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

  1. Suze19 May 2012 at 20:05

    '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.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Teresa Cypher20 May 2012 at 02:32

    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 :-)

    ReplyDelete
  3. 20 May 2012 at 13:09

    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.

    ReplyDelete
  4. Lisa Southard20 May 2012 at 22:24

    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 :-)

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Thank you for reading my words- my chance to read yours here:

Popular posts from this blog

Light On Our Feet With Good News

Image
Friday 23rd April 2021 We go into Launceston town, park in the long stay because all parking is free until May 17th (when the hospitality industry restarts). We are early and Mr’s knee hurts so we pick a charity shop without stairs; Mr buys a faux leather jacket, I pick out a summery top. Bargains curled in hand as neither of us has a bag, we find our way to the office and ask for our trainee solicitor, a young chap in a slouchy silvery suit. He comes out of a meeting, nervous, finds an empty room, and we follow him in. There’s a big blue folder of searches and enquiries which we look through, young chap jabbing a finger at relevant bits, his hands are not steady. We think the paperwork is probably satisfactory but this is new territory so it’s all leap of faith stuff - deep breath, take up the pen, sign. We leave the signatures, take the folder, and our bargains, go to Barnecutts and choose a bun each. I pick a plain chelsea, Mr goes for a rocky road. Celebratory carbs that we c
Read more

Breaking The Heat And Keeping Focus

Image
Sunday 5th September 2021 From August to September was a tumble in time, with many visits from friends and family and I wish I’d taken more notes. There are photographic records. The fields are cut, baled, the bales loaded, gone. We have fed everyone a sour bullace and sometimes a sloe and guffawed at their face pulling. We camped out and saw the barn owl’s pale swoop again. Today in the tree tunnel out from Lawhitton to Launceston I noted how the succession of warm dry days has left the leaves like dusty green leather, like the covers of old spellbooks in a forgotten library. At work we are staying in as the Tour of Britain bikes through Cornwall and roads are closed and many campers and caravans are pouring down the A30 but indoors we can have a YouTube sea and the back door open and admire the blooming pots. Writing going little by little and good, pretty much like the land progress. Wednesday 8th September 2021 The turn of phrase used here is ‘the storm broke the heat.’ Low
Read more