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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Feghoots - A Pink Elephant and a Water Bottle

This is not my own work, though I wish it was. I consider it to be well thought out and clever, and when I first heard it, some years ago, I couldn't stop laughing. Forgive me if I'm repeating something you readers already know. If, by any chance it is new to you, I hope you find it amusing.

"A frog goes into a bank and approaches the teller. He can see from her nameplate that her name is Patricia Whack.

"Miss Whack, I'd like to get a $30000 loan to take a holiday."

Patty looks at the frog in disbelief and asks his name. The frog says his name is Kermit Jagger, his dad is Mick Jagger, and that it's OK, he knows the bank manager. Patty explains that he will need to secure the loan with some collateral.

The frog says, "Sure. I have this," and produces a tiny porcelain elephant, about half an inch tall - bright pink and perfectly formed.

Very confused, Patty explains that she'll have to consult with the bank manager and disappears into a back office. She finds the manager and says, "There's a frog called Kermit Jagger out there who claims to know you and wants to borrow $30000, and he wants to use this as collateral."

She holds up the tiny pink elephant.

"I mean, what in the world is this?"

The bank manager looks back at her and says, "It's a knick-knack, Patty Whack, give the frog a loan. His old man's a Rolling Stone." "

 

 

 

And another, again not my own work. I found this hilarious.

 

 

 

 

The Lord of the manor had a butler named Wibble. One day he called Wibble and said, "What about running my bath, Wibble?"

"Certainly, Sir," replied Wibble. "Will there be anything else my lord?"

"Yes, Wibble, what about my dressing gown."

"Certainly, Sir. Will there be anything else my lord?"

"Yes, Wibble, what about my carpet slippers."

"Certainly, Sir, will there be anything else my lord?"

"No, Wibble. If I require anything else I shall call you."

With that, the old lord lowered himself into the water and let go a long, loud fart. Five minutes later, Wibble returned with a hot water bottle on a silver tray.

"Here you are, my lord, your hot water bottle."

"I never asked for that," said his lordship.

Wibble replied, "But you did, my lord. As you lowered yourself into the bath, I distinctly heard you say, "Whadabowdawadderboddlewibble."


I hope these examples can be classed as Feghoots. In any case, I hope they have made you smile or even laugh out loud.
No poem today. Nothing could possibly complement.


Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

 

 

 

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Growing Pains - Our Back Bedroom

 On Saturday morning I was upstairs in the spare back bedroom doing some ironing. Whoever is in charge of programme scheduling on BBC Radio 2 has shifted Sounds of the ‘60s to the ridiculous time slot of 6 a.m. until 8 a.m., so I’ve missed it. Instead of singing along to the Hollies, Marmalade, Love Affair and others who provided the comforting music of my younger days, I enjoyed the peace and quiet, alone with my thoughts.

I thought about the many make-overs the room had under gone with various occupants over the years. It was our room once. Magnolia emulsion on woodchip, Artex textured ceiling and I think it was a stripey carpet. We moved into the newly decorated front bedroom and, as children were our regular guests, we furnished this back room with bunk beds and made it a home for some of my teddy bears.

A nephew, about six years old, kept waking up with a headache one night. I sat with him, bucket at the ready for the inevitable sickness, and hoped his distress wouldn’t disturb his younger sister, our niece, who slept peacefully in the next room.

Our son arrived. He had the tiny boxroom at first. He had night terrors when he was a toddler until he was about four. It gave me terrors of my own when disturbed by his screaming. I would dash into his room to find him sitting up staring at something only he could see. He soon calmed down with a reassuring cuddle. Before he started school, we moved him into the back bedroom, now decorated in bright colours, mainly yellow and with a theme of cartoon style zoo animals. A few years later, while he was away at Cub Camp, we re-vamped his room with a Manchester United theme as a surprise to come home to. He loved it and was even more delighted, as we all were when Manchester United won the treble that season.

Our daughter arrived and the boxroom was suitably freshened up. When she was a little girl she suffered dreadful leg cramps. The pain made her cry and sometimes disturbed her sleep. By the time she was about eight, our son had moved into another room and she was resident in the back bedroom, now Barbie themed with bright pink curtains and sparkly pink painted walls. I would sit on her bed in this pink paradise, massaging ‘magic cream’ moisturiser into the offending leg hoping to relive the pain as we waited for the double dose of Calpol Junior to take effect. Growing pains, the doctor said.

Growing pains, whatever form they take, are the hardest pains of all. It’s the adolescent boundary pushing, teenage angst, tearful tantrums that is all part of growing up and discovering who we are and who we want to be, or think we want to be that I found the most challenging; both as a parent and with memories of my own teens.

In more recent years, our daughter and her boyfriend shared this room until they moved to their own place. Our son and his girlfriend made it home for a while and re-decorated it beautifully in brown and taupe, painting over the graffiti that I’d accepted was someone’s freedom of expression. This time last year they also found their own place.

This lovely, large back bedroom that holds so many memories is a spare room again. And there’s a cot now as our grandchildren are overnight guests. Our adult children are raising their own families and experiencing the next generation of growing pains.

I put the iron down for a moment and glanced through the window. I noticed the gentleman across the back was sitting out in the sun, newspaper and morning coffee to hand. Good idea.

This poem always reminds me of our son’s night terrors.

 

A Child Half-Asleep by Tony Connor

 

Stealthily parting the small-hours silence,
A hardly-embodied figment of his brain
Comes down to sit with me
As I work late.

Flat-footed, as though his legs and feet

Were still asleep.

He sits on a stool,

Staring into the fire,
His dummy dangling.

Fire ignites the small coals of his eyes.

It stares back through the holes
Into his head, into the darkness.

I ask what woke him?

‘A wolf dreamed me’ he says.

 Thanks for reading, Pam x

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