Local Stories
An attempted suicide
While living in a rural village in the Overberg district at the southern tip of Africa, I got acquainted with some local characters who on passing my home would stop and chat. This area is true wheat, sheep and barley growing country. South African Breweries, now owners of American Miller Beer, has a barley development program here, as this is major barley growing land. I hope they are not doing genetic modifying. Beer drinkers will get stunted growth and go sterile.
The local labor comprise mainly of building trade folks and farm labor. Most were born and raised on farms, and have marvelous stories of their youth, alas, including a lot of community alcohol abuse resulting in the dreaded fetal alcohol syndrome which is so tragic. They do not have an easy life but humor always remains.
One of my colorful character friends is Sanah September who regales me with stories about her family. Sanah is in her 50s, a tiny slip of a woman, who has produced 7 children and now has a plethora of grandchildren some of who she is raising alone. She is one of the most special, uncomplaining souls I have ever met., and her life is a continuous struggle.
Sanah is probably the only local woman who rides a bicycle, when it is not in some state of disrepair. One morning she was cycling back from the village with a 5year grandchild on the back carrier. In the distance she saw a commotion, police van and ambulance whiz by and so she furiously rang her bicycle bell, tring, tring, tring, and tore up the gravel track, before realizing the incident was very close to her own home.
It was indeed in her yard, already filling with neighbors looking at a crumpled human for on the small patch of grass. Sanah pushed through the crowd and there on the lawn lay her son. He managed to open one eye, gazed at her briefly and said “Ma” (mother) before retuning to a state of oblivion, and being put in the ambulance and trundled off to hospital.
Here is how it happened. Her son enjoyed his sweet wine, as we say here, was often ‘full of dop’. He had visited his girlfriend, as he wanted to see his child. (Obviously not married and might indeed have a few kids scattered around hither and thither.) Anyhow she denied him access to the child, and so in his hazy wisdom decided to commit suicide (besluit om selfmoord to pleeg). He went into the small house and sat on a gas cylinder (propane tank), which he proceeded to light. (this is true, nobody could make up such a story)
He was subsequently blown directly through the roof and landed on the patch of sand and whisps of dried grass. Theoretically he should have died. His mother then said she raised her hands in praise to the Lord. According to Sanah he lived through this because she had old rotten asbestos roof sheets that crumbled. If she had replaced them with new zinc corrugated iron, when he hit the roof it would have broken his neck, rather than been shot out like a rocket .
(Ek het vir God, Jesus en die liewe hemel mos bedank die feit dat my dak ou vrot asbestos was, en nie die harde zinc plate. As dit nie asbestos was sal hy seker sy nek gebreek , maar daai ou vrot dak het mos net stukkend gebreek(shattered) en sy lewe gered. Dankie Jesus)
She said, Thank you God, Jesus and heaven for the fact that the roof sheets were rotten asbestos. If it had been zinc sheets he would certainly have broken his neck, and instead the asbestos just crumbled saving his life.
I listened intently and had questions to ask but decided to accept it all. However I did waft my hand in the crotch direction and asked what happened ‘down there’ and if he had been badly burned by the gas tank. She laughed and said Jesus had taken care of it all and he hardly had a burn mark and the tackle was all still intact. Miracles do happen. He spent a bit of time in the local hospital then was taken to a very nice rehab/neuroclinic center for a few months. He is now perfectly fine except for the continued indulgence in sweet wine. Works on building sites when opportunity arises.
This rather reminds me of that crazy character, Dale, in that fabulous series from America, and we get it here, “King of the Hill”.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Men Who Made a Difference In Hermanus
MEN WHO MADE A DIFFERENC ERIC JONES - FATHER OF OUR CLIFF PATH
Betty Jones described to me how the cliff path was born. “One Sunday afternoon Eric took me for a walk to the cliffs near Kraal Rock. In those days there were only foot paths to the fishing spots. Eric was collecting seed of the pink Cliff Lily for Kirstenbosh.Gladiolus Carmineus is endemic to our coastline and grows prolifically on our cliffs. He looked at the cliffs, dropping into Walker Bay, with a magnificent backdrop of high mountains and rather thoughtfully said that there should be a path running along the top of the cliffs and the full length of Hermanus. A path for everyone to use and enjoy the splendour of our coast. He thought about it a few days before making a proposal to the newly formed Botanical Society.”
The project was received with enthusiasm and Ion Williams, working with one laborer to cut the path, took on the task of plotting the route. Tying bits of white sheet to the fynbos along the planned route, the path started to unfold and has, over the years, become one of the unique features of Hermanus.
THE BATTLE OF BRITAIN
Flight Lieutenant RE Jones was a fighter pilot in WWll in RAF 605 Squadron during the Battle Of Britain. One of 'The Few' in the famous speech given by Sir Winston Churchill.He was shot down over Kent on 15 September 1940, the last day of the Battle of Britain.He took a cannon shell in his arm, but managed to bail out and landed in an apple orchard close to an old farm house he knew from weekend visits before the war. The farmer, who was familiar to him, picked him up and took him to the local hospital where the nose cap of a cannos hell was removed from his elbow. After his recovery, he was posted to Central Flying School at Uphaven where he completed his instructors course and posted to Kidlington RAF Flying School. He was then sent for a few months to South Africa, 24Air School Dunnotar, to train SAAF pilots, and then back to the UK and Mosquito Training School, High Ercal. He was re-assigned to 605 Squadron Night Intruding at Castle Camps at Bradwell Bay.
He spent time as Chief Flying Instructor for Mosquito bombers in Debret, Nova Scotia,Canada then re-located back to England where he spent the last few months of the war flying night bombing raids over Europe in the Mosquito. He was demobbed on Aug 20th1945. He had a lasting love and admiration for the Hurricane fighter aircraft and the Mosquito bomber. Sadly, there are no Mosquito airplanes left flying in the world today.
HE FELL IN LOVE WITH HERMANUS
During the war, Eric Jones loved his few months in South Africa and thus immigrated in1947 having secured a passage on a troop ship to Cape Town. Before going to Johannesburg as planned, he visited a friend in Hermanus, fell in love with the little village and stayed. He was appointed as manager at Eric Westcott’s cool drink factory in Mitchell Street. He married Betty in 1948.
Eric had a passion for growing seeds and gardening, and soon the area between the factory and their home became the first plant nursery in Hermanus. He once imported 70named varieties of hydrangeas and soon became known as the 'Hydrangea King'. He regularly supplied nurseries in Cape Town with hydrangea, bougainvillea, camelia and hibiscus plants.
In 1957, Otto Prillevitz, with the help of Ion Williams and Eric Jones discussed and subsequently implemented the beginnings of Fernkloof Nature Reserve, Eric acting as manager until they appointed Harry Wood to the position.
Eric Jones died in Hermanus in 1994. He died with a letter in his shirt pocket that his daughter had written to him from America, giving details of her first solo flight. His memorial service was held on the lawns of his beloved Fernkloof, with sunbirds twittering in the proteas and francolin scratching in the undergrowth. His ashes lie scattered around a rock on the mountain side that he loved with a passion, and was instrumental in turning into a nature reserve.
Betty Jones described to me how the cliff path was born. “One Sunday afternoon Eric took me for a walk to the cliffs near Kraal Rock. In those days there were only foot paths to the fishing spots. Eric was collecting seed of the pink Cliff Lily for Kirstenbosh.Gladiolus Carmineus is endemic to our coastline and grows prolifically on our cliffs. He looked at the cliffs, dropping into Walker Bay, with a magnificent backdrop of high mountains and rather thoughtfully said that there should be a path running along the top of the cliffs and the full length of Hermanus. A path for everyone to use and enjoy the splendour of our coast. He thought about it a few days before making a proposal to the newly formed Botanical Society.”
The project was received with enthusiasm and Ion Williams, working with one laborer to cut the path, took on the task of plotting the route. Tying bits of white sheet to the fynbos along the planned route, the path started to unfold and has, over the years, become one of the unique features of Hermanus.
THE BATTLE OF BRITAIN
Flight Lieutenant RE Jones was a fighter pilot in WWll in RAF 605 Squadron during the Battle Of Britain. One of 'The Few' in the famous speech given by Sir Winston Churchill.He was shot down over Kent on 15 September 1940, the last day of the Battle of Britain.He took a cannon shell in his arm, but managed to bail out and landed in an apple orchard close to an old farm house he knew from weekend visits before the war. The farmer, who was familiar to him, picked him up and took him to the local hospital where the nose cap of a cannos hell was removed from his elbow. After his recovery, he was posted to Central Flying School at Uphaven where he completed his instructors course and posted to Kidlington RAF Flying School. He was then sent for a few months to South Africa, 24Air School Dunnotar, to train SAAF pilots, and then back to the UK and Mosquito Training School, High Ercal. He was re-assigned to 605 Squadron Night Intruding at Castle Camps at Bradwell Bay.
He spent time as Chief Flying Instructor for Mosquito bombers in Debret, Nova Scotia,Canada then re-located back to England where he spent the last few months of the war flying night bombing raids over Europe in the Mosquito. He was demobbed on Aug 20th1945. He had a lasting love and admiration for the Hurricane fighter aircraft and the Mosquito bomber. Sadly, there are no Mosquito airplanes left flying in the world today.
HE FELL IN LOVE WITH HERMANUS
During the war, Eric Jones loved his few months in South Africa and thus immigrated in1947 having secured a passage on a troop ship to Cape Town. Before going to Johannesburg as planned, he visited a friend in Hermanus, fell in love with the little village and stayed. He was appointed as manager at Eric Westcott’s cool drink factory in Mitchell Street. He married Betty in 1948.
Eric had a passion for growing seeds and gardening, and soon the area between the factory and their home became the first plant nursery in Hermanus. He once imported 70named varieties of hydrangeas and soon became known as the 'Hydrangea King'. He regularly supplied nurseries in Cape Town with hydrangea, bougainvillea, camelia and hibiscus plants.
In 1957, Otto Prillevitz, with the help of Ion Williams and Eric Jones discussed and subsequently implemented the beginnings of Fernkloof Nature Reserve, Eric acting as manager until they appointed Harry Wood to the position.
Eric Jones died in Hermanus in 1994. He died with a letter in his shirt pocket that his daughter had written to him from America, giving details of her first solo flight. His memorial service was held on the lawns of his beloved Fernkloof, with sunbirds twittering in the proteas and francolin scratching in the undergrowth. His ashes lie scattered around a rock on the mountain side that he loved with a passion, and was instrumental in turning into a nature reserve.
Thoughs to ponder upon.
THOUGHTS TO PONDER UPON
The ideal situation when a man or woman dies would be to have family members and loving friends around their bedside as they cross over .
But try and imagine a man or woman on their death bed, and standing around the bed, instead of family, are all their ideas, dreams and talents, that had been given to them by 'life' and that they,for whatever reason, were never acted upon.Those ideas were never pursued. Those dreams and talents were never used.
There they are, standing at the bedside, looking at you with angry eyes, saying, "We came to you.Only you could have given us life, and now we must die with you forever. You never gave us a chance...."
So, the question becomes, if you should die tonight, what ideas, what talents, what dreams, what abilities, what skills will die with you. The wealthiest place on this earth is not in the oil fields of Texas or the Middle East. It is not in South Africa where they have gold and diamond mines. Nor s it Bill Gates' bank vault, The Sultan of Brunei, Wall Street , or the Queen of England. The wealthiest places in the world are the cemeteries. For there you will find books that were never written. Songs that no one never sung. Businesses that never got off the ground. Speeches that were never given. Talents and abilities that were never used. Seminars that were never conducted,and courses that were never initiated. All those beautiful dreams and ideas now dead and gone for ever, never having been given a chance to live.
We all have something special in us. We survived incredible odds, and were chosen out of 40million sperms. We are supposed to be here and to fulfill our God given talents. We hit the the jackpot in getting here, so ought to give those dreams and talents a chance........dont let em peer at us in anger as we slip into the next world......
--pj--
Copyright: Penny Wilson 1999
The ideal situation when a man or woman dies would be to have family members and loving friends around their bedside as they cross over .
But try and imagine a man or woman on their death bed, and standing around the bed, instead of family, are all their ideas, dreams and talents, that had been given to them by 'life' and that they,for whatever reason, were never acted upon.Those ideas were never pursued. Those dreams and talents were never used.
There they are, standing at the bedside, looking at you with angry eyes, saying, "We came to you.Only you could have given us life, and now we must die with you forever. You never gave us a chance...."
So, the question becomes, if you should die tonight, what ideas, what talents, what dreams, what abilities, what skills will die with you. The wealthiest place on this earth is not in the oil fields of Texas or the Middle East. It is not in South Africa where they have gold and diamond mines. Nor s it Bill Gates' bank vault, The Sultan of Brunei, Wall Street , or the Queen of England. The wealthiest places in the world are the cemeteries. For there you will find books that were never written. Songs that no one never sung. Businesses that never got off the ground. Speeches that were never given. Talents and abilities that were never used. Seminars that were never conducted,and courses that were never initiated. All those beautiful dreams and ideas now dead and gone for ever, never having been given a chance to live.
We all have something special in us. We survived incredible odds, and were chosen out of 40million sperms. We are supposed to be here and to fulfill our God given talents. We hit the the jackpot in getting here, so ought to give those dreams and talents a chance........dont let em peer at us in anger as we slip into the next world......
--pj--
Copyright: Penny Wilson 1999
Black labrador field trial champion
This will bring a tear to your eye!
Working Retriever Trials in Botriver – August 2010
Boss the black Labrador Retriever
The top retrievers in the country, together with their handlers, assembled in Botriver in August for the KUSA National Retriever Championships. First event was on Saturday 20th and Sunday 21st, a one and a half day Open Stake, held on the Albertyn’s farm, Botrivier Farm on the Saturday and The Therons’ farm Rooiheuwels on the Sunday morning, in which 15 dogs were entered, mainly dogs who had already qualified for the Championship, but one or two hoping for a 1st or 2nd place to be a new qualifier. A special lunch was held at The Shunting Shed in Botriver. The winner was a Labrador bitch, Shica, very ably handled by her owner Francois van Rooyen, closely followed by the Labrador dog, Boss and Chris Emin in 2nd place, Golden retriever Dog, Kell and Guy Harwood in 3rd Place and golden retriever dog, Dart and Mike Hoy in 4th place.
The2010 KUSA National Retriever Championship Stake, hosted by Cape Field Trial Club, was run on 26th and 27th August at Edward and Maria Whitehead’s lovely farm Nuwejaarsrivier. 13 dogs qualified for and entered this stake. 8 dogs finished the entire stake and all finished well. The winner for the 2010 Championship was the very special black Labrador, Boss with his owner/ handler Chris Emin.
Boss has been an amazing worker right from his puppyhood beginnings, and a constant winner from the junior levels right up to the top level. Boss and Chris have a really wonderful partnership together which has been very special for many of us to judge and to watch over the past couple of years. A true dog and master loving trusting relationship. By winning the KUSA National Retriever Championships, Boss has achieved the ultimate in field trials, and this when he is still a very young dog, still shy of his 3rd birthday which is on 17th September. Most successful retrievers normally only manage to reach this level of competency at 5 or 6 years of age. This in itself is an amazing achievement, but to add to this, Boss had his right back leg amputated in April this year due to bone cancer and as a result has achieved this incredible win with only 3 legs – a special dog indeed..
As you can imagine during the running of the trials emotions ran high with tears running down cheeks watching this remarkable Labrador and his dedication and willingness to work for his owner/handler.. The prize giving again was an emotional event. .
We all have special dogs in our lives but with some the bond runs deeper. Boss, dear fella, you are a special and remarkable dog. May your health remain good. Chris Emin, you are indeed privileged to share your life with him.
Just got to LOVE the Labrador!
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
New Species of Chicken Killer
New species of chicken killer
July 2009
A few years ago, while living in Eastcliff in Hermanus, I kept a few hens that cleaned up the garden for me and provided us with delicious eggs. One night, my beloved little Mrs Fluffy Bum, a little white silky hen, and her three chicks were killed. I had locked them in a secure wire mesh pen and at 7am my garden help found her and the darling little chicks, all dead, and almost totally eaten up. A few wings and feathers fluttered around the enclosure. I was distraught as she had become very tame and a delightful addition to my garden, strutting around with her chicks in the flower beds and scratching for goggas ( nasty insect critters) in the lawns.
I presumed the killer to have been a genet but was amazed at the strength this little creature had to rip open a sturdy wire fence.
Anyway, while discussing the ‘killer’ this 69year old gentleman who was born, raised and worked most of his life on farms in the Overberg district, told me of another chicken killer, besides the muishond, mongoose, genet and otters.
This particular one apparently looks like a huge black mongoose, with coarse black hair and a big bushy tail. Apparently it likes to lie in marshy areas, sometimes in shallow water with just its nose poking out of the water. (Hy het gese dat hierdie dier in die vlei en water le en net sy neusie steek daar uit).
Anyway, he said it has a “poephol wat lyk net soos ‘n geel mieliepit” (a backside, butt-hole) that looks just like a yellow corn seed). It lies still on the ground in a comfortable spot with its tail over its back, displaying its poephol. (Dit le so op die grond met sy stert bo oor sy rug, en toe le wag.) Apparently chickens, and I suppose ducks, come along and check out this mieliepit (corn seed) and peck at it, upon which the ‘poephol’ quickly stretches out and closes over the chickens head. (Die poephol kom mos gou uit en gryp vas die hoender se kop). Then this strange beast runs in circles, which breaks the chicken’s neck, and it is then eaten. (Toe draf die hoender so vinnig in die ronte en toe breek die nek van die hoender.)
I listened to this amazing story, nodded seriously as the whole fable unfolded and was told in no uncertain terms that many farm workers have witnessed this, but he himself, personally, had not, due the fact that this animal is shy and reclusive.
What a story to hear at 7am on a Monday morning. I learn of a new and unrecorded species of reclusive mammal but it doesn’t help me missing my dear little family of white silkie bantam chicks.
I have subsequently related this story to numerous farmers in the Overberg area and many have heard of this ‘mysterious animal’ from farm staff and older family members. The description of the beast actually fits the water mongoose, which in fact is a serious chicken killer along with genets and otters.
I have often thought, with the right accent, this rural legend would make a fabulous animated film clip. Think about it.
Rich tales and fables from rural areas are worth preserving. Many of them now lie buried deep in forgotten graveyards!
--Penn---
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Flight training in Dallas and days in SA...1995
Early flight training in Dallas USA and times in SA
Flying thoughts…..
written May, 1995 while learning to fly in Dallas. A wonderful phase of my life.
Lots of adventures good flying and various ratings came afterwards….
There was an aviation forum on Compuserve and through that many fine friendships were made and have been kept over the years.
Just a fun article I hauled from the depths, that I do not think my kids have ever read. Probably needs some editing.
******************
Firstly I would like to say I am shocked, astonished, amazed, stunned, and speechless in having this honour bestowed upon me. I still wonder if the Sysops have made a mistake. To put a lowly low timer up for this, who couldn’t even get her PPL in 40hrs-------with the likes of the heavy metal drivers, aviation writers, ex-air force hero’s, smart lawyers, doctors, a WW11 ace, an astronaut, aviators with ratings in hundreds of planes and thousands of hours flying under their belts and on and on it goes. I am humbled and thank the AVSIG sysops for this honour. I hope I can live up to it. I have the ability to merely fly a Beechcraft Sport, a Cessna 172, and been allowed to taxi a Beech Duchess!!
Right, here goes, and its not very interesting.!! Penelope (Penny) Jones was born on 12th September 1951----(that makes me 29yrs old)-----in a village called Caledon,Cape Province South Africa. Caledon is not far from Cape Agulhas,the southern most tip of Africa. Fall off the rocks there and you will end up in Antarctica. I was raised in a beautiful seaside resort called Hermanus, 80miles east of Cape Town. My childhood was made up of roaming the mountains, freedom—and school somewhere in between. I developed a deep love for the great outdoors and knew my environment well. It has become a life long passion and I take great delight in camping in the African bush, hundreds of miles from habitation and delighting in the wonders of nature and its creatures. I dived for abalone and lobsters in the school holidays and developed a deep affinity and respect for the sea.
At an early age my dad taught me to fish, and shoot a variety of guns----skeet and clay pigeon stuff as well------much to my mothers horror. But I abhor any form of unnecessary hunting and only like to shoot with a camera!!
I lived next to a golf course and started golf very young. Snuk onto the golf links every evening and played the back nine holes for free!! Got my handicap to a respectable figure and gave up at age 18 when the *rulers* of the course decided I should pay for the pleasure!! I will return to golf in my old age!!
My dad was a pilot, flew for the RAF in WW11 and fought in the Battle of Britain. He died in Sept 1994 and was a wonderful influence in my life. I miss him desperately, but I know he flies with me and enjoys it, and raises the odd glass of Chivas to me!! He loved his Hurricanes and Mosquitos and told me about them. So my pocket money as a child-----about 8yrs old----was spent on those model aircraft one had to figure out how to glue together, then paint in the
right colours and stick on the decals. I bought the Hurricane and Mosquito and a few others including a Mustang, because I loved horses and thought it had a *cool* name. Where I should have had dolls displayed on my bedroom shelves, I had these little treasures and wonders of flight.
I was shoved off to boarding school in Cape Town at age 12. Not a happy period of my life except for the holidays. During my teenage years all spare time was spent working for a large practice of veterinary surgeons, a profession I wished to take up, but never managed to, due to finances. But I spent many wonderful hours on farms, in stables and cow sheds and in blazing African sun, up to my armpits in bovine muck assisting with pregnancy tests, AI , difficult calvings, and C sections.
At 16 I had a flight aptitude test. Dad came with me, and the instructor who was doing the test, took one look at him and said "Hey!! You taught me to fly in 1943!!" A truly small world. Well, finances didn’t allow for me to fly least it wasn’t common in SA, and no future for females, in a very male dominated society.
After school I was broke and needed a job, so joined the engineering division of an oil company and started on the drawing board doing their drafting of storage tanks, pipe systems, pumps, manifolds and refuelling lines. During those years, my joy was when we chartered planes to go up to South West Africa, now Namibia. I loved those trips, and flying over the Namib Desert and hopping over incredible red sand dunes in search of herds of gemsbok (a type of oryx), and skimming the waves at a very low altitude looking for whales-----the pilot used to be a whale spotter!! And he very sweetly reintroduced me to joy of taking the controls and flying it myself.
The highlight of one of my trips to Namibia, was being on the very last flight back to Cape Town that the Viscount did, before being removed from service.
The Fish River Canyon----a slightly smaller version of the Grand Canyon--- was in flood for the first time in a decade or so, and the Captain flew us IN the canyon to witness it. It was incredible having the canyon sides above us. Maybe a crazy captain, but I thought it the best thing Id ever done. There were only 5 of us on board and he told us what he wanted to do!!
I met my husband, Ian , round that time, a Scot who had worked as a development engineer on turbine engines for Rolls Royce, and had taken the plunge and ventured south to a better climate.
So my name changed to Wilson and we have 2 daughters, one in NYC and the other with us in Dallas. We were transferred from Cape Town to Durban for 5yrs and then Johannesburg for 5 years and now on assignment in Dallas till mid 1996.
Alas I have to go back. I love America and the people here. Be ready for mid 1996 when I will be putting out adoption papers to stay here-----all offers will be seriously considered!
I have been involved with environmental issues in South Africa, and also the SA Ornithological Society, where I met the most wonderful people and learned a tremendous amount, from some world renown ornithologists, and had the honour of going on field trips and study trips with them. I was active in the archaeological society, and had wonderful times combing mountain ranges for bushman rock art that had never been recorded before, and 'digs' excavating prehistoric bones and extinct beasts. I loved it, it was great fun.
I have an intense interest in astronomy, but unfortunately don’t know enough to even call myself an amateur astronomer---it is such a vast subject---its scary.
Now to my flying. Well, on arriving in Dallas----we stayed near Addison airport, in north Dallas, and I lay at the hotel pool and watched these planes doing their *thing* in the sky and not knowing a single sole in Dallas, decided the time was ripe to fulfil my dream!! I drove off to the airport, walked into a flight school and signed up. My husband had a fit, so I promised him it would only take 40 hrs and besides, it would be a good confidence boost!! Well, it
took a LOT longer than 40 hrs. I found the most patient wonderful instructor,
James Reid, who had to endure many painful moments. He encouraged me, and assured me that I would achieve what I desired more than anything else in the world. In between those agonizing moments he had, we had a lot of laughs and I can only say that I owe a lot to James for sticking with me through this.
I would love to get my IFR and Commercial rating---it’s a dream. Maybe it will come to reality.
My regrets?----that I didn’t have the opportunity 25 yrs ago to do this . I feel I’ve wasted 25 precious years, of witnessing exquisite sunsets and moon rises from above ground level.. The young jocks aspire to flying the fast powerful stuff-------my preference would be the old and slow stuff.!.I am partial to things like Constellations, the Waco is kinda cute, and the DC3---that lovely Dakota -----brings me out in the shivers when I hear it and see it taxiing by with the pilots arm hanging out the open window . I guess I like the *thunder guts,* spewing oil, clouds of smoke and burst of flame as the engines roar to life. Guess that is like music to me. Silly? well maybe!! If I was two decades younger I think Id like to fly cargo in a bush situation in a *dak* or something smaller but as heavy and noisy, and messy.
Now we get to AVSIG. I bought this computer wonder in October 1994, as it was time to get computer literate. My terror of touching the machine was intense. I thought it would electrocute me and the mouse would bite. I didn’t even know how to turn it on. So, to my rescue, came my flying instructer,James. An expert at *flying* a computer as well. He painstakingly taught me how to use it, from how to switch it on, he loaded it with wonderments, and he told me about Compuserve, and explained what AVSIG was. He showed me how to access AVSIG,he signed me up and explained what a password was. He has been an AVSIG lurker for ages. I thank him for the introduction because through AVSIG I have *met* the most wonderful people, I think I can now call good friends. They have been encouraging through my flight training, sympathetic and kind and supportive when my dad died. I have had some wonderful laughs and good banter and chat.
When I’ve been sad and miserable there has always been someone out there for me to talk to and support me and make me laugh. I have been overwhelmed by kindness and friendship. Always someone who understands my euphoria with flight and doesn’t think I’m crazy or whacky---mainly because they are equally crazy and whacky I guess.
AVSIG has been the most wonderful addition to my life, it’s brought me a lot of joy and happiness, for which I thank each and every one of you. I certainly hope I can live up to this honour, which you have bestowed on me. Thanks all.
--Penny
Flying thoughts…..
written May, 1995 while learning to fly in Dallas. A wonderful phase of my life.
Lots of adventures good flying and various ratings came afterwards….
There was an aviation forum on Compuserve and through that many fine friendships were made and have been kept over the years.
Just a fun article I hauled from the depths, that I do not think my kids have ever read. Probably needs some editing.
******************
Firstly I would like to say I am shocked, astonished, amazed, stunned, and speechless in having this honour bestowed upon me. I still wonder if the Sysops have made a mistake. To put a lowly low timer up for this, who couldn’t even get her PPL in 40hrs-------with the likes of the heavy metal drivers, aviation writers, ex-air force hero’s, smart lawyers, doctors, a WW11 ace, an astronaut, aviators with ratings in hundreds of planes and thousands of hours flying under their belts and on and on it goes. I am humbled and thank the AVSIG sysops for this honour. I hope I can live up to it. I have the ability to merely fly a Beechcraft Sport, a Cessna 172, and been allowed to taxi a Beech Duchess!!
Right, here goes, and its not very interesting.!! Penelope (Penny) Jones was born on 12th September 1951----(that makes me 29yrs old)-----in a village called Caledon,Cape Province South Africa. Caledon is not far from Cape Agulhas,the southern most tip of Africa. Fall off the rocks there and you will end up in Antarctica. I was raised in a beautiful seaside resort called Hermanus, 80miles east of Cape Town. My childhood was made up of roaming the mountains, freedom—and school somewhere in between. I developed a deep love for the great outdoors and knew my environment well. It has become a life long passion and I take great delight in camping in the African bush, hundreds of miles from habitation and delighting in the wonders of nature and its creatures. I dived for abalone and lobsters in the school holidays and developed a deep affinity and respect for the sea.
At an early age my dad taught me to fish, and shoot a variety of guns----skeet and clay pigeon stuff as well------much to my mothers horror. But I abhor any form of unnecessary hunting and only like to shoot with a camera!!
I lived next to a golf course and started golf very young. Snuk onto the golf links every evening and played the back nine holes for free!! Got my handicap to a respectable figure and gave up at age 18 when the *rulers* of the course decided I should pay for the pleasure!! I will return to golf in my old age!!
My dad was a pilot, flew for the RAF in WW11 and fought in the Battle of Britain. He died in Sept 1994 and was a wonderful influence in my life. I miss him desperately, but I know he flies with me and enjoys it, and raises the odd glass of Chivas to me!! He loved his Hurricanes and Mosquitos and told me about them. So my pocket money as a child-----about 8yrs old----was spent on those model aircraft one had to figure out how to glue together, then paint in the
right colours and stick on the decals. I bought the Hurricane and Mosquito and a few others including a Mustang, because I loved horses and thought it had a *cool* name. Where I should have had dolls displayed on my bedroom shelves, I had these little treasures and wonders of flight.
I was shoved off to boarding school in Cape Town at age 12. Not a happy period of my life except for the holidays. During my teenage years all spare time was spent working for a large practice of veterinary surgeons, a profession I wished to take up, but never managed to, due to finances. But I spent many wonderful hours on farms, in stables and cow sheds and in blazing African sun, up to my armpits in bovine muck assisting with pregnancy tests, AI , difficult calvings, and C sections.
At 16 I had a flight aptitude test. Dad came with me, and the instructor who was doing the test, took one look at him and said "Hey!! You taught me to fly in 1943!!" A truly small world. Well, finances didn’t allow for me to fly least it wasn’t common in SA, and no future for females, in a very male dominated society.
After school I was broke and needed a job, so joined the engineering division of an oil company and started on the drawing board doing their drafting of storage tanks, pipe systems, pumps, manifolds and refuelling lines. During those years, my joy was when we chartered planes to go up to South West Africa, now Namibia. I loved those trips, and flying over the Namib Desert and hopping over incredible red sand dunes in search of herds of gemsbok (a type of oryx), and skimming the waves at a very low altitude looking for whales-----the pilot used to be a whale spotter!! And he very sweetly reintroduced me to joy of taking the controls and flying it myself.
The highlight of one of my trips to Namibia, was being on the very last flight back to Cape Town that the Viscount did, before being removed from service.
The Fish River Canyon----a slightly smaller version of the Grand Canyon--- was in flood for the first time in a decade or so, and the Captain flew us IN the canyon to witness it. It was incredible having the canyon sides above us. Maybe a crazy captain, but I thought it the best thing Id ever done. There were only 5 of us on board and he told us what he wanted to do!!
I met my husband, Ian , round that time, a Scot who had worked as a development engineer on turbine engines for Rolls Royce, and had taken the plunge and ventured south to a better climate.
So my name changed to Wilson and we have 2 daughters, one in NYC and the other with us in Dallas. We were transferred from Cape Town to Durban for 5yrs and then Johannesburg for 5 years and now on assignment in Dallas till mid 1996.
Alas I have to go back. I love America and the people here. Be ready for mid 1996 when I will be putting out adoption papers to stay here-----all offers will be seriously considered!
I have been involved with environmental issues in South Africa, and also the SA Ornithological Society, where I met the most wonderful people and learned a tremendous amount, from some world renown ornithologists, and had the honour of going on field trips and study trips with them. I was active in the archaeological society, and had wonderful times combing mountain ranges for bushman rock art that had never been recorded before, and 'digs' excavating prehistoric bones and extinct beasts. I loved it, it was great fun.
I have an intense interest in astronomy, but unfortunately don’t know enough to even call myself an amateur astronomer---it is such a vast subject---its scary.
Now to my flying. Well, on arriving in Dallas----we stayed near Addison airport, in north Dallas, and I lay at the hotel pool and watched these planes doing their *thing* in the sky and not knowing a single sole in Dallas, decided the time was ripe to fulfil my dream!! I drove off to the airport, walked into a flight school and signed up. My husband had a fit, so I promised him it would only take 40 hrs and besides, it would be a good confidence boost!! Well, it
took a LOT longer than 40 hrs. I found the most patient wonderful instructor,
James Reid, who had to endure many painful moments. He encouraged me, and assured me that I would achieve what I desired more than anything else in the world. In between those agonizing moments he had, we had a lot of laughs and I can only say that I owe a lot to James for sticking with me through this.
I would love to get my IFR and Commercial rating---it’s a dream. Maybe it will come to reality.
My regrets?----that I didn’t have the opportunity 25 yrs ago to do this . I feel I’ve wasted 25 precious years, of witnessing exquisite sunsets and moon rises from above ground level.. The young jocks aspire to flying the fast powerful stuff-------my preference would be the old and slow stuff.!.I am partial to things like Constellations, the Waco is kinda cute, and the DC3---that lovely Dakota -----brings me out in the shivers when I hear it and see it taxiing by with the pilots arm hanging out the open window . I guess I like the *thunder guts,* spewing oil, clouds of smoke and burst of flame as the engines roar to life. Guess that is like music to me. Silly? well maybe!! If I was two decades younger I think Id like to fly cargo in a bush situation in a *dak* or something smaller but as heavy and noisy, and messy.
Now we get to AVSIG. I bought this computer wonder in October 1994, as it was time to get computer literate. My terror of touching the machine was intense. I thought it would electrocute me and the mouse would bite. I didn’t even know how to turn it on. So, to my rescue, came my flying instructer,James. An expert at *flying* a computer as well. He painstakingly taught me how to use it, from how to switch it on, he loaded it with wonderments, and he told me about Compuserve, and explained what AVSIG was. He showed me how to access AVSIG,he signed me up and explained what a password was. He has been an AVSIG lurker for ages. I thank him for the introduction because through AVSIG I have *met* the most wonderful people, I think I can now call good friends. They have been encouraging through my flight training, sympathetic and kind and supportive when my dad died. I have had some wonderful laughs and good banter and chat.
When I’ve been sad and miserable there has always been someone out there for me to talk to and support me and make me laugh. I have been overwhelmed by kindness and friendship. Always someone who understands my euphoria with flight and doesn’t think I’m crazy or whacky---mainly because they are equally crazy and whacky I guess.
AVSIG has been the most wonderful addition to my life, it’s brought me a lot of joy and happiness, for which I thank each and every one of you. I certainly hope I can live up to this honour, which you have bestowed on me. Thanks all.
--Penny
Saturday, May 29, 2010
UNPLANNED NEVADA EDUCATION
UNPLANNED NEVADA EDUCATION
(Written about 2001, one of the many unique adventures I had during my 10yrs living in USA)
Okay, I am now settled at my puter, got a little liquid sustenance and a
pack of Marlboros next to me, flood lit the garden and watching some deer
drinking at the waterhole outside, and now ready to tell you a story of an
unplanned 'education' on my return trip to Tekzaz via LA..
Having spent a wonderful week with a friend in Las Vegas, soaking up some
dry desert air and relaxing, I headed on up the US95 toward Death Valley.
The radio was tuned to some fine classic rock, traffic was sparse, weather
was fabulous, snow capped mountains were clear and I had a happy smile on
my dial. Life could not have been better having taken a little detour up
into the Toiyabe National Forest area and reveled in the beauty of the
place.
At the dusty windswept junction of US 95 and the road to Death Valley there
were two gas stations with the usual store and diner. No other habitation
in sight. Just sort of a one horse hick siding in the middle of no where.
It was time to fill up with Diet coke, and not knowing when next I would
eat, opted to breeze on in and catch a bite.
The store was large, yet exceedingly sparten, with only one soft drink
cooler and many shelves laden with T-shirts and other apparel. Not being a
'shopper' I didn’t look at anything and headed on back up some steps to a
small diner area, with linoleum floor, a few tables with plastic flowers
poked into vases, and a kitchen type bar, which also served beer and other
hard tack type 'likker'.
There was a kid from Iowa working the place to get away from the cold
Northern winter wastelands. He is studying horticulture, specifically
golf course and green management because he is stoked on golf and needs to
work on a golf course to play for free and maintain his handicap.
I ordered some eggs and bacon and asked if I was allowed to smoke. This is
a very valid question these days. In California they treat fine and fabulous
smokers like filthy lepers...it is positively scandalous. With that, the
kid pushed an ashtray over to me and I reached for some book matches. That
is when I thought I would choke. On the match book was ......."Las Vegas'
Closest Brothel'...Minutes away/24hrs a day with their www.com handle.....
we take Master Card, Visa, ATM.....Japanese Baths, Photography, Dominance,
Desired fantasies, Largest selection of girls" and a photo of a naked big
boobed blonde on the cover. .
As I was choking and spluttering and muttering "Bloody hell, is this for
REAL????", much to the mirth of the Iowa kid, my breakfast arrived, cooked
by a real ancient stubble faced fella who I think, by the looks of him,
might have been a miner from the 1890's. The kid smiled and asked if I
would like to see the "Brothel Sexual Menu," which made me do another
double take as he reached below the bar counter and produced a 30 page
glossy colour booklet. Certainly not the sort of literature I thought I
would ever page through over breakfast, but life is full of surprises and
this was becoming quite an 'educational' breakfast.
The Brothel 'menu' is actually quite a hoot and at my request he gave me
numerous copies which I have given to friends who think this whole episode
very funny. Suffice to say there are two pages of "Super Saving Coupons".
i.e. $50 discount with coupon in the Fantasy Land Dungeon; With coupon, a
FREE Sexual Position Demonstration ; $50 discount with coupon for "2 girl
party in V.I.P. room". The rest of the stuff and goodies available I do
not wish to elaborate upon...but it sure as hell made this little foreign
fem feel like a real country hick!
So I said to the kid, "Naa, ya gotta be kidding me, is this for real?"
"Sure " he said, "see the red door out the window behind you, that’s it. It
has a security buzzer" And with that some fella in a suit sidled in.
I put on my specs and read the splurge on the door about how weekly medical
'inspections' keep the girls clean etc etc and all this is written on the
door...!!!!!??
Okay, it is for real, I am now having breakie in a whore house. So I start
asking the kid questions in between eating eggs and slurping inferior
coffee. I asked what sort of men visited here.... (opted NOT to ask "
'come' here".) He said mainly the suit and tie brigade and tons of
Orientals.
The big talk at the moment is of some oriental gentleman who paid $15K
for a night of whatever..... Again I nearly choked on some bacon, was
momentarily speechless, then asked what the hell he got for $15000......
followed quickly by......"No don’t tell me, I really don’t wanna
know"....but the mind certainly boggles at the thought . He prolly took
over the whole place.
When making man, God erred. He forgot to put a safety valve at the base of
the cranium to prevent his brain from sliding way way down. There also
seems to be a severe male problem in getting the gray matter back where it
belongs, 'tween his ears. Even the Prez (was Clinton at the time) suffers from this sinking brain malady.
The Iowa kid said that many men pop into the bar for a few beers, and watch
the door, plucking up courage to venture in. Beer gives them the chutzpah 'n
courage, then they straighten their tie, neaten their jacket, and next
thing the kid sees them enter the infamous Red Door.
He eventually had me in fits of mirth and suggested I go on in and say
"Hi" to the girls and check out what a brothel looks like. Well hell, I
did actually think about it for a moment before declining the offer.
On my way out, I checked out the T-shirts and souvenirs, which he said are
hot sellers. The slogans were ....hmm...interesting... and not the sort of
thing I would have imagined anyone would wear, certainly not around wives
and girlfriends.
So that was an interesting and rather unexpected start to the adventure in
Death Valley.....Cherry Patch 11, Cherry Patch Ranch and Mabels
Whorehouse....The Best Little Whorehouses in Nevada...or so the 'menu'
book says. By the way the owner is from Arkansas..... and that’s a fact.
The rest of the day was far more savory. Death Valley is fabulous,
awesome, amazing, enchanting and needs lots of time to explore, walk the
canyons and trails, and soak it all up. There are sights there that I
would like to see in early morning and late evening light. I also figure it
might be pretty cool to view it from a Harley and have the added sense of
freedom that mode of transport would afford. There are two dirt runways in
the valley but one really needs transport to explore the place.
US of A continues to enchant me. Every experience and adventure I have, the
soul of this country sinks deeper and deeper into my system. Be proud of
it. Realize what an honor it is for you to have been born in this country
and be a citizen of it. Please instill in your children how lucky they are
to be born American..
Take care.
--penny--- (with a wry smile on my dial:-)
P.S. The final detail of this breakfast episode happened in STL Lambert
Airport (St Louis) on my return flight to Tekzaz. I had stuffed my pockets with those
book matches and had been using them. At STL they have sort of glass
goldfish bowl like rooms packed with smokers and I always stop in there and
BS with the crowd, who are usually quite chatty and rather amusing. Well,
one fella asked for a light and without thinking I put my hand in my jacket
pocket and handed him a book of matches.....As he read the cover, I
cringed....... he handed it back to me with a sly smile and said
nothing!
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Baboon Stories and other Papio Ursinus Trivia
Chacma Baboon Report ....and other Papio Ursinus trivia.
2004
I have the privilege of living slap next to a mountain path that the pesky baboons use to cavort down each morning to start their rounds that so harass the humanoids living in Voelklip, my neighbourhood in Hermanus. When baboons are frolicking in neighbour’s yards they are entertaining and a delight to watch. When raiding my own home they drive me crazy and send my dog into a frenzy of action that suffices for the daily exercise.
With summer on the way the local troop rises early and by 7am are on the move and ready for their days forage around the neighbourhood. This morning they had a blast.
Don’t let anyone fool you that our new 'baboon-proof ' trashcans are truly secure from the deft fingers of our smart friends, Papio Ursinus. They merely push them over, fiddle with the catch and crawl inside to forage and toss out the contents to distribute the delicacies to their comrades.
This morning one of the youngsters stole a very fine beach towel off a washing line and traipsed it around the neighbourhood and no about of chasing or cajoling could persuade it to release its treasure. They grabbed a thermos flask and managed to unscrew the lid and drink the contents. Yes indeed, their human-like behaviour is amusing to watch, and they have the ability to make us laugh and also to drive us crazy.
A few weeks back a troop raided a house and the babies, yes this is true, all played in the swimming pool, mummies watching and chomping on contents from the kitchen.
About 9 weeks ago I was undergoing daily radiation treatment. I often told stories of baboon encounters and frustrations to the chief radiation therapist who thought it all very amusing. She then suggested that I use lion poop to scare them away. Yeah sure, and so where do I get the lion poop? Her husband owns a lion sanctuary and fruit farmers from the surrounding area collect the poop and strew it around their orchards in the Paarl and Franchhoek mountain area. I was duly assured that it would work because lion poop, or any carnivore poop for that matter, apparently has a distinctive smell due to a purely meat diet, which makes the baboons give the area a wide berth and has ’Danger, Predators At Large’ emanating from the property in smells that a baboon understands.
(Drakenstein Lion Park www.lionrescue.org.za/)
On arriving the next day for my treatment, she handed me a large sack of very smelly, disgusting lion poop, with instructions from her husband to soak it in a bucket and use the slop to coat the poles and trees. We hefted it into the back of the truck. The smell was revolting and having initially envisaged painting the roof with it, I chickened out and left it in the bucket near the bird feeder while I contemplated this deed.
Over the next 6 weeks the baboons ran riot in my neighbour’s yards and left my property alone. The smart critters slowly began to realise that the 'lions' on my property were all ‘contained’ in a white bucket and the fun began again. It is now time to paint the trees and fence posts! But it sure worked wonders for 6 weeks!!!
I thought it very selfish of my husband not to volunteer to paint the roof and fence posts with this goop. He kept claiming that he ‘was busy’. It might have kept the baboons at bay for longer!
This whole lion poop experiment has caused much interest and an immense amount of mirth among local friends in this little enclave of Voelklip. Weekly reports fly back and forth via e-mail on the latest baboon sagas and the results of my precious white bucket with liquid lion excrement. It sure aint dull living in Africa and this local baboon troop gives foreign friends a lot of chuckles.
Penn 2004
April 2010-04-07
Since I wrote the above the baboons became a real menace. I was hauled onto the Municipal Baboon Action Committee. Nature Conservation Department got involved. Baboon monitors came into action and chased the babs up the mountains and away from the suburbs. The clever critters sneaked down alternative paths and evaded the monitors. The monitors got drunk and fell asleep under the bushes. They ‘lost’ (sold/stole) their communication radios, their unfiorms and broke their bicycles. People got angry and baboons were shot and wounded. Some were taken to the Animal Clinic and had CT scans to see how many bullets and shotgun pellets were in their bodies. Some went to a rehab facility and some were euthanized. Residents were traumatized by baboons in their homes and some had to go for trauma counselling. They learned to push their babies through fan light windows to raid kitchens. They learned that many people resorted to putting their fruit bowls in the oven so they immediately went and opened the oven doors. They open kitchen units and the fridges, spread food, cereal, rice, sugar and all else over the floor, crap on the kitchen surfaces, pee on the floor and smear fruit everywhere. In other words they have a real good time and fill their bellies.
The municipal baboon action committee, at vast expense, erected an electric fence the length of our mountain and the babs soon learned to vault over it like Olympic pole vaulters.
There are weekly reports of their raids. They are just very very smart. They no longer bother us as we moved to a village 20km away. We still see them on the road to town and my dogs hate them. I whisper very quietly ’baboooons….’ when I see them, and all the dogs instantly waken, peer out the car window barking wildly. The baboons used to tease my dogs unmercifully hence the hatred.
They continue to breed prolifically and numerous troops now dwell along these mountains. I must admit they are very amusing to watch and their babies are just darling. I do wish people would stop shooting them. Many are riddled with bullets and pellets. It makes them aggressive and must be so painful. There are many aspects of our human race I abhor. This problem basically stems from humans feeding them, thinking they are cute and funny and the consequences have become a nightmare.
Penn. April 2010
Friday, April 2, 2010
SOME THOUGHTS ON 'BEING STILL'
This is the basis of something I found tucked away in my mothers desk.I have tweeked it a bit. I think it is a sound philosophy.
--penn--
SOME THOUGTHS ON-------"BEING STILL"
Where do we start when we want to change the conditions that are causing discomfort and unhappiness in our lives? These are some thoughts to ponder upon and try and put into practice. As one gets older it is easier to do. Oh! that we could have learned these lessons at a young age!
There are circumstances and personalities in every individual’s life
which can be said to cause happiness. But are we always going to depend on others for our happiness, health, harmony and prosperity, as a child is dependent on his parents for all his needs?
I do not think that anyone would like this to be the case, if he really stopped to think about it, but it is exactly what most people allow to happen. They get upset when another is short-tempered, inconsiderate, selfish, unkind or just plain bloody minded. They criticize and even condemn the person concerned and make life thoroughly miserable for themselves and everyone around them.
If you accidentally put your hand on a thorn, you would remove the thorn and allow the wound to heal and in a short time there would be no trace of the injury. Likewise, if an injustice is done, work out what it is, allow the effects to dissipate and no trace of the injury needs to remain.
But if the thorn is left in the hand, it does not only cause discomfort, it can become septic, fester and even result in blood poisoning. Likewise, we can harbour the resentments and fears we have towards others and they can grow and develop into the most monstrous problems and poison ones mind and indeed entire body.
So, where do we start? Where, or with what does everything start? With a thought. The thought is always coupled with some kind of emotion. A pleasant thought makes us feel good and react favorably, and an unpleasant thought does exactly the opposite. The answer would be to handle our unpleasant thoughts and feelings and then all would be well. But how do we do this?
We usually start justifying ourselves or our actions as soon as we have done anything wrong. We try to cover up, look the other way, laugh or cry it away, withdraw into ourselves or become aggressive, without even starting to become aware of what we are doing.It becomes all consuming.
The first thing to do therefore is to stop and --'be still'-- as soon as an unpleasant condition arises and to become aware of one's own thoughts, feelings and anger; to admit to the problem and to become objective and rational.
The second step would be to do what one can to change the condition. If you were the first one to be negative, admit it and try to put right whatever is possible to rectify; if another was in the wrong, forgive and send out as much love and understanding as you can. In both these instances success is assured because you will be working in accordance with Divine law. The result could be instantaneous or it could take much longer to manifest, but it will always happen at the right time, in the right way, at the right place in the right company.
What we have to remember at all times is that the Law works with absolute impersonal precision at all times. If we want to enjoy life’s rich blessings we should not react negatively at all, no matter how grave the others misdeed was. We must develop the firm assurance that every positive action will be rewarded with a positive reaction. It is often difficult to know how to express love to a person who has done something that has made you so angry that you have wanted to choke, or hurt you so deeply that you have felt like hiding away from the world and withdrawing yourself from all involvement lest it happen again.
If it is impossible to 'feel' love under these conditions try 'thinking' love first. Remind yourself that "Love is the fulfillment of the Law'. This calms the emotions and a calm and relaxed state is very conducive to feelings of goodwill and love.
I find this expressing of love very comforting, because it takes the responsibility of decision from my shoulders when I am in doubt about another's behaviour. I keep my mental and emotional equilibrium and send out love and our spiritual guide and mentor, ---(God if you want to think of it that way)--- takes care of the rest. This is what makes it possible to understand these wonderful words: 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'
How about this to try and live by? Such sound philosophy.
---Penn--- 1998
--penn--
SOME THOUGTHS ON-------"BEING STILL"
Where do we start when we want to change the conditions that are causing discomfort and unhappiness in our lives? These are some thoughts to ponder upon and try and put into practice. As one gets older it is easier to do. Oh! that we could have learned these lessons at a young age!
There are circumstances and personalities in every individual’s life
which can be said to cause happiness. But are we always going to depend on others for our happiness, health, harmony and prosperity, as a child is dependent on his parents for all his needs?
I do not think that anyone would like this to be the case, if he really stopped to think about it, but it is exactly what most people allow to happen. They get upset when another is short-tempered, inconsiderate, selfish, unkind or just plain bloody minded. They criticize and even condemn the person concerned and make life thoroughly miserable for themselves and everyone around them.
If you accidentally put your hand on a thorn, you would remove the thorn and allow the wound to heal and in a short time there would be no trace of the injury. Likewise, if an injustice is done, work out what it is, allow the effects to dissipate and no trace of the injury needs to remain.
But if the thorn is left in the hand, it does not only cause discomfort, it can become septic, fester and even result in blood poisoning. Likewise, we can harbour the resentments and fears we have towards others and they can grow and develop into the most monstrous problems and poison ones mind and indeed entire body.
So, where do we start? Where, or with what does everything start? With a thought. The thought is always coupled with some kind of emotion. A pleasant thought makes us feel good and react favorably, and an unpleasant thought does exactly the opposite. The answer would be to handle our unpleasant thoughts and feelings and then all would be well. But how do we do this?
We usually start justifying ourselves or our actions as soon as we have done anything wrong. We try to cover up, look the other way, laugh or cry it away, withdraw into ourselves or become aggressive, without even starting to become aware of what we are doing.It becomes all consuming.
The first thing to do therefore is to stop and --'be still'-- as soon as an unpleasant condition arises and to become aware of one's own thoughts, feelings and anger; to admit to the problem and to become objective and rational.
The second step would be to do what one can to change the condition. If you were the first one to be negative, admit it and try to put right whatever is possible to rectify; if another was in the wrong, forgive and send out as much love and understanding as you can. In both these instances success is assured because you will be working in accordance with Divine law. The result could be instantaneous or it could take much longer to manifest, but it will always happen at the right time, in the right way, at the right place in the right company.
What we have to remember at all times is that the Law works with absolute impersonal precision at all times. If we want to enjoy life’s rich blessings we should not react negatively at all, no matter how grave the others misdeed was. We must develop the firm assurance that every positive action will be rewarded with a positive reaction. It is often difficult to know how to express love to a person who has done something that has made you so angry that you have wanted to choke, or hurt you so deeply that you have felt like hiding away from the world and withdrawing yourself from all involvement lest it happen again.
If it is impossible to 'feel' love under these conditions try 'thinking' love first. Remind yourself that "Love is the fulfillment of the Law'. This calms the emotions and a calm and relaxed state is very conducive to feelings of goodwill and love.
I find this expressing of love very comforting, because it takes the responsibility of decision from my shoulders when I am in doubt about another's behaviour. I keep my mental and emotional equilibrium and send out love and our spiritual guide and mentor, ---(God if you want to think of it that way)--- takes care of the rest. This is what makes it possible to understand these wonderful words: 'Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'
How about this to try and live by? Such sound philosophy.
---Penn--- 1998
Monday, March 29, 2010
Responsible Dog Breeding
Responsible Dog Breeding….. Eight weeks of full time puppy care!
July 2009
So, you are thinking of having a litter of pups from your lovely female canine companion? Well, consider it carefully as it is a lot of work and a healthy amount of cash outlay before you start. Never ever have pups because you think it would be ‘good for the children!’
The responsible time to breed the bitch is after her 2nd heat, and preferably have prospective homes booked for the pups before you start the process. Hips and elbows need to be x-rayed and sent to Onderstepoort for assessment and certification. (This is done by a specialist radiologist) Eyes need to be tested by a specialist and another certificate collected, stating that there is no eye disease evident. In some cases DNA samples need to be sent to USA for clarification. Now we are down thousands in the bank balance. If the bitch is sound with perfect bone and joint structure, the time has come to select a suitable mate. This requires careful perusal of the intended sires pedigree, eyes, hip and elbow clearance certificates, temperament and character, including discussions with the intended sires owner, who has every right to deny a mating.
Right, so here we go, sire is chosen, vet assesses the readiness of the bitch with daily fanny swabs and peering through the microscope, phone calls to the sire’s mummy, leap into the car and dash off for the mating ordeal, (a frightfully clinical affair with both sets of owners in attendance) and another healthy amount of cash outflow. Some breeders fly their bitches to a mating and some have AI (artificial insemination) done using selected dogs from anywhere in the world.
Okay, so now we wait for approx 63 days, making sure the beloved family companion is happy, well exercised, proper nourishment, has the choice sofa in the lounge to loll upon, and perhaps around the 21st day after mating have an ultra-sound done to see if little puppy bundles are starting to develop. Don’t forget she likes lots of raw minced tripe and raw chicken necks on her food plate.
Then one needs to prepare an adequately sized whelping box and area to have the pups…the maternity ward. Prepare yourself for the pain you will endure during the bitch’s labor, (it can be quite long, so have your Rescue Remedy at hand; you will need it) particularly if you have given birth yourself, and pray it all goes well with no midnight call out to your vet, or perish the thought, a caesarian that again will hit the bank balance in a dramatically negative way.
Get advice from your vet about the birth on where you can be of help to the mother. Have a few necessary instruments ready and some cotton wool and swabs. I have had an occasion where mum chewed the umbilical cord, as she should do, and it spouted blood. Be ready to grab the pup, and pinch that tiny bleeding umbilical cord between your fingers (a bit messy) until it stops. Make sure pup is breathing, give it a shake if it is not, Rub it vigorously to dry it off and stimulate it ..
Depending on the breed, your mother will probably do what nature intended for her and cope with it all herself. Be there to reassure her. It is a very moving experience.
Do not fret and fuss over her. Talk in soft soothing tones and do not let the neighbors, and their children in to watch. I mean how would you like to have the neighborhood in yakking and chirping while you are heaving and writhing and popping out babies? This is a special bond between you and your mother dog.
Have a note book and scribble down the time and sex of each pup. You need the time as you might have to call the vet, who will want to know details.
The birth is over. You will be totally exhausted. Now go and make a cup of tea and lie on the bed watching her cuddle with her kids. Then go phone the world and hit the computer to announce the arrival of your babies. Include photos. It is great news so do not worry if it is midnight, your friends will be itching to hear the news.
Watching a bitch with her newborn pups is an emotional experience. The love in her eyes, and her amazing natural instinct to care for and clean her pups is heartwarming. The pups grow rapidly and around 3-4wks old have to be moved to larger and very safe quarters. Here the real work begins, with weaning, feeding, cleaning endless puppy poop and pees and going through tons of newspaper a dozen or more times a day. Pups now need toys and items to amuse them, and lots of attention and playtime with them, to get well adjusted and nicely socialized pups, to hand on to their next family. Toys can include cardboard toilet rolls, thick knotted ropes, cardboard boxes to climb into, onto, and chew up. Hard rubber puppy toys. Balls, and things that roll and squeak.
Kennel Union Of South Africa fees and membership must be up to date and now the naming of the pups and myriad forms need to be filled in. There is a hefty registration fee for each pup, so best you do not have a huge litter, because by now you are hitting the high numbers in the bank account.
Watching the little bundles grow, learning to walk, finding their vocal chords, the first growl and bark is a delight. Observing their characters, and quirky habits develop is fascinating. Having them all rush up with excitement and play around ones ankles, with constantly wagging tails is a real joy and rewarding experience. Bless em all.
Now to compare breeding dogs to having ones own kids! You get to choose the best and most handsome well bred husband, thus checking the pedigree of intended grandchildren to make sure they are pretty much perfect and very smart; can make sure you get on with the in-laws; decide when the grandkids will be born; can choose their names, and then select who they will live with and at eight weeks they are all out of the house, well adjusted and beautiful babies!
Penn
July 2009
So you want to own a Jack Russell?
So, you want to own a Jack Russell?
Penn
March 2010
So you want to own a Jack Russell, the cutest, most cuddly of little pups. Read on before you take the plunge and select your totally fearless little rebel. They are not the little lap dogs one would expect from such a wee scrap of white and tan.
Jack Russell’s are probably the ‘biggest’ dogs you will ever own. They have the heart of a lion, the tenacity of a honey badger and when occasionally at rest, prefer a satin cushion or a velvet covered sofa. Tucked up with a goose down duvet would be nice, and best of all, love to burrow under the bedclothes at night and curl round your feet.
They were bred in Britain as small hunting dogs, going back to the mid 1800s and were used for digging out red foxes, rabbits etc. Be well aware that their hunting instinct is still very much in their genes, and their smart savvy works overtime.
These 6-8kg warriors are perfect for an active person and almost essential to include with the farm dogs. In fact they go well with most dogs and will be the first to sound the alarm of any excitement about to happen. They adore a trip in the truck, hang out the windows and woe betide any idiot who puts their hands through the window to pilfer their owners possessions. They will almost certainly be minus a few fingers.
Do you have a problem with moles? Get a JR. They love ‘em and will spend most of the day intent on eradicating every critter from your garden. They are the world’s best diggers, with the remarkable ability to excavate trenches, tunnels, furrows, and mineshafts at an incredible rate. Of course you won’t have a garden lawn, pretty flower beds or vegetable patch left after this amusement. JRs are not cruel killers. Once latched onto the critter they give it a quick shake, toss it in the air and it’s dead. Like magic, it may not hit the ground, that’s because it went directly down the gullet into JRs tummy.
Do you have a problem with rats and mice in the feed barn, garage, garden shed? Get a JR. They are excellent climbers and will scramble up feed bales and even up the steel girders like little monkeys to get at their quarry. Sniffing out the vermin from every little nook and cranny will keep them quivering with excitement and entertained for hours. They are way better than the lazy barn cat who prefes to snooze in the sun.
If you have chickens, rabbits, and other domestic pets be sure the JR pup is introduced to them at a young age or one day you will come home to utter carnage and a happy little chappie greeting you with such excitement….”Look mum, look dad, look what I’ve done, been such a fun day”
I was sitting on the cliff tops one day watching the whales. My labradors were roaming around finding sticks to be thrown for them. Marley, my female JR, as always, scurried off to excavate the molehills and harass the dassies (rock hyrax). I listened to her hysterical barks of pure delight from the steep rocks faces. Upon wanting to leave, I called, shouted, whistled, yelled, all to no avail. JRs are stone deaf when on a hunting mission. Finally little itty bit Ms Marley scrambled over the cliff top, bounded up, puffing and panting, big smile on her doggy dial, with a veritable gushing fountain of blood spurting from the top of her nose. I reckon that she cornered a dassie down a crevice and it bit her solidly on the nose. What a bloody mess. A friend said, “It serves her right, she will never do that again”. Not so with a JR! In that willful canine brain developed an utter hatred for dassies, to be forever eradicated from the planet and an all out vendetta was cast. She never did catch one, but sure had a good try at it, enjoying every moment.
So, you still want to get a JR? If you have the time and energy to devote to them or are able to keep them at your side for most of the day, they are fine companions and might be around for 15yrs, sleeping on your bed, head on the pillow. Happy, cheerful, funny, full of character, devoted and fearless warriors. It is essential to socialize your pup from a very young age, and to impress upon it that YOU are the pack leader, Alpha #1 top dog. They are smart and able to usurp the position of top dog, thus easily becoming a willful canine, and not pleasant to have around. They enjoy being busy and love having a job to do. A JR will either make you laugh a lot or cry often in utter frustration! It is up to you to make sure it is the former.
But please, please, give it a lot of exercise and things to do! It is really not a ‘little lap dog’. They need plenty of activity and never cage it up on a small property or an apartment. For that, get a Yorkie or Toy Pom.
Friday, March 26, 2010
BABOON MEDICINE
Baboon Medicine
2004
In the mid to late fifties, seeing baboons in Hermanus was a treat and cause for great excitement. Sure, they lived and foraged in our mountains but seldom came into residential gardens on the lower slopes. Aunty Dulcie Roxburgh-Smith owned a large property at the end of Contour Road in Fernkloof. She once mentioned that baboons periodically came down to raid her vegetable garden and my father asked her to call him when they were there, so he could let me come and watch them cavort around. It was so exciting when we got a call and leaped into the car and off to Aunty Dulcie and the baboons.
When they became pesky and a nuisance, the municipality put out large cage traps, which as a youngster fascinated me. As a child’s curiosity goes, I wanted to know what happened to the body once they had shot it. As today, that is not a subject that was spoken openly about, but I was told that the dead baboons went ‘home with the municipal workers’. One of my father’s staff, also told me that the flesh was ‘good’ and they ate them. I didn’t believe him, and reckoned he was teasing me.
It is strange how seemingly insignificant incidents in a childs life is never forgotten and over the years I have often wondered about this and how anyone could eat an animal so similar in many way to humans. I thought it a little akin to cannibalism.
In our present ‘rainbow nation’ in South Africa, we have learned not to be judgmental of other cultures that are not Western in outlook and behavior. However this subject continued to intrigue me when I returned to South Africa and took up residence on the slopes of the mountains in Hermanus, where we are raided on a regular basis by troops of baboons. They break into our houses, frolic on our rooftops, swing from the gutters, terrorize and tease the dogs, open windows and raid the kitchen, to the extent of opening provision cupboards, refrigerators and oven doors. Real crafty critters. There have been incidents of older baboons pushing their youngsters through fanlight windows too small for an adult to gain access.
In 2004 there was some building work being done a few miles out of town. On two occasions contractors traveling to work with black staff sitting on the back of the truck, were asked to stop so as to pick up some ‘roadkill’ baboons. Meat, glorious fresh meat and a great delicacy. The animals were duly cut up on site and tossed on an open fire and lightly cooked. The hands, head and tail apparently being carefully removed and attached to the skin which was wrapped in a neat bundle. This gruesome little bundle was sold to the ‘sangoma’, the equivalent of a shaman or medicine man, who has the power to remove bad spirits and cure all manner of family ailments.
The second incident I heard of, was a baboon having been shot, perhaps illegally, and dumped on an open area not far from my home. The local Nature Conservation authorities were called to remove the body, but before they arrived, or so the rumor goes, local building laborers had seen it, and quickly removed the hands and tail. A third baboon was recently found shot, again not far from my home and this one had its hands, tail and feet removed.
I became intensely interested in knowing what was done with the appendages as we have all seen photos and read international reports on the ‘bushmeat trade’ in Africa and how endangered the chimpanzees and gorillas have become, in many cases due to this illegal trade in primate meat.
With Western origins it would be presumptuous to wade in and ask questions of the locals and their beliefs, so I have sat tight and thought about this issue. Fortuitously an elderly black gentleman happened to be working on my property recently and sat gazing up the mountain, puffing on a cigarette butt and asked if I often saw baboons. “Ah”, I said, “Umfene, yes there are many about”. And so he started telling me how much he liked them and how good they tasted, indeed a great delicacy. He said that only men were allowed to eat the flesh of baboons. His eyes looked far away and he started to relate their magical medicinal qualities held in their hands and tail. I asked him how it worked and he said that when a person ‘has lost something’, one must go to the sangoma who will cast his magical items on the ground and whisk the baboon tail over them and thus ‘what you have lost will be found again’. He told me that the right hand was very valuable and was always sold because money from these ‘things’ was ‘very good’ and most people are too poor to keep them. The right hand with its great power, put up in the house or above a door will cause all ‘bad spirits in the house to go and lightning will never strike the house’.
I have not yet discovered the significance of the feet, and would dearly love to know more about this matter and how these beliefs came about. Did these traditions filter down with migrating tribes hundreds of years ago?
It has been mentioned that these appendages find their way into Cape Town, and from there, who knows? It is illegal to trade in any baboon parts and they are protected animals. However, with the issuance of a permit, baboons may be shot on private land.
I believe that there are a fair number of foreign hunters who do indeed find it necessary to shoot these intelligent primates for display in their trophy rooms back home. I cannot for the life me understand why anyone would take joy in such a killing. A search of web sites (using ‘baboon hunting’ in the search engine) reveals dozens of safari outfits in southern Africa who have baboons on their list of available trophies. It costs a mere $25 to shoot a baboon.
Penn 2004
What the honey bees tell us.
Bee Messages
March 2010
I learned from lovely Annie today about messages bees bring to us.
Annie runs my house for me. A truly wonderful lady. Born and raised on a local farm. I am blessed to have her around, listen to her stories and share the happenings in her daily life.
Yesterday, while picking veggies in my garden a bee came to her and flew around her head. It touched her cheek softly and she stood still. It followed her to the house, buzzing around her head. She told me this was a message that only bees can bring to you. The messages are to be taken seriously.
According to the old timers around here, if the bee comes to you in the morning it means some good news when you return home and if it appears in the afternoon it means that you best prepare for some bad news.
Annie does not believe it works that way and it can be either good or bad news at whatever time of the day.
When she got home she heard the good news that her daughter had retuned home. Then her grandson returned from work with a few minor injuries as he had been sitting in the back of a truck that had had an accident. Perhaps that was also ‘good news’ as, luckily, he was not badly injured.
So it just goes to show, listen to the bees.
I love local lore, myth and legend. So many similar stories from all over the world.
From now on please listen to the bees.
----Penn----
A DAUGHTER REMEMBERS HER FATHER
A DAUGHTER REMEMBERS HER FATHER: September 1998
Flt Lt R.E.Jones RAF 605 Squadron
My father died on 3rd September 1994. He was one of ‘the few’ that Sir Winston Churchill spoke of. He died with the letter I had written to him giving details of my first solo flight, in his shirt pocket. I never did get to fly with him, but believe that he is now always my right seat co-pilot, and keeps me out of trouble. Can old fighter pilots ever truly die?
He was a private man and never spoke much of his flying days. When he did, I listened, but in those days I never knew enough to ask him questions. I never realized how important weather is to a pilot. I never got to ask the technical questions I now so badly want to ask him. I never got to ask him details of flights he volunteered for that are not in his battle reports. I read his two logbooks and there remain so many unanswered questions.
He imparted so many wonderous things to me and taught me to appreciate the great outdoors, walked the mountains with me, taught me how to fish and shoot and slowly I absorbed some of his philosophy. I remember walking up a valley one evening, both of us with rifles, our border collie harassing our heels. I was 12 years old. I asked him why he never went to church, yet he forced me to get dolled up in a pretty dress, white socks and shoes and cycle off to Sunday school with regular monotony, leaving behind a glorious day and fun while he, stipped to the waist, soaking up the sunshine, worked in his nursery and watered his plants. He stopped, looked at me, smiled, opened his arms to encompass the beauty of the valley, the cliffs, the vast dome of sky above us, the sun sinking in the west, and he said, “Pen, do you see what is all around us? Do you see the beauty and the vast sky above? This is my cathedral. What could be more beautiful and where could one find more peace and spirituality? I want you to first learn the basic principles, then you too can embrace your own cathedral in which ever way you choose to do.”
When I was 18 years old he was invited as the honoured guest to the premier of the movie “Battle of Britain”. I asked him if the movie was realistic. He said quietly to me, “Pen, it was hard taking up young inexperienced pilots knowing that some would not come back”. He said no more.
When dad died, an old WW11 fighter pilot and P-38 ace from the Pacific Campaign came into my life and I became his ‘adopted daughter’. I am sure that he was sent into my life by my father to help me. He is a Texan and when he introduces me as his ‘daughter,’ and I have an English/South African accent, not the Texan drawl, the old boys in the local diner, look askance at him, smile, and a long explanation follows. Through my Texas ‘dad’ I have had the great honour of meeting many American fighter pilots and aces from the veterans of WW11, the Korean days, Vietnam to the young jocks flying F-16s on active duty at present. My conclusion is that they are all cut from the same cloth, and a special breed of men. There is a sense of honour and integrity about them. Regardless of what they feel about their government, duty calls and they do it with honour. There is a sparkle about them; they work hard, they play hard. A sense of fun, a philosophy that is sound, an ability to be alone and private. Watching the young F-16 men at a reunion is the same as watching the WW11 veterans. They have similar stories; their hand actions are the same, laughter is plentiful, tears are there when talking of friends who bought the farm and above all the senior men are so highly respected.
It is heart warming to see the bond of brotherhood, love and respect that stretches across the generation gap. They all share a common bond and it shows. It is like watching fathers and sons together. The WW11 vets might be getting old in body, but their minds remain in their twenties, and their eyes sparkle like little boys when in the company of their ‘brotherhood’.
It is indeed an honour to have been brought into this unique circle and allowed to share some of their moments together. They deserve an immense amount of respect and I believe it is necessary to get as many of their stories down on paper before it is too late.
My father now lies scattered around a rock on the mountain side in my home town of Hermanus, South Africa, in an area he loved with a passion, and was instrumental in turning into a nature reserve. His memorial service was held outside, at the at the base of the mountain, amidst sunbirds gathering nectar from proteas, guinea fowl scratching in the dirt close by, and baboons barking from far off cliffs.
One evening, before a glorious sunset, which lit up the West over the Atlantic Ocean, I scattered his ashes, and a whale breached in the bay below us. I like to believe that it was done in salute to a wonderful man, who would go down each day to see how many whales he could count. I scattered the best part of a bottle of Chivas Regal around and drank a few toasts alone on that rock with my dad. I miss him. I am proud of him and honoured to be his daughter.
I would like to share with you, some of the things I found in his office and filing cabinet.
Battle of Britain experiences of Flight Lieutenant R E Jones
I found the following in my father’s files. The page was torn from a published book or magazine. It was a letter that he had written home to his family. This is exactly as it was written.
THE WAR IN THE AIR
The letter from which the following extract was taken was written home by Pilot Officer R.E.Jones, on the 15th August, 1940, from S.E.Scotland, where he was then stationed. It describes his first actual contact with the enemy raiders, and came to our notice through his brother, Alan,who has himself been accepted by the R.A.F. and is waiting to be called up to train as a pilot.
Since the experience here described, the writer has himself been shot down by a Messerschmitt, and, although wounded by the nosecap of a cannon shell which clipped his elbow and travelled down the left forearm, managed to bale out successfully at 3000 feet. As his ‘plane was put out of control at 18000 feet, we can congratulate him on a particularly narrow escape. Apparently with his machine doing 300 miles an hour, and his injured arm preventing him from throttling down, the wind pressure was so tremendous that his first attempt to bale out resulted only in the loss of helmet and a beautiful pair of black eyes.
He is now fit for active service again. We send him our sincere good wishes.
The Editor
**********************************
I think I can give you some good news today.
Yesterday our Flight was “at available”, which is to say we have to be on the camp and be able to get into the air within 15 minutes. At 11.45 a message came through that the whole squadron was to go up on patrol. Within 10 minutes we were climbing to 20,000 feet and heading out to sea. From there we were directed by the ground and heard that about 30 enemy aircraft were approaching. We cruised about and eventually found ourselves over Newcastle and the Tyne. I began to think we were on a wild goose chase because by this time we had been up for about one and three-quarter hours and we were being told to land at local aerodromes to refuel. There were only five of us left by this time; the others had drifted away. Suddenly over the leader’s machine and about three miles away, I saw the biggest formation of enemy aeroplanes I have ever seen - bigger than any I ever saw at Hendon air display - and then another smaller formation behind them.
Archie McKeller, my leader, decided to attack the big formation, so we turned and
climbed up into the sun. At that moment, I ran out of petrol and by the time I had turned on to my reserve tank Archie was 200 yards in front of me. We kept climbing until we were about 4,000 feet above the enemy and directly overhead. Then we turned on our backs and dived to attack
I found myself attacking two aircraft which were below each other and dead in my sights. As I came down I pressed my firing button and for the first time heard my eight guns go off - I could see my bullets hitting the aircraft, when suddenly the starboard engine of one of the Heinkel’s (111) exploded and left a long trail of black smoke.
Almost immediately the port engine of the other machine caught fire and the last I saw of those two as I shot by at 400 m.p.h, they looked as if they would collide.
I pulled out of my dive and climbed up again well to one side of the formation and looked for Archie. I couldn’t pick him out, so I decided to attack a lone aircraft which was a little way from the others - I went in from the side and as he went through my sights I followed him round. Suddenly his nose went straight up into the air, and then he toppled over and went straight into a spin. Two parachutes came out as the machine crashed toward the sea. I climbed up again and waited until I saw another straggler and then I went in again and pressed the button - there was a roar and silence - I had run out of ammunition, so I dived towards the clouds and as I went I saw lots of bombs explode in the sea.
My total bag for my first encounter is one Heinkel 111 shot down and two damaged. We lost two machines, but the pilots are safe; one came back to the aerodrome last night; the other is in hospital with concussion. My machine was not hit.
We had a wizard champagne party in the mess last night. The whole of A Flight was unlucky; they didn’t see a thing, but our Flight sent seven down and damaged six.
R.E.JONES
(Footnote, by A.Jones. - The squadron was moved down to S.E. England soon after, and Eric shot down two more enemy ‘planes before being shot down himself, on 15th September. He baled out with his parachute, and after a few days in hospital and a short rest he was soon fit again. Archie McKellar has since been awarded the D.F.C. and later a bar to it. Unfortunately, he was shot down and killed on 1st November)
NOTES REGARDING 15TH SEPTEMBER 1940
The following handwritten pencil draft, found in dads files, is an account of his
experience on 15th September 1940. He had been answering questions for a
man doing research.
The tail number of his Hurricane was L 2122.
Battle of Britain. 15th September 1940.
Flight Lieutenant R E Jones RAF 605 Squadron
I’ll answer the specific points you mention and then I’ll tell you my story of that day and a few after. Of course it is 53 years ago but much of the day and days are very clear in my mind.
Yes, we took off at about 11.20, just before lunch and I was shot down about ½ hr later.
The time in my log book is probably wrong as the entry must have been made a month or so later. The 15th Sept was of course Battle of Britain Sunday and I think the RAF claimed to have shot down 180 enemy aircraft. It was a very very busy day.
Your second query about the type of aircraft we were attacking raises doubts in my mind but I can only reason that they were Heinkel 111 as I suppose I got to within 150-200yards of them and it was a large formation. I do know that there were many Do 17 about at the time.
I was shot down by cannon fire from, I can only assume a ME109 fighter as they were escorting the bombers. My aircraft was shot from the rear. I know they were firing with 20mm cannon because they took a 20mm nose cap out of my forearm in an operation performed in the evening of the event. I had the nose cap for years until it disappeared from my office. I was not, to my knowledge, fired at by the German bombers who were in front of me and partly to the right of me.
I was shot down over a little village in Kent called Plaxtol. It was the only place I really knew in Kent, because a group of prewar pilots from our Flying school went down to the thatched cottage of a farm at Plaxtol for weekends of horse riding with our girlfriends.
The Flying school was situated at Gatwick Airport which had been started in 1936/7 and was a large grass field next to the railway line. There was a station about 300 yards from the control tower and airport buildings. There were about 3 other aircraft parked there, apart from the flying school aircraft ----- Tiger Moths, Harts, Hinds,Audax.
The farmer who owned the farm was the ambulance driver who picked me up from Old Soar Manor and took me to Wrothham Cottage Hospital in the early part of the Sunday aftenoon. The cottage Hospital, which was primarily a maternity hospital only had one other patient there when I arrived and he was a New Zealander from my own squadron who had been shot down during the week and we escourted him down, his clothing was burning as he went down. His name was Jack Fleming and he was moved to the burns hospital where, after a long serious time he survived and continued as a pilot.
I landed in my parachute within 300 yards of Old Soar Manor, which I had visited before the war. My aircraft flew into the ground about 1 mile from where I landed. It crashed about 50yds from a farm house. They dug it up a considerable time after the event.
I had lost, in the jump from the aircraft, my helmet, my flying boots and my gauntlets.
These must have been forced from my body when the parachute opened. I must have been doing more than 300mph when I pulled the ripcord.
I staggered up and to the gate which I climbed over and met the people who had watched my descent from the front garden of Old Soar Manor. They immediately, to my relief, recognised me as an RAF pilot and escourted me with assistance to the house next door to Old Soar Manor where they gave me hot tea and comfort until they had bandaged my arm, and at my request put me to bed in a room on the ground floor where I immediately fell asleep. I was awakened somewhat between 3 or 4 pm by the arrival of the ambulance driver, who as I told you, was the farmer who owned our weekend cottage. He took me off to Wrotham cottage hospital. During the drive I was told that there was another pilot there, it was Jack Fleming from my squadron and he was badly burned, arms legs and face. We were the only customers at the hospital for the two days I was there.
They took the bullet from my arm the evening I arrived there. The nose cap had taken a piece of the arm of my tunic into my arm and this was not actually discovered until they opened my arm at a swelling and discovered this unwanted item. This was in January. After that my arm healed quickly and I resumed flying in March 1941.
Apart from the nose cap in my arm I had two very black eyes, the whites of which were completely blood red. This happened when after struggling to get my canopy open I stuck my head out and was whistled into the sky.
I have always estimated that it must have hit the ground at a speed in excess of 300mph. I was hit by the 20mm cannon shells at a height of 18000ft in the Maidstone -Sevenoaks patrol line, whilst commencing an attack on a formation of Dornier bombers. I did not see the aircraft that destroyed my Hurricane but the bombers were escourted by M E 109 fighters. At the time I was hit, I was in full fine pitch and my throttle was “through the gate” and the last thing I remember doing before trying to escape was pushing the stick forward and to the left to avoid the rest of my flight who were climbing rapidly to attack the bombers. The cannon shell entered my left elbow and down my forearm. It lodged just above the wrist, so the throttle was never closed. I managed to get clear of the aircraft at an estimated height of 3000ft.
When I was hit I was chasing a large gaggle of German bombers and was lining up on the section of the left of the formation when all hell broke out in my cockpit, first the bursting of the shells; one or two hit my radiator and the hot cooling liquid rushed into the cockpit. My uniform was completely soaked with glycol. I unleashed my harness and slid the canopy open—it immediately closed. I hadn’t locked it after take off. I pushed the joystick forward to escape the enemy on my tail and avoid the rest of the flight who were climbing rapidly. I started a dive towards the earth, pulled the canopy open again and at the same time stuck my head out. The force of the speed of the aircraft, the engine was on full power and at fine pitch sucked me out of the aircraft and I came to in my parachute swinging peacefully backwards and forwards.
There was just silence—no aircraft noise and no wind. As I looked around I saw a column of white smoke about a mile or so away. It was where my aircraft had hit the ground. I was drifting toward a building, Old Soar Manor and the house next door. I drifted over a line of tall trees and then suddenly I was on the ground. On my back and watching a green apple roll along the ground. I had landed in an apple orchard.
I was later posted to Central Flying School at Uphaven where I completed my Instrucors course. I was posted to Kidlington RAF Flying School. Then to South Africa, 24 Air School Dunnotar. Then back to UK Mosquito Training School, High Ercal and from there back to 605 Squadron Night Intruding Castle Camps at Bradwell Bay.
Then as Chief Flying Instructor to Mosquito O.T.H. in Canada 31 OTV Debret and then back to England for VE Day and demobed Aug 20th 1945.
Flt Lt R.E.Jones RAF 605 Squadron
My father died on 3rd September 1994. He was one of ‘the few’ that Sir Winston Churchill spoke of. He died with the letter I had written to him giving details of my first solo flight, in his shirt pocket. I never did get to fly with him, but believe that he is now always my right seat co-pilot, and keeps me out of trouble. Can old fighter pilots ever truly die?
He was a private man and never spoke much of his flying days. When he did, I listened, but in those days I never knew enough to ask him questions. I never realized how important weather is to a pilot. I never got to ask the technical questions I now so badly want to ask him. I never got to ask him details of flights he volunteered for that are not in his battle reports. I read his two logbooks and there remain so many unanswered questions.
He imparted so many wonderous things to me and taught me to appreciate the great outdoors, walked the mountains with me, taught me how to fish and shoot and slowly I absorbed some of his philosophy. I remember walking up a valley one evening, both of us with rifles, our border collie harassing our heels. I was 12 years old. I asked him why he never went to church, yet he forced me to get dolled up in a pretty dress, white socks and shoes and cycle off to Sunday school with regular monotony, leaving behind a glorious day and fun while he, stipped to the waist, soaking up the sunshine, worked in his nursery and watered his plants. He stopped, looked at me, smiled, opened his arms to encompass the beauty of the valley, the cliffs, the vast dome of sky above us, the sun sinking in the west, and he said, “Pen, do you see what is all around us? Do you see the beauty and the vast sky above? This is my cathedral. What could be more beautiful and where could one find more peace and spirituality? I want you to first learn the basic principles, then you too can embrace your own cathedral in which ever way you choose to do.”
When I was 18 years old he was invited as the honoured guest to the premier of the movie “Battle of Britain”. I asked him if the movie was realistic. He said quietly to me, “Pen, it was hard taking up young inexperienced pilots knowing that some would not come back”. He said no more.
When dad died, an old WW11 fighter pilot and P-38 ace from the Pacific Campaign came into my life and I became his ‘adopted daughter’. I am sure that he was sent into my life by my father to help me. He is a Texan and when he introduces me as his ‘daughter,’ and I have an English/South African accent, not the Texan drawl, the old boys in the local diner, look askance at him, smile, and a long explanation follows. Through my Texas ‘dad’ I have had the great honour of meeting many American fighter pilots and aces from the veterans of WW11, the Korean days, Vietnam to the young jocks flying F-16s on active duty at present. My conclusion is that they are all cut from the same cloth, and a special breed of men. There is a sense of honour and integrity about them. Regardless of what they feel about their government, duty calls and they do it with honour. There is a sparkle about them; they work hard, they play hard. A sense of fun, a philosophy that is sound, an ability to be alone and private. Watching the young F-16 men at a reunion is the same as watching the WW11 veterans. They have similar stories; their hand actions are the same, laughter is plentiful, tears are there when talking of friends who bought the farm and above all the senior men are so highly respected.
It is heart warming to see the bond of brotherhood, love and respect that stretches across the generation gap. They all share a common bond and it shows. It is like watching fathers and sons together. The WW11 vets might be getting old in body, but their minds remain in their twenties, and their eyes sparkle like little boys when in the company of their ‘brotherhood’.
It is indeed an honour to have been brought into this unique circle and allowed to share some of their moments together. They deserve an immense amount of respect and I believe it is necessary to get as many of their stories down on paper before it is too late.
My father now lies scattered around a rock on the mountain side in my home town of Hermanus, South Africa, in an area he loved with a passion, and was instrumental in turning into a nature reserve. His memorial service was held outside, at the at the base of the mountain, amidst sunbirds gathering nectar from proteas, guinea fowl scratching in the dirt close by, and baboons barking from far off cliffs.
One evening, before a glorious sunset, which lit up the West over the Atlantic Ocean, I scattered his ashes, and a whale breached in the bay below us. I like to believe that it was done in salute to a wonderful man, who would go down each day to see how many whales he could count. I scattered the best part of a bottle of Chivas Regal around and drank a few toasts alone on that rock with my dad. I miss him. I am proud of him and honoured to be his daughter.
I would like to share with you, some of the things I found in his office and filing cabinet.
Battle of Britain experiences of Flight Lieutenant R E Jones
I found the following in my father’s files. The page was torn from a published book or magazine. It was a letter that he had written home to his family. This is exactly as it was written.
THE WAR IN THE AIR
The letter from which the following extract was taken was written home by Pilot Officer R.E.Jones, on the 15th August, 1940, from S.E.Scotland, where he was then stationed. It describes his first actual contact with the enemy raiders, and came to our notice through his brother, Alan,who has himself been accepted by the R.A.F. and is waiting to be called up to train as a pilot.
Since the experience here described, the writer has himself been shot down by a Messerschmitt, and, although wounded by the nosecap of a cannon shell which clipped his elbow and travelled down the left forearm, managed to bale out successfully at 3000 feet. As his ‘plane was put out of control at 18000 feet, we can congratulate him on a particularly narrow escape. Apparently with his machine doing 300 miles an hour, and his injured arm preventing him from throttling down, the wind pressure was so tremendous that his first attempt to bale out resulted only in the loss of helmet and a beautiful pair of black eyes.
He is now fit for active service again. We send him our sincere good wishes.
The Editor
**********************************
I think I can give you some good news today.
Yesterday our Flight was “at available”, which is to say we have to be on the camp and be able to get into the air within 15 minutes. At 11.45 a message came through that the whole squadron was to go up on patrol. Within 10 minutes we were climbing to 20,000 feet and heading out to sea. From there we were directed by the ground and heard that about 30 enemy aircraft were approaching. We cruised about and eventually found ourselves over Newcastle and the Tyne. I began to think we were on a wild goose chase because by this time we had been up for about one and three-quarter hours and we were being told to land at local aerodromes to refuel. There were only five of us left by this time; the others had drifted away. Suddenly over the leader’s machine and about three miles away, I saw the biggest formation of enemy aeroplanes I have ever seen - bigger than any I ever saw at Hendon air display - and then another smaller formation behind them.
Archie McKeller, my leader, decided to attack the big formation, so we turned and
climbed up into the sun. At that moment, I ran out of petrol and by the time I had turned on to my reserve tank Archie was 200 yards in front of me. We kept climbing until we were about 4,000 feet above the enemy and directly overhead. Then we turned on our backs and dived to attack
I found myself attacking two aircraft which were below each other and dead in my sights. As I came down I pressed my firing button and for the first time heard my eight guns go off - I could see my bullets hitting the aircraft, when suddenly the starboard engine of one of the Heinkel’s (111) exploded and left a long trail of black smoke.
Almost immediately the port engine of the other machine caught fire and the last I saw of those two as I shot by at 400 m.p.h, they looked as if they would collide.
I pulled out of my dive and climbed up again well to one side of the formation and looked for Archie. I couldn’t pick him out, so I decided to attack a lone aircraft which was a little way from the others - I went in from the side and as he went through my sights I followed him round. Suddenly his nose went straight up into the air, and then he toppled over and went straight into a spin. Two parachutes came out as the machine crashed toward the sea. I climbed up again and waited until I saw another straggler and then I went in again and pressed the button - there was a roar and silence - I had run out of ammunition, so I dived towards the clouds and as I went I saw lots of bombs explode in the sea.
My total bag for my first encounter is one Heinkel 111 shot down and two damaged. We lost two machines, but the pilots are safe; one came back to the aerodrome last night; the other is in hospital with concussion. My machine was not hit.
We had a wizard champagne party in the mess last night. The whole of A Flight was unlucky; they didn’t see a thing, but our Flight sent seven down and damaged six.
R.E.JONES
(Footnote, by A.Jones. - The squadron was moved down to S.E. England soon after, and Eric shot down two more enemy ‘planes before being shot down himself, on 15th September. He baled out with his parachute, and after a few days in hospital and a short rest he was soon fit again. Archie McKellar has since been awarded the D.F.C. and later a bar to it. Unfortunately, he was shot down and killed on 1st November)
NOTES REGARDING 15TH SEPTEMBER 1940
The following handwritten pencil draft, found in dads files, is an account of his
experience on 15th September 1940. He had been answering questions for a
man doing research.
The tail number of his Hurricane was L 2122.
Battle of Britain. 15th September 1940.
Flight Lieutenant R E Jones RAF 605 Squadron
I’ll answer the specific points you mention and then I’ll tell you my story of that day and a few after. Of course it is 53 years ago but much of the day and days are very clear in my mind.
Yes, we took off at about 11.20, just before lunch and I was shot down about ½ hr later.
The time in my log book is probably wrong as the entry must have been made a month or so later. The 15th Sept was of course Battle of Britain Sunday and I think the RAF claimed to have shot down 180 enemy aircraft. It was a very very busy day.
Your second query about the type of aircraft we were attacking raises doubts in my mind but I can only reason that they were Heinkel 111 as I suppose I got to within 150-200yards of them and it was a large formation. I do know that there were many Do 17 about at the time.
I was shot down by cannon fire from, I can only assume a ME109 fighter as they were escorting the bombers. My aircraft was shot from the rear. I know they were firing with 20mm cannon because they took a 20mm nose cap out of my forearm in an operation performed in the evening of the event. I had the nose cap for years until it disappeared from my office. I was not, to my knowledge, fired at by the German bombers who were in front of me and partly to the right of me.
I was shot down over a little village in Kent called Plaxtol. It was the only place I really knew in Kent, because a group of prewar pilots from our Flying school went down to the thatched cottage of a farm at Plaxtol for weekends of horse riding with our girlfriends.
The Flying school was situated at Gatwick Airport which had been started in 1936/7 and was a large grass field next to the railway line. There was a station about 300 yards from the control tower and airport buildings. There were about 3 other aircraft parked there, apart from the flying school aircraft ----- Tiger Moths, Harts, Hinds,Audax.
The farmer who owned the farm was the ambulance driver who picked me up from Old Soar Manor and took me to Wrothham Cottage Hospital in the early part of the Sunday aftenoon. The cottage Hospital, which was primarily a maternity hospital only had one other patient there when I arrived and he was a New Zealander from my own squadron who had been shot down during the week and we escourted him down, his clothing was burning as he went down. His name was Jack Fleming and he was moved to the burns hospital where, after a long serious time he survived and continued as a pilot.
I landed in my parachute within 300 yards of Old Soar Manor, which I had visited before the war. My aircraft flew into the ground about 1 mile from where I landed. It crashed about 50yds from a farm house. They dug it up a considerable time after the event.
I had lost, in the jump from the aircraft, my helmet, my flying boots and my gauntlets.
These must have been forced from my body when the parachute opened. I must have been doing more than 300mph when I pulled the ripcord.
I staggered up and to the gate which I climbed over and met the people who had watched my descent from the front garden of Old Soar Manor. They immediately, to my relief, recognised me as an RAF pilot and escourted me with assistance to the house next door to Old Soar Manor where they gave me hot tea and comfort until they had bandaged my arm, and at my request put me to bed in a room on the ground floor where I immediately fell asleep. I was awakened somewhat between 3 or 4 pm by the arrival of the ambulance driver, who as I told you, was the farmer who owned our weekend cottage. He took me off to Wrotham cottage hospital. During the drive I was told that there was another pilot there, it was Jack Fleming from my squadron and he was badly burned, arms legs and face. We were the only customers at the hospital for the two days I was there.
They took the bullet from my arm the evening I arrived there. The nose cap had taken a piece of the arm of my tunic into my arm and this was not actually discovered until they opened my arm at a swelling and discovered this unwanted item. This was in January. After that my arm healed quickly and I resumed flying in March 1941.
Apart from the nose cap in my arm I had two very black eyes, the whites of which were completely blood red. This happened when after struggling to get my canopy open I stuck my head out and was whistled into the sky.
I have always estimated that it must have hit the ground at a speed in excess of 300mph. I was hit by the 20mm cannon shells at a height of 18000ft in the Maidstone -Sevenoaks patrol line, whilst commencing an attack on a formation of Dornier bombers. I did not see the aircraft that destroyed my Hurricane but the bombers were escourted by M E 109 fighters. At the time I was hit, I was in full fine pitch and my throttle was “through the gate” and the last thing I remember doing before trying to escape was pushing the stick forward and to the left to avoid the rest of my flight who were climbing rapidly to attack the bombers. The cannon shell entered my left elbow and down my forearm. It lodged just above the wrist, so the throttle was never closed. I managed to get clear of the aircraft at an estimated height of 3000ft.
When I was hit I was chasing a large gaggle of German bombers and was lining up on the section of the left of the formation when all hell broke out in my cockpit, first the bursting of the shells; one or two hit my radiator and the hot cooling liquid rushed into the cockpit. My uniform was completely soaked with glycol. I unleashed my harness and slid the canopy open—it immediately closed. I hadn’t locked it after take off. I pushed the joystick forward to escape the enemy on my tail and avoid the rest of the flight who were climbing rapidly. I started a dive towards the earth, pulled the canopy open again and at the same time stuck my head out. The force of the speed of the aircraft, the engine was on full power and at fine pitch sucked me out of the aircraft and I came to in my parachute swinging peacefully backwards and forwards.
There was just silence—no aircraft noise and no wind. As I looked around I saw a column of white smoke about a mile or so away. It was where my aircraft had hit the ground. I was drifting toward a building, Old Soar Manor and the house next door. I drifted over a line of tall trees and then suddenly I was on the ground. On my back and watching a green apple roll along the ground. I had landed in an apple orchard.
I was later posted to Central Flying School at Uphaven where I completed my Instrucors course. I was posted to Kidlington RAF Flying School. Then to South Africa, 24 Air School Dunnotar. Then back to UK Mosquito Training School, High Ercal and from there back to 605 Squadron Night Intruding Castle Camps at Bradwell Bay.
Then as Chief Flying Instructor to Mosquito O.T.H. in Canada 31 OTV Debret and then back to England for VE Day and demobed Aug 20th 1945.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
The Essential Kitchen
The Essential Kitchen
November 2009
While pottering in my lovely kitchen looking out over the garden and bird feeder in one direction and over the interior of the house in the other, I got to thinking what the essential ingredients are that many people never take heed of.
I do not mean a good gas stove top, fabulous blender, necessary utensils, a good garlic press, and the run of the mill veggies and ingredients but other more obscure wonderment's so vital to cooking.
The first item would have to be excellent white wine, no question about that. How can one possibly cook without the odd slurp? I simply could not survive without cumin powder, cumin seeds, a range of fresh chillies, a good blend of masala, fresh nutmeg, a range of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, both varieties of parsley, mint, fresh dhanya, (cilantro) and rosemary, a large selection of yummy dew drop fresh edible flowers from the garden, and of course fresh lemons, limes and varieties of good olives are an obvious requirement.
Many years ago we went on a 2 week safari, basic, bare essential, sleep on the ground style, with a pal who operated a safari company in Botswana. It was just the three of us. He was fed up with clients and wanted to take off into the quiet of remote areas of Botswana and Zimbabwe and commune with elephants and lions around the camp site each night. Therein lie many other stories.
His idea of essential nourishment was a large quantity of gin, I mean at least a case of it, and a large load of tonic and fresh limes. Obviously a big Coleman coolbox packed solid with ice (for the G&Ts). Then came a huge coolbox of fillet steak. I might add here that the beasts were slaughtered on the roadside in Maun, or behind the butcher shop and the meat, still warm and quivering was tossed onto a stainless steel table in the shop, rapidly to be covered with a black cloud of flies. Things in Africa are not very hygienic. It was a scene from a horror movie.
Then came quantities of bully-beef in nasty little tins, canned mangoes, many bottles of Colemans mustard, masses of fresh chillies and when we came across the odd tribal village would buy a few tomatoes, maybe a cabbage and at one stage in the Okavango Delta managed to get a few bags of kumquats to be eaten whole, skin and all. Not a diet to tempt French chefs with. However we always had the luxury of a blue check table cloth to eat off and evening meals were taken while sitting next to our tents, big fire burning before us, perfectly placed at a remote waterhole watching elephant and all the beasts of Africa coming down to drink, while we quaffed G&Ts. Idyllic really. But those days have gone and things have changed so much in those beautiful wild places.
When we traveled into the game reserves alone I always took nice table cloths and crystal wine glasses. Drinking out of plastic is ever so common. We used to dine like Royalty having been diligent enough to pack fabulous frozen casseroles which we heated up on the fire in a cast iron pot. Our frozen stuff was packed in large Coleman coolers with dry ice that lasted about a week. Candles were put into empty tin cans filled with sand so the table always looked quite grand. Sometimes hyenas came to watch us feast. They curled up not too far away, akin to domestic dogs waiting for scraps.
And so, pondering upon culinary essentials for the home kitchen or for a camping trip, what is truly essential?
November 2009
While pottering in my lovely kitchen looking out over the garden and bird feeder in one direction and over the interior of the house in the other, I got to thinking what the essential ingredients are that many people never take heed of.
I do not mean a good gas stove top, fabulous blender, necessary utensils, a good garlic press, and the run of the mill veggies and ingredients but other more obscure wonderment's so vital to cooking.
The first item would have to be excellent white wine, no question about that. How can one possibly cook without the odd slurp? I simply could not survive without cumin powder, cumin seeds, a range of fresh chillies, a good blend of masala, fresh nutmeg, a range of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, both varieties of parsley, mint, fresh dhanya, (cilantro) and rosemary, a large selection of yummy dew drop fresh edible flowers from the garden, and of course fresh lemons, limes and varieties of good olives are an obvious requirement.
Many years ago we went on a 2 week safari, basic, bare essential, sleep on the ground style, with a pal who operated a safari company in Botswana. It was just the three of us. He was fed up with clients and wanted to take off into the quiet of remote areas of Botswana and Zimbabwe and commune with elephants and lions around the camp site each night. Therein lie many other stories.
His idea of essential nourishment was a large quantity of gin, I mean at least a case of it, and a large load of tonic and fresh limes. Obviously a big Coleman coolbox packed solid with ice (for the G&Ts). Then came a huge coolbox of fillet steak. I might add here that the beasts were slaughtered on the roadside in Maun, or behind the butcher shop and the meat, still warm and quivering was tossed onto a stainless steel table in the shop, rapidly to be covered with a black cloud of flies. Things in Africa are not very hygienic. It was a scene from a horror movie.
Then came quantities of bully-beef in nasty little tins, canned mangoes, many bottles of Colemans mustard, masses of fresh chillies and when we came across the odd tribal village would buy a few tomatoes, maybe a cabbage and at one stage in the Okavango Delta managed to get a few bags of kumquats to be eaten whole, skin and all. Not a diet to tempt French chefs with. However we always had the luxury of a blue check table cloth to eat off and evening meals were taken while sitting next to our tents, big fire burning before us, perfectly placed at a remote waterhole watching elephant and all the beasts of Africa coming down to drink, while we quaffed G&Ts. Idyllic really. But those days have gone and things have changed so much in those beautiful wild places.
When we traveled into the game reserves alone I always took nice table cloths and crystal wine glasses. Drinking out of plastic is ever so common. We used to dine like Royalty having been diligent enough to pack fabulous frozen casseroles which we heated up on the fire in a cast iron pot. Our frozen stuff was packed in large Coleman coolers with dry ice that lasted about a week. Candles were put into empty tin cans filled with sand so the table always looked quite grand. Sometimes hyenas came to watch us feast. They curled up not too far away, akin to domestic dogs waiting for scraps.
And so, pondering upon culinary essentials for the home kitchen or for a camping trip, what is truly essential?
The Wonders of Nuclear Physicians and all Modern Medcine
The wonders of nuclear physicians and all modern medicine.
Whole body bone scan + Spect 3
Nuclear physicians are amazing. Radio active goop stuff is stuck into a vein and a few hours later one has the scan done. The goop makes bits and pieces of bone sparkle and shine depending on whether the bits are good or nasty little indications of cancer. Their isotope scan machine shows it all. A truly fascinating invention.
How ever, it is all done at vast expense and most folks will never have this unless they are looking for cancer nasties.
The down side of this nuclear physician isotope scene is that it also shows the state of decline of ones precious bod, all joints and where arthritis may one day occur..
I have always been very active, fanatical gym, swimming, kayaks, hiking, climbing and always physically extremely strong, tossing hay bales around and such. Theoretically, according to magazine blurb I should have joints in perfect health and live till 100. Well this scan told me otherwise last year and has done so again. I am getting old and starting to crumble. (and so might you all be too)
Half way down the nuclear physicians report it states:
With degeneration:
-neck and shoulders
-T/L vertebrae
-lumbar
-hips + knees
-ankles.
The rest of the skeleton is normal.
How many other parts of the skeleton are there for heavens sake.?
Moral of the story is : do not have this isotope scan thingy done. It might depress you to know that the present pain in the knee will soon become a pain in the other knee then the hip, ankles, shoulders an’ all. In fact you can stop taking vitamins and eating salads and all things good for you, your joints don’t appreciate it.. Hit the beer and wine, roasts and rice with lots of gravey, smoke, have late nights and party wildly while ya can….hehehe.
--Penn—January 2010
Whole body bone scan + Spect 3
Nuclear physicians are amazing. Radio active goop stuff is stuck into a vein and a few hours later one has the scan done. The goop makes bits and pieces of bone sparkle and shine depending on whether the bits are good or nasty little indications of cancer. Their isotope scan machine shows it all. A truly fascinating invention.
How ever, it is all done at vast expense and most folks will never have this unless they are looking for cancer nasties.
The down side of this nuclear physician isotope scene is that it also shows the state of decline of ones precious bod, all joints and where arthritis may one day occur..
I have always been very active, fanatical gym, swimming, kayaks, hiking, climbing and always physically extremely strong, tossing hay bales around and such. Theoretically, according to magazine blurb I should have joints in perfect health and live till 100. Well this scan told me otherwise last year and has done so again. I am getting old and starting to crumble. (and so might you all be too)
Half way down the nuclear physicians report it states:
With degeneration:
-neck and shoulders
-T/L vertebrae
-lumbar
-hips + knees
-ankles.
The rest of the skeleton is normal.
How many other parts of the skeleton are there for heavens sake.?
Moral of the story is : do not have this isotope scan thingy done. It might depress you to know that the present pain in the knee will soon become a pain in the other knee then the hip, ankles, shoulders an’ all. In fact you can stop taking vitamins and eating salads and all things good for you, your joints don’t appreciate it.. Hit the beer and wine, roasts and rice with lots of gravey, smoke, have late nights and party wildly while ya can….hehehe.
--Penn—January 2010
Reasons For Change
REASONS FOR CHANGE
Friday, January 8, 2010
Leaving a home we have loved and where memories and happiness grew rich and deep can be an emotional upheaval in ones life. We must not be disappointed when prayers and wishes are not fulfilled in the manner we expect them to be. In fact they are indeed being answered but perhaps just not in the manner we wished for.
When we ask for a miracle, we have to accept that miracle in whatever form it is given to us and that may not necessarily be what we had in mind and were planning for.
We tend to tear headlong down a road that we perceive to be the correct one, but our spirit guides are quite capable of switching them in mid stream when things change and our lives need to branch off in a different direction, for what ever wonderous reason we will no doubt learn at a later date.
We might think that a particular house, town, state or indeed country to be the right one for us and for a period of time it probably is, but we can outgrow them for a host of reasons, unclear to us at the time. There might be somewhere else we need to experience and is on our life agenda.
Our hearts and souls must remain open to whatever lies before us, and accept it, as many of us have done countless times in the past. Our energy is needed in different areas just as we require the energy of those places, and the people, to grow, learn and develop our own lives. Sometimes our needs change and unbeknown to us our 'life guides' oblige and plan our next learning experience. We need to accept these changes as a challenge and go into the next adventure and learning curve we are to be tested on with a degree of enthusiasm. We must try not to be afraid of the unknown ahead of us and regard it as an adventure and an upcoming experience to anticipate with excitement.
Our lives change so quickly. We chose to come here to assist Mother Earth and all living things in any way we could. Leaving friends and places is something we have done many times in our life but it never gets any easier to do. We must accepted our next assignment, and with it the frailties of being human. In honoring our human-ness, it is necessary to experience all aspects of the emotions that go with it; sadness, disappointment, joy, love, grief, fear, pain, laughter, and a host of others.
As we focus on our next move and given tasks, another door will be opened and we will be guided in whatever direction is required, and cared for as we have been in the past.
New directions, new places, spurred by our new growth, may be somewhere we never dreamed of. Because we have never considered this next turn in our lives, does not mean that it is not out there waiting for us to arrive and be challenged by it.
Good friends are made in each place we have lived, and become a part of our lives, and in many cases like extended family members. We can always return to visit if the need arises. We just do not have to remain in those places on a permanent basis. Weary travelers need a rest every now and then, and that is perfectly acceptable. Accept lengthy periods of time in one place as just that; a place to rest and grow. But part of our journey in life demands that we keep going on our learning path and have faith in our ultimate destiny even if we do not know exactly where we will end up. Our Earth eyes do not give us the vision to see the "BIG" picture, so keeping faith in ourselves and our future is a vital tool in putting all the pieces of our wonderful life puzzle together.
We did not choose an easy, uncomplicated path in this life time but must remain dedicated to the plan, to the planet and to the people around us. True friends will continue to support us and understand the necessity for moving on to new adventures and our continued learning of life, people and all that surrounds us. Through this we can only hope that in some way we will touch a life or people around us and try to assist them in some small way on their own quest for happiness and learning. In this way pass on some of the kind deeds and knowledge that have been bestowed upon us by friends who have crossed our paths, many have gone on and many remain close, lifetime friends, much loved and a valued support system.
As we head on down the road to a new adventure, remember that the most important step is the next step.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Leaving a home we have loved and where memories and happiness grew rich and deep can be an emotional upheaval in ones life. We must not be disappointed when prayers and wishes are not fulfilled in the manner we expect them to be. In fact they are indeed being answered but perhaps just not in the manner we wished for.
When we ask for a miracle, we have to accept that miracle in whatever form it is given to us and that may not necessarily be what we had in mind and were planning for.
We tend to tear headlong down a road that we perceive to be the correct one, but our spirit guides are quite capable of switching them in mid stream when things change and our lives need to branch off in a different direction, for what ever wonderous reason we will no doubt learn at a later date.
We might think that a particular house, town, state or indeed country to be the right one for us and for a period of time it probably is, but we can outgrow them for a host of reasons, unclear to us at the time. There might be somewhere else we need to experience and is on our life agenda.
Our hearts and souls must remain open to whatever lies before us, and accept it, as many of us have done countless times in the past. Our energy is needed in different areas just as we require the energy of those places, and the people, to grow, learn and develop our own lives. Sometimes our needs change and unbeknown to us our 'life guides' oblige and plan our next learning experience. We need to accept these changes as a challenge and go into the next adventure and learning curve we are to be tested on with a degree of enthusiasm. We must try not to be afraid of the unknown ahead of us and regard it as an adventure and an upcoming experience to anticipate with excitement.
Our lives change so quickly. We chose to come here to assist Mother Earth and all living things in any way we could. Leaving friends and places is something we have done many times in our life but it never gets any easier to do. We must accepted our next assignment, and with it the frailties of being human. In honoring our human-ness, it is necessary to experience all aspects of the emotions that go with it; sadness, disappointment, joy, love, grief, fear, pain, laughter, and a host of others.
As we focus on our next move and given tasks, another door will be opened and we will be guided in whatever direction is required, and cared for as we have been in the past.
New directions, new places, spurred by our new growth, may be somewhere we never dreamed of. Because we have never considered this next turn in our lives, does not mean that it is not out there waiting for us to arrive and be challenged by it.
Good friends are made in each place we have lived, and become a part of our lives, and in many cases like extended family members. We can always return to visit if the need arises. We just do not have to remain in those places on a permanent basis. Weary travelers need a rest every now and then, and that is perfectly acceptable. Accept lengthy periods of time in one place as just that; a place to rest and grow. But part of our journey in life demands that we keep going on our learning path and have faith in our ultimate destiny even if we do not know exactly where we will end up. Our Earth eyes do not give us the vision to see the "BIG" picture, so keeping faith in ourselves and our future is a vital tool in putting all the pieces of our wonderful life puzzle together.
We did not choose an easy, uncomplicated path in this life time but must remain dedicated to the plan, to the planet and to the people around us. True friends will continue to support us and understand the necessity for moving on to new adventures and our continued learning of life, people and all that surrounds us. Through this we can only hope that in some way we will touch a life or people around us and try to assist them in some small way on their own quest for happiness and learning. In this way pass on some of the kind deeds and knowledge that have been bestowed upon us by friends who have crossed our paths, many have gone on and many remain close, lifetime friends, much loved and a valued support system.
As we head on down the road to a new adventure, remember that the most important step is the next step.
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