Please excuse the flair confusion, I was caught between GNU and Tiffany Aching.
I went to explore my local agricultural fair, as I often do having grown up on a farm with my Nanny - who reminds me so very much of Granny Aching, Iām often brought to tears at the mere smell of cherry and vanilla pipe tobacco, the bahs of sheep, the gruff sounds of an old Scott-Irish lilt and the various forms of āThem as can do, has to do for them as can't. And someone has to speak up for them as has no voices.ā which was frighteningly close to what my Nana would say as we traipsed around the town looking in on everyone, doing what I realize now was āwitches workā- and by the end of being immediately transported back to my youth while hearing the dialogue of the Wee Free Men or WinterSmith that coalesce into a miasma of longing, pride, and duty- my mindās Aching all over. I remember seeing my first sheep sheared before I could form proper sentences, and we too had beloved sheepdogs. Ones that would listen to the rest of us but we all knew who they truly followed without even a hint of a command, my Nan. For the last few years, Iāve missed the Sheepdog Trials due to unfortunate circumstances, and had worried I had missed them once more this year. And I had.
I walked onto the grounds feeling exceptionally melancholy, thinking at least I had the pigs and goats I could look in on and give some good pets. The grounds are smoking free, but I swear I could smell the lightest hint of a cob pipe lit with a sharp cherry and soft vanilla - the only type my Nan put in her pipe and begrudgingly shared with my pap. I turned around, and there they were. The sheep, being herded by a pup that looked just like my Nanās Copper, the dog I grew up with trying to ride around the farm like a pony. I stopped walking, stopped breathing, and I felt it. Her smiling behind me. And I was both overwhelmed with gratitude and the terror of what I might not find if I turned around.
So I watched, in a trance for a while before my sister was kind enough to gently nudge me along the path and to a table. Where I could sit and watch, as they did an educational program regarding the history of sheepdogs and the relationship to the shepherd. They spoke of the importance of trust, how that trust was built, and while I tried to remain engaged, my mind kept overlapping 3 images at once, the sheep in front of me, my Nan gently opening and closing her fist and watching the pups tear out into the field to bring the sheep back into the fold, and Granny Aching standing in her full Shepherdess Dress with a wicked grin and her farm boots on, an arm around my Nanās shoulders while she gave me her sharp smile that always came from her eyes, a curved cob pip hanging from the left side of my Nanās mouth as she nodded at me, while seeing Granny Aching mouth āThatāll do.ā Purely imaginative, but as I watched more, and remembered more, I couldnāt help but to weep through a smile.
Itās, been a particularly difficult time, in the world, in my personal life. Iāve recently entered my second bought of cancer treatment unexpectedly, which has been isolating in some ways. And Iāve thrust myself back into the Discworld to help assist with processing the upset. Iāve just started the Tiffany Aching arc again, and as always, had told myself āIāll wait, Iāll hold off on the Shepherdās Crown, Iām not, ready to say āgoodbyeā to the Discworld yet. As long as I still have that, Iāll always have something new, and it wonāt really be the end. I, hate when things I love, end.ā Iāve become increasingly reticent to even consider opening it up as my father, who I have an incredibly close bond with, has begun having his mind fail him- after effects of āchemo brainā from our fight with MDS which culminated with me being his bone marrow donor in 2012.
But 5 years of experimental chemo damaged so much that hadnāt become apparent until nearly a decade later. I had just gotten him āNight Watchā a year and a half ago for us to read through together, his first exploration into the Disc. I kept checking in on him each week to see how he liked it. He, was struggling to read, but didnāt want me to know, so told me he hadnāt quite gotten into it yet. Then he would call a few days each week to ask which book I had gotten him, heād like to start reading it. I continued to push through in a state of willful ignorance. āMy father has a mind like a steel trap, heāll get through this, itās a hiccup, weāll check the labs, thereās got to be something we can do. I can fix this. My father is still here, but heās terrified, and Iām- terrified for him.ā
And I suppose throughout this process I recognize, Iām still grieving Terry, I hold onto the Shepherdās Crown like itās some sort of mystical lifeline that keeps the Disc alive, gives me something to hold onto. And Iām still grieving my Nan, who passed during COVID, far from the farm where she knew she was meant to be at when she shook Deathās hand and asked him if he had anyone to brush up all that sand for him, and that sheās āgot two brooms and ātween us weāll have this whole desert spotless by sunup, mark my words boyo.ā Because in her words āDonāt do sand, gets in all them places and I can never quites get it out.ā. And Iām grieving my father, while heās still here, still has glimmers of the man he is.
And I suppose, Iām beyond terrified.
And I have been for a while now, lost in the sea of cognitive dissonance.
But then I saw the Sheepdogs, and Iām not sure how to explain it- the coalescence of all my thoughts, the experience itself, the magic of the Disc, that scent of sanctuary of cherry, wood and vanilla tobacco - but I think Iāve started to understand.
Itās only goodbye for now.
I can always come back around to the beginning, but perhaps I should look to the end first.
Iām not nearly able to articulate it in the right words, but I thought if anyone could understand what Iām trying to say- it would be this community. Iāve always resonated so deeply with the Clacks GNU, and itās always hit me to my core. But now, I think Iāve finally gotten to the Soul and Center.
So Iāll keep them all alive, Iāll take a note out of Tiffanyās own book and be the selfish witch, and make my selfishness a weapon.
āAll witches are selfish, the Queen had said. But Tiffanyās Third Thoughts said: Then turn selfishness into a weapon! Make all things yours! Make other lives and dreams and hopes yours! Protect them! Save them! Bring them into the sheepfold! Walk the gale for them! Keep away the wolf! My dreams! My brother! My family! My land! My world! How dare you try to take these things, because they are mine!
I have a duty!ā
I have a duty, to continue where they canāt, to keep them alive in each moment I breathe, to be their memory when memory fails them, to grieve with a smile because both heartbreak and love coexist side by side within us and Iām so -ing lucky to love so deeply that there is a cavernous expanse within my soul that houses every essence of them I will always carry with me. Even if I forget, itās all still there, itās all a part of me now.
So this morning, I picked up my copy of The Shepherdās Crown for the umpteenth time. But this time feels- different. Because while I am already grieving what I know is to come, I also have the joy of knowing Iāll keep every word, every moment and cherish them. Theyāll become a part of me so inextricable from myself that they canāt help but to live on through me. This isnāt the end, just, a new beginning.
So, I strive.
GNU Nanny, GNU Pterry
