Excitement is…….
Xiphoid process is for
Cheer and Charm were…
Intention speaks…….
Thought-provoking sparks…
Enthused about…..
Magnetism doesn’t get…….
Experience of……
Naughty and nice….
Tasty treats tempt us….
“Nothing great was ever achieved without enthusiasm.”
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson
This was a disturbing and compelling read. Compelling because Ben McIntyre told one story of World War II: the prison camps, the treatment of prisoners, the attempts to get food supplies in by the Red Cross, the underground networks of resistance fighters in towns, villages and abroad. Disturbing because of the parallels I could see to any war zone, and specifically to today’s global troubles.
In October 1939, the German Army established OFlag IV C prisoner of war camp in Colditz Castle. It held the most recalcitrant and defiant Allied prisoners. The intent of most of the prisoners was escape. Ben McIntyre takes us inside Colditz to tell us all the ways and means that the men used to attempt to escape. Only a few were successful and one man was shot in his attempt to escape. This book is complete with photos of the men, maps of the inside of Colditz Castle, maps of Europe with the escape routes and the many hidden rooms, the various pieces of paper and wood used for the construction of identification cards and fake guns. Besides the escape attempts, there was a wide range of activities for entertainment: plays and lectures put on by the prisoners. Due to a lack of women, men were dressed and dolled up for parts that required a woman. Some prisoners, called the Prominente, were Allied soldiers of good parentage or stature believed to be ‘bargaining chips’. They were given their own tiny rooms, got marginally better food and were carefully protected from escape.
In 1945, the Allied prisoners traded places with their jailers as the war was coming to an end. The American troops, young men in their 20’s, were approaching the castle preparing an assault to overtake it, when they realized that the men in charge were the Allied prisoners. The German soldiers were turned over without a shot being fired to the arriving American troops.
The photo on the front of the book cover is of six of the men who did survive Colditz Castle. Their post war history is also included at the end of the book. Author Ben McIntyre’s writing held my attention and my interest. It was not all about escape but about the characteristics of the men on either side of the war.
“In the intimate confines of Colditz, that enemy was becoming ever more familiar. On a battlefield, the foe is anonymous.
In a prison, he has a face, a name and a personality.”
~ Ben McIntyre, Prisoners of the Castle,
An Epic Story of Survival and Escape from Colditz,
The Nazi’s Fortress Prison
Title: Prisoners of the Castle: An Epic Story of Survival and Escape from Colditz, The Nazi’s Fortress Prison
Author: Ben McIntyre
Copyright: 2022
Publisher: Penguin Random House
Format: Hard copy
Type: Historical non-fiction
ISBN: 978-0-7710- 0198-0
ebook ISBN: 978-0-7710- 0198-7
Age, quite simply,
is but a number.
A number I quite approve of,
like the number on a calendar,
on a list,
telephone numbers,
street numbers and
anything counts.
We do count our days,
the weeks that pass,
the years that add up but ~
we sometimes fail to add up
the experiences of each of those days.
Most are not momentous,
some bring stunning joy,
some deep sorrows,
many days just ordinary but all
are the warp and weft of life
Age, quite simply, is but a number.
The beauty of age is the fabric
that has been woven for good or ill.
“Weave beautifully your small thread in the grand tapestry.”
~ Gordon B. Hinckley
(1910 - 2008)
All life that flows from
everyone and everything;
seems loose and
with out anchor.
Yet their roots
bound to each other
beneath
the ground of experience.
“Roots are not in landscape or a country,
or a people, they are inside you.”
~ Isabel Allende
colours and depths of belief,
brings nuance into one’s life
just as the trees in spring
grow from their winter sparse
to soft and brilliant green
to offer us shade in the heat
just as experience offers
the shade of knowing about
the nuances of many lives.
When we step out of that shade
we risk a brittle, arrogant life.
Experience and willingness
can change colours and depths of belief.
“The spectacles of experience; through them
you will see clearly a second time.”
~ Henrik Ibsen, Norwegian Poet
(March 20, 1828 - May 23, 1906)
“Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die,
we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.”
~ Sue Monk Kidd, author
p.s. - the first Storyteller was my sister Betty!
What a nice surprise! A pair of us roam around Regina to different venues for coffee and a bite to eat now and then. Today, roaming didn’t take me far from home! In the Viterra Building, at 2625 Victoria, between Angus St and Albert Street, Tarragon Restaurant has been open for about two months. The service is excellent and the decor beautiful. The very pleasant manager came to our table to welcome us to Tarragon.
A first time visit to this Asian restaurant, we only had coffee and a croissant breakfast sandwich, however their menu looks intriguing for future visits! The menu can be found on their website that I've listed below. We were treated to macarons made in house ~ beautifully decorated and delicious.
With the grand windows and lovely tables, it also looks like a perfect place for me to take a book or get a writing session in while having a delicious lunch. Even on the busiest of days, restaurants and coffee shops are good places for me to take my reading and/or writing for a treat.
“Food is not just eating energy. It’s an experience.”
~ Guy Fieri
Website: tarragon7.wordpress.com
When I was just a prairie farm kid, it was exciting to move from town to farm and back every year. Standing in the back of the big grain truck as it lumbered for one more load of our household. That was before I had full responsibility for myself, let alone living in a large family. Over the years, moving from home to home, apartment to apartment, excitement lost its shine til it was as dull as old cardboard. Moving has become increasingly difficult, costly and, quite frankly, annoying.
I had always thought that excitement was something like an explosion, bursting in sparks and bright colours. Moving into adolescence, it dulled and darkened. As an adult, I’ve many times been afraid of excitement because I didn’t understand it. That it did not have to be an explosion. That sparks die out quickly and bright colours fade in the sunlight.
This last few weeks, I’ve come to understand excitement in a very different way. Excited, I’ve had to follow a time-line for this next, and very likely, final move. I had not believed it could even be possible. The recent news projections about mortgage rate hikes in the future has not dampened my excitement. It has stayed with me, growing slowly from roots of experience and remembering. Instead of being afraid of excitement, I have savoured it each day with joy.
“It is never too late to relearn, to change and to get memories for life.”
~ Eva-Maria Hedlin, Scam Story
Brigitte's turn to tell more of her story was interesting for her. She had never written much about her life except in letters home to her parents. After talking with them, she spoke with Martha, the housekeeper that hired her and Cook, who kept her well fed about what to write. Writing was something she enjoyed. On her travels, she had always found time to write some little thing, penning poems and stories or just describing the landscape. Settling on the first four years at the Beaufort Estate, she decided on a short autobiography.
~~~~~
I needed a job. Studying the classifieds every day and sending out resumes was just not getting me anywhere. It was a pretty odd resume: nanny, tree planting, pumping gas, waiting tables, cleaning houses, dishwashing. There were more, but none except the two years I spent as nanny, seemed very respectable. But I enjoyed every one of them. The people I met, the places I traveled to. In the summer, when I was tree planting, sitting outside with the rest of the planters in the evening was amazing. Someone brought a guitar, I had a little hand drum, another guy had a panpipe. We’d have a bonfire to keep the flies and mosquitoes away and roast wieners and marshmallows. It’s a pretty romantic memory - and there was romance on those evenings - but it had a glow around it that pushed away the drudgery of our work. But I digress, I needed a job now that I was back in Hartley with my parents. Twenty-nine years old with very little to show for myself. It was time to buckle down. But to what. After another unsuccessful job search, sending out resumes, walking the sidewalks and being rejected, I was so depressed that I was ready to go on the road again. Dad had been reading the paper as usual after supper one evening. “Brige. Did you see this job in the classifieds? You’ve circled several other places, but not this one. The Beaufort Estate. I know their chauffeur, Giles Thornton. He tells me the pay is good, with benefits, and everyone’s pretty nice out there. He doesn’t have much good to say about Mrs. Beaufort but he likes the pay.”
“What kind of a job is it dad?” Brigette had seen it, but it hadn’t held her attention. She wanted something in town.
“Well, there’s some housecleaning and being a ‘Lady’s Maid’. I haven’t heard that title for a long time, except on that Upstairs Downstairs series. What do you think, honey?”
“Well, dad, I might just as well check it out. I don’t have to take it, but if your friend says good pay and benefits, it sounds good.”
~~~~~
I called the Beaufort Estate….Digby and Martha interviewed me. I thought it was strange that a huge mansion had a butler, a housekeeper, a cook and a gardener and they were hiring me… all for one person: Mrs. Emelina Beaufort. Digby was all business. Hours and salary, vacation days and benefits. Martha was warm and chatty. She very diplomatically told me that ‘Mrs. Beaufort, only 47 years old!, is still in deep grief for Mr. Michael, her husband that passed not long ago. She can be quite a handful.” Everything seemed in order, Mrs. Beaufort’s condition didn’t bother me, that is until I was looking after her. Lady’s Maid was definitely the right title. I didn’t know that I’d have to wear a silly maid’s uniform. Even Miss Em - that’s Mrs. Beaufort - said they were silly. At the time though, if I tried to leave the frilly cap at home, Martha always had a spare. At least they were laundered with the Estate laundry, so I didn’t have to worry about any ironing. I found out later that Miss Em really didn’t care about the uniforms that much. It was her mother-in-law that tried to really have an upstairs downstairs environment. Getting back to the work, Miss Em really wasn’t very well. She ate like a bird or not at all, she only got out of bed for her appointments and functions, and her moods were all over the place. My experience waitressing and nanny to four unruly children really paid off. In the mornings, after she had had her tea in bed - Martha or Cook brought it upstairs - I served it to Miss Em as though she was royalty. Then, after she showered, I did her hair, nails and makeup, but it was like dressing a Barbie doll. I never knew what mood she was in. Many days, she didn’t care what she wore, other days she knew exactly what she was going to wear, right down to the jewelry and shoes, and then there’d be the days when she didn’t like anything. The dress was the wrong colour or made her look fat. The diamond earrings looked ‘wrong’ and she would fling them across the room. I think that the only thing that prevented her from crumbling were the appointments and functions that she attended. Miss Em tells me that I was her rock, but I just treated her with kindness because I could see she was a real mess inside. Oh, I was firm with her and didn’t let her railroad me. If she cried, I just let her cry, sat with her if she wanted and washed the tears from her face. When she got angry and started to shriek at me, I would just leave the room. In all the jobs I’ve had, the four years taking care of her tested every lesson I ever learned. The other part of my job description, housecleaning, was easy in comparison.
Then the COVID19 pandemic hit us and I had to leave Mrs. Beaufort. I worried about her and really didn’t know how she would manage. When we met again after several weeks apart, it was Miss Em that I met. The Mrs. Beaufort I knew had turned into Miss Em. Lovely and kind - and can dress herself. I still work for her, but I am now a Personal Assistant to her. I no longer have to do any housekeeping, because I accompany her to lawyers and accountants and help her make plans for the Estate. Both of us are still learning.
~~~~~
Brigitte read over her story, folded it, put it in an envelope and slid it into a pocket of her briefcase. “I’ll have Miss Em read it over tomorrow. Or maybe not.”
“Experience is the teacher of all things.”
~ Julius Caesar
