Blues - Don't Stop the Music

 

 

 

 

In my life, music soothes everything.  There’s a song for every occasion. Putting all the Christmas stuff away includes taking The Moody Blues ‘December’ album off the CD player. I will miss singing along to their version of In the Bleak Mid-Winter.  I got strange looks in church some years ago when it sounded like I’d made up my own descant.

Back to work, reasonably accepting that this is ‘my lot’ for a while longer, and hopefully just a little while.  I will do the best I can as we all do. We smile, we’re helpful, we care and not everyone appreciates us, but that’s life.  The other day was enough for me to remark that the season of goodwill was well and truly over and the chill of the waiting room was a result of the frostiness of the occupants. I’m speaking my mind, after all, being quiet hasn’t got me anywhere.

For those still carrying the winter blues, take a chill pill, put some music on and turn the volume up.

I’ve been listening to Tom Walker’s ‘What A Time To Be Alive’, a welcome Christmas gift. He’s more ‘indie pop/folk’ than ‘blues’, and younger than most musicians I listen to. My introduction to him was when he supported my favourite Moody Blues member, John Lodge on a solo tour a few years ago. You can be forgiven for thinking that I don’t move far from my favourite band, though my record and CD collection is eclectic.

It would seem that The Moody Blues have stopped touring as a band. No official announcement and so far, no farewell concerts, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve been fortunate to travel all over the country to many concerts on umpteen UK tours and have lots of good memories, some which have been shared on here from time to time. It is decades since I watched and listened in awe to a schoolboy rock band practising ‘Nights In White Satin’ at youth club, or sang along to ‘Question’ on the juke box in our empty pub. It has been an eventful journey of wonderful music. Long may it continue with the soloists.

Aside from the Moody Blues, I like the Rolling Stones ‘Let It Bleed’ album for its great bluesy tracks. And just for the record, Tommy Steele’s ‘Singing the Blues’ is the best cover.

With a blog theme of ‘Blues’, how could I resist the Moodies? And if you know me, you’ll understand and possibly yawn. Sorry.

I wrote this poem after a night at the London O2. We were moved from ground floor seating to higher up, which I didn’t want but it turned out to be a good experience in watching the arena fill up and observing other fans having a great night.

 

 

The Concert.

 

The lights are lowered, silence fills the arena

As the minstrels move through darkness on to the stage.

This is the moment, breathless anticipation,

Travelling eternity road has been an age.

 

Then a flute’s haunting melody rises above

Twin guitar riffs to take lead of the symphony.

Slow, bass drum, and applause reaches a crescendo,

Orchestral rock and voices singing harmony.

 

On the threshold of ecstasy, keeping the faith,

We’ve made this pilgrimage so many times before,

To be rewarded with autographs and handshakes

After waiting patiently outside the stage door.

 

PMW

 

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Hats - Not For Me, Thanks

My mother had a pill-box hat made of tiny pale blue feathers sweeping round the circular shape. She wore it for my aunt and uncle’s wedding. She didn’t like hats much. They were for church and special occasions. A headscarf would do for popping to the shop, a stroll on the windy promenade or for keeping her hair neat on the walk back from the hairdressers.

My granddad never went out without his signature tweed Trilby. He might have had more than one, I don’t know, but he didn’t object to me dressing up in it when I was little. The inside rim was shiny with his Brylcreem and it smelt sweet, like him.

I’ve recently been knitting cardigans and matching hats for my new baby granddaughter, Matilda. I love making children’s clothes and each item is a one-off, for a particular little person.

Crochet is not my speciality, I’m a bit hit and miss with it, apart from Afghan square blankets, but I managed to design and make Minion character hats for a local primary school Christmas Fayre. I’m not looking to give up my day job on the strength of it, not just yet.

I miss working with infants, especially literacy and reading. There is so much to learn from the four-to-sevens when looking at their world and listening to their stories.  The developing imagination of a child is fascinating.  I’m starting to introduce well-loved stories and poems to my grandchildren.  A current favourite is The Very Hungry Caterpillar.  Soon we’ll be on to Dr Seuss and Edward Lear. I don’t mind if they grow up thinking that I am completely bonkers as long as they remember having lots of fun. And that I always dressed ‘in character’ for the benefit of the children who knocked on my door at Hallowe’en.

Apart from my black, pointed, witchy thing with the illuminated spider on the side, I’m not really one for wearing hats. I have a couple of home-made knitted ones for very cold weather that also keep my hair off my face in the wind. I’ve got a wide-brimmed sun hat for sitting in the garden and a ‘posh’ hat that I wore for a wedding, once. Me and hats don’t get on. It’s really my hair. I’m burdened with very fine, flyaway hair that reacts badly when I take a hat off. Most of all, I hated my compulsory senior school hat.

Someone else must have hated my school hat, too, because the first thing she did when she got on the same bus home was to grab it off my head and kick it all over the dirty floor, encouraging her friends to join in. This was a slightly older girl from another school. I knew her by sight from being in the year above me at the same junior school. I would already be on the bus for a short time before it reached her stop and I would dread her arrival.  She snatched the hat out of my hand once, when I tried to stop her getting it and another time it was my satchel that got thrown all over the place. Eventually, I agreed that my mother should intervene and she telephoned a complaint to the bully-girl’s school. Whatever was said and how it was dealt with worked. There was no alternative, we had to share the same bus, but she never bothered me again.

Amongst my special keep-sakes is the beautiful hat my late mother-in-law chose to wear for our wedding. It’s a pretty, navy blue satin pill-box hat, trimmed with navy net and a bow of navy velvet. A memento of a lovely lady from a wonderful day.

 

I hope my choice of an Edward Lear poem raises a smile,

 

 

The Quangle Wangle's Hat

 

I 

On the top of the Crumpetty Tree 

      The Quangle Wangle sat, 

But his face you could not see, 

      On account of his Beaver Hat. 

For his Hat was a hundred and two feet wide, 

With ribbons and bibbons on every side 

And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace, 

So that nobody ever could see the face 

            Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. 

 

II 

The Quangle Wangle said 

      To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, — 

"Jam; and jelly; and bread; 

      "Are the best of food for me! 

"But the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree 

"The plainer than ever it seems to me 

"That very few people come this way 

"And that life on the whole is far from gay!" 

            Said the Quangle Wangle Quee. 

 

III 

But there came to the Crumpetty Tree, 

      Mr. and Mrs. Canary; 

And they said, — "Did every you see 

      "Any spot so charmingly airy? 

"May we build a nest on your lovely Hat? 

"Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! 

"O please let us come and build a nest 

"Of whatever material suits you best, 

            "Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!" 

 

IV 

And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree 

      Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl; 

The Snail, and the Bumble-Bee, 

      The Frog, and the Fimble Fowl; 

(The Fimble Fowl, with a corkscrew leg;) 

And all of them said, — "We humbly beg, 

"We may build out homes on your lovely Hat, — 

"Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! 

            "Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee!" 

 

V 

And the Golden Grouse came there, 

      And the Pobble who has no toes, — 

And the small Olympian bear, — 

      And the Dong with a luminous nose. 

And the Blue Baboon, who played the Flute, — 

And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute, — 

And the Attery Squash, and the Bisky Bat, — 

All came and built on the lovely Hat 

            Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. 

 

VI 

And the Quangle Wangle said 

      To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, — 

"When all these creatures move 

      "What a wonderful noise there'll be!" 

And at night by the light of the Mulberry moon 

They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon, 

On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree, 

And all were as happy as happy could be, 

            With the Quangle Wangle Quee.

 

 

by Edward Lear,  1812 - 1888

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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Harvest - The Pumpkin

I wanted to carry a neat arrangement of fresh fruit or vegetables placed in a shallow box on a green bed of scrunched tissue paper. It didn’t happen. Instead, with an air of apology, I would hand over some tinned produce my mother had sacrificed from our kitchen minutes earlier.  The gift was received with kindness, always, and stacked up with the others.  This was the pattern of many Harvest Festivals from my childhood, school and Sunday School alike.  I would forget to say anything at home until the last minute, leaving no time to prepare.

Years later, getting Harvest gifts ready with my children, we shredded green crepe paper, stuffed it into shoe boxes and added apples and pears to one box and root vegetables to another. It was lovely to watch them carefully take their gifts forward to be added to the display, which always looked wonderful in church or school hall.

Times change and we found ourselves preparing Harvest gifts to be passed on to the homeless, the Women’s Refuge, Shelter and many other charities.  Fresh produce wasn’t practical.  Toiletries, packaged food with a long shelf-life, socks, gloves, scarves and other small items of clothing would be more welcome.

Harvest isn’t just about thanks-giving, it’s about sharing and caring, and that is much more important than the careful presentation of the gift.

This autumn, I have had the delight of trying out new recipes for pumpkin.  A work colleague has grown far more then he could use and I was happy to help. Pumpkin pie and pumpkin soup are popular dishes, but I found a recipe for pumpkin bread and discovered it to be very more-ish.  The recipe is American which I did my best to convert and it worked out well.  It’s full of chocolate chips and is cake texture rather than bread, well, mine is. I’ll make it again next year.

 

I found this poem.

 

     The Pumpkin

Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,

The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,

And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,

With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,

Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,

While he waited to know that his warning was true,

And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain

For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. 

On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden

Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;

And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold

Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;

Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,

On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,

Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,

And the sun of September melts down on his vines. 

Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,

From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest,

When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board

The old broken links of affection restored,

When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,

And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before,

What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye?

What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie? 

Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,

When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!

When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,

Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!

When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,

Our chair a broad pumpkin,—our lantern the moon,

Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam,

In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team! 

Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better

E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!

Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,

Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!

And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,

Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,

That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,

And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,

And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky

Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie! 

John Greenleaf Whittier   1807 - 1892

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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Coventry Cathedral

It's the last day of September, which for me represents the true end of summer. The sun (when it shines) still has some power to warm, but one can feel its strength waning; the trees, although still in leaf, are beginning to shade from greens to yellows and browns. Everything is withdrawing.

October heralds a new season, a new academic year (in the university world) and is redolent for me of memories of moving to Coventry (October 1972) to study English and American Literature at Warwick University, whose campus is situated, as it happens, in that city and not in Warwick itself.

It wasn't the first time I'd been to Coventry, having been taken some ten years previously on an outing from Peterborough, one of those jolly charabanc trips of church parishioners and their kids, to see the newly finished and recently consecrated cathedral.

I wasn't the only new boy in town either, that autumn of 1972 (and I'm not referring to the other students). Tommy Hutchinson was sold by Blackpool to Coventry City in close season, reason enough for me to go and watch him play in sky-blue rather than tangerine at the city's other 'cathedral', Highfield Road,  and for the sky-blues to become my second team. But I digress.

Coventry Cathedral is an imposing creation of art and architecture, very mid-century modern in style, with some stunning contributions by the leading contemporary architects and artists of their day: John Bridgeman, Jacob Epstein, John Piper, Basil Spence and Graham Sutherland among them.

The new cathedral has been built of the same sandstone as the ruined cathedral (bombed out in 1940) that it stands beside, the two of them making a potent statement about the evils of war and the power of the human spirit to rise phoenix-like again. Although the new cathedral is strikingly contemporary, as a religious monument it is as all-encompassing and awe-inspiring as the great city churches of medieval England.

Coventry's iconic cathedral - the ruins of the old conjoined with the new

I've never been to a religious service in the cathedral (not being given much to church-going) but I have attended some other events within its splendid setting. The first was a recital of Bach's Goldberg Variations for harpsichord, which I went to with my girlfriend during the first year at Warwick. The second was a poetry reading some time in my final year and the third was a very moving exhibition of paintings, photography and poems by survivors to mark the 50th anniversary of the dropping of atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Coincidentally, the cathedral was also the setting for my graduation ceremony in 1975, only being the rebel that I was, I declined to attend, much to my parents' disappointment.

John Piper's stained glass windows

I've revisited the cathedral several times over forty years and always find it an inspiring space and a good place to reflect on life, the universe and et cetera.

I'm heading back there once again at the beginning of November to hear the fabulous Beth Hart perform one of a trio of "solo shows in beautiful settings" she's giving in the UK; (the other two being in Leeds Town Hall and Bath Forum).

I discovered the music of Beth Hart circa 2003 when an American bass player I know said he'd just played on some sessions for her album 'Leave The Light On' and that she had one of the most incredible voices he'd ever heard. He wasn't wrong. (He also went on to play in her touring band for a few years.) I reviewed Beth's first ever UK gig for the music press in October 2008 and have watched her become as popular in Europe in the last decade as she is in her native USA; a troubled woman - by her own admission - searching for grace through music. She is a force of nature and her voice is a gift from the gods. I'm looking forward to hearing her perform and to renewing my acquaintance with a wonderful building.

On to today's poem then, which frankly has little to do with any of the above, but it does connect with the broader weekly theme. It was provoked, as you might expect, by my recent visit to Kos.

No Time For Bigotry
Clock stopped permanently
at ten to three
in this babbling square,
where careless vacationers
from many nations
tuck into their fare
of full eclectic breakfasts
beneath dusty, ancient plane trees
trembling with sparrows
that shield their tables
from the mid-morning glare
of another azure day.

Clock stopped permanently,
record of the moment months ago
when earth moved mightily here,
when church and mosque
which border on this bosky square
shook terribly,
when walls were rent and icons fell.

All Greeks are philosophical
and forbearing;
they will repair in time,
though it must surely shock them
to hear some holiday-makers tell,
as they queue
to photograph these wounded buildings
all cracked and cordoned off,
that they feel sorry for the orthodox
but aren't too bothered about a shattered mosque.

I almost wish the ground would open up again.


Having got that off my chest, I'll leave you with an audio link of Beth Hart performing: Sky Full Of Clover. Just click on the song title and play it loud for maximum, soulful effect.

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

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Church - Raikes Parade Methodist Church

It was a sad day in 2003 when Raikes Parade Methodist Church held a final Methodist service and the doors were locked for the last time.  The church was no longer financially solvent.  Repair work was vital to hire out the church hall, but no money to pay for it, and no hire fees coming in – Catch 22. The congregation had diminished significantly in the preceding years.  It was nothing out of the ordinary. Members passed away and families moved on.  Reaching out into the local community seemed to have very little effect.  Most of the existing congregation lived away from the town centre, including myself.

We were married there and soon became part of the church family.  My husband was treasurer, Junior Mission for All (JMA) administrator and active member of the Men’s Fellowship.  I was crèche ‘auntie’ and Sunday School teacher for the infants. Sometimes there were no other children, just ours, so we would sit quietly in church doing some colouring and joining in with the prayers and singing.

When he was in the Cubs, our son was taking part in a St George and the Dragon drama at Sacred Heart Church after the St George’s Day parade in town. We squeezed on to a pew in the busy church with our young daughter, still on reins at that time, between us. We watched our son in the drama then I got crayons and paper out of my bag to keep little daughter occupied during the service. She was used to this. At the time for prayer, she decided to turn around, kneeling to face the people behind us who were talking quietly.

“Shush! Its hands together and eyes closed!” She said with air of authority beyond her age of two and half.

I thought I might die of embarrassment and apologised to the people behind at the earliest opportunity. Luckily they were very good humoured and said she had made their day.

It is fair to say that I was given a sound, Christian upbringing.  Previous generations were a mixture of Protestant and Catholic. As an older child I tried to get out of going to Sunday School more often than not, but by that time I was in charge of taking my little sister on the bus and back. No escape, but I could put my secret lipstick on.

I’m glad that Raikes Parade Church, is still a place of worship and hasn’t been demolished or converted beyond recognition. I have happy memories and although the congregation went separate ways into different churches, or in our case, not, we keep in touch. I only have to hear ‘Shine, Jesus, Shine’ or ‘Give Me Oil In My Lamp’ to be transported back with a smile.

 

Hymn by John Betjeman
 

The Church’s Restoration

In eighteen-eighty-three

Has left for contemplation

Not what there used to be.

How well the ancient woodwork

Looks round the Rect’ry hall,

Memorial of the good work

Of him who plann’d it all.

 

     He who took down the pew-ends
     And sold them anywhere

But kindly spared a few ends

Work’d up into a chair.

O worthy persecution

Of dust! O hue divine!

O cheerful substitution,

Thou varnished pitch-pine!

 

Church furnishing! Church furnishing!

Sing art and crafty praise!

He gave the brass for burnishing

He gave the thick red baize,

He gave the new addition,

Pull’d down the dull old aisle,

To pave the sweet transition

He gave th’ encaustic tile.

 

Of marble brown and veined

He did the pulpit make;

He order’d windows stained

Light red and crimson lake.

Sing on, with hymns uproarious,

Ye humble and aloof,

Look up! And oh how glorious

He has restored the roof!

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

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Childhood Secrets - Dreadful Child

It took ages to pluck up the courage to tell my mother that I was being picked on and bullied by my supposed ‘best friend’. The tears came before I got any words together. I was only nine, perhaps ten and I can still feel the misery, anxiety and fear that filled my life because of her. My mother calmed me, soothed me and told me the best way of dealing with the situation was to stand up to this girl and her army of followers who were turned against me. I can’t remember her words but I remember feeling my worries melting away and my confidence building back up. I put her plan of action to immediate effect and it worked. My mother had wisdom and understanding.

Unfortunately, her understanding didn’t stretch as far as ‘the lipstick incident’ when I was twelve, well, twelve and a half. In the summer season of 1968 our main residence was a pub and hotel on Central Promenade. On Sunday mornings I would be in charge of my younger sister as we got the bus to our other pub at South Shore then a short walk to Rawcliffe Street where we went to Sunday School. Girls my age had started to wear lipstick for church. I wasn’t allowed to but I’d discovered that Rimmel cosmetics in Woolworths was affordable and used my pocket money to buy some. I kept it hidden, only taking it out with me on these Sunday trips. Safely on the bus I would put it on then on the way back I would wipe it off. I don’t know how I managed to forget to clean it off one day. It didn’t end well. My mother’s eyes were blazing as she sent me to wash my face. I didn’t think the colour was much brighter than anyone else’s, not really.

Then, around the same age, there was ‘the bra incident’. I expected the worst, but my mother was kind. School P.E. lessons had become my nightmare.  A vest wearing, bra-less nightmare. So I smuggled one of my mother’s bras to school and put it on when I got there. It wasn’t ridiculously massive. I’d had a practice at home. The folded sides were held with safety pins and the cups tucked in making a neat shape. This neat, feminine shape was noticed at home when I’d forgotten to remove my made-to-measure bra. I can feel my blushing to this day as my mother tugged a loose shoulder strap with a “What in Heavens is this?” I held my breath. This was far worse than lipstick wearing and I expected a slap – that was normal punishment if you crossed my mother. Anyway, all I got was sent to take it off and to stop being so silly. Auntie Kathy, who looked after my sister and I, was given the task of going shopping for a couple of Berlei Teenform bras. I was overjoyed.

And there was the ‘A Taste of Honey incident’. The film was on television in our lounge and my mother was watching it in between popping down to the bar. I’d already been sent to bed once but I was spellbound. I didn’t hear my mother come back up but there she was, shoo-ing me to my room with “This isn’t a film for you”. I can’t imagine why. I only wanted to know what happened to Jo. The baby bit and her friendship with Geoffrey went right over my young head. I crept back and watched it by peeping round the door frame behind her. I was really chancing it. My mother was certainly not one to be messed with. Yes, she caught me and dealt punishment, but she didn’t kill my love for Shelagh Delaney’s brilliant work. Dora Bryan was amazing and perfectly cast.

My chosen poem takes me back to ‘the chocolates incident’. It wasn’t Moonlight that got the better of me, but a bag of Thornton’s. It was a smallish bag starting off with maybe eight huge chocolates. It was a gift to my mother and I found it, unopened, in the sideboard drawer.  I kept nipping back for ‘just one more’ until I realised there was only one left and I’d better leave it. I didn’t own up straight away either. Dreadful child.

I was going through some school stuff belonging to my grown up children when I came across the reams of printed out My Space conversation. I think it was My Space. It was something before the days of Facebook, anyway. This conversation was evidence of one of our children being bullied online and school had been given a copy. The power of the written word is far stronger than the spoken word in this sort of thing and re-reading it upset me as much as it did more than ten years ago when it happened. It was dealt with by school, not to my full satisfaction, but between us we put a stop to it. A new generation, a new way of bullying.

 

CHOCS
Into the half-pound box of Moonlight
My small hand crept.
There was an electrifying rustle.
There was a dark and glamorous scent.
Into my open, moist mouth
The first Montelimar went.
 
Down in the crinkly second layer,
Five finger-piglets snuffled
Among the Hazelnut Whirl,
The Caramel Square,
The Black Cherry and Almond Truffle.
 
Bliss.

I chomped. I gorged.
I stuffed my face,
Till only Coffee Cream
Was left for the owner of the box-
Tough luck, Anne Pope-
Oh, and half an Orange Supreme.

 

Carol Ann Duffy

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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