Butterflies

I’m sorry, butterflies. The buddleias are in such a sorry state, like the rest of the so-called garden and it’s my fault. I’m not responsible for the lack of rain or the heatwave – did I miss that? – but we went away for weeks on end, leaving plants to look after themselves. Garden neglect. No sooner were we back from our travels south, when we were off in the caravan. We didn’t go far, probably only a half hour walk away from home to Marton Mere for a Haven break. It wasn’t a holiday, though being there made it feel like one. We left our house to the mercy of the company entrusted to replace our damp course. We relaxed with ice creams, beer and whatever was on the menu in the Boathouse, then returned home to a job perfectly done. Thanks, team. Within days we were missing caravan life and quickly organised a trip north to join family and celebrate our wedding anniversary. The garden was beyond all hope, so I left it.

Buddleia, white blooms and quite majestic, fared better than the purple or pink and a few butterflies were enjoying themselves, but not the abundance we’ve known in previous summers. Those summers when we’ve stayed at home and I’ve tended the garden properly.

One dry day when the air was still, I spent time chopping up bramble that had crept along the ground. At last, a path for me to reach the marigolds and dead-head them.

Not a single nasturtium has graced us. Lack of water, so down to my absence again. The grandchildren were fascinated with watching the caterpillars that fed from them, growing from tiny to huge. The survivors would go on to become butterflies. The grandchildren have grown out of the story, ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’, but I haven’t. It continues forever in the infant’s library I help to look after.

When I started school, age 4, 1959, my coat peg had a picture of a butterfly above it. Each child could identify their peg by a picture. Children have names, now. I would have recognised my name at the time, but it’s just the way things were done in those good old days.

I found this poem,

In the middle of our porridge plates
There was a blue butterfly painted,
And each morning we tried who should reach the butterfly first.
Then the Grandmother said, ‘Do not eat the poor butterfly.’
That made us laugh.
Always she said it and always it started us laughing,
It seemed such a sweet little joke.
I was certain that one fine morning
The butterfly would fly out of our plates,
Laughing the teeniest laugh in the world,
And perch on the Grandmother’s lap.

Katherine Mansfield Beauchamp Murry 1888 - 1923

The butterfly cross stitch is one of mine, from when I could see what I'm doing.

Thanks for reading, Pam x      

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Mind Your Language - Wash Your Mouth Out!

That soap. I can still remember the taste and the smell.  Green Palmolive rubbed hard in my mouth by my very angry mother. All I said was ‘bugger or buggery’ and obviously that was all it took for my mum to drop whatever she was doing, shout at me and drag me, literally kicking and screaming to our black and white tiled bathroom. The memory is so clear, perhaps I was traumatised by such a severe punishment to be inflicted on me at four years old. Anyway, it was Nanna’s fault.

Both my grandmothers were decent, lady-like women, but Nanna, my maternal grandmother, ran pubs like we did and she was, perhaps a bit more worldly wise. Nanna often said ‘is it buggery’ or ‘does it buggery’ in answer to questions, not to me, but I heard it often enough. In her world were many buggers, too, in fact everyone was a daft bugger, silly bugger, dirty bugger, lazy bugger, etc, and being in the pub trade, lots of drunken buggers. I spent lots of time with her so I suppose it wasn’t really shocking that I should say it myself. After the mouth washing, I sobbed to my mum that I only said what Nanna says. I don’t know if she took it up with her.

I worked with four and five year olds in an infant school for quite a while – the best years of my working life and I wish I’d stayed, but that’s another story. Young children soak up education like sponges and everything else as well. They love to tell their own stories, no holds barred, so I found myself knowing all sorts about everyone’s parents, siblings and home life. I am the keeper of many family secrets and my lips are strongly sealed. There are people out there who might be horrified if they knew what their child had said at school. Sometimes, there was inappropriate language and staff were advised to be tactful and simply ask a child to say it again as we hadn’t heard properly. There were not many swear words around that age group. If necessary, I would say that I didn’t know that word, and let’s just use words we understand.

Sometimes I have to check myself, or remind my husband that something isn’t ‘bloody’ it’s only a table, or whatever the item might be. It’s a hard habit to break, but we have our grandchildren round a lot and what big ears they have. They are aged five, four, three and nearly two. I’ve already had a gentle chat with the five year old about ‘some words are only for grown-ups and not nice for children to say’. How times have changed. My mother would have scooped him up to the bathroom and he would still be vomiting soap suds after his exclamation of ‘f--king hell’ when he dropped something under the table.

We had a small, metal plant pot on the draining board. I know it was in the way, I just needed to decide where to store it, so I take full responsibility. One day when my husband was doing something at the sink and our grandchildren were playing nicely, the planter fell to the floor with a loud clang. My husband, exasperated, called out ‘That bloody tin!’, which met with three of the four children bursting into laughter and shouting ‘Bloody tin!’ We were all hysterical, adults and children alike. It was the funniest thing ever. The ghost of my mum would have run in with the soap. The small planter, or ‘bloody tin’ which it is now referred to, is safely stored.

As for having my mouth washed out as a child, the deterrent is not lifelong, by the way. Mummy might be cross, but I swear sometimes. And worse words than ‘bugger’.

My poem is a reflection of working with the general public where not everyone is pleasant. Suffering pain and Covid rules bring out the best and the worst in people.

 

So, you scream ‘eff off’ at me

From the safety of your phone.

I’ll kill your call, line now free

And you can leave me alone.

 

Lately, I’ve been chucking back

The very same words you use.

I’m not taking any flak,

I’ve developed a short fuse.

 

I know you’ll understand me

Using your language, self-taught.

Unacceptable? I see,

You’re taken aback and fraught.

 

Say ‘bugger’ then, I don’t care.

Just be yourself, you are crass.

I’m not bothered if you swear,

Sticks and stones, and all that jazz.

 

PMW 2020

Thanks for reading, take care and keep well. Pam x

 

 

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