Hooked

One Enid Blyton book was all it took to set me off on a life-time of reading. I’ve mentioned before about the box of books left ‘for the little girl’ in a pub we were moving into. The little girl was me, aged seven and the pub was The Boar’s Head in Blackpool. This was my introduction to The Broons and Oor Wullie, which enabled me to master a Scottish accent on paper. My teacher was not impressed, bless her. It was also my introduction to a love of Enid Blyton stories, with the donated hard-backs of The Secret Seven, The Ring o’ Bells Mystery and The Rilloby Fair Mystery. I was hooked. I read them over and over again. I remember finishing The Rilloby Fair Mystery and going straight back to the beginning. I loved it so much. A nearby newsagents sold toys and books. My parents knew exactly what to bring home for me. I still have most of the books. My children preferred Roald Dahl and J.K.Rowling. My grandchildren prefer activities on screens – a sign of the times – but Michael Rosen is loved by a grandson and Jacqueline Wilson is loved by a granddaughter. I was born in the ‘50s, thank goodness.

Another thing got me hooked, literally. My grandmother taught me to knit. My mother did, as well, but it was mainly Nanna. She crocheted a lot, making herself lacy tops that were like works of art. She had the patience of a saint trying to teach me. Watching her, deliberately going slow to show me, I would be confident that ‘I’d got it’. She would start me off by making a chain then handing me the hook and yarn to carry on. We were making a scarf. I was making a mess.

“Oh, give it here!” Another exasperated grumble as she grabbed the tangle of wool from my hands.

This went on into my teens and I failed to crochet anything except the foundation chain.

My grandmother passed away when I was nineteen. Something must have clicked because shortly after, I discovered I could crochet, after all, and I still do. I crocheted a fancy bedspread. That was the first thing I made. I have lots of blankets I’ve made from crocheted granny squares and I’ve managed to crochet teddy bears for charity. Yes, I’m crochet hooked.

Enid Blyton, known as a story writer, but less known as a poet. This is one of hers,

Fairy Snow

Yesterday, the sky was white,
For one big cloud was spread
From east to west and north to south
Above my head.

But in the night the fairy-folk
Began to wonder why
They saw no moon nor little stars
About the sky.

They didn’t like that big white cloud,
So up they softly flew
And tore it all to tiny bits
The whole night through.

And one by one the bits fell down,
Like feathers soft and white,
Until the ground was overspread
With dazzling white.

And now today that big white cloud
Beneath my feet is spread,
And all the sky is blue again
Above my head.

Enid Blyton  1897-1968

 Greetings from Dumfries & Galloway. Thanks for reading, Pam 

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God - Keeping My Faith

 

I believe in God. I don’t know what God looks like and I wouldn’t know where to start to guess. God’s appearance is not important, it’s the sense of being I reach out to and, for me, God is a presence to be aware of rather than something visible.  I have what my husband would call ‘blind faith’. I get what he means, but to me my Christian faith is not blind.  Each to their own and we respect our opposite views. We trust each other to follow our funeral wishes, but hopefully they won’t be needed for a while yet.

Before school broke up for the Christmas break, I was in the infant’s library with a small group of children. I was asked if there was a book about Egypt and luckily I found something considered ‘perfect’. Bright and polite, the boy went on to explain to me that his family were from Egypt and don’t celebrate Christmas, so they were going there for the holidays to visit family and show off the new baby. He wanted to learn about the country before he went. I was pleased to help. I learnt a lot about his culture that afternoon. It was nice to catch up with him in the new term. His family visit had been very good and he’d been much warmer than we were.

It’s not unusual for my six year old grandson to have us in fits of laughter. He has a natural wit about him, inherited from his mum. One family tea time he commanded attention with, “Listen everybody, if I was the Son of God...” he proceeded to list the things he’d do to make a perfect world with lots of football and Roblox involved.  I wanted to know where this had come from so I asked him who the Son of God is. Confusion or Marvel characters had taken over as his answer was something about a man who lives in our heads and eats our brains.  

I’ve turned to God for help and guidance throughout my life. Growing up without my mother, who died young, was hard. Difficulties were magnified by my father’s swift remarriage which resulted in me trying to fit in but left feeling abandoned and not welcome in the new family. It was a long time before I found any hope and I never got any answers, but I got through it.

‘Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret’ is a book by Judy Blume. It’s a wonderful read for girls growing up, having anxieties about every aspect of puberty and not feeling confident about asking. I believe it’s a film now. I’ll look out for it. I had grown out of that stage of life by the time I read it, but I could relate to most of it and hoped it was useful to my daughter when she built an invisible wall to keep me out.

Life throws hurdles into the mix, or maybe just mine, and some higher to clear than others, but again, I never gave up and any obstacles haven’t been impossible to conquer, so far. Sometimes I’ve been my own worst enemy. I’ve broken more than one of the Ten Commandments, some more than once. I’ve tried to disregard God, only to realise that I can’t get by without my faith. For this and for past misdemeanours I have been aware of forgiveness.

This year has already brought challenges. I’m shuffling about as I write this, easing off one physical pain for another and trying to keep mental stresses in proportion. Someone once said, “When things look like they’re falling apart, it might be that they’re falling into place” or something like that.

Having a faith and believing in God is who I am. I don’t carry a banner, I don’t evangelise, I just do my best for everyone and in everything I do. I live and let live, accepting people for who and what they are, hoping they offer me the same.

The words of Desiderata mean a lot to me.

Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly, and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of of heroism. Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann. 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Listening - Pounds, Shillings and Pence

 “You were not listening!”  Mrs S raged, dark eyes blazing with hatred. I shook, whimpered and cried as she smacked me hard, many times, across the back of my legs with her wooden ruler. I was only seven and a half, fairly new to this school and Mrs S terrified me. I felt the eyes of a class full of seven and eight year olds upon me, staring at my distress. Tears streamed my face, my legs were stinging and I didn’t dare to move until Mrs S dismissed me.

My crime? The inability to do the ‘money’ sums. Pounds, shillings and pence sums were beyond me. I hadn’t done this at my old school. I tried to tell Mrs S. She never listened to me. She wasn’t going to help me. Did she believe that if she smacked me hard enough, I would magically be able to do this work?

My young life had completely changed. I had been a happy, confident little girl, doing well at  school with teachers I adored and a group of friends. I was uprooted, due to our family being in the licenced trade, and moved from all that was familiar to a different pub in a different town, this new school where I felt like an outsider, even at such a young age. I loved my new baby sister.  I was completely lost in all this new stuff.  Looking at life through my adult eyes, that’s a great deal for a seven and a half year old child to cope with. I don’t remember any intervention, apart from my Nanna Hetty suggesting to my mother that she ought to speak to Mrs S or have me change schools. I’d been having nightmares about Mrs S while I was staying with my grandparents during a school holiday, and told Nanna Hetty about my miseries. Nanna Hetty was my paternal grandmother. I adored her, just as I did my maternal one. Grown-ups can have their differences and my mother would have taken Nanna Hetty’s  views as interference. I was stuck. Dad was getting the pub sorted, under new management, and Mum had to get into a routine with the new baby and me, but I didn’t know where I fitted in. They told me just to do my best at school, but I already was. I did listen to Mrs S, but I didn’t understand and was too scared to say so.

Family friends came to visit one day and brought with them a girl a bit older than me. I don’t know who she was and I can’t even remember her name, but that day, she was my guardian angel. We were playing together. I overcame my shyness and asked if she could do pounds, shillings and pence sums. Yes, she could, and would she teach me? Yes, she would, and she did. Slowly, explaining everything, she taught me so well, I was bursting with confidence at my new ability and for once, I wasn’t dreading school.

Two things happened in my favour, though years apart. Twelve months after this move, we were off again to pastures new and I was leaving this dreadful school and Mrs S and the teacher I had after her.  A feeling of belonging never occurred there for me. The other big thing was Decimalisation. Hooray! It might have been just for me.

Perhaps it was fate, perhaps it was setting my demons to rest, but many years later, I found myself working in the same school I had hated, sometimes in the same classroom that used to be mine, where Mrs S smacked my legs. Mrs S had passed away long since, or she’d be about a hundred and thirty years old. My favourite job in my entire working life is the years I spent there. It is a happy school with confident children and teachers who go the extra mile to care for them. Corporal punishment is a thing of the past, thank goodness.

My poem, in Haiku,

I was listening
But I failed to understand
And ended up scared.

She filled me with fear.
She was a witch with dark eyes
And a darker heart.

Hard, wooden ruler
Across the back of my legs.
I still didn’t learn

But I had nightmares
Caused by my raging teacher
Who would not help me

When I was seven,
A shy, new girl, feeling lost
And so unhappy.

Pounds, shillings and pence,
I just couldn’t calculate
And sobbed in distress.

PMW 2021


Thank for reading, Pam x

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Growing Pains - Back to School

Fear gripped me. Mid-dream and half asleep, I slipped out of bed in response to the screaming child in the next room. I tried to hurry, but my heart was pounding out of my chest, I could hardly catch my breath and my legs wouldn’t move properly.

He sat upright, wide eyes staring straight ahead at something scary, mouth open, continuous screaming. He was otherwise quite still.  I wrapped my arms around him, stroked his silky hair, made soothing noises and rocked him gently.  Night terrors, bless him, my little son. They continued for a while and terrified me more than him. I never got used to it happening and never found a proper reason.  He wouldn’t know anything about it, but my night was disturbed and my head filled with indescribable horrors that prevented me getting back to sleep long after he was settled.  He was about three years old, maybe only two and a half.  Perhaps his brain was working overtime, the events of his busy day filling his head with all sorts. Maybe it was a form of growing pains. He soon grew out of it. Later this week he will be thirty.  I am proud of him, and myself for getting something right along the way.

My daughter’s growing pains were physical and very real. Again, it was a night time thing, but she was older and could yell out that her legs were hurting. Double Calpol and lots of rubbing did the trick. She could settle back to sleep. I would be wide awake. I thought ‘growing pains’ was something made up, but our doctor was certain that was her ailment and she would grow out of it. She has.

At last, children have been able to return to school. It’s been too long a break, six months for most infants. I’m confident that schools are as safe as they can possibly be and I’m delighted to see my eldest grandson happy in his reception class where he is in the process of moving to Year 1. He loves school so much, it was awful to have it taken away from him. He understood about the ‘germs’ and needing to protect each other, but he missed everything. I enjoyed playing games, reading to him and doing little lessons to keep him on track with what he had learned so far, but as time went on, he needed the dynamics of his teacher, the surroundings of his inspirational classroom and to socialise with his friends.  He proudly tells me he is in the Giraffe ‘bubble’ and they do everything together. He’s happy. I hope all the children are, especially anyone who has been feeling unhappy in these difficult times.  Lockdown has brought plenty of invisible growing pains.

One of my favourite wordsmiths and fellow Mancunian, Mike Garry,

Signify

I called her Mam once

Sat on the carpet

With arms folded and legs crossed

Fingers on my lips

In that special place

She would eclipse

Where she'd read me poems

Tell me tales

Sing me songs

And like a fish to it's source

I'd be drawn in

I loved the way she'd hold the book

So that I could see the pictures

And the way she'd slowly move it from side to side

So that the naughty kids at the back could see

She told us we were allowed to dream

She got us to act out plays

I remember doing Finnegan's Wake

Told us about Shaw, Shakespeare and Joyce and Yeats

I was eight

But in that classroom her voice was sweet music

Echoing prayer and hymn

Story and songs

She was a living angel

But you'd know if you'd done wrong

She took us on school trips

To castles with moats across oceans with boats

And we would float

Without ever leaving the room

Loved the way she made the simple act of reading of the class register

Sound like the most beautiful song tune

Simply by the way she'd validate childrens names by saying

Katherine

Theresa

Patricia and James

Sometimes she'd get me to close my eyes

Imagine worlds beyond the sky

She told me one

"Michael, It's alright to cry"

And her eyes were seaside blue sunshine

But in that rainy, 1970's black and white Moss Side

Where my messed up life would disappear

The very second she walked into the room

She made my insignificant life

Signify

And she taught me that the more I read the more I see

The more I see the more I know

The more I know that more I grow

The more I grow the more I am

And I would give the world and all its riches

To simply hold that woman's hand one more time

And say thanks

"Thanks"

Mike Garry

Thank for reading, Pam x

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