April Full Moon

The Moon and Stars

The stars about the lovely moon

Fade back and vanish very soon,

When, round and full, her silver face

Swims into sight, and lights all space.

Sappho (c.610 – 570 B.C.)

Translated by Edwin Arnold, 1869

Last night the moon was full though we didn't see it. I'm not sure whether the sky was cloudy or clear but I was busy proofreading and had no time to gaze at the skies. The full moon photograph is from November 2008 – wrong month, wrong year, but quite as lovely.
The full moon in April is called the Grass Moon, the Egg Moon or the Planter's Moon. I'm sure it has other names too but each of these seems appropriate in its way. The lawnmowers begin to call in April as the grass grows and the garden-proud start their battle against the untidiness and profligacy of Mother Nature.
April is the month in which many birds are laying and brooding eggs so Egg Moon is a very apt name. From now until after the eggs have hatched and the surviving young have gained independence, parent birds are run ragged – almost literally, as the bright breeding colours fade and the feathers become less pristine, more tattered. Feeding and water stations in the garden are important sources of sustenance though they also attract Sparrowhawks – but they, too, have young to feed.
Planter's Moon is an apposite name for at this time of year seeds are planted, seedlings are potted on, cuttings are taken from suitable candidates for propagation. Growth in the garden is still young and fresh but everyone knows how rampant Nature becomes in a very short while and the dedicated try to steal a march and curb her unbridled passion – all in vain, of course!

Additionally, I think April's full moon might be called the Barbecue Moon as the first glint of sunshine bringing a slight hint of warmth causes the barbecues to come out of hibernation. They are envious of the beautifully scented flowers and seek to overcome their perfume with smells of smoke and burning flesh. Occasionally the flesh is intended to be eaten! This is the time of year when the male of the human species can be spotted wielding lumps of meat and showing off his expertise in camp cooking. There's something about a barbecue that causes distant tribal memories of being hunter gatherers and any man, of whatever age or stature, is immediately transformed into a warrior, the protector of his woman and children.
It's Bank Holiday weekend in UK starting tomorrow and the weather is already performing its usual routine. The temperature is set to drop about 10˚ and rain is forecast. On Tuesday, doubtless the temperature will rise once more and the sun will shine brilliantly to mock the workers returning to their toil.

The man in the moon

Came down too soon,

And asked his way to Norwich;

He went by the south,

And burnt his month

With supping cold plum porridge.

Traditional nursery rhyme

This rhyme was common in the 19^th century though it probably dates from an earlier time.

Garnering energy from youth

It's half-term here in the UK. No matter when the Summer term commences, half-term always falls in the week of the late Spring Bank Holiday which is the last Monday in May. (It's also Memorial Day in the USA.)

Gillian and her husband and their family have gone camping for a few days and their two dogs have come to us for their holiday. Barry went to Dorset to collect them yesterday and great was the excitement when the dogs saw him. Arriving home there were ecstatic greetings between the dogs and between dogs and humans. Jenna-the-Labrador turned widdershins when she saw Foxy - a fox-red Labrador a couple of months older than her. They raced around the garden and then up and down the stairs. Tia, also a Labrador, established herself in the pecking order. She is a few months older than Frodo the Faller and has no qualms about asserting her authority. Dominie remains the leader of the pack and they all defer to her.

Last evening we took them all out for a walk. Always when the Labradors come to stay they form a neat pack with Jenna, working together to seek and retrieve the ball, though Foxy's really more interested in retrieving biscuits.

The Dalmatians are a different sort of unit; they will pace along for hours while the Labradors tear around and wear themselves out.

The effect on Dominie was incredible. She greeted the visitors vociferously and when we were out walking she was rushing along on her wheels with renewed interest and energy. She seemed rejuvenated and yet I shouldn't be surprised at this for it happens with people too.

Put young people - babies, children, teenagers - among their elders and see how the older folk respond. I noted this with my parents. My sister was fifteen years older than me, my brother six. I was eleven when my first niece was born and my oldest great-niece is only two years older than my youngest daughter. This meant that my parents had continuous contact with young people for most of their lives. I cannot know for sure if that was the reason my parents always had inquiring minds and were more interested in the future than their own remarkable past. They didn't talk about or turn the conversational spotlight on themselves but needed to know what was in the minds of the younger people around them.

I do know, however, that young people gave them mental stimulus and kept them alert and vital and living independently to the end. I believe that they were interesting because they were interested and so were much loved by their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

Jigsaws

Jigsaws – you either love them or hate them. I fall into the first category and find it almost impossible to pass a work in progress without accepting the challenge of fitting at least one piece. Some jigsaws are rather thin and cheap, the parts creasing or breaking off. Others are sturdy and cleanly cut. Wooden jigsaws are wonderful – colourful chunky sections designed to be held in hot little hands and to withstand many of the rigours small children can impose on their toys.

The worst jigsaws are the papery cardboard ones to be found in cheap Christmas crackers or as free gifts in packets of cereal or children's magazines. It was just such a one I was wrestling with recently. Actually, it was worse than a freebie because the pieces were so small, each one approximately one and five sixteenths by three sixteenths of an inch (3.4 centimetres x 0.5 centimetres) You may have realised by now that this was no ordinary jigsaw. In fact it was a 'failed delivery' card from Royal Mail indicating where and when a parcel for which Barry had been waiting could be signed for and collected. It had arrived while he was taking me to the railway station on Saturday (when did they start to be known as 'train stations' by the way?)

As it was a Bank Holiday on Monday he had to wait until today to pick it up but when he looked for the card yesterday it was nowhere to be found. Had I seen it? I could have pretended ignorance of the whole matter but would it have been better to spend the entire day on a spurious hunt with him becoming increasingly irate and repeating at frequent intervals, 'I left it there; I know I left it there. It can't have disappeared. Are you sure you haven't seen it?' or to come clean and confess that I had shredded it? Dear reader, I bit the bullet and bowed my head to receive the disbelieving scorn poured on it.

Now, you may wonder why I had destroyed the only evidence Barry had of the existence of a parcel addressed to him. If you had lived with him as long as I have you would nod your head in sympathy – empathy, even – for he is the untidiest individual I have ever known. Important details are scribbled on pieces of paper, backs of envelopes, till receipts, the back of his hand. I used to tidy them away (not his hand, obviously . . .) and we have been making an effort lately to make space in our increasingly cluttered house. We also have a number of deliveries throughout the year and delivery cards are like confetti – the last one certainly was by the time I'd minced it! – so when I saw it by the front door I assumed it referred to another package we had just received. 'Didn't you read it?' he demanded. It was not the time to make a clever rejoinder so I bit my tongue and got on with the task of putting the card back together. This involved searching through the contents of the shredder basket – it's amazing how many papers there are that are the same shade of Royal Mail red – and sticking them on transparent plastic. I had thought it through, you see – the back needed to be legible too. After an hour or two of this exercise I was getting nowhere fast and eventually Barry, having discovered that he had other evidence of his purchase and the subsequent right to the failed delivery, made me a cup of tea and apologised. He's a very nice man really.

Today he collected the parcel without any problems whatsoever. When I asked him if he'd explained what his idiot wife had done he tried to dissemble but the grin gave away the truth, bless him!

Did you know there are people, usually women, who are employed to put together important shredded documents? Maybe it's to do with industrial espionage or political fandangos but these women have small hands with nimble fingers. I haven't but I did quite well.