Theme for the story this month was: A Pinch of Salt

Sarah's story:

 A pinch of salt  5  A recipe, rev

 

 

Emma fell for him immediately.  Tall, well-built but slim, dark, no wonder he had the lead role.  But these qualities alone would not have sufficed.  It was his deep bass voice, which not only made him the star of the show but also pierced deep into Emma’s heart.  I suppose one should say, into her entrails, because we all know and admit nowadays that love starts with sex.

To herself, she admitted the crush.  How could she not?  But she hesitated to say she was “in love with him” because she didn’t know him from Adam, in point of fact.  And there was little chance of her meeting him.  The town was big, and she was not a member of that theatre group nor likely to be, as she could neither act nor sing.  But she thought about that production for days, and was on the point of splurging and buying a ticket for the last performance, though she knew that was what silly groupies did.

And then it happened that on the Tuesday of that week, day on which she worked as a volunteer at the Food Distribution Centre after she got off work, she saw him there as well.  Not asking for for food, surely!  No, it seemed he was offering his services.  A one-off?  Or was he to be a permanent member of the team?  She got up her courage and went over to talk to him.

“No, no,” he assured her, it was not just for this evening; he hoped to be able to make it a regular thing.  These times were so difficult for some people.  Her heart beat faster at this proof of his generosity and humanity.  But there was little else to say and much work to be done at the centre.

She wondered if she could invite him to dinner?  What a preposterous idea!  The idea had come out of a memory: her mother’s saying to her that “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”  Her mother, whose family was from the French West Indies, made a certain dish that Emma remembered, though her mother had never made it again after her father had died.  “Too many memories attached,” her mother had said.

This dish was the one, according to Emma’s mother, that had won over Emma’s father, if anyone could believe such a tale.  A “chicken colombo” though not an authentic recipe, her mother had said.  “I simply made up my own version, with the ingredients I had on hand,” she had said.  As Emma remembered, it went like this:

            Cut the chicken into bite-size pieces and brown them slightly in oil.

            Add some finely diced onion and green or red pepper and cook gently till the onion is translucent. 

            Add some sliced carrots, some green marrows, a little garlic and a couple of spoonfuls of colombo (depending on             how hot you want it to be, her mother had said).

            Add chicken bouillon or fond de volaille and water, and simmer for at least half an hour.

            At the end thicken if necessary, add coconut milk (or cream, if you can’t get the former), and serve over rice.

And, as she also remembered, it was delicious.

Inviting a man to dinner, however, was problematic.  In the old days, that might have been a simple way of getting to know someone; you assumed that he didn’t know how to cook, and that you were doing him a friendly favour, and maybe things would go on from there and maybe not.  But nowadays—what man would take such an overture as anything else but an invitation to jump into bed?  And jump out of the next morning to go on his way.  That was not what she had in mind, at least not yet.  She wanted to know him better first.  She felt that something more serious was in the balance.  And so she hesitated.

But she could not help confiding in her best friend.  Candee listened with interest, and said she had seen the show too and agreed that Robbie Chanda was hot stuff.  But she agreed too that inviting him to dinner might be taken as too brash a move, considering how little they knew each other.

Now Candee was not someone who would win the prize as the world’s most loyal friend, and she had the expedient philosophy that all’s fair in love and war, so the next Tuesday she too showed up at the Food Distribution Centre.  As it happened, Emma herself was not able to go that evening, as Candee had reminded her that this was the last evening of the sales and that if she still wanted to get that jacket she had better go now.  Candee also lost no time in inviting Robbie Chanda to dinner, for she had no qualms about being brash.  And she made the chicken colombo recipe, as she remembered it.  Things went as expected, and Candee noted the evening down in her Leporello book, as she called it.  (She had once seen Don Giovanni.)  She didn’t mention the incident to her best friend, however.  Some things are best kept secret.  Then she waited for Robbie Chanda to call her back.

The following Tuesday Emma was back at the centre, but Candee did not appear.  Not that Emma expected any such thing, for she had never heard that her friend had been there the week before.  Robbie Chanda came over to her as they were taking a break.

“Where’s your friend?” he asked.

“Which friend?”

“Isn’t that Candee Jacobs a friend of yours?  I thought she was.”

“She is,” said Emma, astonished.  “But why would she be here?”

Robbie Chanda told her about the preceding week, and how he had looked for her but not found her and someone had said that the girl Candee was a friend of hers.

Emma was pleased a this bit of news, though amazed at her friend’s coming to the centre, and even more at her silence on the matter.  She was, however, taken aback by his next words.

“And you know what?  She even invited me to dinner.  Out of the blue like that.  Said she had a special recipe.  I went, of course.  Partly out of curiosity, and partly because I never turn down a dinner invitation.”

By this time Emma had almost bitten her tongue off.  She was speechless.  He glanced at her, and took on an apologetic tone.

“You’re not upset, are you?”

“Upset?  Why should I be?”  She was embarrassed at her own spluttering.  Why couldn’t she be cool and collected as Candee always was?

“I mean, my sleeping with your friend.”

Emma stared at him.  Had it gone so far as that?  What a quick worker that viper was!

“It didn’t mean anything, you know.  She obviously expected it, so why not?  I’m not tied up with anybody.  At least not yet,” he added as he looked at her, which confused her entirely. 

She recovered enough to ask, “And what was this dish that she concocted for you, if I may ask?”

“A sort of chicken colombo.  It was good, but not exceptional.  And yet, I think it could be made better.”

She nearly strangled on her next words.  “It was my mother’s recipe!’

Robbie Chanda laughed, a hearty bass laugh and her heart flipped over.  Oh, that treacherous Candee!  And now she could never invite Robbie Chanda herself, not after this!

“I’m a pretty good cook,” he said.  “What do you say if I invite myself over and we try to better the recipe together?”

She stared at him again, and only just barely managed to get out whatever words were necessary to agree.

 

So he came over and they made the dish together and it was delicious.  “Why didn’t you like it when … my friend … made it?” Emma asked.

“She obviously forgot an essential element.”

“But I gave her the directions just as my mother gave them to me, and Candee is nothing if not scrupulously accurate in everything she does.  She’s not very original, but she does know how to follow a recipe.”

“Perhaps your mother forgot to tell you something that was obvious to her, and maybe even to you.  A pinch of salt.  That makes all the difference.”

There is no need to go on with this story, which developed very nicely just as the reader may expect.  Whether or not the relation endured, I cannot say, but perhaps it did.  They say too many cooks spoil the broth, but sometimes two good cooks make a fine pair, especially when that is not the only thing that unites them.

 

+ 1450 wds

Annemarie's contribution:

A Pinch of Salt 

 

As they stepped down from the plane a gust of stifling heat met them. Alan wondered why he had agreed to come, particularly as he didn't feel part of the group. But Anna insisted he was included. He privately believed that the grant from the Royal Astronomical Society, which had made possible the young astronomers' visit to the observatory, had been 'influenced' by her father, Professor Bright. Whenever Alan put forward one of his theories to the professor it was as though his words ricocheted back without the professor hearing or he would respond with an offhand gesture and a joke. It certainly was not his hearing; he always seemed to listen intently to the other students and as to the joking Anna said « Oh! It's just his way. You must take it with a pinch of salt.»In fact Alan was often told «to take it with a pinch of salt.Don't take it so seriously. Lighten up! «Well he would see how light this working holiday in the Sierra de San Pedro Martir would be and how seriously his fellow companions took him. Already they had spent had more than eighteen hours together in the confines of the plane with a brief stop in Mexico City, followed by another six hours and more along the coastal road in a bus with narrow upright seats. They had been told there was the possibility of food, drink, WiFi and toilets on board the bus, only one of which proved true - fortunately the toilet, only one of which was working. And that was very smelly and there was no paper! It was an interminable hot, dusty and bumpy ride. Sleep was intermittent, conversation desultory, hunger and thirst preeminent. On reaching the cabins in the National park they dumped their baggage and, exhausted, headed for their beds, the three girls in one cabin, the three guys in the second cabin. No time for anything but along, long sleep. Midday and the sun beat down; underneath a copse of sugar pines, the mountains in the distant view, six dishevelled astronomy students sat outside the cabins discussing the programme for the rest of the week. Apart from the nighttime visits to the observatory where they would be researching and testing their theories they planned on hiking in the park where there were a great variety of mammals: mule deer, bighorn sheep, cougar, bobcat, ringtail cat, coyote. They also hoped to see the many avian species including bald eagles, golden eagles, falcons, woodpecker, black vultures and particularly the condors, which had been re-introduced to the wild in the National Park. Then there was an incredible variety of vegetation, trees and plants. Alan muttered that they hadn’t come all this way to hike in the sweltering heat or to see birds and animals they could see in a zoo back home. After all, this was a chance in a million - a new moon, one of the best observatories for stargazing - so why not spend more time in the observatory where they could meet, discuss and learn from the astronomers who worked there. In unison the others laughingly mocked him;«All work and no play makes Alan a dull boy... oh, Alan we're in Mexico ...fantastic scenery, we'll have to try the food and then there's the Tequila to try, barbecues etc...have some fun, lighten up. Hell, why don't you try a drink for once!»Alan swallowed, his Adam’s apple prominent and the muscle at the side of his mouth twitching. Another dig at him for being teetotal. Well, yes, perhaps he would 'lighten up'.They hiked the pine trails high in the mountains during the day and cooked on wood fires outside the cabins before the evening visits up to the observatory. With the moon a mere super-thin silver crescent the stars were astonishingly clear and after a long discussion with one of the resident astronomers Alan knew he would make the professor listen to his theory once he was back at Warwick university. No more ignoring him or worse still, mocking him in front of the class. The visits to the observatory had exceeded his expectations; he had even learnt something from his forced hikes.On their last evening the guys went off foraging for wood for the fire while the girls prepared tostadas and enchiladas. It was Alan's turn to be barman and while the others sprawled around the fire he cut some limes, placed salt in a small dish and poured a measure from a bottle into six glasses.«I just want to thank you,» said Alan, «for including me on this trip. I know I am often the but of your jokes, that I supposedly take life too seriously but I have learnt a lot from our hikes about the flora and fauna of Mexico and tonight I propose a toast to us all with tequila, made from the blue agave plant. As you know, and you keep telling me, I don't drink but 'enjoy!'as you always say.»He handed round the six glasses, the salt and wedges of lemon to the five of them as they sat round the fire. He watched as they went through the ritual - lick the back of the hand, pinch of salt, swig of tequila, bite of lemon - and he watched again five contorted faces. He added a heap more wood to the fire, this time wood he had collected, and he retreated to his cabin. The extremely bitter and nauseating taste of the sap of the Mexican oleander, well-hidden by the sour lime, made them shake their heads and pucker up their mouths. The fumes of that same oleander reinforced the effect of the sap. Who knew that this so-common shrub harboured such toxicity in its sap, its branches and in its leaves. Drowsiness, dizziness, nausea - he watched from the darkness of the cabin as one by one his five friends toppled over. Slowly a silence fell, heavy like wet autumn leaves on a London pavement Too far, too late to call for hospital help. No more would they call him a nerd. He lay on his back and contemplated the dark Mexican sky peppered with bright stars holding, who knew what, fame for him.

 

Story from Geraldine:

A PINCH OF SALT

 

 

When   George woke up that morning, he felt as if he could have gone  back to sleep for another very long time  but that he would never forget, never, never, the blaze of the previous evening.

He could still feel smoke in his nose, his head was spinning, his eyes were swollen and tearful and he could just about  hear Joan’s faint voice crying out « it’s OK Dad, you’ve made it !  What about having breakfast now, I’m starving ! »

And this little voice pulled him together, his consciousness waking up to his small flat where they were all packed tight, waiting for instructions from the local authorities to what would be their next step.

He sat up in his bed,  his girlfriend Leonie fast asleep next to him , her son Alexander tucked safely under her arm.  And, in the kitchen his 2 other children, also with swollen eyes, waiting to find out what steps to make towards breakfast.

As he opened the door,  he discovered that everywhere was covered in cinders, the air was blurred, the outdoor temperature was more than 40°C , so he slamed it  which woke up Leonie and Alexander still fast asleep.

Dad, why did you come back so late last night and why are we all scrambled in here ?  Is it going to be like this during all our holiday ? asked Suzan, his young eleven year old daughter.

Look sweetheart, you’ve been seeing lots of pictures on Television showing how our country is burning and…we had very hard times last night at Leonie’s home where we were staying for New Years Eve, as we were told by the firemen around 11o’clock to get our belongings safe in the cars in order to leave if necessary.  They also suggested that we shouldn’t drink too much, although we were to celebrate a lovely New Year full of hope,joy and hapiness !

So what happened then, asked David, his thirteen year old son ?

Well my boy, we did what they asked us to do and went around the farm to see if Leonie’s Mum was Ok in her house : it was very hot : the eucalyptus around were on fire and the strong wind was blazing towards us, so we got quite nervous : this New Year was looking as if was going to be a nightmare. Nevertheless, we celebrated at midnight with a little toast to the future, and went to bed to try and get some sleep : it could be necessary for the coming hours said the firemen who had their hoses out and were fighting the flames.

And did you sleep, were you frightened,  asked Joan, his eldest daughter ?

Well, we didn’t get much sleep but we tryed to rest a bit.  The firemen were at work, asking us to get out of their way so they could try and do the job.  It was so terribly hot too…  So we took a few showers and had a laydown.

Then, everything went very quickly : Leonie’s Mum was evacuated as it was getting too hot and we were told that the flames were starting to lick our house, so we grabbed Alexander, ran towards the car and got started : yes I was frightened : the three of us had to get out of here as quickly as possible, the heat was intense, the smoke was thick, making my head spin and I had to keep control on what I was doing : rescuing us and getting onto the main road before we would get trapped !  It needed an enormous amount of concentration and energy, so yes, I was frightened, but I didn’t have time to give in to it.

But why did you get here so late then ?  Well, because we started driving down along the coast, but there were huge traffic-jams all the way down, because the Authorities told all the people on holiday to move back to their homes  immediately before they would get surrounded by the forest fires and so everybody was on the roads….  And the smoke was just terrible : we had our headlights on all the time, tried to get some air to breathe and had to stop from time to time because of the headache that was creeping up my temples and to get a bit of food and drink for us all…. And empty our bladderes !  Smiles…

 

And now, lets get some breakfast on.  We all need to  support each other for the next few days : Leonie was given bad news on her mobile : her house has burnt down to the ground… so she and Alexander are now homeless and going to be staying with us for a while.  Let’s try and make the place as confortable as we can and be nice to each other. 

We are only allowed out to do our shopping as quickly as possible and if things get worse around here, we will be evacuated by sea by the Army.  So, listen carefully :  the meeting point on the beach is beside the children’s playground : it’s covered with a thick 10 centimeter ash carpet which means you have to have good shoes on, just in case.  So whatever happens, we all stay together all the time and behave as responsible people : do you understand ?

Yes Dad, yes we do.  What about  some cereal and eggs and bacon for us all ?  I’ll take the order : how many eggs ?

Thank you sweatheart.  That’ll be great.

And turning towards Leonie, George said in a whisper « It’s good they are taking it with a pinch of salt, but it was really the worst chapter in my life I could ever imagine ».  Love you.

 

 

Story to be written with these five words: Writing, sex, joy, house, spade, ventilator , rainbow

Jackie:

 

Spade

Writing

Sex

Rainbow

Ventilator

House

Joy             

 

The ventilator wacked the air around the small space of her studio apartment.  It sounded like the engine of a ocean liner, creating a warmish breeze and shifting stifling air in this very compressed apartement on the 6^th floor townhouse from one end to the other.  

 

Squashed between two joyless buildings from the 60’s the tiny house on Albany street in Manhattan had survived many a turmoil   When the twin towers collapsed in September 11^th 2001 the dust created by the collapse of these buildings lay thick on carpeted floors, furniture and even among kitchen utensils and continued to fall over the weeks and months following the attack.   You almost needed a spade to clear away the debris.     On that fateful day she had cowered for hours under her kitchen table listening to the screams and sirens outside hearing people run breathless and panicking in front of her house that was situated just a block from the disaster.     

Apart from the dust there were millions of papers floating around in the air.   Papers from the offices on the 33 floors of the two buildings – most of them were torn into tiny shreds by the explosion, crumpled and burnt.   The cinders fell incessantly onto the pavement and reminded her of popping popcorn in her microwave.     Incredible as it seemed she picked up a sheaf of correspondence protected by a leather attaché case that had miraculously survived that had been blown inside her doorway.     Inside were several letters hadn’t been posted.    One of them was addressed to a certain Susan.   “ Sex has never been so good as when we were together – I beg of you Susan darling to reconsider my offer of 1000$ of spending money a month, our own studio apartment in Manhattan, a chauffeur driven car at your disposal and a permanent account at Tiffany’s and Bergman Goodman to spend as you wish.       I am writing this in my office on the 33^rd floor of these towers it is 8 o’clock in the morning and life has become unbearable at home.   Since my wife turned 50 she has become frumpy and dull. As she is in her menopause sex is tabou;   You will become my rainbow in a darkened marriage.  I shall tell my wife tomorrow that I’m going to leave her and we shall live happily ever after.   The  letter heading was of a well known accountancy firm Jim Carey and Associates 33^rd floor,  twin towers.    The letter was signed “your Jim”.  

After a little research she found out that Jim had died in the disaster but his widow lived within train distance and so she paid her a visit.

Mrs Carey lived in a non descript house in NY suburb – rubbed her flour clad hands on her apron as she opened the door.   A delicious smell of freshly baked bread wafted her way –    a motherly lady sweetly reminded her of her grandmother.

It remained a mystery as to why Jim who could afford 1000$ to his mistress in Manhattan lived in this shabby area of New York and was about to leave his wife.  

 

She accepted the offer of coffee and sat down to get to know her better –my late husband was a clerk in Manhattan she said I don’t remember the name of his firm where he worked but he was killed in  her name she told her was Maureen and yours?

“Susan” she replied crumpling up the letter that was hidden in her pocket.   “Its nice to meet you”.

 

 

 

Annemarie's contribution:

 

“Well good morning Prime Minister Johansson. I am so honoured to be back in this little old country. The last time i came I rode in the state carriage alongside her majesty, a wonderful, a truly wonderful little woman. We just have the limousine this time.“ “ Yes.. well..er ...erm that was a state visit. And er ...erm...today it's a ...a private visit between the two of us... And er-, erm.. why don't you call me Boris. After all we will be doing business together. I had thought of writing but I know it's not your forte.“No, golf is more my sport; I don't do the pianoforte. Out on the course whenever there's a problem - the bigger the crisis the more on the course. Now, when you said 'discuss the crown disease I thought you meant Prince Andrew.””“No, Mr President, I merely translated from the Latin - coronavirus - the crown disease - to avoid it being leaked and turned into your fake news. I often speak to the people in Latin. Very few understand and those who don't, well they vote for me. We will go to London to discuss political matters, chickens etc. how we can advise the rest of the world how to deal with this er...., erm... sniffle of an illness. This is a very private visit which is why we are in disguise. The black mask suits you - you look like the Lone Ranger.”“Yes I do look good, good enough to win another election. But then I always said we should wear a mask when I do. And you in the blue because you are conservative? With all this fake news about the Russians helping my last election I will need you support me?”“Well, the masks er...erm... these are the disposable masks (bought from Turkey) and we did have to dispose of all of them and the rest of the medical protection stuff as they were faulty. Which is why I told the country there was really no need to wear them; and the black bin bags didn't show the dirt so saved money there! Now look to your left and you will see Windsor Castle, one of our Queen's residences,” said Boris.“Well it certainly looks good and old but why build it so near the airport?”Boris, apparently, does not hear the question.“ Now, Doris, we are going to do a lot of good stuff, a lot of good, good stuff - tell your good people if bleach is good enough for the chickens we will be sending to your little England - a good, very good little place, -it must be good enough for us. An injection for each of us will stop us getting Kung-flu and keep our countries working. And if we buy your National Health we can supply you with all the masks we did not wear.”“ Mr President...”“Doris, call me Donald. I can see we are going to be very good, very good friends. ““Donald,I keep telling my voters we have trade agreements with America, that we are oven-ready to go...“ “So you will need our chickens.. “ says Donald“Our Brexit negotiations with Europe are getting along fine - just a few problems with borders..” mumbled Boris.“ Just build a wall...I’m telling you...that's what I’m doing - the biggest, strongest wall, a wall tested by mountaineers, a wall to rival the wall of Kungfluland. Of course I would have had pools with crocodiles along the length and spikes on the tops of the wall. These people are bringing drugs. They're bringing crime. They're rapists. And some I assume are good people. I call a spade a spade and they call me a rapist- I mean a racist; so you, Doris what do you think?”“Pica-ninnies with watermelon mouths, Muslim women in burkas looking like letterboxes,” thinks Boris but thinks it to himself. After all America is his only chance and he still owes a lifetime of taxes there. “Well, er-, erm, er- in South Africa...” he stutters only to have Donald ask:“Do we want a rainbow nation? Why is the home of the President of this great nation called 'the White House' if it's not meant for white folks to rule? Build a wall, a great big wall! Now what about this trade deal - what is wrong with geren -, geneol-, generally modicum crops? Bigger, better crops just like our women - generally, genetically modic...,modified women. Boris wishes he were conversing in Latin. He looks at the orange man with the carefully coiffured cockatoo hair who wants a white America and wonders ‘ quam in terris’ this posturing man ever became leader of the western world.“Talking of women you have had a good, good time. How many children now ?” asks Donald.“Er, erm... they say at least 6 but er, erm it may be 16. Jolly good, hey? You had your golf course and I was laid low in the bedroom during the peak of the coronavirus. The joy of sex!”

 

The President looks at the red-faced man in the scruffy suit , shirt hanging out, tie a-squiff and a tousled thatch of white blonde hair newly ruffled as though he has just gotten out of bed and he wonders how in God's world half of Britainland voted for him.“Tell me, Doris, when you phoned me for ventilators was that for crownflu disease or to recover from exertions... I mean exercises in the bedroom?” asked the President.Boris turned a little redder, Donald was still orange except where a gust of air lifted his carefully coiffured fringe to reveal skin as white as chlorine bleached chicken skin.

Geraldine's contribution:

 

SPADE – WRITING – SEX – RAINBOW – VENTILATOR – HOUSE – JOY

 

Sarah and James used to love spending a month or so, in the middle of the summer high up in the Alps.  There was this spot situated almost at the limit between the larches and the grazing spot for the mountain cows.

 

They used to leave the city with the boot packed with fresh food, hot clothes, mountain sticks, hats, sunscreen and glasses, hicking shoes and what have you, all shoved in bagpacks (except for the shoes that they would change into ) because once they would reach the pass, they would have to leave the car there, and with their bags on their backs,  walk for an hour or so, down to the little house – well it’s more like a chalet- where they longed, year after year, for the peace, joy and regeneration that would help them get through to the next one!

 

After reaching the spot, what fun to hear the helicopter and assist it in receptioning the goods they had ordered : loads of canned food, potatoes, lentils, rice, pasta, sardines, tuna fish , gas bottles, wine, beer, sugar,, flour, tools for the garden such as a chain-saw, a water can, a few spades, a rake  etc… They would be delivered in a special net and Sarah and James would carefully unload them in the storm made by the helicoper blades and then move back to let it go and deliver elswhere in the pastures.

That’s when the holidays began !  Getting up early in the morning hoping to see, either a few marmots whisteling to each other, or a little herd of chamois runing fast  and sometimes, if you  were lucky, looking high enough up in the deep blue sky, a royal eagle soaring.

 

The flowers were deep bright blues, reds or yellows small but strong on their stems.  There was a little lake surrounded by wild azalea and full of little frogs and other batrachian. 

 

And then, all along the summer holidays, friends with children and/or dogs would comme visiting them, bringing fresh food from the valley that would be kept in tupperware boxes, in the torrents to keep fresh, covered with big heavy stones to keep them away from the sun : the perfect fridge !

 

One day, Sarah decided to go for a walk with Chloe and Helen, both teenagers that had joined them.

The weather was strange, heavy, uncertain and storms had been announced, but in the mountains, you never know   if they will  burst in the morning, in the afternoon or during the night, or not at all.  They had been probing the sky for a while after lunch, and then, after a lot of hesitation, had decided to set off around 4 p.m. : they were to climb behind the chalet to a refuge that was about one hour from there.  They started at the slow pace that you take when you are winding up the small paths trying to keep in rythm.  The 2 girls were chatting and giggling and happy.

About half way up, the clouds started darkening and taking over the blue sky.  Then, far away rumblings were heard and the wind started blowing.  Within minutes the whole landscape had changed from brightness to darkness and Chloe and Helen stopped joking and hasted their steps to the top, as quickly as they could walk…  Anxiety had taken over and Sarah could feel that they were afraid.  The rambling amplified, the sky darkened even more… By this time, the refuge wasn’t very far and could be seen in the distance, which helped hasting and quickening their pace.  And finally, the little group reached the refuge where a lot of other people had taken shelter.  But it still wasn’t raining yet : far in the distance you could guess there was a faint rainbow.

It was terribly hot, although the ventilators were on at high speed trying to cool the stormy atmosphere. The bar was open, so the 3 friends had a drink and everybody was discussing wether to continue their hike or wait a bit longer… A few hikers were writing postcards with the view from the refuge clearly showing what an achievement it was to have climbed right up there. 

The storm was still around, but seemed to vanish slowly. « Shall we stay or shall we leave : we’ll be back to the chalet within around 40 minutes… It should be OK now.  We’ll try and walk briskly and we should make it » said Sarah.

 

So off they left and started hiking down, but after just a few minutes, a huge gust of wind came at such a terrific speed that they started running, running, running and then, the rain just burst and it seemed they had just had a pail of water thrown at their heads ! Fortunately, just a little further, they came accross a few ruins of what had probably been lamb sheds and they sheltered from the rain and gales : the lightenings and thunderstorms were terrifying and by this time, the 2 adolescents were shaking and trembling so hard that Sarah started feeling quite guilty : had she taken the right decision ?  In any case, it was too late now…The adventure was more than half way through and had to come to an end !

 

After some time that felt like hours, but probably didn’t exceed ½ an hour, the rain stopped as quickly as it had started, the sun shon brightly and the sky seemed even a darker blue than ever.

There were loads of snails all over, mainly 2 by 2 climbing upon each other !  Were they having sex ?  wondered Helen who knew something about them being hermaphrodite, but had never seen such a site…

They left the shelter and started running down hill as quickly as they could in the slippery wet grass, trying not to fall but hoping they would get back home before the next storm would hit them.

But there was no more storm to come.  They just learned, from this experience, that when you turn your head around when in the mountains, the landscape can change in seconds, the sun, clouds and shades can move with  an incredible  intensity, the wind can turn wild, the clouds can burst , you can feel lost, frozen and petrified but that you are so close to the sky, that spirituality is never far.

 

 

 

After the rain ...

From Monica

After the rain.

Magical things happen after the rain even in our own garden's sometimes, what i think looks dead and wilting comes to life again after the rain stands straight and tall and  flowers again, no were is the magic quite as remarkable then in the deserts.

The Ataccama desert is one magical place after the rains, over 200 desert plants suddenly germinate creating a blanket of colour all colours of the rainbow it is a rare phenomenon, itis known as the Floway desert and is one of the direst deserts on earth .

Th sahara Arabic desert is the worlds largest and one of the dresiest covering the same size as America, it gets very little rain fall so doest prouduce the wow factor of rainbow filled flowers, what it does produce are plants called Poach Egg Plants.

Arabian desert after rain produces purple flowers and green grasses sometimes this desert gets weeks of rain not often, but after a rain spell the desert turns green.

Thaw desert the eastern side of the of the Sahara Desert which is the dryest hottest and sunniest place on Earth it gets very little rain fall, so the magic doest happen here after a few drops of rain very few flowers or green appear .

The nearest I have been to see this magic after rain is in Ireland it is so green called the Emerald Isle it really  lives up to its name, the green is just amazing in Ireland, the flowers trees and fields such a soft velvet green.

Monica Brennan

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Geraldine's story:
AFTER THE RAIN



In the middle of a huge, dense and thick   forest, Jules et Jim lay deep underground, waking up from a long winter sleep and wondering when it would be time to go out for a walk.

-        What do you think it looks like up there, Jim ?  Do you think the leaves are out on the trees yet ?  It’s so dark in here, I want to get out now !
-        Well, Jules, you know we have to wait for the weather to warm up and it’s still damned cold down here.  Maybe we should go for another long sleep, and wait for the signs of spring to appear : when we wake up,  we will go and investigate outside and we’ll know better.

And so Jules et Jim settled back into their hole for another long long night, full of lovely dreams with the occasional nightmare waking them up in the night , but then, down there, it was night all the time…
And then, one day they woke up and knew somehow, it was the great day !  The earth around them was like muddy and there was like a slight glimmer that they started to try and reach… It took them right up and all of a sudden, there they were, out in the world…

-        Look ! cried Jules !  What a fantastic place… Let’s go and explore…
     Yes, answered Jim : it’s exactly as my Mum told me.  The green little strings are called grass and the larger green dishes are leaves : when they are wet, they are so confortable to sit on or to slither along.  And you see these very tall plants with such a wonderful smell, these are the stinging nettles that all our fellowships have told us about : if you stroll along their stems, humans will not try to catch you, for they get very badly stung when they touch them, so it’s a good place to go for a walk…

And so, off they went along the small path in the forest, stopping from time to time on heaps of cut grass and meeting friends who were also out for a stroll.

Without really noticing, they had walked for a while and  were already quite far from home.  All of a sudden, the sky became very very dark, the wind started blowing strongly , the leaves were shaking on the trees and a cloud burst just over their two little heads : they immediately shrunk and sheltered into their shells.

-        What’s going on out there, it rumbles so hard said Jules with a tiny trembling voice !

-                I think this is a storm : let’s just not move for the moment and wait untill all seems calmer…
      So, Jules et Jim ducked their heads : they could hear the noise, on their shells, made by huge hailstones that bounced and bounced and they felt very very frightened by rumblings and lightenings.  They suspended their breaths and stayed close to each other waiting for all this to come to an end.    After some time that felt like ages, the noise lowered,  the rumbling seemed to ward off and they felt that they could try and give the outside world a glance again.



-        What on earth was all this ?  cried Jim.  How terrifying !



-        I think that’s what humans call a storm !  It’s still raining a bit.  Oh ! Look over there, what a fantastic rainbow !  This often appears after the rain…when you look at the darkest part of the sky !



-        Would you say the danger is behind us ?  Maybe it’s time to start walking back home…I think it’s quite a long way now.


The rain had really got every bit of grass, earth or leave soaked.  But it was rather fun to walk around. They both poked their little eyes as far as they could out of their heads and started turning back to go home.  Beside the grass, in the ditches, were these large nettles they had already come accross on their way down.


All of a sudden, they felt vibrations on the ground and heard some voices : there was an elderly lady with a big taft of white hair hanging on her shoulders , walking along the path : she wore blue jeans, big brown shoes and  toc – toc – toc came the noise from the stick that helped her keep her balance.  She was holding hands with a young girl – that looked like her grand’child – with lovely dark brown hair, green eyes and a very smooth carnation, holding a large plastic bag, that seemed already quite full..

-        Granny, granny, lift the nettles with your stick : the snails love climbing up nettles !  And so, the lady started bashing the nettles with her stick : « here’s one ! pic it up quickly and put it in your bag !  And another one ! And look, 2 over there… Oh ! How wonderful to go out hunting snails after the rain : there are so many of them around.  If we manage to get 120 , then that means we’ve got enough from grandpapa’s birthday next week : a dozen each for us and our 8 guests : that’s great !

They  were getting closer and closer to Jules et Jim who were still slithering on the grass towards home.  When they caught up with them, the young girl shouted « and another 2 here Granny, oh ! but they are so small ! »  Well, you know, we shouldn’t take these yet : they will have to grow older and bigger – maybe next year !  Young snails are protected by law : « they need to grow to a certain size before you can pick them up, otherwise, we might extinct the species . OK Granny, and look, they are so sweet : she put her finger near their eyes and both Jules et Jim retracted into their shell for shelter.  Then they moved on toc – toc – toc went the stick.

 And ever since then Jules et Jim lived a very happy and long life, and because they knew that « after the rain » was the best time for hunting snails, they always hid far behind the nettles when they heard human  voices or sticks crossing their way !



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Paula's story:

After the rain came the howling winds. Those winds shook the three-story concrete newspaper building where we were working, and sheltering, during the storm. The sheer force of the gales shattered a huge floor-to-ceiling window in one of the executive offices, just across the atrium from our newsroom. If you stood in that atrium during the height of the storm, you could listen to the eerie moans and high-pitched shrieks of the winds as they buffeted the building.

In the morning, all was quiet. We had lost power to the building, and indeed the entire city. But, anticipating that, we had set up a generator-powered “bunker” in the photography lab, and editors took turns staffing the bank of computers and cell phones, taking dictation from reporters in the field. During one of my free hours, I took a sandwich and a book into the newsroom conference room, closed the door, and sat alone at the long table, facing the row of windows that looked out onto an elevated highway next to the building. I could see downed power lines, trees snapped at their bases, roadways littered with tree limbs and other debris. But there was no water. The streets were dry.

That evening, after the events of the day had been distilled into a handful of shocking stories, stunning photographs and explanatory graphics, and the newspaper had been finished and posted online, several of us gathered outside on the concrete loading dock, where the big trucks pulled in every day before dawn to receive their allotment of newspapers hot off the presses to deliver to homes and businesses across the city. But on this night, the presses, with no power, were quiet. There would be no traditional newspaper delivery the next morning. The paper existed online only. As we drank champagne and talked quietly about the storm and what might lie ahead, we noticed that water seemed to be slowly filling the parking lot below our makeshift bar. One editor began to time the rising water.

It turned out, of course, that the rain and the wind were not the problem. Earlier that day, a writer and an editor had left the newspaper building on their bicycles, which they had carted to the newsroom, along with the usual sleeping bags and ice chests, to ride out the storm. They decided they were going to head north, to the area of the city along Lake Pontchartrain, to check on their houses. What they discovered changed our lives forever.

*****

After the rain, the wind-driven storm surge weakened the walls of the federally built levee system that ringed New Orleans and kept the city safe and dry. Those walls had become unstable, and had gone years without the mandatory inspections designed to find any weaknesses in the system. And one by one, they began to crumble and fall, and seawater began to pour unfettered into the neighborhoods closest to the lake and the drainage canals. The two men on bicycles, drenched and bedraggled, barely made it back to the newsroom to tell us what they had discovered. Water was rushing in great torrents from the lake toward downtown New Orleans.

Early the next morning, the editor’s timed watch of the water rising in the parking lot of the newspaper building bore frightening fruit. The water was now lapping against the fifth step of the front entrance. The cars in the parking lot were almost submerged. He hurried to the office of the editor-in-chief to sound the alarm. Together with the publisher, they hatched a plan to empty our building using the huge newspaper delivery trucks. Taking no computers, no equipment, just what we could carry in one hand, the 150 of us, some with families in tow, climbed into the tall trucks and set off into the deluge that was getting deeper by the minute.

*****

That evening, we set up a makeshift newsroom in a strip shopping mall in Baton Rouge, 75 miles north of New Orleans. What followed was several weeks of sleepless nights; worries about our pets, our homes, our friends, our city; and endless, relentless days and nights of working to tell the story of Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath to the world. After the rain of August 29 and everything that came afterward, I learned a lot about myself: about my ability to handle adversity, about my ability to help others who were suffering, about my ability to focus on the job at hand, almost to the exclusion of everything else. I also, finally, learned to ask for the help I needed.

After the rain, everything changed. And it took me a long time to enjoy the sound of the rain again.

Annemarie's story
After the Rains.
The four children squatted on the dry, dusty earth, each with a small pile of coloured marbles as

Donald, the eldest, concentrated on flicking his marble to hit the gobber, a large glass marble with three intertwirling colours of blue, purple and green. Donald and Lorraine Wells were to spend the next month with the Grenvilles while their father went back to the UK to sort out some legal business. Annette and James, of similar age, liked petite sweet-faced Lorraine, her short blonde hair bleached almost white by the sun but they always found Donald somewhat difficult. Tall and gangly, limbs baked brown, he was truly his father's son - the same surly expression, curly chestnut hair - and like his father quick to lose his temper and he always wanted to win. But as the other children in the expatriate community had been told, they must remember that Donald and Lorraine had lost their mother when six and four years old and that allowances should be made for them.

In much the same way their father, Roger Wells was not particularly popular, neither with the expats or the Africans who worked for him. He was quick to lose his temper and he could often be heard barking intolerantly at his workers, even as far the Grenvilles'home. However, he was universally admired for the way he had brought up the two children, how he managed the home and farm since the loss of Valerie; the children were always well dressed, well fed and they were adored by their father. Small and blonde like their daughter, Valerie had been the heart and soul of the family and at the club she was known for her vivacity, her love of parties and her dare-devil attitude. People wondered how on earth two such disparate people had made a life together. Then suddenly this vibrant wife and mother was gone from their lives. Three years previously Roger had driven Valerie to the station to catch a train to Cape Town, South Africa to help an aunt who was dangerously ill with malaria. Her friends in Kenya were unaware of Valerie's extended family and willingly lent a hand with the two children, the Grenvilles taking them into their home while Valerie was away so that Donald could concentrate on his farm.

It was only three weeks later that shocked friends heard from an even more shocked and grieving Roger that Valerie herself had contracted malaria and died just four days after her aunt. He went down to Cape Town where Valerie and her aunt were buried and he returned an even more morose and uncommunicative man, except where his children were concerned. To them he was unfailingly kind and patient.

Today Donald was leaving last minute instructions for the Grenvilles about his farm and the children before going to the UK. He sat on the verandah, long tanned legs stretched out, dressed in his khaki shorts and freshly ironed khaki shirt. Brown eyes squinting in his creased leathery face he watched the children scrabbling in the earth.. He would miss them, certainly. Yes, there was no doubt he was a good father although as a husband he had been a little less accommodating and somewhat critical of Valerie, eliciting raised eyebrows among her women friends on several occasions.

As he and the Grenvilles sat around the wooden log table drinking cold ‘Pembe' beer and chatting in a lazy, desultory fashion, lizards skittered down the walls and under stones. The dog lay panting in the heat, its pink tongue flopped out of the side of its muzzle. Even the red hibiscus flowers hung down limp and enervated. This heavy, sultry weather would have to break soon. It was nearly the end of February and this year had been excessively hot, the grass already dry, sparse and scrubby, the red earth baked into dusty ridges. Beyond the native cattle with their curious humped necks plucked at non-existent vegetation, their ribs prominent under dry, dirty white hides, their tails whipping at the hundreds of flies, flies which buzzed unchallenged around their eyes and over their faces.

Then like a loose strand of wool unravelling from an old jumper came the distant rumble of thunder and dark clouds rolled and gathered in the darkening sky. The thunder echoed against the surrounding hills. Big round blobs of rain spotted the verandah and bounced on the tin roof until the rain became a deluge drumming down deafeningly on the corrugated iron and beating the tired flowers into submission.

The adults quickly gathered up their drinks and moved indoors, The children abandoned their marbles, now gleaming and sparkling with a rainbow of colours in the lashing rain; they also ran indoors and changed into old swimsuits and as the rain gathered momentum they rushed outside, exuberant, jubilant and faces tilted upwards, energised by the rain splashing down. They ran to the side of the bungalow where there was a depression in the red, stony earth caused by years of use as a washing area by the Africans. The rain quickly filled the dusty trough and the children threw themselves into the water, rolling around in it and rejoicing in the coming of the wet season.

“There's à better place near your Dad's farm”, said James, “let's go there.”

The four of the them scuttled off to the Wells' farm next door, their hair and bodies streaked in orange as rivulets of earth-strained water cascaded down them.
“Look, up behind your house, Donald, near the damn.” enthused James. “The rain is pouring down like a river. I know we are not allowed to go near the dam but we can go to the bit where the earth has been washed away. It's left a huge hole. It'll make a fantastic pond.”

And so it did; for days they played and bathed in the red/orange water, exhilarating in the coolness and wetness. Above their bathing hole, the raw red earth which had fallen away during the storm was like a giant scar, accentuated by the fresh blades of grass sprouting all around. By the end of the week the bank was peppered with small yellow flowers and sprouting lantana bushes. By the third week the pool was slowly evaporating leaving a delicious squidgy, slippery sludge. The children slipped and slid, jumped and glided, pushing and pulling each other until Lorraine skidded face down pushing her hands in front of herself.

“Oh, there's something hard and smooth and round here and I’ve found something else,”she said and dragging herself out, face, hair and body plastered in the wet murram earth she held something in her hand.
“Look what I found,” she shouted, clinging on to a chain.

They took it down to the house and ran it under clean water and in the middle of the chain was a silver plaque engraved with the name 'Valerie' and a little heart at either end of the name. “Mummy's name!” shouted Lorraine
After the rains Roger arrived home from England, eager to see the children.The first thing he saw were two police cars in front of his home and up behind his house near the dam a skeleton was being carefully lifted onto a tarpaulin.




After the rain by Jackie

A non desirous virus

That I first heard about on the wireless

Wraps you up in your home

So you can’t roam

I’m like a clown in lockdown  

Don’t frown, I’ve kept on my gown

It’s brown,  so I won’t go downtown

To spend my crown and drown

After the rain I’ll go for a walk

I have to,  or I’ll squark

sorry,  I can't stop to talk

my lips are sealed

don’t gawk

I dream of taking an aeroplane or why not even a train

To stay sane

"What a pain" said

Mark  Twain

The rain is beating

Into my brain

Making it churn making it burn

I’ll do my tasks in the morn

After the rain I’ll be less worn

The sun will shine and I won’t be forlorn

The sky is blowing a rainbow

as I look out of my bow window

blue yellow green and red

Oh, I shall have to get out of bed

But after the rain

 _______________________________________

 Sarah's story 

After the rain  3
(05.06.2020)

"The kitchen must be cleaned, and thoroughly!.  It will be Easter in a few weeks and God expects a spotless house!" 
This command was addressed to the daughters.  The sons had other chores, such as chopping the wood and bringing it in, cleaning out the byre, clearing a path daily or almost daily through the snow to the road that led down into the valley.  The girls did their part willingly most of the time, milking the cows, churning the butter, making the cheese, helping with the cooking and cleaning up afterwards.  When spring came, they would be the ones to carry the dairy products down into the valley to sell them at the fairs.  All these things they enjoyed, some more or some less, but the one thing they detested was the spring cleaning.  Their mother was relentless, and not a speck of dust or grit would be allowed to remain when they had finished.
"Oh, Mother, it's still so grey out!  We can't see well enough.  We'd be sure to leave grime in the corners and dust in the shadows.  Let's wait a bit.  It's weeks still till Easter!"
There were other things to do, such as mending the tea towels—nothing was ever thrown away—or tearing into rags those that were too far gone to mend.  There were buttons to be sewn on trousers, there were seedling plants to prepare for when the snow would finally disappear and they could plant them so as to be grown by the time of the short summer season.  Best of all there were the Easter cookies to bake.  These were better made ahead, even a month before hand.
So their mother relented, and they all busied themselves with the numerous other tasks.  And in the evenings they studied.  Their mother could read, but just barely; their father was hardly better at it.  Their grandmother back in Austria could not read or write at all, but they wrote to her four times a year, and a neighbour read the letter to her.  God willing, this generation was going to know everything, and become prosperous!
The children had known no other life than this house and farm halfway up the mountainside, in a notch of the White Mountains of New Hampshire.  Their parents had known the old country and had brought with them from there a solid German philosophy of hard work, pious living and frugality.  Already things were far better here than the future that had awaited them back home.  And they would be better still, provided everyone did their part.
A week later, a thaw began to set in, a sure sign that spring was on its way.  But the skies were even greyer, and the clouds lower still than before. 
"Wait a little longer, Mother!" they said.  And in her desire for perfection, she agreed.  They would bake the cookies, and after that do the cleaning.  It was only logical.
But after the cookies, the rain began, and it was even more dismal and harder to see.  They burned the oil lamps even in the daytime.  "After the rain, Mother!"  And again she agreed.
One day a young man came up to the house.  "There's danger of an avalanche," he said.  "The rains are unsettling the snow.  You must all come down."
"And leave the cows?" thundered the father.
"And we haven't done the cleaning!" said the mother.
"Oh, let's go down, please!" begged the sons and the daughters, who loved the gayer life of the valley.
"Never!" replied their parents in unison.  The young man went away, for it was clear that nothing would change their minds.
The day grew darker, the rains fell faster.  Then one of the boys said, "Listen!"  There was a faint noise, indistinguishable, but as they listened it grew in force.  The father went to the door and peered out and up the slope where the noise, now almost deafening , was coming from. 
"It's on us!" he creid.  "it's coming straight for the house!  Out, everyone!"
Each grabbed a coat or a shawl, whatever was handy.  One of the girls snatched up her doll, one of the boys ran for his penknife, and they all rushed outside.  "Away!  Away from the house!" cried the father, and they followed him, stumbling and clutching each other, till they were a good distance away.
The rain was pelting down.  They were freezing with the wet, though it was much less cold, really, than the dead of winter in these parts.  They shivered, more from dread even than from the cold, and huddled together.  The mother sent up desperate prayers to a heaven that was now wholly invisible. 
And as they stared, mesmerized, at this roaring grey-white monster bearing down on them, it began to divide in two.  One part snaked around the farther side of the house and byre, and the nearer one, skirting the house and the byre, began to head straight in their direction.  They scattered left and right, ran back towards each other again, clasping each other in their arms, pushing and pulling resisting arms to the one side or the other, but there was nowhere to go.  The avalanche piled into them and over them, and continued on its relentless path down the slope.
When the valley people came up the next day to see how they had fared, they were amazed to see the house and byre unscathed.  The spring cleaning had not been done, but no-one noticed that.  The cookies were in their tin, the wood was piled next to the stove, and so far as anyone could see, the house was in perfect shape.  As to the family, they were nowhere to be seen.
It was only a week or so later, when the snows had half melted away, that the bodies began to be found.  Volunteer parties came out and recovered them all, and a tearful funeral was held.  The letter to the grandmother was found too, unfinished, but there was no address, and no-one knew how to contact the old woman to tell her of the tragedy. 
"Best not to," said one.
Finally, the village put up a stone on the valley road, to tell travellers from near and far, of the plight of this valorous family, and tourists would stop and muse on the irony of Fate.  My own childhood was haunted by the story.


+ 1065 wds
NB: if anybody wants to know what's true and what's fiction here, the family that fled their house in an avalanche and were killed while their house was spared, and the fact that the story haunted my childhood, are true; the rest is all  fiction.