Friday, 15 December 2017
Happenings 2017
Like other elderly people in the district Dad gets a lovely Christmas box from Ellesmere Community Care.
Saturday, 9 December 2017
Monday, 13 November 2017
The Henny Pennies - And A Dust Bath Or Two
Sunday, 12 November 2017
Flowers From Andrew's Garden
Saturday, 11 November 2017
Wednesday, 20 September 2017
A Grandfather's Bracelet
Granddad Finlay retired to Weedons initially where he had a large tumbling machine that polished stones. He would gather stones from beaches, particularly Birdling's Flat, polish them and produce all manner of beautiful objects - bracelets, pendants, jewellery boxes, stole covered bottles and more.
This is a bracelet that he gave me when I was a girl and it remains a treasured possession.
This is a bracelet that he gave me when I was a girl and it remains a treasured possession.
Thursday, 1 December 2016
Bailey - Kewmarnic High Society
At
the top at 3 years old, in the centre
with her sire Hamish and at the bottom at 4 months old.
The last two verses of Winifred Mary Lett's wonderful poem about her Irish Terrier "Tim" always reminds me of Bailey.
It's wonderful dogs they're breeding now:
Small as a flea or large as a cow;
But my old lad Tim he'll never be bet
By any dog that he ever met,
Come on 'says he'for I'm not kilt yet!
No matter the size of the dog he'll meet,
Tim trails his coat the length o'the street.
D'ye mind his scar an'his ragged ear,
The like of a Dublin Fusilier?
He's a massacree dog that knows no fear.
But he'd stick to me till his lastest breath;
An'he'd go with me to the gates of death.
He'd wait a thousand years maybe,
Scratching the door an'whining for me
If myself were inside in Purgatory.
So I laugh when I hear them make it plain
That dogs and men never meet again
For all their talk who'd listen to them
With the light in the shining eyes of him?
Would God be wasting a dog like Tim?
Small as a flea or large as a cow;
But my old lad Tim he'll never be bet
By any dog that he ever met,
Come on 'says he'for I'm not kilt yet!
No matter the size of the dog he'll meet,
Tim trails his coat the length o'the street.
D'ye mind his scar an'his ragged ear,
The like of a Dublin Fusilier?
He's a massacree dog that knows no fear.
But he'd stick to me till his lastest breath;
An'he'd go with me to the gates of death.
He'd wait a thousand years maybe,
Scratching the door an'whining for me
If myself were inside in Purgatory.
So I laugh when I hear them make it plain
That dogs and men never meet again
For all their talk who'd listen to them
With the light in the shining eyes of him?
Would God be wasting a dog like Tim?
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