Jul 052013
 

By Bob Smith.


Bring IKEA tae Aiberdeen Campaign
Is aneuch tae mak me splutter
Anither bliddy multi national
Causin local shops tae stutter
.
Ye cwidna ca me a racist
A’ve nae problem wi the Swedes
Bit wi’ve plunty local shoppies
Tae cater fer furnishin needs
.
There’s Anderson’s o Inverurie
Sainsbury & Sons doon Holburn wye
An Celebrations oot in Turra toon
Berrys o Oldmeldrum weel worth a try
Noo the profit made bi IKEA
Eichty per cint wull disappear
Oot o the local economy
Awa back tae Sweden a fear
.
Bring IKEA tae Aiberdeen campaign
We can dee withoot iss fine
IKEA tak aa yer flatpacks
Stick em “faar the sun disna shine”
.
Lit’s hear it fer local shoppies
Lang may their like we see
They support the local economy
So fae IKEA lit’s aye bi free.

Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2013
Image credit:  Gadjo Cardenas Sevilla

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Jun 282013
 

By Bob Smith.

Noo Betty likit the picters
She geed there ivvery wikk
Ti musicals like The King and I
Or great epics like Moby Dick
.
Jist ony film it wid dee
War films wi yon Alan Ladd
She swooned aboot romantic eens
Aiven some aat made her sad
.
She hid her favourite film stars
Like Cary Grant or Clark Gable
She drimt she micht be a duncer
Swak as Cyd Charisse or Betty Grable
.
Swashbucklin movies wi lots o fechtin
Wi Burt Lancaster or Errol Flynn
Or films aat featured animals
Sic as Lassie or Rin Tin Tin
.
She wisna aat fond o gangster eens
Starrin Cagney, Bogart or Herbert Lom
Yet the titles o aa iss kin o picter
She reeled aff wi some aplomb
She laached at cartoons by Walt Disney
Mickey Moose or yon Donald Duck
Enjoyed films aat wir a bit historical
Aboot Robin Hood an Friar Tuck
.
Horror eens made her affa feart
O Boris Karloff an Vincent Price
Picters like The Mummy’s Hand
She thocht nae verra nice
.
Cowboys and Indians she lappit up
Wi Gary Cooper an Big John Wayne
She even likit western musicals
Far Doris Day wis Calamity Jane
.
Best o aa she adored the classics
Oliver Twist an o coorse Jane Eyre
An eens in a wee bit lichter mood
Like Pickwick Papers an Vanity Fair
.
Noo Betty she’s fair growein aul
Some picter hooses they’re nae mair
Bit Betty myns fine o the nichts
Fin gyaan ti the picters wis jist rare

©Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie”2012

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Bliddy Hypocrites

 Creative Writing, Opinion  Comments Off on Bliddy Hypocrites
Jun 212013
 

By Bob Smith.

The”P&J” wis ask’t tae leave
A  debate aboot eddicashun
They took iss aa tae hairt
As a slur on Press reputashun

A maun agree with the paper’s view
An they shudna hae bin chucked oot
Bit they’re bein a bittie hypocritical
Fin ither facts they’ve gien the boot

“Iss wis a maitter o public interest
An the pros an cons needed airin”
So says their ain opinion column
Yet TUT views they’re nae fer blarin

Cast yer myn back a fyow ‘ear ago
In the paper TUT cwid nae be vocal
Cos accordin tae the “P&J” editor
The organisation it wisna local

Noo  is his bin since proved
Tae be a richt heap o shite
There’s lots o local fowkies
Faa in TUT took up the fight

A wid say in the public interest
Tripping Up Trump maun be heard
Their pros an cons aboot Trumpie
Wi aabody shud be shared

So cum aa ye “P&J” hypocrites
It’s time tae pit things richt
An owerturn iss stupid ban
So TUT views see the licht

Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2013

Jun 142013
 

Tally Ho! instead of the usual news round up, diary, and definitions, I wanted to cheer everyone up with a little fairy tale. Definitions and normal services to resume shortly. By Suzanne Kelly.

The Beautiful Princess

There once was a beautiful princess; all around her marvelled at her great beauty. Was she as kind, good and honest as her looks implied? Alas! Not so much.

Proud of her great beauty, she entered a beauty pageant to find the fairest face in the land, and naturally, she won, for she was the most beautiful maid in all the highlands. The fame this brought her went straight to her head.

A rich and powerful tyrant saw her beauty and decided she might be of use to him. One of his sons had heard of her great beauty too, and said “Dad can you get me one of those?”

Now all the kingdoms of the earth knew the tyrant loved and coveted money, but he also loved the thing he could not buy – beauty. Cursed (by many), he had about him the look and manners of an angry, podgy, balding ogre. In hushed tones the people hinted that he was indeed descended from an ogress. A long, long time ago, he married a beautiful woman, but as she aged, he cast her off.

He then married a younger, prettier maiden, and when she too aged, he likewise cast her out, only to marry a younger maiden still. (His children were thought of as being part ogre as well; their lusts for shooting the rare wild beasts was unbridled and terrifying to see). Thus, the tyrant had serious image problems, and something had to be done.

“Come and work for me,” the tyrant wrote to the princess; “It does not matter that you have no work experience, I could still find your talents very useful indeed.” He whisked her off to his far away kingdom, where in his palace of pink marble he plied her with gold and jewels. She was truly enchanted, for the thing she loved nearly as much as her dear face was wealth.

And so the princess went to work for the tyrant.

The tyrant was most pleased, and thought to himself:

“As the princess is loved – not only by the townsfolk, but also by a local storyteller prince, so shall these facts benefit my purse as I build my empire. With her in the mix, I am verily quids in.”

Now the princess knew all about the tyrant, but the lure of a job which would give her money to buy pretty things proved too strong to resist. She did like shiny, new pretty things.  She also had found a new love in the arms of the handsome storyteller prince.

unbeknownst to her, a small wrinkle appeared on her perfect brow

Now her storyteller prince had previously found love as she herself had, but alas, things change. The prince found the lustre had worn off his old bride, and seeing the lovely princess, he cast off his wife. For the beautiful princess and her prince to be joined, she had to do a bit of casting off as well, and she sent her ex a packin’.

Fearing the peasants would think her less lovely, she wed her storyteller prince in secret, for her handsome prince was none other than the very storyteller who the tyrant wanted to sing his praises. This was some coincidence indeedy.

“Alas – the people who now love me for my great beauty and modesty might not understand my marrying my prince. They might – wrongly of course – think that we are in it for the money, and his storytelling skills, so useful to my tyrant benefactor combined with my earnings  from the tyrant are bang out of order.”

As she worried for a second, unbeknownst to her, a small wrinkle appeared on her perfect brow.

She worked hard to keep her lovely looks; she consulted a wizard, who made odd potions out of deadly botchulism poison, and administered these to the fair princess’ face. She had mud wraps and beauty treatments. All was well with her world.

All was not so well where the tyrant king was building.

At his bidding, the lovely princess had the trees and plants swept aside. The animals were chased out of their homes (if they were lucky), and a great course of golf was laid on the seashore. The older folks shook their heads in dismay and disbelief. Those people who lived close to this course of golf were treated poorly as well.

Warlocks disguised as house-hunters appeared on the peasant’s cottage doors, asking to buy their homes for a pittance. The tyrant’s men hounded and persecuted them, halting the resident peasants as they went about their business. A , honest storyteller visiting the peasants was clapped in irons and thrown in a dungeon – all at the say-so of the tyrant’s forces.

Walls of earth were built around the poor cottager-dwellers’ homes.

The only happy people were those who sought to suck up to the tyrant, and verily the princess was first in the line of these.

“Tear down that house on the hill, for it is ugly!” he roared

Whether she was too self-involved to care about the animals and people, or whether she was too thick to know what the cruel realities of the course of golf were was the subject of debate in the taverns. Either way, the princess was not coming out of it in a good light at all. But she was oblivious.

The princess found herself happy and contented. She had her shiny things, and pretty clothes. She had her new clubhouse by the sea too, where she reigned. But somehow – it all seemed temporary.

One day the tyrant came to ask her to do some work.

“Tear down that house on the hill, for it is ugly!” he roared. “Build a wall of earth so I need not look at that ugly peasant’s cottage when I am here by the sea! he decreed! 

“Plant the youngest, fairest trees on the sandy bund so that I may nevermore see the peasants, and they may nevermore see the sea!”

Verily, even the muted colours of the shore, sand and gentle grasses and plants were not to his liking.

“Paint each blade of grass a turquoise blue, for that pleases my eye more than the colour that Mother Nature has given them.”

The princess dutifully obeyed –some say she obeyed with a bit too much pleasure.

The trees were planted. Alas! They could not thrive in sand, as any fool knows. But the princess merely saw their ageing, ill condition and had the woodsman cut them down, and replace them with new ones.

Mother Nature had watched all of these activities with waxing wrath. And she wasn’t having it:

“As you have profited from the ageing of another maiden, as you have treated the peasants, the landscape and even these poor trees, which never had a chance to live – all for your own profit and vanity, so it shall be with you one of these days, you b”£$(UT 2!”

Mother Nature was well and truly pissed off.

Verily, the towns folk did talk amongst themselves:

“Is she really the fairest in the land if she is fair of face, but not of deed?”

They asked such questions in whispers. Then one day it came to pass that the jig was up.

There was just a touch more harshness in the tyrant’s voice than usual

Despite marrying in secret, the story was now out – and all the folk knew the princess married the very man who could keep the tyrant sweet, and whose stories the tyrant relied on to boost his ego and profits, which of course helped keep the princess on a nice little earner too.

Time went past.

The ugly tyrant would visit now and then. One such day he said to the princess:

“What the F*!£$%!!!@?? are those F*)($%&^ing ugly trees doing on that bund? They look old and tired, and are in serious need of replacing!”

There was just a touch more harshness in the tyrant’s voice than usual. Smiling outwardly to the tyrant, the princess heaved a sigh as he finally flew away on his great silver jet.

When he left, a twitch struck her eye, and the wrinkle on her fair brow appeared once more. Despite several layers of St Tropez tanning spray, she seemed somehow pale.

As time passed, the storyteller prince started going to balls without the princess; he started to work a little later at the office.

Came the day the princess was buying more designer clothes. “Madame will need another size up, I fear”, said the shopkeeper “but don’t worry, this designer just cuts the sizes very small”, the shopkeeper lied, fingers crossed behind her back.

As the princess looked at her reflection in the glass, she paused for a moment. Was that a shadow or a wrinkle on her brow? Was that extra build of up tanning spray under her eyes, or dark circles? Was that a touch of silver in her hair peeping through? Had the lines on her lovely throat deepened? “I’ll need a fortnight at Champney’s at least”, the worried princess thought.

For a second, she thought – which in itself was notable.

She thought of the wives of the tyrant, cast aside once they bloom of youth had departed them. She thought of the previous consort to her own prince, now consigned to the scrap heap. She thought of the peasants, walled behind mounds of earth to conceal their poverty from the tyrant.

She thought of the scores and scores of trees she ordered planted, knowing they would not live, and after drying in the hostile climate would be thrown aside, their lives inconsequential. All these had to be replaced or hidden to hide their lack of beauty and youth.

The thought never reached a conclusion, for her mobile phone had started to ring. She could see it was the tyrant calling her. She took another look at her reflection.

She was not smiling now.

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Jun 142013
 

By Bob Smith.

Trumpie’s jaws are in overdrive
Sayin the economy o Aiberdeen
Is aa doon tae him biggin
The greatest gowf course ivver seen
.
Gweed sakes fit an affa chiel
As a blaw he’ll nivver be beat
Expectin aa the fowk listenin
Tae drap doon an kiss his feet
.
A wunner fit thrivin business fowk
Think o aa Trumpie’s blether
Some must be teerin their hair
Ithers near the eyn o their tether
.
Trump ignores  the efforts o
The billies livin in oor toon
Faa biggit up oor economy
Lang afore iss bliddy goon
.
Trump his got a new award
Fae sum American Academy
Fit ye shud a ken is iss
The Donald’s a main trustee
.
The chiel is off’rin an olive brunch
Tae Wee Eck as a token o peace
Iss symbol it is lang derived
Fae the customs o Ancient Greece
Iss offer his git strings attached
The bay windfairm it maun go
Else Trump’ll nae bigg his hotel
An hoose biggin wull be slow
.
Tae be pals eence again
Trump maun git his ain wye
The SNP billies are expectit
Tae eat bliddy humble pie
|
Wull Eck stretch oot his airms
Sayin, “Donald, lit’s hae a cuddle
A’ll move the turbines far awa
An sort oot iss affa muddle”
.
Wee Eck micht be mony things
Bit he’s nae aat bliddy daft
He kens he’d lose mony votes
As independence he tries tae craft
.
So Donald yer in a quandry
Tae bigg or nae tae bigg
Fitivver ye decide tae dee
Ye’ll aye be thocht a prig
.
.
.
.
Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2013
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Jun 072013
 

By Bob Smith.

‘Fit’s aat up abeen?’, says I
Fin a spied an ususual sicht
A yalla orb in the sky
Shinin doon sae bricht

A hid tae rack ma memory
Tae think fit it micht be
It cam tae me sudden like
T’wis the sun fit a did see

It hid been a wee fylie
Since it showed its face
Hail, rain, win an caul
Wis fit we’ve hid tae face

So shine on richt merrily
Mr Sun ye cheer us aa up
An hae us steppin oot briskly
As tho we wis a young pup

Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2013
Image: Orange Sunset © Zoran Tripalo  Dreamstime Stock Photos

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Jun 062013
 

By Bob Smith.

I like the quote fae Mahatma Gandhi faar he said  “There is sufficiency in the world for man’s need but not for man’s greed” A wunner fit the wee mannie wid say noo fin consumerism is the new religion o the warld.
Or foo aboot Vernon Howard, the American author and philosopher faa wrote ” You have succeeded in life when all you really want is only what you really need”

If aat’s the case it wid appear nae muckle fowk hiv succeeded in life.

Economist billies keep tellin us we maun spen oor bawbees so aat the economy stairts tae growe again. Iss tae me is a heap o bliddy crap. Iss is foo sum puir fowk git intae debt – bi spennin dosh on thingies they dinna really need.

A’ve heard consumerism described as bein in the business o pinchin siller oot o fowks’ pooches withoot threatenin them wi hairm. An yet a  lot o us div get hairmed bi the consumer business fit is aided an abettit by the advertisin billies an the merchandisers.

The young in society are the eens maist likely tae faa fer aa the bling. Ye ken fit a mean – they’re aa telt they are oot o touch if they hinna got iss or aat, be it the newest smairt phone or the latest fashion accessory. Lead bi the nose tae the cash tills is foo a wid describe fits happ’nin.

I can hear a lot o fowk mutterin, “they dinna hae tae spen their siller if they dinna wint till“. Aye some fowk micht stairt oot tae nae spen sae muckle bawbees bit the power o advertisin an in the case o the young, peer pressure can force them tae dee itherwise. I wark’t in advertisin fer nigh on quarter o a ceentury an ken richt weel foo persuasive ads can be, baith fae a “must hae” situation tae panderin tae yer fantasies.

Tak the ad on TV faar a young chiel douses himsel wi a weel kent body spray an his a the bonnie lassies fae miles aroon comin in bye. Tak it fae me fowks it disna work. A’ve tried it!!!

Noo fin ye’ve aa recovered fae fa’in aboot laachin aat the thocht o a seeventy plus mannie splashin himsel unner the oxsters wi fine smellin stuffie an sittin in his airm-cheer waitin fer a boorachie o gweed leukin young weemin tae pye him a visit (ach I can aye dream), a’ll git back tae reality.

A read the followin bittie jist the ither day fit sums thingies up perfectly.

“Landfills swell wi cheap throwe awa products fit brak doon easily an canna be repaired. Some products are made psychologically obsolete lang afore they actually weer oot. A generation is growen up withoot kennin fit quality goods are. Freenship, faimily ties an personal autonomy are only promoted as a vehicle fer gift gien an the rationale fer the selection o communication services and personal acquisition. Aathing becums mediated throwe the spennin o siller on goods an services. Human beins faa canna spen becum worthless”

Source:- www.verdant.net/consumerism

Noo a’ve nithing agin shoppin as a rule bit faar it gits oot o haun is fin sum fowk gyaang oot fer een or twa bitties an cum hame with aboot a dizzen, jist cos  they war a bargain. A bargain is only a bargain if ye really need it at aat precise meenit.

Ma wife leuks at me in despair as fin I ging shoppin a ken fit a wint an efter a’ve bocht it a buggar aff oot o the shop like a reid ersed bee. Ma gweed wife  likes tae dee a bittie browsin afore an efter she’s bocht fit she wints.

Fit’s wrang wi aat a hear ye say? Nithing, so far as ma wife’s concerned, cos she’s resistant tae aa the sales spiel bit ower mony puir craiturs are catcht hook line an sinker. They’ve noo becum disciples o Mammon, the god o excess. Consumerism is the ivveryday face o iss “religion”.

( Above image licensed from http://www.genderforum.org/uploads/media/286ae254d0.jpg  under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 License.  )

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May 312013
 

By Bob Smith.

A makkin o tatties
Fresh fae the dreel
Wi a dollop o butter
It fair tastes richt weel

Duke o York or Kerr’s Pink
An wi earth they are barkit
They aa miles aheid
Than fae ony supermairket

Majestic or Golden Wonder
Micht gyang throwe the bree
Bit onything is far better
Than Maris Piper tae me

Fin they’re bein plunted
An in earth they are stuck
Myn the best fertiliser’s
A gweed pile o muck

So praise the humble tattie
It’s gweed an it’s cheap
An nourishes yer body
Like an affa fine neep

Jist myn fin yer buyin
Taste it dis maitter
Auld varieties are best
Nae eens fit cam later

Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2013

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May 092013
 

By Bob Smith.

Boxes, boxes, boxes
Is aa we nooadays see
The “darlins” o modern architects
Be it Aiberdeen or Torquay

Thingies like yon Rubik’s Cube
O a Uni Library biggin
Leukin like the pint his run
A think it’s bliddy mingin

Union Square, o michty me
It’s jist aa steel an gless
Oor toon’s in the hauns o Philistines
Creatin a maist affa mess

The city skyline is fair important
Says Aiberdeen mannie Eric Auld
Seen throwe his artistic ee
Marischal Square it leaves him cauld

Fowk noo are fair upset
At fit they see gyaan on
Aa in the guise o progress
In the toon twixt Dee an Don

“Progress is jist the exchange
O ae nuisance fer anither”
So wrote  yon Havelock Ellis
Writer, Doctor an life giver

Boxes are fer storin things
Bit nae the human race
Stop biggins fit are jist bland
Dinna chynge oor city’s face

Bob Smith “The Poetry Mannie” 2013
Image credit: Corporate Tree 2 © Andres Rodriguez | Dreamstime Stock Photos

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May 092013
 

Voice’s Nicola McNally interviews writer Maggi Sale, and explores the fascinating background to her first book.

Nicola: Congratulations on the publication of Dying Embers and Shooting Stars, Maggi. You’re joining the ranks of Scots women authors such as Janice Galloway, JK Rowling, Carol Ann Duffy and Liz Lochhead.

Yet I feel your novel is more comparable with Aberdeenshire author Lewis Grassic Gibbon’s Sunset Song. 

Your Dying Embers and Shooting Stars is alternately forthright and lyrical, haunting and challenging, and beautifully written with a strong narrative voice.

You introduce us to a captivating, resilient and increasingly self-aware character, Margo, a Scots lass like Grassic Gibbon’s Chris Guthrie, whose life also reflects the social, political and spiritual background in her country. So, what inspired the title of your novel?

Maggi: I wanted to convey that sense of circularity and interconnectedness of all things…. ‘out of the ashes, the Phoenix rises’. The book cover also suggests that notion of ‘looking through/beyond’ and hopefully conveys the concepts of space and wonder which are so lacking in our modern lives.

“Margo” is pretty close to home, of course, and there is no doubt that the reader is invited into her head, but I’d like to think that the situations and circumstances that she experiences are recognisable as being fairly universal. Yes, a lot happened to young Margo, but she survived to tell the tale! I write from the perspective of believing that what matters is not so much what happens to you, as how you respond to it!

I’m very honoured that you should link me with the likes of Grassic Gibbon. All I’d really written before this novel were hundreds of Social Background Reports on other people. My role as an inner-city Social Worker gave me the Statutory Duty, but also great human privilege, to ‘do a nosy’ into people’s lives.

This was usually at times of great crisis and I was both fascinated and humbled by the current ‘human condition’ and how different folk dealt with the challenges that beset them. Many were broken by them of course, but some seemed able to tap into something deeper and I would then really enjoy the task of writing fulsome Court Reports that would ‘bring them alive’, or so said the Sheriff! But he still sent them down.

I didn’t set out to write a Book as such. Things happened that I felt the need to record and I would print them out on the work’s printer. Colleagues would pick them up while I was out on a home visit and I’d return to clamours of “more”! They would usually be falling off their seats laughing in the tea room. We really are a heartless lot.

There is nothing quite like walking the length of the country to get the measure of the land and its people

Increasingly though, I was approached by individuals who were personally touched by the ‘story’ and I started to realise that it might have real therapeutic value. So I continued, while working full-time and also hosting a Global Exchange Group from India, and a “Book” was born in exactly five months. Sunday was the only day I could really put aside for it, so the lads cooked….or starved.

Nicola: It’s a real Scots novel, isn’t it, in setting and language, with a great emphasis on traditional Celtic hospitality, set in Glasgow and Edinburgh, and with a Peace March through Scotland via Aberdeen in the plot!

Maggi: There is nothing quite like walking the length of the country to get the measure of the land and its people. I’d like to think that the book reveals the roots of Margo’s sense of common humanity, by which she strives to live. I have no idea whether the images in my head have been conveyed via words on the page to the reader’s inner landscapes, but I’d like to think so.

I think it was the ten years that I spent in Africa that gave me a perspective on this wee country of ours that I might never otherwise have had. My children spent their early years in Zambia and the book gave me a chance to record those early influences that determined many of the values by which we live to this day.

As a Scot, I was often treated differently to my English husband, and I was amazed at the affection that was expressed for the Scots, who have a tradition of living alongside the indigenous people of Central Africa.

The book gave me an opportunity to express my gratitude for being part of the ‘ben-the-hoose’ hospitality that I experienced in my own Scottish childhood and in Central Africa.

There is a theme of water flowing throughout the book and that is no  accident.

When you have experienced water-deprivation while trying to breast-feed your child, you never take it for granted again.

I have been very privileged to have lived in many diverse places and contrasting social conditions throughout my life, so let’s just say that I didn’t have to ‘imagine’ much when writing Margo’s story.

Nicola: So, was it your intention to present the often harsh realities of inner city life from a woman‘s perspective? And in contrast, the most beautiful and enduring aspects of the human condition from a woman’s perspective?

Maggi: Perhaps that’s what came through for you, Nicola, but that was not my intention. The main character is incidentally a woman, but the main thrust of the story is the pain and distress that results from denial, really. That can, and does, happen to anyone who is brought up in a culture of, ‘we don’t talk about that’!

I saw this so much in my professional life too, and it nearly broke me.

Another theme of the book is the help and support that comes from very unlikely quarters, and Margo’s growing realisation of the source of this as she faces many dilemmas. Confidentiality would prevent me from revealing the actual people concerned so the characters are composite and the situations are scrambled; but they reveal a human resilience in the face of adversity that often left me humbled.

I think we have lost our way as a coherent society in recent decades and the book certainly reveals the dark underside of lost generations who are turning to drugs and crime in place of a lost identity. But I hope it reveals their humanity too.

Nicola: There’s a humorous element to the book, in spite of the often painful subject matter. How important is this?

Maggi: Absolutely crucial! I was totally shocked when I first came to live in Glasgow and couldn’t believe it when the toddler would answer the door and call, “Maw! It’s the f…ing Social worker!”…and the reply would come, “Aye! C’min Hen! The kettle’s oan!” Coming from Edinburgh, via Africa and rural Dumfries and Galloway, I didn’t know what to make of it at first.

My colleagues were equally earthy and soon knocked me off my ‘professional’ perch. And really, when you saw some of the truly horrendous social situations and circumstances that we had to deal with, you either laughed, or you cried. And I cried! After four years, I suffered a complete mental and emotional breakdown and felt quite suicidal.

We have to accept that the FOSSIL AGE is OVER….or WE are!

But as is often the case, it was that total collapse that brought me face to face with myself, and the pretensions that held my own pain at bay! It was that earthy, and honest, Glasgow humour that got me back to work. I really learned to laugh, and I haven’t stopped since.

 Nicola: The book is published by Balboa Press, a division of Hay House, and you have very generously promised the proceeds from your book sales to causes close to your heart. Will you tell AV about these?

 Maggi: As a grandmother of nine creative young people, all of whom are gifted musicians, artists, performers and students, I have a huge vested interest in securing their sustainable future. We are living in very troubled, but dynamic, times and my work over the years with VSO Global Exchange has convinced me that we do indeed have a future; but only if we radically change our ways as a species.

I established a small group based on non-violent direct action principles called HOPE, or the Human Order for Peace on Earth. Over the years it has challenged nuclear waste dumping and nuclear weapons, and is currently challenging fracking, which is the chemical extraction of gas from shale, which threatens our very existence.

We have to accept that the FOSSIL AGE is OVER….or WE are! The choice is now water, or oil and gas! Scotland has the expertise, ingenuity and opportunity to seek and develop sustainable alternatives, and we must!

I also teach English as a Second Language to asylum seekers and refugees, and provide refuge and respite in my village home and practical assistance when they are given ‘leave to stay’. I’m a’ body’s ‘Auntie’ and they call me Bumma! We work on the basis of ‘Living Simply, that Others may Simply Live’…. and we are a’ Jock Tamson’s Bairns undivided by creed or culture.

I was also chosen as “Grandmother of the Burning Hearth” by the Grandmothers Circle the Earth Foundation. Their Hopi prophecy states, “When the Grandmothers speak, the World will be healed!” Perhaps my title of “Grandmother of the Burning Hearth” from GCEF had something to do with the ‘Dying Embers’ title of my book.

We now have a Council in Scotland and I’m the Granny of the Grannies, being the oldest at 70 in June! I have now used up all my savings doing this sacred work and any income from my book will allow me to continue.

Nicola: Thank you, Maggi Sale, for talking with us, and many congratulations on your book’s publication. Maybe it’s the first part of a trilogy, a Scots Quair for the 21st century ?

Maggi: As an honorary Glaswegian, my reply to that is, “Aye! Right!”

Further information:

Grandmothers Circle the Earth Foundation is a non-profit organisation that brings together women of all ages and races, cultural, social, professional and spiritual backgrounds, to create practical and sustainable solutions to the most pressing issues they face today.

Its mission is to respond to requests for guidance, resources, professional expertise and administration in creating sustainable Grandmother Councils and culturally relevant Women’s Circles.

These bring together ceremonies, medicines and wisdom teachings of indigenous people from many nations, as valuable tools and bridges for addressing universal issues around the world, such as: Developing Community, Sustainability, Renewable Resources, Elder Care, Developing Youth Leadership, Domestic Violence, Business Development and more.

Voice readers can order a copy of Maggi Sale’s book ‘Dying Embers and Shooting stars’ online. It’s now available on www.amazon.co.uk in paperback and kindle editions.

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