Carnival

According to my Chambers a Carnival is any season of revelry or indulgence, riotous feasting, merriment or amusement. I detest every aspect of these things and although there is a slight difference in definition I’m shoving in Festivals such as Glastonbury as well, even the very G word make me shudder.

So where did these deeply depressing activities sneak into existence? I can’t be bothered to do much original work on the subject so I’ll just repeat what Wiki has to say:

Carnival is a Catholic festive season that occurs before the liturgical season of Lent. The main events typically occur during February or early March, during the period historically known as Shrovetide (or Pre-Lent). 

Now the word Shrovetide is actually interesting. The word shrove is a form of the English word shrive, which means to obtain absolution for one's sins by way of Confession and doing penance. Thus Shrove Tuesday was named after the custom of Christians to be "shriven" before the start of Lent.

Rio Carnival

Carnival typically involves public celebrations, including events such as parades (crowded and boring), public street parties (with people I don’t want to know) and other entertainments (no they are not), combining some elements of a circus (I don’t think so). Elaborate costumes (waste of time) and masks (obvious who you are) allow people to set aside their everyday individuality (why would I) and experience a heightened sense of social unity (are you kidding). Participants often indulge in excessive consumption of alcohol (just go to Blackpool on Saturday night), meat (I’m vegetarian), and other foods that will be forgone during upcoming Lent.

Other common features of Carnival include mock battles such as food fights (disgusting) , expressions of social satire (satire is long gone. ‘It died when Henry Kissinger won the Nobel Peace Prize’, Tom Lehrer), mockery of authorities (where have you been for the last ten years), costumes of the grotesque body that display exaggerated features such as large noses, bellies, mouths, phalli, or elements of animal bodies (presumably this is supposed to be amusing).

However, how did carnivals start? They started long before the emergence of Christianity as it was a celebration that featured prominently in many pagan cultures’ calendars. It has been speculated that their origins began some 5000 years ago with the Egyptians; others speculate it was with the Greeks,  that they occurred around the cycles of nature and the universe, and in many cases they were hijacked by other religions. But that is another story.

What does make sense is that feasting usually occurred before the onset of spring because it was the last chance common people had to eat well because there was usually a scarcity of food towards the end of winter. Livestock was usually slaughtered in November, and towards the end of winter all the left-over winter stock of lard, butter and meat would have to be eaten before they started to decay with the onset of warmer temperatures.

Oddly enough I should be cheering for Carnival, or at least the root of the word, which traditionally comes from the Latin expression carne levare, which means "remove meat" or a folk etymology which derives it from carne vale, "farewell to meat”. I suppose that’s classed as irony.

And thanks to Anne Drinkell for the idea of food.

Mardi Gras Cake

Carnevale

So who am I to give advice
to anyone who loves to show
their costumes in parades on streets
though what I’d like to do is go
back to the carne and the vale
to give a taste of what to eat
in keeping with that Lenten time
that’s drawn to drums or samba beat

For instance let’s take Mardi Gras
where king cake rings are filled with cheese
or cut out jerks at Notting Hill
and take the side of rice and peas
while quindims are best for Rio
with eggs on a coconut base
and they need those masks in Venice
when frittelles with cream smear your face

And they’re just the four I’ve chosen
from the thousands I never shall
leave home to get stuffed and worn out
in any bloody carnival.

Terry Quinn

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Mementos

Funny thing, when I started to think about what to write on the subject of mementos, my thoughts were immediately drawn to a small black writing case, secreted away in my bottom drawer. The case is filled with letters. Letters from old boyfriends. One is especially memorable. On a holiday with my parents in 1974, at the tender age of fourteen, we landed in Lisbon during Mardi-Gras. On board I met a very handsome, young, Portuguese boy. His name was Rui Ventura and he was from Almeda Condareas near Estoril. 

Rui was cruising with his family and we were soon chatting like old pals. On returning home, he started writing to me. He invited me to spend Summer with his family, My father would never allow it, I'm afraid. In one letter, he proclaimed the he loved me adding that it was because I was 'simple'. I knew exactly what he meant of course. He meant that, unlike the rich girls who he knew in Estoril, I was uncomplicated. When I showed the letter to my friends, they were completely hysterical. The idea that he would call me simple was so funny. 

I have lots of  other treasures hidden around the house and some that are proudly displayed. On one wall is a sampler. embroidered in 1796 by my Great-Great-Great Grandmother, Sarah Coats. Her Granddaughter, my Nana, lived with us for many years and after she died my Mum was upset that she nothing to remember her by, except for few photographs. Looking for towels in mum's bedding chest one day, I came across the sampler, wrapped a bit of cloth. Soon framed and hung, it was a delight. 

On the facing wall there is usually a framed print owned by my parents, (at Christmas I substitute it for a wreath). It is an orchid corsage, dropped on a flight of stone steps, surrounded by a cigarette stub and coloured streamers, the remnants of a party or ball. It always reminds me of Cinderella's lost glass slipper. 

When I was eight, I was scheduled to complete at a ballroom dancing competition at The Adelphi in Liverpool. There was to be a 'parent and child' Cha Cha Cha comp and I asked my dad to enter with me. He didn't want to let me down but didn't know how to do the dance. He booked some private lessons with my own dance teacher and walked me onto the floor. Very near the end, he made a mistake and I was very cross and stormed off in a huff. To our surprise we won the competition and were awarded a small wooden trophy with figures of a couple dancing on the top. Of all the prizes that I ever won, it remains my most precious and has pride of place in my display cabinet, 

I have other treasures. A black and white photo of mum and dad on their wedding day sits on my fireplace. I speak to them every day. A carriage clock that was a wedding gift from my dear Godmother ( now departed} and a Coney fur cape my sister bought me to keep my shoulders warm between rounds of competitions when I was ten, still lives in wardrobe. A woollen flat cap that belonged to dad stands  guard on my coat rack. I used to wear it to bring in the New Year when I lived alone with my two young children. Somewhere upstairs is a small leather suitcase, filled with photos from childhood.

I have lovingly kept mementos of my babies. First shoes, christening gifts and outfits, early paintings and school made Christmas cards. Swimming and gymnastic certificates, school reports. There is so much, I wonder how I manage to live amongst it all.  These things I have loved, although many of those they once belonged them have long gone but are never forgotten. 

Poems can be mementos too, capturing particular moments in time.  When I lost mum at the ripe old age of ninety-seven,  I wrote this and read it during her send off at St Mark's, Layton. 

 Villanelle for Mum

 
This day begins our mourning, now at last we cry.
Laid in a simple casket, you take your last repose.
Daffodils will bow their heads as your cortege goes by.
 
Tonight there’ll be another star to light up heaven’s sky
the angels caught your gentle spirit as it rose.
This day begins our mourning, now at last we cry
 
A loving mother leaves us, though we feel her ever nigh,
We’ll catch her scent in summer’s sweetest rose.
Daffodils will bow their heads as your cortege goes by.
 
Adrift without our anchor, we are caught up in a sigh
of anguish for the family bonds you chose
This day begins our mourning, now at last we cry.
 
Geography will part us and as the years pass by,
no lynch pin now can hold us close
Daffodils will bow their heads as your cortege goes by.
 
Our mother, friend, our councillor, for you, I know we’ll try.
The Carleton garden will bear your sweetest prose,
Today begins our mourning, now at last we cry
And daffodils will bow their heads as your cortege goes by. 

Thanks for reading and a very merry Christmas to you all.  Adele

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Stationery - the written word.

I wonder... will there still be paper and pens when my Grand-daughter reaches my age? Will people even remember how to hand write a letter?

I remember my father's desk: It is one of my clearest childhood memories. I was six years old when we moved into The Everest Hotel in Maghull. It was a brand new pub, built in the middle of a rural village between Preston and Liverpool, dedicated to first ascent of the mountain by Hilary, Hunt and sherpa Tensing. The walls were decorated with climbing gear and photos.  I realise now that it was an early example of what we now call 'themed pubs'. My father's office, like all the rooms in the flat that we inhabited above the public bars, was behind one of eight doors that opened onto one side of a long corridor that stretched the full length of the angular building. There was only one door on the other side, leading to a sunny flat roof at the rear. 

Inside Dad's office stood dark grey, dexion shelving, stacked with cartons of cigarettes, roll towels for dispensers and other sundry items. Ascent of the shelving lead through a loft hatch into another world of high roofed loft space divided into separate rooms, bigger than the bedrooms below. In one section was a large flat boarded area surrounding a large, cold water tank. here my brothers set up their Hornby train set and their Scalextric track.  The first time I ventured up, I discovered a large room, with another boarded area and once I had negotiated the beams, separated with insulation, I discovered a large brown trunk, filled with all my sister's ballet costumes,

While my brother's played, I dressed up, alone and happy in my own imagination, dancing. Sometimes they would turn off the lights and close the loft hatch , climbing down the shelving and leave me, without realising that I was there. Any way ... where was I ? Oh yes, my father's desk. It was a compendium of fascinating objects for a small girl and the brand new polished wooden furniture had sliding drawers, unlike my school desk with lifting lid.

The drawers were filled with headed notepaper, envelopes, pens, and paper clips.  On the top was a large blotter, bottles of back and blue ink, a stapler, the telephone and a small sponge in a case.  dad would dampen the sponge to seal envelopes and glue stamps to letters. I recall that he also dampened the tips of fingers when counting money.  The fountain pens sucked up the ink but splattered and blobbed in my inexperienced hands. The black ink bottle was particularly intriguing, being tall and flat on both sides, with a ridged neck.  The label bore the words 'indelible black ink', a  phrase that at that time was just beyond my comprehension.

One day, while my father was busy in the bar, I found myself at his desk, playing. The black ink bottle tempted me and I nonchalantly opened the bottle and slowly dripped a few droops onto the sponge pad, watching them disappear. Suddenly, I was disturbed by my mother, calling from the kitchen and left, fully intending to return and rinse out the sponge. To my regret - I forgot.

Over the next few days, the family were engaged in choosing wallpaper for bedrooms while the decorator was busy in the lounge. On completion his next task was to paint my father's office and as a consequence, my his paperwork moved temporarily to the dining room table.  One evening, I was sitting there doing sums, ( my eldest brother used to set me maths homework).  My youngest brother was watching TV, distracting and teasing me. In a moment of sheer frustration, I picked up the sponge and launched it towards him.

Suddenly, it was like a scene from One Hundred and One Dalmatians, as huge black spots began to spread out onto the newly painted white walls. The brand new, very chic, 1960's,  brilliant orange, standard lampshade behind me was splatted with two huge spots. We looked at each other in disbelief. We were sunk!

Ten minutes later, having realised that the decorator was still upstairs in the flat, we managed to get him to repaint the walls. We blotted the lampshade but couldn't remove the ink, so we took a risk and turned it round so that the stain was on the side facing the wall. Neither of us spoke of it again. We didn't tell. Goodness knows what Mum and dad thought when they finally saw the ink stains.

In 1974, I went with my parents on a short cruise round the Mediterranean. Sailing into Lisbon, a number of Portuguese families came aboard for the trip across to Tangier, celebrating Mardi Gras.   Among them was a very handsome young man called Rui Ventura., who decided that I was the one for him.  He wrote too me many times after our return home, inviting me to stay with his family in Estoril. My father refused to allow me to go. I still have the letters in a leather case and re-read them occasionally.

Love Letters

You sent me love letters,
Letters from Estoril,
Letters of love, teenage love,
Letters that I keep still.

Your letters are my treasures,
Your letters warmed my heart,
Your letters penned in your own hand,
A lovely, dying art,

You were the boy on holiday,
You were so handsome then,
You promised to love me forever,
I never saw you again.

I still keep your letters,
I keep them deep in a drawer,
I take them out and read them again,
And I am young once more.


Thank you for reading.  Adele    

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