False Memory - The Way It Should Have Been

One of my nephews had a birthday last weekend. He is my sister’s eldest and was the first baby to be welcomed into the immediate family since she herself was born and the anticipated event had filled us with excitement for months. I found myself remembering his birth, which was thirty-six years ago and with pangs of sadness, discovered my false memory.

A Wednesday afternoon and I was at work. All was quiet, just three of us on the premises. The shop was shut, retail staff still observing half day closing. It didn’t affect office staff so we were busily working – actually, the work would have been completed already and we were probably taking it easy and having a laugh until we could lock up and leave. When my sister phoned to say things were happening, baby on the move, help wanted, my colleagues sent me on my way.

I drove to her house, a short distance from where I was on Dickson Road to where she was near Stanley Park. My false memory tells me that I packed her into my dark blue Austin Maxi, but I didn’t have that car anymore. I had a light blue metallic and rust Datsun Violet. I was sent on a quick errand on foot to a nearby shop for camera film – those were the days – and returning to my car, thought my sister was about to give birth there and then as for some reason, the passenger seat was flat. Luckily, I delivered her to the hospital before any other delivery happened and waited with her until her husband arrived from his place of work out of town. I went home.

This is where my recollection of events all goes funny, such a strong memory yet so false. By now it is early evening. I’m sat on the settee in the lounge, knitting a chunky-knit cardigan with thick needles. I’m doing a sleeve which is growing quickly and I’m thinking if I finish this piece before the baby comes, it’s a girl, if not, it’s a boy. I don’t think we had gender reveals at that time. My dad is sitting in his usual armchair, reading every word in the Gazette, sharing a few adverts in the classified section, items for sale, usually cars, and drawing a ring round them with his Parker biro. He’s wearing a denim-blue sweater that I made for him. He checks his yellow tea-cup, disappointed to find it empty. The phone rings in the hall and he goes to answer it. Of course, it was the happy news of the safe arrival of a perfect baby boy.

This is how I remember it. Or is it how I wish to remember it?

 My father had been ecstatic to learn he was going to be a grandfather and shared his news with anyone who would listen. A boy would be lovely after raising daughters, but of course a granddaughter would be loved and cherished just the same. Arthritis plagued my father. He blamed it on rolling barrels and lifting cases of bottles in the pubs. He relied on pain relief and some days he was better than others. Out of the blue, he suffered a heart attack. It was serious, but he rallied and after a couple of weeks in hospital, he was well enough to be discharged. The experience had scared him and he would need time to recover. He felt mentally shot and physically weak and told me how he hoped he would be strong enough to hold the baby when it arrived.

He didn’t get the chance. Another heart attack took his life nearly two months before my nephew was born. He was 62.

False Memory

Blue knitted jumper, nice
Subtly fragrant Old Spice.
Another pot of tea?
Empty cup.
I was sure he was there
In his usual chair
With an open Gazette
Close to hand.
On the table, his pen,
Should he need it again,
Circling classified ads,
Things for sale.
I thought he got the phone
But he’d already gone.
My mind playing cruel tricks.
Death’s torment.

PMW 2022

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Knitting - In, Round, Through, Off

 

 Filling the bird feeders is my first job of the morning. Three fat-ball holders and two seed holders hanging on branches of the surrounding fir trees provide a feast and it only takes a minute for the birds to descend and squabble over perching rights.  I watch from the window, sipping strong tea and half leaning on the radiator.  Sunshine and a cloudless blue sky promises a beautiful autumn morning.  Earlier, I had seen the cows by the gate at the end of the meadow. They had wandered back up the hill now. I’m happy to stand for a while and drink it all in, never tiring of what I see and enjoying the changing each season brings.

I’m not at home. This is Dumfries and Galloway. My perfect place for some much needed rest and relaxation, and my birthday in a couple of days.  I am trying to make myself unwind, determined to make the most of this longer than usual stay, but I’m aware that just below the surface of my calm exterior, stress is bubbling.  There’s always family stuff and I’m not quite well but not bad enough to be ill.  I need to chill, so I’m thankful to have my knitting to occupy me later on and help me to relax.

Knitting has been and continues to be a lifetime occupation.  I might be repeating myself here if I’ve previously mentioned about being taught to knit by my mother and grandmother.  It was when my mother was expecting my baby sister.  Of course, the gender wasn’t known before birth in those days.  Both ladies were constantly knitting and I was taking an interest.  , One of them started me off with a few stitches on their spare needles and talked me through it in simple terms of ‘in, round, through, off’ until I got the hang of it.  I tried hard, dropped stitches, added stitches from somewhere and made a mess, probably more than once, but with their saintly patience and my determination, I’ve learnt a wealth of knitting and crochet skills that I’m constantly putting into practice.  From baby clothes to Aran sweaters, plain knits to complicated, I’ve done it all.  It is Christmas jumper time again, which is what I’m working on at the moment, for my grandchildren.  By the way, the photograph is from last year, in case you’re thinking I’m super-fast at churning them out.

 I found this poem,  Mrs Moon by Roger McGough,

Mrs Moon

Sitting up in the sky

Little old lady

Rock-a-bye

With a ball of fading light

And silvery needles

Knitting the night.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Suffrage - Northern Grit

Goodness me, that was a quick holiday. One moment I was sunning myself in the unexpected warmth of glorious South Uist and in the next blink I’m home at my desk. The bit in the middle was filled with breath-taking scenery, meeting interesting friendly people and learning about the Hebrides. We notched up 1700 miles exploring and travelling.  So here I am and before I get cracking on planning a trip to the Orkneys and Shetland Isles, my blog page beckons.

 

I was delighted to learn that a statue of Emmeline Pankhurst is to be erected in her home city of Manchester, at last.  The first time I saw sculptor Helen Reeves’ model of ‘Rise Up Women’ I felt emotional. The pose is perfect, exactly as I imagined Mrs Pankhurst to be, standing on a chair addressing a crowd. She is remembered as the leader of the British suffragettes, but she was much more than that.  She was a political activist and social reformer in the late 1800s.  She founded the Women’s Franchise League which fought to allow married women to vote in local elections, and later the Women’s Social and Political Union, a women’s suffrage organisation separate from any recognised political party. It became the Women’s Party, promoting equal rights for women.  It was an important start to a fight that was still on-going a century later. Equal pay is something that has only happened during my working life.

Emmeline was refused membership to the Independent Labour Party because of her gender. I wish I’d been a fly on the wall when that happened. I don’t imagine anger or shouting, I think of her as fastening her coat, putting a pin through her hat and saying, “Well, I’ll show ‘em. Watch this.” 

Living at this time in Chorlton-on-Medlock, this strong, determined woman from Moss Side, as forceful and as capable as they come, involved herself in everything she could to make the right sort of changes. She was constantly busy fighting for what she believed in and at the same time raising her own family of five. Her daughters, Christabel and Sylvia fought the cause with her as they reached adulthood.  She supported her barrister husband, Richard, with his causes including education reform. He also advocated women’s suffrage.

My family, on my father’s side from many generations come from Chorlton-on-Medlock. They would have been living there at the same time as the Pankhursts. I’m proud to come from a long line of those northern women who might have known or met Emmeline and her family. I wish I’d inherited half their grit and strength. I might have suffrage campaigners in my ancestry.  I wonder if any of my lot chained themselves to railings or were subjected to horrific abuse being force fed in prison. It is something to look into.

 Votes for married women over the age of 30 were granted in 1918.

All women were given the same voting rights as men, which was voting at age 21, in 1928, shortly after Emmeline’s death.

I will remember the suffragettes when I cast my vote on Thursday.

 

Emmeline Pankhurst’s Manchester statue, ‘Rise Up Women’ will be unveiled in St Peter’s Square on 8^th March, 2019 to mark International Women’s Day.

The photo is from the Manchester Evening News.

 

I found this poem, Coming by Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1860-1935).

 

Because the time is ripe, the age is ready,
Because the world her woman's help demands,
Out of the long subjection and seclusion
Come to our field of warfare and confusion
The mother's heart and hands.

 

Long has she stood aside, endured and waited,
While man swung forward, toiling on alone;
Now, for the weary man, so long ill-mated,
Now, for the world for which she was created,
Comes woman to her own.

 

Not for herself! though sweet the air of freedom;
Not for herself, though dear the new-born power;
But for the child, who needs a nobler mother,
For the whole people, needing one another,
Comes woman to her hour.

 

 

Charlotte Perkins Gilman

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

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