ANGELS WITHOUT WINGS

We see them as winged messengers, companions, comforters and guardians thanks to the artist’s vision and the poet’s lyrical description. But angels, in reality, can be quite different!

I’ve said this before, and I’ll probably say it a thousand times more – hubby loved Christmas. It soon became a tradition with us to acquire at least one new decoration to mark each Christmas that we shared.  Nieces and nephews chipped in and added to our growing cache with the loveliest baubles from far and near.  Each year, these would be unwrapped and placed on the tree or mantelpiece and, after Christmas, lovingly cleaned, rewrapped, and replaced in their special containers, as good as new. We knew each and every decoration, their provenance and recalled the memories with joy. It’s now almost three years since hubby bid goodbye and Christmas will never be the same because the significance of our ‘little collection’ was in the sharing, as was the urge to add yet another piece. I let everyone know, accordingly.   Yet, somehow, from an unexpected somewhere, a fresh Christmas memory has faithfully arrived!

Apparently my own special angel is doing overtime on the job. And earthbound angels are being equally industrious in making the connection!

This year I have received (yes, already!) an adorable snowman. He’s a cookie jar, as fragile as the ‘snow’ he’s made of.  He will not melt, but he can break.  Yet he made it across the miles from Canada, carefully transported in a suitcase thanks to one of the many angels in my life.

And this angel plays the harp (read drums and keyboard) too, with glorious rhythm and melody!

So, when October 2 comes around, I’ll be whispering a special prayer for angels seen and unseen, known and unknown – a thanksgiving prayer for the gentle benison their presence brings.

Christmas

The theme for our Faith & Discussion Group’s next session is ‘Christmas – what it means and how we prepare for it.’  We are expected to introspect and present the result of such introspection, to share and discuss with the rest of the group.  And the discussion can be quite lively and enlightening, judging from past experience!

So, Christmas.  I got to thinking.  What first comes to mind?  Well, the practical things like getting the house cleaned – always a mammoth task which involves long handled brooms, mops and dusters and the murky depths of cupboards which are turned out with a will to the accompaniment of ‘ughs’ (something mouldy), ‘eeks’ (probably spiders), ‘oh this is where it was’ (something misplaced) and ‘you can’t throw that away’ (usually a garment well beyond its wear by date) among other familiar sounds. Then, there are the Christmas cards to buy.  At least this used to be on the ‘to do’ list.  Nowadays, its email, sms and FB.  The cards had to be written, addressed, some with a photo tucked in and mailed before the Christmas rush at the Post Office. Thankfully, I never made sweets but the order had to be calculated and placed.  New clothes? Not essential but usually on the list, particularly when shop windows tempted. Carols in the air either in the home courtesy the CD player, or at practice for the Carol singing rounds, or at the concerts that are a fixture every year – Catholic Gym, Alfy at the NCPA and the local Churches.  Closer to Christmas, haul out the tree, the hangings, the lights and the crib.  What else? Nothing much really, except to look forward to Midnight Mass and the parties that follow.

And that’s ‘Christmas’?

Not quite.  There’s Advent – the time before Christmas.  From the first day of Advent, we recite the Christmas Novena – a family tradition.  Though it is prayed just once a year, ‘Hail and blessed be the hour and moment…’ comes back word perfect. It is a memory, a link to and a reminder of that very first Christmas. There is also more to Advent than the novena and the wreath – another lovely tradition – but we are rarely attentive to this inner preparation when the externals overwhelm by ubiquity.

Ten years ago, I had written a brief reflection on Christmas as my contribution to the prelude to the prayers of the faithful (no, it was not used).  While going through stuff (yes, Christmas clean up!) I came across the typewritten sheet and I think it worth the sharing (even if I am in error and liturgically incorrect). So here goes:

Every year on this night, we gather together to remember God’s gift to us – the Holy Babe of Bethlehem who brought with him the additional gifts of hope, love and peace.  Today, when peace seems a forlorn prospect and faith in the promise of Jesus’ birth seems futile, we need to remember that gifts are only given; they need to be accepted and opened before they can be known and possessed. Each passing Christmas challenges us to open these gifts and share them with the world.  If peace and love seem to diminish, it is probably because the gift is still unwrapped and ignored. 

Gifting at Christmas is reciprocal.  And what better gift can we give than that of ourselves – we who have been ‘loved into being’ in image and likeness.  Perfect in God’s eyes.  We can bring ourselves to the humility of the stable and experience firsthand the gift of Mary’s womb, the strength of Joseph’s protectiveness, the shepherd’s simple and wondering adoration and, since I am an animal lover, the caring presence of the ox, the ass and the doves cooing in the rafters.  

And, by visiting the babe, we too will receive our gift.  All we need to do is open and share it.

An Angel before Breakfast

Christmas is a time that resonates with angel presence and angel song. And ‘angel crochet’ too. Many moons ago, in preparation for the season, I had decided upon angels as my motif and was so delighted at the outcome that I broke out in print (I write better than I sing!). Once again, angels are the reason that I write.

Much has happened. Seasons have come and gone, and my lovely husband who so delighted in my crochet is no longer with me. Bereft of his presence and his enthusiasm for all things Christmas, I saw no reason to take up hook and needle. Nothing inspired. Nothing jogged mind or hand.

Till now.

A niece, struggling with a pattern, called for help. I read the instructions, thinking that a hint here or there might help to set her on track. But the directions intrigued me and, before I realised it, I had pulled out hook and thread and the angel formed beneath my hands – tiny, adorable, precious.

One angel completed. Then, almost without volition, a second joined the first and a third was well on its way, as my fingers moved automatically in remembered rhythm to form the stitches. I could see my husband’s eyes lighting up and feel his joy on being presented with these harbingers of Christmas, already present in summertime! I always needed to start this early to get my quota ready by December.

Once again, I sit in the early morning hours, cup of tea at elbow and hook and thread in hand. Each day, I will crochet an angel before breakfast while memories play back in my mind: memories at the same time happy and sad. And, while we cannot bring back the gladness of the past, we can take forward and share the remembered joy.

I am indeed indebted to angels – heavenly, human and crochet!

A very precious gift

She is locked into an immobile world, unable to move or speak. But her mind is active, her eyes expressive. She understands all that is said and she feels, deeply, both joy and sorrow. Gently nursed and lovingly cared for, she can look forward to each day and even more to the evening.

At sundown, her neighbour comes across to spend an hour with her, to read the day’s news, pray the rosary and share the happenings of her own day. Having lived side by side for over forty years they have supported each other’s families through birth, marriages, illness and death. Life’s milestones. They each know the other as they would themselves. And the affection is mutual.

Sometimes, they are joined by a third and a fourth and then the conversation turns lively – a conversation kept as inclusive as possible so that she can participate as the listener. Sometimes mirth overflows and she can laugh with them too. Being included, being loved can do more than the best medicine; they may not cure but they make life worth the living.

Here is a home, here is one who is visited, here are wise friends who bring themselves and their very special gift: the gift of time. In today’s terms, priceless. Gold, frankincense and myrrh rolled into one.

Given the time of year, it is but natural that the Magi come to mind. As does O Henry’s story that has survived generations and still mists up the eyes; a story that reminds us that there is a special ‘wisdom’ in the simple act of giving with love. For, “… all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.”

And, she also gives who sits, listens, smiles and silently gives thanks in her heart.

And the sharing of this experience is also a gift: my gift to you. May it lift your spirit and gladden your heart. And may you, too, experience the joy of giving and receiving in the year ahead.

A little man with a large heart

The world knows of Mother Teresa, but it is Fr. Fred Sopena who touched my life and I wouldn’t trade all the saints in heaven for that!

He is a dapper little man and has an artificial leg which no one knows about unless they know him. The first time I met him I was reminded of a schoolboy who has just played a prank on his teacher and is waiting to be found out – a delightful mix of mischievousness and lively anticipation. And he must have been all of 75 at the time. The artificial leg is mentioned because despite the trauma of losing a leg in an accident – a lorry knocked him off his bike on the highway – he just picked himself up and got on with doing what he does best – helping those in need. No obstacle too big.

We met because of a letter he wrote in our diocesan weekly, The Examiner. The letter asked for contribution of talent in terms of needlework, woodwork, electrical skills and so on. There was no appeal for any kind of financial donation. This was unusual. I was intrigued. I contacted the numbers given and offered my skills as a crocheter. I was visited, my work duly inspected and my offer accepted. Contributions were sold at Christmas and the resultant funds were used to lay the foundations of Fr. Fred Sopena’s latest project at that time.

A Spanish Jesuit, Fr. Fred’s heart is firmly and totally committed to India and the downtrodden, particularly children. Which is why he realised a dream when he set up a centre in Mahad for the children of Katkari tribals – landless, migrant labourers who have nothing except their skills and who depend on local farmers for their livelihood. The children of these tribals accompany their parents from place to place, which means that they can never attend school. An extra pair of hands to the plough, they would normally face as bleak a future as their parents. But then Fr. Fred crossed their path and life would never be the same. Like the star above the stable, enthusiasm shines from his visage and is so infectious that before you know it, you are caught up in his mission to do what you can – and more – for the least of the Lord’s brethren.

The band of followers has grown with missionary zeal from that one little seed planted in unlikely ground, so many years ago. There are those who know him better and not just from one chance encounter. They will no doubt be able to do a better job of eulogizing the person and his work which encompasses much more than the one project mentioned here.

I write about him because he is the living example of the Gospel message of the power of love and what better time to do so than the season of Christmas – the time when we are reminded of what it is to love and to give.

Wipe your feet!

Our homes, and most homes I have visited, always boasted a doormat. Fat rectangles or ovals of tufted coir, they sat firmly outside the front door bearing the word ‘Welcome’ stamped on them. They greeted the visitor and kept the outside dirt to a minimum, especially in the monsoons. Dogs and cats loved them, as did their fleas.

One would hardly think that something as mundane as a doormat would provide memories, but they do!

One Christmas season, while shopping at Cheap Jack’s (guaranteed to empty your purse!) I espied a pile of coir neatly cropped into that familiar rectangular. The topmost one was imprinted with a humongous paw print and the legend ‘Pawse and wipe!’ which caused me to squeal, ‘How cute!’ This was added to the already loaded bill. Browsing through the pile we found some more which would eventually find their way to stockings supposedly filled by Santa.

One bearing the legend, ‘Is this the time to come home?’ was ‘left’ at a sister-in-law’s front door (three teenage children prompted the purchase!). Another, ‘Beware of the wife’ was gifted to a neighbour. Funnily, the wife saw the humour while the husband was affronted. Our front door was graced by ‘All our visitors bring us pleasure, some by coming and some by going’. Our neighbours used to switch mats when we were out and we switched them back when we returned – a juvenile pastime, but a fun way to stay young. ‘Beware of the dog!’ did not apply – ours were too friendly.

Sadly, though coir lasts and lasts, the depredations suffered over time (lots of dirty shoes, the building sweeper and the dogs) required the mats to be replaced. This means that we are always on the lookout for something interesting and colourful.

Once, we opted for ever-lasting plastic ‘imitation’ grass. Fully washable. Around that time our neighbour’s son was a toddler who loved to play in the corridor. Reluctant to break play to visit the loo, he would water the mat. He could pee without leaving that telltale puddle. What he didn’t realise was that pee leaves a telltale pong! The mat was jettisoned without further ado.

Now, our doormat sits inside the front door (thanks to the building cat and its resident fauna) more ornamental than useful. Rubber backed, the carpet-like fabric bears a colourful design but no legend.

Come Christmas week it will be washed and put away to be replaced by one which says, ‘Merry Christmas’ – also acquired from (Not so) Cheap Jack’s and lovingly preserved over the years.

And, yes, this one definitely resides inside the front door with the injunction ‘please do not wipe your feet’!

The Christmas Novena

When I tied the knot, I was introduced not only to a very large, friendly and well knit family, but also to the Christmas Novena. Come the First Sunday in Advent every year, my husband gets a certain gleam in his eye because the Novena begins on this day, and the anticipation for Christmas takes on a very special feeling.

This prayer, according to hubby, has been said in the family ever since he was a child, and one can just imagine the nine children – teens to toddlers – clustered around their parents on a winter’s night, household chores accomplished and dinner yet to come, all reciting this little prayer which transports one to ‘Bethlehem at midnight in the piercing cold’. Recited 15 times, at a stretch, each day from the First Sunday of Advent to Christmas Eve, it brings one closer to the reality of the birth of the Holy Babe. There is an empathy with the young Mother, who was little more than a child herself, and also with the manger scene as it happened 2000 years ago!

My family by marriage has now entered its fourth generation since I joined it, and children and grandchildren have moved to different parts of the world. The Christmas Novena is a family tradition that they have carried with them – a tradition which they will pass on to future generations and new found friends. Every year, at this time, it thrills us to know that all of us, wherever we find ourselves, will be united in this special bond in our collective countdown to Christmas.

It is surprising that not many people are aware of the beauty and effect of this little prayer and it always gives me a huge lift when I get to share it. Here are the words, so that you too may experience the extraordinary anticipation leading up to Christmas:

Hail and blessed be the hour and moment in which the son of God was born of the most pure Virgin Mary at midnight in Bethlehem in the piercing cold. In that hour, vouchsafe O my God to hear my prayer and grant my desires through the merits of our savior, Jesus Christ, and of his Blessed Mother. Amen.

(The First Sunday of Advent falls on November 28, this year)

Of a Crib, a Collie and cherished companions

As mentioned in other blogs, my husband loved to walk his collie. He also loved all things Christmas.

Mornings in December meant that he could visit the outdoor crib at the local convent school. He would pause in his perambulations to spend a moment with the Infant Jesus and fall in love with the Nativity Scene all over again. The collie would stand on her hind legs, place her front paws gently at the edge of the table and nudge Baby Jesus’ feet with her nose. That done, she would sit patiently till my husband moved on.

Mother Superior, possibly wary of itinerant trespassers and in the interest of her property, was not amused. This moved me to remind her that the original manger was ‘peopled’ by livestock and that legend has it that all animals kneel at midnight on Christmas Eve!

It puzzles me that those who are supposedly close to God do not see, feel or experience the whimsical side of our Maker’s personality. Nature demonstrates the glory of creation but it also throws up many and delightful comical aspects, as those who know so will readily testify.

A priest I had the privilege to know shared this sense of whimsy. He wrote a droll ‘post-card to a duck’ for my scrap-book. It goes:

Madam,

There is one blot on your fair name and one only! You have filled the cricket field with a word of dread. Why your egg, more than any other, should have been chosen to signify by its shape the most ignominious numeral in the multiplication table, I fail to comprehend.

A duck’s egg is no more round than the egg of a pigeon or of a hen – and indeed, it is far less round than that of a goose or of a turkey. Yet it was upon you that the wise humorist fastened; it was you who were set apart to humiliate those who failed to score.

For the rest, you are the friend of man. In life you waddle around with the most charming insouciance, and when the fatal moment arrives, your gift of blending melodiously with sage and onions is beyond compare.

Peas be with you!

Stern and seemingly unapproachable, Msgr. E had an unsuspected ‘soft’ side. And though I must remember him for his sterling advice and guidance, it is the ‘postcard’ which recalls him most gladly to mind.

That Little Bit Extra

When I picked up my weekend treat – a brick of caramel ice-cream – from the vendor, I noticed that it was much larger than usual. Sure enough, a band across the width proclaimed 20% extra. Triple scoops instead of double – somebody up there must surely love me!

And the extras did not stop there: my toothpaste tube announced 20% more on its extended length, the carton of teabags stated emphatically that two additional bags had been included, the jar of Horlicks confirmed that 50 grams extra could be found inside, and the packet of cornflakes declared that I would find extra goodness along with, of course, 10% more of those nutritious, tasty, crispy, flakes. Every item had a little extra added on without the asking – joy indeed.

October has signed off and November has signed in and the preparations for Christmas will gather pace: cards to be bought, sweets to be made or ordered, cupboards to be turned out and not just of the home but also the heart – time to review the year’s clutter and to make some extra space for those that need it. This is the season which calls for extras: a little extra love tucked in to all that we do, a little extra time and attention to those that need it and to ourselves, a little extra in the envelopes for worthy causes. And so on.

Now, if only I could find that the 24-hour day has been granted a few hours more: with my to-do list also sporting several ‘extras’, a bonus hour or two would be the most welcome extra ever.

But, in the meantime and until that happens, I shall hie me off to tackle the tasks that await. A little extra exercise won’t come amiss and will help to accommodate the surplus ice-cream!

Love, the leitmotif

Two months, give or take a couple of days, to Christmas! How I love the season for all that it means.

Birthdays commemorate the day and celebrate the person as the infant grows into the child and the child grows into the teen and then the adult. We do not return, on the birthday, to the celebration of the newborn infant except at Christmas. Christmas is unique.

Across the globe, people of all ages, all nationalities, all cultures and all creeds are aware of this one day as no other. And it is not just because of the trappings - the tinsel, the tree, the gifts, the music, Santa Claus or even the spirit of giving - which permeate our lives; it is the gift of love embodied in the infant that was born in Bethlehem over 2000 years ago.

And this love is recalled to us so well in that evocative poem by Christina Rossetti:

Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, love divine;
Love was born at Christmas,
Star and angels gave the sign.

Worship we the Godhead,
Love incarnate, love divine;
Worship we our Jesus:
But wherewith for sacred sign?

Love shall be our token,
Love be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and all men,
Love for plea and gift and sign.

And the love of Christmas shall be the leitmotif in the days to come.

Our most precious asset

On Christmas Eve, after a month of cleaning and polishing and changing the furnishings, we eagerly unwrap the figures that make up the Nativity scene. It is most precious in our eyes and it is with the greatest reluctance that we confine it once more to its storage space after Epiphany.

Our first crib set, as a married couple, was a housewarming gift from a sister-in-law. Plaster of Paris is not the most durable of materials and though we were very careful, the crib soon wore battle scars – chips, nicks and peeling paint. And then baby Jesus lost his nose in a minor accident.

That was when we decided that we needed a new crib and it was the first item on our shopping list when we had the good fortune to visit Vienna.

We scoured every shop and paused at every window that carried a display and there were plenty of them even in the month of August. But the Nativity scenes on offer were either too expensive, too fragile or did not meet our idea of feature and colour. Just when disappointment seemed to be at its most crushing, a kindly nun directed us to a shop off an alley behind St. Stephen’s in the city. We decided to make one last foray and were rewarded beyond our wildest dreams.

The shop in question had on display the most exquisite hand carved wooden Nativity Scenes. The work of monks tucked away high in the Alps, each piece was finished right down to the tiniest detail. It was love at first sight. But when we heard the cost, our hearts sank: each individual piece carried a steep price tag and we needed several pieces to complete the picture that we had in mind.

The salesgirl must have been an extraordinary individual. She allowed us to handle each figure and take our time over it. Then, she suggested that we should pick out piece by piece the ones that we wanted and she would keep totting up the amount. And that is what we did. When our wallets had reached fraying point, we asked for the final total, counted out the Schillings (the Euro had not yet made its appearance) and hurried home with our precious package.

Back at the convent, where we were staying, we unpacked the figures, set them out on the dining table in the refectory and arranged them according to their appointed places. It was nearing dusk. A visitor picked up a lit candle in a little wooden stand and placed it near the crib. The parish priest brought out his guitar and we gathered around and sang Silent Night in its original German version – Stille Nacht, Heilige Nacht. The memory still gives me goose bumps: the joy and sharing of Christmas came to us early that year.

Most people invest in stocks and bonds and gold. We invested in love.

A Shift in the Season

The heat is stifling and the sweat factor seems to indicate that summer is still at its height, but this is October and as the evening shadows lengthen, and the darkness of night lingers on into the early morning hours, we know that winter is on the horizon.

And the onset of winter is a reminder that Christmas is coming. Christmas, that most wonderful time of the year!

As I scanned the books on offer on the British Council website, one title leapt out at me – ‘Letters from Father Christmas’ by J.R.R. Tolkien. Promptly requested and as promptly delivered, I now have some delight-filled reading in the week ahead.

It was not just the seasonal title that attracted me; I, too, have corresponded with Santa.

And here’s how it came about: a magazine I was browsing through featured a story about how children the world over wrote to and received letters from Mr. Claus. And, fortunately, the article also provided the address. Here is the letter I sent:

Dear Father Christmas:

It is so good to know that you are still around. Some people say that, like Tinkerbelle, you will exist so long as someone believes in you - well we believe in you and hope you'll be there forever.

In this strife torn world, it is consoling to know that at least once a year people the world over pause to remember, even if just for a day, that all men are brothers. Hopefully, sometime, somehow, somewhere this small spark that is kindled once a year will burst into flame and then it will truly be Christmas everyday! Till then, we look to your presence, which symbolises the spirit of love and caring, to make sure the spark is kindled again and again on this very special day - Christmas.

I am too old for toys but I have one request - a small friend of ours would be thrilled to receive a letter from you, so please write to….

May peace and joy come to you and also to Mrs. Claus, the Elves, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donder, Blitzen and Rudolph!

Cordially yours,

And here is the reply that was received:

Dear…

I am writing this letter to you surrounded by snow and the Northern lights of the Finnish Lapland. This is my very own place which my gnomes and I call Korvatunturi. Did you know, by the way, why I have always lived in Korvatunturi? Let me tell you a small secret: Korvatunturi is the only place where I can hear the wishes of all people from all parts of the world. That’s why this place is called Korvatunturi – it’s Finnish and means ‘Ear Mountain’ – and if someday you come here as my guest, you’ll see with your own eyes that it’s like a giant’s ear.

You can’t imagine the hustle and bustle going on here right now. From morning till night I read children’s letters and wishes and give instructions to my gnomes who then make and wrap thousands and thousands of Christmas presents. Often we blow out the candles only when we can tell from the position of the Northern lights that it’s past midnight. Then we take a short nap, but at exactly five o’clock in the morning we are up again, spooning up the delicious porridge cooked by Ma Christmas, only to resume our busy work for the day.

This time I have really happy news to tell you. In the midst of the nightless summer night, a cute little reindeer baby was born here. My gnomes promptly named him Baby Rudolf, because his nose glows red like a fire engine. This Christmas, Baby Rudolf is still too dainty to join me on my trip to distribute Christmas gifts, but maybe already next year you can see two red nosed reindeer in front of my sleigh; Rudolf the daddy and Rudolf the baby.

Finally, I would like to remind you of an extremely important thing: please remember to be kind to all people and animals, and to protect nature. If you promise to be nice, I promise to do my best so we all can have a real Christmas feeling in our hearts.

Jaulupukki (which is Finnish for Father Christmas!)

In Germany, they want to abolish Santa Claus as we know him because they feel that he is a far cry from St. Nicholas, the original on which he was modeled. No doubt, the Santa in the stores and malls is all about publicity and sales, and Christmas has acquired commercial overtones that have no real connect with the reason for the season. But that is our fault, not Santa’s. Perhaps a better alternative would be for children to be re-taught that Santa will bring them something only if they are good and do not indulge in the constant, insatiable chant of “I want!!”

It would be a sad day indeed when the big fat man in the jolly red suit is cancelled from the Christmas itinerary. A little bit of fantasy that ‘gladdens the heart of childhood everywhere’ can surely not be so wrong?

And if Santa aka Father Christmas is good enough for Tolkien, he is good enough for me!

Train of Thought

One of my favourite encounters in the Sherlock Holmes stories is when the famous detective follows accurately, as only he knows how, Dr. Watson’s train of thought.

Strange, isn’t it, how one thought can follow another till you end up at a wholly unexpected destination!

I love writing letters and I have penned quite a few in my middle-distance life. Not quite literary standard, they were still heartfelt communications. More than writing letters, I love receiving letters or reading letters written for others, which is why I pounced on the title Dear Girl, Dear Boy when it was offered by the library. It is a collection of letters written to children by their parents or siblings, most of them famous people. My favourite in the collection has to be the letter by James Thurber written in his trademark humour and the one by Virginia Woolf (yes!!) to a child from the child in the adult. The children of earlier times must have been extraordinarily precocious considering the expectations of their parents and the fact that some of the recipients ranged in age from 3 to 10!

The urge to communicate, for whatever reason, spreads across all species. Yes, even plants. Talk to them, ignore them and notice the difference. For us, humans, speech across the miles translated into letters (now sms and email!) which in turn gave rise to that mammoth enterprise, the postal system. Postage meant stamps which in turn gave birth to the world of Philately.

Little bits of colourful, sticky paper with serrated edges, stamps are magical things. They are the first step that sets in train the journey which sees your letters on their way. But more than that, they hold clues to history, natural history, geography, currency, culture, craft, music, the seasons and festivals (this list is very likely incomplete). Anyone who has collected stamps will know how to ‘read’ them. A friend, who is an enthusiast, has created a commentary around the sets in his collection, tracing the monuments in India , among other topics. Then there is also the story behind the creation of the stamp and the creator/artist. Sadly, a few generations down the line, stamps may soon go the way of dinosaurs.

My husband started collecting somewhat late in life. Christmas being his favourite time of year, it falls to his lot to open the cards and so he started noticing the stamps: each one with a different message on a theme, depending on the country of origin. He started preserving them. Word got round and friends and family helped to add to his collection. And what a pretty collection it is too: pictures of Christmas in tiny square or rectangle reminding us of good tidings and great joy. Of no particular value other than sentiment, we look at the stamps together and remember the cards to which they were attached and also their senders.

I wonder if Sherlock would have unraveled this train of thought!

Christmas in July

Christmas is our favourite time of year, and the countdown begins once we cross the halfway mark on the calendar. As early as that? Yes. Call us crazy!

This is the time when crochet patterns for Christmas start appearing on the Net and when my fingers get itchy to experiment with hook and yarn, needle and embroidery floss. What will this year’s theme be?

Last year it was snowflakes. There were patterns galore to be sourced from the Net and from instructions collected over the years. As each little scrap of lace took shape, excitement began to build and from the many, a few personal favourites were selected and worked upon. Soon, I had a little ‘snowstorm’ as my workbasket filled. Come November, I had reached my target and all that was left was to send the snowflakes on their way where they would, hopefully, grace the branches in homes here and across the globe.

This year the tussle is between a Christmas tree, a bonnet and a heart. All three are delightful, easy to make and a joy to behold. So far, the tree is a frontrunner with the bonnet and heart coming a close second and third.

So, which will it be? Wait and see!