On Track - One More Time To Live

The school holiday of Christmas 1971 was a time of worry and uncertainty. Exams were looming ever closer which led to thoughts of that distant thing called ‘the future’ and planning for it by staying ‘on track’. I wasn’t sure what track I was supposed to be on, or what the future had in store for me. I wanted to write. When I was brave enough to say it out loud, I met with raised eyebrows from nearly everyone except my English teacher who recognised my potential, gave me lots of praise and used my work as an example to the rest of 5 alpha. I was bright enough to appreciate that a good, all round education was a sound starting block for anything so I did my best, and hoped for the best. It was down to me. The holiday was a good time for revision and in order to offer support to each other, friends and I gathered regularly, usually at our classmate, Ian’s house. He lived central to everyone and his mum didn’t seem to mind her front room being taken over in the afternoons by half a dozen or more lads and lasses sitting round the coal fire drinking the endless pots of tea she made for us. After a brisk walk in freezing fog to get there, it was lovely to feel welcome. My home was a place I felt the need to escape from.  My mother had passed away a few years earlier, my father had quickly remarried and the whole dynamic of our family had changed. Being amongst friends was the best way to spend any afternoon.

This group revision didn’t last very long before the lid on the radiogram was lifted and the LPs came out. The Moody Blues album ‘Every Good Boy Deserves Favour’ was king of the turn-table.  My favourite track, ‘One More Time to Live’ written by John Lodge was the beginning of side two. We’d try to sing along, but never got the words right. Practice makes perfect. Years later, it was included in a Moody Blues concert and I was spirited straight back to those happy days. The album is one of my most played CDs and track 6 is always repeated.

This time last year I was in Shrewsbury and slowly coming back down to earth after meeting John Lodge on his solo UK tour. It was a delight and a privilege. It meant so much.

 

No poem, just a gathering of my thoughts.

 

I’m waiting to retire

I’m waiting to re-locate

I’m waiting to settle down

I’m waiting for harmony

I’m waiting for the baby

I’m waiting to get back on track

    With the novel I’m reading

    With the novel I’m writing

    With the poetry in my head

I’m waiting for my time, to come round again.

                                  PMW

 

Thanks for reading, Pam xx

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Candlelight - Power Cuts

That’s Wimbledon over and a hope for two British champions in the same tournament is on hold.

There’s something romantic about candlelight. A warm glow that softens complexion and reflects a gentle flicker on the wine glasses in the relaxed atmosphere of a gathering of friends. If only I could travel back in time, my chosen gathering would include my dear Lord Byron, Wordsworth, Shelley, Burns and the Brownings; and if only I could hear their poetry from their own voices instead of mine.

It was my voice reciting their poetry in the candle-lit evenings of early 1974 from ‘The Penguin Book of Love Poetry’ which I had just added to my bookshelf.  Power cuts meant we sat together in our dining-room, the one room that still had an open fire-place suitable for a coal fire (go easy on the coal, shortages). The room was large enough to have a three piece suite round the fire and a dining table and chairs set out further back. Our family lived in here and our bedrooms for the duration of the crisis.  For safety reasons we used torches everywhere except the dining room and kitchen. My father, still a licensee, had an off-licence as well as his brewery work and we lived in a house instead of a pub. The silence of a private detached house was eerie after noisy pubs all of my life and now it was even creepier in the dark, but our candle-lit dining room had a cosy feel. We listened to the battery powered radio, played board games and had enough light to read to ourselves or to each other. No one seemed to miss the television. I hated being unable to play my records. Luckily, we had a gas cooker. I can’t remember how long the power cuts lasted. I know we were given the times that we would have electricity and how long it would be on. I wonder how we would manage these days.

Thinking of candlelight reminds me of the wonderful ‘Carols by Candlelight’ services we had at Raikes Parade Methodist Church when I was a Sunday School teacher. I looked after the infant age group which included one of my children. She wasn’t the most trustworthy to carefully carry a tea-light in a jar to the front of the church but filled with a sense of occasion and doing something important, she did it perfectly as did the others, and all singing ‘Shine Jesus Shine’ at the top of their voices.

My husband and I are having a weekend away soon for our wedding anniversary. It might include a romantic candle-lit dinner and a Scottish sunset.

One of my favourite poems, first encountered in 1974. I’d spent years amongst the Brontes and it was time to extend my interests.
 

Sonnet XLIII, from the Portuguese.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

                   Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

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