Make A Wish

I am writing this on my usual afternoon at my usual time but this morning T’s dog, Annie, went to the vet for what could be a serious operation so I am going to make a wish that Annie comes through ok….

...three hours later. We just picked her up from the Vet and she is fine and now I can get on with this blog

Of course that wish I made was of no significance but people have been making wishes for many centuries and for most of that time it was a real act of belief. For instance making wishes on wishbones dates back to the Etruscans in around 500 BCE in Italy. They believed that chickens could predict the future. The wishbone of the chicken was laid out after the chicken was eaten so that they could still access a chicken’s prophetic powers. Why? Because a hen clucks before laying eggs, and a rooster crows when the dawn is near. Obvious.

How about candles on birthday cakes? Well, this tradition was started by the Ancient Greeks, with the round cake and a candle to symbolize the moon and pay homage to Artemis, the moon goddess, with the candle representing the moon’s reflected light. The smoke from the candles is believed to carry the wishes up high to where the deities live. That is why a birthday celebrant is often told to silently make a wish before blowing out the candles.

I’m sort of vaguely aware that coins dropped into a fountain will be used to assist a local charity so I’ve often thrown a penny in and made my wish.

This practice originates from the Celts and the Germans who were the first ones to use this belief system, and their explanation was simple, they thought the water inside wells was accommodating gods, and had been put there by the deities themselves as a present. Throwing coins in was, therefore, a way of giving thanks to the gods.

Since 2021, excavation of an ancient wooden wishing well has been underway in what is now the town of Germering in Bavaria. More than 13,500 artefacts have been found, dating from the Bronze Age to the early Middle Ages. The Celtic clootie well tradition and the English well dressing tradition appear to be related to this kind of ancient well veneration. However, it was surprising when I read that this can gather around 3 million pounds a year in Europe alone when the coins are collected.

It was also surprising that I’ve got it all wrong. Apparently you make the wish first and then throw the coin in. And the wish would only then be granted by the guardian or dweller, based upon how the coin would land at the bottom of the well. If the coin landed heads up, the guardian of the well would grant the wish, but the wish of a tails up coin would be ignored.

I’ve never heard of the following before but there are several sources. Wishing on eyelashes began in the 19th century. A fallen eyelash would be placed on the back of one’s hand and then thrown over one’s shoulder. If the eyelash got stuck, the wish did not come true.

11:11 was a number sequence that some neurologists believed we saw more frequently than could be determined by chance. Because of this belief, many held the number sequence to a higher regard. It is not clear as to why that translated into people making wishes on the number. No, I don’t believe in those.

To finish off, as I do in letters. Why do I write Best Wishes and then sign my name? I rarely mean a lot of wishes, usually I mean just the one, if that.

P.S. And then, excuse the going off topic, but what does signing off with Kind Regards mean?

For the poem I’m going back a few years and a trip I made to the Narodni Museum in Prague. The morning stroll around was really dull. Stuff stuck (literally) behind glass. The first half of the poem set out to be dull. I tried to make this second half not dull:

afternoon

It was finally right,
third step from the top and turning,
the red carpet falling away,
Wenceslas Square framed
through arched windows,
imagining an arm in mine
stepping down slowly
to the music of a string quartet.

In that crowd it couldn’t last
but it took me to a door
where the sound of rain was curious,
a temporary exhibition,
The Waters of the World,
curtained by a wall of water,
lively and alive,
a curtain falling and falling again,
splashing and hiding,
a waterfall splashing and hiding
The Waters of the World.

Excited children ran around
turning to show their Dads
who were turning to show their Moms
who were trying out displays
in the free and easy rooms.
Sea life, water life,
marshes and working mills.

So when I found the Wishing Well
I knew what my wishes would be,
one coin for that arm in mine,
one coin for the music
and one coin for a stream of silver
spilling on marble floors
with limestone falls and lava pools
washing away Museum.

First published in ‘away’, by Poetry Monthly Press in 2010

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

Read More

False Memory - The Way It Should Have Been

One of my nephews had a birthday last weekend. He is my sister’s eldest and was the first baby to be welcomed into the immediate family since she herself was born and the anticipated event had filled us with excitement for months. I found myself remembering his birth, which was thirty-six years ago and with pangs of sadness, discovered my false memory.

A Wednesday afternoon and I was at work. All was quiet, just three of us on the premises. The shop was shut, retail staff still observing half day closing. It didn’t affect office staff so we were busily working – actually, the work would have been completed already and we were probably taking it easy and having a laugh until we could lock up and leave. When my sister phoned to say things were happening, baby on the move, help wanted, my colleagues sent me on my way.

I drove to her house, a short distance from where I was on Dickson Road to where she was near Stanley Park. My false memory tells me that I packed her into my dark blue Austin Maxi, but I didn’t have that car anymore. I had a light blue metallic and rust Datsun Violet. I was sent on a quick errand on foot to a nearby shop for camera film – those were the days – and returning to my car, thought my sister was about to give birth there and then as for some reason, the passenger seat was flat. Luckily, I delivered her to the hospital before any other delivery happened and waited with her until her husband arrived from his place of work out of town. I went home.

This is where my recollection of events all goes funny, such a strong memory yet so false. By now it is early evening. I’m sat on the settee in the lounge, knitting a chunky-knit cardigan with thick needles. I’m doing a sleeve which is growing quickly and I’m thinking if I finish this piece before the baby comes, it’s a girl, if not, it’s a boy. I don’t think we had gender reveals at that time. My dad is sitting in his usual armchair, reading every word in the Gazette, sharing a few adverts in the classified section, items for sale, usually cars, and drawing a ring round them with his Parker biro. He’s wearing a denim-blue sweater that I made for him. He checks his yellow tea-cup, disappointed to find it empty. The phone rings in the hall and he goes to answer it. Of course, it was the happy news of the safe arrival of a perfect baby boy.

This is how I remember it. Or is it how I wish to remember it?

 My father had been ecstatic to learn he was going to be a grandfather and shared his news with anyone who would listen. A boy would be lovely after raising daughters, but of course a granddaughter would be loved and cherished just the same. Arthritis plagued my father. He blamed it on rolling barrels and lifting cases of bottles in the pubs. He relied on pain relief and some days he was better than others. Out of the blue, he suffered a heart attack. It was serious, but he rallied and after a couple of weeks in hospital, he was well enough to be discharged. The experience had scared him and he would need time to recover. He felt mentally shot and physically weak and told me how he hoped he would be strong enough to hold the baby when it arrived.

He didn’t get the chance. Another heart attack took his life nearly two months before my nephew was born. He was 62.

False Memory

Blue knitted jumper, nice
Subtly fragrant Old Spice.
Another pot of tea?
Empty cup.
I was sure he was there
In his usual chair
With an open Gazette
Close to hand.
On the table, his pen,
Should he need it again,
Circling classified ads,
Things for sale.
I thought he got the phone
But he’d already gone.
My mind playing cruel tricks.
Death’s torment.

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Tracks - We'd Better Make Tracks

It is the moment I dislike the most. Our peaceful time in Scotland, staying in the quiet of a hidden-away lodge has reached an end. The car is packed for home. The rooms of our accommodation  are clean and tidy, we’ve checked and double-checked for anything forgotten and one of us says, ‘We’d better make tracks’.

The fact that we’ll be returning soon is of no consolation when the sadness of leaving has already taken hold.

I’ve been trying to find out where the term ‘making tracks’ originated and it is so frustrating not to discover a definitive answer. All I have found is a reference to early 1800s slang for running away in a hurry and leaving footprints. 

Quote -  “This nineteenth century American colloquialism was recorded by Thomas Chandler Haliburton (1796-1865) in his ‘Sam Slick’ papers, which originally appeared in a Nova Scotia weekly in 1836, as well as several earlier journals…”

I wanted to know why the saying is ‘making tracks’ when ‘following tracks’ seems to make more sense. I hoped to learn something more and I haven’t, so if any reader knows, please share with me.

‘We’d better make tracks’ was my father’s way of bringing a summer picnic to an end on a Sunday tea-time. Pubs were closed between 2 p.m. and 7 p.m. in those days. My family would get together and drive in convoy to a suitable destination to spend the afternoon, everyone bringing food to share. We were all based in Lancaster and Morecambe for a while and our outings were Crook O’ Lune, Littledale, Glasson Dock, Heysham and Ingleton Falls. I was aged four or five, the only child and got made a fuss of. Everyone was relaxed, life was simpler, or that’s how it looked to me. No one rushed. There would be glancing at wrist-watches and mutterings about getting back for opening time as thermos flasks and rugs were put away into car boots in a leisurely fashion.

Our first pub was in Manchester, close to Piccadilly railway station. I was too young to remember much about it, but I knew it was the Star and Garter on Fairfield Street and my walk to nursery with my father took us under a railway bridge. On a recent day at Manchester Christmas Markets with my friend, I suggested that we look at the pub, from the outside. Our train was taking us to Piccadilly so we weren’t going out of our way. I’m easily lost in a city without a coastline to guide me, so it was no surprise to find us following Fairfield Street in the wrong direction. We hadn’t gone too far, luckily. We strolled back and eventually reached the pub, took a few photos then went shopping. Later, waiting on Platform 14 for the train home, I was absent-mindedly gazing around when I realised that right in front of me, across the lower level train tracks, stood the Star and Garter. My friend and I laughed. We’d walked for ages looking for that.

Before long, it will be time for rest and recuperation in Dumfries & Galloway. The car will be packed, the house in good hands and I’ll be happy to say, ‘We’d better make tracks.’

 

I found this poem,

 

Flowered Tracks

 

The breeziness of gentle winds, leafs rustle as trees sway
Sunlight rays a partial light, that shine across the bay
Summers warmth an evening sky, are setting on the day
Dusk approaches through the trees, as the daylight goes away

Flowered tracks along the gorge, a gentle mountain breeze
Dusty valleys lead the way, past the old oak trees
Down to flowing waterfalls, the beauty that one sees
Flowered tracks floating beside, are following with ease

Deep inside the canyon walls, the water hits the stream
Shimmers from the waters edge, upon a golden gleam
The beauty of a secret place, waters merged with a sun beam
Is this a true reality, or flowered tracks last dream

Between the hills on golden ponds, lies colours of tracks flowers
Where the rocky crescent forms, and where the sunlight cowers
Moon light shadows visible, only after sunlight hours
The beauty of a litten dusk, the light the moon devours

A wolf howls above the rocks, high upon the glade
One heart beat I can hear, I am feeling so afraid
Full moons light upon my soul, the wolfs cursed life is paid
Wolf's blood bite on flowered tracks, a glistened moonlight trade

Wolfs eyes glare standing alone, no hunters and no packs
Were wolfs fangs on shadows moon, blood seeping through the cracks
A man once stood is now transformed, his humanity life lacks
The werewolf curse is fulfilled, complete on flowered tracks

 

Written by Kirk, from Hello Poetry.

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

Read More