Amber

Once upon a time we shared our house with three cats and two rescued dogs: Meg, a black Labrador and Millie,, a cross, it seemed, between a collie and an Alsatian. Meg came first, after our house had been burgled. At least, we though, her bark will be a deterrent to speculative callers. Then, and as we were both out at work, we began to feel sorry Meg, abandoned for a large portion of the day; so along came Millie to keep her company, And lest I forget to mention it, having got Meg for her barking prowess, we discovered that besides her gentle nature, she didn't bark, (possibly the result of some cruel treatment in the past). So we had to teach her that, responsible barking, was OK.

Now we have Amber, a Cockapoo puppy, and as we have never had a puppy before, metaphorically speaking, we have started with a clean slate. She came to us at 11 weeks, and remarkably for one so young, in her first two weeks, she blogged on Facebook, and only gave up when I told her that I wanted my computer back, and as a consolation, promised that I would share her blogs with you. The first two, written by me, set the scene, with the rest are all her own work, even though they are published on Facebook under the long standing caption, CORMAC SAYS. So here they are in order of publication, and together, we hope you enjoy them.

Cormac McCloskey

12 March at 18:49 · 

CORMAC SAYS: Not sure that you will see my masterful photo of Barcelona. Just now my computer fails to recognise the mice: either wired or wire less, though the relevant port will accept a memory stick that I can open etc. The said, when I insert either mouse, nothing happens, and there are no mice showing under hardware. Tried all the clever things myself to no avail, so I am waiting for a call from a trusted expert, and meantime have to rely on the touchpad.

The moral of the story is, I shouldn't have gone to Barcelona.

And amid all my troubles I forgot to mention that Amber is resting, but not before she did a wee in the kitchen. However all the signs are good, and we will be working to a specific training program from tomorrow.

Never got to see Ken Dodd, even when we were living on Merseyside, a great shame.

Cormac McCloskey

16 March at 22:27 · 

CORMAC SAYS: Well, the mouse man has been and everything and more has been put to rights. When we started up the computer it began with an update, and lo and behold, when the update was completed there was the mouse gallivanting to order. It seems that the chaos was caused by a previous update and not as I feared from my attempt to upload photos from Barcelona from the digital camera that Lynsey gave me. And just like the mouse, all my pictures of Barcelona are uploaded and shining brightly, so you will see them at some point in the future.

I can't say when, because just now, and for the past four days, I have been very busy trying to think like a dog. and possibly because I have only two legs, I am not very good at it. But if Amber is to come up to the McCloskey standards, of social etiquette, then we have to be vigilant, ALL TH TIME, Firstly, to prevent mishaps, and secondly to add gentle correction when a mishap occurs. If a puppy has done a piddle, and Amber has done several of them in the wrong place, you have to correct them at the time, because puppies heads are so full of exciting new things to do, that they live for now. So talking to her about piddles, thirty seconds later, is thirty seconds too late!

All of that said, she is doing well in the designated part of the garden for numbers 1 and 2, but more than that, she gets me out on false pretences because there are so many exciting things to do there: chew the vine, chase after insects, and leaves blowing in the wind, and listen full of longing to birdsong. And the distant barking of OTHER DOGS!. All of that said, she has a confident gentle nature and is learning to accept time out in the cage, I have of course sympathised with her, explaining as I put her in, that if someone tried to put me in a cage I too would complain.

Now just in case you are getting the wrong idea, Amber is our dog, so you could say that Jenny and I have a fifty fifty stake in her. But it would not be a good idea to try to determine which end belongs to whom. I seem to spend a lot of time watching the back end, not because Jenny is not interested, but she has been out-and-about on important business, so, she gets to play with her, feed her from time to time, and do doggy talk.

Now on a few occasions I have left the kitchen for a few moments only to find her standing waiting for me when I came back: standing beside a lake. It happened this evening: she was tucking in to her dinner so I thought that would be a good time to slip out to the bathroom, and when I came back there she was, waiting by yet another lake. Of course she had to finish her dinner, while I mopped up.

That said, her progress in four days has been remarkable, and now she is keen to follow me around the house. And just now, for the first time, and as a test drive, she has followed me in to the study and is sitting on a cosy mat by the taller of my bookcases,

Now, that I have almost made the garden secure, my deepest concern is to know for how much longer I will have to go on thinking like a dog!. Oh! and by the way, no one told her that two legged dogs have to put on their multi-layered coats when they hop out of bed in the morning. At that Amber hops out of her bed only to be told to hop back in again. Then, with one leg in my trousers she hops out again, and so on with each item of clothing, and she treats a pair of socks as equal to two hops! Which is confirmation that puppies really do live for the moment.

Having had laser treatment on her eye, Jenny is off the road for a week, so from here on in she will take some of the strain, and I, when I get some doggy down time, will put up some photos of Amber, and of Barcelona.

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© Cormac E McCloskey

Cormac McCloskey

17 March at 12:33 · 

CORMAC SAYS: Hi folks! Cormac hasn't discovered that I am a dab hand at the keyboard, so I have to be quick in case he finds out. He is asleep on the mat at the moment and I am up in the chair. And guess what: Last night in bed I felt a tinkle coming on and got up straight away. But as I had never opened a door before,I had to make a noise, and that got Old Two Paws hopping out of bed, and there we were out on the patio in the wind and the rain, and him in his jam-jams. But it was worth it, because I did my tinkle. Ever since, I had been trying to work out why he felt so sleepy, as I was up for jumping about, that is, until I heard him telling Lady Two Paws, that I did my tinkle at 3 in the morning.
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© Cormac E McCloskey

Cormac McCloskey

18 March at 14:30 · 

CORMAC SATS: Hi all! me pawing the keyboard again. I was going to tell you a funny story while Old Two Paws is not about. But it has all gone a bit quiet here, so I am going to keep a low profile: BIG! mistake indoors, despite all the good things I did out of doors in the snow. Old Two Paws, scratching his head and talking to Lady Two Paws said something about RE SETTING THE CLOCK! whatever than means. So I think I had better keep my head down.
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© Cormac E McCloskey

Cormac McCloskey

19 March at 11:18 · 

CORMAC SAYS: Hi! it's me again. I think I am beginning to like Old Two Paws, because after I made my BIG mistake yesterday, he talked to Lady Two Paws about resetting the clock. But as far as I can see, the clock is still in the same place today as it was yesterday. Maybe, that's because after my BIG mistake, we had a good day. I left bagfuls and tinkles at the top of the garden.

And another reason for liking Old Two Paws was his kindness when it was time for bed. He could see that I was restless and just not ready for sleep, so together we went out to the patio, and when he saw me drinking snow he knew immediately what was wrong. AND EVEN THOUGH THE MAN IN THE BOOK SAYS NO DRINKS AFTER 9 pm, (and it was 11 O'Clock!) we came back in and he allowed me a few sips. Well after that, settling down for the night was easy; and I was so grateful, that when he was snoring,I crept out of bed and left a little tinkle - just to say thank you!

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© Cormac E McCloskey

Cormac McCloskey

20 March at 09:28 · 

CORMAC SAYS: Hi! So pleased that Lady and Old Two Paws went to see La Traviata last night: It's all about love and forgiveness, which is just what I need at the moment. Amber

© Cormac E McCloskey

Cormac McCloskey

21 March at 13:24 · 

CORMAC SAYS: When I am in my cage there is no talking, so I lie down and pretend to be asleep. But as soon as Old Two Paws leaves the kitchen, there I am, ready for his return: sitting bolt upright and looking for all the world like a Mea Cat, (the way you see them on telly,) even though I’m a COCKAPOO!” Then as soon as Old Two Paws comes back and sits down at the table with his book, and facing me, I lie down. I haven’t seen a book with paws before, and I can’t help wondering if it's all about me! It’s paws are yellow, red, green, purple and crimson. Of course as a dog I’m not supposed to know this, but as a COCKAPOO! I have extra sensory perception. And what’s more, the book has a lovely golden colour around the edges. Yesterday, I heard OTP telling LTP and Leo Two Paws, that he didn’t know if dogs get a mention in his special book. Apparently, lions, rabbits, sheep, goats and even the Stork get a look-in. So I suppose I will have to wait to find out if a “gorgeous!" dog like me is in there. AND SOME BIG NEWS: I am going for my first walk, TODAY!

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© Cormac E McCloskey

Cormac McCloskey

22 March at 11:19 · 

CORMAC SAYS: Now when Old Two Paws was busy, I managed to get my pads on the book that I was telling you about yesterday. There was no mention of COCKAPOOS in the Index, which was a big disappointment, because again, as I said yesterday, I had hoped that the book was all about me. But I have just heard Old Two Paws say that, one of the reasons why I spend time in the cage is because it is NOT all about me. So quite literally I had to shake that idea out of my system. But in the short time that I had, I did find some interesting stuff about other animals, and it seems as if they are having as nearly a good a time as me: For a start, I had no idea that other animals come out at night when I am going to bed, and just when I am at my most dynamic, they are going home to bed. I think it might have something to do with sharing? I was in such a hurry, that I can hardly read my own writing, but, listen to this:

“YOU made the moon to mark the months;
the sun knows the time for its setting.
When you spread the darkness it is night
and all the beasts of the forests creep forth.
The young lion’s roar for their prey
and ask for their food from God.”

Well it all seems like a very clever balancing act to me, for when the sun comes up, those who have been out and about all night, go home to bed, and all the sleepy-eyed: the two paws, four paws, and all kinds of creepy-crawlies come out to play.

Now I must be quick, because I think I can hear Old Two Paws, and almost certainly he is coming back. But I can’t go without telling you of my big adventure: MY FIRST WALK’

As the road was very busy and the footpath very narrow, Old Two Paws carried me along the road as far as the charity shop, and when putting me down, he explained, that we were going to walk in a quiet place. At first he had to encourage me, for I couldn’t help looking back to make sure that those noisy passing cars were not coming down our road. And when one or two did, Old Two Paws was very good, telling me not to worry and stroking my back. And as we passed some houses, he had to explain that I could not go there: to those lovely grassy areas that belonged to other dogs. As it was my first time, we didn’t go too far; and I was a lot happier walking home; and Old Two Paws was delighted when I left a little trickle headed toward the edge of the pavement. So I explained that I just thought that I would let the other dogs know that I had been out and about.

For the last little bit of the journey, Old Two Paws carried me home, and it was just as well, for on the way I met a dog TWENTY TIMES as big as me. So Old Two Paws explained to the lady with the big dog, that I was out on my first walk, and she was pleased and impressed: impressed, that even though my paws were off the ground, I was still wagging my tail.
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© Cormac E McCloskey

Cormac McCloskey

23 March at 10:20 · 

CORMAC SAYS: Hi! Amber here. The day before yesterday, I think it was a Wednesday, Lady Two Paws brought a box into the Garden Room, put it on the floor and told Old Two Paws to stand on it. Old Two Paws was a bit unsteady, not because he is old, but because Lady Two Paws was looking very carefully at the box.
“You’ll have to get off” she said, “It isn’t working.”
So Old Two Paws got off and on again, and off again, until Lady Two Paws said that everything was OK! Well I thought it was a very strange game for the Two Paws to be playing until Old Two Paws picked me up and stood on the box AGAIN! Well, to cut a long story short, I weigh 1 stone, and that’s equal to 14 1 pound bags of sugar, and Old Two Paws tells me that most people have absolutely no idea what 14 1 pound bags of sugar look like. And Lady Two Paws said that if they had kept every sachet of sugar that they got in hotels, restaurants, and cafes, in Barcelona, and had sold them on eBay, it would have paid for the holiday. But that’s only the half of it.

In the afternoon, all three of us went out into the garden and my retractable lead was tied to a door handle; and I just couldn’t believe it when Lady Two Paws started digging with a little silver spade, and Old Two Paws, a little further away with a very dirty sinister looking spade, that was almost as high as me. “Why?” I asked myself , “am I tied to a doer handle when my expertise is in digging?” You should see the digging that I have done at the top of the garden. Certainly Old Two Paws is impressed, and remarked as to how my front paws,working like pistons, can fling the soil as far back as my head is forward. and beyond. Well of course there was nothing I could do but help, and that’s the beauty of a retractable lead, even when it is tied to a door handle..

“No! No! Go Away Amber!” shouted Lady Two Paws, who got even more excited and called to Old Two Paws that I was chewing the laminated plant labels. And though I felt sorry for Old Two Paws when he got up from his knees to sort me out, (he was planting Nadinia domestica *obsessed,”} before he knew what had happened, I grabbed and dashed off with the air bag on which he was kneeling. - It was s such a busy and enjoyable afternoon.

Now here’s a thing. This afternoon I am meeting Rosie. She is coming to the house and like me she is a COCKAPOO, and it is going to be very interesting. She lives in a very posh house with open plan and wall-to-wall creamy-coloured carpet throughout. Well! I’m sure you can imagine it: girls together, and there will be no stopping us when it comes to talking! and laughing! about tinkles and BIG mistakes!

And a last thought.

At the top of the garden this morning, when I had done everything that was expected of me and I was sitting chewing on a twig, Old Two Paws was standing watching, and though I kept chewing, and said nothing, I saw a poetic though pass underneath his hat:

“If it has done a poo, it deserves a chew!”

__________

© Cormac E McCloskey

Cormac McCloskey

24 March at 11:12 · 

CORMAC SAYS: If you have been reading my blogs you will know that I am full of myself. And here’s why. And it’s not me talking, but the man in the book. Oh, and so as to get to what truly matters, I am skipping the bit about my appearance. I am, of course, beautiful, but more importantly, I am an intellectual dog. Here’s what the man says.

I am so intelligent that I can’t be expected to “just hang around.” In fact, he goes even farther, and says that I am “scary smart,” And I am so finely tuned that I am therapeutic: When you cry I will will be there to console you, and when you are busy, on the computer, or wherever, I will be there keeping you company. So if I am prepared to look after you, you must be prepared to look after me. I like puzzles, chewing, (he recommends the “strongest synthetic bones possible.” And coming back to the intelligence thing; he says that if you don’t cater for my needs, I will do it myself. I will come up, he says, with “highly inventive and usually destructive ways to keep myself entertained.” That’s the stick. But here’s the carrot: If you come up to scratch, “you will be hard pressed to find anyone more friendly than me.”

Old Two Paws says, that you shouldn’t be deceived by appearances, and reminds me, that on more than one occasion I have“lead him up the garden path!” And, that sometimes I only hear what I want to hear, which is why he now wears thick rubber gloves to protect his hands; and even then, I still don’t listen. But I do love Old Two Paws and Lady Two Paws.

You should have seen Old Two Paws face when Lady Two Paws opened a parcel from Pets In Paradise. When he saw the new mat on the floor, Old Two Paws at first, saw a bone, a heart, some funny writing and a pair of hands. But, when he got himself sorted and looked at it again, what he saw was;: “I Love Muddy Paws.” And the mat that she bought for my cage, is so luxurious, that he said he wouldn’t mind sleeping on it himself.

That’s what I like about Lady Two Paws. Like me, she knows that money is for spending. Not like Old Two Paws, who, finding two £10 notes in his back pocket, had absolutely no idea how they got there. That prompted Lady Two Paws to say gleefully: “They must be mine!” That brought a wry smile to Old Two Paws Face; as he slipped the two £10 notes back where they came from.

And I never met Rosie, my half-sister, after all. Apparently while playing with other dogs in the park, she gave a “yelp!” and seems to have pulled a muscle. So Sue thought it best to let her rest at home. Although I didn’t say anything to Sue about it, I am worried that the pair might be accident prone, because a week or so ago, when Rosie out walking got a fright, she ran in front of Sue and Sue fell - on top of Rosie.
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© Cormac E McCloskey

COCKAPOOS
by Alan Kenworthy
ISBN: 978-0-9927843-8-6

Cormac McCloskey

25 March at 13:20 · 

CORMAC SAYS: When we go out into the garden, the bell, which I am supposed to ring when I need the bathroom, alerts the birds to the fact that I am on my way. Usually, it’s a poo followed by breakfast. I eat so much and then let Old Two Paws know that I would like a drink. That’s not what’s supposed to happen, because the man in the book says, that any uneaten food should be taken away after 20 or so minutes, and that I should not be given water until some twenty minutes after that.

Now I think the man in the book must have confused himself, and thought he was writing for old decrepit dogs.

As for the water, and on the principle that what goes in must come out. if I drink a large amount of water in one go, the man in the book says that it will be a lot a easier to anticipate when it might be coming out. Well, truth be told, Old Two Paws and Lady Two Paws are still working on that one.

After breakfast, and a short rest, (you can’t run on a full tummy,) I do chasing squeakies up and down the Garden Room. I have a pair of boots: sorry, correction: two boots, one large and one small, that squeak, and Old Two Paws is very good at getting them to squeak as they fly through the air, which is exciting. I also have several synthetic, flavoured bones, that don’t squeak, but I enjoy chasing and gnawing them all the same. And I have an assortment of coloured balls and other bits and pieces, that are so dramatically changed in appearance, that I don’t remember what they were like in the first place.

At the same time, and though it is fun and games, OTP somehow manages to get himself a cup of tea, and make a bowl of porridge while I have lost my head. But I can be devious, and keep him on tenterhooks while he is eating. In a very clever way I go sniffing round and round the table, and then, in this corner and that, before sniffing my way around a corner, and out of sight. Then, and after he has had his breakfast, and with the bell ringing, it’s out into the garden on my retractable lead.

Yesterday, at this point, Old Two Paws was unsure, and studied me closely, fearing that something might be wrong. Usually he would throw a squeaky, and that would be enough to get me fired up. But yesterday I just wasn’t interested. But Old Two Paws knows that I can be quirky, because the man in the book says so, and that thought was enough to get him booting the squeakies all around the place, and at times with such agility! that in my excitement! I couldn’t tell whether I was coming or going.

Well, this is the point at which I go into my cage, a lot more willingly than I used to, and with a little bribe, and I rest there for two and a half hours. I do the same thing again in the afternoon, and recently I heard Old Two Paws say, that he is going to add an extra half hour, so it will be three hours Max! Then, he says, that if I am well behaved and coping well with my separation anxiety, I may only need to go into the cage once a day, and just long enough to remind me that it is there for a purpose.

The other day, Saturday it was, I was out for my third walk and the traffic was a bit scary, even on the quiet road. That said, myself and Old Two Paws got to the end of the road, and when we looked back down the hill, I felt really silly. Only a few days ago I had rebuked Anna Chretien, telling her that she should have known that there are no hills in Norfolk.

On the way home, a car, coming very slowly, stopped. Then, a man with his head sticking out the window said what a lovely dog I was, and that they had a dog, (not a COCKAPOO,) the same colour as me. Old Two Paws then explained that while in the past they, (Lady Two Paws and himself,) had had rescued dogs, I was their first puppy.
“Worse than bringing up children.” The man said.
“I can’t remember that far back,” said Old Two Paws.
And when we were practising running home, OTP said to me: “They were a nice couple, but I think he is a bit of a Job’s comforter!”

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© Cormac E McCloskey

Cormac McCloskey

26 March at 11:04 · 

COMAC SAYS: When I was in my cage, stretched out and dreaming, I asked Old Two Paws to tell me about other animals. “Well,” he said, after a pause, “I think I would like to tell you about a Donkey, a Lamb, a Tyger, and the funniest thing of all, an Owl and a Pussy-cat that got married.” The story about the Donkey, Old Two Paws said, is told by a man who has been around for a very long time: Anonymous! When he first saw a donkey it looked so ridiculous that he felt sorry for it, and hoped that when it grew up, people would be kind to it. And when I heard the story, even I was crying:

“I saw a donkey one day old,
His head was to big for his neck to hold;
His legs were shaky, and long, and loose.
They rocked, and staggered, and weren’t much use.”

As Old Two Paws told it to me, the story of The Lamb is lovely; and apparently, at the time when William Blake was writing about lambs and tigers, people thought that he was a bit odd. If they could only have known the truth. For according to Old Two Paws, he was a genius, an artist, engraver and poet. And what made him exceptional, was that he was an intellectual like me. But he was also deeply religious, and a philosopher. So he had insights that other people didn’t have. And in the way he tells the story of The Lamb, you can see how imaginative he was. Amazingly he talks to the Lamb, asking questions, dropping hints, and only tells the Lamb the answer at the very end, and in such a gentle and profound way:

“Little Lamb who mdse thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life and bid the feed.
By the streams and o’er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing woolly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice!
Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee.

“Little Lamb I’ll tell thee . . .”
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Now when it comes to Tyger Tyger, we can see how insightful William Blake. was. As Old Two Paws explained, it is a metaphor: powerful, beautiful, but sinister. Sinister, because William is disturbed by the industry monster that is growing up around him, and changing society in a dehumanising way. It has nothing to do with the tiger that you can see in the zoo. And what I especially like is that bit where you can feel the energy, power, and relentless force of the smithy, turning, twisting, and bending things to its will:

“And what shoulder & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet.

“What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil ? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp!”

And being the genius that he was, Old Two Paws admires the way that Blake throws down the gauntlet at the very end, and brings both stories together:

“Did he who made the Lamb make thee?"

Now Old Two Paws thinks that it is very important, before I get going in life, to understand that it is not a good idea to be intellectual, all the time. “You have to have some adventure and frivolity in your life,” he said, “which is why I want you to hear this next story.“ It is about an Owl and a Pussy-cat who set off on an adventure with no real idea of where they were going and how it might end. But they fall in love and wanted to get married, and got in a panic. “O what shall we do for a ring?” they cried. But they needn’t have worried, because lots of animals round about, dying for an excuse to celebrate, came to the rescue, (including a Turkey,) that for some reason or other, lived on a hill!

Well, I am so grateful for Old Two Paws good advice. Listen to this:

“They dined on mince, and slices of quince
While they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon.”

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© Cormac E McCloskey

Cormac McCloskey

27 March at 09:43 · 

CORMAC SAYS: Bad news I’m afraid. Old Two Paws wants his computer back so this will be the last blog from me for a while. Old Two Paws says that there are just not enough hours in the day, which is why he has been trying, unsuccessfully, to get up a 6 o’clock; and now that I am getting him up at 6, he tells me that he is doing less than ever. So I’m afraid I just have to give way.

As you know I’m a COCKAPOO, which I think is the American way of spelling. On the paperwork that came with me, Angela said that I was a COCKERPOO. As for the word itself, it hints at the fact that I am a cross between a cocker spaniel and a poodle: “fifth generation” according to the paperwork. So dogs like me are, I think, just a generation away from being recognised as a breed.

Before I get to the legal stuff, let me tell you of the nice things that Angela and J had to say on their paperwork. They said that I grew up in a reassuring family environment, in which I got used to young children, the TV and the hoover. But, they couldn’t say for sure that I liked the hoover. They also said that I could, for a small fee, come back to them for a holiday, rather than being kennelled; something they are willing to do for all their puppies. And in the sad event, (I can’t bare to think of it,) that I need a new home, they have asked Lady Two Paws and Old Two Paws to allow me to come to them, for they are more likely to know of a good home where I could go. And such is their love and concern for me, that they say they are only a phone call away, (day or night!) and they have asked LTP and OTP to remember that I am, “a living creature and companion.”

The legal stuff is what you would expect, a common sense contract that safeguards everyone’s interests. In it, Lady and Old Two Paws, would have had their money back, in full, if the vet, within 7 days, said that there was something seriously wrong with me.

Well, when I read through my dad Stanley’s papers, I realised just how careful Angela and J had been. Dad was tested for possible genetic defects and was given the all clear for “PAR” (Progressive Retinal Atrophy), and “vWD” (van Willerbrand Disease) and several other things as well. So besides being “scary smart,” I am so well made that I should be around for a long time. That said, Old Two Paws worries. He says that my lovely wavy coat is deceitful, that underneath I am quite small, and my feet worryingly delicate.

That didn’t stop me from going on a different walk yesterday, though the traffic is still a bit scary. I like to keep an eye on the cars as they come along, and I am especially pleased when they go away.

Today, myself and Old Two Paws are going on the same walk, and we will meet Lady Two Paws (who is coming by car,) at the pumping station. Together, we will go for a walk along by the river, and around the park.

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© Cormac E McCloskey

Living Dangerously !

   A year or more ago when stepping into a crowded isle in church, I bumped into a man who apologised. Yes! He apologised, and explained that he was a member of the "Wobbling Club." I hadn't heard of it, and didn't admit to the possibility that I might be a member without knowing; and now I am in torment, not knowing who or what to blame when I go walking. Is it the treacherous pavements around these parts, or my walking shoes that are not of the best quality? or could it be that my limbs are not quite as strong as they used to be? “Blame”: because my gait, at times, doesn't seem quite as it should be.

   Well, to try and arrive at the truth, I crossed over the road yesterday, and set off along the footpaths that I believed to be in better condition than those on our side of the road, and all went well, until I fell, shocked! into a ravine. But, I had the presence of mind to keep my composure knowing that I had to climb back out again; and when I did climb out, I looked back in disgust at the disproportionate, dare I say, life threatening drop in the pavement that was supposed to mark the entrance to someone’s house. And I had some additional thoughts.

   Undoubtedly someone in the past thought that replacing flagstones with tarmac was a great idea, but without foreseeing the consequence; or perhaps they did, and didn't care, that as time passed, the utility companies - each in their own time -would come along and dig a hole, and then another, and yet another hole until in the end, we found ourselves walking on the the equivalent of a patchwork quilt. But that's not all: for along came the cable companies who made incisions all the way down the pavement, that sometimes, now that they are patched up - and a bit like me - veer to the right, and sometimes to the left, and almost always at a level above all the other patchwork.

   Now truthfully, I can tell you that I have fond memories of the pavements in Portrush, where I grew up. As the word suggests, they were flagged, and sometimes I enjoyed leaping from where I was to a flag in the distance. And as I raced over them, - to school that is - I know that I developed in my subconscious, a sense of proportion, - for the slabs were not all of equal size, - and precision, from the care with which, and irrespective of their size, they were laid. And I remember the men who came along and taking them up stacked them neatly at the side of the road before digging into the subsoil below. And I remember them putting them back with skill when the work was done. But sadly, in Portrush, for all it's natural beauty, the promenades are scarred with tarmac.

   Well, back home and confiding in Jenny, I told her that I didn't know whether the unsteady gait was my fault, or the fault of the wretched footpaths, but that I didn't want to resort to a walking stick, fearing, that in my 3 mile walk that would slow me down. But as wives do, she had the answer. What I needed, she told me, was a Nordic Walking Stick: so I am investigating. But, back to the outdoors.

   So as to reassure you that all this is not a figment of my imagination, let me tell you that a couple of months ago, someone, (it could even have been a battalion of them,) came along with a pot of white paint and painstakingly put a line of white around each of the areas of broken tarmac. When it first happened I was pleased, but worried, that whatever they did in the way of a repair, would be little more than a sticking plaster applied to a festering sore. But now I am a sceptic, or a cynic, or whatever word you might prefer, as nothing has happened since the white paint went down. Or, perhaps it has, as was intended: that there are fewer claims for compensation for personal injury, from people like me, - who go walking.

__________

  ©  Cormac E. McCloskey

A Timely Reminder

As men and women, booth religious and lay, struggle to come to terms with the reality of institutional child sexual abuse, and are at pains to know how to effectively safeguard children, we had, yesterday, in The Liturgy of the Hours, a timely reminder of the life of the Italian priest and Saint, John Bosco. Dedicated to the education of the young: the poor, the destitute and those at risk, in 1859 he founded a religious order of men, the Salesians, who, after him, would continue to work for that end. Below, and taken from the Office of Readings for yesterday, is a letter written to his fellow religious. It is as pertinent today as it was some 150 years ago, and part of its strength is in its realism:
__________

      "First of all, if we wish to appear concerned about the true happiness of our foster children and if we would move them to fulfil their duties, you must never forget that you are taking the place of the parents of these beloved young people. I have always laboured lovingly for them, and carried out my priestly duties with zeal. And the whole Salesian society has done this with me.

   "My sons, in my long experience very often I have had to be convinced of this great truth. It is easier to become angry than to restrain oneself, and to threaten a boy than to persuade him. Yes, indeed, it is more fitting to be persistent in punishing our own impatience and pride than to correct the boys. We must be firm but kind, and be patient with them.

   "I give you as a model the charity of Paul [St. Paul] which he showed to his new converts. They often reduced him to tears and entreaties when he found them lacking docility and even opposing his loving efforts.

   "See that no one finds you motivated by impetuosity or wilfulness. It is difficult to keep calm when administering punishment, but this must be done if we are to keep ourselves from showing off our authority or spilling out our anger.

   "Let us regard these boys over whom we have some authority as our own sons. Let us place ourselves in their service. Let us be ashamed to assume an attitude of superiority. Let us not rule over them except for the purpose of serving them better.

   "This was the method that Jesus used with the apostles. He put up with their ignorance and roughness and even their infidelity. He treated sinners with a kindness and affection that caused some to be shocked, often to be scandalised, and still other to hope for God's mercy. And so he bade us to be gentle and humble of heart.

   "They are our sons, and so in correcting their mistakes we must lay aside all anger and restrain it so firmly that it is extinguished entirely.

   "There must be no hostility in our minds, no contempt in our eyes, no insult on our lips. We must use mercy for the present and have hope for the future, as it is fitting for true fathers who are eager for real correction and improvement.

   "In serious matters it is better to beg God humbly than to send forth a flood of words  that will only offend the listener and have no effect on the guilty."      
__________ 
Cormac E McCloskey 

On Refugees

 

     This morning I received an e-mail from UNHCR: [The United Nations Refugee Agency], in all probability, because I sent them a donation yesterday.  And while I prefer to keep the details of my charitable giving to myself, on this occasion, and in the light of recent experiences,  I have decided to share this e-mail with you.

      Some time ago when enjoying a pub lunch with friends that we hadn't seen for some time, the subject of "Brexit" {The UK decision to leave the European Union] came up; and in that context, it wasn't long before the subject of refugees "reared its ugly head." Not because refugees are "ugly," but because of a poisonous, or if you prefer, a debilitating attitude of mind that surfaces during such discussions. And it surfaced yet again more recently, when, with a different group of friends we were discussing the likelihood of Jeremy Corbyn [the leader of the Labour Party] becoming Prime Minister, now that Teresa May, by her own hand, has gone from having a parliamentary majority, to heading a coalition government. 

      What for me is "poisonous" when the subject of refugees comes up, is what I describe as, the coupling of a positive with a negative, or put another way, a professed sympathy for refugees, "but"! A "but" that in an instant devalues them as human beings, not withstanding the fact that for reason of war and persecution, and having lost everything, they are trekking across Europe in search of sanctuary, and a better life. A "but" that besides ignoring their immediate needs is especially reprehensible when applied to children and accompanied with the word "terrorist", (as it was in our recent discussions,) as it was to in the past to those children living in the unofficial refugee camp at Calais known as "The Jungle." Why? Because 18 year old's are officially classified as children, and at that age are perceived as potential "terrorists." And when we widened the discussion and asked, why they don't see the desperation of  refugees trying to get to the UK as a compliment to our way of life, they were unimpressed; what motivates them, we were told, is the UK's generous system of state handouts;  as they were unimpressed, when we made the point that it was reputable agencies, who, having visited The Jungle at Calais, expressed concern about the large number of unaccompanied children living there, who were considered especially vulnerable to unimaginable forms of exploitation; and who, on that account should be offered sanctuary in much greater numbers than was proposed, in the UK. 

      Now before I go any further, (and not withstanding what I have just written,) let me tall you a little more about our friends. Put at its simplest, not only are they are not without compassion, but in their lives more broadly, they have proven track records in being there for the disadvantaged, and, they have a way of coping.

      As the conversations unfolded, we learned of a form of charitable giving organised by the Salvation Army, of which they approved, and to which, I am happy to assume they contributed. What they liked about it was that it was a way of giving where they could be confident that whatever they donated, went to the people in need: a system of numbered boxes that were filled with the necessities of life, (including cooking utensils) that once dispatched, could be traced to specific camps and families within the camps. As outlined, it was self-evidently a scheme of which we could all approve, but one, as we pointed out, that falls well short of the actual needs of refugees, in particular, the needs of the hundreds of thousands of refugees who are living in official camps. And so the discussion continued, especially as our friends were of the view that managing the international refugee crisis, in a way that was transparent,  should be left to the Salvation Army. So we found ourselves explaining the obvious, to people who had more than enough intellect and experience of life so as to see it for themselves, except, that they choose not to.

      What should have been apparent, had they wanted to see it, was that their expectation that the Salvation Army could manage the international refugee crisis was not credible. As was the idea, however good in itself, that the distribution of numbered boxes of aid to people living in sprawling refugee camps, could ever be sufficient in itself. And had they wanted to, they could have worked out for themselves, that hard cash, (as donations,) is essential, given the vast sums of money needed to provide sanitation, schooling, medical facilities, trauma counselling and such like, within the official refugee camps. 

As for the e-mail that I received this morning, at one and the same time it was a thank you, and a reminder of the enormity of the international refugee crisis as reflected in the following profile: 

In recent times the UNHCR who are working in 130 countries "to tackle the highest level of displacement on record" has distributed:

"2.7 million blankets to people who have nothing."

"Enrol[ed] more than 850,000 children in school."

"Give[en] more than 200,000 people emergency shelter."

and they tell us that:

"51% of refugees are children below 18 years of age."
and that "65.6 m have been forced to flee worldwide."  

And such is the enormity of the task that the UNHCR are not alone in responding to the crisis.

Medicins Sans Frontieres : (Doctors Without Borders) is another, and it is worth recalling here that their emergency hospital in Syria was bombed by the Syrian army, who, at an official level, and for reasons of safety, had been given the coordinates for the hospital. And there are other charities, both lay, and religious, also working with and for refugees. 

   Now as I am neither a psychiatrist nor a psychologist, and have my own limited insights, it would be wrong for me to presume to know, with any degree of certainty, why the attitude of our friends to the refugee crisis, is what it is, but I can hazard an intelligent guess.

What they have in common is that they see the world from their point of view, and not from the point of view of refugees, and to a degree, they don't quite trust foreigners, hence their failure to recognise, that when it comes to charitable giving, we can't always be in control,  that in terms of giving, sometimes we have to take a risk: do what we know to be right, and trust others to do their very best on our behalf. And if I think more deeply as to why they take refuge in themselves, one possible answer is, that if they tried to see the world from the point of view of refugees, it would bring them closer to the painful realities of life. As for linking "children" with "terrorist," apart from the fact that it is a perspective that clouds their judgement, and inhibits them in their response, it mirrors the insidious point of view of some of the more notorious tabloid press. A point of view that was challenged, when we recalled that some of the more recent terrorist outrages in this country had been carried out by "home grown" terrorists. All of that said, and in defence of our friends, I must tell you that they are not alone.

   In a recent interview on Radio 5 Live, Tim Farron who recently resigned as leader of the Liberal Democratic Party, (because he found his role as leader incompatible with his Christian commitment,) was asked what he would like to do next. And in broad terms, this was his response.

Having visited The Jungle at Calais and other refugee camps, he spoke of the refugees he met there, as having been through "unspeakable experiences." and he acknowledged a general reluctance among politicians and the wider European public, to rise to the challenge and do more. And it was this reluctance, that was motivating him to want to spend his time working as an advocate for refugees: for those who,  uprooted, have lost everything, and as yet have not found a place that they can call - home. 
__________

©  Cormac E McCloskey 

UNHCR -  here 

Medicins Sans Frontieres  - here 

   

Christmas: Journeying on . . .

   At the start of this year, 2016, our focus was on moving house, and delighted we were, when, within a fortnight of putting the house up for sale, we had a buyer. But what we could not have foreseen, was, that for all our planning something altogether more profound would happen: that in the space of 4 months, two of my brothers would have died: Kieran, age 64, from stage 4 cancer, and Brendan, who had just turned 70, and who had spent almost the last forty years of his life in hospital, in a state of total dependence on others.

   Though very successful in his career, Kieran was an introvert and something of a recluse. By choice, he lived mostly alone and in poor circumstances, and down the years he had little contact with his family. When he did appear, we enjoyed his company and wondered why he did not come around more often: but we saw him as a a private person, a modest man without materialistic ambitions, who was politically left of centre, who had found his niche: a style and way of life with which he was comfortable.  So, when I took an unexpected call from him in late February and we talked about inconsequential things: football, I knew that there was more to come. And when I asked why he had called and remarked that he didn't sound well, that gave him the opportunity to tell me that he had been diagnosed with bowel cancer and would be having major surgery in a few days time.

As I digested this news, and though of Kieran living and coping alone through months of trauma, I was overcome with emotion, but together we got through it, and I confirmed that I would respect his wish, which was, that he would tell each of his many brothers and sister himself. And when in response, they came from far and near to be with him, he expressed surprise, and regret: that in the past he had not made more of an effort to keep in touch. But Kieran was who he was, his own man, who, in bequeathing his considerable assets, distributed them as percentages and in proportion to the needs of each, so that those with the greatest need, got by far the greater share, while those whom he knew to have enough, were allocated an equal proportion of what was left.

   Now when Kieran was first admitted to hospital and asked if he was religious, (a standard enquiry in the UK,) he didn't give the conventional "yes"/"no" answer. Instead, he described himself as "a catholic humanist," which was his way of making the philosophical point, that while he might not have a religion, he was not without belief, and that what he believed in, was, - the universal brotherhood of man. Sometime later, when he was nearing the end of his life, and we were alone, I asked, if he would mind if I read a prayer, and as to whether or not he would like to be visited by a priest. Willingly he consented to the prayer, which I put in context, explaining that as man's ultimate relationship to God is one of praise, I would read the Divine Praises. When I had finished, and after a pause, he asked if I would read them again:

"Blessed be God.

Blessed be His Holy Name.

Bless be Jesus Christ, true God and true Man.

Blessed be the Name of Jesus.

Blessed be His Most Sacred Heart.

Blessed be . . . . . ."

Then, and when he scarcely had the energy to speak, his "no" to the idea that he might be visited by a priest, came not as a "no," but in these words:

"I must be true to myself."

   Now unknown to me at this time, was that Kieran, in what was to be his last Christmas, had already considered this question of his relationship to God; the evidence for which, was in the form of a tentative poem written in pencil on the face of a gilded envelope. As it stands, he was attempting to put his life, and his illness, in context, and from his concluding remarks it is apparent that he had an audience in mind:

"My voice is croaking and my legs are cold

'cos I didn't listen to the tales they told.

So now I'm tired and my voice is dimmed

I don't walk far and I listen to hymns

'cos I hope that Jesus still has a place for me."

After which, he is uncompromisingly honest with himself:

"I'd like to recover [record?] I'd like to find

The quality I had in an earlier time

But I can't do either 'cos I lost the gifts I had."

Then, in what follows, there is something of the ill defined in the sentiments as he expresses them, for having told us that he would like to recover those qualities that he had "in an earlier time," he goes on to represent himself as detached; unemotional: "I don't feel sorry," he tells us, "and I don't feel blame," after which he changes tack yet again:

"I want to share because I care

I want to learn and give concern

About how things are and about how they might be."

Why ?

Because, ". . .most of all you don't want to be like me"

As I read it, this tentative poem is an admission of failure, by someone who was not given to the expedient, even when the odds were stacked against him, as they surely were at this point in his life. But it was failure of a kind, which was why, when close to death, he was able to respond to to my question, in the same manner as he had when first admitted to hospital, not with a negative, but with a positive, and he was taking it with him:

"I must be true to myself!"

__________

   By contrast, Brendan who was qualified in hotel management, was an extrovert, who came across as bright, interested and interesting, and through whom I met my wife. He was well liked by everyone who met him and there wasn't a malicious bone in his body. But when on occasion we locked horns across the chess-board, more often than not I found myself battered and frustrated by his sheer mental agility. No sooner had I made my ponderous moves, (about which he never complained,) than he had made his.

But unlike Kieran, Brendan never found that niche or way of life with which he could be comfortable. Instead, and in an attempt to find it, he veered between extremes, on the one hand, to the flamboyant world of the amateur actor, and on the other, to "Moral Rearmament," a fundamentalist and evangelising religious movement, whose members, in their zeal, were oblivious to his fragile mental state, a condition that in the end required him to be "sectioned" (compulsorily admitted) to a psychiatric hospital. 

Now because of its complexity, Brendan's story is not so easily told, and the most tragic aspect of it was still to come. In a "cry for help," and while living under supervision, he overdosed on a cocktail of prescribed medications, and as a consequence, destroyed his "motor function." So for some forty years, and unable to speak, he lived in a state of total dependence on others. And here, (notwithstanding the tragedy,) is the good news.

In that time, day in and day out, the care that he received, within the NHS, was of the highest order, which was important in itself, but the more-so because Brendan knew who he was and where he was, and it was that quality of care that allowed something of the old Brendan to survive: his alertness and capacity for the mischievous.

As for Kieran, a truth that we all came to acknowledge in the last few months of his life, was, that while we loved him as a brother, we didn't really know who he was. But here too is good news: tangible evidence, that he was resolutely and practically on the side of the disadvantaged and the marginalised. For a number of years after he had retired, Kieran worked as a volunteer for the Citizens Advice Bureau, (CAB) and this appreciation, and insight, was given at his funeral by the Director under whom he worked:

“. . . over the last year or so he saw more than 150 people. The youngest was 24, the oldest 82. His cases included housing – he prevented homelessness in more than one case. Debt – he stopped bailiff action, renegotiated payments and stabilised clients finances leaving them better able to manage. Benefits – he helped clients gain benefits and challenged decisions from the DWP [Department of Work and Pensions]. He dealt with complaints to utility companies, wrote letters to employers, made phone calls . . . Some clients he would have seen just once, others several times.

“Kieran always struck me as an intelligent listener, a man of empathy, and those attributes will have been invaluable in identifying what people's problems really were and how best to help them.

“But Kieran did more for our organization than this. He was the volunteer staff rep and would attend meetings – and would speak up on their behalf on their opinions and issues.

“Kieran also volunteered, or maybe he was nominated for, extra projects for CAR. Recently a group was established to design and implement a new office layout – and to improve the environment for our staff, volunteers and clients. Kieran was instrumental in the success of this project. He designed a floor plan, he got quotes for the work. Someone identified some office furniture being discarded in a London office. Off went Kieran with a tape measure and soon a range of additional furniture was in our office – with Kieran organizing the location to meet his floor plan. This was a massive task and would never have succeeded without Kieran's input.

“My own personal memories of Kieran remind me of the twinkle in his eye – his dry sense of humour and wry asides. He was one of those people who see a need, and just knuckle down and achieve it – always consulting and involving other, but above all getting it done.”

__________

© Cormac McCloskey

Fraudsters

                                                                Kieran, listening intently. 


Over recent months my brother Kieran has been living with us, and sadly, while battling unsuccessfully against a very aggressive form of cancer. And while going through his personal papers, we came across this:

                                                                                                   [Chinese characters]
                                                                                                   "e-MAIL: ruk9980@live.co.uk
                                                                                                   June 03, 2013

"Kieran McCloskey
[etc., etc.]


"Dear Kieran McCloskey,

"My name is Zaithyn Ruk, I am a contacting you in relations to late Charles McCloskey. I worked for him as his private investment manager, and in the few years prior to his death invested substantially in various opportunities.

"After a few years of profit making, he instructed that all the money be collected together into a single bank account, and I arranged with a specialist bank here in China to secure the money in a single account, shortly after he died, I assumed his relatives has since made claims, only to get a phone call from the bank a few weeks ago that Charles funds remains unclaimed, and the money would go to the Government if nobody claims it.

"The bank used international people finders to locate any relatives of Charles but they failed to locate any, hence I have taken the initiative to make enquires myself, in the process I have been provided your details, I propose that we don't allow this money go to the Government and work together to legally secure this money in full compliance with the laws of China.

"Kindly write back to me on the estate of late Mr. McCloskey, kindly keep this communication confidential due to its sensitivity as we do not want this inheritance to fall in the wrong hands.

Zaithyn Ruk "

__________

Now anyone with half a brain, (and for a variety of reasons,) would recognize in this letter, a fraudster at work. And I am happy, on Kieran's account, to let you know that he was not taken in; for on the back of the letter he asks the question: "How's this for a scam?!" But the sad truth is, that a reasonably well educated person, took the time and trouble to compose it, (and goodness knows how many others besides,) in an attempt to deceive and defraud: and with a grain of truth. The grain of truth, is in the reference to "Charles", who, in real life, was James Charles. So who was James Charles McCloskey?

In the letter, the writer takes the credit for finding Kieran, something that the investment bank's own team of "international people finders" had failed to do, an achievement that is as astonishing as it is ridiculous, for James Charles McCloskey left behind, not 1, but 11 children: Kevin, Anna, Liam, Cormac, Deirdre, Brendan, Colum, Bronagh, Kieran, Orla and Fionnuala.

Now for those of you who don't know, in 2011, I published a book of "Autobiographical and Other Poems", under the provocative title, "Who Would Be A Girl When You Can Be A Boy?" : the title of a poem in the collection, in which, girls, surprise! surprise!  come out on top! So in the context of "Charles" and his investments in China, allow me to share the details with you.

In the poem "Time", I present a series of character sketches of previous generations of my family, all deceased, and in it I have this to say of "Charles":

"Charlie, for a long time a bulwark against the laws of nature
succumbed, jaundiced to the rigours of tobacco and alcohol.
His widow, penniless, but with eleven children,
helped him to go peacefully
supported by family intercession and extreme unction."

And in a much longer poem, "The Vigil", I recall the boyhood experience of sitting with him through the night as he drank himself into oblivion: A small section of the poem will suffice, the point at which I am painting a picture of ever increasing squalor as the night wore on:

"And how as the evening passed and the hearth was soiled
with dredged bottles, spittle, and spent matches;
and the air ran pungent with the smell of Stout,
you lapsed again and again into unconsciousness;
while I, vigilant, saved all of us
as your cigarette, silent, slipped to the carpet.
But how like a phoenix you rose defiant
and vitriol spewed out."

Now it would be a mistake to think that these poems are a diatribe against my father, or mother for that matter, or that my view of my parents is to be found in any single poem. Here, for example in the poem "Daddy", you get a more rounded picture:

"A cultured man, a refined man, who,
from the pages of legend, gave me my name.

A silent man, a violent man, who,
in his addictions, stifled hope and love.

An inadequate man, a moral man, who,
in his floundering - squandered pity."
__________

As for the letter, it gives no clue as to when "Charles" was considered deceased. So here are some clues of my own, a chronology of sorts, of events in China.

MAO was at the height of his power, and the Cultural Revolution had not yet been conceived, but a belief was gaining ground, that, "Half of China May Well Have to Die."

So the truth is, that the nearest my father got to the "Global Village", was to live to see the advent of horse racing on television, and then, only in black and white.

As for the letter, it may be the work of a novice, but fraudsters have to begin somewhere, and live in the hope of future "rich pickings": fraud on a vast scale.

So let me end with a quote from "Mc Mafia," a study of the global mafia by Misha Glenny, the "Mc" being a metaphor for the mafia, as a global corporate entity on a par with legitimate multi-national corporations, and in some instances, with nation states In the context of the subject of criminality as he covers it, this is at the margins, but it is a sobering thought none the less:

""If I can get one credit card from you and I do a 25-buck transaction, will you notice? Will you report it? Will they do anything with it? $25 - no police force in the world is going to chase $25."" So from the point of view of the writer of the letter to Kieran, and whoever else besides, the possibilities are endless.

__________

© Cormac E McCloskey

McMafia
Crime Without Frontiers
by Misha Glenny
Publisher: The Bodley Head 2008
ISBN:-13 : 9781847920072 (TPB)

.

Christmas: the dichotomy

      From my childhood, I have especially fond memories of Christmas, for as a small boy it appealed to my imagination in a way that no other cause for a celebration could. And perhaps, the fact that Christmas came in the depths of winter, and that much of the excitement came after dark, that was an added bonus. And the caveat, (for that's what it was): "from my childhood", was intended to alert you to the fact, that in adult life, I have, at times, been troubled by what this season of the year tells us about ourselves: about our predictability, and, dare I say it, (and children excluded), mindlessness.

   From an adult point of view, and as if by the flick of a switch, we are in the run-up to Christmas, and in terms of music, entertainment, shopping, and parties, and office parties, it is entirely predictable. Then, and as if by another flick of that same switch, it is New Year: time to party, in Sydney, Shanghai, London, and New York and wherever, to be blaze, and obsessed with shopping, and hide from others, our innermost thoughts, what we know to be true: that this New Year, in all likelihood, will not be that much different from the old. There will be wars and rumours of war; and the hungry and destitute will still struggle to eek out an existence; and while people will fall in love, hearts will be broken by personal tragedies of every conceivable kind, and much of the good that so many people did last year, will be done, quietly, again this year, and pass unnoticed, as we go in pursuit of the sensational and superficial.

      Well apologies if I have got you depressed; for that was not my intention: I am simply getting myself of my chest, by sharing a few dark secrets with you, before getting around to the matter in hand, which is to share with you, a truth, that the innocence and simplicity of the birth of Christ in a stable at Bethlehem, has always stood in marked contrast to the reality of life as we know it.

      Then, it was the Roman occupation of Israel, and an edict from Caesar Augustus. Wanting to count the number of people under his thumb, he inconvenienced everyone, by requiring that heads of households return to their ancestral home, to be registered in a census. On the roads it was chaos, which was why, Mary and Joseph, arriving late from Nazareth, found themselves homeless, and desperately in need of somewhere to stay, and why, in the end, they had to make do with a stable.

      Now in the context of the dichotomy that is Christmas, it is worth reminding ourselves of one of the most improbable of edicts. It came about in England, when Oliver Cromwell, as Lord Protector, or Head of State, presided over a puritan parliament, and religious fervour was at its height. It was the edict, that made unlawful, the celebration of Christmas; and that despite the fact, that it had nothing to do with shopping, but with the celebration of a heavenly proclamation, of, "news of great joy, a joy to be shared by the whole people", that "today, in the town of David, [Bethlehem] a saviour has been born to you, he is Christ the Lord."

   Well, when I read the extract, quoted below, from John Evelyn's Diary. (the year 1657), at a certain point I laughed, but of course, at the time, it was no laughing matter, for besides illustrating again the dichotomy between the simplicity of the story of the birth of Christ, and life as we know it; John Evelyn's experience, is a reminder, of how impenetrable, and dangerous, is the mind of the zealot. The square brackets are mine:

"I went with my Wife &c: to Lond[on]: to celebrate Christmas day. Mr Gunning preaching in Exesceter Chapell on 7. Micha 2. Sermon Ended, as he was giving us the holy Sacrament, The Chapell was surrounded with Soldiers: All the Communicants and Assembly supriz'd & and kept Prisoners by them, some in the house, where yet were permitted to Dine with the master of it, the Countesse of Dorset, Lady Hatton &c: some others of quality who invited me: In the afternoon came Colonel Whalley, Goffe & others from Whitehall to examine us one by one, & some they committed to the Martial, some to Prison, some Committed: When I came before them they tooke my name and aboad, examined me, why contrarie to an Ordinance made that none should any longer observe the superstitious time of the Nativity (so esteem'd by them) I darest offend, & particularly be at Common prayers, which they told me was but the Masse in English, & particularly pray for Charles stuard, [the king] for which we had no scripture: I told them we did not pray for Charles Steward but for all Christian Kings, Princes and Governors: They replied, in so doing we praied for the K[ing]. of Spaine too, who was their enemie, & a Papist, with other frivolous & insnaring questions, with much threatning, & finding no colour to detaine me longer, with much pity of my Ignorance, they dismiss'd me. These men were of high flight, and above Ordinances [above the law] & spoke spiteful things of our B[lessed]. Lord nativity."

      Now while Caesar Augustus, in issuing his decree, was unwittingly bringing about the fulfillment of prophecy, in respect of the extraordinary event that would happen in the obscure town of Bethlehem, someone, who spent a lot of time on the road, by choice, was the Welsh poet, writer and tramp, William Henry Davies. He wrote a book about it: "The Autobiography of a Super Tramp", and a sequel, "Latter Days". And despite what I am going to tell you about him, he ended up respectable: with a young wife and a dog. We are told that he did much of his tramping in America, and that his experiences were richly coloured by "bullies,  tricksters, and fellow-adventurers", and "that he was thrown in to prison in Michigan, beaten up in New Orleans, witnessed a lynching in Tennessee, and got drunk pretty well everywhere." Well, among his poems, is one that many, in this part of the world, would have learned at school, and that the shepherds in Bethlehem, would have readily understood, for it has a lot to do with the true spirit of Christmas, though Christmas doesn't get a mention:

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care
We have no time to stop and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich the smile her eyes began.

A poor life this, if full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
__________

And he too, mindful of the dichotomy that is Christmas, wrote this:

The holly on the wall 

Play, little children, one and all,
For holly, holly on the wall.
You do not know that millions are
This moment in a deadly war;
Millions of men whose Christmas bells
Are guns' reports and bursting shells;
Whose holly berries, made of lead,
Take human blood to stain them red;
Whose leaves are swords, and bayonets too,
To pierce their fellow-mortals through.
For now the war is here, and men -
Like cats that stretch their bodies when
The light has gone and darkness comes -
Have armed and left their peaceful homes:
But men will be, when there's no war,
As gentle as you children are.
Play, little children, one and all,
For holly, holly on the wall.    
__________

    Now this dichotomy between the ideal and the real, was often a part of my own childhood Christmas, but there was always that undercurrent of excitement, which was sufficient of itself, to keep me believing in the wonder of it all. But that said, there was no escaping the uncertainty: Would my father be drunk or sober? and if drunk, how drunk? : reduced to silence, or roused to a destructive rage? And would my mother's, lesser anxiety, be eased: would Grandma remember to send a goose or a turkey. But when it came to Mass at midnight, the world was transformed. The church was packed, as though the parish had doubled in size, and the broad window-ledges were strewn with holly. And among the faithful, were those few, who, obviously "the worse for wear", had managed, somehow, to make it, to be there along with the rest of us: to be reminded of Mary and Joseph's arduous journey to Bethlehem, and to be reassured, and strengthened in their belief, that, that "good news of great joy!" was for them.
__________
© Cormac McCloskey

The story of the Nativity. Gospel of Luke. 2
The fulfillment of prophecy in respect of Bethlehem as the birthplace of the Messiah:
    The Bible: Old Testament:, Micah 5:1-2 Recalled in the Gospel of Matthew 2:1-6
The Diary of John Evelyn, and The Holly on the Wall, by William. H. Davies:
from  The English Christmas
          Published by  The Folio Society 2002
          The square brackets were inserted into the text by me
"Charles stuard" / "Charles Stewart" : [Stuart] One and the same, King Charles I, who, in 1649, was beheaded by the puritans during the second English Civil War.
Leisure, by William H. Davies
from Common Joys and other poems
"the worse for wear" : intoxicated, or obviously adversely affected by too much alcohol.