Sandy's Garden ... Freedom, Well Sort Of

“I met the judge, the kind old judge / Who was feeling fine; and so / He gave me just a year in jail / A sociable son of a gink / All on account of a gallon of beer / That I thought that I could drink.”

Then comes the chorus: “In eleven more months and ten more days / I’ll be out of the calaboose; / In eleven more months and ten more days, / They’re going to turn me loose!”

I haven’t the faintest idea why I can remember this lyric, which comes from the song ‘In eleven more months and ten more days,’ written by Fred Hall and Arthur Fields, published by Piedmont Music Company and first released in a recording by Lone Star Ranger in 1930. I must admit that I have no recollection whatsoever of the American singer John White who, I learn from Wikipedia, was ‘a western music singer. He was born on April 12, 1902 and originated from Washington, DC. Working under various stage names, such as the Lone Star Ranger, the Lonesome Cowboy, and most often Whitey Johns, he flourished as a performing and recording artist in the 1920s and 1930s.’ In 1973 he published, ‘Git along, little dogies : songs and songmakers of the American West’; and he lived for the better part of another twenty years before his death on November 26, 1992, at the age of ninety.

Well, I wasn’t locked up … or should that be ‘locked down’? … for a year, but there have been times during recent weeks when a black dog has settled on my shoulder and my willingness to … to what? To abide by the rules? To stick to the guidelines? To take the best advice available to me? … has seemed to amount to self-imposed imprisonment. But, like many another, I endured my self-imposed imprisonment as much for my own good, if I am wholly honest, as for the good of others. I think it’s called common self-interest. And I have a largish, sunny, private garden where I could enjoy the glorious weather. But oh, wasn’t it wonderful to smell free air again, to be able to visit a friend in his garden and to refresh one’s memory of nearby … but outwith my walking range … local sights not seen since March!

And how attractive my friend’s garden seemed. With three chairs spaced around a small table on the lawn awaiting our arrival, the edges of the pinned-down cloth waving welcomingly in the gentle breeze, the kettle ready-boiled and waiting in the kitchen, entering this scene was akin to entering some famous wealthy landowner’s grand estate. The truth is that the ‘lawn’ is at least 80% moss - new-mown, be it said; the tranquillity of the scene was just a tad spoiled by the conversation of the next door neighbours enjoying the sunshine in their garden; and the illusion of the Garden of Eden was somewhat tarnished when our host asked what he could do to attack intrusive ivy creeping under a boundary fence and invading his garden: but the sheer sense of freedom which sprang from being officially allowed to visit a friend in his garden … even allowing for the limits on the distance we could travel, the need to observe social-distancing between ourselves and our host and the well-publicised advice not to be tempted to visit his loo … made the afternoon seem magical.

Now, hopefully, it’s onward and upward. But who knows? I read that there is concern among some members of academia that, with the R value … the reproduction number, the rate at which Covid-19 is thought to be spreading … perilously close to, or perhaps above, the must-be-less-than number of 1, any further easing of the present restrictions is, to say the least, very ill-advised. I undertake to try to continue to act responsibly as much for my own good as for the good of others; and I can but hope that my fellow-citizens will do likewise.