A hook to remember

I had drawn a blank when it came to this weeks theme ..... until yesterday.

I received news that no-one welcomes. My Gran had passed away. Although she reached the grand age of 91 and had been ill for a couple of years after having a stroke, I was still unprepared.

Quite a character, robustly built and spoke with an air of someone who was well to do (in a very good Hyacinth Bucket kind of way), she would always be gallivanting off on some adventure or other. She travelled to Australia in her 80's to visit her friend, took coach trips all over the country, regularly enjoyed selling knick-knacks at flea markets and car boot sales. She was on the committee for the oldies club and would volunteer at a local museum as a guide. Jaunts out in her car to see family and friends further afield from her Yorkshire home would keep her occupied in between. My Gran, who had never passed a driving test - only able to drive because of Grandfather rights from the second world war when she had been a land girl driving tractors - was a bit of a terror on the roads, no one really liked to be a passenger in her car. It was too scary! She took my brothers and I to stately homes when we visited for the weekend and we would always have a picnic afterwards, usually with sandwich fillings that we didn't like. But we didn't mind. We got to spend the day exploring somewhere new, fresh air in our lungs and running off energy in the grounds of wherever we were. This is how I will remember her. Always on the go, doing something, never wasting a moment.

Of course, after her stroke she couldn't move. Incapacitated, you could see the frustration in her eyes, and as time went on she became almost belligerent. I can't say that I blame her. I do however feel for my Dad, who cared for her at her home.


The hook, the hall, it's all still there:

In the cupboard in the hall,
the hook still holds your coat
that has travelled far and wide
on adventures belying your age.
The plastic runner
still protects your carpet
as it always has,
from the myriad pairs of shoes
that have passed 
across your doorstep.
The living room stuffed with furniture;
a suite, sewing machines, cabinets, a piano
(built by an relative years before),
porcelain plates polkadot the magnolia
on picture rails overhead.
Every inch of surface has an ornament,
a keepsake,a photo, a memory.
Your prized Jasper cheese plate
with beautiful domed lid
stands pride of place on the piano.
It was only for show.
Your kitchen is still as it has been for more years
than I can remember,
never changing.
The pens, pencils, scraps of paper and envelopes
await your attention on the windowsill
right next to the phone.
It's all here Gran,
all that's missing
is you.


Thanks for reading. x

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Stereotyping – much easier than THINKING

In a complex, bewildering world, it is so much easier to avoid really thinking about issues that cause us concern by applying a label, a hook, a short-hand that conveys the meaning instead. Unfortunately, this leads to stereotyping, which in turn can take hold in the collective psyche as established fact, when it is no such thing. The effort of questioning what we are told becomes unnecessary, superfluous, redundant as the stereotype shapes our opinions and takes the place of any rigour of thought - it’s all been done for us, to save us the bother!

Stereotyping leads to casual racism, writing off whole religions as terrorists, swallowing lies put out by ruthless political propaganda machines, turning on vulnerable, defenceless minorities, stigmatising sufferers of illnesses or conditions, lynchings. And all because of our inability to think beyond a narrow framework prescribed by those who wish to control us.

Here’s a little poem I found that illustrates the point, in its own pithy way.

Adjectives

Lemons must be zesty
and
smorgasbords veritable.

Soldiers must be brave and young.

Families are all hard working,
and immigrants scrounging.

The words Muslim and terrorist are filed too close in the western lexicons.

I bought a lemon today.
I sliced it in two.
It was dry,
full of pith.

By Adrian via allpoets.com

Thank you for reading,

Sheilagh

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