Skip to main content

Two Kinds Of Jam


The Jam Store Cupboard At Rosehill

Farmer Landlord makes contact by phone; he has missed the latest smoke alarm episode. He is calling, from a wedding in Wiltshire, to see has anyone stopped by to look at the broken electric boiler. 
While he is on the phone, apologetic for the alarm, and the long list of problems to address which he tries not to think about, I press for news on the mortgage foreclosure. Salt meets badly patched wound. 
This is a wincing silence. 
Followed by a rush of ‘Well, I haven’t done much about it, I must get to see the bank;’ followed by the truth; ‘I don’t want to sell,’ ending with the admission, ‘I think the bank will force me to sell.’ 
I tell him we are now starting to look for alternative accommodation, but there aren’t many rentals that will take pets. He has a brainwave that a cousin of a cousin has a farmhouse lying empty, not too far away, he will make a call and see.

Mr and me take breakfast outside.
‘Somewhere with a garden,’ he says,’ and a big shed.’
We are working on a wish list. He says we should go to the beach, and he’s right.

The sand has blown inland, built a sand ramp down from the car park wall. Dog plunges through puddles and into the sea. I’m not too far behind. The waves are mildly cold, the rock pools soothingly warm. Perfect weather for barefoot with a light windstopper coat; I am excellently dressed.

Driving back we spy properties we could live in. We debunk the myth that art and honesty only thrive with poverty by spending imaginary fortunes in inspirationally creative ways. I say I have enough source material for rags, it will be safe to move on to riches. It will, in fact, be new territory to discover. 

If you want facts and figures, I can reveal (from the BBC website, so can be regarded as acceptably true) that my current earnings are 27% of the UK average wage, and 56% of the world average. 
I have been far poorer than this. 
I do not forget the day I opened my food cupboard and cried because I had two kinds of jam: I was thinking, two kinds of jam means you are rich.

Back at Rosehill, I google map the empty farmhouse. There are sheds, big sheds, and a garden. I don’t set my heart on it, I’m eccentric, not (necessarily) foolish, but… I like the look of it. Plenty of space for storing my jam. 

Wanted: slighty bonkers rural property, must love dogs 



Comments

Suze said…
'We debunk the myth that art and honesty only thrive with poverty by spending imaginary fortunes'

My heart was already twisting. This wrenched it. I'm forcing back tears as I wish for you, always, more than one kind of jam.
19 May 2012 at 20:05
Teresa Cypher said…
This is a nice post, Lily! Two kinds of jam--and we are rich :-) Fortunate are those who equate wealth with simple blessings. I see that in you--in your posts, you know. You see everything, and appreciate the fact that it all exists.

I so hope you get the cousin's cousin's farmhouse! It sounds lovely :-)
20 May 2012 at 02:32
said…
I would love to get out of the city and rent a place somewhere surrounded by nature, though I've more that one different kinds of jam, I'm not rich enough to buy a nice house in such area yet.
20 May 2012 at 13:09
Lisa Southard said…
Suze- It helps to know that I have to have a happy ending, or my poor readers might be forced to be miserable on my behalf; this is a good motivation!
Teresa- simple pleasures, appreciated, make a rich life- I know you know this of course! Farmhouse gets my vote, so far :-)
Jan- I hope you still get to spend plenty of time surrounded by nature; maybe with a picnic and some lovely jam sandwiches :-)
And thank you, all, for your kind support- it does make a difference, it really does :-)
20 May 2012 at 22:24
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Contact Pants Conundrum

There is weather today, I do note it: take a few moments to reckon the size of a cloud (big) and the frequency of rain (sporadic.) Centre of my interest though is a stack of magazines. Not the fashion kind. This is martial arts research. I'm not even sure what it is I'm looking for, but intuition calls loud. A range of old adverts skew some amusement. Contact pants, for example. Pants are not trousers where I come from. They are underwear. Professional contact pants: improved smirk value. But why would a person be likely to purchase a grappling hook and a lock pick set? For specialists and hobbyists only, the blurb assures. Guidance on the pheromone spray that attracts women against their better judgement? I doubt it works any more proficiently than the mysterious potion that defines your muscles while you sleep. But, then: I wonder is some sprayed on this paper? What was my intuition thinking, making this ghastly shout… Tea break time. There's a lot of words...
2 comments
Read more

Back From The Future Blog Party

Another joint blog adventure- if you want to see who else said what the list of participants is here . The premise is this: 'You're up before dawn on a Saturday when the doorbell rings. You haven't brewed your coffee so you wonder if you imagined the sound. Plonking the half-filled carafe in the sink, you go to the front door and cautiously swing it open. No one there. As you cast your eyes to the ground, you see a parcel addressed to you ... from you. You scoop it up and haul it inside, sensing something legitimate despite the extreme oddness of the situation. Carefully, you pry it open. Inside is a shoebox -- sent from ten years in the future -- and it's filled with items you have sent yourself. What's in it?' Here's how I imagined it: Before dawn? Shadows outside, first forming. Sleep has gone, I don't know where. Coffee I can find. All the way from Machu Pichu, this fair-traded pack. Scissors are in the drawer, which ...
26 comments
Read more

Hometime Foam Time

It was hot outside, cold indoors. When we were freed from the hall I opened my car thinking oven gloves might be required for driving. I was weary. I was lined up for a row of shifts- but the evenings are lighter now, and the beach was calling. I drove a wiggly route to Veryan (the road I chose was closed) and down to Carne Beach. Since I had checked the weather the wind had turned easterly, and the tide was in. There were waves smacking over a disappearing line of fine sand. Undeterred I wriggled my swimsuit on and went to play in the foam.  Neither air nor sea was particularly cold. Blue and cloud patterned sky, blue and turquoise patterned sea, flowers blooming and swooshed by the wind, and the warm brown crags of rock: to be here was to be directly connected to the source of all existence.  Home time was foam time, and vice versa. Afterwards I sat in my car, door open, eating a square of dark chocolate, watching the white flecks and trying to work out if the dark dot was a...
Post a Comment
Read more