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

Read More

Feathers - Hair Cut

I did a stupid thing in 1971. Yes, another one. That year was full of it from start to finish and I’m still embarrassed by some of the incidents. This is one of them.

I wasn’t happy to be uprooted from my world which was the pub on the prom, my school, my friends, my nights at the ice-rink and everything I held dear. I would have done anything to stay and tried a few ideas, including moving in with a friend so my GCEs wouldn’t be disrupted. Nothing worked. I wasn’t taken seriously. I was a stroppy teenager. Yes, indeed, and who is to blame for that? It wasn’t all down to hormones. The family, such as it was now, moved to another pub in Cheshire. I was the self-conscious new girl at the local Secondary Modern, a school which I quickly discovered was taking an alternative path towards the exams than the one I’d been following – not too closely, I admit, but that wasn’t the point – there were changes between Lancashire and Cheshire education departments. The National Curriculum was years away. I soon knew that I was different on a personal level. My new friends, pleasant and welcoming girls, couldn’t help but nudge each other and give knowing looks about my embroidered jeans and floaty tops when we met after school. I don’t know what they thought, but over a short time I toned down a bit and dressed more like them when I got a Ben Sherman shirt and some two-tone trousers. I went to the weekly gathering at the town hall where the music was mod, soul, reggae and everything ‘not my scene’ but I wanted to fit in so I learnt the Dave and Ansel Collins ‘Double Barrel’ dance. This is the time that the stupid thing happened. I cut my own hair. I fashioned a feather-cut with nail scissors, taking it into the nape of my neck, leaving long straggly rats tails. I’m not a hairdresser, not even close, so the going blonde turned out hit and miss. No one said anything at home. My friends thought it was ok, even better after one of them went over a bit that I’d missed. What a mess, is what it actually was.

At half term I went to London on the train, on my own, to stay with family who lived in Roehampton. Whether my dad had said anything to my aunt or whether she just took charge I don’t know, but one of the first things I remember was being taken to her hairdresser and given the full treatment of colour, cut and blow. She bought me new clothes back in my own style and I felt like myself again. During my stay, Dad had been in touch to see how I was. My aunt gave me the good news that we were leaving Cheshire and returning to Blackpool to live in a house. Another first.

It was good to be me again with my Moody Blues and Rolling Stones and leave my hair alone for the properly cut feathers to grow out. I learnt something from those few months, ‘To thine own self be true’.  It didn’t stop me doing stupid things, though.

I kept in touch with those friends for a few years and I remember them fondly whenever I hear ‘Double Barrel’. I don’t think my ankles are up for the dance, sadly.

Here’s Emily Dickinson,

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

                           Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

 (Not my photo, chosen for illustration)

Read More

A 1 - Cherished Number Plate

The first car registration plate was A1 and issued by London County Council in 1903. From 1^st January, 1904 it was compulsory for every motor vehicle to be registered and have a registration plate. In modern times, it became a status symbol to have a private registration on a car, personal initials, for example, and the fewer letter and numbers, the higher the value. The most recent information I have found on the A1 plate is that it is registered to a Mini Cooper in London and the estimated value of the plate is between five and ten million pounds. The lovely photo from my I Spy Car Numbers book reminds me of one of my dad’s Jags. He never indulged in a ‘cherished number plate’.

Once, a long time ago, I think I had a ‘cherished number plate’. It was on a Vauxhall Viva, circa1969. I bought the car in desperation in 1980. Home from visiting family in the U.S.A., I needed wheels but had very little money, fifty pounds, in fact. Fifty pounds couldn’t buy much of a car, but sometimes there might be a ‘good runner’ for sale with only a month or two left on its MOT. It was worth reading all the adverts in the used car section of the local paper. This was one such car. Many shades of green, lots of filler on the sills and a very snatchy clutch, it was worth every penny of my fifty pounds. And my dad loved tinkering with cars, which was just as well. Nearly every day there was something. While I was at work, my dad would be at the nearby scrap yard looking for parts. We would guess if the car would start or not each morning. It became more efficient as my dad replaced bits and pieces under the bonnet. I did the Advanced Drivers Course with the local traffic police in that car. My tutor, a lovely police officer, used to mock my car, mostly in fun, and blame my driving, not the funny clutch, until he drove it himself. By the time I could afford something better, my dad had virtually rebuilt the engine. The bodywork, which was half metal, or more correctly, half rust, half plaster, or whatever they fill holes with, was in a sorry state. Slam the door and a bit more would drop off. It was up for sale. My neighbour thought that was hilarious and suggested I scrap it, but no, I needed some money for it. The first person to see it, bought it, and for my asking price of £100. He didn’t actually want the car, he was after the ‘cherished number plate’, which meant nothing to me but everything to him. That was the one and only time I made money on a car. HEN 63F.

A1, that was Blackpool FC on Saturday against Swansea. Another win, another three points, first class.  I was so happy to have my husband back at the stadium for the first time since November, though I’m grateful to the family members who have taken his place and kept me company at home matches during his absence.

My poem, nothing to do with A1, and not even a poem, just thoughts.

Carrying whatever they can,
Walking for miles,
Someone’s child,
Hungry, tired, scared.

Someone’s parent,
Anxious for family, friends.
Someone’s partner,
Sick with worry.

No sleep, no rest, just tears and fears.
War-torn people, devastated lives.
Broken burning buildings,
Homes, hospitals, schools.

Soldiers fighting for Ukraine,
Their lives, their families,
Their all.
Someone, something,
Put a stop to Putin.
Russians rebel,
End this now.


Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

Read More

Superstition - Good Afternoon, Mr Magpie

It was here again the other day. I heard it before I saw it, that horrible noise, like a distorted football rattle, then it swooped down from next door’s tree to strut around my garden like it owns the place. The magpie. Hopefully, there’s another one coming along. Not that I’m superstitious. After a muttering of “Good afternoon, Mr Magpie, pass my best wishes to your good lady wife” I forget all about him and carry on wiping down the kitchen. I notice him fly away with a companion, “One for sorrow, two for joy”, that’s good.

It is just as well that I’m not bothered by cracks in the footpath. I can’t avoid them when I’m pegging out washing and so far, I haven’t come to any harm. They give the courtyard character and somewhere to brush away the shattered shell of the snail I didn’t mean to tread on.

I’m not worried by the number thirteen, but I wouldn’t want to have thirteen people round a dinner table or gathering. That’s the one thing I share with the queen. Actually, I don’t think I know twelve people who would join me for dinner. Well, after lockdown, maybe.

There are superstitious rules concerning cutlery which have existed from my childhood and probably made up by my grandmothers and other ladies of their generation in my family to encourage good table manners. Dropped cutlery meant unexpected visitors and if it was a knife, the visitor would be a man. I don’t believe I’ve ever witnessed this. I wonder what we’d get if I dropped a handful of teaspoons? No, I’m not experimenting. Anyway, it’s got to be accidental. There is a correct way to leave cutlery on a finished plate. Deviate from the acceptable and we’re inviting the devil, apparently. The devil doesn’t like salt. Spilling salt causes bad luck. Quickly remedy the situation by throwing a pinch over your left shoulder into the eyes of the waiting devil. To spill salt was considered to be wasting money, dating back to ‘salary’ times.

I once broke the mirror on a handbag compact. I still use it, very carefully because it has a sharp bit and I’ve had the odd nick. I should really buy a new one. I’m not aware of any bad luck as a result, certainly not seven years’ worth. When it comes to personal care, no nail trimming on Sundays, but I’ve no idea why not.

Is it just me with pillowcases? The open ends must always face the same way, usually towards a window and I won’t change bed linen on a Friday. Superstition or not?

Here is my haiku for that pesky bird,

Strutting so aloof

As if it owns my garden.

Arrogant magpie.

Thanks for reading, stay safe and well. Back soon, fingers crossed. Pam x

Read More