It's all relative

What I've been thinking about this week:
1. Names
2. Relatives

I am endlessly fascinated by names: new names; old names; made up names. Although I suppose all names were made up once upon a time. 

Names tell stories. After I was born, my mum was on the phone and looking at the bookcase. She saw a book by Rebecca West and my name was decided. My middle name came from both my grannies (and I've also got an extra middle name I crammed in pretentiously after I got divorced. But that's another story). 

One of my favourite stories about names comes from my Dad's Mum's family. There was a tradition to call the first daughter Anne then add all the previous maiden names as middle names. My Gran's full name was Anne Black Macrae Wood Hanning Giblin. Thankfully she put a stop to it, otherwise my cousin Shelagh would have been Anne Black Macrae Wood Hanning Giblin Page Johnson. She'd never have been able to fit that on a form. 

"Enough is enough!"

And obviously, Ivie's name is a conversation starter. I've listened to him explain to lots of people where it comes from and that no, it's not short for anything. He's as patient as if it was the first time he's been asked and always says how well having an unusual name has served him over the years. 

He's the reason I've been thinking about names, really. As you'll know, I'm not a details person so often ask the same question more than once. I asked Ivie if his middle name was after someone in his family and he said (with slightly less patience than if someone else had asked him about his first name), "Yes (sigh). My Uncle."

Me: "Have I met him?"

Him: "No (sigh). You met his widow at the wedding reception."

Let me tell you about the wedding reception. It took place a couple of years ago and was for one of Ivie's many cousins' many children. The following weekend, we were invited to a 21st for one of Ivie's many cousins' many children on the other side of the family. 

This called for a tractor date, notebook and pencil and an attempt to:

1. understand Ivie's family tree; and

2. draw it whilst in a shoogly tractor. 

Gratuitous stationery shot

I thought I was doing quite well keeping up until Ivie dropped what I like to call the Barbara Bombshell. Barbara (who we met in Not a WAG), has two sisters - one is married to a Fisher cousin and the other is engaged to a cousin on the other side of the family. You can see why this is so complicated and why it's just as well that none of my cousins live in Wigtownshire. 

It's also just as well that we've only had the responsibility of naming a dog. Even then we managed to - inadvertently - name her after Trump's lawyer. Sigh.

Rudolph William Louis Giuliani Rudi

Gory Stories

 What you should know:

1. I've started laughing at sheep related content online. 
2. There's no going back. 

Last night, I watched two videos online about sheep. There's a sentence I never thought I'd type. Anyone involved in lambing will already have seen them. The first showed lambs running around a field with a soundtrack reminiscent of the Grand National, basically outlining all the ways lambs can find to die. 

*Spoiler Alert* Because I Could wins the race after shrugging off the competition, including Ringworm and Fantastic Mr Fox. 

The second showed a sheep being rescued from a ditch before running away and jumping straight back into the same ditch a few feet away. Not the sharpest knife in the drawer. 

They were a welcome antidote after a week of horror stories about lambing and farming in general. Rest assured, there will be no gory details because:

1. Those involved in farming will shrug and say, "yep, been there, seen that."
2. Those not involved in farming will be horrified. 
3. I am a delicate flower. 

Delicate flowers

Like many people, our social lives have been a bit lacking lately. Luckily Galloway Heathers is open again with the addition of the Moo Bar, which serves delicious hot chocolate and tray bakes (try the millionaire's shortbread if you haven't already. Seriously). It's become a bit of a weekly treat for us and, it would seem, lots of others around here, too. 

Last week we bumped into a friend who is very well-versed in all things lambing. Let's call her Ann. Because that's her name. She started regaling a story about nasty things that happen to vulnerable lambs out on the hill. I said, "I don't think I'm hardy enough to hear stories like this." So she told five more. 

I was feeling a little queasy to say the least as we bumped into someone else who asked Ivie how lambing had gone and told another couple of ghastly stories. I can't even remember the content now, I've repressed it so far down in my brain. 

Happy, healthy sheep

I don't even think any of these stories are embellished. They don't have to be, they're so awful in the first place. 

I thought we were over the worst of it but then I remembered that farming is basically the most dangerous industry you can work in. A quick Google tells me that about 360,000 people work in agriculture, or 1% of the total workforce, yet the sector is responsible for 20% of all fatal accidents at work (source: BBC).

Anyway, we had a bit of a jaunt yesterday. It did finish at the garden centre with hot chocolate and mini doughnuts but that's by the by. We took a bit of a circuitous route home, mainly so that Ivie could look at fields and show me where he's cut silage*. And tell me about farm workers' injuries. 

I'm struggling to find something to say about this

So, as you can see, it's been a week. From now on, I only want to hear about thriving animals, farmers with all their limbs intact and cake. Not too much to ask now is it. 

* If anyone can tell me the most suitable response to, "I've cut silage in that field," I would be most appreciative. I'm not sure I'm showing the requisite amount of interest and enthusiasm. 

Once Upon a Time

What I've noticed:

1. When you've been living with someone for a while, you start to repeat yourself. 
2. When you've been living with someone for a while, you start to repeat yourself (haha, I'm hilarious). 

One of the things about living at the Spittal is that there's not often a quiet moment (and that's even without Ivie in the house). Someone or something passes by my 'office' window on a fairly regular basis - the postie, a cattle feed truck, a horse, a pick-up, sporty Fishers doing DoddieGump. 

A rare clear view from the 'office'

The same is true at the times that we've been out and about (not so much lately, granted). Particularly when we're close to home, Ivie chats away with an almost-constant commentary of stories about his past (they are many and varied...), who used to live where and places he's worked. 

A typical exchange might go like this:

Him: I've lifted the silage in that field.
Me: Oh?
Him: If you look closely, you can still see all the perfectly parallel tracks. 

Me: Oh.  

 Or:

Him: I've ploughed that field.

Me: You told me that the last time we drove along here.

Him: Oh.  

That's not to say that I'm immune from repetitive-itis - although most of the replayed conversations Ivie has to put up with go along the lines of:

Me: Look at this beautiful notebook!
Him: Don't you have a dozen un-used notebooks on the shelf? 
Me: Yes, but this one has graph paper inside instead of plain. 
Him: Oh. 

The introvert in me is sometimes challenged by the amount of chatting that goes on. Especially during lockdown, though, I'm very happy to have the company of another human being - even if we do have the same conversations every day. And maybe even especially because we have the same conversations every day.