Waking Up - Looking Out

It was the mid-1960s and we, that is, my parents, toddler sister and I had arrived. From pubs in Manchester, Lancaster, brief stay in Marton then Padfield, at last we were in Blackpool with a pub on the prom.

Waking up early in the summer mornings with the noisy seagulls and a pleasant breeze blowing on my face through the small opening at the top of the sash window is a lovely memory I will have forever. Net curtains wafted inwards, close to my sister’s cot. We shared that big, front bedroom until she was old enough for a bed and a room of her own. The view fascinated me and even more so when Nanna came and planted herself in her favourite place, the bay window of our front sitting room. We watched the world go by, Nanna, with her knitting, Park Drive cigarettes and cups of tea and me, looking out to sea, happy to be with Nanna and share her enjoyment. I was staying with Nanna when my sister was born. We were living in Lancaster then. Dad had already moved into our next pub, but Mum was close to giving birth so we were sharing a spare room in their pub, waiting for nature to take its course. And it did, in the middle of the night. Waking up alone, I remember fleeing the bedroom in tears, Nanna cuddling me and explaining that the baby was coming so my mummy had gone to hospital. My tears soon turned to joy later that day when I was told I had a baby sister. Not quite what I wanted, to be honest. I really wanted a big sister and I’d been misled into thinking I was getting a playmate and she wasn’t that, either. I got over it.

Another of my favourite relatives was Auntie Alice, my grandfather’s sister, so my great-aunt, but Auntie Al would do. When she came to stay, she shared my sea-view room. She wasn’t one for silly nonsense, but we had some fun times together. I learnt her boundaries the hard way and had great respect for this plain-speaking, strong-minded woman. One night, there was a terrific thunderstorm. It woke me up and I was very scared. The building felt like it was shaking – it probably was. She reassured me, in her no nonsense, practical way. Together, we watched the lightning coming over the sea, counting seconds to the thunderclap.

I treasure all those memories, living in that pub, my front bedroom and my sister, my auntie and others who stayed in it with me. Life changed. It changed forever. My room was taken from me.

On a happier note, nearly seven years ago I was waking up to my phone ringing at some unearthly hour, just about morning time. I remember day was breaking. It was our son, to tell us that our beautiful granddaughter, Lola-Skye was born, a little early and having special care, but all would be well and her mummy was fine. Our second grandchild, as our daughter gave birth to our grandson the year before. Two more grandchildren since then.

My Haiku poem,

Window nets wafting
Round the open sash, flapping
In the morning breeze.

Screaming seagulls, loud
And urgent, meet on the sands
Following the tide,

I breathe the mixed smells
Of the seaside and the prom,
This is our new home.

Candyfloss, donkeys
Mingled with ice-cream, burgers,
Sweet, fried onions.

Blackpool promenade,
South Pier stretches out to sea,
Central just in sight.

From the front window
The ‘Beachcomber’ amusements
Will soon come to life.

The whole world passed by
And I was fascinated,
Scenes from my window.

PMW 2023
Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Bees - Something Special

Manchester Bee, beautiful, symbolic and instantly recognisable.  My ancestry is firmly rooted in the city, Moss Side, Openshaw, Chorlton-On-Medlock, Ancoats, Stretford, Northenden and more recently Wythenshawe. They rest in Southern Cemetery, some known to me, many others long before my time, my people, my bloodline, my family. Some, my mother’s side, lived in Sale. It was in Cheshire then, affluent, even posh. I’m proud to have been born there and I’m happy that it is part of Greater Manchester now (not everyone is, sorry) because it unites all my family under the same umbrella and I like that. The Manchester Bee is for us all.

The first insect sting I ever had happened in Wythenshawe Park. I was about six I think. Nanna Hetty had taken me out to play and we were sitting on a bench to eat our ice cream. I remember her sitting down first and wafting a bee out of the way for me to sit beside her. The bee must have gone under the wooden slats of the seat to come out again as I sat.  I cried out with pain on my upper leg and there was the bee-sting, sticking out of my skin. Nanna knew what to do and looked after me. I sobbed and sobbed as she got the barb out, taking care not to squeeze. I was brave. Back at her house, the sting area dabbed with vinegar, I soon recovered. Sixty years later, the memory and associated trauma is still strong. Up to now, I haven’t had any more bee stings, but I give them their own space and plenty of respect.

My garden, such as it is – largely concrete ground with planting areas and tubs – has plants attractive to butterflies and bees including buddleia, sunflowers and a geum, beautiful and orangey called Totally Tangerine which I just had to have when we first planted this new garden. It comes back bigger and more bountiful every year, of course.

Reading up about bees, I have learnt that ‘in the old days’ news of a bee-keeper’s death would be passed on to them and their hives would be shrouded in black cloth. This was to reassure bees that they were to stay and carry on.  American poet, John Greenleaf Whittier mentions this in his poem, Telling the Bees.

Last week, a special little ‘Bee’ died. Nine year old Jordan Banks, who played football for Clifton Rangers Bees under 9s, passed away after being struck by lightning.  My heart broke for this beautiful little boy and his family, not known to me, but part of our neighbourhood as he attended our local primary school.  I gave my daughter some flowers to lay at the junior school gate when she took my grandson to school. Yesterday, my son went to see all the flowers and tributes when he took my granddaughter to school. Jordan, doing what he loved, kicking a football about in the fresh air, a selfless young man who did so much for others in his short life.  He was something special.

Tempted as I was to choose Arthur Askey’s ‘The Bee Song’, I opted for Emily Dickinson instead:

The Bee

Like trains of cars on tracks of plush
I hear the level bee:
A jar across the flowers goes,
Their velvet masonry

Withstands until the sweet assault
Their chivalry consumes,
While he, victorious, tilts away
To vanquish other blooms.

His feet are shod with gauze,
His helmet is of gold;
His breast, a single onyx
With chrysoprase, inlaid.

His labour is a chant,
His idleness a tune;
Oh, for a bee’s experience
Of clovers and of noon!

                             Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886

Thanks for reading, stay safe, Pam x

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Clouds - When the Storm Clouds Gather

Living over a Blackpool Promenade pub in the mid-sixties was wonderful and the ever-changing views from the front windows never lost their fascination for any of us. My mother, when she wasn’t busy, sat in the bay window of our living room, often accompanied by my nanna, a frequent visitor.  My father kept a pair of binoculars on the window sill and liked to look at the horizon on a clear day.

I sat with my mother one sunny day, nothing special, just watching holiday-makers on the sands. It was full of deck-chairs, wind-breakers and families having fun.

“They will be coming off the beach in a minute.”  I remember my mother saying. She told me to look at the clouds coming in with the tide, how they were darkening. The horizon had vanished into the blur of grey and dusky pink that was moving closer until it covered the sun and what was left of blue sky. A rumble of thunder was followed by huge raindrops. People on the beach made haste to gather their belongings and make a run for shelter. Some dashed under South Pier, but they would have to move again as the tide came in. Mum and I watched the lightning fill the sky like electric charges breaking the clouds, and the rain, now heavy, sweeping across the promenade, not a soul in sight.

Many years later I recognised the same cloud formation. We were having a family holiday in Pembrokeshire, my husband and I with our two young children. Between Saundersfoot and Amroth there is a lovely stretch of beach and rock pools at Wiseman’s Bridge, so called because of the small, stone built bridge over the stream of fresh water filtering from the land to the sea. There were toilets nearby, a shop for ice creams and always somewhere to park. The only down-side was clambering over unstable rocks to get on to the beach or down the concrete path on the other side of the bridge carrying picnic, towels, fishing nets, buckets and spades and our beach tent. My husband and I would struggle to feed the flexible poles through the correct channels in the beach tent, especially if it was breezy, but when it was finished and anchored with rocks, it was perfect. I’m sure modern day versions are simpler, but those days are gone. We were all in or close to the tent, tucking into our picnic when I noticed the clouds on the horizon and wondered how long we had before the rain would arrive. Should we pack up and go to the car taking into account getting across the rocks again, or all four of us huddle together in the tent with the open side fully zipped up? I’ve got a feeling that we did both, on separate occasions. I’ll have to ask the kids.

It’s lovely to lie back on the ground and watch the sky on a summer’s day. Imagine being up there, floating on one of those fluffy, feathery, cotton-wool clouds, just resting.

Looking down on clouds is an enchanting sight, too. Natural beauty.

 

Two choices of poem,

 

Dylan Thomas

 

Shall gods be said to thump the clouds
When clouds are cursed by thunder,
Be said to weep when weather howls?
Shall rainbows be their tunics' colour?

When it is rain where are the gods?
Shall it be said they sprinkle water
From garden cans, or free the floods?

Shall it be said that, venuswise,
An old god's dugs are pressed and pricked,
The wet night scolds me like a nurse?

It shall be said that gods are stone.
Shall a dropped stone drum on the ground,
Flung gravel chime? Let the stones speak
With tongues that talk all tongues.

 

 

and Emily Dickinson

     The sky is low, the clouds are mean,

     A travelling flake of snow

     Across a barn or through a rut

     Debates if it will go.

 

    A narrow wind complains all day

    How some one treated him;

    Nature, like us, is sometimes caught

    Without her diadem.

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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