The Family

I was born in 1952, 21 months after my brother, and not long after the end of WW2, although I don’t think that registered till I was at least in my teens, probably later, knowing my poor grasp of historical facts. I’ve learnt since that rationing remained for certain items but I don’t remember it  - why would I? There was always food on the table, and if we didn’t have bananas or oranges one week I certainly didn’t notice. I do remember sugar bring sprinkled liberally on cereal - and even on fresh fruit and in sandwiches so that was obviously one item that had returned to the shelves. Sadly for my brothers and me, as it turned out: we had years of return visits to the school dentist, and numerous fillings and extractions. 

In my parents’ defence they had gone without luxuries, and even basics, for so long that I’m guessing they thought sugar was a treat. After all, this was the generation that was daily subjected to advertisements and billboards encouraging smoking to cure all manner of ills.

For the first ten or eleven months of my life we lived in a couple of rooms in my grandparents house, which was a common arrangement in those days. Money was scarce, as it was for many people after the war, my dad was a student, working part time, and, of course, my mum had to leave her job as soon as she married.

By the time I started school, aged four, our family had surpassed the average number of 2.4 children.  The birth of my brother a few weeks previously had put paid to anything average. Whereas my elder brother and I had been planned and welcomed I believe my younger brother came as a bit of a shock, albeit, as it turned out, a happy one. I still remember being called to see him in his cot the morning after the home birth, standing on tiptoe and leaning in to kiss him.  This was possibly the best present a nearly four year old could have - a real life, living, breathing doll.  I’m not saying our childhoods were all smooth sailing, we had the usual arguments and fights, and John still reminds me that I used to tell him he was adopted, which was certainly a bit strange, considering I’d been to at least one ante natal visit with my mum, the abiding memory being not the sight of her rounded belly but my shock at the flesh coloured suspenders hanging from a huge corset.  We children might have bickered and argued but if any other child dared to cross one of us we were in there defending each other like wild tigers.  I once embarrassed my younger brother by coming across him, mid argument with a group of kids and wading in feet first to back him up, despite the fact I had no idea what the row was about. 

I’ve seen this, too, in my own children.  My daughter once practically leapt over the bar of the pub she was working in when someone threatened her younger brother.  She soon saw the aggressor out of the door.  I do love this loyalty within families.  I can moan all I want about the husband or kids but woe betide anyone else who criticises them.  This is the strength of family: not just the love that binds us, but the shared experiences and the loyalty we have for each other.

I learnt to read with Janet and John, who had the perfect family: Mummy, daddy and not quite two point four children.  Daddy had an important job (I can’t remember now what it was) and mummy, of course, was ‘just a housewife.’ Janet stayed with mummy and baked cakes, and John went out with Daddy and did exciting things like flying toy aeroplanes and riding his bike.  I didn’t think there was anything odd about this when I was four.  It was pretty similar to our own family lifestyle, although it didn’t take long for my quiet, shy mother to start coming out of her shell and insisting boys and girls were treated equally, at least in our house.  I realised, years later, that this was pretty revolutionary in the fifties.  But then my mum was - and still is - quite a force to be reckoned with. When my brother was in sixth form at a pretty prestigious school in the early seventies he was warned that if he didn’t have his shoulder length hair cut he would be expelled.  My mum took herself straight up to the school and put her son’s case to the headmaster.  I think her main argument was that the length of his hair had no impact on his ability to learn. The head stuck to his guns, there was probably a bit of a stand off, and my brother got expelled. I’ve always admired my mum for taking a stand and backing my brother.  Personally, I still think it’s a ridiculous rule and the argument continues within schools to this day.  Incidentally, John went on to do great things, kept his long hair for a while and then chopped it off.  I don’t think anybody in our family likes being told what to do when there’s a good argument against it. And we do all love a good argument.

My dad had been brought up in a patriarchal household.  His dad, my granddad, like most men of his generation - born in the late 1800s, was at the head, and his wife and three children did as he said. Except my dad didn’t. He was extremely naughty by all accounts, not only constantly teasing his sister and making her cry but also getting into fights and scrapes with other boys. As a child I loved to hear these tales but, as an adult, I had huge sympathy for his parents, who despaired at his behaviour.  My Gran spent more time up at the school than she did in the kitchen, and that was saying something.  From what I’ve heard, my granddad sat with a cane, if not in his hand, at least by his side, most of the time, which seems totally alien these days. With the benefit of hindsight I’m guessing that my dad managed to alienate both teachers and children by being extremely clever but also extremely annoying. He once got a report from school stating, ‘must try harder.’  He had achieved 100% in the subject, so it wasn’t surprising that the comment left him rather puzzled.  

My mum’s family was quite different. My grandma was a fierce matriarch and my granddad, although smarter, would do anything for a quiet life, which generally meant agreeing with his wife. He was the calming influence. My mum had two brothers, one two years older and one nine years younger - another surprise, apparently. My grandma, was, unintentionally, quite ahead of the times. She would take herself off to visit her spinster sisters in Yarmouth - sometimes with her youngest son - for weeks at a time, leaving the rest of the family to fend for themselves. This was certainly unusual in those days and I think my mum made the decision that when she married, she and her husband would be equals and her children, whatever their gender, would also be treated equally.  It might have taken her a few weeks to convince my dad, but knowing my mum, she didn’t give up, and we siblings grew up in the knowledge that Geoff and John were just as likely to be seen wielding an iron or a saucepan as I would be changing a wheel on a bike or some amateur DIY.  I’m glad that we got those opportunities, especially as schools at that time were strictly segregated by gender.  No woodwork or metalwork for me, and no domestic science for my brothers. 

Not a day goes by when I don’t think how lucky I am to have been born into this family.  The morning after my dad died we gathered from all across the country, not just family but partners and spouses.  We spent the day hugging, crying, chatting and laughing, and I’m sure the love and strength that we shared between us got us all through that day - and the next when we did it all again.  This joint, unplanned act was somehow primal.  Like animals we converged at the family home to surround the person who overnight had become the oldest, weakest, most vulnerable member, my mum, suddenly a widow.  

THIS. 

THIS is the strength of the family.

How to Make a Family* by Jill Reidy

Take two people, 

Any colour, any gender

Stir together gently

Till they blend 

Check for sense of humour 

Add more if necessary

(This part is very important)

Whisk in as much love as you can find

Fold in kindness

Sensitivity

And respect

Check again

Remove any meanness 

And replace with generosity

Add babies and pets if required

(But not essential)

The mixture will expand 

Watch quietly 

As it grows

Do not stir or whisk

It will now begin to gain its own momentum

Your result should look like nobody else’s

Don’t compare

It’s unique

You have made a family 

* Level of difficulty - beginner (if instructions are followed)

Thanks for reading, 

Jill

  

  

Read More

Message in a Bottle

Everything seemed simpler in the 1950s when I was growing up. 

In the summer holidays (which, incidentally, consisted of endless days of constant blue skies and sun) we went to the local recreation ground - or 'rec' as we called it - most days. Sometimes our mum came with us and we took a cobbled together picnic - sandwiches, crisps, an apple and, if we were lucky, a Penguin biscuit. If mum was busy we went on our own. It was about a fifteen minute walk or a ten minute bike ride away.  My elder brother had a second hand bike - his pride and joy - from a jumble sale. Mum had paid seven shillings and sixpence for it - a lot of money at the time - but it turned out to be a sound investment.  So, sometimes we walked, sometimes we biked it, but either way we used to go and spend most of the day there, playing in the bushes and round by the pond. These days it would be unheard of for three children, between the ages of eight and fourteen to spend a whole day playing out, fifteen minutes from home, but in the fifties this was the norm. Men were at work, their wives were busy at home and so the kids entertained themselves.  

I only remember two incidents connected with the rec. One was when a man appeared from behind a tree and asked me to come and see what he'd got in his hand. I hadn't got a clue what he was talking about and took a step towards him, smiling politely.  Luckily my much more streetwise friend pushed me back and told him in no uncertain terms where to go  He turned tail and legged it across the rec, while we continued to play quite happily. I don't think I even bothered to mention it to my mum when I got home.  The other incident was far more worrying to me.  After a few hours at the rec I returned home, only to discover I'd left my brand new cardigan (hot off my mum's knitting needles) on a bench. Mum was fuming, promptly donned coat and shoes and raced up to the rec. Needless to say, in those days of common poverty, somebody had taken a fancy to my cardigan and it was no longer abandoned on the bench. My mum wasn't happy and my main worry was not that I'd lost my cardigan but that I might be banned from ever returning to the rec. 

We played out after tea - cricket, the stumps chalked on to our front wall, the bat another jumble sale find; 'keep uppies' - until Gilly's mum came out and shouted at us for constantly banging on her wall; 'Keep the Sunny Side Up' with Iris Whitewell and Christine Archer - two big girls who, in all honesty, struggled to keep anything up, least of all their beefy thighs. I was self appointed choreographer and star dancer, with absolutely no ability in either field. We practised for hours for the show in my dad's garage, stopping abruptly if my dad or brothers dared to come in; we played Mothers and Fathers where my poor younger brother was always the baby; we held sales in the front garden, goods set out on kitchen stools, signs made from cardboard boxes. Our mums took pity on us and came and bought our old rubbish back. 

Back then, everyone had a local milkman, complete with super slow milk float, delivering to every doorstep. We had a baker, too, who left us our daily bread. He still had a horse and cart, which was a great novelty to us kids.  Most days we had a couple of pints of milk delivered. Sometimes my mum would leave a note in the empty bottle. What I really wanted was the half size bottle of orange juice that teased me from a crate on the back of the milk float. My mum said it was a waste of money - and at that time money was tight and certainly not to be wasted on such frivolities. The more I was told I couldn't have the orange juice, the more I wanted it. I devised plans of how to get hold of a bottle. I worked out how long I would have to save to buy one, but on 1d every other day for pocket money I soon gave up on that idea. Christine Archer had the bottles of orange regularly, but then she was allowed most things, including staying off school if she so much as murmured that she felt a little poorly.  In contrast, I had to be at death's door before missing a day's schooling. 

My lucky break came the day I was offered sixpence to go off with a man lurking at the bottom of our street.  I was highly temped to take the sixpence and leg it, but after the rec incident I was a bit more wary of strange men asking me to accompany them, and raced home to tell my mum.  The police were called, a description given and a police officer led me by the hand around the local streets, looking for the culprit.  I decided that any man who was willing to throw away sixpence on the off chance of getting a young girl to go off with him wouldn't be hanging around after his offer had been rejected, and sure enough, he was nowhere to be seen.  I actually felt it was all quite exciting being the centre of attention but my mum obviously thought I'd been scarred for life and was desperate to minimise the trauma.  She came out of the kitchen and handed me a scribbled note.  

"Just stick this in the milk bottle outside, love," she said, handing me the note.  I was about to complain when I glanced down at the piece of paper.  I grinned, went to the front door and poked the rolled note into the empty milk bottle.

The next day, my bottle of orange juice stood next to the milk on the step.  My brothers looked on enviously as I peeled off the foil top, raised the bottle to my lips and took a large mouthful. I never admitted to anyone, least of all my brothers or my mum, that the orange juice wasn't actually all that it was cracked up to be.

An Early Lesson in Disappointment by Jill Reidy

Eyeing up the bottles

On the milkman’s float

It wasn’t the white stuff that drew me

It was that amber nectar

Highly coloured

Reflecting the light

So many times

I’d imagined

The sweet, smooth orange

Sitting on the doorstep

In its half sized bottle

Next to the milk

It took a minor drama

To produce results

A simple message in a bottle

Foil cap peeled off slowly

Bottle to lips, head tipped back

Large swig...

An early lesson in disappointment

Thanks for reading     Jill

Read More

Mind The Gap?

This week's theme is the generation gap, or 'institutional age segregation' as it is now referred to somewhat fancifully by sociologists. Let's stick with generation gap - I think we can all identify with that term.

It was coined in the 1960s to explain the division that existed between the baby-boomers (born in that decade after the 2nd world war) and their parents; a division that ran the gamut from music (no pun intended) to lifestyle to politics in a way that was more clearly delineated than ever before. To quote the recently departed Paul Kantner (who in turn was plagiarising John Wyndham): "In loyalty to their kind, they cannot tolerate our minds. In loyalty to our kind, we cannot tolerate their obstruction" (from 'Crown of Creation' by Jefferson Airplane). We were rebels and quite often it felt like war of a gentle kind against our parents. My mother and father were conscientious and caring, but they just didn't get it and we were frequently at loggerheads. I left home as early as I could.

Many years later, (I had babies of my own by that time), my father tried to apologise for the heavy-handed way they had acted on occasions. He wasn't exactly trying to excuse himself, it was more an admission to being completely bewildered by the tide of social and cultural changes set in motion in the 1960s, to the extent that neither he nor my mother knew how to cope with what was going on. They tried to keep a lid on - and that ruled out any opportunity to talk issues through to a better mutual understanding. Consequently, the gap was never bridged.

I hope I've not made the same mistakes. My own daughters may well read this blog. It will be interesting to hear their views on the subject.

Today's poem was 'inspired', if that's the appropriate term, by the sight of my parents sitting night after night in their armchairs in front of the television set, never talking to each other (or to me when I graced them with my company), just soaking up whatever was on offer. They frequently fell asleep in their chairs and would wake up when transmissions ceased after the epilogue and the national anthem. I'm sure that's not an uncommon observation. It used to really wind me up.

From the time I left home in my teens, all through university and into my late twenties I didn't have a television at all, much preferring to read or play music. The idea that everyone sat passive in front of their set every night was just anathema to me and I satirised the idea in the poem below, which draws its opening concept from Jean-Jacques Rousseau's famous lines: "Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains..."

Rousseau, writing in the 18th century as a philosopher and political theorist, was principally concerned with ideas of freedom of the individual from exploitation and enslavement. His writings were fundamental to the progress of the Enlightenment in France and gave ammunition to the political activists behind the American and French revolutions of that century. Fast forward two hundred years and TV as a mass medium has the power to seduce and enslave. It doesn't have to be that way, but the danger is there; and the people who control the medium are very powerful as a result.  Viewer beware!

Please note that the poem was actually written a few years ago and predates both LCD technology (hence the reference to cathode light) and the deregulation of the industry (which has led to over 100 channels being available nightly and not just 3).

Electron-Chain-Gang Blues
Man was born free,
but everywhere he is watching TV.
It's a tune-in-and-turn-off routine,
quotidian soma for the modern age.

You sought an antidote to thought
through rapt attention to your screen -
and what a vacant, sweet delight
to follow mindless days
with mindless nights
bathed in the flickering cathode light
beamed from a leading TV station.

Oblivious or accepting of your exploitation,
you've sold out your reality
to media personalities.
So enjoy the celebration
of the Powers-That-Be
every night on channels one, two, three!

Thanks for reading. Have a good week, S ;-)

Read More

Merry Christmas

from David Riley

Christmas is full of rituals - whatever they may be. The Christian churches, not surprisingly, have several. For many ritual is close to tradition and Christmas is full of those too. The seemingly "time out of mind" might be surprisingly new, often created, for us here in Blighty in Victorian Britain. Christmas trees, cards and the inescapably close association between Dickens and Christmas are
just some. I'd like to look at one of these traditions a little bit. Gift giving.

There's a whole set of unspoken rules about gift giving. If you give money does that mean you haven't really thought about something for that person? What do you give friends rather than relatives? How much should you spend on X or Y? There's the question about the gift from Ann Summers for your significant other. Who is it really for? You or them? Then there's the old standby that looks like someone might have made an effort, the Smelly Perfumy concoctions with titles born on a rainy February in Paris and bottles contorted into somthing ressembliing a glass blower's nightmare. You have some of these. They end their lives at the back of cupboards, unopened from one Christmas to another, which if you listen to the night murmurs in the bathroom, you'll hear them discuss with the discarded bath salts what might have been.

Sometimes the gifts suddenly mean something real. Have you ever given poetry to someone just because they love it? Just because it catches an attitude of mind you might share, opens a door into their heads where you wondered what they thought of you? Not me. Not yet.

I have given a present once that said something. I gave my mother a porcelain figurine of a woman teaching her child to read. When I did, I knew she had given me that gift, years before. Reading. We both knew how precious reading was, without words spoken. Indeed I don't think we could have said them. I just knew, eventually, I wanted to thank her for it while I could.

I have it now, the figurine, now that she's died and I still think about it and the worlds gifts opened up, even if I didn't realise it for a while.

Thanks.

Happy Christmas.

Read More