cemetery ramblings

Yesterday the ViL and I went for a walk in the nearby cemetery. It’s a lazy day option, but I do like checking out whether there are any new and interesting floral tributes.

We’d noted that many of the headstones had been staked with great, giant dowels. It looks absolutely attrocious. I’ve blogged about the desecration of cemeteries in the past – when headstones had been laid flat – but now Lambeth council has gone for the “headstone on a stick” option.

The workmen were there staking headstones as we were taking our walk. The ViL and I, as we are wont to do, started grumbling about it. We are grumblers and under-the-breath mutterers. Well, apparently we weren’t under-the-breath enough about it, because a great giant, grey bearded fellow (picture Santa’s evil twin wearing muddy coveralls) whose job it is to stake the headstones approached us and asked if we “understood the work being done.”

Now mostly, I just wanted to get away from crazy greybeard. I’ve got nothing against people who work in cemeteries for a living, but you have to wonder what other career they might have pursued had they scored just a little higher in the charisma section of the personality test of life. But crazy greybeard was trying to appeal to my husband’s sense of reason and logic. No, crazy greybeard – don’t do it! – I thought. The ViL is a PhD lawyer – he’s all trained in out arguing you – and let’s face it – this headstone staking isn’t really logical. But I suppose that crazy greybeard has to deal with plenty of irate or unsettled relatives, and figures it’s best to head them off at the emotional pass.

The ViL starts out all reasonable “Yes, I understand the theory…” and then the ViL starts expounding on all the arguments we’d been muttering about – e.g. there being greater hazards in the (very) uneven paving and pathways that old people often tread to visit the graves in this particularly cemetery.

Crazy greybeard said that 5 children had died over the last 10 years, and that many of the graves were unsafe. Apparently the new fangled headstones come in two chunks (or more) of marble cemented together and are much less rugged than the old ones.

The ViL pointed to the staked marker at our feet. The plastic straps weren’t even touching the headstone, which was one of those low lying ones that barely rose 12 inches from the ground. Sure it was at risk of crumbling – if you jumped on it, a bunch – but the stake rising from the ground at a 45 degree angle posed a greater safety hazard. Crazy greybeard had to concede that this marker was unlikely to hurt even a baby – and he scanned the cemetery for a headstone that might kill you if it fell on you. “See that cross over there, that would hurt if it fell on you,” he pointed to an old monument many staked rows away.

The ViL asked the man if he was a private contractor – (yes). I wanted to ask the fellow how the contract was written (was he also the tester? was he paid a flat fee to make the cemetery safe or was he paid by the stake? how much was he getting per headstone “made safe”?) – but mostly I wanted to get home to pee – so I said nothing. The crazy greybeard gave up on us and suggested that we ask the fellow in the office if we had any more questions. We didn’t. But I am thankful indeed that it’s not our local taxes paying for this.

The ViL also, and perhaps rather uncharitably, suggested that perhaps the children killed by falling headstones had been attempting to pull them down – and that it was more a case of natural justice than unsafe memorials.

On our way out, we saw a young woman standing outside the cemetery fence watching the stakes driven into the ground with some kind of nifty hydraulic hammer system. Crazy greybeard strode through the tall grass and not-yet-safe headstones to ask her if she “understood the work being done.” She said “I’m just waiting for my boyfriend to come back to the car.” But he explained the life-saving necessity of his work anyway.

interior design considerations

Genderist and her husband are picking out the details for their new home. She’s designing a fantasy ambience of Volunteer expatica.

The best news is that we found some authentic Tennessee river rock to use in the master bathroom as a snazzy updo for the tile. Everyday when I’m in the shower it’ll be like I’m a little bit closer to home. We made positively sure that there would be no Alabama river rock included by mistake. They understand the gravity of that mistake; it would be a deal-breaker. Showering with Alabama just wouldn’t be the same, and you’d probably stink more when you got out of the shower than before you stepped inside.

Indeed.

A long way from the Fort

I was born at Fort Sanders, a long, long time ago. Fort Sanders is a hospital near the University of Tennessee campus in Knoxville. It’s situated near the apex of a long, dolomite ridge and thus was a nice defensible position – hence the building of the Fort. Fort Sanders is also a neighborhood inhabited by raucus UT students and ne’er-do-wells who cling to their student life like a barnacle to a ship. (I’ve lived there in both student and barnacle phases). My parents and my grandfather have lived in the Fort. My brother lives there now (as a barnacle). In some ways, I feel like the Fort is the pole to my existential globe.

Why do I wax on this now? Katie Allison Granju, Knoxville blogger, is looking for a place to birth her baby. She seems to be looking at the Fort, but is disturbed by their lack of consideration for her wishes.

The staff seem to be much more concerned with limiting liability than in supporting a positive experience for Katie and her husband. In my view (and this as someone with no real experience of childbirth, but whose time is less than 2 months away), childbirth should be seen as natural and normal until it’s not. You can labor in a hospital because it’s convenient to interventions, should you need them.

Reading the comments, others have had similar experiences (not all at the Fort). Interventions against their wishes, etc. To me, this sounds like hell. This is what I fear the most about birth. Secondly (and perhaps shallowly), I fear the dismal, dingy surroundings of the NHS delivery suites and post-partum wards where I might have to share a room with 3 other people and their squawling offspring. I fear the fear and anxiety which might make me “fail to progress” in labor. My blood pressure surges every time I step into that hospital.

This is why I’m choosing a home birth, despite the fact that I’m risk averse by nature and afraid of ruining the the upholstery of my sofa. And that’s why, even if I can’t have a home birth (e.g. if I develop complications later on), I plan to stay at home as long as possible with a doula (kind of a birth consultant). Of course, I do live right across the street from one of the best acute care neo-natal facilities around. It’s a five minute walk from my front door – though admittedly it’s more like a 10 or 15 minute waddle.

I won’t go into my mom’s birth story at the Fort – since that was in 1970, but suffice to say it was pretty archaic. I was apparently the first baby to be roomed in – ever. And when my brother was born 8 years later, it was at St Mary’s.

Rachel, from Women’s Health News, has more.

Congrats

Lindsay’s birth story (of Suburban Turmoil). Congratulations Lindsay and family.

Switcho, changeo

The budget in the UK has been announced. This is an “exciting” annual event. This is the Chancellor, Gordon Brown’s, annual moment in the sun. Of course, he’s looking for more sun soon as the Prime Minister, but for the time being…

Anyway, Gordo likes to make out that he’s a swell and generous kind a guy. Sure, he taxes the rich, but only to give to the poor – especially the poor little tots.

Only it’s a terrible lie and his current budget is a prime example. The headlines all read that he’s cut the basic tax rate, but he’s managed to actually increase the taxes on the very low paid while reducing taxes on those earning over $100,000.

Labour will tell you that the very low paid with children can always apply for tax credits. Sure, but you’re forced to apply as a supplicant to Gordon Brown and entangle yourself into a notoriously knotty bureacracy. (The Treasury admitted only last week the system of credits was baffling.) But the point is that the young and potentially aspirational folks on low wages are hit with yet another Gordon Brown sucker punch.

What with taking maternity leave this year – I’m going to be taking a big old hit in the income. But we’re only 11 pence (that’s less than a quarter for US readers) better off under Gordo’s plan. If I were still earning my fully salary, we’d be £138 better off under his budget. Surely that can’t be right for a “redistributive” Chancellor?

1,000th post

I did my 1,000th post – errr…about 25 posts ago. I didn’t even notice when it happened. It’s kinda like when the odometer flips – and you miss it.

Wither Spring?

Spring…

…was here, but now it’s not. Icy, blustery winds are blowing in from the arctic. I’m wrapping up my hanging baskets with black trash bags at night to protect the begonias I stupidly planted in them last week. (Fooled I was by the weather – I normally won’t put stuff out til May!)

Blogging is light because I’m doing a fair bit of work blogging. (Don’t bother looking for it – it’s dull – really dull). But I’m on vacation Wednesday through Friday. Hurray! I’m looking forward to doing nothing…

A new wave of immigration

Like it or not – Tennessee is experiencing a new wave of immigration. Via A Cup of Joe Powell, here’s a film which captures the stories of the Mexican immigrants who are coming to America’s heartland.

“Working-class people in Mexico and eastern Tenessee are caught in the throes of massive economic change, which challenges their assumptions about work, family, nation and community. This film chronicles nearly a decade of change in Morristown, Tennessee through interviews with displaced or low-wage Southern workers, Mexican immigrants, and workers and families impacted by globalization.”

A short clip can seen here via the Austin, TX university website

Bad haircuts

My old pal has found a barber shop that suits him. A really old fashioned barber shop. But like most of these places – there’s one guy who’s really good – and maybe another person who’s, well, still learning. In a unisex joint or many of the women’s places you can pay for different grades of expertise and (presumably) talent. I’ll have the “director’s cut”, I’ll have the “master cut”, I’ll have the cheapo cut by the gal who normally brushes up the hair from the floor cut.

But apparently in a truly all male preserve barber shop a different system operates. The “naw, you go ahead” system.

St Caffeine describes:

He’s obviously the less popular of the two guys there because both times I’ve been, he’s cut my hair while others, who were there before me, continue to wait. It doesn’t matter to me; I just want to get in and out as quickly as possible

I’ve always wondered how this make the “lesser” guy feel. While regular customers wait it out for the superior cut, the newby jumps the queue. It’s got to be obvious what’s going on.

My husband used to go to this dirt cheap barber shop in Sheffield. We were dirt poor, so it worked out. But the guy who owned the shop did these amazing hair cuts. I mean he could have been charging at least 10 times what he did if he only operated from a different neighbourhood – and in London 20 times. I’m sure he could have doubled or tripled his prices without a significant effect on business. The Vol-in-Law always came back looking slick – and he’s the scruffy academic type. But, the barber shop second was not nearly so good – and the Vol-in-Law was never quite able to work the “naw, you go ahead” system to best effect – so he was often out-maneuvred and ended up with the lesser cut. Once the poor gal who cut his hair (do you really trust a woman who works in a barber shop?) also managed to cut his ear. He came home with blood streaked jawline and a bad hair cut.

Shortly afterwards the barber shop instituted a new policy and a sign appeared. Regular cut £X, Apprentice cut £Y (X > Y)

It’s a rat trap baby

England’s landfills are full to the brim. And they’re expensive, too. Central Government has placed high taxes on landfill usage to encourage recycling. Recycling has increased by a lot (mostly by making it more convenient for people) – but a lot of “recyclables” end up taking a very long cruise to third world countries – where they’re picked through by the desperately poor for anything useful. I guess that’s recycling.

But anyway, we could all recycle more and we should – or at least reuse or choose goods with less packaging. And so far, the British public has responded fairly well to inducements and positive messages. And more could be done.

They say you can attract more flies with honey than with vinegar. The Labour government knows another good vermin attractant. That’s trash. That’ll be trash that’s been cooking in the bin outside your house for two weeks.

In fact, not content with the measures already in place – or successful measures used by other countries (e.g. regulation, tax on packaging, etc) the Labour government is just plain determined to make our lives miserable. And yes, it will be miserable if we switch to fortnightly collections of rubbish as Environment Minister David Miliband is suggesting to councils.

Via the Evening Standard

Fortnightly rubbish collections are to be forced on millions of homeowners by a backdoor stealth campaign, it was revealed. Town hall chiefs have been told to go ahead with ending weekly visits by the binmen in winter – so that the cold weather will keep the smell down.

The hope is that by the time people notice bad smells and vermin it will be too late to bring back once-a-week bin collections. Councils have also been told to bring in cutbacks in their refuse collections away from election times so that voters cannot interfere. The cynical instructions on how to use stealth tactics and steamroller opposition have been put out on behalf of Environment Secretary David Miliband.

Now, I’m not 100% opposed to the idea of picking up recyclables on week and picking up the trash on alternate weeks. Maybe that would work in rural places, although I don’t think it would be that nice. But in London – no way, never.

Londoners are filthy little piggies. Londoners have been wallowing in filth attracting vermin since Roman times. We have a little saying in London – you’re always within 10 feet of a rat. And soon there will be visible evidence of the little blighters as they revel in your rubbish. Of course, that’s if the giant-sized raggedy foxes don’t scare off the rats in their bid to get to your festering rubbish – being stored right beneath your front window. (Since very few Londoners have big front gardens).

I feel like this is just a giant step backwards – big strides in public health were made by ferrying away our waste in the sewers and dustcarts. Let’s not wallow in more filth than we have to.