Sunday, April 24th

This week's speaker will be Todd Diacon, the Deputy Chancellor of UMass talking about the Gateway Project. This is a hot topic in town so his talk is very well timed. Thank you, Phyllis, for booking Todd at this time.

Our fashion show and afternoon tea event for the Fisher Home takes place on Thursday and I urge you all to consider buying a ticket. The proceeds should net more than $800, which will certainly be a gift worth giving. What is more, I know that it is going to be tremendous fun. With an elegant tea, live piano music, a brilliant MC, and an array of models never before seen together – well, how can it fail?

Earlier this week Roger and I enlisted the help of my son Simon to retrieve a bridge that had been washed away in the recent heavy rain.This had happened on one of our local footpaths and Chestnut has taken to running up and down the bank of the stream, becoming progressively more agitated, his whines gradually turning to cross barks because he can no longer cross the stream to reach one of his favorite fields to run in. 


I was in charge of the camera but unfortunately missed the best shot when Roger's foot slipped and he found himself thigh deep in icy cold water. 



 The bridge was very heavy, partly because it had been sturdily built and partly because half of it had been underwater for some days so had become waterlogged. 



However, with much pulling and heaving on the part of the two stalwarts, and much enthusiastic darting to and fro from their furry companion, it was eventually settled back into place, thus reopening the footpath. 

The town does a wonderful job of maintaining these for us to enjoy, but does also rely on volunteers to help out.

Here in the Amherst area we have such a wealth of footpaths that I think may by unequalled in any other town in New England.The variety of terrain that the paths cover really does offer something for everyone. The paving of the old railroad bed is a prime example of the way in which a single trail can be suitable for a multitude of uses. Cyclists speed along on their daily commute; families turn out at weekends with little ones on their tiny bikes, their legs pedaling like crazy to keep up with their parents;

Photo courtesy of All Out Adventures

All Out Adventures organizes regular jaunts on a variety of specially adapted cycles for those who cannot manage a regular bicycle; runners, rollerbladers, and speed walkers take advantage of the smooth surface and absence of traffic; dog walkers lead their pets, whose noses are almost overwhelmed by the multitude of interesting scents both human and animal. Oh, and I almost forgot to include the photographers and birdwatchers, who have their cameras and binoculars at the ready. They appear mostly early in the mornings or in the late afternoons, when the likelihood of catching a glimpse of wildlife is at its greatest, for the rail trail is equally busy after the people have ceased to use it. One can find deer, fox, and beavers in addition to the ubiquitous squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, and mice that we so take for granted.

                                                 Beaver lodge on rail trail in early spring
As for birds, the presence of the extensive wetlands caused mainly by the beavers provides a wonderful habitat for herons, bitterns, kingfishers, warblers, and many more. I love it when chance takes me there at the same time as Mr. Green because he is so willing to share his extensive knowledge of local wildlife.

In addition to a single trail offering a wide variety of opportunities, there are other trails to suit every walker and to provide views representative of every aspect of our countryside. The busiest one in town must surely be the network of paths that criss cross Amethyst Brook on Pelham Road.

These are especially popular with dog walkers and the regular dogs know each other as clearly as do their owners. The undergrowth offers sniffing aplenty, and the stream supplies cool drinking water in addition to the chance of a refreshing swim. You do understand, of course, that I am here referring to the canine population, not the human!

Every summer, Roger and I like to head for Easthampton and hike along the Mount Tom ridge, where the views over the valley are simply amazing.

Once having climbed to the top, the path continues along the ridge offering relatively easy walking that looks very much more scary in photos than it is in reality.

One particular cliff edge is a popular launching spot for hang gliders and I watch with envy as they step of the edge and soar like a bird. We look down at the turkey vultures and hawks as they look for thermals. When they find one you can see them being carried upward in ever increasing circles, their wings stretched out to catch every current of air. I am sure that they do this for sheer enjoyment and as I watch them I join them in my imagination, sharing their sense of freedom, weightlessness, and joie de vivre.




Each fall the three of us embark on the ABC Walk, generously sponsored by club members. This begins at the Mill River in North Amherst and for the first stretch passes along the side of the river, then around Puffer's Pond.

The reflections in the water capture the essence of fall, with its hues of russet and gold and make as pretty a picture as you would find anywhere. Then the path climbs gradually up the hillside and the variety of trees changes with the altitude and soil content, and the colors change to the dull blue green of the hickory and their gray barks, with the occasional white birch shining like silver against the dark background.






If the season has been wet, stream crossings become mimi torrents, challenging us to find a way across without getting too wet. If the weather has been dry, the leaves crunch deliciously underfoot.






By the time that winter approaches we look forward to the first serious snowfall, when we don snowshoes and tramp silently through the woods.

The wildlife can no longer remain undetected, and we enjoy trying to identify their tracks in the snow. Are the front and back feet the same? Is there a central ridge indicating a low trailing tail? Are the footsteps relatively close together and shallow or far apart and deeper: was the animal walking or running? Can we detect little claws? How many pads? Cloven hoof? Does the trail end at a tree trunk suggesting the creature climbed upwards? Or does it suddenly vanish underground? So many questions, each one bringing a new learning experience.

Life never ceases to introduce to us new situations, questions, and conundrums. In many ways, that is one of the joys of living. No two days are ever the same. We are kept on our toes with a surprise around every corner. Granted, some of the surprises are less welcome than others, but each one is a new learning experience that adds another small piece to the great jigsaw of our world.

I hope your world is benefitting from this lovely spring day. The birds are singing and the spring flowers blooming. Welcome to another fresh start.

Warmly,
Vivienne.

Sunday, April 17th

First of all, I would like to thank the twenty-plus members who have responded with comments regarding the subject of whether or not we should engage speakers who hold strong views on highly controversial topics. Your input will be of tremendous importance when the board is debating this matter at their next meeting on May 3rd.

As to next week's program, we shall be hearing from James Young, who is the director of the Institute for Holocaust, Genocide and Memory Studies at UMass , which opened this spring. There is an article about this new teaching and research center on the web at:

http://www.gazettenet.com/2011/03/28/a-place-for-history

You could be forgiven for assuming that these sombre topics have led me to this morning's train of thought, which has me pondering the importance of rain in my bank of memories. In fact, you would be very much mistaken. I must confess to loving rain, perhaps as a result of being brought up on the west coast of Britain where the water-laden clouds blowing from across the Atlantic Ocean have a tendency to dump their load on the first landfall that they meet. Thus, Ireland and the British west coasts are a gardener's delight where a temperate climate and plenty of rainfall provide ideal growing conditions.

The populations in these areas have mostly grown up knowing nothing but this type of weather  pattern so are perfectly accustomed to carrying on with their lives whether there be rain, hail or a heatwave. You must understand, however, that 'heatwave' is a relative term. Some years after moving to the States, we were amused to read a British newspaper headline that said, "Heatwave continues: a third day of temperatures  above 70 degrees".

One of my early memories of coping whatever the weather took place during my first experience of camping with the Girl Guides (Girl Scouts in the States). In those days, camping was a wonderfully primitive adventure. We slept in small canvas tents that leaked during the rain at any point where one touched the fabric. This is not an easy thing to avoid when crammed with three others in a space that was hardly tall enough to sit up in and where the groundsheet only barely reached the edge of the tent walls. We dug trenches for latrines; collected tinder and logs from the surrounding woodland for cooking fires; made cooking pot stands out of forked twigs and tripods created from bits of branch and string. Water had to be collected from the farmhouse at the far end of the field. Naturally, all these tasks were accomplished wearing full uniform, but with the addition of black rubber wellington boots, as a concession to the damp ground.

Our tents were pitched on a slight slope, so we were shown how to dig a small drainage trench on the uphill side of each tent, so as to avoid flooding in case of rain. 

On our first night there, after a magical evening spent sitting around the campfire singing songs and hearing stories, we curled up in our sleeping bags to sleep the deep sleep of the young. Imagine our consternation when in the inky darkness, such as we never see in our normal world of city lights, we were awoken by rumbles of thunder that intensified in strength and volume as lightening began to crash around us. Then the rain began, first a light pitter patter on the canvas above and around us, gradually increasing as it became a complete downpour. The unfortunate occupants of one tent found themselves lying in mid-stream, as their little, ladylike trench gave way under the force of water rushing down the slope. The rest of us, unaware of their plight, remained in our beds, clutching our sleeping bags tightly around us and shining our flashlights around the tent to illuminate the  interior and defy the lighting flashes.

By morning, the storm had passed and a weak sun was beginning to shine. We searched for sturdy branches to make clothes line supports, and the field was soon festooned with sleeping bags and nightgowns, drying merrily in the breeze. 

Did this deter us? Not one bit. We were terribly brave once the morning dawned and we exchanged stories of how exciting it had all been for everyone except, of course, the poor flood victims, who had ended up in the Captain's tent huddled together for warmth. Without that special event, I wonder if the trip would have remained so clearly in my memory. I think not.

Many decades later, I spent five days hiking along the site of Hadrian's Wall in northern England. I was studying Classics and had developed a particular interest in Roman Britain, having spent many occasions in the past exploring the remains still in evidence across much of the country, but without the detailed knowledge that allowed me to appreciate fully their significance. I had planned my trip well and done a great deal of background reading beforehand. Although I had organized a daily itinerary, I decided not to book any accommodation in advance, but to take advantage of farmhouse Bed and Breakfast signs whenever my feet told me that they had hiked far enough and needed a rest. 

At that time the National Trail system had not yet been established, so there was little guidance specifically for hikers. One simply began walking after breakfast and stopped when the day was ending. Following the wall was not always easy, as there were stretches where it had almost disappeared. In some places the tall wall had been dismantled and the carefully dressed stones used to construct farmhouses or strong stone walls to enclose sheep or cattle.

I remember climbing over a wooden stile to cross one of these walls, only to find myself face to face with a very large bull with very small and piercing eyes. I tried to convince myself that no farmer would place a dangerous bull in a field with public access. However, discretion being the better part of valour, I retreated and stumbled through the undergrowth alongside the enclosing wall until I reached the next field. 

The particular day that I have in mind included a walk of some eleven miles, mostly along a country road, with little to see in the way of ancient remains. Having first explored an extensive fort with its bath houses and adjoining civilian settlement, I set off along the road as the sky became progressively more overcast until the rain began to fall, becoming ever more heavy.

And so it continued relentlessly, as I trudged along swinging my walking stick and singing to keep up my spirits. Now, if you have ever heard me sing, you would understand that this sound is far more likely to arouse the spirits of the wild, than to appease them. However, I felt that I had to make some sort of defiant gesture against the elements. After some time of walking in the rain, one reaches the point of saturation, where any further soaking is quite immaterial and so one ceases to care. I reached this point in no time at all, after which there was little point in worrying and so I was able to relax and enjoy life. I relived my childhood as I plodged through puddles; I wondered at the former trickling streams that now rushed past their banks at high speed; I pitied the cows huddled miserably against the wall; and I admired the rich green foliage of the wild honeysuckle and its ever changing patterns of light as the rain washed over it. The occasional car drove by and eventually one stopped, lowered its window, and a voice sounded, "Would you like a lift or are you determined to remain wet?". It was at this point that I realised  how much I was enjoying myself, so declined the kind offer. Eventually I spotted a farmhouse in the distance and was amused to see that it was named 'Beggar Bog'. Somehow, that curious choice of name seemed completely appropriate to the occasion.

I turned in at the gate and knocked at the door, looking like a drowned rat but the reaction of the owner was one of warm welcome, bearing no relationship at all to the sorry sight that met her eyes. She ushered me in, showed me to a room, invited me to take a hot shower and then to appear in the drawing room with my wet boots in hand. By the time I arrived there, feeling warm and squeaky clean, she had lit a coal fire in the grate and had gathered a supply of newspapers with which to stuff my soggy boots. A pot of tea sat on the side table with a plate of home made scones. I was her only guest on that wet and blustery day, when she might well have been looking forward to a relaxing day of her own. However, she could not have been kinder and I spent a cosy evening by the fire after a hearty dinner of farm fresh meat and vegetables, all locally grown, humanely raised, locally harvested and slaughtered and as fresh as can be. This took place more than twenty years ago, but I still remember both the soaking and the kindness with equal clarity.

There are yet more memories, but now that the sun is shining here, perhaps I should not tempt the fates by continuing. Instead, I shall count the daffodils and my blessings, each present in abundance.

I hope that you can say the same.

Best wishes, Vivienne

Sunday, April 10 2011

  Flo will be introducing our speaker on Tuesday – Meredith Michael is a professor of Anthropology at Smith College. I don't have the title of her talk, but I do know that she is a very interesting person with many interests so I anticipate a lively meeting. One of her claims to fame is that she and her labs are neighbors of Chestnut's little brother Hickory, and you all know how important dogs are in my life! 

Chestnut, Hickory and Sequoia (renamed Fiali)

(For newer members who have not yet visited Roger and I at home, Chestnut is our large and furry dog, who we adopted from the Pioneer Valley Dakin eight years ago).

Speaking of animals, I was talking to a friend yesterday about chickens. He has a small flock in his back yard that spend their days pecking happily in their roomy caged area. Occasionally, if he is working in the yard, he lets them out so that they can range freely, pecking away to their little avian hearts' content. 

Often, his one year old daughter plays amongst them, whether wandering throughout their rural yard or confined within the safe perimeter of their fenced area. Having spent many hours watching carefully to ensure her safety, he has made some interesting observations about their interaction. 

The little one will be perfectly content to let a whole hour elapse while she wanders amongst the hens, lost in her own little world as she babbles away, engrossed in some adventure with them that we shall never discover. The hens not only accept her presence but seem to have assimilated her into their flock and pecking order, placing her at the head of the line.

 My friend, on the other hand, is seen as merely the bringer of food, an outsider whose approach signifies nothing more than their regular free meal ticket. 

Stories abound of instances where animals and children share a special relationship that is somehow exclusive of adults. Interestingly, this seems to be exhibited by the males as well as the females of the species. My mother used to tell of the large Airedale dog that shared her childhood home. 

When she was very small, he would happily tolerate all manner of childish attention, whether it be being ridden like a horse or dressed in dolls' clothing. However, there were also times when he would show a very different face. If my grandmother needed to admonish my mother (those being the days of strict discipline when 'spare the rod and spoil the child' was the maxim of the day), the dog would first have to be shut outside or he would defend his young charge from all assaults on her person. Clearly in this case, too, the child enjoyed a different relationship from the adult and bringer of food, even though the adult was also the leader of the pack.

I wonder what it is that leads animals to have a special regard for children. Is it their innocence, but what does that mean? Do young children have a gift for accepting things the way they are and adapting to the world as it is presented to them. Is it only as we grow and realize our own potential power that we sense that we can change the status quo and therefore present a challenge that has to be met? I am not trying to say that one is bad and the other good. Nothing in life is ever that simple. But I do sometimes think that emulating a child's ability to live in the moment, with no thought for the past or future, is a gift that we should occasionally give ourselves. 

What is your personal treat? Sipping a cup of tea while listening to the spring peepers? 

                                                

                                                                       Bluebell wood, Castramon, Scotland, 2007

Walking through a bluebell wood with the perfume making one's senses reel?

Counting the crocus flowers nodding in the sunshine? Relaxing with closed eyes and reliving a beautiful memory? Listening to a special piece of music? Or watching a small child interact with the chickens, blissfully unaware of both the joys and the challenges that are just around the corner waiting for her to grow into them.

Sunday April 3, 2011

This week's speaker will be Sherill Hogan, who will be telling us about her recent visit to the Middle East. This is such a complex issue and there are so  many points of view, each of which can be argued to have some validity, that I am sure we will have some thought provoking and constructive discussion afterwards.

Well, did anyone notice that last Tuesday was a day of local elections? As I approached my voting station at the Munson Hall I wondered for a moment if I had come on the wrong day. 

Was I sure that it was Tuesday? Perhaps I had arrived on the wrong Tuesday and was a week too soon? There were no placards out on the common, no candidates standing outside hoping to pick up some last minute swing voters, no line of cars parked in their usual place on the edge of the common between the No Parking signs. But then I noticed it – a small sign on the sidewalk announcing that this was indeed the official Precinct 8 Voting Station.  

Inside, there was the usual arrangement of tables and voting booths, with well-loved local faces manning them, chatting quietly to each other as if reluctant to break the hushed silence of officialdom.

It may well be that in my newly acquired status of citizen, I am exaggerating the importance of these local elections. Perhaps after a few more years have passed by, I will become as blasé as the rest of our residents, but I do hope not. The town is always looking for increased involvement by the citizenry, a fact that seems at odds with our unofficial motto as "the town where only the 'h' is silent." 

Lest it seem that I am sermonizing, and in the interests of full disclosure, I have to admit that little more than a week ago I turned down a request to serve on one of the town boards, claiming a desire to spend more time with my family and to be able to follow my own pursuits. As I write this, I am thinking that herein lies the problem. In a town where there are so many interesting activities, clubs, concerts, talks and theatrical events, it is all too easy to find that in the attempt to become involved in everything that captures our attention, we may fall into the trap of failing to prioritize our interests, and letting the more important events and opportunities slip through our fingers.

Tomorrow, I shall enquire as to whether or not the post I was offered has been filled. If it is still vacant, I shall offer to take it – not in order to earn any kudos, but to fulfill a service to the community that I have joined and to which I have made a long term commitment. Part of me is hoping that someone may have already taken on the task – then I can feel righteous about making the effort but relieved that it was no longer necessary. 

It is a bit like being president of the Amherst Club in as much as it is a genuine pleasure to work with and for such a wonderful group of people. However, it is also a serious commitment that requires assiduous effort and attention to detail. Our club members are a constant source of inspiration to me. The range of their activities and volunteer roles seems to be boundless. Where else could you share lunch with a group who can talk to you about teaching non-violent conflict resolution to inmates at the local gaol; 

or about helping supply remote Cambodian villages with safe water; or about how free meals to the needy can now include pet food for those who otherwise might have to make a choice 

between feeding themselves or their furry companion; 

or about how our local hiking trails are maintained so that we can enjoy the beautiful hills, woodland and open fields around us. This is only a taste of the huge reservoir of experience that our members represent. 

Of course, examples like these can be either inspiring or intimidating, depending on your point of view. But that is life for you: always prompting us to assess a situation, evaluate the options, and decide how to act. 

As for myself, I have a mending project that is high priority, but the sun is beckoning. I shall combine the two, therefore, and get the best of both worlds by taking my sewing outside onto the porch where the light is good and the air is fresh. Now that was an easy decision!

May you have a week of easy decisions………..

Best,

Vivienne.

        

Sunday, March 27th 2011

Greetings on this gloriously sunny morning,

Please remember that this Tuesday being the fifth in the month, there will be no luncheon. However, we will be having an Open House from noon until 1:30 pm for anyone who would like to bring their brown bag lunch. Of course, we will have tea and coffee available for all. You could also see this as an opportunity to bring your spouse or best friend along for a free lunch! Tickets will be available to purchase for the Fisher home event. There are only sixty seats available so do not delay!

Beautiful on a Budget

Fashion Show and Tea

 Thursday, April 28 2011, 2:30 p.m.

Munson Library

Also - please vote – how else can our town officials represent us?

This past week I have done two things that betray my old fashioned upbringing and seem to be rare in the younger generations. The first was to send a handwritten note. I chose the paper with care, to be sure that it was appropriate to the occasion. Then I wrote slowly and carefully so that it would be legible to someone who is unaccustomed to my handwriting, little improved since my days in Junior school when my teacher would mark my handwriting exercise with 'Could be neater' or 'Only fair'.

I have a box in which I keep old letters, cards and notes that have special significance to me.

Occasionally I take them out and read them, remembering the occasion and author, and noting how the choice of paper and the handwriting reflect both of these. I treasure this set of memories and would be sad if I were to lose them.

The younger generation may never know this experience in their culture of instant messaging and communication. Text messaging allows them to use a code of letters and numbers to type short phrases at amazing speeds for instant delivery – almost like having a conversation. But there is no lasting record of the exchange. Even email messages like this one, although grammatically correct and set out in neat paragraphs, have only their style of writing to illustrate the author's character and intent. A significant message can, of course, be kept on file, in a Folder called 'To be kept' or some such, or even printed out and retained in an old fashioned filing cabinet or box. But I would argue that for significant personal correspondence, there is nothing to compare to the centuries old paper-and-pen method.

My second project was to embroider a monogram on a linen bath towel. I recently discovered the joy of using old, handwoven linen towels and have passed all my modern fluffy toweling ones to Roger. I love the smooth texture of the linen and marvel at how much water it can absorb before becoming noticeably damp. I think of the hours spent weaving the thread and hand knotting the fine fringe at each end.

Some of my old towels already have the initials of their owner, carefully embroidered in the finest of thread, each towel displaying a different font. For myself, I chose an intricate but delicate set from Mrs. Beeton's Book of Needlework, published posthumously in 1870.

Why bother? I think the answer is threefold: continuing the custom pays homage to the anonymous weaver who put so many hours into creating it; it looks pretty; and I get great pleasure out of working such short, delicate projects. 

But perhaps there is also a deeper connection to the past. My great grandmother was a seamstress, making ladies' dresses in the late nineteenth century when each dress was a marvel of tucks and ruffles and endless yards of fabric, fitted like a second skin to the wearer. From her, my grandmother learned many of these skills.

My grandmother, 1896

My grandmother had left school at the age of twelve to go into service, cleaning, washing and mending in one of the large, prosperous homes near to the centre of Liverpool. She had taken these sewing skills with her, learnt at her mother's knee, and after she married and had children of her own she passed them on to her daughter, my mother. When I was a child, my mother and grandmother would look closely at beautiful children's clothing in the expensive stores, then return home and copy them for me to wear. Without realizing it, from some sort of osmosis, I myself gradually absorbed many of these skills. Some were taught to me. I can still remember, for instance, my grandmother teaching me the correct way to iron a handkerchief, folding it just so,


in order that the completed kerchief would be beautifully square, with the embroidered initial positioned exactly in the center of the square.
When doing embroidery the back of the fabric had to look as neat as the front – a skill I never quite mastered. 

Do these old skills have any relevance in today's world? Certainly, modern technology has changed our lives in ways that are wonderful. There simply is not enough time to teach or learn all of the information that my generation was taught, and add on to that all the modern skills that are needed to live in our modern world. Today has to take precedence over yesterday, and no one would want to go back to the 'good old days'. However, I do believe that some skills can still be relevant and valuable and perhaps the task is best assigned to grandparents who often have more leisure time with children, when each generation can impart to the other the specialties of their individual worlds.

But now I have to go – the dishwasher is beeping at me that it has completed its cycle……

Vivienne.

Sunday, March 20th 2011

This Tuesday will be our annual opportunity to hear from the agencies who have received funds from Love Notes. Please come and show them how much we appreciate all that they do in our community. Usually this event is hosted by our Vice President, but in Hub's absence, Ellen will be taking over for the day. Speaking of whom, Hub has graciously agreed to postpone his presidency by one year so that he can first concentrate on reaching a full recovery. We will roll out the red carpet for him when he takes the helm in 2012-13.

While listening last week to D.A. Dave Sullivan, I was struck by his bringing to our attention the total lack of looting in the devastated areas of Japan. He suggested that this was due in large part to their sense of respect for each other and the community. This set me thinking to why it is sadly unlikely that this would have been the case in almost any other country, even here in the States.

I think the answer may lie in great part at the very basic philosophy of our two cultures. Our country was formed very recently in the scale of things. From the beginning it attracted free thinkers who found themselves unable to adhere to the rigid rules of religion and politics that were current in their society. Here, the emphasis was on the rights of the individual to make their own decisions and live the life of their choice. To this day, our children learn that the great American dream is theirs for the taking if they apply themselves, take advantage of opportunity, and work hard. In truth, that is how I find myself living such a fulfilling and wonderful life surrounded by friends and good fortune. I had strokes of good luck, to be sure, but I also worked hard to achieve all that I could.

In contrast, Japanese society places great emphasis on the role of the individual as being a small part of a much greater whole. 

Teamwork and identification with the larger group is emphasized from childhood when little ones begin their first day of school wearing identical clothes and carrying identical school bags.

 During a stay in Tokyo some years ago, I would watch from my hotel room as the office workers in the adjoining building all leapt up from their desks at eight o'clock each morning. It was clear that music was being piped throughout the building, as on all floors I could see them all performing the same calisthenic exercises together. 

In the parks old people would gather together to perform their daily Tai Chi, moving silently and fluidly through the gestures, in perfect harmony together. 

Eating out with Japanese women friends, we would all choose the same thing from the menu, expressing our friendship and group identification.

Of course, there are no simple answers to any of life's questions, and no easy remedy for any societal problem. It impossible to compare two cultures and explain how single aspects of one may be adopted by the other. Japanese culture has evolved through countless ages with, for much of its history, little to no immigration or influence from the outside world to introduce new ideas and philosophies. A sweeping statement, to be sure, but in general terms it holds true. America prides itself on its diversity and freedom of choice for each individual. It is a difficult task indeed to marry individuality with the role of  group member; to respect the rights of others without compromising one's own choices.

In times gone by, here in South Amherst, the farming community would regularly help out in times of need. 

The way of life relied on group participation, whether it be a barn raising or helping neighbors harvest crops or give children a ride to school on the milk cart. Now we pride ourselves on being able to fend for ourselves and many of us do not even know our neighbors other than to wave from the car while driving by.  

Is that good – or bad? Is life better – or worse? Are we happier – or not? 

I think all the answers are both 'yes' and 'no'. But I do think it sad that we wonder and comment on the lack of looting around Sendai. There must be a message there somewhere.

Sunday, March 13th 2011

A rather late Sunday greeting to you all,

May I remind you that this Tuesday we will hear from Dave Sullivan, our district D.A. I am sure that we'll learn some interesting facts about out judicial system – which I hope none of us have been on the receiving end of – except for the few brave souls who willingly let themselves be arrested while campaigning for civil rights. To them, I tip my hat.

We treated ourselves to breakfast at Esselon's this morning, where we arranged to meet some friends.

Our conversation touched on the ways in which our lifestyles have changed since our youth. One of the major differences revolves around the presence or absence of public transport. All through my childhood and youth we relied on public transport and the mile-long walk to the bus stop was considered merely a short walk down the road. At the stop we would come across neighbours with whom we would chat while waiting for the bus. Local news and family updates would be exchanged and in this way people kept in touch with the comings and goings in the area. Although we rarely ventured inside eachother's houses, this was Britain and the land of formal relationships!, nevertheless we knew our neighbours and were always available in times of need. Not only that, we also remained fit and active, walking in all weathers to the general stores and carrying heavy shopping bags on a regular basis.

29 Ryegate Rd., Liverpool

Southbank Rd. Primary School, Liverpool

As children, we walked to school alone from an early age with no thought of personal safety. Later, when I attended high school, I had to catch two buses, which I did alone even in the depths of winter when darkness had fallen by the time school ended.

Aigburth Vale High School for Girls

 I well remember one day when a thick smog had descended throughout Liverpool. This was in the days before the Clean Air Act, when most people burnt coal fires as their main source of heating and there would be occasions when the smog was so dense that all the buses stopped running. School ended early and we all had to walk home, for me that was about five miles. We would place a white handkerchief – an essential part of any young girl's wardrobe – over our mouth and nose and keep it in place by wrapping our long school scarf around our heads.

By the time I arrived home and removed the handkerchief, it was coated with a layer of a black tarry substance that would otherwise have made its way into my bronchial tubes. However, as the three adult members of my household all smoked cigarettes, and we burnt an open coal fire, I do wonder how it is that my lungs are still perfectly healthy and functioning.

When I look back at old school photos I am struck by how skinny we all were. The same is evident in the old photos in the recently published book 'Harvesting History', which tells the story of farms here in Amherst since the year 1700. Although the way of life in the 'good old days' leaves much to be desired, yet this aspect of incorporating exercise into the normal daily routine was a great deal more healthy than our present day occasional car ride to the gym. I can't help but think it a a shame that the distance between our homes and the lack of sidewalks makes it so difficult to walk along the street and engage in conversation with our neighbours. After all, human interaction is, for many of us, what makes life worth living and for those who exist in comparative isolation, loneliness can be the biggest problem that they have to deal with.

Well, I hope that our weekly club lunches allow us to enjoy each other's company to the full, and that for members who are unable to attend, these weekly messages let you know that you are not forgotten.

Best,

Vivienne