Year’s End

December 30, 2022 / aggiemurch / 8 Comments

Recorded by WSM Knit together by MAM

From Thanksgiving to Twelfth Night the farm is lit with forty plus year old lights. Wecloming you home and into the New Year. Photo by WSM.

Year’s end.
November rolled like storm-tossed tumbleweed into December and the nights slid earlier into darkness each evening. Now December is ending and even through the storms covering America the light is beginning to return.
It was already night-time when we landed back from Poland and the Heathrow train stopped at Paddington. The station was closing down for those midnight to five a.m hours. Only the Sainsbury Local stayed lit for the late-night travelers and I dipped in to pick up the milk and bread to be turned to tea and toast in the morning. Outside the vast hollow waiting area which feeds onto the platforms there was no cute, lost Paddington Bear with a suitcase, instead there were a dozen or more old men settling in on the benches – separately – but close enough that each could watch out for another as they came in off of their street-corners to a place of warmth. A plastic shopping bag or a shopping cart contained their travel baggage. I wonder what it is that remains precious to these homeless gentlemen. They each had a blanket that they wrapped around their legs and even their shoulders, if it was big enough. There must be regulars who show up at Paddington, Victoria and Waterloo train stations each night – until they don’t. Do the staff who clean and monitor the stations sweep round the huddled bodies and shopping carts. Is ‘keeping yourself tidy’ a prerequisite to keeping your patch and even bench? What time do you have to ‘move along’ and face the world in the morning? There is a rhythm to this unseen pedalling-in-place, train stations hold these men who watch leavings and loneliness travel alongside of expectation and desire.

In November Mehram Nasseri died. Nasseri had lived on a bench at the Charles de Gaulle Airport for 18 years and was the inspiration of Steven Spielberg’s film ‘The Terminal.’ Stranded and stateless he perhaps brought a focus to the question of what or where is home. He found a community, and a sense of belonging.

Mehran Karimi Nasseri, or ‘Sir Alfred’, on his home bench at Charles de Gaulle airport. Photograph: Eric Fougere/Corbis/Getty Images

Under Rishi Sunak, the Conservative Government continues with its agenda – to avoid paying Universal European taxes – thank goodness for Brexit – but with no taxes paid by those who could – there is less in the coffers for The National Health Service, the state schools and other community-run organizations. It is now becoming obvious, though it was before if we looked, that the goal is to cripple and disband the NHS, take it away from those who need it most – and the best way to do that is to lock the pay scale of the workers. When I graduated in 1963, satirist Michael Frayn wrote in the Guardian Newspaper: he was looking at reports on wages on what they called ‘the devotional fields’, then primarily nurses. Saying the general principle was to hold the wages as low as possible to keep out ‘undesirable elements wanting to make a fast buck.’ Well they certainly did that, kept the wages as low as possible. Nursing is a devotional field and the wages remain among the lowest of professional workers to this day. On graduation we were encouraged to join the Royal College of Nursing and almost everybody did. But in my youthful idealism I couldn’t ever envision following an order – to go on strike. Now, for the first time nurses are being called on to do that. But they won’t. Instead the ambulance drivers and paramedics will be at the forefront of this battle with the government, and once again the government will win, grudgingly giving out pennies rather than pounds. Nurses will continue to use food banks and be at the mercy of the transport unions who can strike and get the money they are asking for. The Army will get to practice some drills while substituting for the paramedics. And people will die because of it.
From one family to another, we came back home – unsure where that is. We are old nomads – and with a little more infirmity we would be outcasts from the herd but for the moment we are lucky and received by our families wherever we land.
And we landed at the bar in town. With the nudge of a full bladder at 6.30 in the morning we bundled up, and scraping the frosty car windows, to drive downtown and to Smiley’s to watch the World Cup soccer final. The bar was open at 7 in the morning serving its customers what they wanted – a big screen and sports special. And free maté – with honey. It was as fun watching us as it was watching the football, two teams at the very top of their game, with grace, skill and respect as more than once a player in azure blue and white helped another in navy to his feet after a fast clash.
From Sunday to Sunday, turning from the big screen at Smiley’s to the computer screen in the Hayloft and finding the King at Windsor Castle. From here it felt like opening an old blue aerogram letter, with news of home and I watched as keenly as any other ex-pat around the world. There was a light snow on the grounds of Windsor Castle and young girls in the soprano Choristers at the Christmas Carol service in St. Georges Chapel.

The King spoke with no photographs around him to point emotion one way or another. His notes were handy to glance at, maybe showing that the teleprompter was not for him. He spoke in empathy for those families who have lost loved ones this year, of the importance of her faith for his mother – our late Queen, and for him too, and of all faiths. He gave thanks to the hundreds of people who help those in need through the hardships of these times, and very carefully showed those of his family who, by their presence, gratitude and acknowledgment of the work of others, help to sustain us all.

This has been A Letter from A. Broad
written and read for you by Muriel Murch

November Light

December 3, 2022 / aggiemurch / 1 Comment

Written and produced by Muriel Murch. Recorded by Walter Murch

November has closed in and daylight already slips away before tea time leading into the long evenings. For amusement, we watched our new prime minister and cabinet ministers dance a Scottish highland eight-some reel as partners were swung about, changed, and reunited as fast as the fiddler could play. But a Prince who has become the King rehearsed more than dancing in his beloved Scotland. When the past Prime Minister, Liz Truss ‘recommended’ that the King not go to the COP 27 Climate summit in Egypt he bowed to her will and – as the dance partners changed once more, the New Prime Minister, Rishi Sunak, appeared too busy to go. So King Charles drew up an invitation to a reception, more commonly known as a ‘drinks party’ for world leaders to drop in at Buckingham Palace on their way to Egypt where our new prime minister would address them, before packing his bags, and joining the caravan to Egypt. It was a masterstroke of Diplomacy. It might have helped if Rishi did not look like a happy puppy seeing his master come home, but he showed that – at least on the face of it – his government has one eye on climate change. Rishi did not stay long and the conference ended late, finally promising some financial help to those countries worst hit by climate change. This is not enough and there was no real resolution on curbing Co2 emissions. We remain in danger.

King Charles greats Prime Minister Sunak

Struggling to remain relevant, Sir Keir Starmer announced that if he became Prime Minister he would abolish the House of Lords to ‘restore trust in politics’. With so many Tory ministers in the House of Commons having a spot of bother with the press, this may not be that effective. And he may be too late as Peers from the House of Lords have joined members of the House of Commons all hedging their bets. In 2016 only 47 MPs held an Irish passport. By the end of 2022, there are 321 of them. Our ruling class seems to be keen to remain in Europe.

We watched the American Mid-term elections with trepidation and the physical attack on Paul Pelosi at home in San Francisco holds only two degrees of separation for us. But Mark Kelly won in Arizona and what we feared would become a miscarriage turned into – as one young friend called it – a little mid-monthly-term spotting. But as we see money amassed to be traded for power and the children who hold it become so willful and petulant, it is a warning that this American child called Democracy is as fragile as in any other country.

Mid-November saw us in Poland where Walter gave the first outing of his presentation on the Golden Ratio in the Cinematic Frame to an international conference of Cinematographers. And they took it well. Toruñ is an old city, a two-and-a-half-hour drive North-west from Warsaw and only a hundred miles from the borders of Russia, Belarus, and Ukraine. I was sobered at them all breathing the same cold air as Poland. The Polish men, young and middle-aged, are stoic and handsome – not yet fat with excess – they look as if they could be artists or soldiers – preparing for another war.

The first afternoon I left the hotel for a mid-afternoon stroll and at 2 p.m. the grey day was already receding. Walking along the towpath by the River Vistula, little white pieces of flotsam kept pace with me, bobbing in and out of the whirlpool eddies. The river is fat, wide, and brown as if grumbling from the mud below. The bridges that span across it are sturdy and utilitarian. There has been no money to spend on beauty. Under the bridge, back up into a small park, rests an old war-lookout bunker with its slotted windows. There is graffiti on the bricks and a homeless man had parked his belongings beside it in the long grass.

The final morning was free and we set out walking to Copernicus’ house – as one does – which is now a museum to the study of the stars, mathematics, and medieval life complete with a hand spindle for spinning wool. Along the small cobbled street, we were approached by a young mother and her not-yet-teenage daughter. With her broken English, she showed us the map on her cellphone written in Ukrainian. She was anxious, and lost, not wanting to be late for a job interview. She is a refugee here as the old enemies of Poland and Ukraine unite, sharing the same fears and foes – of Russia. After touring Copernicus’s medieval mathematics we came back onto the cobblestone street and drifted over to the beautiful, small chocolate shop. An old van was parked outside with its doors propped open. Tree branches, wire, and tools were strewn on the pavement as two well-wrapped-up gentlemen began to dress the shop window for Christmas and winter. The shop owner was holding their ladder steady, and, no doubt sharing her directions. On such a dark afternoon this promise of light, which will stay until spring, is comforting.

The train traveled fast through the French Countryside and for Thanksgiving, we go home to where the heart is joining our daughter’s young family in Utrecht. Though we were concerned as that day Argentina had lost to Saudi Arabia 2 to 1 in the World Soccer Tournament being played in Qatar. But a world goal was scored by the team from Iran, everybody’s favorite football to kick around. Iran lost to England 6 to 2 that night but won in respect as they stood silently in solidarity with their country’s women while their national anthem was played. Knowing what could await them and what already might be happening with their families, no one can doubt the raw courage of these young players asking for a freer more democratic country. It is early days yet in the month-long tournament and who knows how far that ball will be kicked down the field.

Our last afternoon in Utrecht we all walked to the Magic Circus pitched up in the park beside the school. In the late afternoon, we queued outside the small striped tent and single mobile kiosk selling popcorn. The rough benches inside were arranged in a semicircle and it looked like there had been a new expenditure on fifty black plastic chairs. For two hours seven performers from Europe and Argentina, doubled up as spinners of candy floss and flippers of dutch pancakes in the intermission, brought magic to the families in this international city and we carried our smiles with us as we walked home in the dark. Our last evening – hamburgers for supper and then Argentina played Mexico in a game as football should be played. Argentina won 2 – 0.

Our son-in-law Santi on stage with and then carried off by the Argentine circus performer

Cotton candy tastes just the same ‘says Granny’ and doesn’t stand a chance with this kid.

This has been A Letter From A. Broad. Written and Read for you by Muriel Murch.

Dear oh Dear

October 27, 2022 / aggiemurch / 6 Comments

Recorded by WSM edited by MAM

King Charles III greets Prime Minister Sunak

“Dear, oh dear” muttered the new King, Charles III, as he greeted Liz Truss at Buckingham Palace only two weeks ago. The double doors were swung open by a liveried equerry announcing “Prime Minister – Your Majesty”. Ms. Truss bobbed forward to shake hands with the King, and said, ”Your Majesty, great to see you again,” the King smiled as he replied “Back again?” – “Well come along then,” he may have continued – but we missed that bit as, like a patient headmaster, he led the not quite settled in new Prime Minister into another room. Last week – as I began to unpack in Rome – she was back. “Oh dear oh dear.” The King may have said – again.

So Liz Truss was out, holding the seat warm for whoever wanted her place. There were only three takers for the open seating plan at Number Ten Downing Street, and they were not sitting in the stalls. Boris Johnson immediately flew back from his holiday in the Caribbean – reportedly booed as he got on the plane. Rishi Sunak got busy on his phone, emails, or in the tea rooms. Only Penny Mordaunt was seen in the halls of Westminster, looking strong, sensible, and even a little tough. She made me wonder what a woman like her could do if the men in Parliament really backed her. But these men are not the backing kind.

The country was in an uproar as the disaster of Truss’s short-stay-to-let was seen but not averted. Clusters of shoppers were shown tut-tutting at the country markets – always the prettiest picture – as parliamentary plotting – all perfectly legal – continued. A candidate had to have at least 100 Conservative votes to make the ballot for the role of Prime Minister and by the deadline of 2 p.m. on Monday Rishi had 182. Penny conceded at 1.58 p.m. Boris, like a cornered bear, threw in his towel, and lumbered away on Sunday night, declaring ‘this is not the right time’. Let us hope history is remembered and it never becomes his right time again. Sunak was educated at Winchester College, not Eton, and like Avis, it can be hoped that he will ‘try harder’.

The autumn temperature drops day by day and the leaves fall from the London trees only just faster than the Conservative cabinet ministers gathering their pens and papers as they scuttle out of their seats.

In our corner of London the cool morning air smells of sweet ripe apples, from a box of them set out by a neighbor when she returns from her country retreat. I make apple sauce that is as perfect as Bramley apples give before we go to Europe: first to Utrecht with family and an end-of-summer outdoor birthday party, then onto Paris to be with friends. Paris sparkles with the first crispness of autumn sunlight and delight, the streets and buildings shine as they brush off the stale air of summer and the lingerings of Covid. People are cautious and sensible as they move through the streets, mindful of the effects of the Ukrainian war on fuel supplies and costs. The city seems hopeful, bordering on contentment. A restaurant owner brings out a jar of truffles he has just acquired and we laugh in happy expectation of his fine omelets. We are here in the autumn of our lives, cherishing it, for we know our winter is near.

And then it is onto Rome for their Film Festival, showing William Kentridge’s ‘Self Portrait as a Coffee Pot’. We are driven from the airport through the back streets into bulging traffic leading to the Tiber River and the city beyond looking weary, beaten down by the effects of the Covid pandemic. A bad garbage strike after the summer’s heat has left the big street bins battered and tainted with pigeon residue. Finally, we reach The Eden Hotel and from our terraced window we look down on a Rome that doesn’t seem so bruised. Lying in the marble bath at dusk I watch the bats wake up and zoom out from under the tile roof just above me to the park below.

Old and new friends in Roma; Noah, Linda, Aggie, Franca, Walter, Conrad, Laura

It takes a day – and we only had two – to breathe in the air of this city which I had come to terms with 24 years ago when I joined Walter on location. On our last evening, walking with friends after dinner we passed by an alleyway I remembered. Then, in a store window, three or four prepubescent girls sat cross-legged under a single light bulb. Old Persian rugs hung behind the girls, and their heads were bent low over their hands which were busy, stitching, weaving threads through old worn carpets.

The day we leave, our driver is a woman and I am grateful to see this small step forward for equality in Rome. The road she took out of the city twists and turns and we crossed the river three times. The small riverside shrubs of 24 years ago have grown to trees but still the Tiber moves fast. They say a body tossed into the river is never found. As we left the ancients – looking worn in the grey light – we drove up through the graffiti-clad outskirts of the city. The colors were dusty as they lay scrawled over the lower apartments of these almost middle-class neighborhoods, pulling them down as if in anger that the slums cannot rise but only spread.

The flight to London was full and it was not until we landed and were ready to go through UK passport control that I stopped to use the facilities. There was a poster on the stall door; a young man’s face peering out from a confusion – of a woman’s hand, a car window, and lights, with the words ’Can you see me?’ ‘Slavery Still Exists’. On the way home, amidst catching the stealth movements of our politicians, I thought of those young girls sitting in the shop window and wondered what became of them in the ancient world that is Rome.

This has been A Letter From A. Broad. Written and read for you by Muriel Murch.