Northern Man - The Best

photo of my maternal grandparents

My first thoughts on Northern Man were of my grandfathers and my father. Northern, Manchester born and bred, all passed on now. My paternal grandfather was in the army during WW1. He was just old enough to get called up and went to France or Belgium in the summer of 1918. He married in 1922 and raised his family in Rusholme, which I used to joke to my dad, made him an original Rusholme Ruffian. The family moved to Wythenshawe when the new estate was built c.1930, then to Northenden, which is the first house I remember. Giant daisies lined the garden path. I’d like some in my garden and one day, I’ll sort it out. His wife, my Nanna Hetty, was the gardener, though Grandad looked after the cutting of the grass. I didn’t know him very well, which might sound sad, but he wasn’t the sort of grandfather, or father for that matter, who endeared himself to children and grandchildren. Anything to do with children was his wife’s department. After he was widowed, he moved in with us. He helped out in the pub and kept himself to himself. It turned out to be a short term arrangement. He moved into a flat, with a lady. He is laid to rest with Hetty and their daughter, Peggy in Manchester’s Southern Cemetery, amongst the great and the good.

Laurence Stephen Lowry, a northern man, described himself as a ‘simple man’, not uneducated but meaning that he was ordinary, unremarkable. Well, that’s a matter of opinion. I’ve studied him and his work and find him extraordinary and a unique artist.

“I am not an artist. I am a man who paints.” He said.

The first time I saw his work I wept, full of emotion for this special man and his art. It was such an overwhelming experience. His paintings were on display in Salford University and I sobbed my way through the galleries a couple of years after his death. I’m probably the only person to cry at Brian & Michael’s song, ‘Matchstalk Men & Matchstalk Cats & Dogs’. It gets me right in the heart. The Lowry Theatre and Gallery complex in Salford is a fabulous monument to him.

Alan Bennett, oh my word, no, his words, all of them. He renders me speechless. I can read his work over and over, finding something new each time, then I want to snap all my pencils because he is genius and I have no place writing anything except a shopping list. The truth of The Lady in the Van is emotional and very much a stand-alone work, a masterpiece.  A quote from Untold Stories regarding his mother’s concern about Miss Shepherd taking up residence in her van on his driveway,

“I was a reluctant (and, of course, unpaid) landlord but what worried my mother on one of her rare visits to London was what the neighbours would think.

‘This isn’t Leeds,’ I told her. ‘They won’t think anything at all.’”

In Talking Heads he has been unafraid to tackle uncomfortable and taboo subjects. Food for thought, or if it’s too difficult, don’t read it and don’t watch the TV version. Sarah Lancashire played 'Gwen', a mother feeling attracted to her fifteen year old son, beyond motherhood. Alan Bennett takes us on a journey through her thoughts and emotions, edging towards sexual in feelings, but not stepping out of line. Exceptional from a very much alive Northern man.

My maternal grandfather was the direct opposite of my paternal one. When I was a child we played, we laughed, we got told off for being rowdy and too loud, and I don’t think we cared. He taught me Tiddlywinks and Snakes & Ladders. We played hide and seek in his pub, we moved furniture, anything. Times with him and my maternal grandmother were fun. Sometimes, he liked to be quiet and read a book for a little while. He’d been affected by WW1, though this didn’t become apparent until much later in his life. My aunt told me a story about him having a child, the result of a dalliance during his marriage. True or not, I’ll never know and it wouldn’t change anything. I loved my grandad. He cried his heart out at my mother’s funeral and now they share a grave.

Northern man, northern men, gritty like the women. The best.

My poem,

A Northern man, my grandad,
Reliable and always there.
I’m told he had his ‘moments’
But I loved him and didn’t care.
Nowt for me to fret about,
A serious ‘moment’ he had
Though he stayed put with my nan
And never set eyes on the lad.

I’d wear his precious Trilby
And put clips in his Brylcreemed hair.
My childhood, fun and laughter,
And a Jaffa orange to share.
Then the loss of his daughter,
Grandad’s heart broke when my mum died.
I sat with my Northern man,
To comfort him as we both cried.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, stay safe. Pam x

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Things My Father Told Me

To be honest, my father never really told me very much at all.  When I was growing up my dad worked twelve hours a day, six days a week. The seventh day was spent recuperating and recharging his batteries for the next onslaught.  So, there really wasn't a lot of time for talking.

Anything I ever gleaned from my dad was more by a process of osmosis than any other means.  He is a stickler for keeping promises and never letting people down, something that held a lot of sway as I was growing up. If dad said he was going to do something, then come rain, hail or shine, he did it.  I don't remember him ever putting it into words but it must have rubbed off on me, as I pride myself on my reliability to this day.

Although my dad never offered much advice to me there was something he was supposed to tell my elder brother when he was about eleven: the facts of life. My mum had already discussed the female side of things with me, their only daughter, leaving me slightly stunned and horrified but strangely smug to be part of that elite club in the early sixties, 'Girls in the Know.'

For some reason, presumably to soften the blow, dad was dispatched to a newly built hotel in the Lakes (where he and mum had previously enjoyed a rare childless weekend - I'm not sure whether this was significant) with an unsuspecting and very excited eleven year old boy.  I, of course, had no idea of this cunning plan, and probably did a lot of whining about missing out on what sounded like a fun trip. It was years later that my brother confessed they had spent a wonderful weekend, eating posh food, going for long walks and rowing on the lake, and as they neared our house on their return, dad patted Geoff on the shoulder and muttered, much to my brother's bemusement, 'Anything you want to know, son, just ask.'

The whole episode was to be repeated a few years later with my younger brother, only this time our next door neighbour (who subsequently turned out to be quite a 'ladies man') inexplicably decided he would accompany them.  John had a whale of a time and the threesome returned home without the birds and the bees ever having been mentioned.  My father might not have told them but they didn't do so badly finding out for themselves.

One thing I do remember my dad telling me about was space, the planets and natural elements.  Even at a young age I realised how interested and knowledgeable he was. He had a big book, full of brightly coloured photos, that absolutely fascinated me.  I don’t know whether it was the colours or the drama of the images but I do know I would sit, long before I could read, flicking over the pages and marvelling at the vastness of a desert or the vibrant orange hues of a dramatic sunset.

In fact, my dad was knowledgeable about a lot of things (a source of many an argument when I was in my teens).  He was an expert in mathematics and spent hours reading books and pondering on mathematical problems.  All of which should have been a great asset when I needed to catch up on two years of Advanced Maths before the ‘O’ level exam.  What I had omitted to tell him was that I had absolutely no understanding of any of it and had spent most lessons in a state of terrified petrification, desperately trying to copy the answers from the boy next to me.  The planned extra lessons with dad lasted a total of approximately forty five minutes, most of which was taken up with dad nearly exploding with frustration and me in tears.  When the exam came I wrote my name at the top of the paper, then sat for two hours, staring at the rows of bent backs in front of me.

Driving lessons followed a similar path.  In dad’s defence, I have to admit I was a worrying combination of nervous and temperamental.  In my defence, dad never did have a lot of patience.  With hindsight, a recipe for disaster.  It started off quite amiably, with my mum taking each of us to one side before we left, and offering helpful advice.  We had a mission this day.  We were taking my brother to the tube station.  I wasn’t too happy about having a second passenger but settled myself into the driving seat.  Dad said, with a false calmness, “All right, when you’re ready.”  Apprehensively I switched on the engine, put my foot on the gas and took off the handbrake.  The car lurched forward, Geoff nearly shot out of his seat, dad’s head missed the windscreen by about half an inch, and I burst into tears.  I threw the door open and marched back to the house, passengers’ laughter ringing in my ears.  Dad drove Geoff to the tube and I never had another lesson.

My dad’s ninety now, still doing the Telegraph crossword every day, still pondering maths and philosophical problems and, above all, probably mightily relieved that he doesn’t have to deliver the facts of life to eleven year old boys or teach a stroppy teenager to drive.

My dad, who made me half of what I am

I wrote this a while ago for a Fathers' Day competition in the Guardian.  It was composed following an emotional afternoon going through old photos, with the last line added for my dad's ninetieth birthday celebrations, earlier this year.

Dear Dad,

 You are the slim young man with the thick wavy hair, caught forever in the 1940s, strolling with mum along the prom at Margate 

You are the proud father of one, two and – whoops – three babies, reluctantly posing against the1950s décor 

You are the stressed looking thirty-something, sprung to life in a fading Polaroid, with three grinning teens in ‘60s shades

 You are the pale, gaunt figure, with empty eyes, in the grip of a nervous breakdown - knife poised purposefully above the Silver Wedding cake

You are the handsome dad, smiling self-consciously at your sons’ weddings, then beaming at the congregation as you walk me proudly down the aisle  

You are the relaxed and happy grey-haired man in 70s sweater, gazing fondly at the first of eight grandchildren 

You are the proud husband at the end of the century, fifty years married, squinting as the sun makes a sudden break through the clouds, and your family laughs around you 

You are the octogenarian magician, mesmerising great-grandchildren. 

You are the slightly stooping, white haired man, serenading mum on your Diamond Wedding Anniversary, as I wipe away tears

You are my 90 year old dad and I love you. 

Thanks for reading        Jill

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Treasure

In childhood the first seeds of taste are planted, and it seemed to me as a boy that Treasure meant possessions, material wealth, mainly as a result of Treasure Island being read to me by my father. The idea of treasure being holdable in a buried chest found only with the right map stuck with me until my father died in July 1953 during the night of an unexpected fatal heart attack. Then I began to realise that TREASURE we value most is not a jewelled fate, but much more about the people we love. It was not until I went on in my late teens to study David Hume and other philosophers as part of my university undergraduate course that I found this realization described so well by David Hume facing the inevitability of death considered in similar circumstances. This week I discovered that Oliver Sachs (in his recent article for The New York Times) finds Hume equally helpful:

He writes about decisions he has made since a diagnosis of untreatable liver cancer - "I have to live in the richest, deepest, most productive way I can. In this I am encouraged by the words of one of my favourite philosophers, David Hume, who, upon learning that he was mortally ILL at age 65, wrote a short autobiography in a single day in April of 1776. He titled it “My Own Life.” 'I now reckon upon a speedy dissolution,' he wrote. 'I have suffered very little pain from my disorder; and what is more strange, have, notwithstanding the great decline of my person, never suffered a moment’s abatement of my spirits. I possess the same ardour as ever in study, and the same gaiety in company.' "

I do not believe I have ever properly "got over" the shock of the death of my treasured father all those years ago, and I hope all of the "best bits" of him live on in me - our children are our major gift (or curse) to posterity, and bringing up our son (my stepson) is certainly what I count my own major achievement. I wish that our daughter, Rebecca, had lived more than her mere four years, as Rebecca was certainly our second treasure after Damian.

To complete my homily, real treasure in life I feel is NEVER to suffer "a moment's abatement of (one's) spirits", though the four or five years after Rebecca's death in 1985 were very hard to bear, and not everyone is fortunate to accept from childhood that life always appears too brief when we lose those we love.

My father rose to be a Warrant Officer First Class in the RAF of the 1930s and 1940s and I try to live by his motto - Onward and Upward. What I treasure most is the life that he and my mother gave me.

CJH February 2015

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Pictures will paint a thousand words... soon enough.

Today is my father's birthday. I mention this only because I am again late in posting this blog post- I've been playing best son whilst my brother is in Denmark. With this in mind, I had considered making today's post a bit of a thing to my old man- with the ultimate plan being a poem for his birthday. Here we are then, over twenty hours in and as you can see, nothing has surfaced so far.
I've been playing the cat and mouse game with it all day. I have a theme to hit for the blog (The Lakes this week, for everyone wondering what treats we have in store) but, as sometimes is the case when trying to force writing, it isn't happening.
I can't even say that I don't have an idea. I have a head full. The lakes is probably THE place to hunt my inspirations. I've taken more holidays there than any other place on the planet. It is the landscape I dream of seeing in the mornings and the setting for that idyllic writer's cottage I may one day live in. It can boast of inspiring some of the greatest writers ever to hold a pen and yet here I am, without this poem. I'm lodged somewhere between a childhood fishing trip and a walking holiday. I'm eleven years old and camping. I'm catching my first pike, smuggling trout, frying up luncheon meat in the boot of a car and gambling at night. I am growing up on this trip. I am bucketing water from a leaking boat. I am making it to the summit of the world's biggest hill on my own (I'm eleven remember, it was huge) and I can still remember the little rock at the trig point and the scope of everything as the world seemed to open around me. Somehow, in all of this I have not found my poem yet. Rain has stopped play I'm afraid and the closest I have been to really getting into poetry today was a conversation about dyslexia in the shop in which a customer began to recite a good two verses of some poetry she learnt at school. She hasn't read it for sixty years and I've promised to find her a copy online and print it off for her. It seemed to make her day having someone listen as she babbled on. You lot are making mine now in much the same way.
Tomorrow morning, I may just raise a smile from the most cantankerous of customers. I never thought poetry would be the key to stopping her snarls and I suspect it may be fond recollections of a great teacher more than anything else but she definitely perked up today and I couldn't quite believe it. Obviously, we all have our reasons for enjoying poetry and her reason for reading is much the same as my reason for writing it- to seal a moment in and have something there to remind us what life feels and felt like. Even as I'm typing now, thinking back, I'm finding more and more I could actually say in that poem- the landscape is coming to me in dribs and drabs, the memories eek out of my head like the drip of a flooding ceiling and at some point, hopefully not too far from now, the roof is coming in and it is all going down on paper.
It would be a decade between the camping trip and the trip I took to one of Wordsworth's houses. I remember my Dad standing in the study, gazing out from the hushed group of tourists towards the window. In his best impression of a moron, "I'd write bloody poetry with a view like this every day," he said. I wanted the room to swallow me up. My best English scholar facade lay in tatters by the desk of a literary hero. My Dad was right though, he would probably write with a view so inspiring, with the elements to bounce ideas off, with nothing but a distant wind for company. In my mind, I am somewhere near water. I am spiritually home. My memories are melting into the landscape and if I was any good at drawing, I could probably sketch you the view. I'm back in the hills and for tonight, that is all you are getting from me... I'm off to start writing that poem.

Thanks for reading, S.

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There was an old man from Blackpool…

By Ashley Lister

My father was a music hall comedian. I’m not saying his material was bad but, on the night variety died, his act was held for questioning.

Actually, that’s unfair.

He was very good at making people laugh. I remember his last words to me. “Don’t turn the machine off. Please. Please, for the love of God. I’m sure I’ll recover. I don’t want to die.” How we all chuckled.

But I’m not sure if it’s because of father’s influence that I’ve developed my lifelong passion for humour.

“Do I make you laugh?” I asked my wife.

“Not when you’ve got your clothes on,” she replied.

I think that’s what she said. It’s difficult to tell what someone’s saying when they’ve always got a pie in their mouth. Not that I’m saying my wife’s fat, but her patronus is a cake. (A mysognistic northern joke there for all the Harry Potter fans reading this. Talk about aiming at a niche market).

Humour is such a personal thing that it’s probably encoded in our DNA. Freud talked about humour in terms of the tendentious and the innocent, although why we listen to a German talking about humour is a mystery to me. It’s like listening to a Frenchman talk about bravery, or a Canadian sing about irony, or a Spaniard talk about compassion for animals… (Have I offended enough stereotypes yet with this postmodern humour?)

In poetry the form most commonly associated with humour is the limerick. And, whilst Shaun was singing the praises of Edward Lear at the start of this week, I have to admit I find him annoying. (Lear not Shaun. I think Shaun is perfectly lovely). Too often Lear’s final rhymes merely reiterate the sentiment expressed in the opening line. Here’s an example:

There was an Old Man of the Wrekin
Whose shoes made a horrible creaking
But they said, 'Tell us whether,
Your shoes are of leather,
Or of what, you Old Man of the Wrekin?'

To me, the final line in this Lear limerick seems like a weak conclusion to a potentially stylish verse. Lear could have had the final rhyme of squeakin’, leakin’, Peking or a myriad other alternative rhymes that would be superior to the reiteration of the Old Man of Wrekin.

However, rather than write a limerick to conclude this post, I’d like to see regular readers contributing limericks in the comments box below. For those who are unsure how to start, I’d suggest you begin with the words:

There was an old man from Blackpool…

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