Sunday, 21 August 2022

Listen, oh, listen....

Friends! How y'all doing? 

I been for a morning walk, facing the morning sun, and I ketch meself smiling like a fatuous fool full o' happy-feels. Nothing like post-dawn and morning breeze.

Look a video I make about breeze in me lovely native land, I hope you like. (Click on the full screen icon to read.)

And I been writing on Substack about sound around the home:

Most days, depending on where you live, you will hear:



cars zooming by on the main road

truck horn

rain on the zinc roof

wheels swishing on wet road

rain pattering on the leaves of trees

neighbours squabbling in the distance

neighbour next door and his wife quarrelling

school children playing in the school yard

a mad dog barking

the ocean booming against the seawall

kiskadees chirping kisskakeeeee

chicken hawk squreeeeelling

parrots…don’t ever forget the parrots, soon o’ clock o’ morning…parrots

singing-engine kites that kite-flyers have tied to a tree or a post during kite flying season

the wind whistling tweeeeeeee February, March, April.

Best sound of all is the one we mostly never hear, the sound that streams through the grrrr and the raaah of daily living.

To hear, you must get outdoors, or sit on the platform outside your front door, or stretch out in your hammock.


It is the sound of your little holiday. You don’t need to fly miles to a foreign land to experience it, unless you live in a desert, but I am sure that in the desert there is another sound that is just as wonderful. It is better than any food you could ever cook. In fact, it is food for your spirit. It’s a sound that’s not only for the wealthy. It’s for the poor, the humble, the aching, hungry soul too.

It’s the sound of the trees rustling in a light breeze.

Have a wonderful week, my lovely friends. Eat good food, drink good drinks. Dance li'l bit and love plenty. neena. 

Sunday, 14 August 2022

De pee-can tree.

My Friends,

A giant pee-can tree growing in front o' this house. The neighbours, sorry, neighbors, does say, "Pi-caawn." Same difference. Same set o' problems...when is the right time to pick the peecan before the fur-fiends?

Now look, I believe in equal opportunity, don't get me wrong. I believe everybody got to eat. In the tropics, parrots feast in we gardens like great war-hounds, but no parrot, no toucan, no kiskadee, does eat like them fur-fiends in this great Big Country. These fur-fiends don't believe nobody else must eat.

Maybe Big Corp send them to deplete trees in people gardens, to force we to buy from supermarkets. Yeah! The more I think about it, that is the truth.

Don't worry! Enterprising individuals in anonymous suburbs around this Glorious Land is learning to fight back.

The first battle I ever hear about some years ago was the one that me li'l father li'l brother...wage with fury and persistence.

He tell me that he would lie in a chair in the sunroom, contemplating he moves. The first phase of the fight, if I remember the history right, was to keep the birdies from eating the juicy fruit growing on the trees. He fill up the birdfeeder and tah-dah, cha-cha get he guava to eat in peace instead o' one li'l piece.

Unfortunately, the bird seeds attract the fur-fiends.

Them fur-fiends gobble them bird seeds with the gluttony of gourmands, with the fervour of food-fanatics.

Ohhhh me Lawd-oh Gawd-ohhhh. Me po' uncle. What a calamity. I don't know what happen during the fight, but I gather that uncle retreat almost in defeat. 'Til one day, Cousin Lis, coming home from work, see she father lying down in froth and fury.

She say, as a joke, "Why you don't grease the birdfeeder pole?"

Afterwards, Cousin Lis tell me, "The next day, when I come home, I see all up and down the birdfeeder pole long claw marks, from top to bottom, like them creatures leap on to the pole then slide down. Hundreds o' claw marks."

Yesss. To li'l cha-cha was the glory of the battle.

That is what I did think. 

A year or so later, I ask he if them fur-fiends all gone away.

"Them blasted things find a way to get back into the bird seeds," he grumble.

"How?" I ask, mighty puzzled. "You stop using the grease?"

"I lie down and I wait and I watch," he say. "You know what them scamps do? They so smart! They climb on to the house, run to the end o' the gutter and leap onto the birdfeeder."

And so, the battle done. The smoke clear, silence settle upon the land. Everywhere, in quiet corners o' this Great Big Country, citizens coming up with survival tactics. 

The 'Merican man up the road tie-up he mangoes in mesh bags.

Cousin Lis plant veggies on a set o' shelves, and she throw a net, like tulle, over she precious plants. The fur-fiends can't stand it when they claws hook-up in the net.

At another cousin home, them fur-fiends would boldly go to she patio and drive she bananas. But the last time I been to she home, I ain't see hide nor hair of them flittering little food thiefs.

"What happen to them?" I ask.

"They don't like pepper," she say. "I put pepper in the bird seeds."

Me friends, like I say, everybody got to eat. I want to pick the peecans at the bottom branches and leave the top ones for all other bodies. Problem is, I ain't know when is the best time to pick. I don't want to pick too soon and too green. And I definitely don't want to pick too late and it shall be my cry.

I gon head outside in the briling hot heat to stare at the peecans. I hope them fluffy little flunks don't see me. They might get ideas.

Have a lovely week contemplating the fruit of your labour, my friends. Take care o' you. Eat good food, drink nourishing drinks, look for happy things to soothe you' soul. Plenty lurve, neena.