They shall grow not old...

2026 Anzac Day dawn service at the Wellington Arch in central London

Craig every second Tuesday

Kia ora and gidday everyone,

In the past few days a rather significant day for Australians and New Zealanders has passed by again. 25 April may just be a date on the calendar for most countries, but down in New Zealand and Australia, and for others all around the world who have links to our two nations (including Turkey), it is a very special, and sombre day; ANZAC Day. A public holiday, but more akin to one like Memorial Day in the United States than its more festive holiday brethren. 

For more than a century the 25th of April has brought Australia and New Zealand - along with our diaspora around the world, to a pause, a special and sombre day where we remember the soldiers, sailors, and others who have served (and are still serving) our countries in wars and conflicts all over the world. Anzac Day, as that date is known in our part of the world, has been commemorated every year since 1916, the first anniversary of an ill-fated battle. 

One hundred and 11 years ago, on 25 April 1915, our two nations first fought side by side under the Australian and New Zealand Army Corps (ANZAC) banner – our soldiers landing together at dawn on a desolate beach on the Gallipoli peninsula in Turkey. The campaign and landing were a military bungle by the British commanders (including the First Lord of the Admiralty, a certain Winston Churchill) - but the attitudes, actions, and courage of the Australian and New Zealand soldiers both at Gallipoli and over the many battles and years since, stoked a burgeoning sense of independent identity and nationhood.

Anzac. It’s a powerful word for anyone from our end of the world. 

Despite being about as far away from the main First World War conflict as you could be, more than 100,000 New Zealand troops and nurses served overseas during the First World War, from a population of just over one million. 42% of men of military age served. The losses were huge. You've only got to drive around New Zealand and spy the war memorials in various rural towns, where there are dozens of names listed even from tiny farming communities, to realise the impact the First and Second World Wars had on a couple of generations. Service, sacrifice. 

Anzac Day has been a part of my life since I was a Boy Scout marching in parades in Richmond, a small town in the Top of the South Island of New Zealand, or learning about the Anzacs and the Gallipoli campaign at school. Later I had the privilege of writing about Anzac Day for several magazines, legal and lifestyle, including interviewing several serving New Zealand military personnel (including a Brigadier General) about Anzac Day's ongoing impact.

part of a multi-page feature I wrote on Anzac Day for WildTomato magazine in 2009

Then in 2011, I had the privilege of attending an Anzac Day dawn service, following a chilly overnight stay on the Gallipoli Peninsula itself, camping out with hundreds of fellow Kiwis and Aussies by the beach where the Anzacs landed in 1915, waking for dawn service then hiking up the steep cliffs for morning services at Lone Pine and Chunuk Bair. You can read more about my thoughts on that experience at a prior Murder is Everywhere post. 

Dawn on the 25th of April at Gallipoli in 2011

The couple of times when I've been back 'home' in New Zealand during late April over the past decade or so (eg once when Miss 11 was very little, another time when she was seven years old), I attended Anzac Day ceremonies in the smalltown of Brightwater and in my hometown of Richmond, Nelson in the top of the South Island of New Zealand.

The place where I used to march in Anzac Day parades as a little kid in the Boy Scouts, joining the then-current military personnel and the veterans wearing their medals. It's different now, as I'm older, am a father, have friends who've served or are still serving in various militaries, and have experienced loss more directly in my own life. 

This year, after toying with it a few times in recent years, I finally got myself (and Miss 11) along to the dawn service in central London, at Hyde Park corner and the Wellington Arch, gilded by the New Zealand and Australian War Memorials. It's a place I've visited plenty of times over the years, during daylight hours; I've even taken quite a few visiting Kiwi and Aussie mates past it as party of lengthy strolls around central London. 

Miss 11 by the NZ War Memorial at 4am on Anzac Day

Dragging Miss 11 out of bed at 3am so we could get the night tube into town made me remember the times I'd gotten up early with my Dad when I was little - though that was almost exclusively to watch live sports being played on the other side of the world. FA Cup finals, Rugby World Cup games, etc. To enjoy sporting contests that some fans treat as life and death, but really - as much as I love sports, and appreciate LFC legend Bill Shankly (who famously said, "Some people believe football is a matter of life and death, I am very disappointed with that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that") - something like Anzac Day puts that into true perspective. 

More than 2,700 New Zealanders and 8,700 Australians died at Gallipoli. 

Many thousands of others were terribly injured. Young men and boys from across our nations. While the numbers are horrifying enough, time and distance perhaps underplays them. Despite being about as far away from the battlefronts of the First World War that you could get, and in no direct danger ourselves, New Zealand sent more than 42% of its men of military age overseas to fight alongside the UK and other allies. 

Anzac soldiers landing at Gallipoli were faced with steep terrain and deadly artillery

To put it in perspective, the losses at Gallipoli, given New Zealand's population at the time, are the equivalent of the United States losing just under 900,000 people in a single military campaign today.

It's hard to fathom. 

You can see why it was such a big deal for Australia and New Zealand, and why Anzac Day was commemorated since 1916 (the one year anniversary of the landing) even as the war raged on. 

The Princess Royal (in green) laying the first
wreath on behalf of the Royal Family

So, 111 years on, Miss 11 and I were among the several hundred people gathered in the centre of London under a dark sky, listening to a karakia and haka from Ngāti Rānana London Māori Club  welcoming the Princess Royal to the dawn service. Listening to poems, prayers, odes, and remembrances that did not glorify war or conflict, but called for peace and human connection. 

To honour those who'd given their lives, by valuing and protecting life.

After wreaths had been laid and the Last Post rang out, we all dispersed, moving on with our own days and our own lives. A sombre start to a Saturday, but like memento mori, a reminder to be grateful for life, and the costs that others have paid for the freedoms we often take for granted. 

Afterwards, Miss 11 and I strolled down Piccadilly looking for an early-morning cafe to have something to eat, before strolling around an oh-so-quiet central London then later heading to parkrun at Bexley. On the other side of the world, my compatriots had been attending services and starting a public holiday long weekend with family and friends. Our Anzac Day was a little different, but I was glad I took the time this year to attend the London dawn service, to remember and reflect. I'll leave you with the words of the Anzac dedication, read out at every service: 

“They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old,

Age shall not weary them nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.”

Until next time. Ka kite anō.

Whakataukī of the fortnight: 

Inspired by Zoe and her 'word of the week', I'll be ending my fortnightly posts by sharing a whakataukī (Māori proverb), a pithy and poetic thought to mull on as we go through life.

Ko te manu e kai ana i te miro, nōna te ngahere. Ko te manu e kai ana i te mātauranga, nōnā te ao

(The bird who feeds on the miro berry has the forest. The bird who feeds on knowledge has the world.)

The native New Zealand wood pigeon (kereru) is fond of miro berries

April in Manhattan

Annamaria on Monday

My blog Bro has gotten us ready for May, and to tell you the truth, I am ready to see the end of a month that has brought us so much woe.  But before we leave it, I want relive the beauty it also brought, which I enjoyed so much that it made my heart sing.

April in Paris   

Famously, the song April in Paris wins people over.  It makes us want to see those chestnuts in blossom.  And to want to find a true love.  It offers us a glass of wine in an outdoor cafe.  Paris, the lyrics say, makes you want to long for love.  It has you asking, "Whom can I run to.."

Spring in Manhattan on the other hand gives us more than longing. The song, though not so famous, shows people in love and were they go as their love flourishes.

Spring in Manhattab

Springtime in Manhattan delivers more than just chestnuts in blossom.  

Here's what it looked like this April.

    

I am signing off today with these words of Mohandas Gandhi, who is pictured here in Union Square on April 1.

 

When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it--always

 

The Meaning(s) of May Day.

Jeff—Saturday

Friday is the first of May, a national holiday in Greece.  It’s a day filled with traditions, some brought on by thoughts of rejoicing at the end of winter, others by memories of a day sacred to organized labor, one that most Americans know little about—but we’ll get to that later.  Anyway, I thought, “This is a perfect subject for this week’s post,” and began to write, accompanied by this nagging sense of déjà vu all over again. 

Sure enough, I plowed back through my old posts and found I’d written about May Day a dozen years ago.  I thought to reinvent the wheel—or in this case the springtime wreath—but decided it more in keeping with the national labor strikes aspect of this day to simply do nothing but tinker with the old piece. Besides, the history behind this worldwide May Day hullabaloo has not changed. 

Did you know that May 1^st celebrations go back to ancient pagan days and that virtually all northern hemisphere cultures had some sort of “spring rite” festivities?

Why of course you did.

The earliest festivals were linked to the Roman goddess of flowers (Flora), Germanic celebrations of what is now called Walpurgis Night (named after the patron saint of those suffering from rabies, it’s also known as “the witches sabbath” coming precisely six months after All Hallows Eve—interesting combination), and the Celtic Beltane (a springtime festival of optimism).

Walpurgis Night Fireworks

May 1st ends the hunker down winter mindset, and harbingers the coming joyful days of summer. 

On Mykonos locals take great pride in fashioning circular wreaths out of grape vines tied off with bunches of wildflowers (aloe, statice, geraniums, daises, lavender, and the like), angelica, olive, rosemary, wheat, bay leaf, and for some, whole cloves of garlic.  They’re quite beautiful and for those wreaths proudly hung on front doors which survive another Mykonian tradition—wreath heisting by neighborhood children—they’re burned on the day of the Summer Solstice (June 22^nd) as the adventuresome jump over the flames three times making a wish as they do…probably not to burn off their you-know-whats in the process.   

Did you also know that May Day is International Worker’s Day?  If you live virtually anywhere outside of the U.S. you probably do.  Inside, likely not.  The U.S. has stuck to the first Monday in September as its Labor Day and Americans generally associate May 1^st with a communist or socialist workers holiday, complete with grandiose military parades in such places as Russia, North Korea, and Cuba. 

May Day Demonstration London

I’d venture to say most Americans have no idea that International Worker’s Day is officially celebrated in most countries around the world not to glorify any foreign ideal or event, but to mark what occurred in Chicago, Illinois on May 4, 1888.

Permit me to lift the following description of what happened from Wikipedia’s entry, “The Haymarket Affair.”

“The Haymarket affair (also known as the Haymarket massacre or Haymarket riot) refers to the aftermath of a bombing that took place at a labor demonstration on Tuesday May 4, 1886, at Haymarket Square in Chicago. It began as a peaceful rally in support of workers striking for an eight-hour day. An unknown person threw a dynamite bomb at police as they acted to disperse the public meeting. The bomb blast and ensuing gunfire resulted in the deaths of seven police officers and at least four civilians, and the wounding of scores of others.

“In the internationally publicized legal proceedings that followed, eight anarchists were convicted of conspiracy, although the prosecution conceded none of the defendants had thrown the bomb. Seven were sentenced to death and one to a term of 15 years in prison. The death sentences of two of the defendants were commuted by Illinois governor Richard J. Oglesby to terms of life in prison, and another committed suicide in jail rather than face the gallows. The other four were hanged on November 11, 1887. In 1893, Illinois’ new governor John Peter Altgeld pardoned the remaining defendants and criticized the trial.

“The Haymarket affair is generally considered significant as the origin of international May Day observances for workers.  The site of the incident was designated a Chicago Landmark on March 25, 1992, and a public sculpture was dedicated at the site in 2004. The Haymarket Martyrs’ Monument in nearby Forest Park was listed on the National Register of Historic Places and designated a National Historic Landmark on February 18, 1997.”

That ends today’s history lesson. Now go outside and enjoy the sunshine!

––Jeff

Extending Life

 Michael - Alternate Thursdays

Extending human life has always been a thorny issue. I’m not talking about exercise and healthy eating habits, but some form of medication. What could that be and, more important, what would be the consequences? Most of the novels and movies that have used this as a premise have focused on a way-out discovery – perhaps in the Amazon, on an isolated island, or somewhere in the Kalahari Desert – where, to this day, a variety of rare and undocumented species exist.

The discovery provides the backstory of the novel, but it’s usually the social, financial, and political implications that provide the substance. In his book, The Trouble with Lichen, John Wyndham explores the discovery of a lichen-like substance, discovered by accident, that causes aging to slow. That's where the story starts. The implications create the backbone of the book. A beautician uses it to do what all beauticians claim to do – to keep your young looks. The fact that her treatments actually work don’t make people happy, certainly not the ones who don’t have it. Some of the ones who do receive it somehow feel hoodwinked. That seems strange, but it’s totally believable. Read the book if you want to know why.

In Dying to Live, we postulated a plant in the Kalahari, known only to the Bushmen, that offered remarkable healing properties and extended life. A Bushman is discovered dead near the Central Kalahari Game Reserve in Africa. Although the man looks old enough to have died of natural causes, the police suspect foul play, and the body is sent to Gaborone for an autopsy. The pathologist is greatly puzzled. Although the man is obviously very old, his internal organs look remarkably young.

That’s the premise, but our story is about the stampede to find and obtain the plant by people for their own ends. The book is actually about greed, not longevity.

When the book came out we often asked people at launch events whether they would be keen to live very much longer that the usual life span. Many didn’t. Maybe there’s a built-in lifespan in our psyches as well as in our bodies. On the other hand, some very rich people have their bodies frozen until the day they can be resuscitated and whatever ails them (even if it’s just old age) can be cured.

In another story, a team of scientists go to study the people and environment of Easter Island (Rapa Nui). They discover a lot of interesting things, but the microbiologist in the group becomes fixated on soil samples that have a surprising lack of fungal life. He observes that the material kills yeast in a petri dish.

Yes, that Easter Island

As the story goes on, the material reaches a laboratory where a team led by a scientist named Sehgal discovers that the active ingredient, which they believe might be a new antibiotic, is actually a byproduct of a bacterium that doesn’t want competition from fungi for the nutrients in the soil. They isolate the material and name it Rapamycin in honor of its original home on Easter Island. While investigating its properties, they discover it produces strong anti-immune reactions. That dangerous side effect spoils its antibiotic properties, the research goes nowhere, and the drug company closes it down.

The twist is that Sehgal then smuggles a sample of the drug from the laboratory to his new home in the US and continues to push the drugs properties. Eventually, the research is restarted, and Rapamycin is approved by the FDA for use in suppressing immune reactions for transplants. But there’s another twist.

In the experiments and trials to obtain that approval, scientists notice that mice being used as test subjects live longer than those in the control group. Subsequent trials indicate that mice may live up to 20% longer when regularly treated with Rapamycin compared to the control group.

So far there isn’t that much interest in the story. The only twist worth a book would be Sehgal smuggling the drug home and carrying on the experimentation. The actual twist (as you’ve probably guessed or already know) is that this isn’t a novel. Not even a novel based on fact, but actual fact. There’s even real science that may explain how the drug works, and that may be the most interesting part. But where is all the greed, the social upheaval, the mad rush of legislation, the crowds mobbing the drug stores? It isn’t there. Is the drug too dangerous to take regularly? It doesn’t seem so, (but it’s early days yet and it can produce significant side effects).

Maybe we already have the Bushman’s longevity drug available for some $100 per month, but no one is really excited? Well not quite. Online “clinics” offer antiaging regimes including use of the drug “off label” i.e. not for its recommended and approved uses. The costs are much higher than the prescription rates. Some subscribers do suffer undesirable side effects under the very lax medical regime of the “clinics”. Do the participants live longer? How do we know? Is this just another Invermectin - a miracle drug against parasites, but with no scientifically established properties against Covid? Or do we really have the prototype of a drug that can extend life?

Would you want to live an extra twenty years?

When Pots--and Plots--get Root-Bound

Ovidia--every other Tuesday

One of my bamboo plants was starting to look unwell. A few leaves here and there turning yellow and dropping--nothing dramatic, but enough to signal that something wasn’t right, because my bamboo have always been among the healthiest of my plants!

And what was really odd was that this bamboo was in front of a big window with two other pot plants—another bamboo and a bonsai fig tree—and they all get the same amount of sunlight and water and the other two seem fine. So what was wrong with this poor bamboo?

So--after a very full week (including some Aunty Lee excitement now that the series is now out there) I finally took my poor bamboo plant out onto the patio for some investigative procedures...

My poor bamboo was completely root-bound!

When I finally managed to loosen the sides enough to get it out of its pot I saw its roots had taken over completely. They were a dense, tightly packed mass in the exact shape of the pot!

And there was almost no soil left. Water must have been running straight down the sides and out again without ever reaching the poor roots at the centre.

In fact, though I'd not realised it, my poor plant was dying of thirst and malnutrition, not to mention stress from overcrowding.

All from being severely root-bound.

And I realised that was pretty much the state my manuscript has been getting into recently. Everything inside it came about naturally and kind of works, but there's just too much stuff and it's all packed too tightly.

It's easier to tackle a poor root-bound plant. Or rather, there's a simple and slightly brutal method that usually works: loosen the roots as much as possible, remove compacted soil and dead roots and trim some of the roots before repotting them in fresh mix.

But that's where the difficult part comes in--I wasn't just trimming dead roots but some of the living, healthy ones too. Because there just isn't enough room for everything.

In my WIP the scenes I’m looking at are good scenes, funny exchanges and observations that I love. And all these fine roots/ threads/ themes have potential to grow into exciting developments.

The problem is, they all have HUGE potential, and given unlimited space, time and energy, I would keep and grow them all!

But I don’t have unlimited space, whether on my bathroom window ledge or on my calendar.

My bamboo might be happier flourishing in the wild with pandas, but in this dimension it's part of the green modesty screen in my bathroom that I enjoy tending to and that makes me happy every time I look at it.

Like for my WIP, my material is crying out for epic space but I'm working to fit it into a book somewhere between 75,000 and 80,000 words.

Even this post has to fit the space it’s given--so something has to give.

I trimmed my bamboo plant--stalks and roots both. I tried to be selective, but still—every cut hurt.

And when I've finished this, I'll head back to do the same with my manuscript.

I'm finally beginning to see that culling, cutting and editing isn’t about removing what’s bad or that doesn't work. It's just acknowledging that there isn't enough space for everything.

Too many roots, too many ideas...

It's not a bad thing. It's a wonderful problem because it means my bamboo was/ is healthy enough to expand to its limits.

My bamboo is recovering.

It's already looking much better!

Now I'll go trim and repot my WIP and hope it survives and recovers too and that both book and bamboo go on to flourish!

Happy Birthday, Karen Blixen

  Annamaria in Three Days Late

I apologize for going AWOL for a couple of weeks.  To be honest, I found myself with little time for writing anything at all, and I chose to devote what I had to finishing my work in progress, which was pouring into my head.  I am past 61K words now, and I see the ending coming, so though real life remains quite busy, I am happy to say that I am here with this tribute to Karen Blixe aka Isak Dinese. I first fell for her as a Lit major when I was assigned to read her short stories in Seven Gotic Tales published under her pen name.

Her name came up because I have an ancient copy of this handy way to keep track of friend and family birthdays.  I've had it since 1984, hence the clearly visible Scotch tape holding it together.

The entry at the top clued me in that it was time that I give Karen some attention.

Most American's know her as the person played by Meryl Street in the movie Out of Africa.  When her memoire of the same name first launched, it carried her pen name, already well known at the time. (Karen took the pen name, as many women did in the those days because books written by women were not considered important and mostly could't get published.)

Nowadays, if you search Seven Gothic Tales the answer you get may very well say "A book by Karen Blixen."  Only if the answer shows the book will it show the author as Isak Dinesen.  Either way, it is a masterpiece.

Eventually the area of Nairobi where she lived was named Karen in her honor.

Here below are some souvenir shots from my first time visit to Karen Blixen's house

"...at the foot of the gong hills."

Lucy, my guide, and a portrait of Karen

Karen's house, now a museum.

The Karen museum is one of the most popular tourist destinations in Kenya.  I'm not sure if it sells books, but I am certain that if you want fame, it helps if Meryl Streep pays you in a movie, especially of Robert Redford plays the love interest, and if the film is also a masterpiece.

My Granddaughter Rachel's Big Day

Jeff–Saturday

 

Today is the Bat Mitzvah of my youngest granddaughter, Rachel Ida McLaughlin, and I couldn’t be prouder of her!  She’s an accomplished actress, musician, vocalist, martial artist, and scholar. And this weekend her family and friends join in celebrating this hard-earned, well-deserved milestone event in her life!

For those of you who many wonder what is a Bat Mitzvah (pronounced Baht Mitts-vah), the simplest explanation is that it’s the coming of age religious ritual for a Jewish girl, as the Bar Mitzvah ritual is for a Jewish boy.  For a girl the age is generally above twelve, and for a boy it’s thirteen.

 

The history of the Bar Mitzvah actually dates back to a fifth century reference in a religious text to a blessing recited by a father thanking God for freeing him from responsibility for the deeds of his son, based upon his son attaining an age that made him accountable for his own actions.  

 

How many fathers of all faiths still pray for similar debt relief. :)

 

The Bat Mitzvah celebration has its roots in 19^th century European tradition but did not make its way to the United States until 1922. It now flourishes in many communities as a revered family occasion of great joy.

 

And that’s precisely what Rachel brings to all blessed to know her…great joy.

 

As her Zayde (grandfather), this day brings the promise of special joy to me, for perhaps now her parents will think of her as old enough to read her Zayde’s books!

 

Yiayia and I love you Rachel. We all do. Mazel Tov.

 

The entire crew of grandkids--12 years ago

–Zayde