Mrs. Morris’ Ordeal

Ernest Spencer owed her £5. For a housewife in Nechells, inner city Birmingham, it was no mean sum; in 1958, £5 was approximately £250 in today’s terms, there was just one catch; she would have to collect it from the narrowboat, ‘Lady Luck’ moored at Tardebigge.

Margaret Ann Morris (51), who lived in Trevor Street, Nechells, had known Ernest Spencer and his wife, Edith, for 32 years. They had been more than friends and neighbours - she and Ernest had lived together for a year; the Spencer’s marriage was far from harmonious. Ernest Spencer, a thick set, squat, heavily built man, had just sold his share of a painting and decorating business to his brother, George, who lived in Saltley, bought an old working boat and, with his wife, Edith, had spent these last ten months converting it into a houseboat.

Nechells in 1958, was a sooty, grimy, unhealthy place. The fiver notwithstanding, Margaret was only too keen for a quick drive into the country, to reclaim her debt and escape the urban squalor for a while. Ernest, after all, was a successful painter and decorator, he must have had some buccaneering flair to him; not many people would choose to renovate and live on an old working boat in 1958, no matter how bad the housing in the blitzed city centre.

Ernest collected her, in his car, from Aston, Church Street, and drove her back to The Lady Luck, moored, with ten other boats, at Tardebigge New Wharf. He was agitated, on edge, not his usual self. At 2:30p.m on Wednesday 29th January 1958, Mrs Morris, stepped aboard the ‘Lady Luck.’ It was deathly quiet but for the puff and grunt of steam engines heaving up the Lickey incline and the hollow shrill of their whistles, echoing around the hills.

The Lady Luck was tidy, everything in order, except forward, in the enclosed well deck, which was ‘stuffed up’ with old coats and a wardrobe shoved carelessly into a corner. Ernest’s eyes were wild, as were his actions, repeatedly he punched himself in the face, babbling; “I’ve done something I’ve meant to do for 32 years,” then he went to the galley, pulled out a kitchen knife from a drawer, and played with it momentarily, before placing it back. “I’ve bought you to the boat,” he explained to Mrs Morris, “...to do you in.”

“Where’s Edith?” Mrs. Morris asked. “At her son’s, in Kingstanding,” was the reply. It was a lie. Behind the wardrobe, beneath a mackintosh and an old brown coat, lay Mrs. Edith Spencer. She’d been dead at least three hours.

Tardebigge, July, 2021

The story of the Lady Luck by came to me by accident. Watching an old Pathé Newsreel, entitled, ‘Is murder increasing?’ there was an eight second segment, with a shot of the new wharf, and, what looked like a sound, comfortable boat of approximately seventy foot. Sixty years on I recognized the place; the serrated rooftops of the boatyard, the Georgian façade of, what was, the Plymouth Arms, while a plummy voice intoned “Quite lately, on a canal houseboat near Redditch, a woman was found killed...”

I’d spent my first winter aboard my own boat in Tardebigge. I’d a nose for local folk-lore and macabre history, yet had never heard about the Lady Luck, why? Surely a swarm of journalists would have made an impression in such a back-water, something to remember, but, whoever I asked, always said they were ‘too young’ or ‘my parents would have remembered but they’re dead,’ no-one could recall the Spencer’s or their narrowboat, Lady Luck.

My first call was to Redditch Library and a trawl through back copies of the Redditch Indicator. There it was, ‘February 1958’ the case of the Lady Luck made front page news. “Man Strangles Wife.” And some of the detail became clear to me. Unfortunately, the paper had been damaged, and the vital details, involving the role of Mrs. Margaret Morris, had been destroyed. So, while moored in Tardebigge, I asked around in Alestones, ‘What d’ y’ know about the Lady Luck?’ Every face was a blank. On Sunday mornings I haunted the churchyard, interrogating parishioners as they left Sunday worship, the nearest I got to any first hand sources was; “I was just a child; I don’t remember.” A wall of silence; Tarbebigge did not want to remember.

Ernest and Edith Spencer

Almost exactly ten years before the Lady Luck another, better known boat, was berthed in exactly the same spot. Tom Rolt and his second wife, Sonia, moored up Cressy and remained there throughout the Second World War. It was there they met Robert Aikman and founded British Waterways. Tom Rolt, as I so often tell anyone who will listen, was the father of all modern liveaboards, and, eleven years later, another boat moored there, an ex-working boat, sides painted black and green, a plywood canopy cast over its hold, which once transported fruits from the orchards of Burcott or fuel from black country, transformed into domesticity, with six windows either side, and two portholes, peering from an enclosed well-deck, like eyes.

Ernest Spencer, born in 1906, must have been a pioneer. He was a painter, decorator, builder, by trade and, after the Second World War, can’t have been in want of work. According to his brother, George Spencer, he sold his share of their joint painting and decorating business and ‘retired’ at the age of 51, and, like many contemporary narrowboaters, must have forsaken finance, for the dream of freedom aboard a boat, after all, 51, was a young age to retire in 1958.

For Edith, however, there is little information. Records show she was born in Yorkshire in 1905 and must have drifted down to Birmingham; she married Ernest Alfred Spencer in the 1920’s. Her life would, most likely, been one of domestic drudgery.

Questioned by the Coroner their son, Edward Albert Spencer, admitted, “There had been troubles.” Saying Ernest had, “left her (Edith) for a time but were back together by September, (1957).” Edward Spencer also testified, “I saw them three weeks ago.” December, 1957, “...they seemed very well.” Tellingly, he added they were “...falsely happy.”

Ernest and Edith, had been aboard the Lady Luck for ten months, they must have moved aboard around about March, 1957, and, if their marriage was in a poor state, with Ernest having once lived in sin with Mrs. Morris, perhaps they thought a joint project, like renovating a narrowboat, would bring them together. Clearly it didn’t.

Murder

Even today Tardebigge is a lonely place to moor. The nearest shop is three miles away and winter there, with long, cold, nights and little distraction is hard enough now, let alone 63 years ago. For Edith, cooped up in a small cabin, further confined by the extremities of winter (metrological reports show 20 days of snow in the Midlands in November alone) with a husband who had recently, and blatantly, been un-faithful to her, was to prove disastrous.

Any couple on a narrowboat will tell you that arguments are not uncommon. A mix of claustrophobia, sharing a small space, inevitably leads to flair ups; in this case it proved tragic. No-one knows exactly what happened when Edith died. Most likely a full blown row erupted between them, careless or hurtful words exchanged. Ernest, in a fury, throttled Edith.

To die by strangulation is a particularly cruel, intimate death. The Pathologist, Professor J.M. Webster found bruising on the left and right neck muscles, her tongue had been forced upwards and there were small haemorrhages in her voice box, temple and eyes, consistent, he testified, to manual strangulation from the front. Ernest would have looked his wife in the eyes as he squeezed the life out of her. It would have taken up to two minutes for life to be extinguished, even under British Law today, such a protracted attack would stand as an act of premeditation. He could have stopped but Ernest saw it through.

With his wife’s body at his feet he then fetched a length of cord and knotted it around the dead woman’s neck, to make certain of her demise, then, hidden her body behind the wardrobe, covered it in old coats then, taking care to lock the boat, climbed into his car and drove to Nechells in search of his erstwhile lover, Mrs. Morris.

Mrs. Morris’ Testimony

District coroner, Mr. B.G.Evers, informed Mrs. Morris, somewhat coyly, that she “need not give evidence that may incriminate her.” She was, after all, a married woman, but she and Spencer had been living together for a year, and implications of sexual assault are chilling.

Mrs. Morris was held, against her will aboard the Lady Luck for about 28 hours, arriving there at 2:30pm, the Wednesday of Edith’s murder. The exchanges with the coroner were reported in full. “Did you stay the night there?” Asked the coroner, “Yes, he made me stay.” “When did you leave the boat?” “About 6:30pm the following day.” “Did he turn you out?” “No. I pleaded with him to let me go.” “Did he threaten to strangle you, or anything of that sort?” “Yes.” “Did he attempt it?” “No.” “Did he say anything about his wife then?” “Well, he said ‘I have done something I have been waiting to do for 32 years.’” “Did he indicate what that was?” “He put up his hands and said ‘with these.’” “When you say he was ‘different’ can you give any indication as to his state of mind?” “Well, his eyes looked wild and he was walking up and down and knocking his head with his hands.” “What did he tell you to do when people were walking along the towpath?” “Hide.” “And in order to get away from him...did you, in fact, have to promise you would return next day?” “Yes.” “That was in fact, a trick?” “Yes.” “You had no intention of returning the next day?” “No.”

Placated by this promise, Spencer drove Mrs. Morris back to Trevor Street, Nechells, she added further disturbing details. “He (Spencer) had always said he would do harm to his wife. He had threatened to do so on previous occasions and I did not think this was more serious than the others.” “After you left him in August you did not return to him?” “No.”
“You returned to your husband to whom you told the whole story?” “That is right.”

End Game

On Thursday, 30th of January, Ernest spent a long night, alone, aboard the ‘Lady Luck,’ the enormity of his actions sinking in. The homicide act, which limited the number of capital crimes, had been passed one year previously, and, while uxoricide no longer carried a statutory death sentence the prospect of an ignominious end on the gallows at Winson Green must have been on his mind along with the dawning realization that his lover, Mrs. Morris, reconciled with her husband, would not return to him.

Un-able to sleep he instead began writing a series of notes, the longest of which ran to several pages and was addressed to his Brother, George Spencer of Chartist Road, Saltley. On Friday he went straight to the nearest post office, located in Aston Fields, three miles away. There, he registered his letter and sent a telegram to his son, Edward, telling him to go immediately to his Uncle’s house. George’s boat, a small, cruiser type, painted red and white was moored just in front of the Lady Luck, George would know where to find him; to make sure, he used the telephone in canal inspector’s office to call his Brother that Friday evening.

To those who saw him that day, they claimed he “appeared quite normal.” His communique’s sent, he returned to the boat, unable to spend one more night there, alone with his thoughts and the corpse of the woman he’d throttled, still hidden beneath old coats behind the wardrobe. He locked the door from the inside, took a spoon, a glass of water, then a box of aspirins, poured the pills on to a sideboard and proceeded to crush them into a fine white powder. He then spooned it into the glass and drank it down. His final sensations would have been dizziness, shortness of breath, palpitations, maybe even hallucinations before, finally, suffering chest pains as he struggled to breathe. Collapsing forward, he struck his nose on the sideboard, causing a small abrasion. Ernest Spencer, like his victim hidden behind the wardrobe, died of asphyxiation.

Discovery

At 1:45p.m, Saturday, four police officers, led by Det. Inspector G.J. Davies of Bromsgrove and G.V Sedgwick of Redditch arrived at Tardebigge New Wharf by car, having been alerted by George Spencer. Police Constable Smith of Aston Fields described how they found the key to the boat, under a stone, near the stern entrance, and then forced the latch by reaching through the Kitchen window. On entering they were assailed by what was described as a guard dog, which had to be driven into another part of the boat. The door to the front compartment had been jammed shut, but, with some effort they heaved it open to discover Ernest, fully clothed, lying face down, and dead on the floor, followed by Edith behind the wardrobe. Ernest Spencer had cheated justice.

The bodies were removed to Bromsgrove mortuary where Professor Webster carried out an autopsy. On Sunday, relatives from Saltley, probably the brother, George, formally identified the bodies as that of Ernest and Edith Spencer. Next Wednesday, a week after Edith’s murder, a ninety minute inquest was held at Bromsgrove magistrate’s court.

The Final Insult

At the inquest the Coroner advised the jury that there were three possibilities: That Mrs Spencer had died accidently as the result of ‘rough and tumble.’ That Mrs. Spencer had provoked her husband, verbal provocation would have been enough, hence a verdict of
manslaughter or that she had been wilfully murdered.

Although the details of the notes left by Spencer and the letter sent to his brother were not made available to the press, one, particularly nasty detail, in what today’s parlance would be called ‘victim blaming,’ came out. In one of the notes Spencer claimed his wife came at him threatening to ‘scratch his eyes out.’ However, he was a powerfully built man - physically Edith would have been no match for him, borne out the Pathologists evidence. “Were there any marks on him that may have been caused by scratching?” “I could not see any which may have been caused by another party. There was a tiny abrasion on the second right knuckle but it did not seem to be anything that had been scratched out of him at all.”

Happily, the jury returned a verdict of wilful murder, despite Mrs. Morris’ testimony that he ‘was not in his right mind,’ his actions, writing to his Son and Brother, coolly using the canal inspectors telephone, securing the boat, all pointed to him being responsible for his actions.

On Friday, 7th February, exactly a week after his suicide, the bodies of Ernest and Edith Spencer were buried in an unmarked grave in St. Bartholomew’s, Tardebigge a graveside service conducted by the Rev. R.W. Underhill.

Remember Edith

On a drizzling day in February, almost 64 years to the day of their funeral, I found myself picking my way through the long grasses, the weathered and dilapidated tombstones and monuments in Tardebigge churchyard. Wiping the droplets from my phone, I read and re-read the e-mail that Jane Hall, the churchwarden had sent me. “The graveyard at Tardebigge is a bit higgledy-piggledy but we have the plot noted as row 14, plot 31...

interestingly Alfred is the only Christian name in the register but I checked the names against
the genes reunited website and couldn’t find Alfred Spencer but found; Ernest A Spencer who died in Bromsgrove district, 1958 aged 51.”

I’d become a little embarrassed asking ‘round Tardebigge about this case but Jane could not have been more obliging. Tantalizingly, she told me that the Rev. Underhill’s widow, still lived in Tardebigge and, although she was a centenarian, was still mentally sharp. She contacted Mrs. Underhill’s son, on my behalf, but I heard nothing back. All these years later, still no-one wanted to talk about the tragedy that unfolded on the Lady Luck, all those years ago.

I found the grave, un-marked, but for the mound of sandy soil, on the extremities of the churchyard, strewn with brambles and pitted with rabbit warrens it was almost impossible to tell there was a grave there at all, but the records bore it out. The last resting place of the Spencer’s, ironically, over-looking the place where the Lady Luck had been moored.

It was fitting that I, another liveaboard boater, albeit from another age, should track them down; the Spencer’s were strangers to Tardebigge, outsiders like myself, buried quickly and forgotten quicker. Yet it pained me to think that Edith shared her grave with her killer and shared his ignominy. The case of the Lady Luck was, like any other squalid, domestic murder, of a kind repeated over and over again, year after year; a husband, murdering some-one whom he once purported to love. Perhaps it was the novelty of it occurring on a houseboat which bought the Pathé Newsreels here, and bought me here too, over half a century later?

It is a tale like so many others; a volatile, unfaithful husband who repeatedly threatened to murder his wife, warnings which went ignored until too late. A woman, robbed of a happy retirement, robbed of seeing children and grand-children, robbed of a decent grave and a decent memorial, locked in eternal bondage in the sandy soil with her killer.

It is a sad end to this sorry story but it is a story we must never forget. Remember Edith. Remember her.

Back in the day, when I was an Further Education College Lecturer, my yearly party piece was greeting my entire new student cohort (between 25-30 students) by their first names when they came back from their first coffee break on day 1 of the course. My ability to remember so many names in such a short time always drew a round of spontaneous applause. I’ve always found it easy to retain lots of (often useless) information and remember people’s names easily.

Looking back, I’m astonished by the amount of information I had to retain in my working and personal life, but we all do it; it sometimes feels as if our brains are full to bursting.

Nowadays, our desire to quantify and target so much of our lives can also add to information overload; we try to measure how many steps we walk, calculate our heart rates whilst exercising, count how many calories we consume and even record our sleep patterns.

We met a couple on a boat recently who had just picked their boat up from their home marina to cruise locally for a few days. When we told them we were liveaboards, we had the usual conversation about ‘what did you do with all your stuff’ and it transpired they lived in a 4 bedroomed house, had a motorhome and a caravan and 10 cars! They really wanted to be able to live on their boat, but couldn’t make the psychological leap to start to dispose of some of their possessions to realise that dream.

I can’t help but think, the more possessions we have, the more ‘brain space’ we need to maintain them and it’s only now we have so few possessions and such a simple life that I can live more easily in the present moment. I always struggled with the concept of living in the present whilst I was working; the idea of being ‘mindful’ seemed like an unattainable pipe dream. When I was teaching, most days involved planning ahead (living in the future) or analysing what I could have done better (living in the past). I rarely felt as if I was living my life in the present.

At this point in our lives, the things we need to think about and make decisions about are relatively few. Today, we walked a few miles along the towpath to find somewhere we can moor for a couple of weeks where we can walk into the nearest city to explore. Most urban mooring spots are for 48 hours only and we need somewhere that is less restricted.
We need to find the next water point, so we don’t run too low on water and to find a supermarket we can walk to as the freezer is running low and we need to stock up on fresh food too.

We also need to find a suitable yoga spot, preferably somewhere flat without too many passing dog walkers....dogs love to bark at us and jump all over us for some reason. Maybe it’s our downward dog pose they can’t resist ha ha! The couple we spoke to this morning kept saying how brave we are which is a comment often directed at us, but we don’t feel brave at all. For us, it’s just about the choices we’ve made that feel right for us.

I’ve said before that this lifestyle isn’t without its disadvantages, but such a simple life literally frees up masses of brain space.

That mental space brings a clarity to life where you can truly hear the birds singing or a boat chugging past; you don’t feel compelled to calculate how many steps you’ve walked each day as having to walk to the supermarket or work your way through a flight of locks is ​‘exercise’ that is intrinsic to this lifestyle. Sleep generally comes easily; so much of our life is lived outdoors in the fresh air, so a 9.30pm bedtime is not unusual.

The irony of struggling to live in the present is that’s the only ‘place’ we can live, but life becomes so busy, it almost feels impossible. Work, family life, seeing friends and going to the gym fills our days and minds. The list of things to do seems endless; we lived that life for many years too.

Decluttering our minds takes awareness and is an opportunity to make different choices; within those choices is the freedom to learn new things, to discover new places and to meet new people. Simply having less to think about brings a mental clarity that allows us to live life as it unfolds and respond accordingly.

Clearly, it’s possible to declutter our minds without moving onto a narrow boat, but we need to find ways to do that which are compatible with a busy lifestyle and are suitable for us as individuals.

Some of the canal network is restricted at the moment due to low water levels, making route planning difficult; something we didn’t foresee when we moved on board. These challenges keep us mentally on our toes and mean we need to be adaptable and responsive to change.

We’re always conscious that life changes constantly and we need to be open minded to change, but decluttering our life has also allowed us to declutter our minds and truly live in the present.

We were starry eyed and excited as the prospect materialised and we set off into the sunset on this romantic notion of travelling on the canals in our home. Then as we turned the corner and negotiated our first set of locks, we lost propulsion. We were on our own and confused, our dream and wishes had become reality, but our first cruise had become a nightmare.

We were forced to seek the refuge of a marina where we found out so much about our boat and even more about ourselves. We spent too much time and even more money fixing her up whilst we mastered the art of floating. But the build-up to leaving was a rush and a count down. So, it was with equal measures of apprehension, excitement and sadness, that we started the engine and ventured out of our familiar, safe haven.

The second beginning of our odyssey took us up the Birmingham & Worcester and as we were going through Sidbury lock, we encountered our first tourists who quickly pulled out their cameras and started snapping away, photographing “the strange people who live in those dinky little boats”.

Even though we were clueless, we must have looked authentic, and it brought the widest smiles and most peculiar feeling to us; once out of earshot we reflected with embarrassed laughter. Having spent so long as voyeurs contemplating the whim, we were now being observed from the other end of the lens. It has become apparent to us during our journey that gongoozlers are so very, very curious. They want to chat and consider how us odd people live. Some want us to sell the dream, whilst others are disturbed by the prospect but generally the young are inspired, and the elders see the wisdom.

Our trip to date, has taken us through some foreboding milestones: up the thirty-six locks of the Tardebigge flight; through several spookily long tunnels; across some dauntingly high aqueducts; a little bit of Birmingham and the notorious “Wolverhampton 21”; the Shropshire Union and onto the Llangollen canal in north Wales. All of which were wonderful experiences and are now fond memories.

Autumn and nature's last flourish have served up a most spectacular palette of colours and when the mercury dropped, the frozen “Golly” left us basking with a raging log fire and clear blue skies with fabulous vistas. She has shown us the merit of being out on the cut in the cold and we agree with our fellow boaters who prefer the more peaceful winters on the cut without the lunatic fringe on their one-week binge.

Though having worked for a hire boat company, I had much empathy for these adventure seekers. Watching them during their boat introduction, politely nodding with their newly acquired captains’ hats, then gingerly negotiating their way out of the marina. Prior to ripping off their shirts and cracking open the booze whilst getting their craft up to warp speed ready to clatter everything on their merry way.

But this playful corruption of an observation can be more insightful... How else do hard working holiday makers manage their downtime? Other than to chuck some clothes in a bag, slam the boot on the car and tear-arse it up the M40, just to slow down their fuel injected lifestyles for a week on the water.

Maybe this yarn is more about navigating life rather than a boat. How one interprets the fundamentals and expectancies of being an upstanding member of society and dedicating ambition to correspond with the indoctrination of authority. Should government philosophy dictate our work ethic and a 40-hour 5-day week, just to spend the ensuing 30 something years trapped on the financial hamster wheel with annual sojourns of piracy and debauchery on our inland waterways.

Or can one relinquish Friday’s gin fizz, Tom Ford, Vorsprung durch Technik for a more sedate life?

Cruising through our shallow waters and deepest thoughts with the time to enjoy them. This choice is not some poetic idyl, there are always jobs to do on a boat and it comes with a diverse set of risks that some may consider reckless. One needs to get down and dirty; it is a frugal existence as we manage our resources and utilise the opportunities when they arise. Be it emptying the loo or topping up the water, foraging or shopping, cleaning, or fixing, making the most of the weather and living on the cut requires a love of nature and the outdoors. But giving up much and sacrificing luxuries for a life aboard is precious and the rewards reveal themselves and life evolves in a different spectrum.

Because the people who choose this way of life do so for a myriad of reasons. Most have unusual back stories and have tested the constricts imposed on us by our puppet masters. One finds higher incident rates of free radicals bouncing their take on life around the fire. You hear the wackiest ideas and fascinating life stories when engaging with the “Characters of the Cut”.
There exists an acceptance and friendship in this gentle, open-minded community with the understanding and time to support and a desire to pool skills and resources.

There isn’t any need to rush, to achieve and prove oneself has all but evaporated and stress eludes us. Occasionally we hear the hum of a near-by motorway or a dashing siren, but they serve as reminders of what we left behind. The greatest gift this life-choice provides is a slow tranquillity and peaceful priceless moments.

In life, there are more answers than there are questions; But whomever we are, and by whichever means we skid into our grave… our experience of life is a most important question!

Mindfulness. Living in the present, not fretting about the past nor worrying about the future. So hard to do, yet if we can achieve it how much happier we might become.

I heard recently that it is not possible to be anxious and thankful simultaneously because of the way our brains are wired. Therefore if we can count our blessings instead of filling out heads with anxious thoughts, our anxiety should lessen. If that actually works, isn't that be amazing, because there is certainly alot to be anxious about…our health, climate change, nations at war, debt, our concerns for family and friends, to name but a few. Loved ones dying, our dying, loneliness, hunger, cold, things we may fear. The world can be a very hard place to live in. It is small wonder there is so much depression and hopelessness around.

I'm sure the God I believe in did not want a world such as this. He designed a place of beauty and joy, where he wanted humans to live in harmony with one another and the nature around. Our free choice and our greed has destroyed so much yet each of us, individually, can work towards making a positive difference to where we live and those we encounter. Kindness, empathy, a smile can make such a change to someone else's day. Having time to say hallo and be a listening ear to our neighbour.

We are so blessed to be part of the boating community. From reading the feeds on some of the narrowboat Facebook groups you can sense how kind and helpful people are towards each other. Of course there are always those who appear embittered, grouchy, angry. But maybe we have to wonder the root of those emotions. What life blows has led to someone becoming so unhappy and discontent?

The joy of spending time with a tiny baby, who looks at life with contentment, reminds me that we are born innocent and so often it is our circumstances that lead to trauma which then leads to dis-ease. Spring is a time of new beginnings, fresh growth and vibrant colour. Perhaps we can make a difference to our neighbour by offering a hand of friendship, listening to their concerns and seeing what we might be able to do to help.

For instance, I have just read a book highlighting the work of Christians Against Poverty (CAP). The work they do turns around the lives of so many people who have spiralled into debt and just don't know how to get out of it. All the stories spoke of advisors who came alongside, non judgemental, caring and wise, able to enable the debtor to regain control of their lives without shame or loss of dignity. To give them a fresh start and hope for the future.

Now, more than ever, we need to look out for one another, spreading a little kindness and love. I have an image of a bare winter tree, save for some tiny buds, that gradually turn into lush green leaves all gently swaying in the breeze. Each of us can be a leaf on that tree, living alongside one another in community, offering both shade from the sun when the world gets too hot and being a thing of beauty in itself to those who are in need around us. However small and insignificant we may feel we each have the ability to make a big impact on those around us and make our world a better place to be.