New Beginnings

It has been  over a year and, one day, I might write about the time spent away, but for now I am happy to share the beginnings of a new project being undertaken by an inspirational friend of mine.
The space in which this story starts has held many stories before this one,

but before very long, here, as you step through the door, your senses will  be greeted by the familiar, intoxicating (and yet, surprisingly, still little known) world of all that is cocoa and chocolate.

It seems fitting that these walls will hold history, process and the magic of artisans learned over centuries, whilst providing a special space for everyone to relax  learn, unwind, share and enjoy.

I have been very fortunate to be present at the beginning of several of my friend's projects and so look forward to seeing where this one will transport us all.

The Silk Cotton

A couple of years ago, the ancient guardian, that had stood at the entrance of the steep sided road that winds a circuitous way to the village for as long as anyone could remember, fell. The earth vibrated with the deep rumbling crash as one giant arm of the sentinel hit the ground. We held our breath. The Silk Cotton Tree, having watched over this community for hundreds of years, home to spirits, Soucouyant and jumbie, had finally lost the strength to stand with outstretched limb. T took to the road with everyone else and went 'to see'. All traffic both in and out of the village ceased, electricity was cut off and before long the sound of chain saws and numerous instructions could be heard. A taxi driver and his passengers had had a narrow escape as did Bev who owns the adjacent spice shop but luckily everyone was alright. Here is a link to the local news report on that day.
Post by GBN Television News. 
Some time later, T returned home with all the talk and a slice of this great buttressed sentry which is where it has stayed, unadorned, until now. I have long been an avid reader and admirer of Rima Staines's
wonderful work and blog The Hermitage and in that spirit, but without her ability, set out to paint a memory on the slice of this special tree that we once ran past as night fell.

Tonight is Halloween, and I hope a fitting occasion to mark the passing of a keeper of souls.

The crock of gold

Once upon a time, a long time ago, or it could have been the day
before yesterday, a woman looked out from her front step and
wondered,"Shall I dig for it now?" She checked with the moon
and watched the weather and decided it was time.

The flowers
were almost
done and the
leaves had
turned yellow
and wilted

and with the
turn of the
fork, which
was easier
said than done,
the buried
treasure was
revealed.

She carefully teased the soil from the roots and left them in the
sun to cure. The next day she sat by the pipe in the yard with a
scrubbing brush and a bucket of water and washed and scrubbed
and washed and scrubbed and washed and scrubbed some more.

By lunchtime all her golden nuggets were clean and shining.

With an aching back and a painful posterior, ('is how you sit on
the bucket' her lovely husband told her later) she settled
down on the floor upstairs in the little house, with a sharp knife and
a silver bowl, and began to chip, (just like Miss UG had taught her)

and chip and chip and chip and chip and chip and chip and chip.

Finally, her work
was done. She
put everything to
dry in the sun
next to the
cocoa beans
on the
veranda.












Naturally, despite scrubbing and soaping

she was left with the Midas touch and went to bed to dream of
Rumpelstiltskin.
To be continued...................

Footpath 1

The shortcut from the pasture to New Hampshire

Town

Having completed our monthly trip to town to pay bills, the heat got the better of me.We found a shady kerbstone and there, on the other side of the street, was this building. It is half way up St John Street on the left hand side. I wondered all the usual questions..... how old it is, who built it , who lived there, who designed and made the fancy facing board, who sat on the veranda, who sold what downstairs, what does it look like inside? The building held on to all secrets and T was getting irritated, so we made our way down the hill to the bus terminal and went home.  If you know, please tell...........

The Felling of the Breadfruit Tree

With the arrival of the Hurricane season on June 1st, T decided 'it was time'.

 The breadfruit tree behind the house, having fed the family for many years,

survived three hurricanes, various infestations, old age and neglect,

finally succumbed to this year's drought.
P.S. If you visit D, the first shot, click and magnify please, is for you .xxx

Sign 3

Sign 2

When you work, hard and long,
in the hot sun and you go home,
to come back the next day to find
that someone has picked all of your
waternuts, that are young still,
or mangoes, half ripe,
or oranges that your father wanted to sell to buy sugar,
then you can understand the man
who found it was time to put up this sign.

Of Portals, Places and Preservation

The red door at the top of Young Street.
























What was once St John's wholesale
























and the bar in Halifax Street.

Found

It is not unusual, during the course of a morning,
as we weed or mole or fork the land, for us to unearth
some pottery shard or rusted garden implement from
long ago. Flat irons and horse shoes, axe heads and hoes,
red clay roof tiles and nuts and bolts, often present themselves
as the earth is turned, but, today, I found...........























We have had, 'river so high we cannot cross', rain,
and as I was running to the shed to shelter
from another downpour, the rim caught my eye.
Snatching it from the okra bed,
where it lay, smothered in the red mud,
I knew I held a pipe bowl in my hand.
We have found them before, at home, in the yard,
behind the house. T's grandmother used to smoke one.
White clay with a basket weave design.























Only on letting the rain wash over
what lay in my outstretched palm,
did I see the face stare back at me.
This was not grandmother's, nor her mother's
but a pipe from the 1800's,
when those that worked this land
did not do so from choice.

Comfort

Four flour sacks,
lovingly hand stitched,
French seams,
bleached, washed, rinsed,
island breeze and sun dried,
bleached, washed, rinsed,
island breeze and sun dried,
bleached, washed, rinsed,
island breeze and sun dried,
bleached, washed, rinsed,
the sheet that does caress,
cools and comforts,
so recently, sweat soaked,
now, shower scrubbed, skin.
Priceless bed linen.

Yellow Yellow

No batteries for the camera at the moment but just to let you know we all very happy, here in beautiful Grenada.

Secrets of the soil

From time to time, when we are working here,
as T forks and I pull out roots and stones, we are
sometimes rewarded with pottery shards,
reminding us of the others who were here before.

These
shards
intrigue
me.
I
love
the
liquidity
of
the
blue
glazes,
the
detail,
density,
depth
and
delicacy
of
the
designs.


I think the above are from the
'Asiatic Pheasants' design.
























There are some pieces of the Willow pattern


























and a most delightful blog was also found, whilst
searching for more information;
'How to draw a Willow Pattern plate'
is a wonderful project that reinforced my desire
to delve deeper into the creativity involved in
these pieces.






















My favourite shard, to date, shows two people
watching a third, who appears to be crossing a bridge
to a fort, that lies below a mountain range,

























and bares this curious image on the reverse side.

Reflections

Just recently
I was
reminded,
by a visitor
to this island,
of this wall.









I used to
drive past
here
every
day
without
really
giving
it a
second
glance.


It has been
a long time,
yet the
image
still remains.
Right next
to this
building,
a new road
and bridge
have been
built,
ironically,
with the assistance of the Chinese government, I think.
This time
in the
islands'
history
is still
not openly
discussed
or taught
in schools.
10 men
remain
in prison
and families
from all sides are still hurting. The wall, whether or not one agrees with its' sentiment, seems to serve as the only public memorial of that time.