Tip Toeing through the Tulips
and other early blossoms


There was a welcoming mildness to the air this morning, and I rushed through the laundry and other things that seemingly demanded attention before slipping out into the garden with the snippers, the rake and the camera.

In the short time I was able to enjoy the stillness (before the wind came whistling off the snow on the high mountains) I was able to admire the lovely golden tulips that opened for the first time today.

Further along the path the perennial allysum and the elephants ears bloomed together, side by each, in perfect harmony.





























The flowering almond that we rescued from the Lost Garden after it suffered a hit and run and lay around with badly broken trunk has now made a marvelous recovery. It is only a little shrub that needs the touch of the Master Pruner to make it into a tree again, but the blossoms that it bears are as lovely as ever.

















The daffodils in the roadside bed are beginning to rest for next year's show, but the little grape hyacinths that circle the bed are growing deep and are the bluest of blues.






















These nights one goes to bed with great anticipation for what the morning will bring!

BOMBER COMMAND AND ITS MISSION

There is nothing in my head, and there is too much in my head, so it is difficult for me to choose a comment or a subject for a blog that will entertain or enlighten.

I have been talking to my Sister tonight, and told her about an e-mail I had sent to Don Martin, Journalist, who ended one of his recent columns (dealing with the infamous plaque in the National War Museum that criticizes the morality of Bomber Command) with the following quotation.

"There is something seriously warped when their National War Museum is demonized by a country's veterans."

In my e-mail to Don Martin I paraphrased his own words, -

"there is something seriously warped when a county's veterans are demonized by their National War Museum. For Shame!"

I spoke to him as the wife of a Lancaster Pilot who played a valiant part in the effort to maintain a "Second Front " - one which made it possible for Allied Ground Forces to conclude an earlier end to the war than would have been possible without the efforts of Bomber Command.

I mentioned to him the loss my Husband and his family sustained when his two brothers were killed in World War Two, fighting to maintain the Freedom that allows these new age historians to be so morally righteous without any sense of time, place and circumstances, - or any credentials to make judgments.

I did not expect a reply from him, - indeed, I do not expect my words made any impression upon him at all, but I somehow felt better for having written them.


Both Husband and I were heartened by a rider to the film which was shown to the High School students he spoke to at the beginning of this week. The rider spoke of the effect of the bombing of targets in Germany that were contributing to the Nazi war effort, whether by direct troop involvement, munitions and factory involvement, or administration. The aim of Bomber Command was to shorten the war and save as many Allied soldiers' lives as possible. The effort expended was in direct ratio to the intransigence and determination of Hitler to continue fighting, no matter the cost to his country or its civilian population.

It spoke also of the insult to the integrity of those members of Bomber Command who risked their lives nightly to ensure an Allied victory, and most especially to those airmen who lie buried in the cemeteries of Europe.

Hopefully the opinions of those who experienced these years of struggle will help to contradict the re-written interpretation of history which is now being politically vaunted in an effort to make Canada into something it is not.

Or at least this generation of young people will know of the insult which is being perpetrated by certain segments of society, making the few veterans who are left angry, disillusioned and despairing of the future of this country. A War Museum which does not laud its country's veterans for the service they have rendered, but instead points an accusing finger, is a shameful institution.

This history which is being re-written and re-interpreted is over sixty years old, but it is still of the utmost importance that the generations that follow are not fed political propaganda by young ultra liberal historians who would change the whole complexion of a Canada which did not falter and did not fail in its responsibilities.

Climbing down off the Soap Box now, but still feeling passionate about Bomber Command and the way it is being vilified.

Spring

an outrageous flirt and a seductive minx




After her shameful abandonment yesterday I little expected to find her languishing outside our bedroom window when I woke this morning.

She seduced me into rising and after a hurried breakfast leaving in the early morning light to accompany Husband to Penticton, where he was speaking to a Grade 11 Class of Pen High about the part the Airforce played in the last war.


How could I resist another chance to cross the pass into the Okanagan at this special time of year - (and how could I resist the chance to visit Knapps' Plantland, all on my own, while Husband enlightened the current generation!!!!)

How many hundred and hundreds of time we have made that trip into Penticton, - each time it is familiar, but different, all at the same time and depending upon the season of the year.

The first time we traveled this road was while it was still a gravel trail, up and over Yellow Lake, and in the first year we were married. The road bore little resemblence to the Highway today, and it passed Yellow lake midway up the north side of the lake.

We took a picnic, and we traveled in George and Kay Angliss's old truck, a bumpy ride but a nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon with good friends.



















Old and somewhat tattered pictures, full of happy memories.

We did a lot of"Firsts" with the Angliss'. They were our first dinner guests when we dined a la fresco under the cherry trees. George designed our first house. And it was the Angliss', as Artists and friends, who first opened my eyes to the beautiful colours to be found in both the Okanagan and the Similkameen Valley. The greens, the sages, the rose coloured rock, - the gold, the steely blue and green coloured rock, the copper and the garnet shades. All so breathtakingly beautiful.

This morning these colours were especially spectacular as the morning sun brightened them, and created long shadows as we drove through the pass and down into the Okanagan Valley. The garnet coloured rock wall just above Kaledan shone as though burnished.

On the way out of Keremeos we took pictures of the Olalla bushes, dancing like so many tutued fairies amidst the evergreens.















We came home to find the animals indignant at being left two days in a row, despite Daughter's caring visit to hand out treats and attend to business trips.

As we drove up the road we took pictures of the neighbour's peach trees, in full bloom.
















And the Plum Blossoms at the bottom of the road, just past the Big House.

















I tenderly unloaded the flat of yellow pansies that are going to brighten up the front steps, once Spring has settled down and decided to be a constant companion.















Alas, she was not in a constant mood this afternoon, - wandered off to rest a while, and in her place sent wind and clouds and the hint of snow in the Upper Valley.

From the Library.....

When I left the Library today Husband looked askance at the armful of books I carried, - and well he might. When will I find time to read four pleasurable books and one that requires concentration, as well as listen to the tapes I have at home - two boxes of Edward Rutherford's "The Forest" and six tapes of Nevil Shute's "Trustee from the Tool Room" The tapes are designed to keep me glued to the loom as I listen and weave, - and I must say they fulfil their purpose most successfully.

So what made me order all these books in addition to the tapes that await me in the Loom Room?

Well, from somewhere memories of the books of Gladys Taber came to haunt me. I think they were recalled when I happened upon Elizabeth Goudge, who wrote much the same type of book as Gladys and at much the same period in the 20th century.

Old Fashioned books - but books that bring back memories of life as it was then, - before TV, before computers, before morality loosened all her stays.

Glady Taber's Stillmeadow books centre around the old home that she and her friend, Jill (Eleanor Sanford Mayer) escaped to from the bustle of New York, in order to provide a country upbringing for their children. Jill's husband had died in 1943. and Gladys and her husband, Frank Albion, were divorced in 1946. Jill and Gladys were childhood friends, who had also roomed together in College and maintained a close and loving friendship through the years until Jill died in 1960.

I think that Gladys was the original "Blogger" - Stillmeadow Road, the book I am reading now, is a collection of short essays that she has written through the year, as the Seasons pass.

I can remember when I was a young mother reading first her columns in The Family Circle magazine, and the pleasure and encouragement they gave me. The stories about Stillmeadow, - the struggle they had to bring the old house which spoke to them when they first discovered it - "Here I am, What took you so long" into the home it was as depicted below.

Her gardening tales, her cooking comments, and the graceful way she had of describing the times as they were then, in the forties and fifties, keep me in a delightfully nostalgic haze.

Of the 59 books that Gladys Taber wrote, only a few are still in print, so it is not easy to come by them. Hence my haste in ordering what the library does have, in case they end up in the discard bin.





Here is an excerpt from The Stillmeadow Road, - writing which appeals to my own enjoyment and appreciation of the changing seasons.

"Now the light lengthens as the season moves toward May. Dusk is violet, night cool and tender. Sunrise is luminous. Daffodils star the hill by the pond and bloom in the Quiet Garden. Violets begin to open their pointed buds. We have the tiny white violets in the meadow and the dark purple around the house, and the Confederate violets are ivory white streaked with true blue. And by the pond, the dogtooth yellow violets hang their delicate trumpets. In fact, violets love our soil so well that the vegetable garden has hundreds of the purple ones and Jill has to spade them up before planting. I save as many as I can, and must have carried in bushels and bushels to be set around the giant maple trees, along the picket fence and around the terrace.

At night the peepers sing away in the swamp, a flutelike sound. This is the beginning of a new cycle of growth, a quickening of the earth which will only end as the harvest is gathered in the autumn. And as Hal Borland says "Spring is one thing that man has no hand in."

When I go out with the dogs, I feel a quickening in my spirit too. The season of bloom is upon us, and then the green summer days, and at last the ripeness of autumn, all ordered and unchanged by the world's dissensions. It is something to count on.

Humbly I thank God for the eternal miracle of spring."

And here is advice from Gladys on the importance of touching the quietness of nature, and drawing from it the spiritual strength to keep things in proportion. How often things get away from us, - we lose perspective in our day to day lives, and the disturbances which result can be heartbreaking.

Here is a small way to regain peace....

A time of quietude
brings things into proportion
and give us strength.

We all need to take time
from the busyness of living,
even if it be only a few minutes
to watch the sun go down
or the city lights
blossom against a canyoned sky.

We need time to dream,
time to remember,
and time to reach toward the infinite.

Time to be.

Vimy - April 9th, 1917

Yesterday the Royal Canadian Legion in this small village held a ceremony and reception honouring the Canadians who took part in the Battle for Vimy Ridge on Easter Sunday, April 9th, 1917.

It was a windy day, and the breeze that blew out of the West was fair fit to send the small drummer with the large drum tumbling, - and the flag bearers sailing with unfurled flags.

Nevertheless, it was a fine turn out of both local people and visitors from the South Okanagan. Those present were at once reverent and enthusiastic in showing their regard for the Veterans of this famous Battle, where Canadians so significantly exhibited their metal, their dogged persistence and their incredible bravery.

There are only a few World War Two Veterans in the population of the Village, and certainly no World War One Veterans survive. They do live on - some in recent memory and some in the memories and the heritage of sons and daughters, grandchildren and great grandchildren.

Wreaths were laid, people brought pictures of Fathers and Grandfathers who served at
Vimy, at Arras, at Cambrai and other battlefields in that swath of destruction that swept across central France. One lady brought a copy of her Father's letters from the Front.

I took pictures of our Dad, who did not arrive in England until June, after the April battle at Vimy, but who was wounded at Cambrai a month before the War ended in November, 1918.

A daughter of Piper Harry Lunan, who survived the horrors of the Battle of the Somme and was the Last Piper of the Great War, was there to honour her father.

The great Granddaughter of two of the men who were at Vimy, - one in the struggle on the ground and the other in the air overhead, spoke of her awakening awareness of Canada, and the part that Vimy played in making this country an independent Nation, - and of her pride in her heritage.

A small band of Cadet Pipers and Drummers sponsored by the B.C. Dragoons played during the ceremony, and the Pipe Major played the Lament.

As the Parade marched off they left 90 Red Candles, placed around the Cenotaph by Veterans and youth, to shine all night in silent vigil.

It was tribute organized by a young and enthusiastic member of the Legion, who realizes and appreciates the freedom we enjoy in this country, won at such great sacrifices.

And his caring helps to contradict the opinions of a gaggle of young historians who seek now to diminish the meaning and importance of Vimy, referring to it as a mythical Battle which has been glorified for political reasons. One wonders at the immaturity and cynicism of their opinions as they challenge the valour of the men who took part in Vimy and the meticulous planning and training instigated by Arthur Currie which made the Battle a brave and bloody success.

There is a certain leftist element in this country who would denigrate the fighting courage of the nation's past, and the determination it took to win the right to the Freedom they enjoy. Unfortunately in many cases this freedom is being used to re-write history and to make moral judgements without any criteria or sense of time, place and circumstances. I speak in particular about Brian McKenna, whose opinions of Bomber Command in the Second World War bore so little credibility in relation to the truth about this vital part of the victory. These opinions are saddening, especially to those of our generation who were so involved in these struggles and lost dear ones who did not survive the shells, the mud, the gassings and the terrible barrages.

There is another picture I remember well, - it hung above the fireplace of the rectory in the Parish we were part of when I was a child. The Rector had been a Padre in the First World War (as he was again in the Second World War.) The picture was of a Padre celebrating communion on a small hill with some soldiers, amongst a scene of carnage such as shown in the picture above.

The image has stayed with me all my life and left an eternal consciousness of the ultimate sacrifices .

My last memory is of Husband and I travelling up the coast of France from Falaise to The Moyland Woods, and singing Roses of Picardy as we passed through that portion of the country. My tears were for all of those, who like our Father, endured and for the many,many thousands who perished.

Easter Sunday 2007

The day dawned bright, but gradually the wind came up, the clouds rolled in, and we end the evening with dark, threatening rain clouds hovering over the valley.

In between, the usual scramble to get ready for church on time, making sure the right organ music is packed in the cream and blue bag it calls home. I don't usually have the butterflies in the stomach that used to flutter about and cause a bit of panic, but when the music is special and I am planning something different I have some trepidation. Today it was the Hallelujah Chorus that was causing me to quaver and waver, - but in the end I was brave, and as my sister put it, blasted the congregation out of the church! Hopefully it pleased some people that I made the effort to include this most traditional of Easter Postludes.

A small effort in the garden, attacking the cutch grass with hoe and shovel while the wind whipped my hair around, and the cat said from the window - "What are you doing out there, silly woman???" I finally staggered in, disheveled and ready for tea.


My thoughts have drifted during the day back to Easter Sunday, 1943, when after church two young woman packed a frying pan, some pork chops, niblets, a quart of milk and some potatoes for frying, and took off over the High Level Bridge in Edmonton, down the pathway to the river, bent on a good hike and a fine cook-out.

At the same time, a young airman from the I.T.S. headed for the river and a Sunday afternoon walk.

Fate was heavy in the air when the two young women came upon the airman, - coat flung over his shoulder, gazing down the river, - and when one of them said to the other - "Slow down, he might catch up!" They did, and he did, and thereby hangs a tale of a lifetime of devoted endurance!!!

Take that phrase as you will........
















This morning I didn't leave the organ to take communion until Husband came up the aisle, one of the last communicants - it seemed somehow fitting that we should kneel once again side by side, on Easter Sunday.

And Venus shines bright in the western sky as it did that April so long ago.

A Good Friday drive
to see the Greening of the World

This spring as it comes bursts up in bonfires green,
Wild puffing of emerald trees, and flame-filled bushes,
Thorn-blossom lifting in wreaths of smoke between
Where the wood fumes up and the watery, flickering rushes.

I am amazed at this spring, this conflagration
Of green fires lit on the soil of the earth, this blaze
Of growing, and sparks that puff in wild gyration,
Faces of people streaming across my gaze.
- D. H. Lawrence, The Enkindled Spring

After tea this afternoon Caspar, Husband and I went for a drive (while the Cat stayed home and oversaw the recording of a T.V. program.)

What a delight to be overwhelmed with the tender greens of spring.

A poplar branch with gorgeous new sticky leaves....

The verdant spring green of the meadows, where the cows and their calves are living in luxury. In the far distance the back side of Apex, reminding us of the great quantity of snow still to melt in the mountains.

The fairy tale green of the poplars along the river, contrasting with the greys and ruby reds of the bushes that still retain their pre-spring colours.

Amidst all the fiery greens are the serene and subtle shades of the birches - a dreamlike spot to relax in.

Friendly white wisps of clouds, - a bright blue sky and two trees reaching towards the heavens, newly arrayed in emerald shades (what else!)

At the bend of the river the sun reflected off the water, rushing and tumbling on its way downstream.

















The hoo doos above the Cawston Bench stood out in the sunshine like sculpted angels

and the sun shining on Daly Bluffs accentuated the shadows of the crevices and crags, and the warm rosy shade of the talus slide.....

A newly leafed out wild rose bush still bearing the scarlet hips of the fall.
















And throughout the orchards lines of chorus girls in tutus - the apricots in their frothy bloom.

In the driveway at home we found the cows feeding beneath a panoply of white - beautiful old fashioned full size apricot trees, laden with blossom.

The absolute jewel in this lovely chain of images was our sighting of a cock pheasant, which brought back memories of our first years in this valley, when they were so plentiful along the creek and in the brush.



















We arrived home to find Miss Callie waiting anxiously to tell us that the DVD had recorded successfully. A real plus... I believe that was what all her eager greeting was about?

Symbols of Lost Intentions

While Husband was rooting around in the fridge for his nightly bowl of grapes which sweetens up the late evening card game he came upon one of my Symbols of Lost Intentions - the rib bone from last week's rib roast of beef, (which I had intended to simmer up into a pot of soup - truly, I had the best of Intentions)


These Symbols of Lost Intentions are kept in the fridge in the same way one keeps their valuable jewelry in the safe behind the picture in the library. If one had any valuable jewelry, - and if one had a safe or a library. These Symbols can lie there for weeks without being disturbed, in total security. The green mold that gathers around them may not improve their attractiveness, - or for that matter, their usefulness. But it is a good indication that it is time to move the Symbols of Lost Intentions from the fridge to the little red garbage can under the sink.

A catalogue of the Symbols that Husband did not come upon would reveal a small plastic bowl of baby carrots which I had Intended to add to the soup made with the bone from last week's rib roast; a small portion of orange and vanilla yogurt left in the old container when I opened a new and much more appealing one; a smidgin of pork and beans, destined for a side dish when supper was sparse; a half a dish of macaroni and cheese, kept for the same reason; some home made vegetable soup that we tired of before it was all gone and a little heel of cheese - gone mouldy.

All left-overs that had morphed into Symbols of Lost Intentions as they lay safely in the darkened fridge (I am of the enlightened clan who believes that the light goes off when the fridge door closes.)

While I was still buying Expensive Dog Food for Caspar, before the present pet food crisis, I had accumulated 933 little plastic bowls, - perfect for storing Symbols of Good Intentions. Now I am filling these little plastic bowls with home made pet food, and sometimes the Symbols of Good Intentions find their way into this pet food, - that is before they have matured (I like that word) into Symbols of Lost Intentions, and while they are still wholesome and useable.

Check out your fridge, - how many Symbols of Lost Intentions have you got hovering at the back - or even in the useable front four inches!!!!

Amazing!!!!

Weather Report, amongst other things

As I drove home from handbell practice last night Venus was bright in the western sky, skimming the tops of the mountains, while behind me a full moon was rising over the Cawston hills, flooding the valley with a silvery light.

A beautiful evening, but not for orchardists who are trying to protect their apricot blossoms from freezing. With the stars, the gorgeous moon and the clear skies comes the very real threat of frost.

The trees are greening, with their leaves at half mast, and the blossoms on the apricot trees are showing colour as they prepare to dress the branches in frothy white. April has the farmer living on the edge, and perhaps thinking what T.S. Eliot expressed so well, - "April is the cruelest month."

When I wandered the house during the night moonlight was still lighting the big bathroom through the skylight, but by morning the clouds had gathered, the temperature was just barely grazing zero and a chilly wind was keeping the air moving. Hopefully all was well, at least at this elevation.

Today was chilly, but pleasant. Tonight still threatens frost in the still, lower reaches of the
valley.



I brought the first daffodils into the house this afternoon, along with the prunings from the red maples, which were freshly pruned this morning.

I ran into the house to get the camera, hoping to snap a picture of Husband, five steps up on a 12 foot ladder, pruning shears in hand and a guilty smirk on his face. Have you ever noticed what men will do when your back is turned!!!!



Before I could return with the camera Number Four son had come upon Husband, and he was back down on the ground. I couldn't very well ask him to climb the ladder again in order to take a picture, so it will have to be a mind memory, not a photo shot. The Red Maples were pruned, but Husband had to be content with directing the operation.

Which, of course, we all know he does very well!!!

I am happy to report that the Cutch Battle is being successfully waged, and mop up operations should be all that remain to do in a couple of days. Unfortunately another plant has fallen victim to the ubiquitous grass, but this one was the Common Yarrow, and almost as invasive as the Cutch grass, so it was a case of killing two birds with one stone.

Speaking of birds, and in a more pleasant way, - late in the afternoon I put a small sprinkler on the garden and soon there were a dozen or so eager robins, sparrows, finches and one nuthatch gathered around the water.

Robert Frost cautions about becoming too complacent about April weather, but for now I think we can relax and enjoy the next few days of sunshine and fresh breezes, and hope that the nights will be kind.

The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day.
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
a cloud come over the sunlit arch,
And wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.
- Robert Frost

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.
- Robert Frost, A Prayer in Spring

The first of April is the day we remember what we are
the other 364 days of the year.
- Mark Twain

In my haste to be the first one to accomplish the usual April Fool's Trickery, - and in my confusion at having slept late this morning, - I mistook the day and had Husband on his feet, looking for an imaginary animal wandering down in the pasture.

However, it turned out that I was the Fool, a day early, and now here is Husband, all primed up and reminded that Sunday is April Fool's Day - on guard and not likely to be fooled again!!

Ah well, Mark Twain probably had it right when he remarked that April 1st is just a reminder of what we are the other 364 days of the year.

It's when we Fool ourselves though, that it's especially painful.....

The philosophical bend in my mind immediately flies to comments and relevant concepts that I could expand on, but perhaps I have played the Fool enough already??? Who amongst us hasn't spent a least a part of our days fooling ourselves? Best to let the subject lie undisturbed and concentrate on the fun aspect of April Fool's Day.

Be sure to accomplish all your nasty little tricks by Noon, as I understand that is the hour when all jesting must cease and we must resume our sombre attitude.

I read all sorts of interesting things about the history of this light hearted celebration and the custom of sending people on Fool's Errands.

If you would like to educate yourself as to its origins here is the place to go!!

http://www.infoplease.com/spot/aprilfools1.html




















Happy April Fool's Day to all, and Happy Birthday to my cousin Anne, who has had to contend with an April Fool's Birthday all her life long.

Know Thine Enemy


I hasten to don my rose coloured glasses as I consider the attributes of this mightiest of all the gardeners' enemies - the dreaded cutch grass, a.k. quake grass, dog grass, quitch grass, Dutch grass, Fin's grass, Scotch quelch, wheat grass, twitch grass, devil's grass and witch grass.

These aliases confirm the world wide spread of the enemy, and the last two in particular describe the firm belief of its origin held by any gardener bent double after a day's battle with said enemy.

I have no doubt that the Parable of the Weeds and Tares in the Wheat refer to cutch grass, and although any interpretation of this parable that I have read has in no way been charitable to the Weeds and Tares, I say unto you, I do not believe anything is created in vain! And so it is with The Cutch, - I do not believe it was created solely to be the bane of all gardeners!

So on with the assessment of this most mortal of all enemies to be found in the garden. Slugs included!!!

My first impression of The Cutch is that it has exceeded its good qualities beyond the bounds of civility and moderation. As usual, all things carried to excess contain within them the dangers of offence.

It would appear that this is what has made The Cutch so oppressive to the poor gardener who has to contend with it.

In Europe, it is said, its qualities of persistence and invasiveness have been a boon to those who PLANT IT ( can you imagine) in fields where it is an excellent source of forage for cattle and horses. The same attributes that make it noxious in the garden smile upon it in the field. It is drought resistant, tillage-resistant, and appreciates manure (which no doubt accounts for the great quantities of The Cutch that arrived in the loads of top soil that enabled us to even have a garden in this pebbly corner....

I have read that "in Italy especially the roots of The Cutch are carefully gathered by the peasants and sold in the markets. They have a sweet taste, somewhat resembling liquorice, and Withering relates that, dried and ground into meal, bread has been made with them in time of scarcity." (M. Grieve, 1931)

And Nicholas Culpepper, in 1653, claimed that he had heard it said a half an acre of The Cutch was worth five acres of carrots twice told over.

"Although that Couch-grasse be an unwelcome guest to fields and gardens, yet his physicke virtues do recompense those hurts; for it openeth the stoppings of the liver and reins without any manifest heat." -- Gerard (quoted in Grieve)

Now, how can you argue with those ancient recommendations.

Carrying on to the Medicinal qualities that The Cutch hides within it's noxious roots, I found these qualities to be even more redeeming of its evil ways in the garden.

This "herb' is a diuretic with a long folk history of use for bladder and kidney stones. It is used for respiratory complaints, for bronchitis, and for laryngitis. The Green Pharmacy recommends making a tea with two to ten teaspoons of the underground parts of the herb, chopped and steeped for five to ten minutes in a cup or two of boiling water. Those same Europeans who use The Cutch to feed their cattle also drink up to four cups of the medicinal tea a day, - if they are so inclined! And some even quaff it from a wine glass!

Other references cite its use as an antibiotic, antilithis, antimicrobial, antiphloistic, and a blood purified. The claim it is effective when used to treat Bright's disease, calcul, catarrh, constipation, cystitis, demulcent, depurative, discutient, emollient, eyes, female disorders, fevers, gallstones, gout gravel, jaundice, kidney, lower back pain, pectoral, prostrate (enlarged, rheumatism, skin diseases, stones, duorific, syphilis, tonic, and unrinary infections.

I don't even know what half those things are, but it confirms to me that whoever created The Cutch certainly knew what He/She was doing, and one best be careful about its eradication.

And speaking of eradication, do not err in thinking that this is easy to accomplish. Burying or turning The Cutch will not kill it. The roots will spread and shoots will reappear.

Digging the roots of The Cutch is hard work. They are dense and bind even the lightest soil.

And they grow extremely quickly. Roots which you thought you had conquered after a hard day's skirmish can reappear again within a week, defiantly thumbing their noses, or could I say, even using the fourth finger in obscene insolence.

However, The Cutch is shallow rooted, and therein lies its weakness. It has no long taper like roots going deep into the ground and so if you attack this problem intellectually with a shovel (some would call this an oxymoron, but you and I know that it is possible to be intellectual on the end of a shovel - as we lean and rest upon it perhaps we could devise a scheme wherein certain enthusiasts come in to harvest The Cutch!!!) you will dig the soil well and remove the roots with relative ease. Except in cases where The Cutch has wound itself inexorably around a favourite perennial, and is so closely bound with it it is impossible to extricate The Cutch root from the flower root. Alas, alas, - I threw such a bundle of roots over the garden fence just two days ago, sacrificing a Shasta Daisy, a victim of the Battle.

I suppose that this exercise in research and reflection has given me more respect for the avowed enemy that awaits me in the garden - ever ready to do battle - ever ready to assert its territorial rights and to carry its banners into all sorts and conditions of gardens and fields.

However, it does not weaken my resolve to banish The Cutch from this particular garden, and so I don my gardening shoes and gloves, - put the rose coloured glasses away from me and go forth to do battle!!! Onward and Upward.....regardless of Physicke virtues! Unless of course we establish a new custom at tea time and have a glass of Cutch Decoction..

More than you ever wanted to know about the ubiquitous cutch grass, I'm sure.