Why Here?

April 28, 2018 — 3 Comments

‘Here’ is St Croix, the largest and, to my biased view, the best of the US Virgin Islands. We have for five years been restoring an old West Indian home up a steep hill in Christiansted. It has been a labour of love and which, as most love affairs, has had moments of great joy and moments of deep despair.

A web, not of lies, but of wires criss-crossing the walls, with appliances daisy-chained into the front of the fuse box. A gas pipe suspended below a low ceiling. Fans that would decapitate anyone over 5’6”. Termite eggs sounding like sand trickling into a pail whenever furniture was moved. Shutters which creaked in un-oiled anger with each gust of the Trade Winds that make this island such a cool place to live. A dishwasher which had been home to small furry critters with long tails. An oven that belched gas at the threat of a flame. And baths upon which no bottom should ever sit. The list was longer.

But the views! Ribbons of blue as the Caribbean filters through azure, to aquamarine to emerald, and back to kingfisher navy glisten in iridescent invitation. Yachts dot the bays in bobbing abandon. And the one thing that makes any place a pleasure to be. The people.

No conversation, no matter how short, starts without ‘good mahnin’ or a pleasantry about whatever the time of day. If the acquaintance is more than a passing hello, then inquiry after the health of the family, or a comment about the day, or maybe an upcoming event is the norm before diving into the purpose of the meeting. It is the most delightful way in which to conduct one’s life and a reminder that courtesy is still alive in certain parts of this great land, despite the lack of civility in the political sphere.

Why here? 

St Croix might be an American territory but she most definitely has a West Indian vibe. The hustle of the mainland is missing. “When will you be here?” is answered by “Soon come.” People are warm and welcoming, and like to laugh. The market is full of fresh produce and stall holders eager to impart their knowledge of how to cook that strange looking leaf.

Don’t get me wrong. This is not Utopia. There are social issues, as there are anywhere. Gun violence has taken a nasty upturn – fueled by drugs and unemployment. Domestic abuse, probably for the same reasons, runs like a fetid stream through society. Last year’s hurricanes rudely destroyed homes, schools and the hospital – the aftermath of which is still being felt by many, though power has been restored islandwide.

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For someone like me, who has lived and worked in many places – 12 countries, as diverse as Papua New Guinea and the Netherlands – there is a charm to St Croix that appealed from the outset. I couldn’t care less about the possible health hazards of sparrows flying around the supermarket. And whilst religion is taken seriously, no matter what the denomination, there is still space for humour – the sign, since blown away, affixed to the gates of the Presbyterian Church, admonished, “Thou Shalt Not Park Here”.

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Or another propped up in a window offering three directions – the lab, the morgue or the X-ray – take your pick.

Where I sit and write, often on our gallery looking out at the aforementioned view, I am privy to many amusing discussions taking place in the street below, though I am not part of them. I was though part of a conversation last night. Let me set the scene. 

The plough was glistening in an ebony sky. The channel lights were blinking red and green to guide cruisers into safe harbour should they be so foolish as to attempt a night-time arrival through the narrow channel. The breeze rustled coconut fronds and clac-clacked tan-tan pods as cicadas harmonised in accompaniment. The roosters were blessedly silent – no doubt preparing for their pre-dawn chorus of ‘funky blackbird’! Jazz in the Park and a glass of Bourbon had left me mellow. 

The idyll was broken by the violent gunning of an engine followed by a desperate screech of brakes, the rattling of pebbles on our galvanized roof, and a flurry of curses. I rushed out to see what was going on.

“Good night,” I said, showing remarkable sang-froid in the face of a long-base ute very close to tipping down onto our roof. “Everything okay?” Which in the face of it was rather a silly question, but very British.

“Good night.” A man, with large glasses and trousers slipping below his butt, responded politely before shouting further instructions to the driver. “Wappen de road? De road it go where?” He asked, turning back to me.

This was a fair question. There is no warning that the road behind our house leads not downhill in tar macadamed smoothness but into a series of steep and very rutted steps. If urban legend is to be believed, a number of vehicles have taken the plunge over the years. A little disconcerting to know as such an event would surely disturb my slumber.

“It’s been like this for many years. Certainly since before you were born,” I replied.

“How old you think I be?”

“Younger than these steps.” I told him. “Have the brakes failed?”

The driver, his lips firmly pursed around a cigarette, bade me good night and replied in the younger man’s stead. The brakes were fine. It was turning around in a confined area and the steepness of the gravel road causing the problem. That and no power in the engine. It took another five or six attempts before, with sparks and stones flying, the pick-up made it’s wailing way up the hill. Brake lights flashed on – amazingly both worked – and a cheer went up from the flatbed filled with three young, and perhaps a little inebriated, men before they went on their way – the driver waving goodbye.

And that’s ‘why here’ – it’s fun!
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Saturday, 1st February 1969 was the first time I wore jodhpurs. This I know for a fact as it was my first Saturday at boarding school – NEGS (New England Girls School, Armidale, NSW, Australia). It was the only day pupils were allowed to wear trousers and ironically, at the time, NEGS did not have the world class equestrian centre it now has. 

Last weekend, and quite by chance also a Saturday, I visited the MFAH (Museum of Fine Arts Houston) to view their lavish exhibition, Peacock in the Desert: the Royal Arts of Jodhpur, India. It was magnificent. Featuring masterpieces from the kingdom of Marwar-Jodhpur in Rajasthan. Ceremonial swords and regalia, camel guns, daggers. One hall was filled with a 17th century court tent made of intricately stitched drapes, another showed a moveable wooden-framed tent used for picnics – the floor of that was covered with a rug made from slithers of ivory interwoven with fabric. Turban adornments shimmered with diamonds on the front and the finest enamel work on the back – so fine I was convinced they were also gems, tiny sparkling emerald and ruby chips rather enamel. It was a fascinating glimpse into the lives of the Rathore dynasty and how the latter day maharaja, Gaj Singh, has transformed the royal palaces and forts on the edge of the Thar, the Great Indian Desert, into self-sustaining monuments for now and the future.

The superficial glamour of the maharaja’s life hides the seriousness of his role in keeping this part of India from crumbling into ruins and crushing debt, and he believes the conservation of buildings and the wonderful works of art inside them is an important bridge between history and modernity. Gaj Singh might officially be a maharaja in name only but that is not how the people of Jodhpur see him, and they call him Bapji – father in their tribal tongue of Marwari.

Dad_IndiaAnd my father is why I care about Rajasthan in India and Waziristan in Pakistan.

Sent to India, as his father, his maternal grandfather and great grandfather were, to serve in the Indian Army (sometimes now referred to as the British Indian Army), Dad was there during Partition in 1947 in one of the Frontier Corps regiments and he remained as one of the few British army officers in the newly formed Pakistani Army.

I grew up to stories of derring-do on the North West Frontier and about his commanding officer, the first Pakistani CO of the South Waziristan Scouts, Colonel Khushwaqt-ul-Mulk, but who I knew as Khushi. Gilgit, Lahore, Rawalpindi, Wāna, Jaipur, Calcutta, Jodphur were all names that swirled around me with romantic abandon as a child even though we lived in neither India nor Pakistan. The first nursery rhyme I learnt was from the sub-continent – aye aye tonga-wallah, tonga-wallah idera (?), aye aye tonga-wallah, Queen Victoria very fine man!

My father’s time in both India and Pakistan were arguably his happiest days and the men with whom he served, whether British, Indian or Pakistani, were men he stayed in contact with throughout his life. When Dad died in 2010 one of the condolence letters I received was from Khushi’s son – his father having died in February of the same year.

And so I’ve almost come full circle – Saturdays, Jodhpur and Dad – but to close that gap I have to go to Waziristan. That part of Pakistan is riven, still, with violence – 71 years since Partition. And still from the same quarter. Then, the SWS gashts (patrols) were spent defending the frontier with Afghanistan against dissident tribesmen hoping to create a new independent country to be known as Pukhtunistan. Now it is the Taliban causing chaos.

I wonder was it serendipity that sent me to the museum on Saturday to see the Jodhpur exhibition? That reawakened a life-long desire to see those places albeit almost three-quarters of a century after Dad was there. Most of Dad’s ashes currently reside in my son’s London flat – awaiting the ‘right’ time to scatter them in the place which held his fascination and part of his heart for all those years. Perhaps that time is now, one Saturday very soon. 

Daddy would like that!

Two-Timing Bint!

March 29, 2018 — 1 Comment

I’ve been caught! I have been, since 2013, a two-timer. It has been fun, exciting, though at times a little fraught. Timing is often an issue. What to wear, and where to wear it? And like most relationships there have been moments of despair, moments of regret but there has been, on the whole, great enjoyment. And strangely my heart has not been torn asunder by my dual lives. My loves are so very different it has been easy to compartmentalise their existence, to take the best of the both and conveniently walk away for a spell when too much has been asked of me by either. All in all a most selfish affair.

I thought the arrangement was long term. I thought I had it sorted. I thought I could have it all. I didn’t see the end coming and so have had the proverbial stuffing knocked out of me. I am dismayed. Discombobulated.

The decision to end this two-timing life has not been made final due, as so often is the case, to situations outside my control. I am in the hands of people over whom I have no clout. I suppose in a way I am being held to ransom. And yes, I am resentful. Though arguably I have little right to be.

As I consider the consequences of my actions, and the consequences of those who hold aloft the Sword of Damocles under which I now live, I find myself withdrawing from the one I believed would be the constant. The one who has held my heart for thirteen years.

I write not of people but of places.

Downtown Houston was, when I moved here in 2005, an area of promise but little else due in large part, according the then mayor, Bill White, to the tunnel system. Meandering 20 feet below the city they were started by Ross Sterling in the 1930s. Over the years the tunnels grew to cover 95 blocks. A warren of scurrying humans protected from Houston’s heat. And as they became more and more subterranean the hobos and the ne’er-do-wells took over the surface.

But by the early 2000’s a push was being made to bring office workers back into the light, to stop developers buying up and demolishing historic buildings, to revitalise what was once a vibrant city. To bring back those who had fled to the suburbs and who only dared enter Downtown for a night at the opera, the symphony, the ballet or the theatre – all of which are first class.

Walking the streets at the weekend in 2005 meant a quiet stroll with no chance of finding a coffee shop or a wine bar. Me, my husband and my dog were the pretty much the sole occupants. Then slowly, slowly people came and Downtown Houston became once again a dynamic, pulsating, cosmopolitan city. And I fell in love.

We bought a loft apartment, one not deemed worthy to show so we bought ‘as is’ and made it our own. We share the building with 13 other urban dwellers – a conglomeration of ages, ethnicities, and animals. We are all part of what has contributed to the resurgence of the city.

And now we are being told there is a very real chance our funky brick building with black terraces and a metal star on the roof (it used to be the Star Furniture warehouse) will be purchased under eminent domain laws. To make way for what is being touted as an answer to Houston’s flooding problems. The North Canal.

So, yes, I’m furious. I have been jolted, if no jilted. The place I have loved unconditionally is in danger of being demolished to a pile of rubble and dust to make way for a giant ditch. We are in essence being considered the scapegoats for the greed and, let’s use that currently much touted word, ‘collusion’ of property developers and officials who have built homes on flood plains and what were once rice paddies. There is a reason rice grew so well out west of the city. Wetlands will flood.

And so to preserve my heart I can feel myself withdrawing from the place in which I have lived longest in my entire life. A place that as old age approached would still be a viable option and from which, quite frankly, I could be removed in a box.

But I am lucky. I have another love. A newer love that tempted me to become that two-timer. A place so utterly different to Downtown Houston that I never felt the pull-me-push-me of loyalties. I will not though go easily into the arms of American’s Caribbean on a full-time basis. Despite the powers-that-be trying to moderate my behavior, which let’s be honest adds to the spice of life, I will remain a two-timing bint!

I Promised Monkeys

March 13, 2018 — 2 Comments

We are a mixed bag! A family spread across the globe – Britain, the US, Trinidad and Tobago. My children were born in The Netherlands and Thailand. My grandchildren are bi-racial TCKs. My son’s girlfriend is Polish. We are archetypal global nomads. And we love it.

However getting together is never easy. We all lead busy lives in different time zones, with the added complication of a son working rotation in the North Sea. Fortunately my daughter is a firm believer in travel being part of her children’s schooling and so has no compunction about freeing them from the bonds of formal education.

This month, after a three year gap, we managed to coordinate our lives to have six days together on neutral ground – Costa Rica. A country none of us had visited and one we were all eager to explore.

I wanted a house Ava and Harley would remember. A unique property jumped off the screen. Way down south on the Peninsula de Osa, and 40 feet up a tree. There was even a ground -level bathroom for anyone not keen on conducting ablutions in the treetops. Perfect. What fun! Until the sensible partner of our marriage pointed out that a fearless-almost-four-year-old rampaging around a treehouse would not be conducive to a relaxed vacation. And one review did mention mahogany birds the size of playing cards. For those of you who have not read my novel, Fireburn, mahogany birds are not sleek and beautiful members of the avian family but are actually up-sized flying cockroaches. Seven of our group, whilst not being enamoured of the rather repellant insects, are pretty relaxed in their presence. The eighth member of our party would not have been quite so blasé and might well have taken flight herself.

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And so Sirena Azul was found. A funky house memorable for its shape and colour. Round and a vivid hyacinth-blue. Located a short way up a hillside equidistant from Domincal and Uvita, it ticked all the boxes. Large enough. Reasonably safe. A beautiful tropical garden and pool. A stream and waterfall. Birds. And monkeys.

Spider and howler monkeys to be precise.

As we arrived the dipping sun bathed the garden in dappled gold, and cicadas launched their evening chorale. Then from further up the hill  came a cacophony of deep-throated coughs. Though we couldn’t see them, the howlers were howling. A quick scan of the Costa Rica guide (we weren’t set up for internet) told us their voices can be heard up to three miles away, warning other troupes to stay clear of their territory. The children went to bed exhausted but happy with the promise of monkey sightings soon.

While most of us were diving for multi-coloured plastic turtles in the pool the next afternoon, Grandpa disappeared on a monkey hunt. Having clambered upstream and over boulders, he returned happy and victorious. A family had been found larking around in the treetops – spider monkeys – their prehensile tails acting as a fifth arm. He promised a trek up the hill the next day but we got sidetracked and so the only monkeys around were the girls.

We surfed, we zip-lined, we rode, we lazed. We played games. We were a family gathered. And all the while humming birds, so iridescent it looked as if they had sequins sown on their wings, sipped from heliconia around the garden, hawks hovered, egrets busied themselves, and euphonia showed off their yellow breasts with gay abandon. Toucans did not appear though we heard them high in the canopy. A two-toed sloth was spotted but fortunately not whilst I was arboreal, and also agouti. Iguanas eyed us with reptilian lassitude as we passed by. But still no monkeys though we heard them howling as dawn crept over the horizon and through the trees, or as darkness fell in a bruised blur of purple and black.

And then as four of us sat enjoying a quiet few moments on the verandah later in the week, I think with a beer in hand, a rustling attracted my husband and there, just a few trees away, was a skittering shape. Then another. With more still to come. A balcony surrounded the top floor of Sirena Azul and we raced up. There they were. Monkeys. The same family.

A quick message was sent to those absent. “Monkey sighting. Come home.” And home they raced, in time to see the troupe swing from tree to tree in playful chase. A family just like ours enjoying each others company.

Six days flew by. Who knows when we’ll all get together again? But in the meantime we will all treasure our memories of Costa Rica, and the promised monkeys.

It was a Honey of a Day

February 14, 2018 — 3 Comments

I had plans. Planting the cuttings people have so generously given me – two, what I hope will be one day be glorious shooting star (Clerodendrum) bushes, and two Danish flag vines (I don’t know its grown-up name), except instead of red and white my clippings are red and pink. Don’t know why. Then I was going to write, write, write.

Instead what did I do? I sat. First at a chair positioned just so at our dining room window, then on the barstool in the kitchen, then upstairs at the hall window. All overlooking our neighbour’s garden. I had become a voyeur.

It was the men that did it. Two husky men with dreads and beards shoving their legs into white coveralls at the bottom of our drive. A young woman covered from head to foot in all manner of garb, including a tee-shirt draped artfully around her head, completed the trio. Her job, seemingly, was to shove greenery into a kettle-like contraption which was then lit by one of the men. She then pumped and primed it until smoke blew off in satisfying curlicues to dissipate on the omnipresent north-easterly winds battering St Croix this month.

Now you must remember I was not in close proximity and so I could be forgiven for thinking, when the masks came out, that the trio were heading to a fencing tournament. And then I twigged.

Bees!

I am rather fond of bees and we are planting a garden to attract them and hummingbirds and bananaquits, the rather charming and cheeky little yellow-breasted birds – smaller than a British robin – who twitter around any flowers. I have though in the last few months been bitten twice by bees – not something that has ever happened before. I can report that they hurt like hell, then itch, then swell into an unattractive lump before disappearing. I am obviously not prone to anaphylactic shock.

But I digress. We had searched our property but could find no evidence of bees, neither had we noticed a great deal of buzzing next door. And so I was intrigued. Hence, the various watch locations stationed in my house.

Rather a lot of toing and froing took place. Boxes. Empty frames. Ladders. The kettle. And, I was pleased to see, long gloves. Clambering up the ladder in his ungainly gear went one of the men and with a puff of smoke the first surge of bees were evicted from the underside of the eaves. Plywood was ripped down and another flurry of activity showed the bees’ displeasure.

It was at this stage the attendant woman beat a hasty retreat and spent the rest of the morning lying in the sunshine. I can’t say I blame her.

I was though a little disconcerted to see, as the first wadge of bee-blackened honeycomb was torn from its sticky home, the second bee man remove his gloves and poke his finger along the dripping piece before dropping into a box and hastily pushing the lid back over.

“No, no,” I muttered from behind my glass seraglio. “Put your gloves back on.” But he didn’t hear me.

Smoke, swarming bees, intense studying of each piece of saturated honeycomb was the order of the morning. More plywood was removed, security lights were rudely displaced to hang like giant testicles, and a thousand bees tried to attack the men who dared take their home.

One section of honeycomb must have been eighteen inches long and it was then the larger of the two men clambered down, settled onto a step, took up one of the empty frames and began, after first shaking off more bees, to push honeycomb into the frame. Snapping off any bits outside the frame, he then tossed them into a bucket, and repeated the process five times. Each filled frame was carefully slotted into the box by the shorter of the men. (I admit my description of the apiarists is not full but you try describing men in white jumpsuits tucked into socks and boots, wearing full head masks and long gloves – well one of them anyway. I can tell you the gloveless man had black hands.)

And all the while bees dive bombed them. Outrage thrumming with every wing beat. The clumps of comb became smaller, chiselled away from the roof, and bees began to settle on the outside of the eaves. A crawling black mass to be swept into a Tupperware container and unceremoniously tipped into their new hive.

The entertainment was over and deciding prudence would be the order of the day I sat down to write – why risk planting when stray, and discombobulated, bees might still be at large? But I was restless and decided to go and run errands.

Sitting by the roadside were two men with beards and dreads and a woman in all manner of garb but without a tee-shirt wrapped around her head.

“Good morning,” I said through the car window, because no conversation on this island is started without a pleasantry. “Thank you. I’ve had a wonderful time watching you work. And you,” I accused the shorter chap, “you weren’t even wearing gloves!”

He smiled – his eyes were topaz by the way.

“Good mahnin’. Hey mon, we got de queen!”

“Great,” I said, “does that mean those bees still buzzing around will go away?”

“Yeah. It called ‘driftin’ – the workers will look for another hive,” said the main man, who I have since learned is Roniel Allembert, aka the VI Honey Man. And now his mesh face covering was removed, I can report his beard was greying, and plaited. His eyes were a muddy brown and his smile was as wide as Niagara.

“You want the best honey on the island?”

“Sure,” I replied. “Thank you.”

Languidly he rose, delved in the flatbed of his battered truck and returned to my car. Leaning through the window he gave me a piece of dripping honeycomb.

It was good. And I had a honey of a day!

This article was published in St Croix This Week – February / March 2018

Despite Hurricanes IrMaria trying to destroy these Virgin Islands, trying to dampen spirits, and black-out homes, perseverance and resilience are winning and life is returning to normal.
Much has been made of the destruction of the mahogany trees on St Croix – both by hurricane and chain saw. With the heightened awareness of their value as shade, beauty and utility, perhaps we should look to a viable long-term use of the timber now lying discarded.
It was a theme taken up by Sergio Fox, an environmental and sustainable resource engineer, when speaking at a recent symposium in Christiansted. Why not use it in the proposed conservation of the Old Army Barracks?
Hosted by Gerville Larsen, a Crucian architect well known for his vision for a Christiansted Town Plan, and Ulla Lunn, a Danish preservation architect representing BYFO, the Association of Historical Houses in Denmark, I learnt of the progress made on The Legacy Project, which plans to stabilize, conserve and bring new life to the current eyesore on Hospital Street. It is a dramatic vision that will benefit all who live on these islands, and beyond.
A school where Virgin Islanders could earn an associate’s degree in architecture before transferring to accredited institutions in Puerto Rico, the mainland, or Denmark. In keeping with its ideal of serving all segments of society, this venue would also teach building crafts – carpentry, metal work, brick building and so on using the old techniques that have proven, through many years and numerous hurricanes, to withstand harsh conditions. At the same time recognizing and incorporating modern methods and materials.
The provisional name, The Center for Architecture and Built Heritage, will also (provisionally) have an auditorium, an archive room, a cafeteria and gardens – all open to the public. A true venue for the preservation of Crucian culture.
Visions don’t come cheap but with the $150,000 seed money from BYFO, matched by the VI Government, this joint venture can now start raising the $20M required to see both this project, and one on St Thomas, realised. Full funding must come from foundations, organizations and government in the US and Denmark.
Some might remember the exhibition at The Blue Mutt in January 2017 showing designs drawn by students from Aarhus University after their visit to St Croix – and all of which inspired those interested in the conservation and restoration of Christiansted.
A couple of weeks ago at the symposium, first held at Balter (thank you, for the delicious appetizers), and subsequently at the Florence Williams Public Library, we were treated to a presentation of three designs drawn up by two young architects – Crucian, Felicia Farrante and Norwegian, Hildegunn Gronningssaeter. Their enthusiasm was contagious as they talked us through ideas ranging from safe traditional, to an elegant compromise of old converging into new, to a thrilling modern design that, to my layman’s eyes, made the most of the remains of the army barracks whilst giving Christiansted a brave new look. For a brave new enterprise. All the concepts, as Ulla Lunn commented, “cherish the ruins”.
Describing the history of this decaying relic, from the time it was the Danish army barracks to a military hospital in 1835, to 1961 when it became a high school and finally a police substation before being abandoned to asbestos and bush, Farrante said, “You can touch the life in every single brick in these buildings”. Gronningssaeter continued, “We cannot preserve all values at once. We have to have a focus. Something that makes you reflect on time and history.”
But why, when so many things need funding, particularly after the devastation left by the 2017 hurricane season, should we put time, energy and money into, again in Hildegunn Gronningssaeter’s words, “a beautiful decaying structure returning to nature” ?
Because to not conserve and preserve the culture is to disown the heritage – the good and the bad. By moving forward with a project like this, which must be community driven and in collaboration with BYFO in Denmark, we are valuing the past, present and future – a true Legacy Project.
More prosaically, a well preserved St Croix would help tap into an international market geared to heritage travel, and therefore tourism dollars.
As the symposium came to an end, I was reminded of Gerville Larsen’s opening words, “People are the heart of the town.” By taking a decrepit ruin and turning it into a grand design built by Crucians for Crucians and any who would like to visit St Croix we acknowledge, as Senator Myron Jackson said, “Arts and culture are the framework of a community.”
Let’s put the mahogany trees to good use. Store them, let them cure properly, then by the time funds have been raised for this exciting venture, those stately old trees will have come full circle – creating shade, beauty and utility.

Governor of Kentucky, Matt Bevin, apparently rushed to the scene of a Kentucky high school shooting yesterday. In a prepared statement he said, “It is unbelievable that this would happen in a small, close-knit community like Marshall County.”

What’s unbelievable about that? I can tell you what is believable. It is believable that yet again the United States of America is complicit in the death of her school children. It is believable this tragedy has yet again destroyed the sanctity of education. It is believable a rural community is riven by the machinations of an out-of-control person with a gun.

What is unbelievable is that the United States of America seems wholly incapable of standing up to the lobbying power of the National Rifle Association and the band of idiots who continue to bleat and wail at any attempt to deal with the proliferation of gun ownership and the ease of gun purchase.

There has never been any attempt to deny the second amendment, ratified 227 years ago, along with the other nine first amendments, on December 15, 1791: “A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.” It is not what is being touted now.

But 227 years ago the population of this wonderful country was just a tad smaller. 227 years ago the citizens of this great country had need of arms to protect themselves and their property. 227 years ago kids were not killing kids.

“Fatal school shooting” ran the headline. “2 dead, 17 injured at Kentucky high school: suspect held” read the subtext. Not surprisingly Marshall County is reeling from the atrocity. Any child’s death is horrendous – against the natural order of life. Children’s deaths at the hand of another child adds an even greater level of horror.

The AP report was chilling in its expectation there would be other fatal school shootings. “The attack marked the year’s first fatal school shooting, 23 days into 2018, according to data compiled by the Gun Violence Archive…”

And here is the truly terrifying statistic from the Everytown for Gun Safety. There have been at least, at least, 283 shootings at schools since 2013. One of those occurred on Monday. Thankfully not a fatality. But the life of a 15 year-old girl has been marred, perhaps irrevocably, after being shot by a 16 year-old classmate. How does a child trust again?

What the fuck is wrong with this country that the vociferous minority appear to think that number, 283, is okay? We see images on our screens of children wandering, shell-shocked, missing limbs, many of them orphans – they are children of war-torn countries. This is not a war-torn country.

Those images should not be replicated in the country purported to be the leader of the free world. Stories and photos of panicked children running to flee a madman, or mad child, with a gun in their high school atrium, cafeteria, classroom should not be the norm in the USA.

The 2 kids killed yesterday in Kentucky were 15 years old. The 17 other victims were also children. Governor Bevin said, “This is a wound that is going to take a long time to heal.” Really?

I did think to list all the gun incidents since the Sandy Hook slaughter in 2012, when 20 children and 6 adults were murdered at their school, but there are so many my eyes glazed over with tears. Let me though just list the number of gun related events in schools in 2018 – bearing in mind today is the 24th January, 2018: Jan 3rd – St Johns, Michigan; Jan 4th – Seattle, Washington; Jan 10th – San Bernardino, California; Jan 10th – Denison, Texas; Jan 10th – Sierra Vista, Arizona; Jan 15th – Marshall, Texas; Jan 20th – Winston-Salem, North Carolina. Then yesterday, January 23rd – Marshall County, Kentucky – the first deaths. Two young lives, gone.

Statistics are always rattled around but a couple are mind-shattering. For example, there is, roughly, 1 gun for every person in the United States or, using a statistic from the Small Arms Survey published in The Guardian – civilian gun ownership in the US is at 42%. Or here’s another from the Human Development Index – there are 29.7 homicides in the USA by firearm per 1 million people. 7.7 in Switzerland and 1.4 in Australia. Numbers that should frighten us.

But what is truly unbelievable is that when in 2013, 65% of US voters supported the background check bill, it failed to pass in the Senate. Remind me, aren’t senators there to promote the will of the people? A quick look at my copy of the Constitution confirmed they are. That particular amendment, the Seventeenth, was ratified on April 8, 1913 when senators became elected by the people, for the people, rather than chosen by the state legislatures.

January 2018 should be the month when We the People stand up to them – the NRA, the lobbyists and politicians – and say “we believe gun control is necessary. Believable.”