Many years ago when I was a little girl, I used to love watching my father tend to his roses.

     ‘Isn’t it lovely,’ he once said, as he sniped away at the thick green stems, ‘that these beautiful flowers are a symbol of love, sorrow and sympathy?’ I wasn’t quite sure if he was talking to me or to a memory of something or someone special. He often retreated into his own world where flowers blossomed and bloomed under his tender care. I used to wonder if he loved his garden more than he loved me. But I was just a wee child then.

     I remember one particular day when I arrived home from school with my head full of worries, my father looked at my face and asked what was wrong.

     ‘Nothing,’ I said. The truth was, I didn’t know what was wrong, I just worried about everything, homework, friends, school, dying, everything! And so I sat at the table where my grandmother had placed a bowl of beef stew and dumplings. She had obviously ignored my announcement that I was no longer a meat eater, that I didn’t want anything to have to die for me. I looked around for my father but he had already retreated back to his garden.  Was I invisible?

     About an hour later, as I sat at the kitchen table doing my homework, my father came in from the garden. He asked me to stand in front of him and close my eyes. I looked at him suspiciously and knew he was hiding something behind his back. Secretly excited, I did as he asked.  

      ‘There,’ he said with great excitement in his voice and placing something around my neck, ‘this is just for you!’ I opened my eyes and saw the necklace of roses my father had made for me. ‘There’s not a prickle in sight,’ he laughed, ‘so it won’t hurt you!’

      My father then told me the reason why he made me a necklace of roses. ‘The Roman’s used to make the same thing,’ he said, ‘and anything said beneath the rose was deemed a secret.’ He touched my head as I touched the roses on my necklace and he said, ‘if there’s anything bothering you, please talk to me and I promise not to tell a soul. Anything you tell me beneath the rose necklace stays beneath it!’

       Although I was very young at the time, I believed, just like the Romans, that beneath the rose everything was sacred. And although I never did share many secrets with my father, below or above the rose necklace, I did however, share many with my friends, until the day it crumbled and fell apart!

To feed their children, Nicrphorus the investigator and his wife excavates the soil beneath dead bodies so that they sink into the ground and drop into their pantry. However, these undertakers will always examine the condition of the carcass before the burial takes place.

     These unsuspecting grave diggers (Saxton beetles) have bulbous orange-tipped antennae’s that are sensitive to the decaying bodies of small birds and mammals and they will fly a mile or so to find carrion before carrying out their gruesome task.

     Despite their gory lifestyle, Mrs Nicrphorus is a good mother and will lay her eggs beside the decaying flesh so her young can feed on it for a whole year. She will also stay with them the entire time.

     Just recently, whilst out walking, I bumped into Nicrophorus the investigator and asked him what on earth was he carrying on his back. He told me that the tiny cheeky mites hitch a lift on his body because they know he will take them to a supply of food and somewhere where they can also lay their eggs.

      What a strange and wonderful world we live in. And to think, we have grave diggers and body snatchers right on our doorstep!

I left home at fifteen (that is the time when my dear, eccentric father also left to marry for the secone time) but we both went our separate ways and by the time I was twenty three, I had travelled many miles and lived a thousand lives. My footprints are embedded in land across the globe. It is no wonder that my head is spinning with tales to tell.

      For some time, I lived amongst the Makah Indians in the wilds of the Pacific. It was here I fished amongst the great orcas in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Bartering with the Indians became a way of life; a life which I knew was totally illegal. I soon began to change and looked at everything in a completely different way. 

       I played music in mountains more spectacular than those found in Switzerland (though I have been there also and they are indeed magnificent). I have done things perhaps I shouldn’t have done and risked my life a million times. My feet, though small, have worn out many shoes, trekking places less travelled. And my heart is engrained with enough stories to fill a thousand books. It’s no wonder I have little trouble finding tales to write for you on these quiet nights...but I do need to finish my books.      

       Remember, whatever it is you are longing to do you, writing a book, travelling, a different way of cooking, visiting long lost friends, etc, you must find a way to do it! It is as simple as that. You see, it is indeed later than you think!

As I sit by my window and watch a watery moon shine down on another memorable day, I wonder what tale I shall tell you tonight. Shall I talk about the animals that live in our garden for waifs and strays? Or shall I tell you a tale about the characters that live in Gusty Gully? Or perhaps I should just talk to you, as if you were here in the room with me. Now that’s a good idea!

      I shall light the fire and sit in the old armchair besides it. You can sit in the chair opposite me, but be careful not to sit on the cat.

      If you’re in the mood for music, then we could sing-along with the old guitar, leaning against the piano. Or perhaps you would like to listen to some classical music or read poetry from one of the books on the shelf behind you.

      On an evening like this, I like to read Hiawatha, written by Longfellow in 1855. The names of the characters just roll off your tongue, like Gitche Manito, the peace-bringing leader and Mudjekeewis, father of the Four Winds. Then there’s Nokomis, who falls from the moon and becomes Hiawatha’s Grandmother and the book would be nothing without Minnehaha, Hiawatha’s childhood sweetheart.

By the shore of Gitche Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
At the doorway of his wigwam,
In the pleasant Summer morning,
Hiawatha stood and waited.

      Just like Hiawatha, I too, have the need for freedom. Walking barefoot in the rain with my face skyward, is something I have always done since childhood and many moons ago, I too went on a journey and did not return for many moons and many winters. I also stood on the shore and waved at my parting, but no-one waved back, for no-one saw me go!

       So you are still there, sitting in the chair opposite me, the embers are now cold. Take a blanket from the box behind you and place it on your knees and I shall read some more.

"I am weary of your quarrels,
Weary of your wars and bloodshed,
Weary of your prayers for vengeance,
Of your wranglings and dissensions;
All your strength is in your union,
All your danger is in discord;
Therefore be at peace henceforward,
And as brothers live together

Goodnight my friend, remember that it is later than you think!

Cleaning the garden is much more favourable then cleaning the house! But just like the house, I have a habit of changing things around. The garden never seems to look the same one year to the next and quite often, my kind and unassuming husband (a creature of habit) gets quite exasperated with my ‘uplifting’ projects.  But I cannot help myself! I see things quite differently, one season to the next. At this time of year, I always feel like I have a clean slate to work on. So it’s out with a spade, a fork and a pair of wellies. Oh! And a sketch pad too!

     Making a map of the garden is something I have always enjoyed doing. It’s a bit like art work! However, just like a sat nav, my paths around the garden don’t always lead to anywhere in particular. However, I do try to make the journey interesting by adding plants that make me smile or herbs that, when I brush past them, release a smell that can only be described as delightful!

     Earlier, I looked at the compost bins and decided they ought to be moved to an area of the garden where they can’t be seen. However, when I turned to walk back up the garden path, I saw my kind and unassuming husband watching me. He was smiling and shaking his head so I guess I will have to work harder on that one.

      And for those of my readers who would like an update on our home for waifs and strays, here a few. Remember the baby chicks we had last June? Well they are fully grown and chase each other around the garden like excited children. Thankfully, they are both girls, so the village won't be woken up early, at least, for the time being!

      All seems quiet in our log store, where some time ago we found evidence of a polecat or ferret. I guess it’s moved on for the time being, I sigh with relief! And do you remember Miss Broody Pants? Well she is still sitting on an empty nest, wishing and hoping for more young ones. We keep lifting her off and feeding her, but at the first opportunity, she scurries back. ‘You will have to wait until spring,’ I tell her. ‘In fact, we will all have to wait for spring, but meanwhile there’s plenty of work to be done and plenty of mapping before then!’