Dust - If You Must

 

Dust if you Must by Rose Milligan Next

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better To paint a picture, or write a letter, Bake a cake, or plant a seed; Ponder the difference between want and need? Dust if you must, but there's not much time, With rivers to swim, and mountains to climb; Music to hear, and books to read; Friends to cherish, and life to lead. Dust if you must, but the world's out there With the sun in your eyes, and the wind in your hair; A flutter of snow, a shower of rain, This day will not come around again. Dust if you must, but bear in mind, Old age will come and it's not kind. And when you go (and go you must) You, yourself, will make more dust.

 

That poem sums me up. I don’t live in a messy muddle, but I won’t lose any sleep over dusty shelves that can wait until tomorrow, or the next day. There is more to life. There’s a saying about ‘boring women have tidy houses’, something like that. It might be on a fridge magnet. I declare, I am not boring.

It is a bit disconcerting to read that household dust is composed of 20 – 50% dead skin cells. The rest is hair, fur, pollen, fibres from fabric and various other materials in the environment. I won’t dash for the anti-bacterial spray and a good cloth just yet. I’ll finish writing first, unless I see a dust mite or start to feel itchy. If it’s true, the layer of house dust doesn’t look any worse after five years. I’m not going to purposely run that experiment. I admit to being a teeny weeny bit embarrassed recently when we needed help to move a large sideboard and hatch style unit. The top surface of the hatch could have been a five year science exercise, but I know it wasn’t as long as that, I promise.

Soon, some remedial building work will create more than the average layer of dust. I’ll wait until it is all complete before I clean up.

Outside, the dry weather has made everywhere dusty. We spent the weekend enjoying some caravan time at one of our favourite places in Garstang. Passing vehicles, as slow as they were on the site, churned up powdery clouds with the dryness of the road tracks. Cars looked like they’d been through a sand storm.

Now, I’d like some help, please. Who wrote the poem ‘Dust if you Must’ credited above to Rose Milligan, but I also have the same poem in a book by Pam Ayres, showing her as having the copyright?

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Teddy - The Love for a Bear

There’s something appealing about teddy bears. Over the years I’ve accumulated many. They are not all mine, though they are very welcome to stay. The ones left behind when our children moved out have been given a home on a shelf in the spare room or in my writing space. I even have a Children In Need Pudsey Bear charm on my Pandora bracelet. I was delighted to discover a Teddy Bear Café in York last year and looked no further for somewhere to have an afternoon snack. It’s a shop, too, full of bears and I still can’t believe I didn’t buy one.

Meet Grandpa Teddy. He’s my oldest surviving bear and he’s been my treasure for fifty-seven years. A lifetime of continuing love has left him blind, threadbare and with a growl so weak it’s hardly audible. I was four years old when he arrived, a surprise gift as it wasn’t Christmas or my birthday. He was lying on the living-room floor, hiding under opened-out tea towels.

Covering him in clean tea towels was how my parents decided to wrap him up for me. It sounds bizarre but Grandpa Teddy is massive, much bigger than I was at the time and there was always an abundant supply of fresh towels in the pub, my parents being in the licensed trade. Also, it should be mentioned that they brought him home from a Licensed Victualler’s ‘do’ which would have involved the consumption of a couple of drinks, and I can imagine the pair of them, evening gown and dress suit, giggling as they draped the towels over him. The story was that Teddy was the subject of a ‘Guess the Name’ and nobody got it so they auctioned him instead and my daddy rescued him for me.

I don’t know what my first reaction was and there’s no one left to ask, but I would have been over-joyed.  I’ve always kept him in my bedroom and yes, that’s where he is right now, after nipping downstairs for a quick photo shoot.

The bears all mean something to me, though Grandpa Teddy, stuffed with straw and on the hard side is my favourite, they all bring comfort and joy.

 My son’s teddy from his baby days lives here, waiting in our cot to keep our grandson company when he stays. It’s a tuneful bear that plays Brahm’s Lullaby very gently over and over.

 I don’t know what happened to my first teddy. I named him Mickey Dripping and I used to take him with me to Sunday School. Maybe he’s the reason why I was given a certain book at prize-giving.

Recently, I was visiting my sister. She’s moved house and was showing me round.

“Ah, Teddy Carlo,” I said, delighted to see her first teddy propped up on a pillow in her bedroom. I remember he was a christening present to her. Now he’s pale and floppy, well-loved.    

We all need our bears, however mature we are.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

My Big Teddy

Grandpa Teddy, you’ve always been here

For all of my life I’ve kept you near

You’ve given comfort to my sadness

And shared in all my joy and gladness.

Your stitched-on smile is coming undone,

Your orange glass eyes have long since gone.

Straw stuffing is sneaking from your seams

You keep hold of my secrets and dreams.

Your proud growl, now a tiny rumble,

Brown leather nose begins to crumble,

Golden fur is thinning and threadbare,

And I love you, special teddy bear.

 

PMW 2017

 



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