Hooked

One Enid Blyton book was all it took to set me off on a life-time of reading. I’ve mentioned before about the box of books left ‘for the little girl’ in a pub we were moving into. The little girl was me, aged seven and the pub was The Boar’s Head in Blackpool. This was my introduction to The Broons and Oor Wullie, which enabled me to master a Scottish accent on paper. My teacher was not impressed, bless her. It was also my introduction to a love of Enid Blyton stories, with the donated hard-backs of The Secret Seven, The Ring o’ Bells Mystery and The Rilloby Fair Mystery. I was hooked. I read them over and over again. I remember finishing The Rilloby Fair Mystery and going straight back to the beginning. I loved it so much. A nearby newsagents sold toys and books. My parents knew exactly what to bring home for me. I still have most of the books. My children preferred Roald Dahl and J.K.Rowling. My grandchildren prefer activities on screens – a sign of the times – but Michael Rosen is loved by a grandson and Jacqueline Wilson is loved by a granddaughter. I was born in the ‘50s, thank goodness.

Another thing got me hooked, literally. My grandmother taught me to knit. My mother did, as well, but it was mainly Nanna. She crocheted a lot, making herself lacy tops that were like works of art. She had the patience of a saint trying to teach me. Watching her, deliberately going slow to show me, I would be confident that ‘I’d got it’. She would start me off by making a chain then handing me the hook and yarn to carry on. We were making a scarf. I was making a mess.

“Oh, give it here!” Another exasperated grumble as she grabbed the tangle of wool from my hands.

This went on into my teens and I failed to crochet anything except the foundation chain.

My grandmother passed away when I was nineteen. Something must have clicked because shortly after, I discovered I could crochet, after all, and I still do. I crocheted a fancy bedspread. That was the first thing I made. I have lots of blankets I’ve made from crocheted granny squares and I’ve managed to crochet teddy bears for charity. Yes, I’m crochet hooked.

Enid Blyton, known as a story writer, but less known as a poet. This is one of hers,

Fairy Snow

Yesterday, the sky was white,
For one big cloud was spread
From east to west and north to south
Above my head.

But in the night the fairy-folk
Began to wonder why
They saw no moon nor little stars
About the sky.

They didn’t like that big white cloud,
So up they softly flew
And tore it all to tiny bits
The whole night through.

And one by one the bits fell down,
Like feathers soft and white,
Until the ground was overspread
With dazzling white.

And now today that big white cloud
Beneath my feet is spread,
And all the sky is blue again
Above my head.

Enid Blyton  1897-1968

 Greetings from Dumfries & Galloway. Thanks for reading, Pam 

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Paths - One Road

Throughout our adult lives we follow paths based on our choices. We reach cross-roads and face directional dilemmas. There can be consequences for a bad decision. A learning curve. We cross paths with others and share paths with many. My late dad and I shared a saying for these experiences, “Another stitch in life’s rich tapestry”. The saying often related to a conclusion or something that we considered to be “Sod’s Law”. I still say it. We travelled many paths together. I was always Daddy’s Girl and spent my childhood living in his shadow. He showed me the way to find the right path then, with the patience of a saint, helped me to stay on it after I’d veered right off.

One Road, a song by Love Affair

I don't have your nagging doubts
I know what you're going through
So if it helps you to decide One road leads to sadness
One road leads to pain
One road shows you life is a game One road leads to darkness
One road leads to light
One road leads you life to love I don't want you to be confused
Or demoralized or abused
I just want you free to choose
Who you want to have or loose
So if it helps you to decide One road leads to darkness
One road leads to light
And one road leads you life to love You know one road leads to sadness
One road leads to pain
And one road shows you life is a game, yeah Oh, one road leads to darkness
And one road leads to light
And one road leads you life to love.

Written by Philip Goodhand-Tait

This song was a popular choice on our pub juke-box at the time, and a personal favourite.

I’ve tried to be a good guiding light to my children and grandchildren, but I lack my dad’s level of tolerance.

In a more literal sense, my husband and I are currently travelling unfamiliar paths in the Channel Islands. We’re having an adventure while we can just about do it, physically. Using a wheely walker on cobbled, hilly paths has some challenges and driving narrow roads with no clue to the destination brings surprises. Already familiar with Jersey, we’re staying in Guernsey and looking forward to visiting Sark and Herm.

This poem must be included in this week’s theme,

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost 1874 - 1963

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Marmoreal - Legacy of Love

When the time came to choose a new gas fire and surround for the front room, I knew exactly what I wanted; small, white-ish marble with narrow hearth and mantle piece. It had to be marble, not the composite, marmoreal looking stuff that looks like plastic pretending to be brown onyx. It was going to replace a massive, tiled thing with a sunburst design. Hairline cracks in the hearth were stained black from years of having a coal fire – before our time, but we might wish for it this coming winter – and it stretched too far towards the middle of what is quite a small room. A very efficient, old-fashioned gas fire looked like it didn’t belong, but it really blasted the heat out, excellent when needed and served us well. Replacing it wasn’t a financial priority, however, being a beneficiary in the Will of a departed aunt raised the opportunity. I was very happy to find my preferred fireplace and ‘living gas fire’ which still look great in our lounge twenty-odd years later. Thanks again, Auntie.

Auntie’s passing, very sad as it is with a close relative, left me and my sister with added complications in dealing with her estate. My sister took charge of most of it. It was emotional for both of us and I was carrying the added burden of guilt. I’d always had a lovely relationship with Auntie. Things changed as she got older and I was raising my own family. I didn’t completely fall out with her, it was more of a frustrating situation that I didn’t know how to handle.  She would phone me, to tell me off and shout at me for no valid reason. She lived alone in another town a good hour’s drive away, too far to just pop in, another contentious issue.  I had two small children, doing my best for everyone who needed me, including Auntie, but for her, nothing was good enough and I didn’t have the patience to deal with it. If I had, I might have realised that she probably had a form of dementia and needed the right care that I might have been able to find for her. She died before her behaviour made any sense to me.

Nothing was straightforward. Auntie had been living in a council owned bungalow suited to her needs, which had to be emptied within days, even before her funeral. She still owned a property which had to be sold, but some connected finances needed to be cleared before it could go on the market. Bless my sister, I didn’t have the brain to cope. She kept her head straight through it all. Eventually, and it was ages, everything was signed, sealed and delivered. Job done. I’ve kept all of Auntie’s photos and special things. Her archive of family papers sent me on a genealogy journey that I continue to dip in and out of. And, somewhere on this journey I discovered that she didn’t hate me, she loved me as she always had but she was confused and not herself. With some of the monetary inheritance, we bought a beautiful marble fireplace, the perfect size for our lounge.

I don’t do much grave visiting. I carry memories of my departed loved ones in my head and in my heart, all special people, my family. They are so much more than names carved on tombstones or on the marmoreal kerb-like structure surrounding one of our graves.

I found this poem, which reminded me so much of my late mother until the last line, which clearly refers to a lost love. Read it through my eyes and ignore the last bit.

Your Name

When I can dare at last to speak your name
It shall not be with hushed and reverent speech
As if your spirit were beyond the reach
Of homely merry things, kind jest or game.
Death shall not hide you in some jewelled shrine
Nor set you in marmoreal pomp apart,
You who still share the ingle of my heart,
Participant in every thought of mine.

Your name, when I can dare to speak it, dear,
Shall still be linked with laughter and with joy.
No solemn panegyrist shall destroy
My image of you, gay, familiar
As in old happy days,—lest I discover
Too late I’ve won a saint but lost a lover.

Winifred M Letts 1882 - 1972

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Knitting - In, Round, Through, Off

 

 Filling the bird feeders is my first job of the morning. Three fat-ball holders and two seed holders hanging on branches of the surrounding fir trees provide a feast and it only takes a minute for the birds to descend and squabble over perching rights.  I watch from the window, sipping strong tea and half leaning on the radiator.  Sunshine and a cloudless blue sky promises a beautiful autumn morning.  Earlier, I had seen the cows by the gate at the end of the meadow. They had wandered back up the hill now. I’m happy to stand for a while and drink it all in, never tiring of what I see and enjoying the changing each season brings.

I’m not at home. This is Dumfries and Galloway. My perfect place for some much needed rest and relaxation, and my birthday in a couple of days.  I am trying to make myself unwind, determined to make the most of this longer than usual stay, but I’m aware that just below the surface of my calm exterior, stress is bubbling.  There’s always family stuff and I’m not quite well but not bad enough to be ill.  I need to chill, so I’m thankful to have my knitting to occupy me later on and help me to relax.

Knitting has been and continues to be a lifetime occupation.  I might be repeating myself here if I’ve previously mentioned about being taught to knit by my mother and grandmother.  It was when my mother was expecting my baby sister.  Of course, the gender wasn’t known before birth in those days.  Both ladies were constantly knitting and I was taking an interest.  , One of them started me off with a few stitches on their spare needles and talked me through it in simple terms of ‘in, round, through, off’ until I got the hang of it.  I tried hard, dropped stitches, added stitches from somewhere and made a mess, probably more than once, but with their saintly patience and my determination, I’ve learnt a wealth of knitting and crochet skills that I’m constantly putting into practice.  From baby clothes to Aran sweaters, plain knits to complicated, I’ve done it all.  It is Christmas jumper time again, which is what I’m working on at the moment, for my grandchildren.  By the way, the photograph is from last year, in case you’re thinking I’m super-fast at churning them out.

 I found this poem,  Mrs Moon by Roger McGough,

Mrs Moon

Sitting up in the sky

Little old lady

Rock-a-bye

With a ball of fading light

And silvery needles

Knitting the night.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Handwriting - Don't Lose the Basics

 

I used to take pride in my handwriting, though these days it is limited to a shopping list or a quick note. I’ve received many compliments for my ‘beautiful handwriting’ which may have started with my interest in calligraphy.  I’ve enjoyed the privilege of doing the place cards for weddings and formal functions as my reputation grew. Over the years my style has changed and become a bit scruffy, to say the least and it’s probably down to lack of use. I can’t blame it on the lymphoedema.

Handwriting was an important lesson at school. My childhood was spent learning how to correctly form individual letters, how they sat on the line, which were tall and which were not.  We practised on specially lined paper, using a fountain pen or a dipped ink pen, after a pencil had been mastered sufficiently for the approval of the teacher. How the letters linked together into what we called ‘real writing’ followed the specific rule of the pen not leaving the paper mid-word, so a character ending below the line would need to be looped back to the line to form the next one. This was the way we were taught and we had to adhere to it. Individual style came later.

My secondary school exercise books, which I still have, show my various experiments in handwriting with some comments from teachers – ‘Do this again in blue or black ink’ (my preferred turquoise Quink was an individual step too far)  ‘This is not an art lesson. No more unnecessary flourishes’.  Eventually I settled into something like a Chancery script and quite far removed from the cursive handwriting I’d grown up with. I think I still write like that.  I used my calligraphy skills to copy a couple of my favourite sonnets which I hung on the wall in matching frames. They need re-doing with ink fit for purpose; another little job on my lockdown ‘to do’ list.

I’m helping out with some home-schooling for my eldest grandson. He’s only five and missing school, which he loves. I really feel for him. He needs his teacher, his peers and the dynamics of his classroom activities. For now he’s got Nanna’s old-fashioned teaching skills coupled with bags of patience, I hope. He is a whizz kid at maths and number work. He needs some encouragement with handwriting. Yesterday was handwriting day, just when he wanted to play. I have lessons emailed to me by my daughter for him to work on with my help. It wasn’t long before I thought I was reciting a Joyce Grenfell sketch.

‘Sit still, dear.’

‘Move to where you can see, then.’

‘Try to keep hold of your pen.’

In an effort to keep things fun, I got the easel out, chalk-board facing, plenty of chalk and words for him to sound out and write on the board. That went well, he was focused and I took a photo to send to his mum. Not much actual handwriting done, never mind. After a play-break, I found him something about dinosaurs on BBC Bitesize KS1. I think it was a science lesson. He enjoyed the interaction with that so much that he had to do it twice. He already knew how to ‘scroll and click’. Of course he did, silly me, he is Year One. We’ll return to his proper school work and do some handwriting another day. There’s no substitute for basic skills.

I wrote this poem a few years ago. Forgive me if you've heard it before. 

An Alternative Education

 

The 3Rs soon to be redundant

Computer-led kids will be abundant

With all information mega-quick

It only takes a scroll and click.

No need for any conversation

Included in their education.

 

Last year’s reception class have all gone

And taken a leap up to Year One

To drag sticky fingers on IPad screens

And work out what technology means.

Will this be their basic foundation

Instead of formal education?

 

Numeracy, or let’s call it Maths

Has rules to follow specific paths,

Beginning with learning how to count

Then adding up and sharing out.

One click away from calculation

Takes away their education.

 

When did this digital preference start?

Oh why no poetry learnt by heart?

‘Spell check’ becomes their favourite teacher

With ‘grammar check’ and added feature.

The only future expectation,

A self-taught on-line education.

 

The infants are learning to use a pen.

It’s not a skill they’ll need again

For a future spent staring on-line,

Social activity in decline

With hardly any interaction,

So they won’t need our education.

 

PMW  2015

Thanks for reading, take care and keep well. 

If you're home-schooling or trying to occupy infants, keep smiling. They love you.  Pam x

 

 

 

 

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Appetence - We'll Get What We Need

“You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometime, you’ll find you get what you need…”
from the Jagger & Richards composition, You Can’t Always Get What You Want.

My late father used to say something like that, long before the Rolling Stones immortalised the words of wisdom in their song. He had lots of sayings and witticisms about things that belonged to his generation and his upbringing. He was an original Rusholme Ruffian, very grounded and proud of his roots. He became an engineer and lived in Northenden at the time of meeting my mother and marrying into a family of licencees. He soon joined in. His first pub was in Manchester city centre. He was ambitious enough to want a pub on Blackpool Promenade and made it his goal. Six years later he’d done it and stayed for the rest of his working life. He had focus, desire and appetence. He’d certainly found his niche with his change of career. I’m proud to display his Licensed Trade Diploma on my wall, with photos of most of his pubs.

In my twenties, I wanted lots of children. It was a real yearning to have a large, close family. Obviously, it wasn’t meant to be and how I would have possibly found time to fulfil my ambition to write something meaningful, I can’t imagine. My two arrived in my mid to late thirties. I worked in a school with the under 8s.There was little time to write anything more than a birthday card. Things have improved, slightly.

For a few years, it’s been my wish to relocate to Dumfries and Galloway when we retire. I have to work more years than I wanted because I won’t get a state pension when I expected to. Yes, I’m one of those WASPI women, affected by the government moving the pensionable age criteria at short notice. I’ve just come home from a couple of weeks indulging my longing for Scotland, a holiday on the Isle of Barra then time in D&G. I hope it keeps me going until later in the year.

My family is growing. A fourth grandchild is on the way. I’m a very hands-on Nanna, so in a roundabout way I’m getting something I always wanted.

I thank my dad for genetically passing on his patience and tenacity, for always encouraging my writing and for showing me the difference between what we want and what we need.

The Rolling Stones have been doing a UK tour while I’ve been away. It would have been great to see them. Instead, I’ll play their music and look forward to catching up with a friend who went to one of their London concerts.

The photo is of our holiday cottage in Barra.

The poem is one of mine from long ago, but it means the same.

 

The Lowlands

 

Take me back to the coast of Ballentrae,

And a breath-taking view of Ailsa Craig

Half hidden by mist on a rainy day,

Grey shape against dull sky, outline so vague.

It’s restful at Robert Burns place of birth

And Autumn quiet on the Ayrshire beach.

A cloudy sunset calms the Solway Firth

And all of the Lowlands is in my reach.

I close my eyes and think of Galloway,

Afternoon tea at a street side café

A chilly breeze coming over the bay

At the end of another perfect day. 

I will return to this place of my dreams,

My love of the forest and rolling hills

Where all is real and just as it seems,

In peace and tranquillity, my soul stills.

 

PMW 2013

 

 
Thanks for reading, Pam x 

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I object!

I would like to start this blog with an apology. To say sorry for the distinct lack of posts from myself on this blog of late. I have writers block, pure and simple. What is annoying me more than anything is the fact that when it comes round to a theme that I have chosen (such as this week for example), my brain still can't get itself into gear. It is seemingly on strike, saying "I object!". And that, dear readers, is about as close as I can get to making a connection with this weeks' theme. I deliberately choose theme's which are open to translation by the people who write on this blog. So they may pick one of the many ways it can be translated and run with it. It also means that there is more variety on each theme, instead of us all writing about the same thing. But even this hasn't helped me this time. To be honest, it's really getting me down.

So, I am going to share a poem I wrote (an oldie) that will give me hope that I will come through this writers block in the end. Ever the optimist, eh?


POETICAL STORM

I can sit and the words come effortlessly,
Floating by on the breeze in my mind,
Plucked down and written upon the page,
Flowing smoothly, sometimes too easily I find.

A moment later as I sit engrossed,
Enjoying this freshness of air,
The Ethereal atmosphere changes,
And threatens to drive me into despair.

Storm clouds have gathered unnoticed,
The breeze picks up speed to a Gale,
Words rushing by too rapidly,
Unable to pluck, I seem doomed to fail.

Whooshing and whirling confusedly,
My pen unable to keep up the pace,
I scribble what I can greedily,
Trying to scribe what I can in all haste.

Ever faster and faster the wind goes round,
Becoming a Maelstrom within my mind,
The words now completely no distinct,
Just a blur which makes me almost blind.

Then …… Nothing …… A stillness envelops me,
A vacuum where nothing can stir,
Not a wisp or a breath, all is blank,
No word or picture can incur.

My pen lies helplessly upon the notepad,
Arms limply down at my side,
The fingers twitching, waiting to start once again,
But from my mind all the words hide.

How long do I spend in this wretched place?
I don’t know, it’s too hard to tell,
Minutes, hours or days go by,
With nothing to break the barren spell!

But wait! What was that? No, but  …… yes it is!
A whisper floating gently by,
Patiently waiting for the right time,
To express its sweetest of sighs.

Softly, softly, the words now return,
Emerging and drifting along,
Finally, I resume my task gladly,
Plucking words to finish my song!

I am currently at verse 8, desperately waiting for verse 9 to kick in ..... but hey-ho! Patience, patience ... *Sighs*

Any-hoo! Thank you for bearing with me. I WILL get back to writing properly again. ;-) x

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Do me a fava

Broad Beans

If I had patience I'd grow beans
the kind that look like kidneys
only green

I'd find three long sticks in the shed
and bind them at one end
with twine

I'd stand these sticks in fat, black earth
above neat rows of seedlings
curly sprites

I'd wrap the sticks with copper net
to keep out slugs and snails
and birds

I'd train the plants towards the light
with soft brown string found in
a drawer

And check the leaves for signs of harm
like wilting or attacks
by bugs

If I had beans I'd grow patience
the kind that looks like study
only free

I am taking a break from blogging for a while.  Thursday's slot will be filled by a poet whose I respect and admire very much.  I commend you to her incredibly capable hands.  This blog is a wonderful thing and I look forward to returning in the not-too-distant future.  Thank you for reading.

Vicky x

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