Four Legs Good - Cassie and Crombie

We’d had cats, hamsters and gerbils when the children were small. What they really wanted was a dog. When the last of the gerbils passed away, the pleas began again.  It wouldn’t be a problem, after all, I was a stay-at-home mum. Well, that’s how it looked because I was home when they were. The five days a week I spent working in the infants’ school had clearly gone over their heads. A dog. A responsibility. Another family member. My husband and I thought about it.

A lot had been going on in our family. The children had been faced with both parents having serious illnesses which had turned their lives inside out and upside down for the best part of a year. I was convinced that we weren’t both going to make it – we did, there we were and here we still are. The experience changed my attitude about some things. Should I become ill again and not survive, didn’t want the children to have a lasting memory of me, a mean mother never letting them have a dog. There were conditions, discussed between ourselves before involving the children. Firstly, no puppies. We would find a rescue dog. The chosen one had to suit everybody because it would be a family pet and looked after by all. Everyone had to feel comfortable taking it out for a walk. We studied the traits and behaviours of likely breeds and decided to approach Spring Spaniel Rescue. Before going ahead, we involved the children.

We sat round the table at tea time. Everyone had a small piece of paper, placed face down. Stay with me on this, I don’t need to explain how (daft) we are sometimes. It’s just family stuff. With much giddiness between the four of us, it was time to reveal our ‘words’, starting with the children. I had the last turn. Child 1 ‘We’, Child 2 ‘Are’, Dad ‘Getting’, Mum ‘A Dog’. Delighted, excited children.

Cassie was the perfect dog for us at that time. She was an old lady of a Springer Spaniel, thought to be ten years old, taken in by Springer Spaniel Rescue after her time as a breeding bitch ceased. They couldn’t tell us much, except she had been in sad, neglectful circumstances. The rescue centre had looked after her, restored her health and ready to be rehomed, she was ours. Love was all she needed and we had an endless supply. She was too old and infirm to chase balls or do much running about, but she loved her daily walks. Four legs nearly good. We know we gave her the best we could in her twilight years. It was heart-breaking for all of us when despite the efforts of our vet and our constant care, Cassie couldn’t recover from what we believe was a stroke and we had to say goodbye.

The level of grief was enormous. No more dogs.

The ‘no more dogs’ didn’t last very long. Our son helped a friend out by having her dog stay with us for a few days. She wanted to rehome him, but unfortunately he wasn’t a dog for us. Having him around showed me what we were missing. A compromise. We couldn’t keep this dog as he was too big and strong for me to handle, but if everyone agreed, we would approach Springer Spaniel Rescue again.

Crombie joined us as if he’d always been part of our family. Four years old and full of beans, he spun me round and round in the kennels car park before leaping into the hatchback, eager to get strapped in and make the journey to his new home. Bursting with energy and always raring to go, this was a springer behaving like a springer. Cassie had paved the way, building our confidence, preparing us for Crombie. He was a perfect dog for us, as Cassie had been, but in a different way. Springers are intelligent dogs, needing lots of exercise and challenges. Crombie, trained to Kennel Club Gold standard was exceptionally good company. Our children and later, grandchildren adored him. He must have covered every blade of grass on the field close to our house every day. He learnt his way round Dumfries and Galloway, instantly recognising where he was when we turned off the main road and followed the lane to the lodges where we like to stay. He wasn’t best friends with the vet in Kirkcudbright, but he knew he needed help and was respectful. We both whimpered with seasickness on the long journey to the Isle of Barra, but soon recovered to run on the beach. Part of the family he really was and we took him everywhere. Four legs good. Old age and infirmity began to compromise him. We knew what was coming. I couldn’t face up to it until we really had no choice.

Three years on and we still miss him, but I really mean it when I say ‘No more dogs’.

I found this,

The Power of the Dog

“There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie –
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To rick your heart to a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet’s unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns
Then you will find – it’s your own affair –
But, you’ve given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still)!
When the spent that answered your every mood
Is gone – whenever it goes – for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ‘em, the more we do grieve.

For when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-term loan is as bad as a long.
So why in Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?”

Rudyard Kipling 1865 – 1936

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Family

I was born in 1952, 21 months after my brother, and not long after the end of WW2, although I don’t think that registered till I was at least in my teens, probably later, knowing my poor grasp of historical facts. I’ve learnt since that rationing remained for certain items but I don’t remember it  - why would I? There was always food on the table, and if we didn’t have bananas or oranges one week I certainly didn’t notice. I do remember sugar bring sprinkled liberally on cereal - and even on fresh fruit and in sandwiches so that was obviously one item that had returned to the shelves. Sadly for my brothers and me, as it turned out: we had years of return visits to the school dentist, and numerous fillings and extractions. 

In my parents’ defence they had gone without luxuries, and even basics, for so long that I’m guessing they thought sugar was a treat. After all, this was the generation that was daily subjected to advertisements and billboards encouraging smoking to cure all manner of ills.

For the first ten or eleven months of my life we lived in a couple of rooms in my grandparents house, which was a common arrangement in those days. Money was scarce, as it was for many people after the war, my dad was a student, working part time, and, of course, my mum had to leave her job as soon as she married.

By the time I started school, aged four, our family had surpassed the average number of 2.4 children.  The birth of my brother a few weeks previously had put paid to anything average. Whereas my elder brother and I had been planned and welcomed I believe my younger brother came as a bit of a shock, albeit, as it turned out, a happy one. I still remember being called to see him in his cot the morning after the home birth, standing on tiptoe and leaning in to kiss him.  This was possibly the best present a nearly four year old could have - a real life, living, breathing doll.  I’m not saying our childhoods were all smooth sailing, we had the usual arguments and fights, and John still reminds me that I used to tell him he was adopted, which was certainly a bit strange, considering I’d been to at least one ante natal visit with my mum, the abiding memory being not the sight of her rounded belly but my shock at the flesh coloured suspenders hanging from a huge corset.  We children might have bickered and argued but if any other child dared to cross one of us we were in there defending each other like wild tigers.  I once embarrassed my younger brother by coming across him, mid argument with a group of kids and wading in feet first to back him up, despite the fact I had no idea what the row was about. 

I’ve seen this, too, in my own children.  My daughter once practically leapt over the bar of the pub she was working in when someone threatened her younger brother.  She soon saw the aggressor out of the door.  I do love this loyalty within families.  I can moan all I want about the husband or kids but woe betide anyone else who criticises them.  This is the strength of family: not just the love that binds us, but the shared experiences and the loyalty we have for each other.

I learnt to read with Janet and John, who had the perfect family: Mummy, daddy and not quite two point four children.  Daddy had an important job (I can’t remember now what it was) and mummy, of course, was ‘just a housewife.’ Janet stayed with mummy and baked cakes, and John went out with Daddy and did exciting things like flying toy aeroplanes and riding his bike.  I didn’t think there was anything odd about this when I was four.  It was pretty similar to our own family lifestyle, although it didn’t take long for my quiet, shy mother to start coming out of her shell and insisting boys and girls were treated equally, at least in our house.  I realised, years later, that this was pretty revolutionary in the fifties.  But then my mum was - and still is - quite a force to be reckoned with. When my brother was in sixth form at a pretty prestigious school in the early seventies he was warned that if he didn’t have his shoulder length hair cut he would be expelled.  My mum took herself straight up to the school and put her son’s case to the headmaster.  I think her main argument was that the length of his hair had no impact on his ability to learn. The head stuck to his guns, there was probably a bit of a stand off, and my brother got expelled. I’ve always admired my mum for taking a stand and backing my brother.  Personally, I still think it’s a ridiculous rule and the argument continues within schools to this day.  Incidentally, John went on to do great things, kept his long hair for a while and then chopped it off.  I don’t think anybody in our family likes being told what to do when there’s a good argument against it. And we do all love a good argument.

My dad had been brought up in a patriarchal household.  His dad, my granddad, like most men of his generation - born in the late 1800s, was at the head, and his wife and three children did as he said. Except my dad didn’t. He was extremely naughty by all accounts, not only constantly teasing his sister and making her cry but also getting into fights and scrapes with other boys. As a child I loved to hear these tales but, as an adult, I had huge sympathy for his parents, who despaired at his behaviour.  My Gran spent more time up at the school than she did in the kitchen, and that was saying something.  From what I’ve heard, my granddad sat with a cane, if not in his hand, at least by his side, most of the time, which seems totally alien these days. With the benefit of hindsight I’m guessing that my dad managed to alienate both teachers and children by being extremely clever but also extremely annoying. He once got a report from school stating, ‘must try harder.’  He had achieved 100% in the subject, so it wasn’t surprising that the comment left him rather puzzled.  

My mum’s family was quite different. My grandma was a fierce matriarch and my granddad, although smarter, would do anything for a quiet life, which generally meant agreeing with his wife. He was the calming influence. My mum had two brothers, one two years older and one nine years younger - another surprise, apparently. My grandma, was, unintentionally, quite ahead of the times. She would take herself off to visit her spinster sisters in Yarmouth - sometimes with her youngest son - for weeks at a time, leaving the rest of the family to fend for themselves. This was certainly unusual in those days and I think my mum made the decision that when she married, she and her husband would be equals and her children, whatever their gender, would also be treated equally.  It might have taken her a few weeks to convince my dad, but knowing my mum, she didn’t give up, and we siblings grew up in the knowledge that Geoff and John were just as likely to be seen wielding an iron or a saucepan as I would be changing a wheel on a bike or some amateur DIY.  I’m glad that we got those opportunities, especially as schools at that time were strictly segregated by gender.  No woodwork or metalwork for me, and no domestic science for my brothers. 

Not a day goes by when I don’t think how lucky I am to have been born into this family.  The morning after my dad died we gathered from all across the country, not just family but partners and spouses.  We spent the day hugging, crying, chatting and laughing, and I’m sure the love and strength that we shared between us got us all through that day - and the next when we did it all again.  This joint, unplanned act was somehow primal.  Like animals we converged at the family home to surround the person who overnight had become the oldest, weakest, most vulnerable member, my mum, suddenly a widow.  

THIS. 

THIS is the strength of the family.

How to Make a Family* by Jill Reidy

Take two people, 

Any colour, any gender

Stir together gently

Till they blend 

Check for sense of humour 

Add more if necessary

(This part is very important)

Whisk in as much love as you can find

Fold in kindness

Sensitivity

And respect

Check again

Remove any meanness 

And replace with generosity

Add babies and pets if required

(But not essential)

The mixture will expand 

Watch quietly 

As it grows

Do not stir or whisk

It will now begin to gain its own momentum

Your result should look like nobody else’s

Don’t compare

It’s unique

You have made a family 

* Level of difficulty - beginner (if instructions are followed)

Thanks for reading, 

Jill

  

  

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Family - Ties That Bind Us

I am fortunate to have been born into a medium-sized, close-knit family. My early childhood was filled with love and joy. For seven years I was the only grandchild to two sets of doting grandparents and my great-grandmother. I wasn’t spoilt in a materialistic way but I knew I was wanted, always welcome everywhere and people had time for me. By seven or eight, I had been taught how to knit, how to sew on buttons and sew a line of neat, tiny stitches. I wasn’t allowed near the dangers of a hot, steamy kitchen but I could prick my fingers to death with a sharp needle – not too many times before I got the hang of it. I gave everyone’s coal fire a wide berth, too. It is basic, the security of a loving family. I hope I’ve provided the same for my children and grandchildren.

I would like to nurture the same close relationship with my grandchildren as I had with my grandparents and I hope I’m doing it right. I have been home-schooling my eldest grandson a couple of afternoons a week since lockdown rules eased enough for me to see him. Home-schooling sounds very grand, but he only started school last September, just getting into the swing of it, which he loves, then along came ‘the germs’ and shut down. We play games, do lots of painting, drawing, colouring – this includes chalk, wax crayon, pencils, felt tips and anything else I can lay my hands on. I’ve recently introduced him to ‘The Cat in the Hat’ and ‘Green Eggs and Ham’, excellent for practising phonics. He’s quite happy doing number work, he doesn’t like writing much but we do a little bit. He enjoys being here, having me and Grandad all to himself with no distractions from his siblings. It helps my daughter out, as well. Families help each other, as it always was with our lot.

Now and again I dip into my family history. I’ve been doing my ‘tree’ for years. It can be hard work sometimes, going round in circles or literally barking up the wrong tree. So many generations with the same first name passed down. Children named after a dead older sibling. I’d never do that, but it was quite common in the mid-eighteen hundreds. People had lots of children, but so many of them died in infancy. Such losses in my ancestry have saddened me. My grandparents were made of strong stuff. They lost a child at three years old, before my mother was born. I was full of my own heartache when they lost another daughter, my mother. Our family clung to each other and tried to weather the storm.

It was hard when my mother died so young. It got harder still when my father remarried to the point of being impossible, but I had a close relationship with my maternal grandmother until she passed away, and my god-mother, who is my rock to this day.

I lost a lot of people over a period of about ten years. It is said that what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I’ve made it, so far. I suppose I'm the matriarch of my family now, with hidden strength and non-judgemental advice when required.

                                                                           My babes

My poem,  Family

There's cooking and cleaning and

The sound of children at play.

Infants having a squabble,

It's an ordinary day.

The strength of our family

Continues here, in our home,

A warm hub of love and care

Where everyone is welcome.

Everyone is important,

All are equal in our throng.

We look after each other,

Fam'ly is where we belong.

Somewhere to share a problem,

Always a listening ear

And a few words of wisdom

Help the worries disappear.

Family ties that bind us

Are stronger than any twine.

United in trust we stand,

I'm proud this fam'ly is mine.

PMW 2020

Thanks for reading, stay 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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Candles - Remembrance

Strolling around Dublin’s Temple Bar district with friends, I found myself thinking of my late Uncle Bill, a lovely Irishman and one of the pub landlords in my family. We were buddies for the whole eight years we had each other. He loved to take baby me out in my pram. When I was old enough he took me to the swings and my aunt would come along, too. Most Sunday afternoons our whole family would be together. Pubs closed on Sundays between 2 p.m. and 7 p.m. in those days and at that time we still lived fairly close to each other. I was always a Daddy’s girl, but Uncle Bill was another good playmate and had a wealth of stories to tell me. With no children of their own, my uncle and aunt doted on me and we were all thrilled with the arrival of my new baby sister. Uncle Bill died suddenly on 16^th March, 1964. His rich singing voice would not be heard on St Patrick’s Day, or ever again. He is buried in his native Cork.

I was in Dublin, my first visit to Ireland, but it won’t be my last, it’s on my ‘to do’ list to go back and see more, including Cork, but it was too far away on that short break. With my head full of childhood memories of Uncle Bill, I excused myself from my company while I nipped into nearby St Teresa’s Church to light him a candle. Feeling spiritual rather than religious, I watched the flame become established, pointing heavenward, unfaltering in the still air like others around it, a tiny light expressing strength and power, a symbol of remembrance and love. I spent a few moments reflection before returning to my friends.

Sometime in my not-too-distant future I will return to Ireland and visit as much of the Emerald Isle as I can. I hope to visit Uncle Bill’s burial place. I will light a candle for him in Cork.

 

I found this poem,

 

 

Candle in the Window

 

There’s a candle in the window,

Shining with a loving light.

It’s been sitting there for years now,

It really is a lovely sight.

 

A tiny candle in the window

Burning with a light so rare,

Where the cold wind doesn’t blow,

A loving sign that someone cares.

 

A tiny flame that burns inside

The window of that tiny shack,

Like the flame that in the heart resides,

Wishing someone would come back.

 

It will burn ‘til two soul mates

Are reunited once again,

And overcome the cruel hand of fate,

And joy replaces all the pain.

 

Juan Olivarez

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Winter Ghosts - Nearly Christmas

Christmas is taking shape. I’ve made the cake, bought some but not all gifts, made food plans and put the tree up. I loved the looks of delight on the faces of my two and a half year old grandson and one and a half year old granddaughter when I showed them the tree and the special things hanging on it. The baby, another grandson, is too young to take any notice yet, but I showed him everything and told him about the star, the angel and mix of baubles that all mean something. They don’t know it, but these beautiful children save me from getting too maudlin when I miss my family.

I’m fortunate to have a wonderful family round me of my own making but I miss my mum, dad, grandparents and all my extended family and friends who are no longer with us. I’m grateful to have grown up in such a family to give me strength of character and confidence to stand and grow alone when I had to. My guardian angels who picked me up when I fell, pointed me in the right direction when I took a wrong turning and stopped me from roaming a rocky path. Christmas brings them all near and even if I’m weeping yet again for what is lost, I’m joyful for the magical memories of Christmases past.

These winter ghosts gather to share in the Christmas of today, surrounding me with the love I grew up with. I hope our dinner is perfect, our company convivial and I wish, as I always do that just one more time, the family I miss could be sitting round the table. My Nanna, still with her pinny on, making sure everyone has everything they want, and my dad checking the wine. Until we meet again.

I will do my best to cook a lovely dinner. We’ll share thoughts and memories, we’ll laugh but not cry.  Someone will raise a toast to those who have passed but with us in spirit. The children will jump at the snapping of crackers and play with the contents then later mess about until they fall asleep, cheeks rosy and hearts full of love. It’s a family circle and I’m Nanna now.

I hope in years to come, my children and grandchildren will look back with fondness on memories of their own.

I have this poem in a frame and bring it out every Christmas.

Christmas Memories by Patience Strong.

Christmas memories stir the waters of the well of thought-
And reflect the best of what the passing years have brought…
Past and present mingle when we hear the Christmas chimes.
Names come back as we recall good things and happy times.
 

 

The photos are copied from my late father's colour slide collection. I apologise for the poor quality. It's a work in progress.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Lost - Something Dark

It was tough watching ‘Philomena’. I’d seen the trailers on TV and it looked like a good film. Judi Dench always gives a first class performance and I like Steve Coogan’s straight acting style.  With the exception of his cringe-worthy character Alan Partridge, I like Steve Coogan in anything.  Life must have passed me by for a while, or maybe I’d been under a large stone, but I was completely ignorant of Martin Sixsmith’s book ‘The Lost Child of Philomena Lee’, a true story of an unmarried pregnant girl forced into the care of nuns in an Irish convent and her baby taken away and adopted in America.  I sat in the cinema stifling sobs as one horrid deception followed another and I felt sickened by the behaviour of supposedly caring, Christian people.  It’s a well-written and superbly acted film.  The content disturbed me immensely and still does.  I can’t bring myself to read the book. Philomena Lee is one of many to suffer for bringing ‘shame’ on her intolerant family.  Where is the love? Where is the support?  So many lives broken, family connections lost because a daughter ‘sinned’ and was denied her child.  No forgiveness, either, then?

 

The TV programme ‘Long Lost Families’ shares many similar stories.  Babies born to single women who are influenced or pressured by their family to give up their child for adoption, then spend decades grieving for their ‘lost’ child.  And the child, now an adult, searching for the birth mother, the missing piece of life’s jigsaw.  I watch the happy reconciliations and new beginnings take shape on ‘Long Lost Families’, often through a veil of tears and I hope that adoptive parents, if still alive, are supportive and included.  There’s a feel-good factor in the positive result of a happy ending which is what ‘Long Lost Families’ concentrates on.  I feel for those who are waiting to be found, those whose searches for answers reach a dead end and those who struggle with authorities as they try to find information about who they are.

 

Imagine spending the first eighteen years of your life in the care system.  Everything about you is contained in your files and documents compiled by Social Services, or other responsible authority.  Then, at age eighteen, when you leave the care system and you are legally entitled to take possession of your files, they are lost.

 

This is what happened to Lemn Sissay.  His files were eventually found and given to him only two years ago. He turned fifty this year. Lost files for thirty-odd years?

 

Last Wednesday I went to see Lemn reading his autobiographical play, ‘Something Dark’ at the Brewery Arts Centre in Kendal.  I’m familiar with his poetry and his life story so I wasn’t in for the shock that ‘Philomena’ gave me.  However, I wasn’t sure what to expect but I anticipated feeling sorrow and kept tissues to hand.  I’m smiling at the thought of it now. Generally speaking, people go to the theatre to experience an entertaining evening and have a nice time.  There was I, prepared for heart-break, but no, this was Lemn Sissay, full of positive vibes, humour, a massive smile and I just listened intently to the wit and intelligence he pours into his story.  There was lots of direct interaction with his audience and at the end he spent time doing Q & A.

 

Lemn Sissay, MBE, an inspiration to all.  Lost hopes, lost dreams, never.

 

And not a single tear from me.

 

 

 

She Read As She Cradled

You part of me

Every day your history
Every tomorrow your destiny
Every growth your mystery
Every mother wants a baby
Like you

Every laugh your personality
Every look your clarity
Every word your stability
Every mother wants a baby
Like you

Every hiccup a comedy
Every fall a catastrophe
Every worry my worry
Every step you’re beside me
Every sight you’re pure beauty
Every mother wants a baby
Like you

Every tear wiped carefully
Every word spoke lovingly
Every meal fed silently
every cloth washed caringly
Every song sung sweetly

Every day I whisper quietly
Every mother wants a baby
Like you

© Lemn Sissay

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

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Teddy

   Of course we all think of Teddy Bears.- From the  original " Theodore ", to vintage teddies, Steiff Teddies. An age less toy, a lifelong companion..providing memories, giving comfort and boundless love.
    So I remembered my own companions...Maxie and Teddy. Maxie was a blue lamb with a sticking out tongue ( that at one time I'd cut off thinking it very rude ) and with a missing tail, as I recall. Teddy was threadbare , probably from being over -hugged, over-loved and over -played with. Now these two had wonderful adventures together. Maxie being a 'horse' that Teddy could ride into battle on, cross the boundless desert with, attack Indians and generally provide transport. When I was unwell the two would gallop over the mountains that my bent knees made, hide in the folds of the eiderdown, slink into the cave beneath the sheets and hug close as I fell asleep. It was imperative that the two accompanied me on visits, holidays and doctor appointments. Taking the place of siblings I guess. When I left home my mother cleared everything out...dolls, teddies, toys, postcard collection, books etc...so I don't know what happened to the intrepid pair. I hope they are somewhere together, as they are in my memory.
   Other 'teddies' were worn as undergarments. I made some at college. Slinky and silky, trimmed with lace, fastened with poppers .Not terribly comfortable if one was a very active person as the poppers came undone !
   Then Teddy Boys. My late husband had been one. He'd regale me with stories of having tailor made suits on a regular basis from a small tailor in Oxford. The trousers had to be a certain width at the hem ( some with turn ups ) . The back of the jacket cut in one piece ( no seam or vent ) . The collar, cuff and number of buttons just what was fashionable on that day. There would be a pocket for a cosh, one for a knife...another for a knuckle duster. The crepe shoes etc.  Oh , yes it seems he was a 'bad boy', but as I pointed out to my sister in law, whose husband had been his 'accomplice', they turned out to be good men. At a later stage in his life he enjoyed reliving those days and we attended ' Rock and Roll ' events featuring some of the original groups. When we moved house we  "lost " his remaining 1950's suit and he was really upset.So I made him a waistcoat and jacket to make up for the loss. When he died I had him dressed in those garments and we had a ' Rock and Roll ' wake. It was what he wished.
   So back to teddy bears and I have another story to tell. Two days before my husband died I won a teddy in a raffle, then two weeks later I won a simple knitted teddy in a tombola. They both sit on my bed to this day....

         

    My poem this week.....

                        Absolute Perfection

            I have a young man who sleeps with me every night
            He keeps me safe from evil and I hug him very tight.
            He's very liberated and thinks naked is the best-
            I must say I agree as I snuggle in his chest !
            He's terribly respectful and makes no demands.
            Not one of those men with creeping, groping hands.
            I trace his lips and nose, and nuzzle in his ears,
            Whispering words of endearment - the only ones he hears !
            He's absolute perfection - he doesn't even snore,
            And if I fancy 'lying in ', he's always up for more !
            He's lovely, adorable and always at the ready.
            Of course, I'm talking of a well beloved teddy !


   PS...After his death I found his original Teddy boy suit in a box in the attic. I wear the jacket to 1950's events.

       Thanks for reading....Kath...

   

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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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You Annoy Me When...

As I tell Shaun that this week's theme is 'Stupid Arguments', he declares: "You're a row specialist". With defences up, I deny, and inform him that our stupid arguments are in fact caused by him doing things that annoy me. Most of these things tend to be a consequence of living together - and, while I find calm in order, Shaun seems perfectly happy with clutter and disarray. So, for your amusement, I give you a list of ten things Shaun does that really annoy me.

1) He leaves dirty clothes in the lounge, in the bathroom, on the bedroom floor and rarely manages to actually put them in the washing basket. This is made more annoying when I find a stray sock tucked beneath the bed AFTER I've finished doing all the laundry.

2) When he wears a t-shirt underneath a shirt he removes the two items as if they were a singular item and then leaves it on the floor. This is made more annoying when the t-shirt is white and the shirt is dark and I have to uncouple the items before washing.

3) After having a bath he leaves wet towels in one of three places: on the bed, on a chair or on the floor.

4) He plays Xbox before doing anything remotely useful or helpful. This made more annoying when I finish work and then have to do the housework.

5) He takes a hairbrush or deodorant out of the bathroom and then leaves it in the bedroom. These items live in the bathroom and should be returned there.

6) He takes his shoes off and leaves them in the lounge rather than placing them on the shoe rack. This made more annoying when I trip over them.

7) He uses the chopping board and doesn't wipe it down afterwards.

8) He never takes the empty toilet roll off the holder and replaces it with the new one. Instead, he balances the new one on top of the holder.

9) He puts out-of-date food back into the fridge rather than throwing it away

10) He drives my car more than I do and then leaves it in a mess: crumbles, cigarette ash, unfinished cans of pop, mouldy food, snotty tissues, CDs in the wrong cases, etc, etc.

But for all our stupid arguments there is always resolution and forgiveness - a sobering realisation that, despite our differences, neither of us works quite as well without the other.

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Interruptions & Love

Dear Boy Poet,

Last night, after you'd returned from work, you dropped your backpack

in the middle of my writing space. You pulled off your shoes,

and began to retell your day with a loudness I'm still not used to.

The ideas and half-formed lines (from an afternoon of silence)

fell like glass marbles.

Later, on the computer, you typed a new poem. I listen

to the speed of the tapping and know you've found that zone

which so often seems to evade me.

And, for a moment, I am jealous and resenting...   

This morning, I eased myself away from your warmth, quietly

made black coffee and settled back into thinking.

At seven your alarm began to cycle through those sounds

(specifically chosen to force you from our bed).

By half past, you've pressed the snooze button six times

and I'm forced to leave my thoughts behind

to wake you.

Our differences sometimes cause us to clash,

but our similarities always bring resolution.

For every time you have made a picnic, coaxed me

into the car and taken me to a place that allows my mind

to breath - I thank you.

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Lost love in Blackpool.

Good afternoon readers.
This week I saw a sign for a girl at side of the road. A please call notice for a lost love from 50 years ago- with a mobile number on to contact. Once upon a time I'd have probably called it for a laugh, being a bit of an idiot but, these days I'm a much more romantic and mellow person- I write poetry and things. 
The sign inspired my poem for the theme of Anonymity- in that I found it quite sad to think that for half a century someone had harboured an idea of a woman, a perfect snapshot that moves and talks and dances- both ever and never disappointed. Anyway, I've written the poem below as a result- hope you enjoy reading it.


Taking the Chances

I didn't catch your name in '62
But we danced under the Tower, me and you
Until the last tram home
And then I never managed call
And I wonder, are you free now
Did you get to see the world?

I've imagined how your ringlets waved
From Tokyo's snapshots and NYC
How your flowered dress and dancing shoes
Have turned heads across each world city
How your blue eyes still might search the sky
How I hope you found your perfect guy

But, girl from the Tower, June '62
If you've still not found love- it's been looking for you.

Thanks for stopping by, S.

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To My Daughter

To My Daughter On Being Separated from Her on Her Marriage

To My Daughter On Being Separated from Her on Her Marriage

To My Daughter On Being Separated from Her on Her Marriage

By Anne Hunter

Dear to my heart as life’s warm stream

   Which animates this mortal clay,

For thee I court the waking dream,

   And deck with smiles the future day;

And thus beguile the present pain

With hopes that we shall meet again.

Yet, will it be as when the past

   Twined every joy, and care, and thought,

And o’er our minds one mantle cast

   Of kind affections finely wrought?

Ah no! the groundless hope were vain,

For so we ne’er can meet again!

May he who claims thy tender heart

   Deserve its love, as I have done!

For, kind and gentle as thou art,

   If so beloved, thou art fairly won.

Bright may the sacred torch remain,

And cheer thee till we meet again!

Poetry ought to be collected, like soft pillows, about oneself.  You never know which one you will require at a given moment, but it’s safer to keep them all around – so that they can lift or support you when the moment is right.  

This poem by Anne Hunter chimes with me at the moment.  No, my daughter isn’t marrying but she is a young woman now and is soon to turn sixteen.  It’s the first of a series of customary coming of age markers which reveal that she now able to smoke (or continue to berate others for doing so), play the lottery (or keep her pounds to spend on pretty things) and even marry (or the modern, less expensive equivalent).  

I find it difficult to express the closeness of my relationship with my daughter but these lines rang true:

For thee I court the waking dream,

   And deck with smiles the future day; 

The image of decking a day with smiles makes me think of all the times, as a mother, you feel tired or gloomy but are able to put those feelings away, instead igniting the warmth of a home fire for your children.  That fire would be impossible without them.  It’s the reciprocation which enables the flames.  Their enthusiasm and guileless honesty inspires in you the effort to mirror that openness to a ‘waking dream’ in which anything is possible and goodness is present in abundance.

And o’er our minds one mantle cast

   Of kind affections finely wrought?

Hunter clearly felt this same closeness to her daughter, which feels so different to any other relationship.  The mantle is present when we are alone, giggling, exchanging shared observations and memories, jumping to the same conclusion simultaneously and finishing each other’s sentences.  In those moments, we are as one mind, with absolute affection for each other, knowing that we will be there for each other whatever the storms beyond that mantle; that this cloak of affection protects us to some considerable measure from anything the outside world might throw at us.

Bright may the sacred torch remain,

And cheer thee till we meet again!

But daughters do leave the home.  Perhaps not to marry, perhaps to study or to work.  That is, after all, the reason for our mothering efforts.  We want them to thrive beyond the mantle.  So we feed the torch while they are so close, knowing that it will continue to shine for them wherever they travel.  Knowing that, should it start to dim, they can always return to replenish that flame.  And when my daughter comes home, from wherever she travels, she will reignite my torch too.  And we’ll deck our days with smiles whenever we think of each other.

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