Petrichor - The Lost Fragrance of Rain

Yesterday I walked home from my hospital appointment. It felt so good to be out in the fresh air of tree-lined East Park Drive. I had reached the zoo before I dared to remove my face mask and take deep breaths. This was only my second outside venture on foot since I began to emerge from lockdown and my self-isolating. I was enjoying the freedom.

Being inside the hospital made me feel anxious and uncomfortable, and present circumstances of pandemic meant I had to go it alone. It began on Thursday night when a recurring eye problem, which had troubled me for a few days, took a turn for the worst, completely out of my control and I had no choice but to seek proper help. The 111 helpline referred me to A&E. I was scared, it was the last place I wanted to be. I was in pain from my eye. I felt sick, unsure if it was the pain or anxiety of where I was and not being able to see properly. Blood tests showed my blood sugar was all over the place, my potassium level too low and I was a bit dehydrated. Well, it was after midnight, I was scared, tired, should have been in bed, so I’m not surprised.  I wasn’t offered a drink of water or a banana, but I was looked after very well and as always, I have lots of praise for our NHS. They gave me medication and wanted me back the next morning, Friday, in the eye clinic. On Friday they nodded approval, changed the meds and wanted me back in clinic on Monday afternoon, yesterday. Now they’ve got me, they won’t let me go. I’m on follow-up now for August.

I think it had rained during the morning. I couldn’t really remember. I was concerned about returning to clinic, being there on my own, but I had things to do before two of my grandchildren arrived. Busy Monday, but everything fell into place. My husband dropped me at Outpatients, kids in tow, and returned home to await my call.

I was so glad to be out, reasonably unscathed, and the outside air was very welcoming. I phoned to say I would walk. I only live about twenty minutes brisk walk, or half an hour stroll away. Apart from the noisy traffic, it is an enjoyable path, even more so when you can see where you’re going properly. I’d been administered eye drops and was still under the influence of them. My only problem was overhanging plants along the side of the golf course which I mainly managed to dodge, but didn’t see some of the thin stalks until it was too late. No harm done.

 Everywhere was green and lush. I tried to remember or imagine what it all smelt like. I decided it was fresh and clean, earthy with a hint of pine. I don’t know if my sense of smell will ever return. We’ll see. That’s chemo for you. If it does come back, I hope I will experience petrichor and recognise it.

My poem is a memory of the rain-soaked garden at a relative's home.

I remember when life had fragrance,

Everything from a distinctive scent

To a subtle hint of a substance,

Breathing through, delicate, transient.

The warm sweetness after summer rain

Drenched the rose garden and swamped the lawn.

Leaves and petals floated to the drain,

Sweet peas, bedraggled, soggy, forlorn.

Drips from the sycamore and the beech

Splashing puddles on the patio.

Drooping honeysuckle, out of reach.

Sodden wisteria hanging low.

I remember the heady perfume

Of old-fashioned roses in full bloom.

The smell of rain I knew before,

But not the proper name, petrichor.

Pamela Winning 2020

Thanks for reading, keep safe, Pam x

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Truth - Be Honest

I overheard something at my mother’s funeral. Fifty years have passed and the words still hurt.

“Poor Sheila, so young. Still, she lasted longer than we thought.”

My auntie, dabbing her eyes, was holding court with other relatives outside Carleton Crematorium Chapel. I can’t remember if it was before or after the service, not that it matters. Nothing mattered, except the deep deception that cut through my very soul. All these people, family and friends of the family had known that my mother was terminally ill, yet they had spent the last however many months speaking to me along the lines of, “When Mummy’s better…”, “When your mum is better…”, “When Sheila gets over this…”.   At nearly fourteen years of age I was old enough to ‘be grown up about all this’, but not considered to be old enough to be included in what was happening or given a chance to say goodbye. I was shattered. I had believed I was secure in a close-knit family. Everybody was hiding the truth.

Well, not quite everybody. My nanna was honest without actually coming out with the words. She was looking after us, my sister and me. Our family ran pubs and we were staying out of town at their pub, rather than ours. I adored my nanna, she was my rock. I wouldn’t usually have stepped out of line with her for the world. There was much love, respect but also a tiny bit of fear because I expected she could be even angrier than my mum if she was cross with me. I don’t know where it came from, but for the one and only time in my life, I gave her a glimpse of my 'stroppy madam' mood and I answered her back. I don’t remember what was said between us or why but I regretted it immediately and braced myself for a slap. It didn’t come. Instead, she hugged me tight and I cried. Tears for being rude to my lovely nanna and tears for worrying about my mum.

“Where there’s life, there’s hope.” Nanna’s words spoke volumes. Sheila, my mum was her daughter. Nanna had already suffered the loss of a daughter, a child, before my mum was born. I wish I had half of her northern grit.

What I overheard at my mum’s funeral taught me about truth and about compassion. My relatives wanted to protect me, though deceiving me into false security was the outcome. It was with the best of intention, I can understand that. My importance of honesty in life-threatening situations is borne of that experience.

 My husband was very ill when our son was about twelve, maybe thirteen. The illness seemed never ending. He was in hospital for months, no diagnosis, no improvement. I’m sure our son thought long and hard before asking me if Dad was going to die. The situation was on his mind more than I realised.  I told him with total honesty, that until it was discovered what was wrong, we didn’t know what would happen, but we hoped Dad would pull through and I promised, I would always tell him the truth. My husband recovered, eventually, thank goodness. My children appreciated the truth.

 

A poem from Muhammad Ali,

 

The face of truth is open.

The eyes of truth are bright,

The lips of truth are ever closed,

The head of truth is upright.

 

The breast of truth stands forward,

The gaze of truth is straight,

Truth has neither fear nor doubt

Truth has patience to wait.

 

The words of truth are touching,

The voice of truth is deep,

The law of truth is simple:

All that you sow you reap.

 

The soul of truth is flaming,

The heart of truth is warm,

The mind of truth is clear,

And firm through rain or storm.

 

Facts are but its shadows,

Truth stands above all sin,

Great be the battle in life,

Truth in the end shall win.

 

The image of truth is Christ,

Wisdom's message its rod;

Sign of truth is the cross,

Soul of truth is God/

 

Life of truth is eternal,

Immortal is its past.

Power of truth will endure,

Truth shall hold to the last.

 

Muhammad Ali  (1942 - 2016)

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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Slippers - Real or Fairytale?

Not counting the mandatory footwear that I had to take into hospital then threw away afterwards, I can’t remember the last time I had a pair of slippers. I always wear sandals in the house and kick them off on the rare moments that I might be sitting down relaxing. When I think back to childhood, we always wore slippers indoors, except my mum, who had some very elegant mules that I longed to wear.

Nanna Hetty’s slippers fascinated me. Actually, it was probably her feet, bearing in mind I was only a little girl. There were lumps and bumps unlike anyone else and I used to get told that it was rude to keep looking. I don’t think it’s a punishment from staring, but I have inherited some of it. Not as bad, yet, but it is there. Arthritis, possibly, and certainly something osteo that runs in the family. My father had it as well. To help myself as much as possible I wear fairly sensible shoes.

I’ve never wanted Cinderella’s glass slippers. She had tiny, delicate feet, so that’s me out for starters. Also, I can’t cope with anyone actually touching my feet, regardless of how handsome the prince might be  – ask my husband when he was tasked with removing a tick from my toe when we were in a very remote part of the Highlands a few years ago. He was brave, but not as brave as I had to be.

     It would be good to have some ruby slippers like Dorothy’s in the Wizard of Oz, as long as nobody wanted to kill me for them. I don’t want to relive the story. I just want the magic slippers and modified so that with a click of my heels I could instruct them to take me anywhere. Imagine the travelling time it would save and the places to visit. I would have avoided feeling sea-sick recently, that’s for sure.

Whenever I stayed at Nanna Hetty’s, I followed her around all day. I watched the cooking, baking, cleaning and gardening. If I drove her mad, it never showed. She had lots of time for me and I adored her. She’s been mentioned before and previously featured in my poems. This is a new one.

 



 

Nanna Hetty’s Comfy Slippers.

 

Clouds of Pledge in the sitting-room,

Patio swept with the outside broom,

Tea-leaves saved to feed the roses.

I picked daisies for indoor posies.

 

She lets me peep in Uncle’s room

And lifts the blinds to ease the gloom.

He’s married now and lives in Reading.

He’s been there ever since the wedding.

 

Blankets cover his unused bed.

On his wall, huge African head,

Carved in wood, it fills me with fear.

Something he brought from Nigeria.

 

A duster in her pinny pocket,

Husband’s photo in her locket.

Currant buns on a baking sheet,

And comfy slippers on bunioned feet.

 

PMW 2018

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

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Play the Game - Board Games

If you noticed me grinning a bit more than usual the other day, it’s because something went right. I managed to download ‘Tetris’ on to my new mobile phone all by myself. I’ve had the phone for a few weeks now and I’m still finding my way round it. I’m not one for electronic games but Level 1 Tetris fills a gap if I’m hanging about waiting and I’ve exhausted Facebook, Googled the things I’ve remembered to look up and checked my inbox. It’s fun trying to beat my own points.

When I was a child, my Nan taught me dominoes and a couple of card games. I got to stay up past bedtime because we were in the middle of Gin Rummy and couldn’t just stop. She always knew when I was tired or bored and I could never persuade her otherwise.

I’ve always enjoyed board games. Every Christmas, a Compendium of Games would be left by Santa. Ludo, Draughts, Snakes & Ladders, Tiddly Winks, Blow Football and more besides. I’d pester the family for someone to play with. Grandad was good for Tiddly Winks and Draughts. I didn’t have enough puff for Blow Football, so it was mainly ignored.

I was twelve years old when I was given my first Monopoly. I loved it more and more as I learnt how to play. For me and my parents, it became our regular Sunday evening thing and stopped me worrying about Monday morning and dreaded school. Times were tough for me then.

Monopoly is still a firm favourite, though alas, seldom played since our children grew up and left home and had babies. I wonder how friends might react to me hosting a Monopoly and supper evening? Just an idea.

We’ve got Trivial Pursuit and various levels of general knowledge games. We still have the small box of ‘Kids Trivia’ that our children and I would take to visiting times when my husband was in hospital long term. He would provide a box of Maltesers to share. So many times we walked from home, up East Park Drive to Victoria Hospital, with the game, juice and other things for the children. We saw snowdrops, then crocuses, and then daffodils as winter turned to spring. The conversation was always the same.

“Is Dad coming home soon, Mum?”

“I don’t know, love. We have to wait and see.”

Maltesers remind me of those visits and the fond memories of the lovely family times we shared in a side ward. Eventually, he could come home and all was well. My anxious times, when the children were in bed and I was alone with my thoughts, began to evaporate as life returned to normal.

As the children got older they had Game Boy, PlayStation and later Xbox, all beyond me though I managed a couple of levels of Super Mario. We still kept playing family games as often as we could and certainly round Christmastime and school holidays.

Scrabble must be the best word game ever and I’m always up for the challenge. I bought a travel version thinking it would be perfect to take away with us on our breaks to Scotland. I hadn’t considered how tiny the letter tiles are and how hard to read, when I’m short-sighted to begin with and my husband has glasses for reading that he wears all the time.

Recently, a work colleague told me what a fun-filled evening she’d had at home with her husband and adult sons playing board games and enjoying a takeaway meal. I’m glad to know I’m not the only one who would like that.

Meanwhile, let’s see if I can exceed 200,00 points on Tetris.

This poem is written by Morgan, on hellopoetry.com. I'd forgotten the fun we had playing Operation, until the game mirrored life too much.

 

Board Games

 

February nights rip me into pieces
So when I'm scattered randomly
across your bedroom floor,
I hope you look down
at my knee caps
and collar bones
& think about how much you
enjoyed doing puzzles at
the small, cherry wood
coffee table in your parents'
living room when you were ten
And I hope you put my tongue
back in my mouth
and my eyes back in my skull
And you breathe your
cinnamon & whiskey
breath all down my throat
until I remember how to
find air on my own.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

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Who turned the light off?

I’m a little overwhelmed at the moment by the amount of work that I need to do for my MA... And the perfectionist in me isn’t making it any easier.

Anyway, I sat down last night with no idea about what I was going to write for this week’s theme. I started four posts and abandoned them all – and then, surprisingly, I started to write the beginning of (what I think might be) a short story. I don’t know if I’ll ever get round to finishing it – but I’ll share what I have so far...

Who turned the light off?

Light is what they tell you to believe in. They tell you that things will get lighter, brighter, that it won’t last forever. They say that someone has just switched the light off, and that someone will be around shortly to switch it back on. They try to convince us that there is hope, that we each have futures, but we don’t believe them.

We sit in our own private darkness every day. Some sit in the dayroom, chain smoking in front of a flickering TV, others pace up and down the corridors counting the number of stains on the carpet and a few don’t even manage to rise from their dormitory beds. But the new girl is different; for a start, she’s younger than the rest of us. Sixteen, I think they said.

You can tell she’s met the darkness. She has that same look that we all have – like you’re balancing massive invisible crates on your back, or like you’re about to fracture into a thousand pieces.

It’s not long before the whispers start – people guess: pills? blade? rope?

When we get our first proper look at her, we all glance, firstly, at her neck – clear – and then her wrists – also clear. Firefly, whose real name is Amber (but only they us it), is the first to talk to the new girl.

“So was it pills, like, paracetamol?” she says

The new girl is sat cross-legged in a corner – writing something in a small grey-covered notebook. She doesn’t react to Firefly’s question, she just continues writing. These are the second and third things that make her different to the rest of us: she writes, sometimes for hours, and she never talks. We decide to nickname her Shush.

Thank you for reading,

Lara 

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