This Bird Has Flown - Bless You, Billy

 

A recent episode of the new All Creatures Great and Small took me back to my childhood. The story included a blue budgerigar, left at the vet’s surgery for minor treatment, to be collected later by the owner, a blind lady. Spoiler alert – skip the rest of this paragraph if you don’t want to know what happens. Sadly, the budgie chooses this excursion to fall off his ornithological perch, expired. Rather than give the lady bad news, the vet decides to replace her pet with another and is sure she won’t know the new budgie is a green one. The small detail of the blue one never singing and the green one being very chirpy was overlooked, otherwise all was well in the end.

One day when I was a young child, I came home from school to find a new addition to the family. In the sitting room, in a cage hooked on to one of those bird-stands, a pretty, pale blue budgerigar was tutting to its reflection in its own vanity mirror, head going side to side. I was in awe, it was so sweet and I loved it straight away. We named him Billy. My dad took charge of his care but showed me how to top up Billy’s seeds, give him fresh water and wedge a piece of cuttlefish shell between the bars of the cage to rub his beak on. I was thrilled to have another pet. We had a dog that liked his own company and a cat that was always pregnant or nursing kittens, so it was better to leave her alone. I could stand and talk to Billy, tell him about school and how I was doing. I was shocked to go to the cage after school one day and find a green budgie. My dad told me Billy had matured. He said all budgies started off blue and turned green into adulthood. Of course, I believed him I had no reason not to. Many years later the truth came out. Bless him for saving my tears. I have read that some types of budgies do change colour as their feathers are replaced, but this tends to be a shade darker, or a mix.

Lovely Billy, blue or green, long gone but remembered with fondness and All Creatures Great and Small gave me a happy memory.

Maya Angelou's Caged Bird

The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

 

 

 

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There’s Something About a Park

Broomfield Park circa 1988

There’s something about a park.

When I was very little, the local park captured a tiny corner of my heart without me even knowing.  Now I realise the love of parks has been there ever since. 

In the suburban area of London where I was born there were several memorable parks, all quite different in their appearance and function. I have a rather fuzzy memory of a small triangle of flowerbeds and concrete paths on my way to primary school - and was there some sort of shelter or pavilion? I can’t remember.  This wasn’t really a park to play in, just a means to an end: to school; back home. The only reason we ran zig zag around the flower beds was if our mum stopped to chat to someone.  Then it could be a pretty long game of tig. 

Now, the Rec was a different matter, quite the opposite of the neat little flower bedded triangle.  The Rec was the place to play.  After all, this was the ‘50s where kids went out after breakfast and came home at teatime.  No computers, Nintendo’s, Switches or mobiles. Playing out was what we did. My elder brother and I used to cycle to the Rec, meet the gang and amuse ourselves all day: floating lollysticks in the filthy pond; watching the model boats; hide and seek; races; climbing the mounds of foul smelling soil (I never did find out what was in them or why they were there - the smell was awful, and I’m sure they were crawling with something disgusting).  

There are two incidents I remember vividly: one was when a man called me into the bushes and my friend and I ran home giggling, leaving my newly knitted cardigan on a bench. My mum, the knitter, marched me straight back to get the cardigan.  The man was nowhere to be seen. The other incident was when a young boy cut himself on a piece of glass as he cockily rolled up his trousers and waded across the pond. An ambulance appeared, we all watched, open mouthed, then got back on our bikes and cycled home for tea.  Things seemed so simple then, certainly for us kids. 

But the best park of all was the one that had a whole traffic system set up, complete with roads, roundabouts, traffic lights and zebra crossings.  Lordship Lane park was too far away for us to go on our own but our excitement knew no bounds when our mum told us to get out our bikes and we’d set off on the twenty minute journey.  That same park was the source of even more thrills due to its long, stepped paddling pool. If we were really lucky, on a hot sunny day we’d take not only our bikes but a picnic, towels and a change of clothes.  Those days were sixty years ago now but I can remember that simple happiness as if it were yesterday. 

We moved a little further into suburban London when I was eleven, and were spoilt for choice. Our new house was positioned between two beautiful areas of green.  Arnos Park has everything: a stream, wooden bridges, children’s play grounds, a vast amount of grass, huge old trees and the London Underground line (which isn’t underground at all at this point) running across its horizon. The path through the park is a short cut to the tube station, which is a lovely walk on a sunny day, but slightly daunting on a dark winter’s evening. We kids were always told not to walk across the park if it was going dark, a warning we generally heeded unless we were in a tearing hurry.  Good advice, but probably unnecessary for my mum to warn my husband and his three burly police mates not to take that short cut when they were on their way to stay a few years ago. 

Broomfield Park in the opposite direction, was and is, equally appealing. It’s the place I first collected conkers, fed the ducks, slid down the giant slide, watched the tennis, and visited the strange little museum to stare at the small stuffed animals behind the glass with a mixture of horror and fascination. The museum burnt down a good twenty years ago. Each time I visit I hope to see the charred remains and scaffolding gone and something beautiful in its place.  Now I go to take photographs, and check out the tree and the bench dedicated to both sets of grandparents. My mum, now ninety, has just stopped driving but has got a new lease of life walking to the park most days with my dad’s unused walking frame.  She tells me she sits on a bench and makes conversation with anyone who sits next to her.  

Stanley Park in Blackpool holds so many memories for me: Sundays when the children were little, bundled up in warm clothes, braving the cold and spending hours on the children’s playground, my fingers like ice. Pushing swings, running with the roundabout until I felt dizzy, counterbalancing the seesaw and catching slithering toddlers as they shot off the bottom of freezing slides. The days seemed interminable. Now I’m doing it all again with the grandchildren. 

Yes, there’s something about a park. 

Stanley Park

There’s Something About A Park by Jill Reidy

I’ve toddled along a concrete path

Avoiding cracks and stones and dogs

I’ve raced at speed past flowers and shrubs

Hidden in bushes and climbed the trees

I’ve cycled round and stopped at lights 

Paddled in pools and splashed and laughed  

I’ve strolled with friends, our arms tight linked

Summer nights with boys I liked 

I’ve smoked that one and only time  

Cried at the bench and my grandma’s tree 

I’ve pushed a buggy, held chubby hands

Carried dolls and cars and dripping lollies

I’ve swung the swings and climbed the slide 

Rescued cryers and soothed cut knees

I’ve taken a moment, sat and thought 

Of all the parks along the way - the people, the colours, the smells, the sounds

The energy and the peace......

There's something about a park

Thanks for reading    Jill

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What I Remember About Friendship...

I thought I’d use this post as an opportunity to just write everything that came to mind when I thought about ‘Friendship’; a kind of word association game that starts in childhood and stretches back into the present. I like writing little pieces of writing like this. I like the unexpected that you find within your own mind. I like the possibilities that can sometimes be found; even a potential poem can be lurking within one of your forgotten memories. So I guess that today’s post is more exercise than writing (but hopefully there is a poem just waiting to be written into existence in the near future).

I remember the paddling pool in your garden. An August afternoon of giggles and freedom. The perfect blonde curls that I wished were mine. I remember cutting my foot, and your mum mending it with a plaster. The strawberry patch, buzzing with sweetness.

I remember the peanut fight that broke out on my 8^th birthday between two friends. Crying when the cake was cut. Crying when I had to share it.

I remember leaving my friends behind.

I remember having to make new ones – in a new school, in a new town.

I remember friendship bracelets. Falling out, taking sides. I remember sleepovers. Back garden camping. Cow pat cakes. I remember locking you in the shed. Barking like a wild dog. Apologising. Laughing. I remember starting upper school. Being scared together.

I remember climbing trees. Making dens. I remember trying to fit in. Copying. Matching. Growing up.

I remember liking the same boy, creating code names. Secrets. Cross my heart ‘til I die. I remember promises, daisy chains and cans of Lilt. Penny sweets. Bliss magazine. Problem pages. I remember dreaming. Believing. Taking different paths.  

I remember saying goodbye. Hurting. Writing. Departure boards. Visiting hours. I remember the fold-in-half feeling of guilt and your look of shock.

I remember being lonely. Trusting you. Lying. Forgiving. I remember Saturdays, Sainsbury’s and Girl, Interrupted. Onion rings. Pasta. Pesto. Tears. I remember Christmas ’04 and my 18^th birthday card. I remember smoking. Being sick. Being dizzy. Roller coasters. The face on the Pringle’s can. Ouija boards. Earthquakes and cockroaches. I remember art galleries, love and long conversations. Paulo Coelho, Cindy Sherman and Camden Town  

I remember ducks drowning. Broken wings. Police. Your purse. An abandoned hamster. Newspapers. I remember giving up, curling up, wishing. The brightest star. Escaping, walking, The Peak District. Bats and torches. I remember my trainers being left outside the tent. Writing. Waiting Learning.

I remember English, ghosts, mountains and fear. Welsh dragons and Starbucks. Musicals, asylums and perfection. I remember looking in a mirror. Jumping forward 15 years. Poetry. Barista. I remember picnics, vegan cheesecake, tartlets and running water. I remember falling in love.

Thank you for reading,

Lar   

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