Jill Wylie has now
seen 90 New Year’s Days arrive and pass. This morning, 1 January 2020, she is
astonished to be still alive, albeit rather short of breath and memory. Here
are two little New Year pieces from her archive, which remain as fresh and
relevant as the day they were penned.
NEW YEAR’S DAWNING
The part of my brain that watches the time for me seems
unable to accept the idea that a day begins in the middle of the night before.
Day is light and night is dark and no amount of complicated clockwork can alter
the sensible simplicity of it.
So the midnight celebrations of the New Year mean nothing to
me. While everybody else is singing Auld Lang Syne and congratulating each
other on surviving this long, I am ;left out with the stars, or more likely
asleep in bed.
But when the dawn comes, then is the hour. That first little
bird yawns and clears his throat, and this is one morning I don’t mind hearing
him.
Suddenly he comes fully awake and sings out, “Wake up! Wake
up! It’s here! It’s here!” with such glad surprise you’d think he’d never seen
dew before.
The other birds tumble out of bed and begin shouting out
their New Year resolutions at the top of their voices. I usually keep mine
secret but they never do. They all talk at once and none listen so i suppose
the effect is the same.
This dawn is not like any other. No dawn ever is. Yesterday
was last year. Last night belonged to yesterday. This is a brand new day, the
very first of the very first month. And here comes the New Year shouting up
over the hill, flinging its rays, like arms, wide across the sky, the world, to
every living thing that cares.
I would like to start the year like that – unscarred by yesterday,
undaunted by tomorrow, fresh and keen as morning.
(1977)
PS. Actually the new year comes with the rains.
*****
REPORT FROM WILDWOODS
Come the new year I’ll grit my teeth and try to count the
costs and the losses, the despair and the devastation of the last year. But
now, with the hooves of Christmas ringing on the wind, there must surely be
some more pleasant things to write about. Life at Wildwoods, I’ve been
reminding myself, isn’t all dramatic rescues, exhausting patrols, frantic
chases after rabies suspects, and bitter battles to save our precious wildlife
and wild places from poachers and fires against unrelenting odds. Ordinary,
homely, peaceful scenes can usually be found here and there amidst the chaos.
Several times a year, for instance, a pretty bantam lays her
eggs in a basin in the old downstairs bathroom we use as a laundry. I don’t mind,
really. It’s better than nesting in the shrubs where predators abound. She
comes and goes, as we all do, through the low-silled window. A cheeky Somango
monkey and a very small round mouse also pop in now and then to see if she’d
left any grain in her dish. This time she’s hatched out two little chicks, a
cock and a hen, and every evening she tucks them up for the night in a nest of
hay on the ironing table.
To conserve water we rigged up a shower over the ancient
bath tub. The chicks have got used to the light going on and off: sudden day,
sudden night. At first, when we switched it on, they’d stretch and yawn,
rubbing their eyes and saying: is it time to get up? Now they just make drowsy
comments in soft, whistling voices. But when i draw the shower curtain back and
start to dry they stand up and preen their feathers and flap their little wings
like the flapping ends of the towel. The moment I stop they settle down to
sleep again.
Later, when the smells from the kitchen which tend to drift
into that room have dispersed I close the window against night-time predators.
The bantams really relax then, safe and secure. They even snore. When we have
chicken for supper we tell them it’s pork.
Eventually, when the little cock chick starts trying to
crow, the dogs will herd them gently down to the hen house each evening to join
the rest of the flock, because that is one sound you don’t want before daybreak from your downstairs bathroom.
*
Almost every day a sleek lizard somehow gets into the
sitting-room through an ill-fitting window and can’t get out again. I find him
on the wide sill, nose pressed against the pane, eyes gazing longingly out at
the garden. I have to reach across him to open the rather stiff window. If he
panics and flops onto the floor there’s no way he can get out unless he
slithers and slips right round the room to the door. usually he gets in a
corner and exhausts himself trying to climb up. So I plunge after him, slither
and slip on my stomach – more becoming, I always feel, than bottoms up – and guide
him to the door or catch him and let him out through the window. Sometimes he
makes a dive for the curtain and hides in the folds. If he misses the return
dive we’re back to the slither syndrome and all that en-tails.
Lately he has waited for me to open the window for him,
tapping his nails impatiently on the sill. The other day I stroked his tail as
he waddled out. He stopped and looked at me with his south-side eye, muttered
something I didn’t catch, and went unhurriedly on his way. The next time I
stroked him from nose tip to tail tip. He came back in for more. I see the
unfolding of a beautiful friendship.
*
A pair of tiny sunbirds, in an effort to elude marauding
monkeys, build their nest each year on a branch so low it almost touches the
window. The nest is a beautiful little rondavel of grass and fibres, bound with
spider hammocks from the virginia creeper, and lined with the soft silk of wild
kapok. It has a domed roof, a porched entrance and a high sill to keep the
weather out and the chicks in. And there they sit, feet up on the little sill,
and watch TV through the window. Of course, when the chicks have hatched, we
draw the curtain on certain programmes. They can have the cartoons!
*
A bushbuck doe I’ve been monitoring lost her first fawn to an eagle and the second to a jackal. She hid the third in a part of the forest only paces from the kitchen door, where she would indirectly benefit from the dogs’ efforts to guard my free-range bantams. Success was here and she has hidden her new baby in the same place. I saw it there the other day, a perfect sculpture in chestnut and gold, caught in a leaf-filtered ray of sun, gazing at me with great dark eyes, ready to run should its mother run. I called softly, my special call, and the mother watched placidly as the dogs and I went by, her last season’s fawn still at her side. We know each other well, this doe and I.
A bushbuck doe I’ve been monitoring lost her first fawn to an eagle and the second to a jackal. She hid the third in a part of the forest only paces from the kitchen door, where she would indirectly benefit from the dogs’ efforts to guard my free-range bantams. Success was here and she has hidden her new baby in the same place. I saw it there the other day, a perfect sculpture in chestnut and gold, caught in a leaf-filtered ray of sun, gazing at me with great dark eyes, ready to run should its mother run. I called softly, my special call, and the mother watched placidly as the dogs and I went by, her last season’s fawn still at her side. We know each other well, this doe and I.
Christmas means so much to us, but nothing at all to the
birds and animals unless our greetings of joy and goodwill go out to them, too.
Remember them; care for them; and may the coming year be kinder to you all.
(1993)
******