We have two Mr Bs in our church. One is GB, my father, who is 91, and the other is John, who recently turned 90. I put together a little booklet about these two elderly men of our church, because they have lived, and continue to live, lives that honour God. They face the problems that come with old age with fortitude and faith.
The booklet, with a foreword from Pastor Alfie Orr of South City church, includes GB’s and John’s thoughts, biographical information, information about ancestors, their personal testimony of how they came to faith, and many interesting photographs, including a small series of photos by Natalie Rose.
And this is from the back cover:
Click the link below to read the booklet.
South City Mr Bs_ForOnline
In Auckland, you can have upto six hens but no roosters, because roosters are noisy. At certain times in the day, my girls get very noisy too and I worry about the neighbours.
So, I’m taking them a little peace offering to show them that I am thankful that they are putting up with the chicken talk.
[My lovely neighbour seemed genuinely happy to see me and graciously accepted the gift. She acknowledged that they could indeed hear my chickens but assured me that they loved the natural sound of the birds in the reserve adjacent to us, and did not mind the chicken noises either. Thanking God for good neighbours; I am indebted to them]
Little Dot layed a little egg early last week. We all laughed.
Over the course of the week, her eggs have become progressively bigger.
Little Dot is my Gold-laced Wyandotte, the baby of the lot. She has always been the shy and edgy one.
These pictures show you what she looked like when she first came to us and the fine young hen she’s become.
When I was little and being the only child, I did not have real playmates often. But real or make-believe, one of my favourite games was what we called ‘House house.’ Yes it’s the same game that girls everywhere often play—pretending to be a mummy in a home, and cooking was naturally an important component. I did get items from my mum’s kitchen to play with, but I never actually thought of making a really edible dish as part of the play activity.
My mother-in-law, on the other hand, who would be about 95 had she been alive, had had a lot more fun when she was little, doing some semi-real cooking.
One of the items they made in the course of the play activity was a lollipop-like candy that was spicy, sour, and sweet. Apparently, they mixed tamarind, dried red chillies, and sugar. They would then put blobs of this to gooey ‘goodness’ on the ends of little sticks (twigs?), and it was ready for human consumption!
From the ingredients she mentioned, I could imagine the delight of a child in tasting those real and sharp flavours, albeit crude.
Today, years later and miles away in Auckland at work, we had our first team meeting in the new year. Our manager gave us some candy from his visit to his home country Mexico. The candy with alcohol was an instant hit (no pun intended) with the others.
But I found the Pulparindo very interesting. The moment I tasted it, I remembered my mother-in-law’s playtime candy. The Pulparindo is Mexico’s Pulp-and-Indo connection, shall we say?
It’s been called a monster storm and a subtropical weather bomb. Campers along the coast have been asked to evacuate.
We are safe and dry at home. But what about the chickens. All day it drizzled, and contrary to expectations, the silly things did NOT stay in the hen house dry. They continued to scurry about and looked rather odd with their feathers sticking together.
So I removed the plastic tablecloth that needed changing anyway—someone having places a hot pan on it at some point—and covered the coop with it.
I hope for their sakes that the gale-force winds do not happen and the plastic table cloths stays put. We’ll know in the morning. Have I really gotten that fond of them?
[A few hours later, the wind had lifted the tablecloth, which had folded over, exposing the coop to the rain and I secured it to the ground with bricks. In the morning, it was still holding up. The wind had subsided enough to make a little shelter with the tablecloth.
And I have some eggs to boot.]
When criticising my chickens’ eggs, let’s be kind and preferably not say things in their hearing. Everyone’s been disdainful about the size of the eggs, and now look what one of them has gone and laid.
The egg against three size-8 Farmer-Brown eggs from the store. Sigh, how much our words must have affected them! (The egg measures a whopping 8.5cm from pole to pole.)