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We came upon a herd of black cattle during our walk abound Ibstone. Some of the moms had newborns they were very protective of.
When I got a little too close, this mom urged her baby to get up. You just never know what humans are going to do to your little ones.
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The inside of the blossom looks like grandma's bonnet, if, that is, your grandma wears one.
Today, inside Hughenden Manor's Walled Garden, we were admiring this delicate blossom. The gardener told us it was Grandma's Bonnet, aka Aquilegia. None of us North Americans had heard of it, but when I looked it up, it turns out Grandma's Bonnet is also known as Columbine.
Sort of like a car hood is called a bonnet here, I guess Columbine is known as Grandma's Bonnet.
The back garden at Hughenden, photographed illegally from inside the house.
Hughenden is pronounced with a hard "g", HEWGenden. Now a National Trust property, Hughenden was the home of Benjamin Disraeli, a failed novelist who turned to politics.
Happens to the best of us.
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This view of the windmill featured in the film Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is spoiled by the power lines that run behind the cottages in Turville.
Better view:
The Cobstone Windmill, in addition to serving as Caractacus Potts' workshop, was featured in other films, including Goodnight Mr. Tom, Bride and Prejudice, Dead of Night, and scenes of "Little Britain". It once belonged to Hayley Mills.
It's actually located in Ibstone, near Turville, which is a great area for hikes. And for cows—check back tomorrow.
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Increasingly, the first blog I read in the morning is Booman Tribune, where today I find another post that expresses perfectly my feelings on the Clintons, feminism, and the Democratic primary. Here's a tidbit:
During the Bush years, while Al Gore and Jimmy Carter were speaking out, Bill Clinton was touring the world with Poppy Bush, while Hillary Clinton was voting for the war and the Kyl-Lieberman amendment. There are so many reasons to oppose the Clintons politically, including the generally pro-war tilt of her official supporters and advisers, that it really shouldn't be necessary to spell them all out. But I have spelled them out in a brief, cursory way, to make the point that my opposition is based on a wide array of considerations. And these considerations informed my opinion long before the campaign actually started.
I think that's a point that hasn't been made often enough—Bill Clinton's record in the White House and after has hardly been progressive. So why are so many progressives supporting his wife, whose own political inclinations—particularly with foreign policy—aren't that progressive either?
Is there any way to get those progressives back into the fold? Or is it really all about gender and race, and a deck of cards that no one knows who's playing?
Go read the rest—especially the last paragraph.
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Cascading wisteria racemes
A friend called last night: "What are you doing?" I swallowed my focaccia. "Just finished eating," I said. "Why?"
"Let's go look at wisteria," she replied.
What does it say about me that, not only am I the type of person who'll drop everything to go to a sleepy village just to look at wisteria, but that my friends know that I'm that type of person?
It turned out to be a great idea. Denham is just inside the M25, yet you'd think you were in the deepest, tweeist heart of England, it's so lovely. Of course, a large part of that loveliness is due to the ancient wisteria vines that stretch across aged brick cottages, each wall competing for Best Wisteria Vine Ever.
We were drunk with the scent of wisteria before we ever got to the pub.
My friend, who'd earlier tried to convince me the wisteria in Denham was the best, was right. Or spot on, as they say...see for yourself:
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Signs of the plague.
Saturday, I took the dog to the woods in the Common and had just entered our usual path when I heard what sounded like rain. Darn, I thought—I hadn't seen a single cloud when I left. How could it be raining? But the sound of raindrops on the leaves was unmistakable.
I stopped in the clearing where two paths crossed and put my hand on my head: nothing. Not a single drop. I went on, and heard the sound of raindrops hitting the leaves again...or was that something else?
Suddenly I felt as if there had been some disturbance in the force. I peered into the trees, looking for...large animals pissing? Small animals hissing? Aliens, doing god knows what?
I couldn't see anything, but I heard the noise the whole time I was in the trees. Yet it stopped as soon as I left the wood. Shade loving aliens, perhaps.
Fast forward fifteen minutes. I get home, and glance at my hand: an inchworm, about a half-inch long, measuring my hand as though for a glove. I went to show my husband, and he picked more inchworms off my shirt, and I shook a few off my hair. (Conveniently, I'd discovered a bird nest right by the kitchen door, and so I tossed the worms out the door, hoping the mother bird would find them and not have to leave her nest for long to find food.)
Last night, when I walked through the woods I heard the sound again. But this time the leaves showed obvious signs of abuse. Some twigs were bare, and most of the remaining leaves had large holes eaten through them.
I brought home more worms, gave them to the song thrush, and today, remembered to bring my camera. I imagine this will be the lead story in Thursday's local paper: Plague arrives in the Common! Trees denuded in mere days!
Aliens would have been more exciting, and perhaps less destructive.
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International followers of the American primary elections are confused. The politically observant Americans they know seem to be convinced the Democratic nomination is over, yet they continue to hear from the Beeb things like "If Hillary Clinton wins big in West Virginia, it will revive her hopes to win the nomination."
This of course is nonsense. There is no "if" at all about West Virginia. It's Hillary's base: Racist white voters like the ones interviewed this morning by Justin Webb. Please note that West Virginia is not representative of all of America...but that's not the point I'm after here. She will win West Virginia, and win with a higher percentage than in any state she's won since Arkansas.
Last week, after Obama's big win in North Carolina, and Clinton's very narrow win in Indiana (less than 1% when the final results were known), many of my international friends seemed to scoff at my insistence that the race was over, putting it down to my Obama-tism. All they had heard on the BBC that morning was simply that Obama won NC; Clinton won Indiana. Not a single word that could be uttered in a maths class.
What really matters, of course, is not who wins or loses, but what percentage they win by, and how closely that matches expectations, which, of course, is what influences superdelegates.
Expectations were high for Clinton last Tuesday—there was talk, after reliable polls (even the Obama camp's internal polls) had her up in Indiana by 12%. There was even more reckless talk of her winning North Carolina—but she instead lost by 14 points.
This is why the Democratic primary race was officially declared over by the pundits on TV that night—they are hooked on expectations, more than math, which hasn't looked kindly on Clinton for a while. Since Texas and Ohio, where Clinton won more narrowly than she needed to in order to stay mathematically viable, the chances of her winning the nomination have been virtually nil. Now they are truly nil and that won't change no matter how many racists turn out for her big she wins in West Virginia today.
Yet this fact is lost on many voters and international watchers who hear things like "Hillary Clinton's hopes to win the nomination will be revived" if she wins in West Virginia.
The Democratic Primary election, with its superdelegates, its expectations, its conflicting polls, is just too nuanced for foreign media outlets unfamiliar with the process to understand. If you want news of the elections in Zimbabwe, BBC's your best bet (although, maybe there's a Zimbabwean blogger out there who begs to differ...). But if you want to know who's won the Democratic party's nomination, tune into CNN or your favorite blog.
Oh, and if you're a voter in West Virginia, please understand that you have convinced the rest of the world that people with thick southern drawls are unapologetically racist. Thanks a lot. Next time, at least try to hide it, okay? Because despite what Bill and Hillary Clinton may be telling you, it is not okay to think your race—and your voters—are superior to any other.
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I've decided it's just too gorgeous outside to sit at my desk and write dreary posts about politics. This week, I officially declare, is Flower Week here at WDIK. Every day I'll try to post photos of flowers. That should be easy—they're coming up everywhere.
This morning I went with a friend to a garden centre, so naturally, I took photos of flowers.
This wisteria almost came home with us, but we were in my friend's Mini, and it was over 6 feet tall.
I wanted to bring this kitty, hiding in the clematis, home with me too.
Rhododendrons, in a shade I've never seen before.
Check back tomorrow. I plan to get all my new pretties into their pots, beds, baskets, etc.
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On Wednesday, we hiked from Tyler's Green through Penn and Winchmore Hill. It was a warm, sunny day—a good thing I'd rescheduled the hike from the week before, when it was pouring down rain. (Also a good thing I'd had a chance to go out on Saturday and do a pre-hike—we took several wrong turns, stretching a 5.8 mile hike into a 7 miler.) The bluebells are out in full force in Southern England, and nowhere are they prettier than the woods around Penn (yes, that Penn).
We also walked through fields of rape, which is a striking scene from the road, but up close is even more of a sensory assault. Vivid yellow and pungent perfume surrounds you...the scent of rapeseed oil (canola oil, in the U.S.) and biofuels.
I'll shut up now, and let you enjoy the view. Don't forget to peek below for more...
Stopping to smell the bluebells.
A river of bluebells flows between the beeches.
Yellowyellowyellowyellowyellow
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Fifi and friends
On our hike Wednesday we saw these giant poodles. Someone said they were actually llamas, but I know a poodle when I see one.
That tape in the front is an electric fence. These must be giant attack poodles.
(Don't forget to check out the other Friday Animals at the Ark.)
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You know how you get this feeling that something is going on but you just can't label it? Like the feeling I've had lately that Hillary Clinton is sounding a lot like George Bush, a lot like many Republican politicians.
Finally Jonathan Chait labels and defines it: Conservative Populism.
The dying days of the Hillary Clinton campaign have brought the breathtaking spectacle of a candidate lashing out at every element of public life that has nourished her career. The über-wonk has disparaged economists and expertise. The staunch ally of black America has attacked her opponent for lacking support of "working, hard-working Americans, white Americans." People who thought they knew Hillary Clinton have gazed in astonishment: What has she become? The answer is, a conservative populist.
It's a very enlightening article, one of those "Aha! Now I understand what that annoying itchy spot is called" pieces.
Unfortunately, Conservative Populism has worked for the Republicans, these appeals to "the people in small towns in rural America, who do the work for America, and represent the backbone and the values of this country." You know, "hard-working Americans, white Americans."
Once you convince people that the other guys are all Harvard-educated elites who don't share their values you've got them eating out of your hand, voting for you over the Harvard guy, despite the fact you went to Yale and do your eating with silver spoons.
Chait says "In the liberal populists' world, the locus of evil is K Street. In the conservative populists' world, the locus of evil is Cambridge, Massachusetts." And lookie here: the candidate who's accepted money from lobbyists is also the one calling for a gas tax holiday, while evil Cambridge economists insist it's a bad idea.
Small town Americans, who's got your back? Lobbyists, and Hillary Clinton! (Turn that around—Hillary and The Lobbyists—and you've got an Eighties band, as well as thirty bucks.)
No wonder Richard Mellon Scaife likes Hillary Clinton now. She's in on the game; she's fully assimilated. She has become the itchy spot.
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You know, if America is really as racist as Hillary Clinton seems to think it is, I don't think I ever want to live there again.
On the other hand, anyone who conflates "hard-working Americans" with "white Americans" is racist enough that she probably projects her own prejudices on others, so I doubt America has changed that much in the three years since I left.
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My dog loves flowers.
On my hike today, my dog lay amongst the bluebells and posed for photos. She is such a ham that way. Then she ran through the flowers and I got this shot. I think her smile here was much more natural.
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So now that Barack Obama has got this nomination all but sewn up (forgive the sartorial cliché), I am moving on to a new battle:
The battle for the Vice Presidential nomination of the Democratic Party.
My candidate is Governor Kathleen Sebelius of Kansas. For one simple reason: The world needs a Vice President Kathy.
Oh, and those whoops you heard from my house this morning? Me reading the news over the Internet. I decided I no longer want to get my election news from the BBC first thing in the morning, since they merely tell us who's won and lost, never the percentages. And in this case, the percentages were everything. (I just don't think the BBC gets the nuance of an American primary campaign.)
If you have a different VP candidate to propose, do so in comments. But I warn you, I'm taking no prisoners this go round. VP Kathy 08!!!
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Apparently, John McCain wants to set up a missile defense system in Czechoslovakia.
Does anyone see anything wrong with that? (Time travelers are not allowed to weigh in.)
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I was busy getting worked over by the physical therapist today, and haven't been following the elections in North Carolina and Indiana.
So if you've come here looking for my always-wrong predictions, then sorry, I'm not even going to attempt to predict this one.
As I told a friend the other day, I know a lot about politics. But I have no idea why voters vote the way they do.
What you probably would rather know, however, is how it feels to have electrical impulses shooting into your shoulder via electrodes. Feels groovy.
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A few days ago my aunt emailed to tell me my mother's ashes would be delivered soon. It's been a year today since she died. Her body was donated to LSU Health Sciences Center, according to her wishes. I didn't expect to hear from them so soon. I thought I'd have more time to decide what to do with the remains, although, honestly, I wouldn't have known what to do with them if I'd had another year.
I wrote last year that I had no regrets for not being there, since I had told her everything I needed to. I was lying. There was a lot more I had to tell her, as I discovered that May, and June, when my youngest daughter graduated at the top of her class. In August, I wanted to tell her how sad I was when my daughter left home, and ask her if she felt the same way when I left. In October, when I traveled back to see my daughters, I wanted to go see her, wheel her around the nursing home and make her laugh.
On her birthday in November, I wanted to wish her happy birthday—her 68th. I wanted to call her on Christmas, and tell her Merry Christmas, see if she got the stuffed animal I'd have sent her. I wanted to speak to her on my birthday, even though she couldn't have spoken back. I wanted to call her when I got sick, and tell how I hadn't been sick so long since I was a little girl and had to stay in bed and eat Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup.
I'd have loved to have picked out a little pair of wooden shoes for her in Holland, or a Dutch doll. I'd have shared with her all the stories about my dog, who she loved to hear about. I'd have thought of things to make her smile, or better yet, laugh.
When my youngest daughter was little, she told me, as I helped her off the swing, "One day, when I grow up and you grow down, I'll be able to pick you up!" I thought of that often, as I watched my mom go from being an adult to a child to almost infantile in her GeriChair at the nursing home. I could almost have picked her up the last time I saw her; she weighed a mere 85 pounds.
Now all that's left of her flesh and spirit is a precious box of ashes. Perhaps I need to go, pick it up, heft its weight in my arms. I watched a program on National Geographic today, about a herd of elephants who came upon the bones of one of their friends. They tenderly nuzzled the bones with their trunks, the old elephant who'd been her best friend caressing the skull.
And then they walked on, across the savanna.
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On our walk today, we saw several interesting things in our town. First we saw the circus:
The dog decided she wanted to join, and the guys asked her if she knew any tricks. She promptly sat. I told them she'd do anything they wanted if they gave her that sandwich. I think they believed me too. She had that look in her eyes.
I asked if they had animals in their circus, and they said no. I was glad to hear that, since I didn't want to spend the rest of the day walking back and forth with a protest sign.
Then we saw some horses walking through the Common:
It's not unusual to see horses around here, but I'm usually not fast enough to capture them with the camera.
Then on the way home we saw a Lamborghini. I wasn't fast enough to capture it on camera. You'll just have to believe me.
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Apparently there were some British elections last week. Which day? I'm not sure, but I think it was Thursday. Who won? Again, I think the Tories won most of the local elections, and a wild-haired philanderer named Boris Johnson won the London mayor's race.
That's pretty much all I know, since unlike in America, elections don't generate nearly as much excitement. These were local elections, for local council positions, and for London, the elected mayor's position. (As opposed to the largely ceremonial Lord Mayor.) Yet for some reason they are said to reflect on the viability of the party in power—Labour. More likely though, they reflect your rubbish collection.
Even the average news junkie here would have a difficult time figuring out what the issues are, and who's running. Campaigns aren't fought in the news media and on the airwaves like they are in the U.S.; they're fought door to door, literally. The only campaign communications I've ever seen is when some piece of literature is dropped in my door. (We aren't registered voters; perhaps I'd get a knock if we were). Television and radio ads aren't allowed, and there isn't much of a local press to speak of here—while several local "newspapers" cover the area, they usually have no more than a handful of actual news stories. A supermarket opening, a post office closing, perhaps a mugging in the Common—if it occurred before the deadline for Thursday's publication.
There's also a Q&A column, where people mostly complain about Americanisms creeping into the local dialect. (I know this because I once angrily replied, and my response was printed.)
The biggest section of our local paper is the real estate section, which sort of doubles as news: house prices are still out of reach for most people, even though they're also reportedly dropping. Residents of semi-rural England follow real estate the way old people in the States read obits.
I mentioned rubbish collection: it's well known that Labour wants you to have biweekly rubbish collection, while the Tories are willing to pick up your rubbish weekly. They'll even come inside and empty that cute little wicker trash basket you keep in your cloakroom (i.e. powder room), if you'd like.
The Lib Dems don't want you to have any trash at all. They prefer you recycle and compost; in fact I'm pretty sure they'd come and sort my recycles for me if I asked.
I live in a pretty solid Tory district, so it's possible I just haven't been exposed to the down and dirty campaigning that goes on in, say, Hull. (Yes, "dirty" was supposed to be a pun.) Also I'm not a voter. If I were, I'd vote Lib Dem. (I actually know a woman here who runs every time as a Lib Dem. She's very nice. I'll have to remember to ask her about composting next time I see her.) That's because they're the only political party that opposed the war. But like I said, these elections weren't about the war, nor were they about libraries and post offices closing, or little old ladies getting mugged on the way home from Tesco.
They were about rubbish, and if you think you can read anything more than that into the results, then I've got a recycle bin full of tabloids with pictures of Boris Johnson's former lover to sell you.
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