Grannymar

A man and his wife were having an argument about who
should brew the coffee each morning.

The wife said, ‘You should do it because you get up first, and then we don’t have to wait as long to get our coffee.

The husband said, ‘You are in charge of cooking around here and you should do it, because that is your job, and I can just wait for my coffee.’

Wife replies, ‘No, you should do it, and besides, it is in the Bible that the man should do the coffee.’

Husband replies, ‘I can’t believe that, show me.’

So she fetched the Bible, and opened the New Testament and showed him at the top of several pages, that it indeed says:

‘HEBREWS‘

Do you have children about to start or attending Primary School?

What do you know about the school they attend? Are you interested or aware of any problems?

Does your responsibility end when you open the door of the SUV to drop the darlings off with their satchel up market school bag, lunch money or tuck box, leaving you several hours to get on with your own life before charging up once more to stop - bang in front of the gateway - never mind the lay-by that seems to be compulsory for Health & Safety regulations. Is that it?

Who decides on the text books your child uses or how the subject is taught? I am sure you think it is that distracted school Principal losing his ability to smile. Before you criticize, walk a mile in his shoes!

How does he spend his evenings?

For ‘homework’ I have: * 6 policies to proof read and correct * 3 others to continue and * 1 to start.

Does he have help?

…..It is just not physically possible to teach and administer at the same time. All my waking hours are consumed by school … school and more school.

Only last week did I stay in school until 6.00 p.m. cutting the grass and tidying up. It’s a case of DIY or it remains undone. I have been patching holes on the roof, brushing the yard, painting classrooms, etc. …. you name it I’ve probably done it!

Our school accounts are in the black ‘cos we’re careful (not mean) with the spend.

I’m overwhelmed at times …. free education is a laugh …. someone is usually paying for it …. and it’s usually me with my time!

…..I have asked the parents in my school to get involved in policy development and/or help out around the school …. (I ask regularly) …. how many volunteers did I get? …. NONE! … yet they have no problem complaining if a decision/procedure/policy has been implemented without their input. Even when they get the policies to read … they don’t!

Nobody survives in a vacuum. An exhausted Teacher cannot give of his or her best to the children in their charge – YOUR CHILDREN.

Education is the right of all children, but that does not give parents the right to abdicate responsibility for it at the school gate. If your child showed potential in Bunge-jumping and ‘Gold at the 2012 Olympics’ was mooted, I’m sure you would travel the length and breadth of the land so they had every chance to gain experience. Would that enormous effort on your part, be for the child, or for the reflected glory that you would gain?

Gold loses its shine in time and the Bunge-jumping may not put food on the table for long, but an energetic enthusiastic unencumbered teacher can set alight the fire of learning within a young mind setting them on the road to being the next Brahms, Brontë or Brunel. So give that hour or odd Saturday, you might even surprise yourself and enjoy it. There is the chance to get to know the teachers as ‘real’ people and also earn kudos big time with the offspring.

I have an acquaintance with a life sentence!

She has received the news none of us want to hear. The illness she has is not curable and the time scale is very short. Three young children wander about the house bewildered because they know something is wrong, yet they do not know what it is. Mum is prone to crying and dad and granny are constantly trying to reassure her.

Mum realises that she will never see her children grow up, not be there for many more birthdays, or family celebrations, or to comfort them in times of need. She worries that they might forget her. Or that they will remember her as the person always lying under a rug on the couch crying.

She has baby name tags, early pictures, bootees, baby toys and locks of hair in a treasure box. I have suggested to her to have three boxes, one for each child with their name on it, in her own handwriting. Then place the items for each child in their special box. Next I suggested that she write letters to each child in turn.

“Start writing now”, I said; “beginning with how you felt when you heard that they were expected, the planning and preparations for their arrival”. I suggested she tell them how special they are and about the little things that made her heart sing. Write about her feelings for them now, and of all the hopes and dreams she carries for them.

Put each letter in an envelope and seal it, Put each child’s name, and the date when you want them to get it, on the front. Think about this date, 18th, 21st birthdays of even on your death.

What better gift can a mother give!

While writing this I received an email from a dear friend. The attachment was a story:

The Mayonnaise Jar and 2 Cups of Coffee

When things in your life seem almost too much to handle, when 24 hours in a day are not enough, remember the mayonnaise jar and the 2 cups of coffee.

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, he wordlessly picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with a unanimous “yes.”

The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.

“Now,” said the professor as the laughter subsided, “I want you to recognise that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things…. Your family, your children, your health, your friends and your favourite passions— and if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full.

The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house and your car.

The sand is everything else— the small stuff. “If you put the sand into the jar first,” he continued, “there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff you will never have room for the things that are important to you.

“Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Spend time with your children. Spend time with your parents. Visit with grandparents. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your spouse out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and put out the rubbish. Take care of the golf balls first- the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.”

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented.

The professor smiled and said, “I’m glad you asked.”

The coffee just shows you that no matter how full your life may seem, there’s always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend.

Ian wrote about ‘Unhappy school days. It rather opened an old wound for me. So far I have skirted around those years trying to convince myself that I was over them.

Primary school was normal enough I think, apart from all the days I was kept at home to open the door and allow the doctor in to see my mother, unfortunately her health was not the best at times. Among other problems she had a serious heart attack when I was ten. I was also needed to prepare meals for the family. I remember my first attempts at making dinner involved going upstairs to find out from mammy what to do at every stage. The meals were cooked on the gas stove or in the oven. I avoided the grill as I considered it dangerous. My father and brothers would consume at least five potatoes each without those for my mother, sister and myself. Peeling the potatoes and vegetables took an hour each day. I became quite adept at making stews and casseroles. My eldest brother helped when food was cooked and pans and dishes were hot. No way as a slight small 8-10 year old was I capable of lifting them. Daddy NEVER entered the kitchen and expected his food on the table as usual! Homework! Why would I need to do that, when there were men to be fed!

At secondary level I went to a new school (3 years old) run by the order of Nuns that taught my mother. We had to sit a written examination to gain entrance. Our class of thirty whittled down to 15 after Intermediate Certificate. We were constantly reminded that it was a College (this allowed them charge higher fees) and that they did not teach us - they educated us! Their main priority was to reduce the debt incurred in building the school. We had a wonderful Gym, equipped with bars, ropes, horse, mats etc. It was the envy of many another school and we used it only as a supplementary examination hall! The pupils’ parents were bombarded with books of raffle tickets on a weekly basis, at least 12 books at a time. I refused to take them home – I was the only one with nerve to stand up and say so.

It was the early 60’s and I was one of 6 children, my father had spent almost a year in and out of hospital. Daddy was diagnosed with Addison’s disease, a visit to the library told my eldest brother and I that it was fatal. At that time there was no cure. My reading of the situation at the time was that if my mother handed out money for 12 books of raffle tickets to me each week then she would have to do the same for my 5 siblings. At that point there were three of us in Fee paying schools. No way was I going to ask for £12 a week.

No allowance was made for late developers, slow learners or difficult home situations. Pupils were told which subjects they were allocated, there was no such thing as choice. Abuse both physical and mental was employed on a daily basis. If you didn’t keep up you were lost from the radar. Pupils not thought to bring glory were encouraged to leave. I was considered a rebel and not at all bright.

Reading was not a priority in our home. Latin and French were difficult for me, Irish was a torture. The fact that if you failed Irish you failed the whole exam in those days, added to my burden. Back then Irish was not standardised and in one school year alone we had four teachers. They happened to come from the four provinces, Ulster, Leinster, Munster, and Connacht, each with their own dialect. To my ear they were four different languages. I never really recovered.

Maths I managed but science was not offered to me. Art and Domestic Science were on my programme and I actually knew more about cooking and hygiene than the teacher. She knew little about sewing, but a sister of my father’s took me under her wing and nurtured in me the love of the needle.

By now you all know my level of English! Elly constantly corrects my grammar and spelling. The fact that I am borderline dyslexic adds to the problems. Reading justified text, or light print on a dark background is torture. There are many blogs I would love to read, but if I have to struggle to find the content in amongst the flashing lights, bells, whistles and distracting adverts, well I walk away. Am I the only one to do so?

The nuns did try to move me out. Mammy stood her ground; she had to leave school at 16 in favour of her brothers’ education, so she was determined to let me go as far as the boys. I passed my leaving certificate with a couple of honours thrown in, much to everyone’s surprise. I was glad to leave school and never returned for any of the reunions.

My best pal was at school with me. Despite distance, family and other commitments we are still close and in touch on a regular basis. She has been a second mother for Elly, and her sons the brothers Elly never had. As I often say some good came out of those dark years!

Yesterday I was better value than Royal Mail. You had two posts, but now how do I follow that?

Struggling to think of a topic for today my email pinged. A new comment was added to the post Poor Mary. Now thanks to Magpie 11, I have found my subject!

I have been trying to find the origins of a saying of my Grandmother’s…

Q, “What’s for lunch Grannie?”
Her answer Three Jumps at the cupboard door the only reference I could find was by Grannymar on another site which led me here.
Can you help?

‘Three jumps at the cupboard door’ was a phrase I learned from my late husband. He grew up in Co Durham in the 1920-30’s and his mother used it regularly when he asked “What is for lunch or tea”.
All young children ask at some time when feeling hungry “What’s for (insert meal)?” Mother’s or Grannies gave the quick answer ‘Three Jumps at the cupboard door’.

It means any of the following:
“Away out and play and let me get on, or there will be no dinner!”
“Stop annoying me or you will have to make it yourself!”
“You will have to jump up to the cupboard and see what you can reach!”

Magpie came back with another phrase in the same vein:

‘Dried Bread and Scratch it’

This was from the days of poverty when children were given dry bread, sometimes several days old. The ‘Scratch it’ meant scraping at the lump of bread with a finger to loosen the crumbs. On good days they had dripping (fat from cooking meat) to dip the bread in for flavour and to let it soften.

And my mother had her own version

‘Potatoes and point’

Humorous as it is, it scarcely falls short of the truth. Prior to famine times many an Irish family, hung up a herring, or “small taste” of bacon, to smoke or dry (cure) over the open fire. Using their imagination each individual points the potato he is going to eat, at it, thinking the flavour of the herring or bacon will transfer to the potato.

Daddy often said “You are the apple of my eye!”

This phrase comes from the Bible. In Psalm 17:8 the writer asks God ‘to keep me as the apple of your eye’.

Another of Daddies sayings was “A little bird told me”

This phrase comes from the Bible. In Ecclesiastes 10:20 the writer warns us not to curse the king or the rich even in private or a ‘bird of the air’ may report what you say.

A bakers dozen

This means thirteen. It is said to come from the days when bakers were severely punished for baking underweight loaves. Some added a loaf to a batch of a dozen to be above suspicion.

That’s a load of codswallop

In the 19th century wallop was slang for beer. A man named Codd began selling lemonade and it was called Codswallop. In time codswallop began to mean anything worthless or inferior and later anything untrue.

“Go to pot”

Any farm animal that had outlived its usefulness such as a hen that no longer laid eggs would literally go to pot. It was cooked and eaten.

“To start from scratch”

This phrase comes from the days when a line was scratched in the ground for a race. The racers would start from the scratch.

Now you start from scratch and share a well worn old family phrase.

A Sunday school class was studying the Ten Commandments. They were ready to discuss the last one.

The teacher asked if anyone could tell her what it was.

Susie raised her hand, stood tall, and quoted, “Thou shall not take the covers off thy neighbour’s wife.

Did you ever hear the tale of the Wooden Bowl? I guarantee you will remember it tomorrow, a week from now, a month from now, a year from now.

A frail old man went to live with his son, daughter-in-law, and four-year - old grandson. The old man’s hands trembled, his eyesight was blurred, and his step faltered.

The family ate together at the table. But the elderly grandfather’s shaky hands and failing sight made eating difficult. Peas rolled off his spoon onto the floor. When he grasped the glass, milk spilled on the tablecloth.

The son and daughter-in-law became irritated with the mess. “We must do something about father,” said the son. “I’ve had enough of his spilled milk, noisy eating, and food on the floor.”

So the husband and wife set a small table in the corner. There, Grandfather ate alone while the rest of the family enjoyed dinner. Since Grandfather had broken a dish or two, his food was served in a wooden bowl.

When the family glanced in Grandfather’s direction, sometimes he had a tear in his eye as he sat alone. Still, the only words the couple had for him were sharp admonitions when he dropped a fork or spilled food.

The four-year-old watched it all in silence. One evening before supper, the father noticed his son playing with wood scraps on the floor.

He asked the child sweetly, “What are you making?”

Just as sweetly, the boy responded, “Oh, I am making a little bowl for you and Mama to eat your food in when I grow up. “The four-year-old smiled and went back to work.

The words so struck the parents so that they were speechless. Then tears started to stream down their cheeks. Though no word was spoken, both knew what must be done.

That evening the husband took Grandfather’s hand and gently led him back to the family table. For the remainder of his days he ate every meal with the family. And for some reason, neither husband nor wife seemed to care any longer when a fork was dropped, milk spilled, or the tablecloth soiled.

My friend Tony with a group of University Lecturers, well established in their careers, decided to visit their old esteemed university professor, now elderly and retired. During their visit conversation evolved into complaints about stress in their work and lives.

The professor offered his guests coffee. The professor returned from the kitchen with a large pot of coffee and an assortment of cups: porcelain, pottery, glass & plastic. Some were plain looking and others were fancy. The professor urged the group to help themselves to the coffee.

When the entire group held a cup of coffee the professor observed, “Notice that all the nice looking, expensive cups have been used while the plain and cheap ones remain. While it is understandable for you to want only the best for yourselves, it demonstrates the source of your problems and stress.”

“Be assured,” he continued, “that the cup itself adds no quality to the coffee. In most cases a fancy cup simply is more exclusive and may obscure what we drink. What all of you really wanted was coffee, not a cup. But you consciously went for the best cups… and then you began eyeing each other’s cups.”

“Now consider this: Life is the coffee. Your job, money and position in society are the cups. They are just tools that hold and contain life. The type of cup one has does not define, nor change the quality of life a person lives. Some times, by concentrating primarily on the cup, we fail to enjoy the coffee God has provided us.”

“The happiest people don’t have the best of everything. They just make the best of everything.”

About two months ago I was buzzed on Skype by a gentleman from Italy. He asked if I had a few minutes to talk to him. It was a dull, boring wet day so I agreed to talk for five minutes or so. He told me his name, where he lived and what he did for a living. Then he asked several questions which I answered without giving away any information.

“Now it is my turn” I said, “Why did you pick me?” He said he looked for an English speaker in the UK and my name came up top of the list. I had a go at that one, I tried several countries, and the list showed up each time in alphabetical order. Now on Skype I do not use either my own name or Grannymar, let me just say the one I use would come after the word Skype on the list! (One day all these names will be a problem as I won’t remember who I am supposed to be!) Again I queried this with Romano Italiano. He assured me he was genuine and asked if I would help him with his English! Now my father always warned me about fellows inviting me to see their etchings, but never anything about helping them with their English! Anyway Romano Italiano was over there in Italy and surely no harm could come to me at this distance. He asked if I had a Webcam, which I don’t, and then he asked and wanted to be assured I was over 18 years of age. He had a webcam and used it so that I was able to see him speak. He has a good voice, pleasing face but seems a very serious chap who seldom smiles!

So what do I do? I was never a teacher. My spelling and grammar are woeful as you all know, so how do I get round this one?

Let’s face it - English is a crazy language. We take English for granted. But if we explore its paradoxes, we find that quicksand can work slowly, boxing rings are square and a guinea pig is neither from Guinea nor is it a pig. There is no egg in eggplant, nor ham in hamburger; neither apple nor pine in pineapple. English muffins weren’t invented in England or French fries in France. Sweetmeats are chocolates or toffees while sweetbreads, which aren’t sweet, are meat. And why is it that writers write but fingers don’t fing, grocers don’t groce and hammers don’t ham?

If the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn’t the plural of booth, beeth? One goose, 2 geese. So one moose, 2 meese? One index, 2 indices? Doesn’t it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend? If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it?

If teachers taught, why didn’t preachers praught? If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat? Sometimes I think all the English speakers should be committed to an asylum for the verbally insane. In what language do people recite at a play and play at a recital? Ship by truck and send cargo by ship? Have noses that run and feet that smell?

How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same, while a wise man and a wise guy are opposites? You have to marvel at the unique lunacy of a language in which your house can burn up as it burns down, in which you fill in a form by filling it out and in which, an alarm goes off by going on.

English was invented by people, not computers, and it reflects the creativity of the human race, which, of course, is not a race at all That is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible.

What hope have I when there is a two-letter word that perhaps has more meanings than any other two-letter word, and that is “UP?”

It’s easy to understand UP, meaning toward the sky or at the top of the list, but when we awaken in the morning, why do we wake UP? At a meeting, why does a topic come UP? Why do we speak UP and why are the politicians UP for election and why is it UP to the secretary to write UP a report?

We call UP our friends. And we use it to brighten UP a room, polish UP the silver we warm UP the leftovers and clean UP the kitchen. We lock UP the house and some guys fix UP the old car. At other times the little word has real special meaning. People stir UP trouble, queue UP for tickets, work UP an appetite, and think UP excuses. To be dressed is one thing, but to be dressed UP is special.

And this UP is confusing: A drain must be opened UP because it is bunged UP. We open UP a shop in the morning but we close it UP at night.

We seem to be pretty mixed UP about UP! If you wish to be knowledgeable about the proper uses of UP, look the word UP in the dictionary. In a desk-sized dictionary, it takes UP almost ¼ of the page and can add UP to about thirty definitions. If you are UP to it, you might try building UP a list of the many ways UP is used. It will take UP a lot of your time, but if you don’t give UP, you may wind UP with a hundred or more.

When it threatens to rain, we say it is clouding UP. When the sun comes out we say it is clearing UP. When it rains, it wets the earth and often messes things UP. When it doesn’t rain for awhile, things dry UP

I could go on and on, but I’ll finish UP, because my time is UP, so……….. it is time to shut UP….!

Oh . . . one more thing:

What is the first thing you do in the morning & the last thing you do at night?

U-P

The local minister decided that a visual demonstration would add emphasis to his Sunday sermon last week.

Four worms were placed into four separate jars.

The first worm was put into a container of alcohol.

The second worm was put into a container of cigarette smoke.

The third worm was put into a container of chocolate sauce.

The fourth worm was put into a container of good clean soil.

At the conclusion of the sermon, the Minister reported the following results:

The first worm in alcohol - Dead.

The second worm in cigarette smoke - Dead.

Third worm in chocolate sauce - Dead.

Fourth worm in good clean soil - Alive.

So the Minister asked the congregation -

What can you learn from this demonstration?

Maxine was setting in the back, quickly raised her hand and said,

“As long as you drink, smoke and eat chocolate, you won’t have worms!”