Lodgings - Impromptu Days Out

Some years ago, I’d guess about forty, I was on my own in Lancaster where a work commitment had gone awry. Instead of packing up and heading home, I decided to spend time looking around, enjoying the sunshine. Lancaster is the first place I properly remember from my childhood with memories I hold close to my heart including the birth of my sister. Our family, at this point just my parents and a three year old me, moved from our Manchester pub to one in Lancaster. I went to nursery then infant school there. At some point, my maternal grandparents left their pub in Sale to move in with my aunt and uncle, also running a pub in Lancaster. Pure nostalgia, but I had hours to please myself.

Leaving the workplace, I headed towards the city centre. Aimlessly wandering, but comfortable amongst the old stone buildings that felt familiar to me, I realised I was on Church Street and started to look out for The Nag’s Head, a special place of my extended family. It remained unchanged so much that I could almost hear the sounds of the Saturday morning street market which always woke me up early when I’d stayed overnight. Someone was handing out leaflets promoting historical walks and places of interest. The Judges’ Lodgings was open to the public and close by. I went to look round.

From Lancashire County Council,

“Nestled below Lancaster Castle, the Judges' Lodgings dates back nearly 400 years on a site that has been at the centre of Lancaster's history for nearly 2000 years. The current house was built around 1625 by Thomas Covell, Keeper of the Castle and famous for locking up the Pendle Witches during the infamous Lancashire Witch Trials. From 1826 the house became a lodgings for the travelling 'Red Judges' of the Assizes Courts. Dressed in their scarlet robes, the Judges decided the fate of murderers, forgers and highwaymen at Lancaster Castle. Today the house is home to beautiful Georgian furniture by Gillows of Lancaster, elegant period rooms and the popular Museum of Childhood.”

It was more fascinating than I expected. Travelling judges were treated like royalty, the lodgings were like a mini palace.

Still nostalgic, I ate my bought lunch in Williamson Park where I used to play after school and on Sunday afternoon family gatherings. I already knew that the pub which had been my home, The County Hotel, was demolished and some soulless building had taken its place near the railway station.

My unexpected Lancaster trail concluded with a visit to Auntie Vi. Not a real Auntie but a family friend from the old days we’d always kept in touch with – she used to look after me a lot when I was little. We drank tea and reminisced in her cosy back living room, where I used to play. Time flies.

Time passed to when I was working at our local infant school. I was attached to Year One. We were having a school trip to The Judges’ Lodgings in Lancaster. I didn’t need asking twice. It was a fabulous visit. The children learnt a lot about bygone times and the ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ lifestyle of the people who used to live or stay in the building. They dressed up as staff or gentry and had lots of fun trying to spin tops and work other old-fashioned toys. I loved every minute.

Apologies for no poem, I had a few lines in my head but nothing came to fruition. Everything has been hectic since I returned from my extended travels yesterday. And tonight I had to go to a football match.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Melancholy

He said I was ‘snippy’. I was taken aback, but he was right, of course. He knows me better than I know myself. I thought about it. I was feeling down in the dumps and I knew I was being moody, irritable and impatient. Things were getting me down. I was easily upset and filled with a sadness that I couldn’t shake off. I wanted things that I couldn’t have; my nanna, my mum, my sense of smell so I could remind myself of her Estee Lauder fragrance; and normal eyesight. My vision is very frustrating sometimes – most of the time. The melancholy has eased off for now, but it will be back. I can rely on my husband to tell me I’m ‘snippy’ if I’m not aware.

It is the statins. I blame everything on the statins from my mood to my physical aches and pains and fatigue. Before I was prescribed, I blamed everything on the menopause. I’m a bit senior to carry that off convincingly, so the statins are the culprit.

Recently, when window-shopping round various jewellers in town looking for something special for my sister, I saw a pre-loved ring exactly like the one I was stupid enough to lose in 1971, an inexpensive dress ring of sentimental value, given to me by an aunt. I’d forgotten all about it for most of the last fifty-odd years, but seeing it brought back memories and made me feel sad to have been so careless in my teens. I know exactly where I lost it and at the time I’d retraced my steps over and over again and searched as thoroughly as I could. I concluded that someone must have found it. This can’t possibly be the same ring, but it filled me with nostalgia, so much that I might buy it as a replacement.

I was listening to ‘A Question of Balance’ – The Moody Blues, this morning, and in particular Mike Pinder’s ‘Melancholy Man’. It’s a great song. Help yourself on YouTube.

I looked to my beloved Brontes for a ‘melancholy’ poem and decided that any poem by any one of them would be suitable and I found that quite sad. The lives they had in the parsonage overlooking the church and the graveyard, the loss of their mother and older siblings, then the loss of each other is reflected in their poems. The troubled Branwell the most melancholy, fighting his demons.

I chose a poem I wrote in memory of our nephew, David. Today marks fourteen years since he was murdered.

Rondeau In memory of David

Think happy thoughts and always smile.
This might not be the hardest mile
To walk on our journey of life,
But just another time of strife;
So stop and rest here for a while.

Remember days of carefree style
Before the death, before the trial;
Before the bastard with the knife…
Think happy thoughts,

And not of the murder so vile
And let nothing spoil or defile
The joyful mem’ries of his life,
His little girl, bewildered wife.
Hold still and wait here for a while,
Think happy thoughts.

PMW 2009

Robert Peston will lift my spirits. I'm reading one of his books, 'Whistleblower'.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Branching Out - The Ties That Bind Us

The other day, I found myself having a gentle fight with a buddleia. It is actually three buddleia bushes intertwined and in spite of my best efforts to keep them under control, they are branching out as they wish. The tallest has the deepest purple blooms I’ve ever seen on a buddleia, next to it is a white one which flowers later with huge, fat blooms loved by bees and butterflies. Originally planted in front of them is a pink one, supposed to be miniature but isn’t. They are all beautiful and though it pains me to remove lower branches, I have to make sure my well-established and cherished ‘Totally Tangerine’ geum has enough space and sunshine. Seemingly from nowhere, something else appeared, which is hard to believe because I’m always checking the garden and usually know off the top of my head how many buds are waiting in the wings on the nasturtiums and how many sweet pea stalks have gripped the trellis. This ‘something else’ took me back to my first school days when the walk included a lane where the hedgerow was filled with large, white flowers. It’s something I’ve always remembered, and here it was growing in my own garden, lucky me. It was like ivy on a vine and I loved the nostalgia – until I looked it up and discovered what it really was. Bindweed. It had to go, hence the careful fight with the buddleia where it had wound itself along a few branches. Not many, thankfully, and no damage done, but I believe it is hard to get rid of completely and I’ll have to keep watch. It isn’t just the bindweed keeping me busy.

 I’m also branching out on my family tree following an email from a distant relative. We’ve been in contact before but never met and don’t share a bloodline, but we are linked together by the marriage of our respective great grandparents which puts us on the same branch in our ancestry and we can help each other out with information. Stepping out of my direct bloodline has sent me on a fascinating journey – one of those that starts on Ancestry.co.uk at about nine o’clock p.m. for an hour, but carries on beyond midnight. It’s never ending.

My poem,

Branches of my family tree

Stretching out of my bloodline,

Yet belonging to what is me,

What I consider mine.

I’m gripped by who has gone before,

How they lived and why they died

And how they make me yearn for more,

Despite the many tears I’ve cried

For people I have never known.

Those who lived before my birth,

My kindred spirits having flown

Beyond the confines of this earth,

I will embrace you in Heaven.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, keep safe, Pam x

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Christmas..... I Remember..

I can still feel the excitement from Christmases more than sixty years ago when I was a child. I can taste the satsumas from the bowl on the table at my granny’s; hear the crackle of a Quality Street wrapper as the chocolate was revealed - and quickly consumed; smell the cigars distributed to the men by my grandad just once a year. 

As 1950s children we rarely had such feasts as the ones my granny set out on that polished wooden table: dishes full of chocolates and sweets; bowls piled high with oranges and tangerines, grapes and bananas; Turkish Delight in a thin wooden box, icing sugar snowing down on the table as we sneaked out a sweet jelly cube; nuts with a special nutcracker that you had to squeeze as hard as your little hands could manage, before passing it to dad or uncle to do the job properly. If they were very clever they could produce a nut, perfectly whole and unscathed. 

At home, we were never allowed to help ourselves to food, we always had to ask. Here, at granny’s on Christmas Day we were encouraged to dip into the bowls and fill our glasses with fizzy pop (something else that only appeared on special occasions).  It was always a magical day. My cousins had travelled, with my aunt and uncle, the eighty miles from Margate (another world to us kids) and were already at granny’s when we arrived. 

Each year Father Christmas appeared at the back window, heavily bearded and hooded, a big black sack over his shoulder. There was great excitement while one of the adults went outside to let him in. Although we had our suspicions, it took us a few years to actually admit to ourselves and each other that Santa was our dad dressed up for the part. After all, it was strange how dad was never in the room when Father Christmas came in. 

One year the man in red appeared as usual, and knocked on the window to be let in. Sure enough, dad had left the room only minutes before. We children grinned at each other. “It’s only dad,” said my older brother cockily, watching for my younger brother’s reaction. “It’s not!” insisted John, close to tears, while Geoff continued to nod his head and grin. 

Just then, Father Christmas made his entrance and we gathered round the sack. Presents were distributed, and, with a lot of ho ho ho-ing Santa turned to go - just as the door opened and in walked dad. It was sometime later that we discovered my mum had persuaded her brother to call round and act the part. Such was our shock that I think we all had a couple more years of believing after that. 

Each Christmas my brothers and I would ‘do a turn.’ One year I persuaded my little brother to don a headscarf, apron and women’s slippers and act out a monologue (which became a duologue) with me. He told me recently he still remembers the words. The next Christmas it was Charlie Drake’s, ‘I Lost My Mummy,’ with lots of fake crying from the youngest actor, and another year we all mimed to Bernard Cribbins’ ‘Hole in the Ground.’  My older brother’s turn invariably ended with a squirting cigar or something flying through the air at the audience.  I can hear the family’s laughter as clearly as if it were yesterday. 

Sadly, although there will inevitably still be laughter this Christmas, it is one tinged with sadness. It’s the first in sixty six years without my dad (AKA Spamhead), who passed away three weeks ago, and although I’ve not seen him every one of those Christmas Days he’s always been around before or afterwards to receive his presents and accept thanks for the ones bought for us by mum. Over the years we all came to realise that dad didn’t really like presents unless they consisted of food, or vouchers to be exchanged for something edible.  He loved an outing to M&S Food where he would drive mum mad by filling a trolley with Spam (hence his nickname), cheese, ox tongue, prawns and his favourite lobsters.  

I hadn’t got round to buying the voucher before he died, but I had bought extra warm socks for his bad circulation, and an apron to catch the food that always ended up on his jumper. I’m wearing the socks as I type, and my mum tells me he would never have worn the apron: he didn’t believe he spilled a thing. My eldest son tells me he will wear it with pride.

My dad was ninety two, he had a great life, right up to the end, and that makes me happy. He was a lovely dad, granddad and great granddad and he was the best Father Christmas ever. 

I usually write a poem on the week’s theme but today I’d like to pay homage to my lovely dad and post part of the eulogy I read out at his funeral. This was something I wrote for Father’s Day a few years ago, and amended just recently. I’d based it on looking through old photos, which seems even more poignant today. 

Dear Dad,

You are the slim young man with the thick wavy hair, caught forever in the 1940s, strolling with mum along the prom at Margate; you are the proud father of one, two and – whoops – three babies, reluctantly posing against the1950s décor; you are the stressed looking thirty-something, sprung to life in a fading Polaroid, with three grinning teens in ‘60s shades; you are the pale, gaunt figure, with empty eyes, in the grip of a deep depression – knife poised above the Silver Wedding cake; you are the handsome dad, smiling self-consciously at your sons’ weddings, beaming at the congregation as you walk me proudly down the aisle;  you are the relaxed and happy grey-haired man in 70s sweater, gazing fondly at the first of eight grandchildren; you are the proud husband at the end of the century, fifty years married, squinting as the sun makes a sudden break through the clouds, and your family laughs around you; you are the octogenarian magician, mesmerising great-grandchildren; you are the slightly stooping, white haired man, serenading mum on your Diamond Wedding Anniversary, as I wipe away tears; you are the grinning 90 year old, looking down adoringly as you and mum cradle the long awaited twins, nearly but not quite, the last of your nine great grandchildren……

You were my 92 year old dad. I loved you dearly and I always will.  Your favourite daughter, JK xxx

Thanks for reading,  Jill

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Retronomy

“Vinyl is the real deal. I've always felt like, until you buy the vinyl record, you don't really own the album. And it's not just me or a little pet thing or some kind of retro romantic thing from the past. It is still alive”.
                                                                                                                                                                       Jack White (Singer, Songwriter)

Retronomy… although the word itself appears to be quite shy in ‘popular speak’, retronomy is generally used to signify newly developed concepts, that self-consciously refer to particular trends, music, modes, artefacts, products, fashions, or attitudes which are soaked in the essence of the recent past.

With reference to ‘all things retro’ the popularity of the phrase itself is relatively modern deriving from the 60s (but originally from the Latin prefix retro meaning backwards or in past times), which denoted new things which had strong characteristics of previous times.

This aspect of life has lead me to consider this question; ‘Why with all the advancements in modern life and technology do we still crave such archaic props or experiences to offer meaning to our lives?

The psychology of purchasing ‘vintage’ or ‘retro’ items is very much multi-layered. Often the impetus to buy retro is fuelled by the thrill of the chase, when searching for new items to swell an ever expanding collection. The internet has made it so much easier to obtain modern pieces online, which appears to be the new high street for shopping, but shopping for retro is very much an unparalleled treasure hunt. Therefore part of its allure is simply in the beauty of the process, where you will never know what you will find or learn when embarking on the journey.

Another reason for retro preference is a sense of participating in the history of the object itself. Modern items are ‘tabula rasas’ upon which we write a history, whereas more vintage pieces are already written on. The marks of age and time have already been branded and we want to add to it.

Further to this our recognition of the modern being a throwaway society compared with the old adage of "They don't make things the way they used to." Does imply that the quality, including materials, embellishments, and craftsmanship, in older pieces makes it purchase worthy.

Additionally, in a world of mass production, seeing yourself "coming and going" is an inevitability. We can easily disappear into the world of the ordinary whereas retro ensures originality. That ‘one-of-a-kindness’ that you cannot find anywhere else.

Finally and most simply, for the love of nostalgia and sentiment which prompts us to buy into the representation of it, with the retro piece becoming the embodiment of a bygone era.

So with this in mind… why do we have such a bittersweet relationship with nostalgia?

In life, change is very much the default setting, not the exception; so we are constantly surrounded in transformation, from physical growth to scientific discovery. Novelty, meanwhile, appears to offer the antidote to boredom and stagnation.

Nonetheless, individuals long for a sense of stability. Constant change has been seen to threaten our psychological well-being, especially when we are required to develop a new skillset to meet the demands of our acquired knowledge. Stress inevitably accompanies unexpected or extreme change, since our ability to control situations depends upon a reasonable degree of predictability.

Nostalgia therefore, offers an almost bittersweet window into the past. It’s sweet because it allows us to momentarily relive perceived ‘good times’; whereas it’s bitter because we recognize that those times can never return, and we will eventually return to our hectic dystopia.

Although nostalgia is a universal phenomenon, research has hinted that our nostalgic yearnings are more focused during periods of transition, like maturing into adulthood or aging into retirement. Relocation (such as work or home), or technological progress can also elicit these feelings.

In the face of instability, our mind will reach for our positive memories of the past, which tend to be more crystallized, than negative or neutral ones. We search for those moments where we felt safe, secure and contented. Previously, theorists tended to think of nostalgia as a bad thing – a retreat in the face of uncertainty, stress or unhappiness. Roderick Peters a renowned psychoanalytical theorist in 1985, described extreme nostalgia as debilitative, something “that persists and profoundly interferes with the individual’s attempts to cope with his present circumstances.” More contemporary opinions such as myself would contradict this somewhat maladaptive viewpoint.

Having worked in dementia care for so many years, and having seen the benefits (firsthand) with nostalgic reminiscence therapy, I can see how it offers a stabilizing force, especially when individuals with dementia are surrounded by confusion and disorientation to place and time. It can strengthen our sense of personal continuity, whilst reminding us that we possess a store of powerful memories that are deeply intertwined with our identity. Nostalgic memories that tend to focus on our relationships, can often comfort us during stressful or difficult times. Although individuals have become independent and mature (perhaps even a bit jaded), they often focused on their accumulated life roles from children, sibling, adult, parent etc. In developing a retrospective analysis of our lifelong experiences, we tend to find remembering that we have experienced unconditional positive regard, love, empathy, compassion, strength, belonging, etc. as we have aged, can offer a reassuring outlook for our present – especially during trying times. These memories offers the insight into our personal resilience, providing the courage to confront our fears, take reasonable risks and tackle challenges. Rather than creating a metaphorical prison, trapping us in the past, nostalgia can liberate us from adversity by promoting personal growth. Other recent studies have also identified that individuals with a greater propensity for nostalgia, cope better with adversity and are more likely to seek emotional support, advice and practical help from others. Interestingly, they are also more likely to avoid distractions which prevent them from confronting the issue and generating solutions. A word of caution: for all its benefits, nostalgia can also seduce us into retreating into a romanticized past (being tempted by the dark side)!

The desire to escape into the imagined, idealized world of a prior era – even one you weren’t alive for – represents a different, independent type of nostalgia is referred to as historical nostalgia.

Historical nostalgia often sits concurrently with a deep dissatisfaction with the present and a preference for the way things were long ago. Unlike personal nostalgia, someone who experiences historical nostalgia might have a more cynical or stigmatized perspective of the world, one coloured by pain, trauma, regret or adverse life experiences. The most recent need for identity has led to an unhealthy desire for all things WW2. This maligned longing for these misinterpreted and misunderstood ‘halcyon days’ of war and remembrance. It serves only to create a false memory of what it was like during such horrific times in our world’s history, whilst providing the participants a false escape from real life, which they hope not to return to, which in reality is only going to provide disappointment.

Ultimately, when we focus on our own life experiences – falling back on our store of happy memories – ‘nostalgia’, ‘vintageness’ and ‘retronomy’ are useful tool. It can be seen as a way to harness the past internally to endure change – and create hope for the future.

Gone Not forgotten
Gone not forgotten, time is for healing.
Memories of who we were in the crowd.
Using senses to enhance these feelings.
Sharing the stories and laughing out loud.

Remembering times spent together.
We wanted them to last forever.
Gone not forgotten, this is true.
All the things that remind me of you.

Thanks for reading, Steve McCarthy-Grunwald, December 2018

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Adverts

  Well a bit of fun and nostalgia today in the form of a piece I wrote in School for Higher English and dated 2nd. October 1967. Those older persons among you may recall some of these products...

   Mr H J Parsons is an ordinary man but his life is shaped by advertisements. Here is an example of an ordinary day in his life -
   He is awakened by his " Smiths " automatic alarm clock and creeps out from beneath his " Pure Irish Linen " sheets, stretching his arms to touch the "Vinyl Washable " wallpaper which he has stained with " Brylcreem " ( he had better use " Vitalis " instead ). Jumping out of his " Slumberland " bed into his " Pirrelli " slippers and across his  "Cyril Lord " carpet he opens the genuine "Japanese Made" venetian blind and gazes fondly at the " Cocker's" roses blooming in the garden below.He straightens his " Egyptian Cotton " pyjamas and gazes at his wife, thinking, "Twenty five years of marriage and she shows no signs of age, her hair retaining its natural colour as she uses "Polycolour for Brunettes ".Her skin still shines with everlasting youth as she uses " Oil of  Ulay ". Her beautiful white teeth soak in a tumbler of  " Steradent ".
  Mr Parsons does not want to waken her from her"Ovaltine " slumber, so he goes into the bathroom takes out "Palmolive Brushless Shaving Cream " and a " Gillette Super Stainless Steel Razor " ( it's about time he invested in a "Philishave " ). Washing his face with " Knight's Castille " and singing "Rowntrees jelly tots , they're nice to eat " he admires the " Aldis " bath set. Drying his face on a soft  " Turkish " towel he then commences to clean his teeth with a shapely " Wisdom " toothbrush and cool, tingling " Gibbs SR". He straightens his " Seven day trial " toupee, puts on his " St Michael " underwear, his " Banner " whiter than white shirt , and a " John Collier " suit.
   After descending the " Vynolay "covered stair , he enters the kitchen, switches on the " GEC " cooker and puts a " Lion" egg onto boil. He sets the table with stainless steel cutlery initialled free by " Kelloggs".
   Leaving his wife to do the washing up ( since her hands stay so soft ) he sets off for work with "Sch.........you know who....". His car starts first time ( an egg is so uncomfortable to sit on ! ) the engine purring sweetly. Amazed his wife watches as a "Tiger" pushes the car down the drive.
   Entering the office he notices the perfume of " Freshaire " sprayed by his mini-skirted secretary. ( he admires her shapely legs clad in " Bear Brand " stockings, her hips supported by ?? ).
   So his day commences peacefully and for lunch he has a " Milky Way " but is disappointed to discover that he gets indigestion and needs " Speedy Alkazeltzer ".
   At 5.30 he sets off for home stopping to purchase " Super National ".On arriving at the door his wife greets him with " I've got a headache ", so he gives her " Aspro". She tells him of the hard day she's had, what with discovering she was using the wrong soap powder, running out of " Yeastvite" and failing to tell the difference between " Stork " and butter, she's nearly a wreck.
   Trying to cheer her up he tells her that he's invited the "Nescafe " people over to put the "T" in Britain. " How could you ? ", she shrieked , " They've got B.O. ".  " Not anymore . " he replied, " They all use " Lifebuoy " ".
   So at 7.30 all their guests arrive shouting " Let's have a Smarties party ". They much admired the furniture that was bought using " Embassy " coupons. In the early hours they departed leaving the Parsons to clear up,,which they did with " Ajax" liquid and a "J-cloth "..
   Bedtime called so they had a cup of " Horlicks " and snuggled down.
   "Tonight ", quipped Mrs Parsons, " I am going to date a dream"

   Thanks for reading, Kath.......

 

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