HAPPY KNITTING

Several years ago my husband had to undergo surgery, and I wanted to have something for him to be a sort of comfort. A blanket came to mind. It needed to be something bright, something cheerful. Different. Happy.  And so the idea of the Happy Blanket was born. He loved it, and so did everybody else. I’ve made many since then, and happily given them all away. There’s always one on my needles.

I decided not to overthink the blanket. The idea came from Magic Ball Knitting which I rather enjoy, but I’d not until then made anything as large as a blanket or an afghan using this technique.

There’s something joyful about a colorful knitted piece. At least it is to me, but then I do really enjoy bright colors. And the fact that this is such easy knitting makes me all the more happy. My Happy Knitting pieces are not pretentious, they’re not sophisticated, and yet I’m greatly surprised at people’s reaction to them.

Exuberant shawls, wraps and scarves began to spring to life as fast as I could wind sunny little balls of textured color. And that’s the point of my Happy Knitting – I love the knots. I make no attempt to hide them. This is carefree knitting at its best. A dropped stitch? It’s not going to get very far, though of course it’s good to keep a count of your stitches.

Making the balls is all part of the fun. I certainly do use up leftover bits – happy memories of knitting projects – but I cut lengths from my yarn stash. This is not exactly a small one, due in part to my tendency to collect just one ball of yarn where I can as a travel souvenir. My Happy Knitting yarn balls are full of stories of where and when and how the yarn was acquired, and of fond thoughts of the people connected to them.

This is my Grab ‘n’ Go knitting – ideal for driving in the car or situations where I can’t concentrate too much. It’s trouble free, uncomplicated, and the results are most satisfying.

A Happy Scarf cheers me up instantly on the dullest day – and the winter seems to have made a point of being as grayly dreary as possible this year. It’s also a great conversation starter as I’m often asked where I got it. A few brave souls have even been given a brief tutorial!

My Happy Vest has proved very useful – it goes with anything.>

The cats have been as helpful as always while we attempted to photograph a few items here on the Pelion Peninsula. The newest rescue, Haig, is rather taken with his Happy Cat Toy, and slowly learning to trust us.

Jason did his quiet duty as always, quite unperturbed by Olly’s curiosity.

Raki – not to be confused with Olly – is slowing down quite a bit now, and prefers to spend his time snuggled in a Happy Shawl. I reckon he’s got the right idea.

Thanks to my friend Dawn Cusick who provided me the photo of the Happy Blanket I made for her; shown on her balcony in North Carolina.

WE’RE SIX WEEKS OLD…AND LIFE’S REALLY GOOD

Zeus

 Hi, this is me, Zeus, and I thought I’d tell you a bit about us and what’s going on here in the Ham household of Kalamos. Our mum, Bella, hasn’t got round to telling us who was born first, but Cathy, our nice human mummy, seems to think I’m Number One around here. Well, in our puppy world, I am. Seems that pesky white cat with the grey blob on his head and that short grey tail is important to the humans here. Raki, I believe he’s called. Anyway, I don’t mind him ‘cos I’m bigger than he is and he’ll find that out soon enough if he bugs me too much.

I love our humans. We all do. We can’t wait to see them in the morning, and we hate to see them go after they put us to bed at night. They are always very kind to us. They stroke us and tickle us, and say all kinds of nice things to us. They play a lot with us, and tell us how clever we are, and that they’re amazed we’re so calm and not frightened by loud noises. This is true – we’re not scared of people and other stuff because nobody’s ever been nasty to us. But our mother tells us that not all doggies are as lucky as we are, and though she doesn’t talk about it much, we’ve come to understand that mum didn’t always have the nice life she has here now.

Zorba

Zorba’s my best buddy. He’s very like me. He thinks like I do, and always wants to do what I’m doing. It’s such good fun to have a pal like him. I don’t know who’s going to be bigger – me or him – but he doesn’t try to be the top dog around here. He’s very nice to Zoe, who’s the smallest of us.

Zoe

She loves him and runs behind him a lot, but she’s more careful than he and I are, and watches and thinks before she does something. Our humans think that’s a very nice quality she has. She’s very pretty, our little Zoe, and very gentle, and she likes to play with us.

Zelda

Zelda’s like that too. She and Zoe are our baby sisters, and we love them, and we look after them, but they aren’t the same size and shape as us. Our humans tell each other that Zoe and Zelda have a different father to us, and that they will be just like our mum, Bella. I don’t know about this fathers stuff – we just know our mom and we’re only interested in her. She really is the bestest mom.

Zza Zza

Zza Zza, it seems from what our humans say, has the same father that Zorba and I have. She’s smaller than we are, but that’s apparently because she’s a girl and won’t be quite as big as we are. But she’s not a sissy girl, for sure she’s not, because she does just exactly what Zorba and I do, and she often has even better ideas than we do. Our Cathy mom tells Ron that’s because Zza Zza’s a girl – this makes her more clever than us boys. I don’t know about that but Zza Zza is always up for anything. We love all this exploring!

There’s such a lot to do around here. You can’t get bored, and now that we’re not sleeping as much as we used to do, there’s all kinds of things we’re learning about. Especially the cats.

They have a lot of cats, these Hams, but this one doesn’t like us much. His name is Mythos, and he’s old and grumpy, and he’s actually quite big, so we leave him alone. Zza Zza hasn’t learnt yet that it’s best if we don’t bother him.

Zoe and Zorba are pals, but I have a lot of time for Zelda. She’s grown up a lot lately, and is not so timid. She thinks I’m a very nice big brother, and I try very hard to be, but I have to keep remembering that she’s little and make sure not to stand on her.

  Zelda often gets too crowded when we’re eating, so Cathy tries to give her a plate of her own.

But sometimes I try to take it from her, and she always lets me. Yes, I know I’m bad, I know I shouldn’t, but Cathy always has lots and lots of our special puppy food she makes us, so nobody is ever hungry.

There’s this sort of water place where we love to play around now that we’re big enough to climb in and out of it. The best fun is when Ron turns on that thing that lets the water run out and we can chomp on it.

This morning I found this lovely chew thing and I kept it quietly to myself, hoping the others wouldn’t notice.

No chance!

  

THE ZED-TEAM

ZEUS

Zeus stood out from the others almost immediately, not only by virtue of his colouring, but because of his striking personality. He’s so distinctly the leader of the group that Zeus is a name truly befitting him. And it’s also somehow appropriate that he’s the biggest of the gang. At least, so far he is. He’s quite fearless, and very inquisitive. I foresee much mischief!

ZORBA

Zorba is the other male. He and Zeus are great pals, often together which doubtless means they’ll be partners in crime. They are similar in size and shape, very broad of shoulder and beam, with sturdy legs and thick tails. They almost certainly have the same dad – he must be quite big –  but goodness only knows who he is and where he is. Bella was pregnant when she arrived at our house, and where she came from is also unknown. We are outside of the village, and there are no other dogs around us here, so I guess their dad might even have been some distance away.

Zorba’s a happy, happy little guy. He runs about all over the place, wanting to play with the others. But most of all he wants to be petted. He only has to hear my voice to come scampering along, wriggling between my feet, tail going like a little windmill. Scratch his back, behind his ears and he’s beside himself with delight. Put him down and he begs to be picked up again. He’ll be a most devoted pet. No question. They will all be, for each one is affectionate and contented.

Freddie came back today from Albania where he’d gone to spend Easter with the family. When he left, the puppies were six days old. To say Freddie was astonished at their growth is something of an understatement. Zorba ran straight up to him, and wanted to be friends. I think that’s amazing at only four weeks of age, and shows what a trusting and friendly doggie Zorba is.

ZOE

Zoe, one of the three girls, seemed at first to be of the same father as Zeus and Zorba, but is smaller. Now as she grows, I’m not so sure for her tail is more slender than theirs, and her head not as square. She’s very fond of her brothers and makes a point of being around them. Zoe means life in Greek, and she’s certainly full of life. She’s a solid fawn colour with just a titch of white on the paws, and a little white bib. Some darker hair is beginning to appear on her back, so maybe she will change colour as she grows. It’s hard to tell. She’s as well adjusted as her brothers, though the girls are not quite as strong as they.

ZZA ZZA

Zza Zza has a teensy tip of white on her ever-wagging tail. She’s very particular about where she’ll lie down, and very dainty when she eats. It’s quite funny to watch her. She doesn’t like to be spattered with food by the boys who are rather rambunctious in their eating habits, rushing from plate to plate as they do in their eagerness to stick their noses into everybody’s business.

Why did I call her Zza Zza? For some reason the late Zza Zza Gabor flashed into my mind as I watched the fastidious doggie trying to brush puppy food off her face. Miss Gabor was always immaculately groomed – and quite a character she was – so Bella’s little girl has been named for her.

ZELDA

Zelda is different. Freddie says she’s a hunting dog, whereas her siblings are mostly Greek sheepdog. Certainly Zelda has a different shape, a smaller head, a longer, thinner tail, and the brown markings typically seen on the hounds here on the Pelion. She’s the smallest of all the pups, leaner in build, and a little less adventurous, but is happy and thriving.

She’ll sit quietly in the kennel, watching and pondering, and then, after much consideration, she’ll join in all the fun; it seems she’s of a philosophical bent. Why Zelda? Zelda Fitzgerald was the wife of F. Scott Fitzgerald, author of The Great Gatsby. She was a complicated person, greatly talented and very high spirited – different, one could say. So yes, I’ve called Bella’s smallest pup Zelda, but that’s not to imply that she’ll have the tragic life Zelda Fitzgerald did, but rather that she marches to a different drum.

Never a dull moment here!

And who was perhaps the most delighted of all to welcome Freddie back?

Raki, of course.

 

A SWIM-ALONG

We were lingering over our caffeine this morning, and were discussing how quiet the Gulf has been – scarcely a boat have we seen this season – when Ron said: “What’s that on the water?” I looked out at the Pag and saw three canoes, in fairly close proximity to each other, heading across in front of the house. Each canoe was escorting a swimmer.

“Must be some kind of training exercise,” I suggested. “For the Olympics perhaps?” A fourth canoe appeared around the headland to our left, with its accompanying swimmer moving along at an impressive clip.

Before too long, more and more swimmers came by, each one with his or her helper in a brightly coloured canoe. Quite eye-catching. Some of the athletes were superb – scarcely rippling the water – and beautiful to watch. Others were perhaps a little less graceful in their strokes, but all were obviously very strong swimmers. We couldn’t tell from where they’d come, but it was from some distance further down the Pelion Peninsula. Milina perhaps?

We watched for some time, moving from window to window to take photos. Raki, as you’ll note, was bored with the whole thing, and made it quite clear.

Mythos watched our antics at the window from below, but showed no inclination to join us. I think he was keeping an eye on Grappa who was hiding under a bush – he torments her horribly. He’s old and cranky and resents the youngsters.

Dolphins appeared a little further out, and kept pace for a while with the canoes and swimmers. I was expecting them to come closer – they often follow a boat – but they weren’t as curious this morning as they usually are.

I checked the local newspapers online, but could find no reference to this rather fascinating exercise. The participants must be in very fine shape for they covered a considerable distance before disappearing beyond the headland into Afissos. Marathon swimmers, I would guess.

I wasn’t asked to participate – they probably feared the competition.

RAKI – ALWAYS ON TOP OF THINGS

With all the attention recently seeming to focus on the latest furry additions to the household, some of you have been asking if the other cats have been sidelined.

Hardly! Retsina and Ouzo are now almost twelve, and still as standoffish to the other cats as ever – they spend most of their time on various beds and armchairs these days. Mythos is ten, doing perfectly fine considering the poor prognosis he was given as a desperately ill kitten and Raki is nine.

While ‘Sina, Ooze and Mythos are beginning to show age, with Ouzo in particular being quite arthritic, the little white horror is just as lively and demanding as always. He misses nothing, is involved in everything, expresses his opinion loudly and frequently and is absolutely adored by us both. One tries not to have favorites, but….

Remember him?

To this day he seems unaware that he’s a cat and we believe he imprinted on us. He behaves very differently to the others, disdaining all contact with them. He cannot bear to be parted from human company and is extremely inquisitive, always needing to be involved in whatever’s going on. He has an opinion on everything and all but speaks.

Yes, I know we’re besotted, but he’s unique among the scores of cats I’ve ever been owned by.

 

EXTENDED FAMILY?

At last count the number of cats on the property, including our longtime pets Retsina, Ouzo, Mythos and Raki, is now 10. The Cappuccino Twins

and poor little Bud

were here when we arrived back. The twins are permanent residents, as is Brandy, initially called Mama/Papa for we weren’t sure at first what relation he is to the now teenagers.

Some of the original homeless ones have vanished – presumably gone back into Kalamos village as people arrive to take up residence in holiday homes. At least I hope so and it’s not because they have met a grisly end.

We have fortunately managed to trap and neuter two of those remaining, but they are very wary and hardly ever venture out of the forest. They will always be feral as it’s long past the time they could be socialized but at least they won’t reproduce, and are fed.

There’s a third cat, though, who has been coming and going, and had been absent for quite a while. But she, and yes quite obviously it’s a she, bulging with kittens, started showing up again a few weeks ago.

I’d catch glimpses of her at the food bowls, or hear Raki protesting loudly – he is not at all fond of trespassers on his property. The cat’s very nervous and it’s taken me quite a while to even approach her, but hunger clearly reduces her inhibitions, and she’ll eat rapidly while gazing warily about her.

She disappeared again for several days, during which time I became convinced she must have had her kittens, for she had been so heavily pregnant that her belly would drag on the ground while she ate. She has returned, no longer pregnant and absolutely ravenous.

Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s had a large litter, and maybe it’s not her first. Freddie maintains she’s the sister of Bud, the twins and one of the teenagers which has vanished. Could well be the case for the twins aren’t bothered by her and she’s pretty much the same size as them. Same coffee color also, but could she actually be their mother?

She’s come each morning in the last three days. I have to keep a close eye out for her as Mythos is determined that she must leave – he’s rather ugly to her in fact – and so I have to grab and lock him up while she eats, much to his irritation.

What I’m hoping is that she’ll bring the kittens over from wherever she’s hiding them. Then they can be handled and get used to humans, and that means I can get them homes through PAWS

I’ve warned Ron that should there be a tortoiseshell in the litter, it’s mine. I fervently hope so for I’m a devoted fan of the tortie. In fact, I cannot remember a time without a tortie in the household – my Mother adored them also.

Should this cat stay we’ll neuter her as soon as the kittens are weaned, and I suppose she’ll inevitably be named Shandy.

 

GET MY DRIFT?

COMMUNICATION: a process by which information is exchanged between individuals through a common system of symbols, signs, or behavior

As previously mentioned Costa and I do a lot of talking in various combos of Greek and Albanian. He speaks a fair Greek considering he learnt as an adult when he came here from Albania in search of work.

Kids usually learn a new language so much more quickly than adults do, but it’s amazing how much can be communicated by just a few words, and the universal language of hands. Pointing, waving, gesturing help quite a bit to get a point across.

“So,” says Costa, “I cut down your oleanders. That’s upset you?”

“Well, yes, seeing they were flourishing and seemed always to be in bloom.”

“They’ll grow,” asserts Costa, “they needed it.”

“But I didn’t tell you to cut them back,” I respond.

“Well then, cut me down,” he jokes, making ghastly throat cutting actions. “I’m Albanian. We had the Ottomans. We know about that.”

“Stop! Just stop!” I say, shuddering. He’s been making these jokes for years. We used to laugh, but now in the light of recent horrors they can’t even be thought of.  I throw up my hands as we play through the familiar pantomime. “Do what you like, Costa, do what you like.”

He grins and goes off into the garden, whistling.

His cheerful whistling is another form of communication for it usually brings at least one of the cats and dogs running. No words needed. It’s probably also a very polite way of Costa pointing out that he’s won. Again!

When it comes to people trying to communicate in a foreign language it’s invariably a game of hands. Some cultures ‘speak’ with hands more than others though, and family and friends tell me they can tell what language I’m speaking just by watching my hand movements. I’m not conscious of it, I must say, but it’s interesting to know.

The hand raised in greeting is one of the most ancient forms of non-verbal communication. It’s universal, and when accompanied by smiles it’s clearly friendly. The classic STOP hand signal might however have all manner of connotations, from a warning of danger ahead to a very definite “Get the #$!* out of here!” The accompanying body language often establishes the context.

I had a wonderful conversation in Izmir with this lovely fellow and his companions. We laughed, we smiled, we made hand gestures. None of us had the faintest idea what was being said. It didn’t matter a bit. What was being said was that we were having a grand old time just being. They were all such good ambassadors for their country; it’s distressing to think of what’s happening there now.

It’s probably not escaped your notice that I love to knit. And yes, I guess I do go on about it. A bit.  Yarn and needles are a language spoken worldwide. There can’t be many countries where the language of knitting isn’t known, where yarn and its attributes and possibilities are not at the very least a dialect.

I have been fortunate to meet knitters in many countries. We have an instant connection – we communicate instinctively without any words. Non-verbal communication is more than adequate when the topic is knitting. The hands and eyes can explain whatever it is you want to know about a technique.

Diagrams and symbols, yet another form of non-verbal communication, can be jotted down and carried with you to be studied again and again, and can be passed on to others.

Those who speak knitting are often oblivious to the lack of verbal communication. The spoken language barrier is of no consequence. Demonstrations, the show-and-tell and the tactile signals translate without any effort from those participating in the discussion.

I have never failed to make an instant connection with a knitter whose language I do not speak. I have never been treated with anything but the utmost courtesy, delight and enthusiasm. I have been warmly embraced, offered refreshment and have often had a gift pressed upon me.

The hands that show me new ways to knit are the same hands that pat mine approvingly when I master some fabulous new technique. The hands that patiently guide my awkward ones are the same hands that would probably like to shake me as I blunder along.

Without my hands and eyes I am reduced. With only my voice to communicate I would be diminished. This photograph of my friend quite literally in touch with a blind man had me close to tears when I took it. They had no common language, but the gentleman could ‘see’ her, he told me, and could tell she’s a very good woman. Communication with no need for words.

The very, very young typically have enormous eyes, a feature designed to appeal to the protective instincts of adults of that species. That demon Raki is a case in point, and coupled with his pathetic little cries he had no trouble communicating his desperate need for care. We fell for it!

So did Mythos, who communicated a great deal of loving care to the infant Raki, and interesting that he recognized Raki posed no threat to his position as dominant male cat.

Non-verbal forms of communication such as signs and symbols written in some manner on a surface that can be preserved convey information of every conceivable type, in every language from the most ancient to the very latest graffiti.

Nothing new about graffiti though – we’ve been making marks where we shouldn’t for aeons.

Messages can be communicated in coded symbols by various means, as witness the tally of guillotined heads entered into the knitting of the fictional Madame Defarge. The methods of passing on info through symbols range from messages worked into textiles, from smoke signals to flags, from piled up rocks to carvings on trees and from word and number play to fires and flashing lights. Such communications are limited only by man’s imagination, and that the intended recipient must know the code.

Music and dance are modes of communication with roots almost as ancient as man himself.

Dances are often codified forms of expressing the record of a culture, as this example of traditional dance from the Pelion village of Trikeri shows.

Costumes, simple or elaborate, body painting and various markings used by countless peoples throughout recorded history contain information of importance, not only to the group, but to anthropologists and other academics who might be engaged in studying them.

The objects carried by this Archbishop of the Greek Orthodox Church are visual communications, as are the traditional robes, which serve to establish his standing in the hierarchy. These symbols are non-verbal communications of his authority and understood by all who are part of the particular community. So powerful are these symbols that even foreigners understand the implications.

Language and other means of communication have interested me for a long time, ever since I was a small child living in a variety of cultures. I’ve been fortunate to have written a book about language and communication so that kids might enjoy it too.

https://www.quartoknows.com/books/9781633221550/You-Talking-to-Me.html?direct=1

His Sultanship

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Computer “Help”
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Just Resting
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Just Resting ….. Some More
Many of you know that Raki is a much adored, much indulged cat who genuinely doesn’t appear to know he is a cat. We fancy that he believes himself to be one of us. Like us. He certainly has no idea how to interact with the other cats of the household, and holds himself aloof from them. Perhaps this is because he was hand-reared, but it also has to do with his personality.

Cats have been part of my life, all my life. There’s a photo of me sitting up in my pram in Scotland – one of those gorgeous large carriages, all wood trim and huge wheels – with a tabby cat asleep at the foot of it. I adore cats, I like to think I understand cats, my childhood home was filled with cats. I was enthralled by the stories my Mother told me of cats she had owned, of cats she had known of, of cats which had featured in tales she in turn had been told in lands far away and foreign to me at the time.

Raki is unique. Not because we are besotted with him, not because we are slowly going dotty, but because of his behaviour which enchants all who see him, even those who are not typically lovers of cats. It’s often said that cats are standoffish, that they aren’t faithful and companionable like dogs, but that can never be said of Raki. He’s deeply affectionate, has the most delightful quirks, and is devoted to us, particularly to Ron. He’s always very close to us, following us everywhere; we never have to search for him.

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Nap Time
A few weeks ago, Costa’s daughter came down from Albania to visit her husband who is working here on the Pelion Peninsula, and accompanied him daily to assist with his work in the fields. Marieklena speaks little Greek, but she speaks the language of yarn. Fluently. Her workworn hands were busy every spare moment in the evenings; crochet is her thing, and she’s an expert.

Marieklena was charmed by Raki, and told us of other Van cats like him in Albania, for of course these cats came to Albania from Turkey as they did to Greece. She returned to Albania with hubby Freddie last week – a few days break for him to see his children. Freddie came back last night, bringing gifts from the family – Costa’s extended, generous and gracious family – but the most important gift is for Raki. Mariklena made it, and sent it with explicit instructions that it is only for him so that he might sleep on bedding fit for a sultan, which is what we occasionally refer to him as.

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Freddie explained that Mariklena made the pompons* so that he’d have something to play with. I admit I was overcome, and clearly so was Raki for he wasted not a minute climbing on it when I spread it out, and fell instantly asleep.

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Immediately
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Three Minutes Later
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As the Day Passed
* Apparently the pompons are created on a wooden device, hand carved for the purpose, which is traditional in Albania.  Mariklena uses a very old one made by an ancestor of Costa’s family. Such an item is new to me and I can’t wait to examine it.

“LET’S JUST HAVE A QUIET DAY…”

January 6th is an important feast day in the calendar of the Greek Orthodox church. It’s a public holiday, a day when friends and families gather after the religious ceremonies to celebrate. Restaurants and tavernas bustle with cheerful patrons, kids dash about. It’s winter here, so there’s good excuse to warm up with a glass or two of tsipouro, that drink for which this area is renowned.  And yes, if occasionally some over-enthusiastic reveller should imbibe more than good manners call for, it’s all taken in stride. Greeks are open hearted, friendly people who enjoy a social occasion, though goodness knows they have little to celebrate these days.

The day dawned with some cloud and enough sun to show promise of reasonably good weather, instead of the dreary chill that’s typical here in January.
“Would you like to go out?” Ron asked. “Shall we go see the cross being thrown in Milina?”
I debated. It’s interesting to watch the wild leaps off the waterfront into the icy Pagasitic by those who, to me at least, have a death wish as they seek to retrieve the cross. The restaurants would be open – a chance to have a meal for they are typically closed in the depth of winter.
“Nah,” I replied after a bit of thought, “let’s just have a quiet day.”

Ron wandered off to chat to some fishermen down on the rocks.
“They’ve managed to catch an octopus,” he told me when he returned. “Not sure if they’ll have much more luck.”
I was at my computer, Raki on my lap, when the doorbell rang. We weren’t expecting anybody. Removing the protesting Raki, I went to answer it. A rather agitated man greeted me and explained that he had been fishing on the rocks. Thinking he wanted Ron, I invited him in.
“No, no,” he said, “it’s my brother. He’s hurt. I need to call a taxi.”
Confusion reigned for a few seconds, but I soon realized that his brother was seated on a low stone wall in the garden, surrounded by a pile of clothing and fishing gear. Calling out to Ron, I rushed over to investigate.

It appears that the injured man, the younger of the brothers, had fallen from a height onto the rocks, and that his brother had managed to carry him on his back up to the house. Quite a feat, let me tell you.

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The poor chap was in considerable pain, unable to walk, clutching his arm and apologising profusely for the trouble he was causing. Hardly. I fetched a blanket to cover him, though he kept maintaining he wasn’t cold, and a large cushion to rest his clearly broken arm upon.

After a rapid conversation we established that the injured man had driven his car to a village some distance away, and that they had then walked along the shoreline. They are Albanian, speak very good Greek and insisted in speaking only Greek to each other as “It’s very impolite to speak in a language you don’t understand, kyria (madam),” they declared. I was very touched.

The older brother can’t drive, it turned out, but he assured me that if I’d only call a taxi to take them to their car, he’d manage to drive to medical help.
“Not a chance,” we said. “you have no licence. Only imagine the police! And anyway, we’ll drive you to the Health Centre in Argalasti.”
Then it struck me.
“Are you here legally?” I asked in some trepidation, for if they weren’t, it would be unwise to take them to a hospital for fear of the medical staff being constrained to inform the authorities.
“Yes, yes,” they assured us, “we’re here 20 years and have all our papers.”
Phew. I’d already been running the names of doctors we know through my mind, planning to ask for help, knowing that the Hippocratic oath would be honoured and few questions asked.

I called our beloved Costa to inform him of the situation and see if he was nearby. He was and arrived at a run a few minutes later to engage in anxious conversation with the brothers. I insisted they speak Albanian while we debated our options. Older brother asked if we could give injured brother (I confess their names escaped me in the confusion) some water, but I explained I was reluctant to do so, or give an aspirin, lest surgery be required. At this point older brother delved into his bag and produced the unfortunate aforementioned octopus which he tried to press upon me.
“No, no! Thank you very much, but no!” I responded as politely as I could, though I confess I’d recoiled; Costa later told me that my face was a picture.

We prepared to drive to Argalasti. The back of the Suzuki was loaded up with their kit, Costa insisting on going along, and managing the operation like a field marshall, while I fetched my cell ‘phone and locked Raki in the house.  We got the patient into the car with some difficulty. He couldn’t walk, and was in severe pain, not to mention badly shocked.
“Don’t bother to get your ‘phone,” I told Ron, “we’re only going to the Health Centre so we don’t need two ‘phones.”

We made slow progress through the rough, muddy roads until we reached the tarred road, Ron driving as carefully as he could to avoid jolting the injured man. He, poor dear, was an interesting shade of green, clutching tightly on to the plastic bags I’d brought along in case of need. But he didn’t require them. Wedged tightly between his brother and the door with his eyes closed, he spoke only when I’d enquire how he was doing.

Costa kept up an excited stream of chatter in Albanian all the while, pausing briefly now and then to pass on some bit of info to me, in Greek.
“They’re from the north of Albania; they’re not from my region; they were young when they came to Greece; they have good jobs; they are married; they have children; they love fishing; he (the injured one) usually fishes alone; thank goodness his brother was with him today.” Yes, indeed.

We finally made it to the Health Centre in Argalasti, where I was relieved to notice an ambulance parked; often it happens that no ambulance is available. I knew that the injured man would need to go to the Volos hospital, as there’s no X-ray machine in Argalasti, which is not much more now in the present economic situation than a triage centre, a field hospital really. And jolly good it is too, with excellent staff exhibiting a degree of care and concern that cannot be faulted.

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I went in to explain, and immediately a young doctor came out with a wheelchair to take our patient into a treatment room. It wasn’t long before I was told that the ankle was broken, and possibly also the tibia, not to mention multiple fractures of the left arm (the miracle was that he didn’t land on his head) and yes, he needed to go to Volos. As well, Ron and I told each other, that the ambulance was there. Ah, yes, the ambulance…actually, we were informed, there was no driver available. Oh boy. We stood gazing at the fanciful representation of Chiron,  exceptional centaur and healer who lived on Mt Pelion, while we discussed the situation.

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“Look,” Ron said, “we hadn’t planned on going anywhere. I’ll pay for a taxi, and we can go home.”
Costa was rather disappointed that he wouldn’t be going to Volos; no point in a second taxi fare. Easier said than done though. Epiphany, remember? No taxi available. In the midst of the decision making, my cell phone rang.
“Where are you?” queried my friend Loula. “I keep calling the house and you don’t reply.”
“I’m at the Health Centre,” I responded just as the ‘phone let out an ear splitting sound, and went dead. I mean dead. Not run-out-of battery dead, but dead. Finished. No more. Kaput. Completely, and for ever. Dang!

“OK, we’ll take him into Volos,” Ron told the assembly and went off to bring the car round to the entrance. We all piled back in; reality struck. Ordinarily a trip to Volos would entail some shopping. Not today. Nothing open but eating places. Sure, we could take our new friends to the hospital, and the three of us could have a meal. With me dressed as I was? Fat chance! I’d left the house in ancient baggy pants, T-shirt and distressed sweater, odd socks on feet thrust into elderly clogs – I resembled a survivor of a shipwreck.

“Give me your ‘phone, “ I said to Ron as we drove along, our patient fortunately dozing as a result of the painkiller injections he’d received.
“I’d better call Loula and explain. She’ll be very alarmed that we were at the Health Centre.”
“I didn’t bring it.” he replied, “Remember?”
“Here,” offered Costa, “use mine.”
I took it, and called Loula at home. No reply. Then I remembered she’d be out. I also realised I simply couldn’t remember her mobile number, and that the number was on my defunct ‘phone. Oy vey.

The trip to Volos hospital took some 40 mins; happy crowds milled about in the coastal eateries, and around the hospital. We pulled up to the emergency entrance

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where Ron dropped our little group while he drove off to find a parking place. We walked in to the crowded emergency area where the patient was immediately taken through for treatment, Costa accompanying him. I remained while his brother gave the necessary details to the receptionist. It took no time at all before he and I could join the others. Our patient had already been whisked off to X-ray. There was nothing more for Costa and me to do but exchange telephone numbers with big brother, and insist that no, I wasn’t going to take the money he offered for petrol, and nor was Costa going to accept any for the time he’d lost from his day labour.

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It was mid-afternoon before we finally got back home. What a relief to rustle up a sandwich and make a strong cup of tea after a day of broken bones, broken ‘phones. Big brother called later to bring us up to date. Little brother had been admitted to the hospital, with multiple fractures confirmed and surgery scheduled for the next morning.

Oh, I almost forgot: It was my birthday.

 

A FEATHERY CHRISTMAS FEASTING

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The weather here on the Pelion is weird, as I’ve already mentioned in “EATING BREAD AND HONEY…” and is a major topic of discussion. Everyone has an opinion, everyone has a tale to tell of weather past, present and future. Some predictions are dire: “Well do I remember the winter of 19-whichever…; how we suffered in 20-whatever…” accompanied by heavy sighs and headshaking. The audience falls respectfully silent and the prophet of doom is gratified. Souls of more cheerful disposition take an optimistic view: “Isn’t the sun wonderful? It will surely continue, so enjoy!”

There are reasons for the seasons though, and much as we revel in the unexpected warmth, it really shouldn’t be so. We need rain, and we need it badly. We need snow, snow that will melt gradually and replenish the water table. We need some freezing to control pests which will otherwise inflict themselves on man, beast and plant in the hot months. Perhaps it’s reassurance that we need the most in these turbulent times; things do not stay the same, not even the weather.

Nature is also confused, blooming far too early – one can’t help but wonder if she’s about to get a stinging rebuke. Probably.

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Fruit and blossom on the same tree in late December
The bougainvillea beyond the kitchen window should have been bare weeks ago, but is putting out new flowers as though challenging the elements. Bees, wasps, hornets and great big bumblebees are busily buzzing and bumbling all through the short daylight hours.

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Can you see the bumblebee?
It’s strange to hear excited twittering in the branches at this time of year. Migrant birds have long since arrived to build numerous nests among the colour, jostling with the resident sparrows, all seemingly unaware that their shelter might be devastated by a north wind as sudden as it’s vicious.

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Caution! Fledglings
I put seed out for the birds each day

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and although Raki regards this as his own personal playground, his half-hearted attempts to assert himself are largely ignored by the nimble birds who retreat in a flash to the branch and leaf of safety.

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Hope springs eternal
There they hide, chittering at him until he loses interest and retreats to the comfort of an armchair. The sentry bird up in the olive tree trills the all-clear, and back the feasters come.

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The weather will surely change, these birds will move house and take up residence throughout the property, and I will continue to provide seed for them. But Nature is cruel, and some of these birds will be food for the raptors. Life goes on.

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