Lammastide/Lughnasadh LightFest, Lionsgate, Two Full Moons in August +Tropical Cyclones & Hurricanes
LAMMASTIDE/LUGHNASADH LIGHTFEST, LIONSGATE, TWO FULL MOONS in AUGUST plus TROPICAL CYCLONES and HURRICANES
AUGUST EMERGING FROM SUBTERRANEAN (WATER-FILLED)WRITING CAVERN 2 GREET HEAT & then DIVE BACK DOWN BELOW SURFACE for MUSE-DIRECTED COOL
Euro Heatwave Hits All-time High, Ocean ‘HotTub’ temps in Florida
While tourists dive into Rome’s famed Trevi Fountain to keep cool, and Florida residents stay indoors w/ air conditioning on full blast, rather than take a dip in the Ocean at their local beach, then you know something weird is controlling our weather.
So, what’s up in Paradise?
Even Paradise Island resort-a short boat trip across the Florida Straits in Bahamian waters, connected by bridge from Nassau-reports their young honeymooners-along with older patrons-are hogging the indoor bar, rather than luxury poolside deckchairs on the lanai outside.
Music festival-goers are struggling to hear performers on stage from their ice-filled coolers set as a barricade under umbrellas to ward off (mosquitoes &) heat!
“June too soon; July stand by; August come it must; September remember; October all over”
Old Bahamian hurricane rhyme, now outdated
Helping Wildlife in the Heat
Meanwhile Europeans are struggling with triple digit [Fahrenheit]temperatures in a summer where many have agreed to conserve/enhance natural wildlife in farmland & natural parks-pix top middle: wilderness Glenfeshie rewilding preserve & lower l. Aberdeenshire private Scots pine replanting, w/protected 1826 Douglas Fir, upper rt brought as seedling from Pacific NW by David Douglas, given as gift to Moderator Church of Scotland whose residence it was at that time. Other pix top include protected species-wren; honey bee, w/ local shared beehive within same garden; Kirkton of Bourtie, ABD. Harvest, usually the domain of combine harvesters end August/September top lower rt, in full swing before end July 2023.
Irish god of Light, Lugh—from whom derives August fire festival of Lammas [Lughnasadh] is celebrated still, albeit camouflaged as Nevada desert’s Burning Man; but in ancient times the last handful of grain/sheaf of barley, oats, wheat was woven into a ‘corn dolly’ and hung on doorways & celebrated with bonfires after a field was cleared. The Lammas fire festival is still held by some communities in Scotland’s Northern Isles: it lasts for six weeks— from 3 weeks before>3 weeks after August 1st.
Lammas is happening NOW.
Unst in Shetland holds both the record for longest-lasting Lammas fire festival AND Hermaness, most northerly cherished headland of protected sea-birds, including puffin, greater & lesser kittywake, cormorant, black-backed gull, herring gull and guillemot.
The Gertrude Jekyll rose, top centre, bred by David Austin to commemorate the British horticultural genius & garden creator in her work with architect/life-long partner Edwin Lutyens. Together they designed English formal gardens, including Lindisfarne Castle, N.umberland, the Cenotaph,London.
Harvest this year progresses a month ahead of schedule in Scotland—c.f. winter solstice pic from 2002-20yr ago humour-farmer only just finished baling November, rolled them into position round RSC Kirkton of Bourtie ABD in lieu of missing megaliths -author photo aligned SSW to midwinter sunset viewed from Manse Glebe
Two Full Supermoons, August 1 & 30, 2023 Bright as Daylight
First supermoon of August—the full “Sturgeon” moon, according to Native American lore, is August 1st full moon, with its sister full Blue Moon (two occurring in one month) on August 30th, after the sun moves out of summery Leo into autumnal Virgo. A supermoon is one which nearly coincides with perigee—or, the closest the (full or new) Moon comes to the Earth along its elliptical orbit.
During Lionsgate-8/8 starting July 28 thru August 12, this year’s full Sturgeon Moon coincides w/ Delta Aquarid meteor shower which, because of the moon’s brilliance, may only be visible as sparkles in the sky, or completely outshone altogether.
Our Oversoul Shining thru 8/8 Lionsgate
Those who believe in the opportunity given by the Universal Consciousness to us hoomans in opening the Lionsgate on August 8th each year call themselves followers of Telosians—invisible beings who live in a subterranean cavern inside Mt. Shasta, accessible from a pool in central Mt. Shasta City-itself the source of the Sacramento River; and from snow-lined slopes of the great peak herself near Weed, CA.
Lionsgate 2023 is open between July 28-August 12th, with its peak on 8/8/23. Astro chart 11:11a.m. EST/03:11p.m. UT 08:11a.m. PDT/05a.m. Hawai’i ST Hilo,HI
Astrotheme chart shows detailed focus at midHeaven/MC Cancer with potent cluster round Sun, Venus retrograde in Leo. Grand trine of planets Mercury/Mars in earth sign Virgo with Jupiter, Moon & Uranus in Taurus & Pluto R in Aquarius-sign of ‘Great Awareness’ aka ‘big picture’ ❤
Saturn Retrograde awash in watery Pisces can inflict no harm in his solitude rocked by fellow Uranus R in its topsy turvy orbit.
This year Hawai’i & mid-Pacific islands e.g. Midway, Guam, French Frigate Shoals (pix below top & bottom rt) receive 8/8 energy first, with California, Oregon, WA, Alaska & Mexico next in line.
Significantly, Lionsgate opens end July, strengthening until its climax 8/8 & then diminishes until it closes on “Glorious Twelfth”.
Oldies from Scotland [‘Olde Countrie] may recall this was a day when lairds & their visitors to estates from Aberdeenshire thru Banffshire, to Moray & Inverness [also Argyll, Perthshire & thru Devil’s Elbow by way of Braemar & Cabrach in Highlands, to Caithness & Sutherland] took elaborate picnics-carried by servants-to remote shooting grouse moors; men of the party supplied with guns/women champagne while they wantonly massacred every flying creature in sight—from black grouse, to ptarmigan, even accidental crows, buzzards, eagle & blackbirds if they got in their line of fire. Subsequently, rich purple heather moorland [food source for grouse] was burned to ‘encourage’ a new crop for next year’s sport.
Polynesians & Hawai’ians Celebrate British Return of Sovereignty- mid-Pacific ‘Independence Day’ Festival La Ho’iho’i Ea
Seafaring Polynesians discovered Hawaii as early as A.D.200 by paddling double-hulled canoes across thousands of miles of the Pacific Ocean, pic below rt. When in 1778 British explorer James Cook became the first European to arrive, several chiefs ruled over different parts of the archipelago. Yet by 1810, King Kamehameha I had united Hawai’i’s eight-island chain as one kingdom.
During first half 19thC, British missionaries arrived & began to convert a population seen by them as heathen savages. American and European businessmen, hearing that the islands’ climate & landscape were perfect for growing sugar cane, began buying up plots of land.
La Ho’iho’ai Ea‘s origin links to King Kama-hameha III who on July 31,1843 succeeded in reclaiming his Hawai’ian kingdom after the British had occupied the Hawai’ian Islands for a period of five months. King Kamahameha III achievement is celebrated as Hawai’ian ‘Independence’ Day ❤
Queen Lili’uokalani took the throne in 1891 & attempted to restore rights of her people solely without interference from U.S. business interests, which her brother had allowed under duress, along with a free trade agreement that greatly favoured the islands’ Brit/U.S.sugar planters who by then controlled four-fifths of all farmable land.
In 1894 U.S. Minister to Hawai’i, John Stevens headed a conspiracy to overthrow her, ordered a nearby naval vessel to land troops ostensibly to protect U.S. residents, but surrounded the palace & told U.S.
“The Hawaiian pear is now fully ripe and this is the golden hour for the United States to pluck it”
John L. Stevens 1893 leading white militia Honolulu Rifles to depose Queen Lili’uokalani
The Queen agreed to step down so long as the U.S. recognized her sovereignty under law. Instead, President Grover Cleveland opposed the coup after learning she had been overthrown, and as most Hawai’ians opposed the coup, Cleveland’s administration urged for restoration of the monarchy. Instead the provisional government dug in its heels, establishing a Republic of Hawaii in July 1894.
The British did not go along with U.S. annexation, but the Queen agreed to abdicate in 1895.
When the Spanish-American War broke out in 1898, the islands became strategically important for U.S. troops fighting in the Philippines. Annexation of the islands happened August that year. Statehood was the next step.
There are 4,000 Polynesian residents currently in Hawai’i & both nationals celebrate La Ho’iho’ai Ea together.
Hawai’ians’ Abandon Ohana/Home for Las Vegas NV ‘Ninth Island’
Thus it is no giant leap for [Polynesian/Hawai’ian] Mankind that between 2011 & 2021, the mid-Pacific population of Clark County, NV grew by 40% to 22,000 people.
Since Covid passed, both Spring & Fall Pure Aloha Festivals have resumed at the Craig Ranch in N.Las Vegas, with authentic Hawaii’an music & dance, ukulele ‘slack key’ [open tuning in D], hula contests & more.
2023’s 17th Annual Pure Aloha Fall Festival will happen September 29th-October 2nd
Many native Hawai’ians-who grew up in the islands in simple outdoor-lifestyle homes akin to shacks at the bottom of grandpa’s garden on Oahu-have returned to their ancestral homes to visit, but have found economics of their Las Vegas life more achievable. Many now have bought homes, where ownership would have been out of reach in native Oahu or Maui, Hawai’i.
While Hawai’i governor Josh Green works hard to encourage local landowners, farming, & homegrown fruit/vegetable homesteading, Hawai’i is still considered the U.S.’s most expensive state to live in, as economics dictate importation of common household items-—from toilet rolls to automobiles—a luxury.
Dragons & Monsters—Hiding out for Centuries Waiting…Waiting…
A little light fantasy before we creative writers, Insecure scribblers, penwielders, pencil scratchers head back down our personal [rabbit hole] subterranean hideout for another session with our Muse.
Reflections of the gleaming sacred monstah icon above midpage,top l.& here, bottom rt. kept by anonymous warlock spellcaster in undisclosed [secret] location, or exposed for all to see on an historic dragon-shaped headland on 21stC Moray Firth at entrance to famed Loch Ness, above middle l., the dragon is a potent & intriguing symbol we are all drawn to.
Dutchsinse—see his Youtube channel—is an amateur volcanologist, with years of experience finding surprise geological events (& now surprise geographical ones) where the professionals forgot to look. In his latest discovery, he focuses on position of 18thC military Fort George sticking out like a #dragon’s head at the point where Loch Ness spills into the Moray Firth. On the ground it’s famed for its Garrison kirk & its founder King George IV [“fat Geordie”] who is traditionally credited with being wheeled to hunting grounds in Scotland [too hard for him to hike] & killing the nation’s last wolf.
Lying a stone’s throw across the Moray Firth at the mouth of Loch Ness-N of Inverness & the spit stretching out from Roseisle on the Black Isle across the water, the stark outline of a dragon/monster stands for all to see. Only we didn’t-until young Dutchsinse, above pic middle l. pointed it out. He elaborates how close to being the real Loch Ness Monster it is—with examples!
From my perspective, as a Pictish fanatic & believer in genealogy of the Pictish Chronicles & their Anglo-Saxon copies, it might well be the site of Pictish King Brideii whom Saint Columba [521-597] visited to try to convert to Iona version of Christianity. But the king’s chief Druid, Broichan dissuaded the king from listening and chastised Columba because in his exalted position, he should have had the [heavenly] power ‘to raise & still storms’. Columba was sent on his way without achieving his goal.
But there’s another hint for dragon-monster fans.
No modern historian has ever been able to identify Pictish king Brideii’s fortress. Urquhart Castle mound, on the W shore of Loch Ness is suggested, because of its extreme antiquity and proximity to [the monster &] Inverness; that’s in the Chronicles.
Nobody so far had proposed Fort George.
In Garrison kirk where military battalions guarding an 18thC fort gathered to worship, a miraculous stained glass window shows St.George piercing his angelic staff into his defeated opponent-a [dead] dragon. St.G is England’s patron & any six-year old can recite he killed a dragon. But how cosmic to find them here, hidden within a private chapel on a dragon-faced promontory on the edge of Monster territory.
Wildlife…and Wolves
In 1999, Dr Martyn Gorman, senior zoology lecturer at University of Aberdeen & vice chair of Mammal Society called for reintroduction of wolves to the Highlands and northern English countryside because at that time 350,000 young trees in commercial forests were being damaged by red deer.
Recently philanthropist & rewilding laird Paul Lister who bought Alladale Caledonian Forest in Sutherland North Scotland in 2003, has plans to reintroduce large carnivores into his wildlife reserve, such as wolves, lynx, and bear. He says farming interests [sheep farmers not keen] are not affected, as there is little agricultural activity in this far Northern county; and he affirms his type of reintroductions would be beneficial both to Scots tourism & economy-as it has been in the U.S.
Yellowstone Park recently reintroduced wolf into its forests.
Elk, CA is famous for its free-roaming Elk, above. One guy breathed heavily into my nostrils when I opened the car window ❤
Before we Submerge2 WritingCave, Moon Message from Dragons
Reminder: last night’s full Leo/Aquarius Moon is still 99% full tonight, only beginning to wane over the next few nights. High tides feature more than ever because Earth’s companion is so close & aligned to stir strong ocean movement. Surfers-enjoy! Beachgoers don’t bathe without proper equipment. Nature always wins.
Post scriptum
A Hawai’ian bumblebee stumbled into my medical bedchamber—its dimensions unbelievable: minimum cupcake size. But then it demonstrated that Mother Nature pairs intelligence with size. It flew [heavily-it was a hot day] towards the light of my [screen] window, put on the brakes as it got near enough to see no bee exit. Then, curving in best NASCAR style, it circled, found a gap in my cubicle curtains big enuff to buzz thru; kept on humming, aimed for the corridor with its outside glass sliding door &—clearly a highly bright boy—hovered. Could almost hear him thinking: “hoomans come in & out here”.
Sure enough, within two seconds, a nurse appeared from another ward with a bag of rubbish for the outdoor bin, punched her code into the door & yanked it sideways. Monsieur cupcake bee took off like a jet. Did I imagine it or did he turn & give me a black & gold blink from his huge eyes? Bless his little pollen socks ❤
p.p.s.
With gratitude to my much-appreciated followers<3
Bees & wolves & monstah thoughts preyed on my efforts earlier [last week’s draft prep4 blog] & my Firefox itchy finger pressed the publish button by mistake. Some of you will have read an opening title with several enormous unedited images before I managed to delete & do this one instead. Thanks for your attention-and patience. Hope this one makes up for it. Happy Lammas summer. Stay cool. ©2023MarianC.Youngblood
.
Atlantic Hurricane Season Echoes Pacific Cyclone in GUAM/MARIANA Is. Heralding Earth’s Hottest Summer Yet
Subscribe to continue reading
Subscribe to get access to the rest of this post and other subscriber-only content.
Late Season Hurricanes promise Autumnal Chaos
INSECURE WRITERS’ MONTHLY ESCAPE CORNER
Refuge even in the Stormiest Weather
Late hurricane Matthew causing havoc in Haiti heading for Bahamas, mainland U.S.
June too soon
July stand by
August come it must
September remember
October all over
Bahamian Hurricane Rhyme—now outdated by Global Warming
Hurricane warnings are in effect for Haiti, eastern Cuba, the southeastern Bahamas—including the Inaguas, Mayaguana, Acklins, Crooked Island, Long Cay and Ragged Island; also central Bahamas—Long Island, Exuma, Rum Cay, San Salvador and Cat Island.
Hurricane watches continue for the Turks and Caicos Islands and the Cuban province of Camaguey, which have now been extended to include the northwestern Bahamas, including the Abacos, Andros, Berry Islands, Bimini, Eleuthera, Grand Bahama and New Providence.
Cape Hatteras and Interests in the Capital
Washington D.C. is not unaware of the strategic importance of monitoring a strong category 5 storm headed to Cape Hatteras and Maryland.
Space lightning sprites over hurricane Matthew, filmed from Aruba by F.Lucena
Hurricane Betsy was famous in Nassau for similar treatment of humans in September 1965.
Both storms were unprecedented for their time—technically late season—in the ‘all over’ category of the poem, top. Now hurricanes are known to form in April and extend through November.
Along with unseasonal—but much welcomed—thunder, lightning and RAIN.
On the other side of the world, and on the other edge of the Pacific, Fukushima officials strive hopelessly to reinstall the damaged ice wall they built of sea ice to shut in radiation leakage. But September 2nd, thanks to tornado Lionrock, Japan’s tenth typhoon, the ice wall was again breached, with leakage of contaminated soil and fluids once more soaking through into northern Pacific waters.
Why are we not surprised to hear it’s heading our way?
Realtime Storms and CassaStorm
We IWSGers might sometimes be forgiven for burying our heads in the sand—digging deep into the recesses of our past, future or fantasy selves.
I am tempted to suggest that these earthly storms may even have been fantasized into reality by the fantastical script of our Ninja leader Alex’s CassaStorm—which, I am told, has just gone viral 😉 Congrats Alex.
May we all weather this storm, to write again tomorrow.
©2016 Marian Youngblood
Writing for Pleasure or Pitch?
January with the Gremlins
Wormholes in Time -- a dominant theme of my ABNA 2012 entry, 'Coco Bay: the Awakening'
At the time I was mostly concentrating on encouraging other bloghop authors — younger/newer, published or not — to enter, just to get the ‘feel’ of an international competition. The Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award is bigtime, but it’s also fairly simple to enter and before the fun begins — judging — it is not too taxing to come up with five (required) items that qualify you for entry:
1. Your bio — called ‘About You’
2. Your contact details: self-explanatory
3. Book description — ‘About your Book’
4. Your excerpt — up to the first three chapters of your book
5. Upload your MS — ‘Your Entry’.
Simple. You would think so, wouldn’t you?
It’s that last bit, ‘Your Entry’, that creates palpitations, anxiety, sleeplessness and sometimes compels the most fearless of writers to break down and cry. And it’s not because you haven’t edited your WIP to perfection, had three Beta Readers review and revise it, and rewritten the ending to your own plot-bunnies’ demands, see also below.
It’s the pitch.
Southern rim of the Bermuda Triangle, the Bahamas set in deep ocean trenches, as seen from Space
Amazon use exactly the same method to get you to capture the essence of your newest baby: but instead of having to write them a query letter, they ask you to submit a pitch. That’s not the same as ‘about your Book’. More exactly, it’s a short ‘snappy’ catch-all to hook readers. More significantly, in the ABNA contest, your completed entry will be judged in Round One solely on your pitch.
Now that the competition is officially closed while first round judging takes place, five thousand writers in each category (general fiction and YoungAdult fiction) are biting their nails, comparing blogs and praying they hit the target with their pitch: one thousand of those praying will be chosen to go through to round two — *Round One ‘winners’ announced February 23rd.
My ABNA 2012 entry 'Coco Bay' combines deepsea breeding tanks with deepspace time-travel
But you will surely be able to tell, won’t you? that I still feel I wrote one, but not the other! It’s the perennial schizm that working authors face. No wonder they say we’re neurotic.
Coco Bay: the Awakening by Marian Youngblood — the Pitch:
Philadelphia Experiment witnesses say Navy destroyer USS Eldridge disappeared in a mist cloud in 1943
In Green Turtle trilogy Part-1 she met the mysterious John, head of a Bahamian initiative to save world oceans, when she started work for the consortium in its ocean-floor lab.
In part two, Coco Bay, she discovers the marine project has endless resources — both financial and electromagnetic — somehow connected with 500,000 square miles of Bermuda Triangle on their doorstep. Harnessing electromagnetic Triangle energy could work miracles for her local Out-Island community and she finds herself drawn by the thrill of rescuing endangered species, without really understanding where these never-before glimpsed denizens of the deep are being rescued from!
When an entire human family returns through the wormhole to help John scale up the operation from eco-project to wholesale planetary migration, she dives in to help. These are John’s own children, missing in the time-fabric since the project began forty years earlier.
A random chain of events may save earth’s sister world, Europa, with its great mysterious deep, but may also redeem Earth’s inhabitants from destroying their own future.
Coco Bay — second in the fantasy trilogy — will appeal to a wide age/readership, within the present-day context of world concern for mass extinctions. Its scientific reality pulls readers into a scenario which crosses electromagnetic boundaries, suggested by exciting developments in plasma science current with astronomers and physicists.
Parliament buildings, Rawson Square, Nassau, Bahamas
The Bahamas’ unique setting and history will appeal to readers, travelers and piracy buffs alike.
Fantasy/borderlineSciFi novel along the lines of Cosmic Connection meets The Abyss, its final (electromagnetic) surprise twist should entice readers for more.
*ABNA first round neurosis ends February 23rd when they announce 1000 authors in each category who will go forward. Wish us luck.
©2012 Marian Youngblood
Green Turtle Cay-ripples and submissions
Entry ‘hook’ for Show Me The Voice
Cetaceans at home beneath the waves
If you have not yet read about Brenda Drake’s Show Me The Voice Blogfest Contest run in cooperation with agent Natalie Fischer, then scroll down to that blog, Blogs and Novels and Voice, for details.
In a word: here is my (updated, pared-down to 250 words) entry to the Voice Blogfest Contest. Many thank-yous to friends–known, loved and unknown bloggers– who critiqued in the very short time we all had to prepare for this adventure. In writing lingo: this is the Chapter One ‘hook’ with which we writers and authors attempt to snare you, dear Reader.
Here goes. Wish me luck.
Name: Marian Youngblood
Title: Green Turtle Cay
Genre: Adult Fiction: Fantasy-Magical Realism
“Next stop Marsh ‘Arbor, Habaco.” The ferry captain’s solid Bahamian voice echoed through the launch. It took Annabelle right back to her teens. With their Miami traffic, what a miracle the Islands still sounded Colonial.
Bimini via Green Turtle Cay, her ticket said. Closest to Florida, Bimini was considered American—until you got there. So retro. Two stops and she’d be there. Her spirit rose as they headed out from Abaco.
Thirty years of mainland living hadn’t dulled her love of the ocean. Its sheer blue clarity curling around white atolls–amazing fish swarms–she felt comfortable in its watery embrace.
Green Turtle Trench guarded one of Earth’s stable populations of dolphin and basking shark. And shark city was where she was headed—if only for one night. She studied the approaching shore, knowing Tom planned to bring her back in his own boat. Nice of him. The old guy had asked his niece-–his nearest relative-–to check out an offer from a consortium to run a shark center here. Sounded like fun. Paradise for him—a shark man from way back. Green Turtle looked as placid as ever–not a sign of this new project he described. Maybe she’d adapted to change.
Back then, you visited the Islands if you owned an airplane, or a friend’s private yacht transported you magically from Nassau. Nowadays major airlines flew to the doorstep.
When she’d stepped off the plane—when the wall of heat hit her—she felt that childhood pull again, couldn’t wait to get out on the water.
©2011 Marian Youngblood
Blogs and Novels and Voice
Fishing the Deep: entering the Contest World
Tongue of the Ocean--deepest channel in the Bahamas which lured ships to their death-and into pirate heaven
All writers are, by virtue of choice, reclusive, immersed in their own fantasy world, sometimes difficult to understand (except by other writers), often remote–even monosyllabic, unless drawn into their subject. It is usually the hardest task for a novelist to emerge from her story and write a self-critique. Even worse: to write a pitch, a review, a ‘sales’ angle to her own story (see ABNA below).
Blogging, now. That’s slightly different: blogging is kind of like writing–only you get to show your readers a little at a time. That’s a lot easier than telling an (unknown) potential audience what you thought you were writing about.
So when a fellow blogger offers you a little help up the ladder along the way you jump at the chance. Don’t you? If this sounds like you–read on. Thank you fellow blogger Hart Johnson–aka Watery Tart (Confessions of) for this headsup.
Amazing blogger Brenda Drake is hosting a blog contest this week. ‘Show Me the Voice Blogfest Contest‘ starts on her birthday–day after equinox–March 22, 2011. She has managed to secure another amazing talent–agent Natalie Fischer–to judge the entries. So far she has over 100 soon-to-be published authors/writers/bloggers who have thrown themselves into the deep water. Sorry — my entry is getting my metaphors mixed!
If you fancy competing yourself, go right now to Brenda’s Voice Blog and join in. All the rules and requirements are there. It can do no harm. It might even advance your career.
The lovely Natalie--new to Laura Bradford's Literary Agency
But the story must be finished. Just edits and rewrites to go. Brenda allows one more day of edits to make it better–and to pare the entry down to just 250 words–that’s where your ‘Voice’ comes in–your own unique way of hooking your reader, first off. Then it’s all up to the agenting skills of Natalie Fischer–her critiques being first, second and third prizes!
Natalie Fischer is the new agent on the block at the BRADFORD LITERARY AGENCY in San Diego, who specialize in Romance –historical, romantic suspense, paranormal, category, contemporary, erotic– urban fantasy, women’s fiction, mystery, thrillers, and young adult. Non fiction topics include business, relationships, biography/ memoir, self-help, parenting, narrative humor. They work long and hard with their chosen writers. It is a partnership for life.
Green Turtle Cay: a Fantasy
So: This is Chapter One of my WIP Green Turtle Cay. Stay with me. I have two days until I can submit the pared down version (first 250 words)… but for those interested, (it does hook you after a while–there I go, another fishy analogy), I posted another excerpt of the NaNo version Evangeline and Teach a couple of months back here.
GREEN TURTLE CAY by Marian Youngblood
“Next stop Marsh ‘Arbour, Habaco.” The boat captain’s solid Bahamian voice echoed through the launch. It took Annabelle right back to her teens. Surely they didn’t still drop their aitches and add H to their As. With all the traffic from Miami and the Florida coast, it was a miracle the spelling had not changed to American.
Bimini via Green Turtle Cay, it said on her ticket. Two more stops and she would be there, she thought happily as the launch headed out from the Abaco capital.
They still spelled Cay with a C. An old Brit legacy she was grateful for. All the Florida Keys were spelled the American way. Even Bimini, the closest to the Florida mainland, was seen by some as American, until you got there. Isolated. Ooo: it was nice to be back. Thirty years on the ‘mainland’ had not dulled her love of the ocean, the sheer blue clarity of it circling the islands. The way it curled around these barren white atolls and made her somehow comfortable in their watery embrace.
And the wildlife was incredible. The Abaco Bank and Bahamian Trench still held one of the earth’s most stable populations of dolphin, barracuda and basking shark. Shark city was where she was headed, if only for one night.
“Wonder if Tom ever takes time off just to enjoy all this.” She studied the shoreline as they approached Green Turtle Cay, knowing Tom planned to bring her back here from Bimini in his own boat. Nice of him. The old guy had asked his niece–his nearest relative–to check out an offer he’d had from a consortium to run a shark center here. Sounded like fun. She knew it would be paradise for him. He was a shark man from way back. Nothing seemed to have changed. Green Turtle looked as placid as ever. Not a sign of this new project he spoke of, but maybe her eyes had grown accustomed to change. Thirty years was a long time for things to stay the same.
In the ’sixties the Out Islands were where you went only if you had your own airplane, your own private yacht or a friend’s to lift you there magically from the communications hub in Nassau. Nowadays major airlines flew into both Nassau and Grand Bahama where Freeport acted like any airport in the world–faceless, impersonal. In its opaque glass air lounges you could be anywhere.
But when she stepped off the plane—when the wall of heat hit her—she was back in familiar territory, could not wait to get out of the airport, down to the docks, catch the ferry and get back out on the water again.
After the launch left New Providence Island behind, when they were out in the open sea flanking the small, 30-mile stretch of beaches and millionaires’ homes they called the Islands’ capital, she began to relax, to breathe in the smell of the ocean, the salty taste on her lips, the scent of a fresh breeze in her hair. She was back in childhood, where life thrived in a primeval state, in fish swarms, sea egg colonies, forests of drifting kelp and live nutrients for one of the earth’s few remaining wild places: the coral reefs off the US Mainland.
Life on the reef: constantly evolving
Tom had started his shark colony on Bimini all those years ago when sharks were plentiful and politically ‘expendable’. Now sharks were in decline worldwide, so what made this blue-water archipelago such a sanctuary? why were they so abundant in Bahamian waters? Had to have something to do with warm water from the Gulf of Mexico hitting the Tongue of the Ocean and its deep flow of pure Atlantic currents straight from the Azores.
She remembered researching a feature piece for National Geographic and the literary details stuck. How Ernest Hemingway hid out in the islands in the mid-1930s with his typewriter and rods. He was stirred to write of fish and fly lines and the steady pull of the sail, but he battled the sharks that ravaged his catch. He killed scores of them in reprisal, shooting them and burning their bodies on the beach. He must have had respect for the animal, though. He had made Santiago in The Old Man and the Sea, say of a mako shark breaking the surface,
‘Everything about him was beautiful except his jaws… He is not a scavenger nor just a moving appetite… He is beautiful and noble and knows no fear of anything.’
That was closer to her own view of the predator. Herman Melville called it ‘pale ravener of horrible meat,’ but his generation had been whalers whose lives depended on their catch. She mused how little had changed here.
Green Turtle Cay–most of the archipelago, in fact—over 700 islands and cays scattered for 500 miles southeast of Florida—was still free of industrial development. That in itself was a miracle. Locals still made a living off catching Bahamian lobster, red snapper and delicious conch. Conch salad was her favorite: chunks of flesh from these succulent shellfish toasted or deep fried with a stunning dressing of hot peppers, garlic and limes. She licked her lips unconsciously, remembering the flavors.
Other memories flooded her mind. The way they called sea urchins sea eggs always made sense to her. You didn’t want to stand on one–EVER. The spiney needles hurt too much: dark brown with red liquid pouring out… or maybe that was her own blood they had drawn when they punctured her skin. She remembered as a child thinking of them lying there on the sandy bottom like eggs laid by some giant beast. It had struck her as funny then and she giggled, but she avoided them wherever possible.
Sharks, on the other hand, were mostly her friends.
Tom asserted more than forty species patroled Bahamian waters. Including lemons, great hammerheads, bulls, blacktips, makos, silkies and nurses. Even migrating blues and massive whale sharks passed through. Others lived here year-round, giving birth in the same quiet lagoons where they were born.
As the launch left Green Turtle Cay and headed out for Bimini, she looked over the side into the clearest of clear blue. In her mind she was instantly back in the water.
* * * * * * *
The name Bahamas came from the Spanish, Baja Mar for ‘shallow seas’. The archipelago rests on a pair of limestone platforms, the Great and Little Bahama Banks, but it was divided by channels that plunge as deep as 13,000 feet. As deep as the Altiplano is high. This combination of sheer drops and shallows, of rocky ledges and sandy shores, of coral reefs, grass flats, mangroves and lagoons nurtured life of all sizes. Clean waters blended to create a seafood feast that drew sharks from near and far.
Now, she thought—like thirty years ago—this clean blue place is still their Eden.
She was swimming lazily through mangrove roots that spidered in all directions, crabs skittering before her into hiding in a deep dense green tidal forest. A baby shark grazed her ankle, sending shivers up and down her spine. She broke out of her reverie and strained her eyes towards her destination.
Tom’s shark nursery off Bimini had kept the species alive, against all odds, a birthing and feeding area where young sharks—barely bigger than wine bottles—could eat and grow without being eaten themselves. She wished someone at the time had thought to create a similar nursery somewhere for whales–darlings of the eco-warriors.
Sharks bit fewer people each year than New Yorkers, according to Health department records. Another piece of her trivia journalist research. It was beguiling to know she was more likely to die in the bathtub or be murdered by her lover than to die in the jaws of a shark. The movie ‘Jaws’ had done the animals a disservice. She strained to look through the moving waves to discover if one followed the boat, but there was only clear sandy bottom below the hull.
Though she had not been with her uncle in several years, she was looking forward to being with the old sea-dog again. With his dark eyes shaded from the sun’s glare behind retro sunglasses, a red bandana tied round his head to fend off more rays and the occasional mosquito, he looked more like an outlaw biker than a marine scientist. She remembered Tom’s fondness for Tiger Sharks.
‘Amazing’ he called them. They did indeed eat anything, but had obviously gotten tired of competing with humans, so mostly cleaned up after them. They ate tires, license plates, other sharks, anything floating by that looked interesting. After the Great White, the Tiger was said to be the world’s most dangerous shark, but to Tom it always seemed too lazy to bother with a human meal when there was clearly plenty other fodder in the deep blue depths.
She once herself encountered a big female that swam by so close, out of sheer curiosity, that she allowed Annabelle to see the pores punctuating her snout—shark antennae that help her sense the electromagnetic energy of living flesh. She clearly was not interested in human smell that day. But she had not left either. Annabelle remembered stretching out her hand while the huge silent creature allowed her to run her hand along her gray blotched skin. It felt like fine-grain sandpaper.
Tom once showed her how to stroke a young Tiger, flipped on its back, allowing it to slip into a dreamlike state called tonic immobility–like in a dream world where the lion might lie down with the lamb. It did not flinch when she stroked it. Almost purred like a cat.
She brought herself back to the present as the launch ate up the intervening miles of ocean and Bimini appeared on the horizon. Tom, a biologist working in his natural shark nursery in the crook of the island, was finally having to come to terms with the ‘real world’. His nursery was under threat of development. That was why the Green Turtle offer was so important for them to check out.
In his makeshift HQ Tom Roberts had been studying lemon sharks for thirty-five years, had amassed a detailed database that was the envy of marine researchers worldwide. He was prickly about the threat of an outsize resort elbowing its way into his territory. He made it his business to keep intruders out, sometimes going to extreme lengths. Even been known to wield a harpoon in mock threat to safeguard his mangroves. Condos, a marina and a casino were the last things he –or his sharks– needed.
Torn fishnets festooned the yard. The lab’s donated truck, when it ran, was a health hazard and passengers were usually put off because of the noxious fumes that filled the cab.
Volunteers recruited from mainland universities for much of the summer work lived in a double-wide mobile home painted in loud colors. Bunking arrangements were sparse but friendly. Young twentysomethings looking sleep-deprived and hungry, lined up in droves to do hands-on research in a place where sharks relaxed and swam in their back yard. Nocturnal net-patrol —catching, tagging and releasing young lemon sharks— helped the team build a lemon shark family tree. Lush mangrove forests and isolation from fishing and cruiseboat routes, helped keep generations of lemons close to home.
Bahamian government agencies were aware than the islands needed better faciites for visitors, because of the cash injection it brought to the resident population, both human and piscean. It was a difficult balancing act. Development done right, gentle on the environment and drawing tourists in manageable numbers could help protect sharks and their ecosystem. Tom knew that. But too much development, like they had in the ’eighties at Freeport in Grand Bahama and Paradise Island in Nassau, would destroy them.
It wasn’t like the rest of the world had grown more sentient, more ecologically-friendly to the shark population in the intervening thirty years. The animal population had shrunk in direct contrast to the increasing human proliferation of the planet. But Tom was convinced that the shark in his school were probably the only ones left in the entire seven oceans with such a natural and unspoiled habitat. He intended to keep it that way.
He scratched his grizzly beard and set his bandana back over his warm forehead as he stretched his sun-drenched arm to his brow to scan the horizon. Another boat coming. He would have to be ready for whoever it brought. It didn’t look like it was headed in any other direction.
Pirately ways and pirate culture were still a way of life here in the Islands
They were learning their own lessons now and it was likely they would make ‘a few mistakes’. Tom thought this mistake was their biggest yet.
Tourism accounted for nearly half the GDP of the Bahamas. Diving was a multi-million-dollar industry here and sharks were an increasing draw. A single live shark in healthy habitat was worth as much as $200,000 in tourism revenue over its lifetime. It was a daunting thought.
As far as he was concerned, a shark’s ecological value was inestimable. Not only did they weed out sick and weak fish, leaving the healthiest to breed but as apex predators they kept other carnivores in check, preventing them from depleting the algae-eating fish that kept the coral reefs healthy.
Caribbean research studies farther south showed that where sharks were key species, their depletion actually toppled ancient foodchain hierarchies and ultimately brought the downfall of the reef itself.
In the Bahamas commercial long-line fishing had been illegal since 1993 and shark parts could no longer be exported from the country–so that took care of the wasteful Oriental sharkfin soup industry, he was pleased to tell people.
Sport fishermen took some sharks, but demand for meat was low. Thank God. This all helped keep the blue waters a sanctuary for the blacktip, reef and nurse sharks that vied for nibbles from nooks in the coral, for the oceanic whitetip on its global wanderings and for the great hammerhead rocking its bizarre snout side to side in search of prey.
He knew that as developers made their way around the islands, shark habitat would continue to be whittled away. These big creatures were magnificent in their own right and vital to the naturally replenishing system that surrounded the coral. If the sharks went, so would the bountiful ecosystem that fed the locals and kept outsiders coming back to the islands to fish, to dive, to write, to dream.
He wiped his brow and reset his red bandana as he headed down to the jetty to check out what surprise awaited him aboard the approaching launch.
©2010-2011 Marian Youngblood
Evangeline and Teach
Green Turtle Cay, Abaco in the Bahamas: one of Blackbeard's hideouts for his slave-ship raids
In practice, it works out rather differently. Family, friends, eating, drinking, sustenance, nourishment and a few other of life’s ‘essentials’ go by the board. Friends have been known to fall out over NaNo. Families to starve. Or eat out. Only cats and keyboards remain constant companions. Anybody else with any sense has already taken charge of the situation and is ignoring the solitary writer/novelist-to-be.
words in pictures, courtesy of Wordie
With five days to go, I should be pulling in the strands which draw my novel to a close, but instead I am procrastinating — because that’s one of the virtues of NanoWriMo. Chris Baty in the San Francisco Office of Letters and Light says it’s all part of the learning curve. So why aren’t you doing it, too?
EVANGELINE AND TEACH
Evangeline was her English Island name.
Back home in French Guinea she had had another name. She was forbidden by her own sacred tradition to speak it in this life, to reveal who she had been in that former time.
Daughter of the tribal chief, she had their trust, she would one day have ruled when Father was too old to lead. And she wondered if that day had come when Father welcomed the strangers to their shore, gave them food and wine, made them honored guests at his table and provided concubines for a night’s rest in their guest villa overlooking the shore.
Out in the Bay, these French mariners described such a ship. A barque made out of full-grown oak trees that they had in their homeland, not like the sappy fig they grew in Guinea. So large they said, one tree could create four walls of the villa alone and leave wood to spare for roofing. And Father was taken in. He saw something out in the Bay — two vessels, she learned later— that were so foreign to his vision, his mind would not allow him to see such alien craft. So he believed totally what the strangers said and believed them when they said they were bedecked with color streamers, paper lanterns. and that they had only come ashore to replenish their provisions of milk and honey and butter and ale. They even said, if the village were willing to trade with them for such a meager request, they would show them international trawling techniques, practise a little fishing in their offshore fishing grounds. Their barrels had run low, they needed to stock up before heading back into the fray. They would be on their way on the morrow, back on the high seas in pursuit of the foreign English who were attacking their borders.
And Father had believed every word. Father had offered them the prize guest seats next to him at the High Table for the feast which all villagers shared to celebrate such an unusual arrival in their rich fishing grounds. Father had given them the sleeping tent reserved only for honored guests, a canvas awning which few others deserved to use. And two concubines each for the foreign sea captain and his officers. The captain said the rest of his men would remain on board. It sounded reasonable. None of the villagers had any reason to suspect. Father usually did the best for the tribe and trade was always beneficial for everyone.
It would be a long night for Father, so Evangeline went to her own quarters earlier than usual, as she saw her presence was not needed, save to be introduced formally to the French captain. He looked and sounded polite. She had no suspicions on that score. Besides, back then, she had no knowledge of what was going on on the high seas except that two European nations were at war and that didn’t usually affect the dominions of the African continent. Their sea traffic came from neighboring tribes. The farthest travelers came was from shores of the southern desert.
So it was from a deep sleep and a vivid dream that she was awakened in the middle of the night — she remembered the moon had just reached its horizon point and was about to set — so a couple of hours before dawn light would flood the land and wake the tribe. In tribal medicine, it was known as an inauspicious time.
Bermuda sloop fitted out as a man-o'-war, 1831
They were taken as slaves. The European gentlemen with their northern manners and their white faces and blond beards and fancy uniforms were nothing more than thieves. She was rowed out into the bay with twenty other young people and Father. None of them knew why. Then, as they neared the enormous vessel, Father stood up to look.
Then and there they slit his throat and threw him to the waves. At the moment he stood up to look into the decks of a ship he had never seen in his entire existence before, not in reality and not in picture books left by other traders — as he rose to help his people out of the low craft and into this mystery ship — they took his life.
He’d been tethered like the rest, but their purpose was finally revealed. He had merely been taken from the village to ensure silence and cooperation. Out here in the bay, as they saw the vessel prepare for a long voyage into equatorial winds and currents, he was an old man, a nuisance, a hindrance.
Her mind reran the event a thousand times. She watched him rise from an unaccustomed positon in the bottom of the boat and stand proud as they neared the tall galleon. His chiefly stance was brave. He still believed he could rescue the situation. That’s what she meant about Father having outlived his time. His belief in the good of Man had been betrayed. It was perhaps the Great Spirit’s way of showing him his time on earth was over. Without a word, without salutation, greeting, or any show of respect, one of the crew stepped forward from his position at the oars. He had a cutlass in his hand. He didn’t even pretend to hide it. Even before he reached Father, Evangeline knew what was going to happen.
Guineaman, a frigate man-of-war capable of supporting 120 guns
They were taken then, one by one, shuffling past the silent body of the man who had been their Chief, up a shaking gangway over the side and on to the main deck of the Guineaman. Evangeline had a momentary impression of the French ship’s enormous size — it rose even more powerfully up towards the prow where wheelhouse, rigging and full sail added to its grandeur. This was indeed a trader for a long voyage. The rumors had truth. There were far off lands where young people and children were spirited away never to return to their homes or their culture or their families. Always fated to watch the sun rise on another continent, over a different sea or, for some, never to see the sea ever again.
Now, years later she knew this to be a familiar story. She’d heard of others taken like her friends, her cousins and brother from the sea, overland to foreign places where the earth was dry and crops starved from lack of water. They were made to work, to harvest food not for themselves, but for another man. The man who controlled them operated what was called a plantation, where many had been taken to live in vile quarters with none of the gentle trappings of noble life in a village a million miles away on the other side of the world.
Another life, another time, another earth, another past. A dream ago — when she was young.
Years on, in another future, Evangeline learned that her fate had been blessed compared with the stories she heard of those slaves who were sold to plantation owners in South Carolina, Georgia and Virginia.
The brigantine advanced on the French Guineaman with piracy in mind
The hand that untied them and pushed them gently up the companionway to where the Captain stood under the forward mainsail, was the same young hand who had stolen meat to feed her when rations ran out after their first week aboard. They were made to stand beside the ship’s bell: La Concorde, she read on its heavy bronze lip. He whispered as he pointed to where the captain and navigator scanned the horizon with a hand telescope.
‘There is another ship. The captain thinks they mean to board us. You will have to stand forward on display, in case they mean us harm.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Evangeline would remember his answer to her dying day.
‘Captain says it is Teach. The pirate. You will be taken prisoner and we shall go free.‘
Of course the hand had not been correct. There was something about La Concorde that pleased Edward Teach. He needed a new flagship, or he was tired of his old brigantine. Or he had a new girlfriend who wanted a ship. It could have been any one of those reasons. Teach was indeed a brigand and a thief, plundered the rich to feather his own operation. But in the Islands he was known for picking on slave ships because in releasing them, in some way he felt he paid his debt to society for robbing those powerful Europeans who’d banished him from serving as a genuine officer in the British Navy. Queen Anne would suffer for ignoring him. He had become a presence to be reckoned with. He would soon have a fleet of ships which would rule the seas between Bermuda, the Bahamas and the South Carolina coast.
Evangeline stood tall. She felt no fear. She’d heard of the pirate and thought life as a free woman in the islands might not be as wonderful as life had been back home — long ago when Father was alive — but preferable to that working long hours in the dust for an alien white lord. At least they said in the Islands you could work your own property, find a new love, build a new life in a wooden shack and, if the fates favored her, she might even meet the great man Teach himself.
'Blackbeard', Captain Edward Teach of pirate fame
For now she would remain calm. She would allow her fate to unfold before her. If this was indeed Blackbeard’s ship, she would go along with her fate and ask him for mercy.
Looking back on that night in the balmy waters off the Carolina shore, she had no way of knowing how her life would end up in the Bahama Islands, how gentle would be her fate. How kind would be the pirate captain, and how fortunate her life was to turn out.
Evangeline sighed and added another row of stitching to her sampler. She raised a glass of pomegranate juice and stretched her eyes to the horizon. Even Blackbeard was gone now. But those had been the days. She smiled, picked up her fan and cooled her aging brow.
©2010 Marian Youngblood
Fire Festivals & Persistence of Pasche
Carnival in Rio before Lent
‘First come Candlemas
Syne the New Meen
The niest Tiseday efter that
Is Festern’s E’en.
That Meen oot
An’ anither at its hicht
The niest Sunday efter that
Is aye Pasche richt.’
Ancient Scots Easter calculation. Anon.
The Calendar according to the Moon was regular as clockwork. It was reliable, you could see it in the sky and you could set your life rhythms by it. The old Scots rhyme above spoken slowly will make sense even to the least son of the soil of Ultima Thule. But non-Scots may need a little help in translation.
Festern’s E’en – as Hallowe’en – was an ancient calendar fire festival celebrated, like all pre-Christian revelry, at night. And, like Hallowe’en, it still is. Only we call it by another name: Carnival.
Translated simply, it is the evening before the ‘Feast/Festival’. With a capital F, this celebration was one of the greatest fire festivals in the Celtic Year. When it became absorbed into the Christian calendar, its importance and significance to the populace was so great, that it was deemed necessary to give it a place of prominence second only to Christmas. As such it has remained. The festival that precedes Easter is throughout the world celebrated with fire and puppetry,processional and masqued balls, dance and music and food and drink.
If you ask a South American about Carnival, ‘Carnaval’ in Portuguese, he will tell you they prepare for it all year round. In some cultures it has become almost more important than Christmas – a reversion to type, backtracking to pre-Christian times.
In Brazil, it makes complete sense to hold Carnaval precisely on its February moon date in the ancient calendar because in Rio de Janeiro and Buenos Aires it is full-blown summer. By contrast, German Fasching, held similarly in February, is pretty chilly dancing in the noctural streets of northern Hamburg!
Terence Young's 'Thunderball' James Bond in 1965
Carnival used to be held in the Bahamas in February too, when spring is at its height and the casuarinas blow carefree along Nassau Beach. But in the summer of 1965, Chubby Broccoli and Sean Connery made a James Bond film set on Paradise Island and commissioned the Carnival Committee to stage an ‘extra’ Carnival, so they could weave festive fiery scenes into ‘Thunderball’; since then Bahamian Carnival has been a summertime festival.
London's Notting Hill Carnival
But originally, before the Gregorian calendar took over calculation and reckoning by the moon in 1582, Carnival was high festive season in that ancient stream of festivities used by Man to celebrate the return of the Light to a dark winter world.
Candlemas, as I’ve mentioned before, is the first glimpse of light waxing and adding grace to the darkest days of winter. On February 2nd – or Bride’s Day, before solar months took over as calendrical norm – the measure of light from the heavens increases to such a degree that birds begin to mate, petals on spring flowers open and the Earth softens its frozen grip.
In lunar terms, the first New Moon of the second month (Gregorian) was celebrated in every northern hemisphere culture planet-wide from prehistoric times. From Buddhist to Inuit culture the return of light to nurture the earth’s crucial growing plants was a calendar custom worth celebrating.
When Christian calendar calculators were devising Roman Church high and holy days, they took care to incorporate these ancient fire rites as an integral part of Christian culture and ‘lore’. it did not do to lose a single ‘soul’ in the transition from a pre-Christian to a Christian world.
And, as it was a long-standing tradition for local people to mark ancient quarter days – the solstices and the equinoxes – with festivals of fire, it seemed right that they should transit unaltered into the Christian calendar: marked instead with candlelight inside church buildings.
Christmas was chosen at the time of (northern) winter solstice when the ‘ignorant’ (pagan) desperately needed to celebrate the return of ‘light to the world’. Christ was called the ‘Light of the World’. The Son of the Sun.
Midsummer was fully taken up with a light celebration of its own – in northern latitudes the longest days of the year brought bountiful harvest and genuine thanksgiving by a rural population for the gifts of the earth continuously provided from midsummer through to Lammas, an August ‘cross-quarter’ day. No Church overlay was necessary; nevertheless Roman Catholicism superimposed the feast of John the Baptist on midsummer’s day and frowned heavily on pagan corn dollies and such Celtic fripperies perpetuated by an agricultural society.
The Equinoxes, however, required more serious contemplation.
Most rural (so-called ignorant) converts were aware of the movement of both sun and moon. While that may appear to us today to be rather sophisticated intellectual knowledge, it was commonplace then to note changing seasons, hours of light and dark and the phases of the moon. When equinox arrived it was – in the human mind at least – a miracle that every place on earth had exactly the same number of hours of light and dark for one earth period of 24 hours. The sun rose at 6 and set at 6 on every man, woman, child and beast on earth. The phenomenon was in itself worth celebrating. In astronomical terms, the event occurs precisely at the moment the Sun (traveling along the ecliptic) appears to cross the celestial equator, and while ancient Man may not have known that added sophistication, his life was changed by its occurrence twice in every year. In addition, he celebrated the spring (cross-quarter) festivals of Wesak, Beltane, May Day, along with any events providing an excuse for Morris and maypole dancing, The Church allowed these to continue, so long as the requisite saints were also remembered and offerings given.
While Archangel Michael was given dominion over autumnal equinox, Easter was chosen as a fitting ‘high’ celebration to take over the vernal equinoctial light-and-dark balance.
What put a spanner in the works was that – late in the seventh century – when two contemporary Christian systems were running alongside in mutual cooperation, the internal systems within the Celtic and Roman Churches came to a clash; an impasse.
Venerable Bede's 'Ecclesiastical History of the English People'
While the Synod changed lives, split families and royal houses, even intra-kingdom alliances, thereafter church festivities centred on Easter were standardized throughout the land and celebrated in accordance with Roman custom.
Easter remained the highest festival of the Christian church until the Scots Reformation when (after 1660) presbyterian austerity superimposed simplicity, reduced dogma and a return to ‘speaking to God’ directly.
For the rest of the British Isles, however, and for descendants and dependents the world over, Easter remains one of the great festivals of the Christian calendar.
Curiously, for a celebration washed, ironed and folded so neatly by successive synthesized systems – prehistoric, early-historic, pre-Christian, Celtic and Roman Christian – Easter emerges as a supreme highlight in the Church year.
Its one concession to its pagan past is that is remains to this day a date fixed according to the Moon.
And, in order not to offend other faiths which, like Anglian Eanfled, might take offence at the bulldozing approach (e.g. Spanish Inquisition, Salem witch trials), there is a built-in mechanism of calculation which ensures that Easter and Passover never collide and that the Christian High Festival should never occur BEFORE equinox.
Mardi Gras in New Orleans, bead capital of the world
The modern gesture to Pancake or Shrove or Fat Tuesday (Festern’s E’en) is not lost on marketers for supermarket chains who do a roaring trade in maple syrup and readymix batter. It’s the ‘stock up while the going’s good’ mentality, because the body must endure the subsequent fast of Lent for a regulation 40 days. Once more the Roman Church succeeded in condensing multiple events in Christ’s life into one festival: this fast represents the period of time He spent without food while meditating in the desert.
Nowadays, nobody questions that its immediate successor in the calendar is representational of His death and resurrection, when historically the two events happened years apart. Once again, ancient symbolism is used to gloss over detail.
‘First arrives Candlemas (Feast of Bride); Then the New Moon
The following Tuesday will be ‘Fastnacht’/Fasching or Shrove Tuesday
Allow that ‘moon’ to wax and wane
And watch till the next moon is full
The Sunday thereafter will be Easter Day.’
translation by Scots descendant, non-AnonIt worked for King Oswiu in 664. I can assure you, the calculation works still!
©2010 Marian Youngblood
Sunflower Blues
Ideal giant
This is what a sunflower is supposed to look like. All things being equal, you plant the seed in March or April (not outdoors in Scotland; on a windowsill or in the greenhouse, because it’s 57degrees N 2ºW where I am: that’s the latitude of Juneau, Alaska); water, love, watch and wait. About the last week of May it’s usually all right to plant it out into the garden. And in any given summer, Nature takes over and you get a sunflower: you know that big yellow thing with petals circling round a yellowish – sometimes blackish – centre, which bees love and when the seed sets, birds come and perch all day, pecking.
An attribute to any garden: that’s what they say in the horticultural centres and supermarkets across Britain: there, of course, they’re trying to sell you a potted plant because they think you haven’t been on the ball enough to plant your own from seed.
I do it every year. I plant seeds from last year’s sunflower success or a couple of big stripey ones from the birdseed bag. It doesn’t matter: in the Northeast of Scotland, you need all the encouragement you can get: any seed that sprouts is a success; if it flowers, it’s a glorious success. If it sets seed, then it has to be the summer of 1976, 1996, 2006: you know, a ‘bumper’ year.
So this March I found a really fat stripey seed – the last in a packet of ‘Giant Sunflower’, a big smiley yellow and black face to show you what to expect on the well-worn packet. In it went. Watered it, spoke to it, watched the curved thick neck pop out of the compost in its pot with joy and anticipation.
‘Plant out when all danger of frost is past’: they always say that on Thompson & Morgan seed packets. They must know they have customers in Ultima Thule, on the edge of the Arctic Circle. They have to cover themselves in case someone complains their product didn’t grow.
swallow babes about to fledge
This year I waited until June. Frosts had to be past. Swallows were back, firmly in residence, busily building nests and laying eggs in mud scoops on rafters in my sheds. I had in the intervening months been carefully transferring the giant baby from pot to bigger pot in the greenhouse. At waist height, she was ready for the move.
I’d made a new ‘border’ the year before. What an inadequate Victorian description. I nearly killed myself digging out a section of unmown grass on a sunny slope; adding chicken manure from my faithful avian friends, and backfilling with rich mulch left from prolific leaf-fall on the driveway the previous autumn. A gardener’s delight: deep rich flower bed, simultaneously cleared avenue, so cars can actually get up the hill to my house, overgrown with and surrounded by Nature’s bounty. The sunflower and I were just dying to get into the new earth and get ‘established’ (another gardening term they’re fond of in catalogues).
June went well. I planted out other beauties cossetted and nurtured in the glasshouse through an uncertain spring: sweet peas, poppies, nasturtium, nicotiana (‘tobacco plant’) and penny black. People who read about and plant their annuals direct in the earth have no idea.
But things were looking up.
July 2009: best strawberry harvest ever
At solstice and lasting for around two weeks there was a remarkable heatwave. That’s what we call it in Scotland. In other places in Britain they call it ‘summer’. It’s when the sun shines consistently over a period of a week or so; you know, blue sky, no wind, temperatures rising into the 70s. That’s Fahrenheit. I never could get my mind around Centigrade, except for the boiling point of water. Up here near the Arctic circle there’s really no point converting your way of thinking about temperature, because any minute it’s going to change.
This unprecedented spell of warm allows plants and humans to believe all is well with the world. That Scotland is just another place on the planet where life goes on like other ‘real’ places and the garden is a room added to the house. The rural idyll envisioned by Charlotte Brontë and Thomas Hardy.
By the first week of July I had the best crop of strawberries I can remember – ever – coinciding with the second week of Wimbledon. At this latitude, that is a miracle.
Giant sunflower with support
The rest of the border was coming along nicely, everything starting to flower and send out scent into the warm air. It was like paradise. Green sward, pink, peach, blue, violet, red and orange blossoms mingling with ferny foliage, bees’ buzz, birdsong; hardly a cloud in the cerulean sky. It lasted another week.
Then Scots summer returned to normal. Wind blew from the west, clouds scudded, rain fell on fields and felines, hens stopped laying, day followed night. You know, the usual. Great for growth, they say in other parts of the world. Very green, they say in places where they have forest fires, ground cracking and drying up from lack of water. Yes, very.
I needn’t go on. You get the picture.
August followed July. It rained. Hurricanes Ana and Bill hit the Bahamas and the tail end wound up battering the East coast of Scotland. Crop circles appeared in English fields with regularity until harvested; then the phenomenon was relegated to blogs and picture files. No crop circles in Scotland – Cosmic Consciousness knows better than implant a design in a place where there’s nothing to harvest until mid-September. If you’re lucky. No people either, to come and analyse and gawk.
It’s now the middle of September and farmers round here have finally had their prayers answered: three days of ‘open weather’ (that’s shorthand for no rain) to cut, bale and bring in their barley. They’re all doing it. The air is still warm, buzzing with the distant sound of combine harvesters and tractor loads of grain to-ing and fro-ing from yellow field to dry barn. Nobody has come to marvel at my 12-foot special: tall, stately, erect (staked like a buttress) and still green. They’re all busy. The days are shorter, nights cool. Crisp.
They say if there’s a polar shift, the East coast of Scotland will be the most desirable place to live on the face of the planet. No people means endless vistas of green, space to ruminate and meditate and gaze at mountains and plain. No sticky problems getting to work on overcrowded motorways and packed trains.
Giant Show of Green
Time to go outside now and see if she’s showing the merest hint of yellow.
One swallow does not a summer make. Or one sunflower, for that matter.
The Stellar Perspective- Oriental Year of Dragon 2024 & Lunar New Year Zodiac
- Early Saints & Religious Houses in Scotland with Placenames derived from Pictish/Brittonic/Celtic
- U.S. Memorial Day Means Different Strokes for Different Folks
- Hokole’a Hawai’ian-built Canoe to Circumnavigate Pacific— 47,000 Miles over Next Four Years
- Time to Tempt Humans to Act like Telosians—Delving Deep Within to Discover our Origins As Star-People
- Canticle for a lost Nation—Pictish Roots Surface in Stone, Royal Forests & Names
- The Janus Effect—Riding into the New on an Old Horse
- Boudicca: Great Queen of the Iceni
- 2020 Backward Take on 2012: Stargate Portal to Final Quarter
- Volcanic Surprise: Take your Toys and Go Home
Solar & Geomagnetic field indicator (NOAA)
From n3kl.orgSolar X-rays:
Geomagnetic Field:
- Derilea’s Dream: Pictish essentials
- The Glory that Was Sail
- Guest Blog from the Granite Past to a Future Historian
- Boudicca: Great Queen of the Iceni
- The Sueno’s Stone Cover-up
- Maiden Stone of Bennachie
- Bibliography: The Church in Pictland
- Warlord centres of Pictland:glimpses into a lost history
- Gaels progress through Pictland via the Church
- Hello world!
Shakeout prepared
Picosecond Pulse Ripples Gold on Glass
Vibrational sound in picoseconds
Recent Comments
Marian’s SHASTA:Critical Mass
Earth speaks wolves listen—a New Age tale
bumpy ride ahead
‘Phantom’s Child’
Nano 2011 win
SHASTA: backstory
Circlemakers
Enceladus 2017
Enchantment
ShakeOut preparedness
Bourtie Kirk: 800 Years
Geometry code
- Devorguilablog: view from Pictish Citadel
- Pictish Power Centre discovered at Rhynie: stronghold in Aberdeenshire heartland
- Black Glen Cailleach/Bodach Stones threatened
- PICTISH KINGLISTS and the PICTISH CHRONICLE
- Nechtan’s Pictish Nation: 8thC Strongholds of the new religion
- Pictish inheritance in an ancient land
- Canticle for a lost Nation
- Canticle III: Nechtan of Derley
- Devorguila’s lineage: where did it go?
cosmic consciousness
Youngblood Blog 