Calendars - It's A Date

 
“Thirty days hath September,
April, June and November.
February has twenty-eight alone,
All the rest have thirty-one,
Excepting leap year, that’s the time
When February’s days are twenty-nine.

I’d be lost without our calendar. It hangs on the wall in the back room, telling us what we’re doing and where we’re doing it, year in, year out. Everything is there, birthdays, appointments, football fixtures, holidays and all manner of notable events. I tried a ‘Filofax’ once but found it completely unsuitable for my needs. I wasn’t jetting off round the world, just travelling the North West of the UK by road in my first Nissan Micra and the journeys were infrequent, so a lot of the features were wasted on me. My husband logs everything into his phone calendar. I haven’t bothered to teach myself how to do it. I prefer pen and paper where I can flip over one month to the next. Some aspects of modern technology I’m happy to do without.

I found some interesting history and discovered that the Ancient Egyptians were the first civilisation to use a solar calendar, to help predict the River Nile’s annual flooding. The information failed to state how accurate it was.

From Wikipedia, “Roman Calendar and Julian Reform: The Romans developed the Julian calendar, introduced by Julius Caesar in 45 BC, which was a significant step in organising the solar year. Gregorian Calendar (1582): Pope Gregory XIII introduced the Gregorian calendar as a refinement of the Julian calendar in 1582, which is now the internationally accepted civil calendar.”

Based on a true story and with a strong cast of ‘A’ list actors, ‘Calendar Girls’, released in 2003, was awarded the British Comedy Award for the Best Comedy Film. It gives a light-hearted insight into serious illness and a brilliant idea to raise awareness and boost funds for charity. A stage production is currently on tour and there is a musical version.

My childhood spent with my mother’s choice of music from her rack of records included Neil Sedaka. We would dance to Happy Birthday, Sweet Sixteen and Calendar Girl.

If I was fortunate enough to be given an Advent Calendar on the run up to Christmas, it would be a pretty, sparkly addition to our decorations, covered in a fine glitter that left shiny dust behind each time it was touched. Behind each tiny door, numbered with the date, a symbol of Christmas waited to be found. No sweet, no chocolate, yet magi

The Good Old Days

Pity the poor children
Of today, with their calendars
Stuffed with chocolates,

Never to know the thrill
Of opening a small cardboard door
And discovering behind it

A picture of a bell.

Brian Bilston

Anyway, we’re off to one of our ‘notable events’ that has been on our calendar since last year and carried forward to the actual date this year. John Lodge ‘Days of Future Passed’ concert at the Royal Northern College of Music, Manchester. Tuesday, 8th April. I just need to breathe slowly, not get too excited and I’ll be fine.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Spontaneity

 

Spontaneity is not my strong point. I’m more Ms Stayput and keep cautious. I leave impulsiveness to those with the confidence to either know what they’re doing, or not care about the outcome because we only live once. That’s fine. I’m a happy soul with my plans noted on my calendar, allowing for plenty of rest time between events. By events, I really mean appointments and regular weekly or monthly meetings. I have a visit to the dentist coming up and as the surgery is in town, it might be tempting to pop to M & S or the Hound’s Hill for a bit of Christmas shopping. That could be classed as spontaneity for me, I suppose.

 The weekend before last, we had a few days away in our caravan, planned, of course. We met up with family for some relaxing time together, which it was. Disappointingly, the pub within walking distance no longer serves food, so we all managed with our own supplies and looked for somewhere further afield for the next day. A lovely hotel in nearby Lockerbie provided the answer, with its fabulous restaurant open to non-residents. This was probably the last time we’ll get out in the caravan this year. The chilly autumn nights and dark tea-times have no appeal to me, regardless of how beautiful the view across a loch might be from the caravan window. Never say never, though, someone might have an impulse to squeeze one more trip in. It won’t be me. We’ll be cosy in our favourite lodge in Dumfries & Galloway soon and I am happy to wait for that.

 During this week, there was a moment when a decision was made that could, from my point of view, be a spontaneous thing. Christmas Day has always been at home and over the years the family has expanded, which is wonderful. The family is my world, but Christmas can be hard work for me, so, giving everyone plenty of notice, we told everyone that we’re not hosting Christmas Day this year, but we will arrange a family buffet between Christmas and New Year. We hadn’t made plans for ourselves until The Corner Flag popped up on Blackpool FC Hotel festivities. Spontaneity stepped in. Sorted.

 I found this poem by Bryan Wallace on Poem Hunter and thought it apt for me, 

Diary with a little pencil stuck in spine-
Each day planned with metronomic precision.
Nothing left to chance at all - can't take the risk.
Plan each day and leave nothing at all to chance.
Run our lives like a well-oiled machine.
Think to the future - pension plans and
Rainy day saving funds - we best be prepared.
Each think carefully planned - no nasty surprises -
It is the best way - we are told.

But what if we leave life to chance, to allow
Room for at least a little bit of spontaneity?
To allow space to have a little fun
When un-expected opportunity should arise?
To enjoy the chance encounters with the people
That we meet as we travel along life's highway.
To take the opportunity to kick the stray football
Back tot he kids playing in the park.
To enjoy the random things which happen -
When we allow ourselves to live in the moment
And not at some point in the future -
Planning for some disaster that most probably
Will never happen!

 Bryan Wallace 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Bark - One Special Dog

The decision was made. We didn’t see it as giving in, relenting to pressure. It was more like the time was right. Lots had been going on in the family and as things settled down, I didn’t want to be thought of as “Mum always said ‘No’”.

 The four of us sat down to tea. Everyone had a small piece of paper, face down, not to be touched until we were ready. I think I should explain, we’re not a completely crazy family, at least not yet, but as parents we took pleasure in turning ordinary things into memorable events sometimes. We took turns to reveal the word or words on the other side.

‘WE’, ‘ARE’, ‘GETTING’, ‘A DOG’. Tea-time took on a party atmosphere as excited children burst with joy and parents knew they’d done exactly the right thing.

 Before involving the children, we’d done some research into the best breeds for a family dog and what would suit us all. I wouldn’t expect our son to be happy walking a ball of fluff with a bow in its hair and something large and heavy would be too much for me to handle. No puppies, either. There were lots of dogs needing a caring home. We would find one. The search began in local kennels and RSPCA homes. I can’t remember how we found North West Springer Spaniel Rescue, but that’s where we found our special Cassie, in their Warrington kennels.

 She was an old, Springer breeding bitch and had been subjected to some neglect since reaching the end of her usefulness. She was deaf and not very playful. She needed regular, short walks, but she was too old to chase a ball. She was perfect for our first family dog. Cassie was quiet. Because of her deafness, we didn’t let her off her lead. She didn’t hear the doorbell, so she never barked. I only remember hearing her bark once.

 We went on the beach at Cleveleys. We thought Cassie might not have experienced sand or sea. The tide was quite a way out, but there was a big pool in a shallow area near the sea wall. Cassie ambled in, water covering her feet and she stood still, taking us by surprise by barking her head off. Thinking she was unhappy, I brought her out, only for her to pull on the lead to go back in and bark again. Clearly she liked it. Perhaps it was the cold water on her feet combined with all the smells that might have been new to her. Bless her.

 She was an old girl of a dog, but she brought much joy in the time we had her. We all loved her. Whatever her life had been like before, we know we did the best we could to fill her twilight years with affection, care and comfort. This happened many years ago and paved the way for another, younger and more active dog, but Cassie will always be special.

Haiku poem for Cassie

Her name was Cassie,
A quiet Springer Spaniel.
She was unhappy.

“All you need is love
And lots and lots of cuddles
To know you’re wanted.”

She was getting old
And neglect had made her sad,
So we brought her home

And loved her to bits.
Our affection filled her days
And she loved us, too.

She was very deaf,
She had to stay on her lead
But she didn’t mind.

She liked a short stroll,
Her running days were over.
She would explore smells.

Once, we heard her bark
In a pool on Cleveleys beach.
She was excited.

It was her laughter,
A moment of enjoyment.
You were special, Cass.

PMW 2023

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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One Big Fat Decade of Happiness

Somebody asked me recently whether I liked 80s music.  It took me a few moments' contemplation before I realised I wouldn't recognise 80s music if it blasted out at me from one of next door's noisy barbecues.  "New Romantics?" I asked, tentatively, "Adam Ant?"  He nodded.  I changed the subject, feeling slightly vindicated.  It took me a minute, too, to realise why 80s music was - well, not music to my ears.  Anybody who has recently had a baby knows that music, like reading, conversation - and pretty much everything else - becomes irrelevant.  Never mind, 'All You Need is Love.'  Actually, all you need is sleep.  And lots of it. 

With not just a new baby, but also a toddler and a three year old, I spent the beginning of the eighties knee deep in nipple shields, pureed parsnips, endless terry nappies, cereal box monsters, Calpol, Paracetemol, wellies, tissues, wet flannels (pre proper wet-wipe era), swings, roundabouts, toddler groups, play school, nursery, school and desperate phone calls to my mum in London.  Oh, and anti-depressants.  This was far from my best decade.  It was the decade of tears where everything fell apart, when I should have been happy in my new role of motherhood, but somehow, everything that happened during that decade was tinged with worry, despair and the big black dog that would not let me go.  Music was well down on my list of priorities.  Keeping alive and relatively sane was at the top.  

If you're reading this, you'll see that I at least achieved the former.  

When I was invited back recently, after a couple of years' absence, to write a guest blog, I thought this would be one of the easier titles.  My first thought was the sixties, my teenage years, the Beatles, hot pants, mini skirts, thick black eyeliner, false lashes, off to Art College, the excitement.  Yes, that would be my best decade.  But, hang on, what about the awful teenage angst?  The boyfriends (or lack of them)?  The spots, the boredom at school, the waiting by the phone at night, the tears? How could that really be the best decade?

OK, so the best decade must have been the seventies, more Art College, meeting the future husband, more Beatles, marriage, a baby and another on the way.  But.....I'm forgetting the way reality often suffocated dreams: living together, arguments, mice in the basement flat, money, the stresses of finding jobs and keeping them, they all conspired to cause friction and anxiety.  Dickens was right, 'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times'.

I've got sixty six years to look back on.  That's a fair few decades.  I realised, after some reflection, that it's difficult, if not impossible to choose the 'best decade'.  There are good parts and bad parts to each one. My eight years of the fifties are mainly filled with rose coloured images: playing out, endless hot summer days, the park, the freezing cold outdoor Lido on a Sunday morning with dad, seaside holidays with our cousins, my baby brother being born, and skirts and dresses appearing magically at the end of my bed after  mum had sat up into the early hours finishing a hem or threading elastic through a waist.  But there is also the smell of baked beans and meat pie as I enter school in the mornings, my stomach churning at the thought of another anguished lunchtime, there is the untimely death of a classmate, knocked down by a car, and the shock and confusion that follows, there is some bullying by the girls I thought were my friends.

I realise I haven't got a 'best decade'.  I haven't even got a best year, a best month, a best week or a best day.  What I have got is an awful lot of best moments: those moments that come at you, unbidden, with a wave of pride or happiness: my dad walking me down the aisle, the children's births,  driving over the Yorkshire Dales as the sun set in the distance, my eldest son's passing out from the RAF as the planes swooped in formation overhead, my daughter's from the Police, hats flying up in the air, my youngest son's graduation, finishing the Coast to Coast bike ride, learning new skills, numerous family celebrations - and the funerals, that, although inevitably sad, nevertheless gave us the opportunity to get together and celebrate a life.  

I'd love to have a best decade.  Maybe that is yet to come. Meanwhile, do you think I could have patchwork of all the best bits in my life up to now? 

All cobbled together in one big fat lump of happiness.  Now that really would be the best decade. 

How to make The Best Decade

Take one New Year's Eve kiss
And place it carefully in a bowl
Cover and leave overnight
Add a litre of laughter
And stir well
Sprinkle on the best love you can find 
Let it soak in
Whip up events of choice
Happy ones if available
And add to mixture
Whisk in a couple of adventures
And a challenge (any size)
Some Christmases and birthdays 
Add a large bundle of hugs 
More kisses (various types)
And a drop of tears 
Stir for about six months 
Leave the mixture to rise
This is the beginning of your decade
Check every two years
And adjust quantities if necessary
At the end of the decade
Check once more
The bowl should be empty

Repeat once every ten years on New Year's Eve 


Thanks for reading..... Jill 

  

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