The Little Things

 

Sarah's story

It’s the little things –

Gladys Grunge had been driving along a country road, a little fast perhaps, and she had knocked down and run over a woman who was carrying a load of sticks on her back.  A lot of people hereabouts heated their houses with wood fires, and you needed small wood and branches to get the fire started.  Unfortunately the woman died, and Gladys Grunge was called in for investigation.  
“I thought she was a tree!”
“You thought she was a tree, so you drove straight into her?  It wasn’t that you hated her guts and held her responsible for your collapsing marriage?”
“You can’t prove that!  And my marriage was not collapsing!”
“It’s not that Carmen Gonzales and your husband were often seen together, especially at the dance saloon on Saturday nights?  That your husband was frequently seen to walk out of the house and slam the door?  That your husband bought a red scarf at the church social that was never seen on you but which Carmen Gonzales was wearing when she died?”
“Pfft!  Those are little things!”
“It’s often the little things that turn into clues to uphold bigger things!  And there are other things that are not so little that I might mention, such as the fact that your husband bought a diamond ring at the jeweller’s, which I don’t see on your finger?”
“He did not!”
“And that he has asked for divorce papers to serve on you.”
“He has not!”
“Mrs Grunge, we have the means of obtaining proof of these things, and when we do, you’d better be prepared to spend a while in jail awaiting your trial.”
The prosecution was able to call in numerous witnesses to make up the case against her.  The town had already made up their minds, and there were many people ready to testify against her for one reason or another.  There were scores of testimonies to her bad character, her aggressive attitudes, the fact that she went to every village council meeting and voted against every proposal to better things, but the prosecution wanted something more concrete, and they got it.  The couple never closed the blinds on their windows so that was easy enough.  One said she had seen them quarrelling many times.  One of the problems was that she smoked like a chimney and he wanted her to stop, but she just blew the smoke into his face.   Another said that on the day before the infamous “accident” someone had seen her slap his face, hard, and he didn’t strike back but just turned around and walked out of the house.  When they asked those who had known Carmen Gonzales they all agreed she was often seen with Bruce Grunge, that she had been rather lonely and sad last year but that lately she had been very happy and joyful, that once someone had left a dead animal, already putrefying, on her doorstep with a note ‘stick to your own kind’ and another time someone had thrown a bottle through her window.  There was little doubt as to the author this time, for there was a note inside  “get your hands off my husband”.
But Gladys Grunge was never condemned by law, never even brought to trial, because one night she was strangled in her bed, most likely by her husband, in that he was never seen afterwards and has never been found since.  The police at first made some efforts to track him down, though the townspeople mostly considered justice had been done and were not particularly helpful.  They finally gave it up as a cold case and eventually the story became old news and will probably remain so, unless thirty years from now some zealous young detective decides to reopen the case.  But even if they do manage to track Bruce down, he’ll probably be dead by then.  I know this because I know where he is and I’ve been writing to him, under an assumed name of course; the poor guy has cancer of the lung.  You might almost say she’s killed them both.
 

Paula’s story

Samantha was feeling really down. She had been feeling especially blue for days. In fact, she was convinced she was severely depressed. This phenomenon happened to her, it seemed, a few times a year. She couldn’t explain it. She couldn’t blame it on the continuous gray, rainy weather, or on work stress, or on her husband’s changing moods, or on her recent seemingly insurmountable disagreement with an old friend.

The one thing that seemed to help when she felt this way was to get out into nature. Living in New York City meant there weren’t too many options, but there was a small park near her apartment, and so she headed there one morning. As she strolled along the path, a woman with a medium-sized dog on a leash walked toward her. The dog, an adorable, fluffy, caramel-colored thing with overgrown brows and big brown eyes, was straining toward Samantha, and as they got closer to each other, the dog excitedly jumped up to meet Sam, gazing at her with adoring eyes. Sam’s mood immediately lifted. It was so strange, like this random dog and she had connected in some mystical way. She smiled for the first time in days, and she bent down to pet the pup and accept his many kisses. Her heart soared, and her smile got wider.

 The dog’s owner chastised her dog: “Sadie, get down! Down, Sadie,” then said apologetically to Samantha, “I’m so sorry. She does that to everyone. She just loves everybody.”

 Samantha petted the fluffy dog one last time, then walked away. The blues descended again like a lightning bolt. Why did she have to say that, Sam wondered. What did she have to make me suddenly and completely feel not so special, after all?

 It’s the little things like that, Samantha thought, that can make or break someone’s day. Or someone’s life.

 And that’s when she had an epiphany: Barely thinking about what she was doing, she walked across the park, looked up on her phone the address of the local animal shelter, and headed the few blocks there, where she adopted her own fluffy little pooch, one that would offer unconditional love, get her out into nature for daily walks, and look at her with adoring eyes.

story It’s the little things by Geraldine   It’s the little things that make you angry, get you in tears, make you laugh, seem so odd, get you going, find you trembling or full of love…. It’s the little things…. Little things like the breadcrumbs Hop on my Thumb scattered behind him so as to find his way back home, but hadn’t been smart enough to think the birds might have been happy to find them…. Little things like not noticing you’re really talking to the woolf, as did Little Red Riding Hood, so happy and thrilled to bring her cakes to her Grand Mother and so confident in life. Little things like starting eating the Spice House as did Hansel and Gretel not imagining it could be a trap a witch had imagined to get her monthly food from. Little things Alice in Wonderland went through just because she eat some cakes… Little things give the peps in life, although you are brought up and told to do big ones, to be the best, to have ambition, to dedicate your life to something big. Let’s take a day : have you noticed at the first light of day, the ultimate star still shining in the sky, the sway of the branches and plants as the wind picks up. Have you ever felt that absolute feeling of gratitude when you dip your first finger in your breakfast boiled egg and swollow your first sip of hot tea, trying to remember the last image of the dream that woke you up twenty minutes earlier. And the day goes by, scattered with all these tiny winy moments of sheer bliss that only last a second or two… A sip of wine or bubbles, a chocolate with your coffee when you take a pause, a glance at some of your flowers or young sprouts in the garden, a music that catches you ear because it reminds you of some childhood forgotten instants, an eye-catch on the bird eating the grains you put out for him in the garden, your dog giving you an unexpected hugh, even if it’s a little slimy…. A drop of rain when it’s needed, a ray of sun that has been missing for some days, a neighbour popping in to give you a couple of eggs, or a quite read near the fireplace. And if you think of it, these little things  probably represent almost 90% of your day and nightime .  It’s an honour to life not te be neglected. And if you have been living with the same guy for over 50 years, you certainly will have noticed that it’s « the little things »  that initiate the « biggest rows » I just love you, little things… You make and made my days and my life….

Patrice's contribution   It begins;  a strand of hair, grey, poking up like a steel wire and then filaments begin to frame your eyes and you think, that's okay, they represent my happy life.   Then, the outline of your piquant chin becomes impressionistly blured, softened as do your hip bones.   A nuisance injury that will not go away that threatens your equilibrium and your doctor suggests more regular visits and when you ask why she smiles, and says, "just age"   Your skin becomes fragile and your arms and legs have inexplicable bruises, dotted across the surface like an abstract landscape and they take longer and longer to heal.   The invisibility that began at 40 begins to reverse but while you can begin to be seen again it is to be offered help with your packages and seats on the metro.   Little things,`But it is always the little things isn't it?

Monica's book club outing

 

Collectors and dealers of Asian art in France (1750-1930)

For those who couldln't make it to our outing in Dijon on the 19th of January, I'm just putting up a few photos for memory.      Also gives some the chance to read stories from our writing group.

55 °

	Paula's story

At 55 degrees latitude south, there exists a whole world that few people know about or understand.  It is the extraordinary world of the albatross.

The albatross is a large, magnificent seabird that is capable of soaring incredible distances without rest.  Long viewed with superstitious awe by sailors — haven’t we all read Samuel Coleridge’s poem, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner? — these birds spend most of their lives in the air, gliding over the open Southern Ocean. 

 Most people around the world have never caught even a glimpse of these unusual birds, because when the albatross does visit dry land, it often is on Campbell Island, a remote, uninhabited place south of the South Island of New Zealand, in the Southern Ocean. The birds come here to breed year after year, free from predators, before going back out to sea. On New Zealand’s South Island itself, a smaller colony of albatrosses started a breeding colony when one albatross couple got lost by accident on their way to Campbell Island, and others soon followed. The colony sits on a forbidding, windy promontory maintained by the country’s national park service, where the staff protects them from predators, and where a colony of Royal albatrosses returns year after year to lay and nurture their eggs.

By the way, albatrosses mate for life. They form a long-term bond with one partner, and usually the only thing that can separate them is death.  Yet, they spend limited time together, meeting up only briefly once a year at their annual breeding grounds until their one egg for that year is laid. They then take turns incubating the egg and foraging for food. Eventually, both birds must search for food to keep their growing chick fed. Once their chick leaves the nest, the parents separate for the rest of the year, flying alone out to sea, and reuniting only when it's time to breed again.

Once a young albatross leaves its nest, at about 165 days, it may spend a year or more at sea without touching down on land. Because of the risk of shark attacks, they touch down in the water only briefly, to feed.

And about that feeding: The albatross has an amazing sense of smell, and can smell food in the water from up to 20 kilometers away. But following a scent trail on the open ocean isn’t easy. In 2008, researchers fitted 19 wandering albatrosses with GPS sensors and found that they often approach food by flying upwind in a zigzag pattern, which seems to improve their chances of tracing an intermittent odor plume to its source. And how is it that they can fly upwind so easily?

 

The wingspan of a wandering albatross measures up to four meters across, which makes it the largest bird on Earth in terms of wingspan. The albatross can soar 800 kilometers in a day, and can maintain speeds of nearly 130 kilometers per hour for eight hours straight without ever having to flap its wings. Part of the secret is locking joints, which let the birds keep its wings extended for long periods with no energy cost from its muscles. In addition, the birds have mastered something called dynamic soaring, which means they can fly along a continuously curved path in a way that takes energy from the wind, giving them, basically, an unlimited external energy source.

 

Albatrosses can be found in the Southern Ocean and the North Pacific. They prefer Antarctic, sub-Antarctic, and sub-tropical waters. They primarily are found in the Southern Hemisphere with a few exceptions, such as a colony that returns every year to Oahu, in Hawaii. The albatrosses that breed in New Zealand often cross the planet to feed at the tip of South America, at 55 degrees latitude south.

 

Albatrosses live long lives. They can survive for many decades, some well beyond 50 years. The best-known example is a bird first banded by scientists at Midway Atoll in 1956, and named Wisdom by the researchers. Wisdom continued returning to Midway for more than 50 years, raising about 3 dozen chicks during her life. At 70, she was still breeding.

 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner goes on for days, as you probably know, but I’ll end with a very abbreviated few verses taken from different parts of the poem.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks 

Had I from old and young! 

Instead of the cross, the Albatross 

About my neck was hung.

           *****

The self-same moment I could pray; 

And from my neck so free 

The Albatross fell off, and sank 

Like lead into the sea.

           *****

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 

To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! 

He prayeth well, who loveth well 

Both man and bird and beast. 

 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 

All things both great and small; 

For the dear God who loveth us, 

He made and loveth all.

_________________________________

Jackie

The villagers in Viserny, a small village in Burgundy, woke one morning to the sound of tractors, cranes and electric saws

Alarmed, they gathered together and walked up the hill to see what was causing this noise.   To their horror, trees had been cut, paths excavated leaving great tire imprints creating troughs of mud making it impossible to walk.    Someone had been clearing the land cutting trees and plants directly behind their precious natural spring.   The land had been sold to a Belgian company for wood.

There was never a water shortage even on the hottest days of summer, even during the drought of 1976 which caused hundreds of skeleton like cattle lowing in their fields.

The natural spring was located on a hill just above the small town.    For centuries water has gushed out of the ground into the well providing  the whole village with delicious fresh water and never the need to buy bottles.

Every morning Michel trundled up the hill to inspect the spring  with his thermometer .

55 degrees was the perfect water temperature keeping bacteria at bay .  Drinking this water gave the villagers a rosy complexion and no one ever had any problems with sciatica or arthritis.       The doctors in the big town nearby had no patients from this village and most people had never been to the local hospital and some didn’t even know where it was .

That particular year Mme Barnier  started to get peculiar aches and pains in her joints groaning each time she got up from her chair – 88 year old Raymond Berthier had a strange soreness in his stomach and admitted that he should go see a doctor for the first time in his life.   Jojo had an argument with next door, became aggressive and tried to shoot his neighbor.

The newly weds Tim and Julia argued all day long – slept apart and generally started to hate each other .    The children in the village school became unruly, distracted and uncontrollable – lessons had to be stopped.    The teacher abandoned the class .    Nobody turned up to the few gatherings planned and generally a very morose atmosphere hung over the village.    Something was amiss.

Michel went as usual to check on the spring waters.   He first took a sample and was horrified to discover that there were bacteria in his pipette – then he took the temperature of the water and discovered that it was above normal, well above normal in fact 60° instead of 55°.  Just a few degrees more changed the nature of the water from transparent to yellow

What has happened to our water the villagers cried -     and realized that the destruction of the trees was causing havoc to their precious spring.

Armed with axes, screwdrivers, knives and even scissors  they descended on the tractors and vehicles left overnight and dismantled engines, cut tires rendering them useless.   They worked all night and the following morning the Belgian workmen unable to cut down any more trees limped dejectedly out of the village and were never seen again.   New trees were planted and grew the water gradually descended to its normal temperature of 55° and bacteria disappeared,  villagers enjoyed health and happiness once again.

I’m not suggesting that we should take things this far when we have a case of environmental destruction, as we could rapidly all find us in prison.     But, this is just a reminder that we can act and should act accordingly trying our best to save our forests and our planet.

 

_______________________________________________________________

Sarah's post

55° 3  –  Christmas party
(02.12.2023)

The Christmas party at the firm has never been one of my favourite events.  Some of the staff put up what they esteem to be attractive decorations, destined to make us all feel cheerful.  They serve a small assortment of things that pass for food and there’s an open bar.  And they get in a small band that plays a variety of dance music interspersed with Christmas carols.  Maybe it gets more lively if you stay long enough.  But for the time I usually stay, there are only a few couples out on the dance floor, plus a few of the single female staff, and most everybody else is just hanging around the bar.  They call me the Lone Ranger, but I don’t mind.  That’s the way I’ve always been.  Besides, I’m a little too old for all that; I’d rather be at home in my armchair with my pipe, listening to Schubert.  At these company socials, there’s no Schubert and you can’t smoke.  But the fête can be helpful to some people.
For instance, last year I was sitting there, nursing my drink and trying to calculate how much longer I had to stay before I could decently leave, when a young co-worker from the meteorology department came and sat down next to me.  
“Ho!  Something not right, Greg?” I asked, at the sight of his woebegone countenance.
He just nodded, but appeared even more dejected than before.  I looked round the room, and a little further off I spied a colleague on whom, I was pretty sure, my friend Greg had a crush.
“Say,” I said.  “There’s Sharon sitting over there, and all you fellows are neglecting the women.  Why don’t you go over and speak to her.”
“I have.”
“Don’t tell me she didn’t respond.”
He looked wretched, but he consented to explain though it was clearly torture to him.
“I went over and tapped her on the shoulder.  She turned round and gave me such a smile I was thrown for a loop.  All I could think to say was, ‘You’re sitting on my coat.’  Which she was, by the way.  Just like that her expression changed.  ‘By all means, take your coat,’ she said, moving over, and her smile had gone to about 55°.”
“Fahrenheit or Celsius?” I asked trying to lighten the atmosphere.
“Fahrenheit of course.  Not exactly frosty, but like the hostess who says ‘How delightful to see you’ when you can tell she’d rather you hadn’t come.  I’ve blown it, totally.”
“Hmm,” I said.  “I’d suggest you go right back there, put your coat down again where you picked it up, and when she looks at you again, as she will, you give her a smile of 55° Celsius and you ask her to dance.”
“I can’t dance,” he said.  “I don’t know any of these new dances, only the waltz I learnt when I was ten and my mother forced me to go to dancing lessons.”
And the next number, which started at that very moment, was as it happened, a waltz.
He looked at me doubtfully, so I just pushed him in the right direction and turned my back on him, so as not to give him a chance to protest or make him feel he was watched.  When I glanced back a few minutes later, I saw the two of the moving awkwardly to the rhythm of the music.  But as I continued to look, their  movements grew more and more fluid and relaxed, and soon they swirled gracefully out of sight.
I turned away again, but I suddenly felt rather jolly.  Not to spoil things, I downed the rest of my Scotch and left the party before my mood changed again.
This year I’m almost looking forward to the Christmas festivities.  Greg stopped by my desk the other day and said he and Sharon were having a few friends in after the party, and would I come?
“Don’t worry,” he said, “we’ll leave early.”  Such tact!  He knows me well.            + 675 wds

 

If I were a man

If I Were a Man by Annemarie

 

If I were  a man I’d have  first been a boy ,

With football and cricket, air guns and toys.

Teenager days I would be croaking and squeaking

With  baffling bulges happening below.

My feet would be smelly, and a beard I’d grow.

 

If I were a man I could pump iron each day

Have a laudable six-pack, a chest to display,

Wear budgie smugglers down on the beach.

My teeth would be straightened and whitened with bleach.

I’d drive a Ferrari and attract all the girls.

 

If I were man with a wife and a family

I could do all the shopping in Lidl or Aldi;

There’s the wonderful aisle right in the middle,

Full of those items, essential and handy

So I suddenly realise ‘they’re just what I need!'

 

 I’d wear baggy shorts and a horrible vest;

Hairs would be  sprouting from my nose and my chest;

I'd sit on the couch with my big beer belly

With packets of crisps, watching the telly.

I’d shout at the match while slurping my beers.

 

Of the males above I would elect none of these.

Today we can be any gender we please.

 Captains of industry or leaders of states

Women  can do whatever men can…

….Except pee in a bottle?

 

But if I were a man none of this would you hear;

No eating fine food, no champagne or good cheer;

No books to discuss, no stories to share;

Let’s face it ladies, I just wouldn’t be here

As men are not welcome in our feminine lair.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Jackie

If I were a man I would make a plan

To drive a van?

With a girl called Ann

I would become a jazzman, clergyman or fisherman

Buy a frying pan in Kazakhstan

 

If I were a man

I could become a businessman

Make a masterplan

Drive a sedan like a madman

Say hello to Peterpan

 

If I were a man

I could get a suntan in Afghanistan

Wear a kaftan

Go to Hindustan

 

But man to man

I would most like to go to Japan

Maybe in a catamaran

Walk the streets that are spick and span

 

But as I said to the milkman

All this is beyond my attention span

I’ll be the middleman

And have fun as a ladiesman

-----------------------------------------------

Geraldine's story

IF I WERE A MAN

 

 

If I were a man, I think I would look at women differently : not just according to their appareance, the way they dress, their looks, their figure, but maybe to find out what they have inside and I could well be surprised.

If I were a man, maybe I would be pleasently surprised by what I would find, this means leaving my masculine culture behind and entering a new world.  But how could I leave all those centuries of masculine domination behind without having intense feelings  of loss ?  I would try and work and find out about how this domination took over, beyond just the physical strenght there is between us.

This could be an excellent arena for action, correlated with environmental protection for the following decades and before it’s too late.

If I were a man, I would think twice about engaging wars in which our children would have to be involved.  I would try to truly understand mother’s reactions to the loss of children they have brought into the world.

If I were a man, I would be very receptive to the reaction women have just had in Island when they recently went on strike, including the Prime Minister to require at last  equal pay between men and women.

If I were a man, I would try and find out how I could really and efficiently take my part of the mental load involved in childcare and housecare.  Maybe by switching roles for a couple of months, which could probably help me realizing all I never thought about around these chores !

If I were a man with daughters, I would definitly make sure I’m bringing them up as I would boys, never making them feel they could be « behind » « weaker » « diminished » or « just girls » « only girls » !

If I were a man, I would NEVER interfere or take part in decisions concerning nothing but the woman’s body : abortion, painful periods, but also what to look like, how to dress etc…

 

 

But fortunately I’m not a man and as we, women, mainly occidental ones, have already recently made steps towards our emancipation, I shall continue talking to men, convincing them that the path they have been on for so many years has to change, and trying to help them do so.

And dreaming of emancipation for all the woman who are still so far from it, supporting them and helping make steps towards it.

---------------------------------------------------------

Sarah's story

If I were a man – 1 revised4
(27.10.2023)

“If I were a man,” said Zera, “I would have one of those things hanging down in front.  Yuck!”
“Well, being a woman you’ve got two things hanging down in front,” countered Maya.
“Speak for yourself!  My boobs are still firm.  They stick right out.”
And this was patently true, as they could both see, even if it was also true that Maya, though more rounded than her chum, and with heavier breasts, was still quite firm herself.  But adolescents will parry and thrust, especially when they have nothing else to do, as was the case this warm November morning.
“I love November!” said Maya, caressing her skin which was soaking in the oblique rays of the sun.
“You know, in the old days,” mused Zera, “November was a cold month, people didn’t like it.”
“I know.  And now it’s our best month; so much better than summer!  We can stay outside nearly all day long.  Though the days are shorter, of course.”
“What’s the point of long days if you never see the sun?  I get so bored underground, living by artificial light, though we hardly have that any more, now that there’s no electricity.  November is so much nicer!”
“Yes, but in those days, they didn’t like it, they stayed indoors and made a fire.”
“No, they didn’t.  They had central heating.”
“What’s that?”
“Something that came from petroleum, and you didn’t have to make a fire to keep warm.”
“What’s petroleum?”
“You never heard of petroleum?  That was something essential in the old days.  People couldn’t live without it.  They used it to run their cars, and don’t tell me you don’t know what cars were, they used it for heating, they used it to make plastics—“
“I know what plastics are.”
“Yeah, there are still some of those around.  But people didn’t hoard them like treasures in the old days.  Plastic objects were cheap then and they threw them away constantly.  That’s how we are still able to find some in the excavations.  But that’s not the only thing they made with petroleum; they made the cloth for people’s clothes.  You do know that people used to wear something they called clothes?”
“Yes, I know.  But I thought they made them out of animal skins and plants they spun and wove, like cotton and silk and hemp.”
“That was in our great-great-grandparents’ time, before the animal rights people took over and forbade using anything that came from animals, like fur or leather or wool.”
“You don’t agree?”  Zera sounded shocked.
“Yes, of course.  I respect animals.  But it complicated things.  Not so much at first, that’s why everybody agreed.  People made do, because there was still petroleum in those days.  And they could make nylon and rayon and acrylic fibre.  But when the petroleum ran out, that’s when people went back to weaving natural things, until the heat of the planet made all the cotton plantations dry up and made the silkworms die, and hemp production became impossible because it used so much water, and so on.”
“Well anyway, we don’t need clothes any more.”
“True, but the fact is we don’t wear clothes any more by law, by necessity.  It would be wrong, or impossible.  But it’s dog in the manger to say we don’t need them.  I would like to have clothes, I think it’s a fun idea.”
“Maybe.  You could choose what you looked like.  And then too, maybe we wouldn’t have so much hair growing on our bodies.”
“That’s for a fact.  I sure wish we could go back to the old days!”               

"September"

 Geraldine's poem

SEPTEMBER

 

 

Summer melting in September

As autumnal equinox approaches

Winds blow and rains fall

As the days shorten to  equivalent length

As sun dims from bright to pale yellow.

 

September brings harvest days

From vegetables to fruit

From potatoes to pumpkins

Some need canning or freezing

Others straight down the cellar.

 

Grapes are picked to change to juice or wine

Pears and apples get stacked on wooden racks

Peaches and plums undergo transformations

For the long coming  winter chutneys and deserts

Summer is behind and winter is ahead !

 

The rising sun, shines gently through the morning mist

The setting sun plays  with orange or pink cows in the fields

The birds gather to fly to milder shores

The leaves turn gold for their October show

And the first logs glow in the fireplaces.

 

Annemarie's story

September

Valerie put the pleated grey pinafore, the crisp white blouse and French navy cardigan on the chair and kissed her daughter goodnight. Tomorrow, the 3rd September, she would walk her daughter to school for her first day. A special day for her daughter, bittersweet for herself as it brought back long-forgotten memories of her own first day.

  For Valerie school had meant going away from the family for the first time at the age of six. She would not see them again for three months.  Although her life up country had been idyllic it was remote and the thought of meeting so many other children like herself had filled her with eager anticipation. And what about the train journey, her father had said. Two days chugging past wild animals, past lakes and jungles; bunk beds which folded down for the night, and a bag which her mother had filled with tangerines - naartjes she’d called them, a tube of Nestlé's condensed milk, and two bars of Turkish Delight, her favourite sweet. So young she hadn't, couldn’t, imagine three months without seeing them.

  Her excitement was clouded when on the day of departure their nearest neighbour had climbed into the car beside her. As he had business in town her father had offered him a lift. Sandy Wilson, or Mr Wilson as she called him. She still remembered his dark hair, straight dark eyebrows and his pursed round mouth but most of all she remembered the day after her sixth birthday. She had spied him talking to her father and had asked if it was necessary to write him a thank you letter for her present.  Just like the time when he’d seen her playing by herself under the jacaranda tree he said, “just give me a kiss.” She had run away then and had done so again.

   On the big day she recalled getting up very early, her father loading her new school tin trunk with her name stencilled in white across the top, into the boot. Mr Wilson had manoeuvred his big body into the car right next to her;  he had been wearing khaki shorts and khaki shirt, his pink legs close to hers; she had propped her toy gentleman rabbit between them.

   No aircon in those days it had been a long, dusty journey from the lush mountain foothills of the Mountains of the Moon to the bustling town of Kampala and Mr Wilson had kept talking to her about learning maths and geography until she pretended to be asleep. She could still recollect his Scottish burr, his rolling r's, his ruddy face and beetle brows bent towards her. It should have been a special day with her parents; instead she had listened to the murmured talk of the adults and flinched when Mr. Wilson stroked her head or put his hot hand on her knee. He had even joined them for a grownup  lunch at Chez Joseph, and had accompanied them to the railway station - after all, he had said, he was still due a kiss.

   Looking back Valerie was surprised  her parents hadn’t registered her disquietude. Perhaps they’d attributed it to her trepidation about leaving home for the first time.

   At the station children of all ages, dressed in checked blue dresses or shirts and grey shorts milled around their parents, the young ones grasping parental hands. Valerie had been so happy, so relieved, to see one of her friends who was also starting school so far away and had dragged her mother to follow them into the same compartment.

   Once there she had remained firmly ensconced in her seat clutching her rabbit. Beside her, still reclining on a bed of white tissue paper lay an exquisite doll, dressed as a Spanish dancer, which her parents had given her. She had stubbornly refused to come out again even to say goodbye to her father because Mr Wilson was still there, still demanding a kiss. She had sobbed as her father came into the compartment to give her a last cuddle before the whistle sounded and the train chugged off with its cargo of children through the African savannah. The worst September of her young life.

 

 

Jackie:   

September

 

Excuse me Sir, 

Yes, Madam,

 

I think you’ve made a mistake with my bill

Oh how is that? I very much doubt it

Lets have a look

 

Well you see,  I received this bill from you dated 09/25/2023

 and I am sorry to tell you that I don’t understand the date of your invoice.   Did you put the month before the day? There are only a maximum of months in a year in my understanding, and here you are exceeding the amount by 13 months of which in fact do not exist.   No calendars in the world have 25 months in a year.    Today is the 25^th of September 2023 and your bill states that it is the 9^th of the 25^h which is ridiculous.  This bill should be  written as 25/09/2023.  

 

No Sir, In America, I might remind you, we write the month first so 09/25/2023 is totally correct.      In America we put the month first so 09 is the month of September of course and 25 is the day. 

 

If you were writing it out in letters in Europe and the rest of the world it would 25^th of September 2023.  25/09/2023 Not the 9^th of the 25^th day.  

Yes Sir, but you see in this country we put the month before the day, it is quite logical you know our very sophisticated computer only understands this and that is the way it is. 

Yes, but I am British you see and I don’t understand your method. Your computer should adjust to all types of people, in fact the rest of the world – those of us coming from another country cannot spend hours trying to work out the date of an invoice.   You must inform your computer person to correct this and then I can pay your bill – maybe giving me a discount too as  it is you who have made a mistake.   Making a mistake on an invoice is

 an official error and I regret to tell you that I cannot pay this bill as it is not conform to the normal.  

 

 

Excuse me Sir, but I have completed the work and now you must pay the bill otherwise…

I have a family to feed and cannot wait to get paid.

 

Yes, but let’s face it, you must admit its weird.   Despite the variety of date formats used around the world, the US is the only country to insist on using month/day/year.  

 

As an American, I've wondered this myself. Here is my thought on why we do it.

Because context is king here. And the month is the most contextual part of the date info, among day, month and year. Here's how I mean.

If I were to give just one part of the date, how much emotion, memory and sense of "what's going on" would each evoke?

The Month/Day/Year format definitely goes back a very, very long way, as you can see by the original Declaration of Independence:

The month-day-year format, or mm/dd/yy matches the way that we verbally cite dates. We rarely say “the ninth of May, twenty-nineteen.” It is far more common for us to recite the date as “May ninth, twenty-nineteen.” If you write down that almost universal (in the US) way of citing the date using numerals instead of words, it is directly rendered as “5/9/2019,” or “05/09/2019” if you insist on using leading zeroes. This way of writing the date out using numerals simply mirrors the way that we verbally cite dates. This style seems natural and intuitive to most Americans.

Clearly Americans prefer things that are irrational, jumbled and confusing

 That is just the way we like it.”