Crazes: Guilty As Charged

I am the Queen of Crazes, or the Crazy Queen, whichever you prefer.

After 73 years I finally have the answer to my crazes craze. I’m currently awaiting a diagnosis of ADHD, although I know in my head this is what I’ve been dealing with all my life. In some ways, it’s reassuring to think there’s a reason for my constant frantic activity.

However, I digress. Let’s start at the beginning. Young children often have crazes, changing like the seasons as somebody suddenly starts a new one, and everybody follows. I was no different, pleading for a hula hoop, which had to be ordered at the local toy shop, and seemed to take weeks to arrive. No Amazon deliveries in those days. 

The days following the arrival of the hoop were spent in frenzied practice in the garden (and once - only once - indoors, when I knocked an ornament off the sideboard and was told in no uncertain terms that if the hoop was found indoors again it would be snapped in two and instantly disposed of - I didn’t dare ask where). I got to be quite an expert hula hooper, shimmying it up and down my body, round my neck, arms and legs. Just recently, I found a hula hoop at a play centre and thought I’d have a go. I was shocked to discover that all skill had left me, as the hoop rapidly spun to the floor, despite my energetic gyrating, and lay there looking up at me as if to say, ‘that was nearly seventy years ago, woman, get a grip.’

Then there were marbles - excitedly played on drain covers in the street, and jacks and five stones. These all reached a peak before being replaced by the next unpredictable craze. My favourite craze around this time was, with hindsight, rather a strange one. It involved collecting small items and swapping them with friends at school. This probably sounds mundane and boring these days when eight year olds are busy applying makeup, taking selfies and snapchatting, but let me assure you this was one of the most exciting things in my life at that time.

The routine was this: the participant secured a toffee tin (usually from a Christmas stocking) before scouring the house for any small item that would (a) fit in the tin and (b) possibly be of interest to another participating child. I can remember my tin so well that I can smell the pieces of scented paper cut from one of my mum’s birthday cards. The smell was of roses, like the picture, as was popular in the 1950s. Why any child would be willing to swap some treasured item for a piece of birthday card I’ve no idea, but I do remember them being very popular. Apart from the cards there were ‘charms,’ tiny little cats and dogs and bells, worth nothing in monetary terms, but worth a fortune in terms of swap-ability; pieces of broken jewellery, little brooches, thimbles and the odd dolls’ house item. My younger brother, swept along in the excitement of this absorbing new game did cause a bit of trouble by swapping our tortoise for a German helmet, but that was swiftly remedied by mum marching down the road with the aforementioned headwear and returning home (minus helmet) to plonk the bewildered tortoise back by the hollyhocks in our garden.

But back to the original game. Day after day, we would race out at playtime with our tins rattling, bypassing the bars - where girls (dresses tucked into knickers) would be swinging and giggling - and straight to the only bit of shelter, the porch by the boys’ entrance. Like drug pushers we’d prise open our tins and allow each other to peer in. So many happy playtimes were spent in that porch, bargaining and swapping - and swapping again. My lifelong hoarding means that, after nearly seventy years, I still have two of the brooches I acquired, a tiny ‘ivory’ elephant and a cheap twisted metal bow. I only have to look at them to be back in that porch with my toffee tin.

Crazes during my teenage years revolved mainly around fashion, hair and make up. Mini skirts, hot pants, skinny ribs, all tried and tested (not very successfully - I didn’t have the legs or the neat little bust for any of these, but they were the latest craze, so who was I to argue?)

All my life I’ve had obsessional crazes. I hadn’t considered them until the last few years when I began to realise that I probably have ADHD. In no particular order these are the crazes - I like to call them hobbies - that have obsessed me over the years…

Novelty cakes (this was a business for thirteen years, but also a wild craze); appliqué; novelty cushions; craft fairs; baking for cake shops; knitting; sewing; patchwork, quilting; cross stitch; crochet; roller blading*; fimo; pottery, lino printing, walking daily; photography (between a business and a craze).

Finally, the non crazes or perhaps the life long crazes that I can’t ever see ending: I’ve loved reading, writing and drawing since the day I first opened a book and deciphered a word, then copied it onto a sheet of paper and drew a picture to illustrate it. I have diaries going back to the age of six, although the more interesting ones came later. However, the obligatory stationery to accompany these activities is another story, and cannot possibly be condensed into a few words.

I feel another blog post coming on….

Crazy by Jill Reidy

The time has come
Suspect denies all knowledge
Of any crazes
Since moving to that house
‘Not me officer, I just read,’
They don’t believe her, she looks shifty
Rules are established for those investigating
Five minutes to find evidence

Hercules Poirot, allocated the attic
Takes the steps two at a time
Crashes headfirst into huge tottering piles
Frames, all sizes, all colours
Photographic prints in wallets,
Scattered across the floorboards
Cameras, batteries, lights
photography magazines, memory cards
He battles through
Gives the half finished dolls’ house a cursory glance
Grinds underfoot the tiny figures
Waiting for prosthetics
Skids on the curtains, never hung
He turns, notes the carrier bags
Stacked high under the eaves
Peers in, sees the folded fabrics
Paper patterns, tailors chalk, cutting board
Patchwork pieces, cushion covers needing zips

Poirot sighs, calls down, descends the steps
To the landing
where Inspector Clouseau stands,
Hands gloved, plunged deep into a sack
‘More,’ he says, ‘more fabric’
Rolls his eyes
withdraws a length of cool white linen
Points to the open cupboard
Bulging with colourful ribbons and zips
‘And these,’ he sighs
More bags, patterns, knitting abandoned,
wool unravelling, needles, every size
Clouseau holds up a small frame
Catches Poirot’s eye
Any idea? Tapestry? Weaving?
Cross-stitch says Poirot with a shake of his head
And these?
Rag rugs, quilting, crochet, appliqué
Poirot rattles off dismissively

Miss Marple, ground floor, out of her depth
opens the door to the understairs cupboard
peers in
Why all the tools?
duplicates of every one
Drills, glue guns, hammers
screwdrivers, sets of spanners,
A pack of unused, now unusable, fimo Brooch pins, earring studs awaiting decoration
Reaches in
What’s this?
Knee pads, elbow pads, helmet
Miss Marple frowns
suspect is nearly as old as she is
Roller blades?!
A six, just the suspect’s size

Sherlock Holmes, alone in the gloomy garage
Spots a box
Opens it tentatively
Hardened clay
Five misshapen pots,
Small cutters and scrapers and prodders
A sheep by a wall, stones meticulously fashioned out of clay
He digs down deeper
Pulls out a square of lino
More tools, a roller, dried ink in a tub
‘Pottery and printing,’
He mutters to himself

They meet in the kitchen
Poirot, Marple, Clouseau and Holmes
Enough evidence? Asks Poirot
More than enough agrees Holmes
Get her in says Clouseau wearily

The suspect eyes the scattered bags
She has no defence
‘I didn’t realise….’ she trails off
Then in a whisper,
‘Guilty as Charged.’

Thanks for reading……Jill Reidy

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Collections

In 1969 I went to work in a cafe in Devon for the summer season, with my best friend. Opposite the cafe was a sweet shop, which wasn’t a good thing for two teens who liked chocolate. Most days we bought Mars Bars in packs of three, and ate them in one sickly, sticky chocfest. This went on, day after day, until we returned home at the end of the season, at least half a stone heavier, but unfortunately not cured of the  chocolate cravings.
 

For some unknown reason, I had kept every one of the wrappers, and discovered them at the bottom of my case as I unpacked.  I clearly remember staring at them for a few minutes before admitting to myself that I was probably a hoarder.  

A few weeks later I went off to Art College and the Mars Bar wrappers ended up plastered on my bedroom wall. Over the next four years the collection grew until most of that wall was covered.  Fortunately, my boyfriend (now husband) was also an art student, and didn’t seem to think there was anything strange about decorating walls with sweet wrappers.  Every move we made after that - and there were several - the wrappers came with us, until eventually they were shoved in a box in the attic and forgotten about. 

Fast forward 30 odd years and I was looking at ways of making some extra money.  Rooting through the attic I found three boxes that would turn out to be very lucrative. Opening the first two I discovered huge piles of Petticoat magazine, which had given me so much pleasure in my teens. Each week a copy would plop onto the doorstep, along with my younger brother’s Beano. I can hear that sound now, and feel the excitement of scooping up the magazine and racing upstairs to my bedroom, where I would lie on the bed, devouring articles about heavy petting, girls who let boys go too far, and how to look like Twiggy. 

After some deliberation I decided to put the magazines on eBay. I phoned my friend whose husband deals in antiques, and asked what I should put them up at. She suggested £100. I was flabbergasted, and told her they would never fetch that. A week later I was nearly £2000 better off and five years of Petticoat magazine were winging their way to Japan.
 

On a high after an unexpectedly successful sale, I peered into the third box and spotted the Mars bar wrappers. I doubted they’d sell but took a chance and posted them to eBay. I can’t remember how much they sold for now, but I know it wasn’t to be sniffed at. A while later, I found a stray wrapper and was about to throw it away when I thought I might try my luck on eBay again.  That brought in near enough £8 if I remember rightly. 

Collectors are, on the whole, quite an obsessive bunch. I realised, through the sale of the magazines and the chocolate wrappers, that most collectors would stop at nothing to get that thing for their collection. I used to visit a lot of jumble sales, charity shops, car boots and antique sales. I’ve only slowed down because I can’t get much more in my house. I’m down to two collections now: teapots and Sylvac pottery. 

The teapot collection started by accident, 44 years ago. We were living in Leeds and I nipped into a junk shop. There, on a shelf, half hidden by various dusty artefacts, was a green and silver teapot in the shape of a car. I fell in love. It looked like it was Art Deco and I had to have it. The price tag said £6 which was about the amount of money I had in my purse for the next week’s meals, but, hardly daring to think about that, I handed over the money and emerged from the shop with the first of at least a hundred teapots I collected over the years. It was the history of the old pots that I loved to think about and I only stopped collecting them when I realised there were repros being produced in large quantities. That wasn’t what I was after. 

The Sylvac collection came about through my Gran, although she never knew it. She had a few vases and pots in her house that always fascinated me. One bowl had a kingfisher in the middle, something I’d never seen before, and two of the vases were circled by tiny dancing rabbits. When my gran died I was allowed to choose one thing to keep. I chose the kingfisher bowl, and although the bird’s beak had been broken and fixed with yellowing glue that bowl meant the world to me. 

As I got older and more interested in filling our house with bits and pieces (or ‘crap’ as it was labelled by the husband, who had lost his romantic vision of how such quaint objects could enhance our decor) I collected the dancing bunnies and the droopy faced dogs that were so typical of the distinctive green pottery. They reminded me of my gran, and that made me happy.  There was one particular piece that I was desperate to get hold of, and that was  a slipper with a dog inside.  One day, walking through Lancaster, in the window of a junk shop, was the dog in the slipper.  The shop was closed for lunch. I was devastated.  Never mind, said the husband, we’ll call on the way back. To my dismay, as we  returned to the shop, door now invitingly ajar, I glanced in the window.  The slipper, with its dog, was gone. 

I still have the collector in me.  I'm sure one day I'll find that dog, and when I do my collection will be complete.  Or almost...

The Collection by Jill Reidy 

It starts with just the one

But that's really not much fun 

So a second one is found and pretty quick

Then, it seems, to have a pair

Is neither here nor there

Let’s find some more and get a proper kick

However much you’ve got

You still need that extra pot

Or card or bowl or book or fancy stamp  

The collection’s not complete

Til you cannot see your feet 

As your hoard of random items sets up camp

When you struggle to get through

From room to room to loo

Then you know you've just created quite a beast

You're in up to your neck

But really what the heck

You've spotted just that one last vital piece

Thanks for reading - Jill 

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Rubbish - What A Waste

My name is Jill Reidy and I'm a hoarder.

There, I've said it. My husband's been saying it for a long time but I've only just come to terms with it. One of the big problems with being a hoarder is that nothing is rubbish, everything is vital to my life. Everything.

I have Justincase Syndrome (JS). Nothing is thrown 'just in case' I need it years later - that odd nut and bolt that fell off something, the piece of string (too short to tie anything in reality), the elastic band that the postman dropped...... I actually can't remember the last time I needed or made use of an elastic band. What do people do with them? When I was a girl they were used to tie hair into pony tails. Now, their only use seems to be keeping wads of letters together for the postman before being discarded on our doorstep.

I know my feelings are unreasonable and irrational but just as a hoarder's nemesis, OCD, is deeply ingrained and almost impossible to break, so is JS.  I have tried, I really have. For a short while I had a cleaner, who on one occasion went through all my kitchen cupboards, filling a huge bin bag with leaking sauce bottles, bulging tins of rice pudding and out of date spices.  When I discovered the bag I was devastated - what a waste! About 80% of the items were returned to the cupboards.  I did know I had to get rid of things that were no longer needed. The cleaner got her marching orders.

A few months ago, rooting through the same cupboards, I came across a packet of 'Carmelle' dessert mix (yes, I was puzzled too), to be used by 1993. I was fascinated. I couldn't remember buying it (or why) and even I was surprised it had survived Bingate.  Never one to resist a challenge, not only did I make it up according to instructions but I took it in four tiny dishes to a dinner party, where it was eaten with varying degrees of relish.

I blame my grandma and granddad for my hoarding tendencies.  Grandma took me to jumble sales from about the age of three, where we bought the most magical assortment of rubbish: huge unsuitable hats for her, limbless dolls for me; dresses that didn't fit, books with pages missing; old wooden boxes with broken hinges.  We would stagger home, laden with bags, back to granddad in his shed.

Granddad was ensconced in his own little rubbish heaven. Jars, filled with an assortment of nails, screws, hooks and other rescued items lined the makeshift wooden shelves, each jar carefully labelled (with a thick builder's pencil) in granddad's inimitable shaky handwriting.  Granddad would be constructing a tiny chair out of old pegs or painting a wonky picture frame he'd made the day before. Everything was made from rubbish. Recycling and upcycling were unheard of fifty years ago. Granddad was well before his time, although I suspect the constructions were often a red herring. The shed was granddad's escape from the mayhem of family life. In perfect peace he would sit on a deckchair, throw back his head and smoke the thinnest roll up I'd ever seen, only picking up his tools at the sound of grandma's approaching footsteps.

Just lately, I've been thinking about shifting attitudes towards rubbish. For a long time I felt bad hanging on to things that others would discard. It was my guilty secret. Now I'm proud to say I'm helping the planet, keeping those landfills empty.  I'm not sure my husband would agree. He's still nursing the bruised shin from tripping over a huge pile of flattened cardboard that I'm keeping.  Just in case.

Despite my enthusiasm for hoarding, avoiding waste and recycling I'm including this poem by Shel Silverstein as a dire warning to myself. 

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout

Would Not Take The Garbage Out

Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout

Would not take the garbage out!

She'd scour the pots and scrape the pans,

Candy the yams and spice the hams,

And though her daddy would scream and shout,

She simply would not take the garbage out.

And so it piled up to the ceilings:

Coffee grounds, potato peelings,

Brown bananas, rotten peas,

Chunks of sour cottage cheese.

It filled the can, it covered the floor,

It cracked the window and blocked the door

With bacon rinds and chicken bones,

Drippy ends of ice cream cones,

Prune pits, peach pits, orange peel,

Gloppy glumps of cold oatmeal,

Pizza crusts and withered greens,

Soggy beans and tangerines,

Crusts of black burned buttered toast,

Gristly bits of beefy roasts. . .

The garbage rolled on down the hall,

It raised the roof, it broke the wall. . .

Greasy napkins, cookie crumbs,

Globs of gooey bubble gum,

Cellophane from green baloney,

Rubbery blubbery macaroni,

Peanut butter, caked and dry,

Curdled milk and crusts of pie,

Moldy melons, dried-up mustard,

Eggshells mixed with lemon custard,

Cold french fried and rancid meat,

Yellow lumps of Cream of Wheat.

At last the garbage reached so high

That it finally touched the sky.

And all the neighbors moved away,

And none of her friends would come to play.

And finally Sarah Cynthia Stout said,

"OK, I'll take the garbage out!"

But then, of course, it was too late. . .

The garbage reached across the state,

From New York to the Golden Gate.

And there, in the garbage she did hate,

Poor Sarah met an awful fate,

That I cannot now relate

Because the hour is much too late.

But children, remember Sarah Stout

And always take the garbage out!

 

Thanks for reading,   Jill

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