Tapestry - Heavenly Stitches

 

‘Just another stitch in life’s rich tapestry’

I don’t know where the original quote came from but I used to say it a lot. I’ve heard variations of it on television programmes and read it in books but where it started eludes me. My dad heard me say it and loved it so much that he made it his own and drove me mad with it at least once a day. That was long ago. I used to say it at work back in those old days, 1970s, so I probably picked it up from a colleague. More recently I’ve heard ‘a dropped stitch in life’s tapestry’ when something has gone pear-shaped or not according to plan. I might try it out. There’s usually plenty of scope.

Somewhere in the attic, probably buried beneath other unfinished projects and my children’s  old school books, is my three-quarters completed tapestry of The Last Supper. No small starter kit for me. It was straight in for the epic masterpiece. The intention was to gift the finished work to the church I belonged to at the time, Raikes Parade Methodist. The church closed in 2003 and I think I’d already ‘rested’ the tapestry in favour of having a go at cross-stitch.  I’ve had one on the go for years. Not in the attic, well, not yet, anyway. It’s in the foot-stool where I keep needlework projects. Untouched for a while but not given up on. I struggle to see what I’m doing but I was given special magnifiers for Christmas which I hope will solve the problem. It might give me the incentive to dig out The Last Supper which was becoming quite a work of art.

A better work of art was my sister’s tiger, a large, beautiful tapestry that took her hours to do. I remember helping with the intricate embroidery details on the eyes. It’s so long ago that I could still see what I was doing. The finished tapestry was on the landing wall at the top of her stairs and looked stunning. I’ll have to ask her about it.

My young, impressionable music head was – and still is – dominated by The Moody Blues, but there was always a little space for other things. My fondness for female singers has always been limited to my daughter and not many others. One of the ‘not many’ is Carole King and her album which I love as much now as I did in the early ‘70s, Tapestry. I was spellbound by her soulful, almost mournful voice, and captured by her way with words. ‘You’ve Got A Friend’ spoke to me when I was down and troubled, nearly most of the time in those days.

I hope my dad's tapestry continues in Heaven, as I try not to drop too many stitches.

Carole King’s lyrics, poetry to me,

Tapestry

My life has been a tapestry
Of rich and royal hue
An everlasting vision
Of the ever-changing view
A wond'rous woven magic
In bits of blue and gold
A tapestry to feel and see
Impossible to hold

Once amid the soft silver
Sadness in the sky
There came a man of fortune
A drifter passing by
He wore a torn and tattered cloth
Around his leathered hide
And a coat of many colors
Yellow, green, on either side

He moved with some uncertainty
As if he didn't know
Just what he was there for
Or where he ought to go
Once he reached for something
Golden hanging from a tree
And his hand came down empty

Soon within my tapestry
Along the rutted road
He sat down on a river rock
And turned into a toad
It seemed that he had fallen
Into someone's wicked spell
And I wept to see him suffer
Though I didn't know him well

As I watched in sorrow
There suddenly appeared
A figure gray and ghostly
Beneath a flowing beard
In times of deepest darkness
I've seen him dressed in black
Now my tapestry's unraveling
He's come to take me back
He's come to take me back

by Carole King

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Hurly Burly - No Mall & No Builders!

As far as possible, I will avoid any commotion, hurly-burly and busy places, especially since I retired from work. Sometimes things happen and I find myself somewhere I’d rather not be with no immediate escape and I have to grin and bear it.

With the exception of Springfield Mall, Virginia – going back many years when such places were new to me – I don’t like shopping malls. Warm and dry on a cold, wet day they might be, but bustling and noisy does not give me a pleasant shopping experience. My friend and I once got lost trying to find a way out of Manchester Arndale. We rushed one way, then another, back-tracked, or thought we were, and eventually asked a security guard. By then we weren’t bothered which exit, we’d find our bearings outside and we did. When our daughter was about thirteen she wanted to go to the Trafford Centre for her birthday treat, shopping, lunch there, everything possible. We had to do it. Luckily, she loved it and enjoyed spending her birthday money, having the promised lunch, but it was all in the over-crowded, loud hullabaloo that made me want to scream. I might be the only person who doesn’t like the Trafford Centre. I can live with that. I would probably hate Springfield these days.

It doesn’t stop at shopping malls. I can’t cope with having workmen in at home. Running repairs are alright and our usual heating engineer is very welcome when it’s time to service the boiler. Workmen with a capital W means builders and a team of them, taking over and making a mess, making a noise, either voices or machinery. As the family grew and more space was needed, it seemed like a good idea to have extensions here, there and everywhere which meant weeks of disruption. The end results were worth it. The house we move into will be staying exactly as we find it.

This Dr John Cooper Clarke poem reminds me of being lost in the hurly-burly of a pre-Christmas Arndale Centre,

Trouble @ t’Mall

 

Daily Bugle – Front Page News

A drunken posse on a booze cruise

Swear me in I got nothing to lose

High five – low morale

Trouble aye trouble aye

Trouble @ t’Mall

 

I heard about it at the Taj Mahal

I nearly choked on me Taka Dahl

I quizzed Chief Wiggum and he said, “Waal

Cuff ‘em boys – trouble at the Mall”

 

Tripe stand bloody fell over

Its covered the place in a beefy odour

Better take a nosegay pal

Trouble aye trouble aye

Trouble @ t’Mall

 

Bury my heart at Clinton Cards

Remember me to the old guard

These days you just gotta be hard

Because like they say in this here locale

Trouble aye trouble aye

Trouble @ t’Mall

 

H & M is full of flunkies

And Tony and Guy couldn’t give a monkey’s

In the dying words of Gore Vidal

‘Appen it’s trouble aye

Trouble @ t’Mall

JCC

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Truth - Be Honest

I overheard something at my mother’s funeral. Fifty years have passed and the words still hurt.

“Poor Sheila, so young. Still, she lasted longer than we thought.”

My auntie, dabbing her eyes, was holding court with other relatives outside Carleton Crematorium Chapel. I can’t remember if it was before or after the service, not that it matters. Nothing mattered, except the deep deception that cut through my very soul. All these people, family and friends of the family had known that my mother was terminally ill, yet they had spent the last however many months speaking to me along the lines of, “When Mummy’s better…”, “When your mum is better…”, “When Sheila gets over this…”.   At nearly fourteen years of age I was old enough to ‘be grown up about all this’, but not considered to be old enough to be included in what was happening or given a chance to say goodbye. I was shattered. I had believed I was secure in a close-knit family. Everybody was hiding the truth.

Well, not quite everybody. My nanna was honest without actually coming out with the words. She was looking after us, my sister and me. Our family ran pubs and we were staying out of town at their pub, rather than ours. I adored my nanna, she was my rock. I wouldn’t usually have stepped out of line with her for the world. There was much love, respect but also a tiny bit of fear because I expected she could be even angrier than my mum if she was cross with me. I don’t know where it came from, but for the one and only time in my life, I gave her a glimpse of my 'stroppy madam' mood and I answered her back. I don’t remember what was said between us or why but I regretted it immediately and braced myself for a slap. It didn’t come. Instead, she hugged me tight and I cried. Tears for being rude to my lovely nanna and tears for worrying about my mum.

“Where there’s life, there’s hope.” Nanna’s words spoke volumes. Sheila, my mum was her daughter. Nanna had already suffered the loss of a daughter, a child, before my mum was born. I wish I had half of her northern grit.

What I overheard at my mum’s funeral taught me about truth and about compassion. My relatives wanted to protect me, though deceiving me into false security was the outcome. It was with the best of intention, I can understand that. My importance of honesty in life-threatening situations is borne of that experience.

 My husband was very ill when our son was about twelve, maybe thirteen. The illness seemed never ending. He was in hospital for months, no diagnosis, no improvement. I’m sure our son thought long and hard before asking me if Dad was going to die. The situation was on his mind more than I realised.  I told him with total honesty, that until it was discovered what was wrong, we didn’t know what would happen, but we hoped Dad would pull through and I promised, I would always tell him the truth. My husband recovered, eventually, thank goodness. My children appreciated the truth.

 

A poem from Muhammad Ali,

 

The face of truth is open.

The eyes of truth are bright,

The lips of truth are ever closed,

The head of truth is upright.

 

The breast of truth stands forward,

The gaze of truth is straight,

Truth has neither fear nor doubt

Truth has patience to wait.

 

The words of truth are touching,

The voice of truth is deep,

The law of truth is simple:

All that you sow you reap.

 

The soul of truth is flaming,

The heart of truth is warm,

The mind of truth is clear,

And firm through rain or storm.

 

Facts are but its shadows,

Truth stands above all sin,

Great be the battle in life,

Truth in the end shall win.

 

The image of truth is Christ,

Wisdom's message its rod;

Sign of truth is the cross,

Soul of truth is God/

 

Life of truth is eternal,

Immortal is its past.

Power of truth will endure,

Truth shall hold to the last.

 

Muhammad Ali  (1942 - 2016)

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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Life Cycle by Jill Reidy

I've written all my life.  I have diaries from when I was six, short stories in exercise books and blogs on all sorts. I even self published a children's novel when I couldn't get a publisher to do it.  So this week's blog should have been a doddle.  It wasn't.  All my stories were too short or too long, so I'm hoping I'll be forgiven for this one, that's slightly longer than recommended.  The idea came to me years ago, when my grandma began to suffer from dementia, and it's only recently that I've put this down on paper.  I've always been fascinated by the passing of time, and especially within families, when roles eventually become reversed. This story has not had an airing before, and it would be good to hear what readers think.

Life Cycle by Jill Reidy

4^thAugust 1949

Dear Mags, 

Thank you so much for the card and pretty bootees.  They will be perfect to keep Jean’s feet warm once the weather turns a little cooler. I can’t believe I’m now actually, officially, a mother!  I hope this letter finds you and Charlie well, and tell Susan we’ll come over as soon as we get straight, and she can meet her little cousin in person.

Love Elsie xx

PS. No, the birth wasn’t pleasant

19^thOctober 1950

Dear Mags,

It was lovely to see you all last Sunday, and thank you again for our tea, which was delicious.  Jean has just started walking with her little trolley!  She’s still a bit wobbly and not always keen to have help, but we’re doing all we can to encourage her to walk independently.  We are keeping the pushchair for now as I don’t think we would get to the grocer’s without it just yet, never mind into town. She’s into everything as you can imagine. I can see we’re going to have to put some locks on the cupboard doors before long.  That’s a job for Bert.

Love Elsie xx

8^thJune 1951

Dear Mags,

Potty training! How on earth did you deal with it?  I’m at the end of my tether, and running out of clean knickers for Jean, who doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest.  She hasn’t got the hang of it at all.  There’s wee all over the house, and I’m worried about the smell.  If you have any advice, please let me know by return of post before we all drown.

Love Elsie xx

PS Nurse at the clinic suggested slapping Jean’s leg every time she loses control, but I’m not very happy doing that – and anyway, it didn’t do any good.

7^thJanuary 1952

Dear Maggie,

Thank you for your letter. I understand your concerns about Jean’s speech, but the nurse really didn’t think there was anything to worry about. She said they all develop at their own pace and Jean has her own gobbledegook language just now.  Most of the time I find it not too difficult to understand.  Nurse seems to think she will be chattering away ten to the dozen before we know it. Susan is obviously much more of a talker than a doer.  I noticed she wasn’t keen to play outside withJean when you were over last week.

Elsie x

PS the nurse has booked Jean in for a hearing test, although she doesn’t think there’s a problem.

18^thDecember 1952

Dear Mags, 

I will be coming on the Number 4 bus on Thursday, about 11am.  Jean loves asking the conductor for her ticket now she has got her grommets in and she can hear properly!  I must admit, it’s made things a lot easier.  It was very frustrating talking to her when she couldn’t hear. By the way, dear, if you have any advice on sharing I’d love to hear it.  Jean had a little friend to play yesterday and refused to share any of her toys or even the sweets they had after tea.  I’ve never felt so embarrassed.  Little Christine’s mother was there, looking very disapproving.  I’m glad to hear that Susan has finally managed to pedal her bike without any help.

Love Elsie xx

19^thAugust 1953

Dear Mags,

I can’t believe Jean will be starting school in only a few more weeks.  She’s still my baby and she can’t possibly be big enough for proper school. I sat last night and sewed her name into every item of clothing she owns! I can’t afford to be buying more if she loses anything.  We’re still on coupons for the time being.  Lord knows when that’s going to end.  How did Susan get on when she first started?  And, more to the point, how were you?  I fear I shall be in floods of tears when I send her in on her first day.

Love Elsie xx

4^thOctober 1953

Dear Mags,

It was lovely to get all your news and to hear how well Susan’s doing at school, now she’s settled.  I’m hoping the same will happen with Jean. The first couple of weeks were dreadful. She had to be peeled off me, screaming. They kept telling me to leave her and walk away, but I just couldn’t do it, not when she was so upset.  They say she’s fine once she’s there but I’m not so sure.  I walked past the playground one day and she was standing by the fence, all by herself. I didn’t let her see me but I can tell you, it broke my heart, Mags.  Hopefully she’ll soon make some little friends, then she’ll be happier, I’m sure. Did you check with Charlie whether you can come over on the 9^th?

Love Elsie

xxx

22^ndAugust 1965

Darling Mags, 

What can I say?  The telephone call was such a shock.  I hadn’t realised Charlie was so ill.  Bert and I will be at the funeral, of course, but we’re having a few problems with Jean at the moment, and I’m not sure if she’ll make it that day.  I’ve told her Susan will be there, but you know what teenagers are like?  Anyway, dear, take care and we’ll see you next Friday. I’ll bring ham sandwiches and a victoria sponge.  Do you want flowers?

All our love, 

Elsie and Bert xx

21^stOctober 1965

Dear Maggie,

I’m sorry to hear you’ve been feeling so low, and I’m surprised you think we haven’t been very supportive. We’ve been over as much as we can, but, as I’ve mentioned before, we’re having problems with Jean.  It was bad enough when she wouldn’t come out of her room and all we could hear was music at full blast, but now she’s never in – out every night, dancing and goodness knows what else.  I put a meal on the table and she just looks at it, as though I’m trying to poison her.  She picks at it for a bit and then disappears upstairs again.  Things were so much easier when she was little.  From your last letter it sounds as though Susan is much more sensible, but even so, sometimes they need a little nudge.  I’d have a word with her dear, if you’re feeling a bit down. She should really be thinking a little more about you.

Love Elsie xx

29^thSeptember 1967

Dear Mags,

The end of an era.  We dropped Jean off at Leicester Poly this afternoon.  It’s a tiny room but she seemed happy enough, in fact, couldn’t wait for us to go.  I cried all the way home but we’re back now and Bert’s putting the kettle on.  It’s just the thought of her there, on her own, knowing nobody.  I wonder how long the peace will last.  

Love Elsie xx

PS I’m sure we’ll miss her, just not the drama!

suem49@btinternet.com

08.09.20012

Hi Sue,

Thanks so much for the warm bed socks and slippers for mum.  They will be lovely and cosy for her as the nights draw in. 

You asked for an update. Where do I start?  I dropped mum off at the Nursing Home yesterday, which was pretty traumatic.  I know she doesn’t really recognise me any more but it was still awful having to hand her over to a complete stranger, and to see her face as I walked straight back out (which is what they’d advised by the way).  I couldn’t see for tears as I drove home.  And then when I got home, I realised I still had her suitcase in the boot of the car – all her clothes neatly labelled with her name, so they don’t get lost.  I started off sewing the labels on, but it took me so long, and made me so sad I bought the iron on ones and raced through it so I didn’t have to think about it.  I couldn’t help remembering all the happy times when we were younger and we used to come and visit you and your mum.  How we used to wind them up and then disappear in fits of giggles.  

Well, there’s not been much to laugh about the last few months, I can tell you.  There was the deafness, which nearly drove me insane.  How dad had lived with it all those years, god only knows.  I’m just glad he’s not here to see mum now.  It would have broken his heart.  Once we got the right hearing aids at least mum could hear, even if she couldn’t understand.  It’s been so hard, Sue.  People don’t realise how awkward she can be, shutting herself in her room and refusing to come out, picking at her food, refusing to hand round her sweets. Then, one day last week, as I drove past the Home, I spotted mum, sat outside on a bench all on her own.  It made me sad to think she hasn’t really got friends any more. I know it’s the illness but that doesn’t always help.

I’ve been taking her on the bus, just for something to do.  She seems to like that, looking out of the window and clutching the ticket as if her life depends on it.  I dread anybody speaking to her as I know she’ll either not answer or come out with some gobbledegook that only I understand, but I suppose, in a way, that’s the least of my worries.

They rang me from the Home yesterday to ask me to take in some incontinence pants.  I know mum had had a few accidents lately, and I must admit, I was worried that the house would stink of pee, but I was really hoping it was just a phase.  Obviously not.  I’ve bought a huge pack and will deliver them tomorrow, along with the clothes.  They also mentioned that mum’s struggling to walk with her frame.  It seems she’s going backwards (metaphorically, not literally, although who knows what’s next!).  She always seemed OK with it when I was in the house, but she’s obviously getting more wobbly.  The trouble is she just won’t accept any help.  I might take you up on that offer of Auntie Maggie’s old wheelchair, if the offer still stands?  It will be handy when I take her out and it means we can at least get into town without too much trouble. 

It looks as though mum won’t be coming back to her house again, which is another big sadness.  I’m going to start tidying up a bit with a view to selling, although that could take a while.  The first job is to remove all the locks we put on cupboard doors to stop her getting to anything like matches or knives.  You just don’t think of all these things before it happens, do you? 

On top of all this, I’ve got Emily (at thirty two!) still at home.  As if we didn’t have enough problems with her when she was in her teens. Now she doesn’t know whether she wants to work in Superdrug or be a nuclear physicist (well, not quite, but you get my drift).  Jason’s daughter, Amber is eleven, going on twenty two, and is already throwing her weight about. When does it ever end?

Anyway, Sue, I’ll sign off now. I’m going to get out the old photo albums and take them in for mum to look through.  You never know, it might just spark a memory.

Things were so much easier when mum was younger.

Looking forward to a catch up very soon.

Lots of love 

Jean xx

PS Sue, I hope I don’t sound too harsh, I’m sure you understand.  Mum looked after me all those years and now it’s my turn to look after her.  

 She was my Mum by Jill Reidy

She was my mum

Many, many years ago

I was inside that sagging belly

My squirming and kicking

Testament to the life within

Those breasts, now flat against a caving chest

Once a comfort, rounded and full, 

Calling to my selfish baby lips 

They nurtured and grew me

The feeble arms, flesh loose 

Had spent nights wrapping babies in their tight embrace

Rested heavy in a tired lap

Strong work-worn hands

Gently wiped away my tears

Now they flutter and shake

Pick endlessly at imaginary fluff 

Hold a plastic cup with lid and spout

Just like mine when I was two  

The swollen feet in cosy slippers 

Once squeezed into stilettos and waltzed around the room 

Ball gown wafting perfumed air 

As I marvelled at the transformed beauty

Now she's my daughter

I guide the cup to thin, parched lips

Wipe a whiskered chin

Tuck in the sheet around her tiny form

Stroke her cheek 

Switch on the lamp she likes left on

Small comfort in a confused and empty life

Tomorrow I will brush her hair

Braid it as she once did mine

Bribe her to replace the dentures

Wash her face and scrub her nails

We'll fight over the incontinence pants 

And putting on her tights

I'll get her in the wheelchair

Take her on the bus

Let her have the ticket as I whisper in her ear 

I'll walk her through the park

Past the flowers whose names are now lost 

In the tangled muddle of an old, old brain

I'll look at the back of her neck

Feel unbelievably sad

And wipe away the tears that just won't stop.

Thanks for reading, Jill

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ESP - Second Sight

My mum called it ‘second sight’. She had inherited it from her mother and grandmother. It has come down the generations to me, though mine differs from theirs. The first time I encountered it was at our hotel on Central Promenade. I was a young teenager making myself useful by helping, or possibly hindering, the receptionist.  I was sent to fetch my mum to attend to a guest, a woman who was in great distress. I ran upstairs, along the corridor to our private rooms and found my mother on the settee, waking up from a nap. Before I had chance to speak, she said,

“Her son drowned in a boating accident. I just dreamt it.”

What struck me most was the calm, matter-of-fact way that she said it as she stood up, smoothed her skirt, popped her shoes on, combed her hair and checked her lipstick, all in two seconds before she was out of the door. Sadly, that’s exactly what had happened and the poor lady had just received the terrible news.

I am told that my great-grandmother sometimes dreamt names that matched horses in forthcoming races. I don’t know how lucrative it was for her, but it hasn’t come down the line to me, though I’m not into horse racing.

From an early age I knew that my Nanna could see absolutely everything and she knew what everyone was up to. Her eyes looked like she could see right inside a person’s thoughts. With her, everything and everybody was safe. Things came to her in dreams and sometimes she would sit, deep in thought then tell you what you wanted or did not want to hear, never less than honest and nothing ever ‘wrapped up’. I adored her.

I don’t tend to dream things, I just know, usually out of the blue. My sister was in the early stages of her second pregnancy. Very randomly I told her she was having a daughter and she would be born early, a bit poorly but she would be fine. I could even pin-point the date to either 31^st October or 3^rd November, which didn’t mean anything at the time.  My niece was born by Caesarean section on 31^st October, 1988, spent a short time in the Special Care Baby Unit and has grown up into a beautiful young woman. My daughter was born on 3^rd November, 1994.

There was an avalanche in the Alps at a time when people I knew were in the area. I was sure I’d heard something on the radio news, but it wasn’t on the next bulletin, no mention of it on teletext and nothing on the TV news, until the next day when it actually happened. The same thing happened with an earthquake.

I don’t know if it’s connected to ‘second sight’ or an entirely different phenomenon, but I have had ghostly encounters. There are many, but what always makes me smile is the Most Haunted episode featuring The Old Hall in Sandbach. We lived there for a short time when my father was licencee. I hated that move to Cheshire and I’ve mentioned it, not by name, in previous blogs. Yes, it had ‘occupants’, we quickly became aware, but none of our ghosts matched any of the findings in the programme. Strange.

     I found this poem. I can really relate to it.

 

 
    Conjugal Telepathy
    Have you ever noticed when you’re talking with your spouse?
    No matter if you’re out with friends or wandering round the house,
    That when you have a thought you think is worthy to express,
    You’ve scarcely uttered half of it before your thoughts digress,
    And you have quite forgotten what it was you wished to say,
    But there is no need to panic for your spouse will save the day,
    And without the need for prompting, and indeed without a pause,
    Your partial thought’s completed, with an extra thoughtful clause.
    My friends to whom I’ve spoken, and I’ve spoken to a few,
    Have noticed this phenomenon, and so perhaps it’s true,
    That when you live together an extended length of time,
    The need for speech reduces and there's more accent on mime.
    So perhaps there is no worry when your mind begins to go,
    For even out in company, no one really needs to know.
    There is a great incentive to always keep your cool,
    When your spouse's intervention stops you looking like a fool,
    For even if the utterance is not what you would say,
    It is best to grin and bear it and pretend so anyway.

                                                                           By Ian Smith

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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