husband Mick had been in Buenos Aires on business for two months when he was told.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ever the pragmatist, he was shocked but practical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He offered to come home, but she told him not to on her account.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She saw no reason to upset him further, and she could manage with the others to help her.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The fire brigade arrived at last two hours later, but there was little for them to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She somehow managed to stay serene in the presence of her worried children and distressed mother as she rounded them up briskly and put them back in the car for the drive over to their eldest son’s home for the night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The following day she returned and was struck afresh with grief to see twisted metal bedsteads and pieces of furniture that had somehow survived, pathetically strewn over the ground in a still gently smouldering, evil smelling, amorphous mass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Strangely, the fireplace still had the logs nestled in it by her the afternoon before.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">From then on life became a bewildering whirl of activity, and she discovered for the first time what it was really like to have absolutely no clothes except for what they had been wearing on the day of the fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her eldest son was recently married and lived in his own house adjoining their property, and they lived with him and his wife until they could move to another temporary accommodation, since there was not enough room for them all.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">It was painful to keep returning to hunt for things, particularly on one occasion when she came across one of the local policemen from the village and went to offer help when she realised he had a bag with him and was sifting through the ashes looking for salvageable objects he could keep for himself or sell.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The family knew that the fire must have originated from the fireplace in the sitting room despite the fact that it had been protected by a fireguard, but learned some time later that it could have been the chimney which had ignited and the fire had spread rapidly because of inadequacies in the false ceiling which had been installed some years before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">As the garden had not been affected by the fire, Michèle drove a trailer to it one morning and with some help started to dig up every plant she had ever loved and nurtured, and over the next six months transported them with care to their interim home, the land around the silo offices from where she had first seen the smoke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were replanted carefully in a field, and today continue to be the same riot of colour they had been before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cuttings have supplied the gardens of her children’s homes since that time.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">They found another job for their housekeeper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was decided in the end that the house would not be re-built in the same location because it had always been a time-consuming exercise to drive into the village.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are tentative plans to build a house on the edge of the property nearest the village, but in the meantime they decided to leave their son to manage the land and they moved south to a property they owned 700 kilometres away where there was a house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Everything else was started from scratch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is a positive person, romantic yet practical at the same time. Although this terrible event was a landmark in her life, if you ask her, Michèle – my Pollyanna friend - will tell you that no human or animal was hurt, and everything else is replaceable. She'll just start again.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">-oOo-</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><strong><u>Photo Finish</u></strong></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><strong><u>- from Lonicera's non-digital archive</u></strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>More pictures of La Honoria</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"></span>Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-37002121081423333962013-01-02T23:09:00.002+00:002013-01-02T23:42:34.779+00:00La Honoria - Part One (of two)<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><em>(A brief apology - I've been unwell for a while and haven't been able to blog, much as I wanted to. I had a Christmas post to upload, but never finished it and now the time has past, so it will have to wait till next year. In it I wanted to thank all of you who read this blog, whether or not you comment. Thank you, and may 2013 be good to you).</em></span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: x-small;">-oOo-</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I’ve often written about my closest friend Michèle on this blog. We were at school together from the age of thirteen, and I am godmother to her eldest daughter. This is another aspect of her life I’ve long wanted to write about, and she has helped me with some of the background details.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Michèle married into a farming family which had settled in Argentina many generations before. The O’Dwyers had originally been gentleman farmers in Ireland before moving to England to pursue politics and the corridors of power. One branch of the family migrated to South America in the mid 19th century. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The O’Dwyers have always had a strong connection with the land on whichever side of the ocean they have found themselves, and somehow despite the economic problems in Argentina those who chose to settle there have always managed to make it pay sufficiently to lead fulfilling lives and have enough with which to educate their children. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Drought, fire and flood were easier to cope with than the recently introduced export restrictions, which have left them not always able to sell their harvests. Despite it all they have a genuine respect for the soil that feeds them and a love for the land they hope to pass down to the next generation. Michèle’s husband Mick has instilled in his sons the importance of combining good farming practices with keeping apace of new agricultural technology and ideas, and the willingness to try new sources of income from the land. There is no room for sentimentality in the business, and no prospects for the gentlemen farmers of yesteryear – today it is hard work from sunup to sundown. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Mick’s grandfather Gil and his English wife Honor purchased a tract of land in the province of Entre Ríos, 400 km north of Buenos Aires in 1906, and Gil named the farm <em>La Honoria</em>, after his wife; it was the family seat during their lifetime. Unfortunately his was destined to be short however, because he died in his late forties following complications after an operation, leaving his widow with 5 children to bring up – four boys and a girl. They returned to the United Kingdom for some years, but after they had finished their schooling, two of her sons and her daughter returned with Honor to Argentina to take up their farming inheritance. One of her sons, Carew, remained unmarried, and stayed on the farm for the rest of his life, helping with the day to day tasks and administration. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Mick and his family shared the house for a while with <em>Don </em>Carew, as he was known by all (“Don” being the ancient title of respect accorded to people of stature in Spain, and later in its colonies). Don Carew was a man whose personality stood out as being different from other members of his family, but to any British person was easily recognised as being the epitome of the true-blue Brit from before the war who spoke with heavily accented Spanish and had a hint of the proverbial stiff upper lip proper of Englishmen ‘out in the colonies’. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">He was a young man living in England during World War I and later was enlisted as a Special Constable during the General Strike of 1926. Except for these few short years, La Honoria had been his home and his life’s work for the ninety years he had been on this earth, and he loved every inch of it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">By the beginning of this current century when the generation of Mick’s father and his uncle Carew had passed on and a new ones had taken their place, the land has progressively been divided down into smaller portions, as the laws of inheritance in Argentina dictate that all assets are inherited equally. The land itself has not been split, however; the arrangement was that a designated member of the family should administer it for those who preferred to live in the capital, and by the time Mick had established himself as manager of the farm the others agreed to sell their shares to him. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">He gradually added to the acreage when adjoining fields came up for sale, and lived in the house with his wife Michèle and their five children. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The rambling farmhouse had been built by the previous owners, another family of British descent. They did what was logical for the northern hemisphere, where houses were designed to face the sunny south. Consequently, the handsome colonial style house had some serious drawbacks simply because it had been positioned the wrong way round. The bedrooms faced the broiling summer sun and the front of the house tended towards chilly gloom. The rooms were arranged around a square patio which had once had an old wrought iron well in the centre. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Michèle slowly started to modernise the house and turn it from a traditional and plain estancia building into a warm and inviting home. Her first action was to rearrange the use of the various rooms in the house so as to turn it effectively from back to front, and to install a false ceiling under the roof over the whole building creating loft space which helped to keep the sweltering summer heat from the rooms below. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">By the time I saw the house in the spring of 1994, it was gleaming with polished wooden or tiled floors and copper ornaments. With the help of a gifted local artist who specialised in painting on wood she turned the old bathroom used by the children into a cosy Beatrix Potter themed one. The house had never really finished settling since its construction, so the doors would not always cooperate when you tried to close them. I discovered this as I was contemplating Peter Rabbit and his friends one day, and found myself the centre of a crowd of small children looking at me curiously… </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Curtains in muted warm colours brightened the walls. The kitchen was remodelled to double its original size with a wood-burning stove to keep it warm in the winter and the welcome addition of a powerful ceiling fan to keep it cool and airy during the long hot summers. This had the additional advantage of helping to keep the flies out and encourage the family to congregate within. The old wooden ice chest which had functioned for many generations by being fed with large blocks of ice brought from the village wrapped in straw was finally given an honourable retirement and replaced with a large modern one. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The patio was traversed by high beams which one day would hold pretty creepers and climbers... </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">...and the same treatment was given to the sunny side of the house, to afford some shade and provide an anchor for sun and heat-loving plants. When I visited them in 1994 Michèle had launched herself into clearing out unused rooms, where there were also mice amid the dust and cobwebs. I have tried without success to find the picture I took of her standing on a chair looking down at the floor in horror where a mouse had just scuttled past her. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">She found two large, rusting biscuit tins, of the type used by grocers in the 60s, with glass windows so that you could see the type of biscuit being stored within... </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJpvrblwSW72-u6Mhdtv40gOOBsJLl9URHZC9diQms013eaZIm1J5a6o__HeIXHnWYzePLaa4kqdCgpANGvvfGOWcq6tN7WkAmqveOiN94RVdhuAMAeYJfTzrgODDGfX1iMEPdQoKAoUg/s1600/Terrabusi+tin.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJpvrblwSW72-u6Mhdtv40gOOBsJLl9URHZC9diQms013eaZIm1J5a6o__HeIXHnWYzePLaa4kqdCgpANGvvfGOWcq6tN7WkAmqveOiN94RVdhuAMAeYJfTzrgODDGfX1iMEPdQoKAoUg/s320/Terrabusi+tin.bmp" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">... densely packed with letters written by Honor over the decades she had lived at La Honoria. We started to read the unique and fascinating record of her life in the thirties, but we didn’t get very far before we were obliged by other events to put them away for another day. We still hadn’t been able to open the tins again before I left, and I promised I’d be back to continue to delve into Honor’s account of the pre-war era. I learned later that they also told of a long term, long distance love affair between the lonely widow and someone 300 km away who visited occasionally. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The inside of a ramshackle shed which had remained untouched for several generations at last saw the light of day...</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7hqtdWvxTPCWKmVv3w3b1MFsQkAoyUIK92iwXEsymDNK50DlhINdwFfiNcmyrtzidFIp7CJfJ_DApxpBqOxh3DzjpMl457tvvY1nSBJCeRjhehssUN1EYGmayXvqrjlJlToHcD94eIc/s1600/Image2032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" eea="true" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS7hqtdWvxTPCWKmVv3w3b1MFsQkAoyUIK92iwXEsymDNK50DlhINdwFfiNcmyrtzidFIp7CJfJ_DApxpBqOxh3DzjpMl457tvvY1nSBJCeRjhehssUN1EYGmayXvqrjlJlToHcD94eIc/s400/Image2032.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">... and amid the thick network of cobwebs was evidence of a colonial past – British machinery and Royal baking powder... </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Don Carew was still alive during that time, and I had several long and enjoyable chats with him under the tipa trees <em>(Tipuana tipu)</em> ...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">...as we sought a cooler place to sit in the 100 degree heat of the spring siesta hour. We usually spoke about the British Royal Family, which he revered, and what life was like in the Britain of today. He kept the youthful portrait of the Queen by Pietro Annigoni in a prominent position in the house – </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I got the strong impression that had he visited ‘the old country’ he would have felt totally out of his depth – he had been too long in his rural idyll. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Michèle has always felt a strong bond with the soil, and particularly enjoys the prospect of transforming a large and wild garden, the more unkempt the better – whether it is her own or anyone else who has given her a free rein in their garden. (I have found her to be a very useful gardener when she has visited me in Bristol...). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Entrance to the vegetable garden</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">At <em>La Honoria</em> she planted a large vegetable patch, on raised beds on top of straw to discourage leaf-cutter ants and snails, and encouraged climbers to conceal the wire fence around the property. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Sometimes it was by the use of branches from local trees... </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The bane of the gardener’s life in the subtropical part of Argentina is the leaf-cutter ant, which with its cohorts can strip a plant completely overnight. The other chore is the endless watering required in spring and summer. From November to March tender plants must be watered at least twice a day if they are to survive, and hoses like giant snakes could always be seen in the vicinity. There were always elaborate arrangements to be made when Michèle was absent for more than a few hours for the thirsty plants to be watered. There would be fifteen or so hoses all going at once, despite it being an area of high rainfall. The searing heat of the sun was such that large cracks would appear in the baked soil in summertime, large enough to conceal a hose. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">On the opposite side of the house there was a patch of grass which in time grew into a very pretty flowering meadow. I was dismayed one morning to find it had been razed to ground level, but Michèle reminded me that the area was a good habitat for snakes, particularly the venomous <em>yarará</em>, or pit viper. She had small children at the time, and did not want to risk them getting bitten. I looked down nervously at my open-toed sandals and retreated nonchalantly back to the verandah trying not to give in to the temptation of walking bent double, the better to scrutinise the ground. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">I was told that on one occasion a bowl of fried potatoes was placed on the hearth in the sitting room as a treat for everyone to help themselves, and it wasn’t until one of the children screamed that it was discovered that a pit viper had managed to insert itself underneath and was enjoying the warmth. Another time the same species went unnoticed for a long while as he cuddled up to the bellows by the fireplace. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">A capybara was once spotted running away from the barking dogs and taking refuge in one of the bedrooms, where it established itself under a night table and had to be dragged out and returned to the wild out of the reach of the family pets. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8rz99KaOsUODwoC9z_nlS5jvVFwTBob6vaOFJRHE7mwbYgGwy598-VPSzd90IFRSQ9A34-VgzCacl-77ZNWd7BdiqfqSHQW-SVmEVnxQr8doApWBUxCn6ugRv4uhhkFbvTc_vy7ex0s/s1600/capybara.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" eea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH8rz99KaOsUODwoC9z_nlS5jvVFwTBob6vaOFJRHE7mwbYgGwy598-VPSzd90IFRSQ9A34-VgzCacl-77ZNWd7BdiqfqSHQW-SVmEVnxQr8doApWBUxCn6ugRv4uhhkFbvTc_vy7ex0s/s1600/capybara.jpg" /></a></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">(Google image)</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: x-small;">Next time: tragedy at La Honoria</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">-oOo-</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><strong><u>Photo Finish</u></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><strong><u>- from Lonicera's non-digital archive</u></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Province of Salta, Argentina</em></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Province of Tucumán, Argentina</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Ditto above</span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Antique Market, San Telmo, Buenos Aires</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>... with old Victrola for sale</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Old but immaculate</em></span></div>
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Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-52021473514897610032012-12-09T22:24:00.000+00:002012-12-09T22:28:30.453+00:00Life's Little Pleasures (8)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 9pt;">This is my eighth post on LLPs (Life’s Little Pleasures).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/lifes-little-pleasures-1.html" target="_blank">Post (1)</a>, <a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/lifes-little-pleasures-2.html" target="_blank">Post (2)</a>, <a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/lifes-little-pleasures-3.html" target="_blank">Post (3)</a>, <a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/lifes-little-pleasures-4.html" target="_blank">Post (4)</a>, <a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/lifes-little-pleasures-5.html" target="_blank">Post (5)</a>, <a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/lifes-little-pleasures-6-this-is-my.html" target="_blank">Post (6)</a> and <a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/lifes-little-pleasures-7.html" target="_blank">Post (7)</a> can be seen by clicking on the links.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><o:p></o:p></u></b></span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="font-size: large;">Transient Beauty<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">“There was nothing to be done about such beauty, </span></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">except to try to keep it.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">~ Margaret Drabble, The Waterfall<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">A bunch of fresh flowers or a heartbreakingly perfect rose give instant pleasure, and you’ll smile without even knowing it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet you’re very conscious that they are temporary and you must squeeze every bit of enjoyment from the experience because you will never see these specimens again looking so beautiful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gaze in awe at huge, full blown, deeply fragrant, waxy, white magnolias, because I know that even touching them will make them go brown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s all wonderful yet sad, and looking at photographs of them is nothing like the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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A handsome human can affect you in much the same way; after all their beauty too is transient.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pleasure I get from studying beautiful men and women is purely aesthetic and I have no wish to interact with them personally (well alright, maybe George Clooney).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is as abstract as studying a beautiful painting or photographic image, but with the added pleasure that they walk and talk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People who have affected me that way are these artists when they were at their best – Jacqueline Bisset, Joanna Lumley, Jennifer O’Neill, Elizabeth Taylor...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjli3RPRi-4l5dThwkzA-zOQxGpkLrwMT-scptnl-QjCubshq61QJcFus6p6G9jlfaRFLAI3OTlb-LEzXXi1zM3mdhd81PZKix9mV9SYnPM9kfWPEM8-XU3aN0_R7rTndnwG-PtODstLhk/s1600/imagesCA5JWK78.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjli3RPRi-4l5dThwkzA-zOQxGpkLrwMT-scptnl-QjCubshq61QJcFus6p6G9jlfaRFLAI3OTlb-LEzXXi1zM3mdhd81PZKix9mV9SYnPM9kfWPEM8-XU3aN0_R7rTndnwG-PtODstLhk/s200/imagesCA5JWK78.jpg" width="159" /></a>...Catherine Deneuve, Grace Kelly, Julie Christie, Jenny Seagrove and Hayley Mills as a teenager; </div>
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Rock Hudson, Tyrone Power, Alain Delon, George Clooney, Mel Gibson, Kevin Costner, Robert Redford, Paul Newman, Christopher Jones (<i>Ryan’s Daughter</i>, 1970) and Rob Lowe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Naturally I’m not immune to the physical beauty I’ve witnessed during the Olympics this year and the stunning sight of people diving into swimming pools from great heights or viewing gymnastics generally, but I confess I can’t pretend to be a sports enthusiast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="font-size: large;">The Community<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">“The world is so empty if one thinks only of mountains, rivers and cities; <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">but to know someone who thinks and feels with us, <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">and who, though distant, is close to us in spirit,<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">this makes the earth for us an inhabited garden.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">~ Johann Wolfgang von Goethe<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">It is heart-warming when people come together for a common cause and are able to transcend the usual social and ethnic barriers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Olympics this year have done a lot of good in this regard and I’ve loved hearing the goodwill and witnessing the ‘niceness’ it’s generated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If only it lasted.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><em>(Google)</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The death of Diana, Princess of Wales in 1997 affected a lot of us in an extraordinary way. I know this is not shared by everybody, but I was aware of a great common sadness concerning the abrupt end of a life which had been troubled. She had seemed now to be coming of age as a woman of the world; watching the reaction of millions of people around the world made me realise that I was not alone in wishing that the Royal Family had supported her better and showed a little more warmth towards their subjects generally. I had kept my critical thoughts to myself, and here was a situation where we all seemed to say the same thing at the same time. It was a nice feeling.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">The 11th September 2001 ("9/11") was a momentous and painful day for the the United States and for the western world. Much has already been said about the day when the islamist militant group Al-Qaeda organised coordinated attacks on New York and Washington by means of hijacking and deliberately crashing four passenger jets, which brought down the World Trade Center in New York and crashed into the Pentagon. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS;">I knew nobody directly who was a victim, but the horror we all felt was intense, as was the outpouring of goodwill felt towards all US nationals. The press have always liked to joke about 'the special relationship', but that was a time when it reminded us strongly that we were allies with a common beginning. I read about Americans overcome when overhearing nothing but sympathy in conversations on public transport amongst people who didn't know they were there, and how they appreciated the sympathy which had emanated from Buckingham Palace. It felt good to know we were all the same under the skin.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Wootton Bassett is a market town in Wiltshire not too far from where I live.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has about 15,000 inhabitants with all the usual charming features typical of an English village.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It came to prominence in 2007, when the repatriation of British soldiers killed in action in Afghanistan was moved from an aerodrome in Oxfordshire to RAF Lyneham close by, and as there was no bypass round the town, the cortege passed through it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first such occasion coincided with a monthly meeting of the Royal British Legion, and they decided to stop the meeting to pay their respects as the procession wound its way up the High Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Local people and other British Legion branches joined them after that, and a tradition was born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 11pt; mso-ansi-language: EN;">In June 2008. when Corporal Sarah Bryant was among the dead, more than 5,000 crowded into the High Street to pay their respects. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">This is part of an article by Cassandra Jardine and Richard Savill, from the online <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/comment/personal-view/5771032/Wootton-Bassett-A-very-British-way-of-mourning.html" target="_blank">Telegraph of 7th July 2009</a>:</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">‘</span></i><i><span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN;">The ceremony that has grown up in Wootton Bassett is as simple and moving as the coffins themselves, wrapped only in the Union flag. As the hearses approach, the tenor bell of St Bartholomew's Church begins to toll. Business stops while shoppers and shopkeepers join the crowds lining the pavement. When the cortege reaches the war memorial, the president of the British Legion says a single word – "Up" – to mark the moment when ex- and serving members of the forces should begin their salute. "Down," he says 60 seconds later, as the hearses move on. </span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN;">"It is a most strange feeling," says Sally Hardy, manager of the Sue Ryder charity shop. "When the bell from the parish church starts to toll and the police stop the traffic, there is just silence. It is a very unusual thing to find in a town. Just about everybody and anybody comes out.” </span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN;">British Legionnaires from far afield are joined by wounded and invalided Service people who wish to pay tribute to those yet more unlucky than themselves. On the pavement, they stand shoulder to shoulder with relatives of soldiers who have made the same sad final journey, and those whose loved ones are still serving. "They tell us that seeing our respect gives a tremendous boost to the troops serving in Afghanistan," says Maurice Baker, president of the local branch of the British Legion. "They know we are thinking of them." </span></i></div>
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<i><span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Many who cannot be there send messages. "Please tell the people of Wootton Bassett," reads one sent this week by a man from Cheshire, "that each one who stands to honour the fallen has a thousand more of us standing unseen at their shoulder."’</span></i></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-ansi-language: EN;">There have been over 100 such occasions and the monarchy has thanked the town by awarding it the right to call itself henceforth Royal Wotton Bassett.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most have been recorded by the media in the south west region where I live, and every time I see them I feel a shiver of pleasure and pride that I should be living in a country with communities such as this.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><strong><u>Photo Finish</u></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS; font-size: large;"><strong><u>- from Lonicera's non-digital archive</u></strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Lyme Regis on the south coast - a sequence </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">which I enjoyed catching as two boys 'set sail' </span></div>
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Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-77048992976557057832012-12-01T00:56:00.000+00:002012-12-01T12:29:17.537+00:00"Don't it always seem to go...<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">…you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif'; font-size: 10pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Joni Mitchell)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">I had never thought about the role of my car in the fabric of my life until I lost my driving licence a month ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">As a diabetic I’m allowed only a 3-year licence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every 36 months I must justify to the Driver & Vehicle Licensing Agency (DVLA) why I should be allowed to continue to drive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every 36 months I reassure them that I look after my diabetes and don’t get hypoglycaemic attacks (excessively low blood sugar), though of course I know when my glucose levels are going down beyond my comfort zone, and what I should do about it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">This year I had a 10 second episode with my left eye, when a third of my vision went grey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told my doctor, and the health system went into overdrive getting me checked for a TIA or minor stroke (I hadn’t had one), plus eye hospital checks, retinopathy checks, diabetes checks at every level, monitoring and so on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything came up negative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when the usual paperwork came through from the DVLA I knew I must tell them about this, and I did so in detail, with dates and details of all medical appointments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">I wasn’t entirely surprised when they replied that they required me to see my GP during which he should complete their own tick questionnaire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During the interview, one of the questions the doctor asked me was whether I was aware of an impending hypoglycaemic attack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">“Oh yes, very much so”, I replied, and described the symptoms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Good”, he said, and ticked the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Yes</i> box.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unbeknown to me at the time, the question had been phrased in the negative, i.e. “is the driver <u>un</u>aware of an impending hypoglycaemic attack?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No</i> box should therefore have been ticked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A double negative…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">Two weeks later I received a letter from the DVLA telling me my driving licence had been revoked because I clearly could not identify when I had low blood sugar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could re-apply in 12 months for a new licence provided I could satisfy them that I had learned to do so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">12 MONTHS!!</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was when I realised how important my car is to me – transport to and from my employment at two Bristol hospitals, part-time driver to my 85-year old partner, impulse shopper, visits to relations and friends on the south coast, running down to the local shop for a missing ingredient while preparing a meal, space to rant, laugh and cry in peace, babble like a halfwit, pick my nose or enjoy blissful silence with nobody to notice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My own space.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">Once I had established with the DVLA that it had been my doctor’s mistake, I took a day off work and made an urgent appointment with him, taking with me a carefully worded letter as if from him to the DVLA explaining the mistake.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Although he hadn’t kept a copy of the form, f</span>ortunately he immediately acknowledged the error and accepted the letter as being what he would have said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once on the surgery’s headed notepaper he faxed it through, and I posted the original as confirmation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The following day I wrote a letter to them explaining the error - all this in the 48 hours after my receipt of their letter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both letters stressed how important my car was to my employment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And after all, the problem had not been of my making.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">I considered that I had acted promptly; while cursing that I would have to make other transport arrangements for a week at most, as John was willing to drive me to work it would just be a brief blip and not 12 months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sat back and waited to hear from them, keeping my fingers crossed that I would not have to bus it to work, which would have represented a 2-hour commute in each direction, door to desk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">That was a month ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">I became increasingly distressed as phone call after phone call was made to the DVLA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you make the call, you go through multiple menus before being able to speak to a human being, and a wrong choice places you in a loop and you have to hang up and start again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The human I eventually spoke to was always different to the time before, and though they expertly called up my information on their screens after half a dozen security questions fired at me to make sure I was who I said I was, the answers were always vague.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(“It’s in the system”.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">I eventually heard that they had accepted what my doctor had said, and they would ‘allow’ me to re-apply for a driving licence from scratch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wouldn’t even have to pay the fee!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Subsequent chasers (going through the same rigmarole) prompted questions from them such as had I faxed the form?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What about my former expired licence?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Couldn’t fax that… )<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">John drove my car once during that time just to check the engine was still ticking over, and parked it carelessly on the drive with two wheels on the grass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And there it remained for the rest of the time, the smothered grass waiting for release and the milkman pleased that it gave him a clearer path the other side to make his deliveries...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">At one point a friend suggested to me that if this had happened to me while I was still living in Argentina, the bureaucracy would have been a hundred times worse, and the whole situation more stressful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Well, no, I replied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have bribed somebody at the outset and it would have been job sorted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alternatively there are frequent bus services everywhere, unlike in the UK, where most people like me live isolated from bus routes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">The new licence finally arrived today, after a month’s worth of fuel for John driving to the hospital twice a day and doing all my errands for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I learned from looking up driving forums on the internet that the question on that form which caused all the trouble is frequently ticked incorrectly, and the DVLA have showed no signs of changing the wording.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some people have even had to resort to getting letters of complaint written by their Member of Parliament or pay for medical examinations by more senior clinicians.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';">It makes me wonder whether it was worth being honest to them about my eye condition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was blabbing on to myself about the whole sorry affair in the car as I drove home from work today, with classical music going full blast and in between picking my nose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS','sans-serif';"><span style="font-size: large;">Photo Finish<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></b></div>
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<strong><u><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span>from Lonicera’s digital archive<o:p></o:p></span></span></u></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">The Maldives - Kuramathi</span></div>
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Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2360936507322491939.post-37757849413106729172012-11-17T16:27:00.000+00:002012-11-17T16:27:09.479+00:00Life's Little Pleasures (7)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 9pt;">This is my seventh post on LLPs (Life’s Little Pleasures).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/lifes-little-pleasures-1.html" target="_blank">Post (1)</a>, <a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/lifes-little-pleasures-2.html" target="_blank">Post (2)</a>, <a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/lifes-little-pleasures-3.html" target="_blank">Post (3),</a> <a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/lifes-little-pleasures-4.html" target="_blank">Post (4),</a> <a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/lifes-little-pleasures-5.html" target="_blank">Post (5)</a> and <a href="http://lonicera53.blogspot.co.uk/2012/11/lifes-little-pleasures-6-this-is-my.html" target="_blank">Post (6)</a> can be seen by clicking on the links.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><o:p></o:p></u></b></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';"><span style="font-size: large;">Lady Luck and the Good Fortune of Others<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">“Happiness is six green lights in a row”…<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">~ from Reader’s Digest<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I once found this quote among the jokes and bits of whimsy in small print at the end of an article. It became a quotable quote in the family because we lived in a very large city bisected by countless long and straight avenues, and six green lights in a row would be the cause of unalloyed pleasure and a story worth repeating at every opportunity for the next week at least. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">How do you feel when you arrive by car late for an appointment in a very busy part of town with a sinking heart, and there, right in front of your destination building on a teeming street is one beautiful, perfect space, waiting for you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It might as well have a shaft of light beaming down on it from heaven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or a seat on a crowded train? For a few minutes the angels sing – you say thankyou thankyou thankyou, though you don’t know to whom to direct your gratitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s one of life’s little pleasures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Discovering the wonders of automatic transmission was another.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Against general advice (“only the gears give you proper control”) I took a chance and decided that my next car should be a small automatic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now heavy commuter traffic and traffic jams have ceased to be more than the usual annoyance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The muscles in my left ankle have recovered and instead of having to think aout what gear I should be selecting, I can keep calm with classical music, or by thinking about a story.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I had often noticed people with iPods in their ears and wondered why they would wish to be listening to music when out in the fresh air – surely that’s an indoor pastime? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now I know – it’s to distract you from discomfort and to fight boredom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found this out also by chance, and now the 15 minute walk from my car to my desk is almost half the effort it used to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Part of my job is to do mailouts occasionally, and they’re now quite enjoyable because I plug into BBC radio plays and funny shows as my hands automatically slap bits of paper around.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">There is a special kind of pleasure to be gained from the pleasure of others, as the Olympic fortnight has shown.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was wonderful to see the happy and harmonious atmosphere at the games, and I felt no conflict of interest when Team GB came up against Argentina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The UK had plenty of medals to rejoice over, and I was willing Argentina on to get a few for herself – as she did, ending up with a gold, a silver and two bronze medals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I understand the achievement this was, because there is very little investment in sport in Argentina (except for football) – in fact there’s very little money around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whereas the UK had funding from the National Lottery and other sources.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">“Heroism is endurance for one moment more.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">~ George F Kennan<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Sometimes I have been drawn powerfully into a news story with a happy ending, and feel some of the pleasure which the victims themselves have experienced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The Andes plane crash</span></i></b><i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">In 1972 towards the end of my final scholastic year we heard that a Uruguayan school rugby team had been lost in the Andes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In October a chartered flight carrying 45 people including the team, friends and family had been heading for Santiago, Chile to play in a friendly match against another school, and crashed in the Andes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of my school friends knew a few of the boys who had been on that plane.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A quarter of the passengers died in the crash, and others succumbed to cold and injury.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of those left, another 8 were killed by an avalanche a fortnight later; by the time two of them had trekked for 10 days and been found by a shepherd, there were only 16 of them left and 72 days had elapsed from the day of the crash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The shepherd alerted the authorities, and two days before Christmas they were rescued.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was all over the news in Uruguay and Argentina – and no doubt elsewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had been following the attempts of the authorities and the parents to find the victims for over two months, and when we learned of the story we all felt a rush of delight that some had survived against all odds. I have followed their lives where possible ever since.</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">John McCarthy.</span></i></b><i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">I felt the same rush of pleasure when the British journalist John McCarthy was set free in 1991 after more than five years captivity in Beirut, Lebanon, where he had been kidnapped by Islamic Jihad terrorists in 1986.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The efforts by his then girlfriend Jill Morrell to obtain his release were heroic, and it captured everybody’s imagination, making his release even more exciting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I followed his fortunes later and learned more about the Irish hostage, Brian Keenan, who was freed slightly earlier than John, and of the extraordinary fortitude and spirit showed by McCarthy during all that time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The Chilean miners</span></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">.</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In August 2010 a mine collapsed in Copiapó, Chile, burying 33 miners 700 metres underground and 5 km from the mine’s entrance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For 17 days there was no response to the bore holes drilled to try and find them, and the mine’s instability and poor safety record led the authorities to believe that there would be no survivors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But on day 18 a drill bit returned to the surface with a piece of paper attached that said “We 33 are in the shelter, and all well”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The country as a whole erupted in a wave of euphoria.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Help was received from other governments and donations, but it still took a further 50 days to put the machinery in place to get them to the surface, during which they were fed and watered by means of a tube.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On 13th October they emerged in relatively good health, to be greeted individually by Chile’s president, Sebastián Piñera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was pretty euphoric myself, and followed every morsel of news as closely as I could.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt enormous pleasure that they and their families had been reunited.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The miners had been trapped underground for roughly as long as the young Uruguayan rugby team had been isolated at 3,600 m up in the Andes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>John McCarthy had been chained to a radiator by his fellow man for over five years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>None of them lost hope that they would be rescued; all did their best to cope in impossible circumstances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All were heroes to us the observers.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">Selina</span></i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">.</span></b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you read this blog you know about Selina, the younger daughter of my closest friend Michèle, who was involved in a very serious road accident in October 2011 which left her in a coma for several months, then in a minimal conscious state for a few more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has come out of it now and is slowly on the way to recovery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every little step has been a major triumph; every time I feel tearful with the pleasure of it, of knowing how brave their efforts are; understanding how much it means to her that she can now communicate, and that the Selina everyone knew is still there, waiting patiently to get out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are both heroines to me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">The triumph against all odds by a person or persons not connected to you - a selfless pleasure derived from the good fortune of others which inspires you - that's a five star LLP.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">-oOo-</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong><u>Photo Finish</u></strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong><u>- from Lonicera's non-digital archive</u></strong></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;">Spain</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; mso-bidi-font-style: italic; mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><em>Business is business...</em></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Requena</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Gandía</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em>Orange groves</em></span></div>
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<em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Vicky, my father's cat</span></em></div>
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-oOo-</div>
Lonicerahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13141723287143567146noreply@blogger.com3