Tea Sets - Celebration Cuppa

 
Aunt Tillie’s Silver Tea Set

“Take it,” Aunt Tillie insisted.
We sat side by side, our bare legs
Sticking to her plastic-wrapped couch
In that hot apartment on 34th Street.

“An heirloom,” Aunt Tillie said,
Showing the ornate tray in our laps.
“To pass down to your children.”

Who had absolutely no interest
Forty years later, to waste even
A minute with a polishing cloth.

So Aunt Tillie’s silver tea set
Goes to Goodwill
Along with my vintage china.

Aunt Tillie had been so sure
Generations would treasure
The chance to entertain in elegance.

But she spent her life, like I did,
Accumulating things that would one day
Be dumped for a tax donation.

Unloading my car, I see I am not alone.
So many others my age, discarding
Knickknacks we once though we needed
But now wish to unstick from our skin
Like the plastic on Aunt Tillie’s couch.

                                                   Jacqueline Jules

Jacqueline Jules is a poet and writer of children’s books. She lives in Long Island, USA. When I read this poem and realised that was exactly ‘it’, I felt relieved that I’m not alone and I need not feel guilty for doing a similar thing.

We had to pack things away to make space for our damp course to be replaced. This task also became a down-sizing project ready for that move we keep talking about. Emptying a display unit and a cupboard, I made the decision that the tea sets had to go. By tea sets, I mean family heirlooms and not items we had acquired for ourselves. A china tea set, painted gold, made up of cups, saucers, small plates and a sandwich or cake plate, with a milk jug and sugar basin, was a gift from the family to my maternal grandparents for their golden wedding anniversary in 1972. I remember the party and buffet taking place in their pub and I always thought I remembered my mother being there, but she had passed three years earlier. She must have been there in spirit. We had toasted the ‘bride and groom’ by drinking tea from the gold cups, some of us, anyway, and congratulating them on reaching fifty golden years of marriage. Or fifty golden years of constant bickering, but that’s another story.

The other tea set, also china, ivory coloured with tiny gold detail, belonged to my maternal great-grandmother. I don’t think it marked an occasion, it was hers and the two sets were kept together after they were passed down to me and my sister. I don’t know who had them first, they’ve been backwards and forwards, more recently ending up with me and nicely displayed in a glass cabinet. Until the great clearance.

My sister was quite sure she didn’t want them back and I could do what was best for me. Looking on Ebay and other online sites, I learnt that we weren’t dealing with treasure here. I would have to donate them to a charity shop where they would sit with other rejected heirloom tea sets for years. It was a very sad thought, but with the date for the start of the damp proofing looming up, there wasn’t much time for sentiment and the tea sets were bubble-wrapped and packed into boxes.

During this time, I had a welcome visit from a close friend of many years. We were overdue a catch up and a good gossip, which we did before moving into recent things like the state of our poorly house, the cost of the remedial work and being ruthless in getting rid of things. Someone in her family was about to have the share of a charity shop for a week, so she gladly took a box of DVDs and some clothes. When the tea sets were mentioned, it was music to my ears to learn that her sister did afternoon teas and might be able to use them, she would ask.

A few weeks later, on the other side of one of our trips away, I was happy to wash and re-pack the heirloom tea sets and send them to their new home where they might be used. Thank you so much, you know who you are.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Terror - Ghostly Happenings

 

There’s something scary about looking up into the darkness at the top of the stairs. It started at my great-grandmother’s house when I was a little girl. Nothing happened, I was just spooked and the feeling has always been with me. Our landing light stays on through the night. My bedtime reading can’t be anything jumpy or thought provoking since ‘The Amityville Horror’ years ago – the film was bland compared to the book – such stories, and I enjoy reading them, are good for the afternoon. I accompanied my daughter to see ‘The Woman In Black’ at the cinema. This film absolutely terrifies me. I like the story, but I can’t watch it properly, not even on television at home.

“Tell me when this bit’s gone,” she whispered.

“I can’t, I’m not looking,” I whispered back, face covered with hands.

Recently, the stage play was on at The Grand Theatre. I’m told it’s very good and scary. My daughter asked me to go and I would have done if not for the covid situation, even if I was to spend two hours staring at my knees in the darkness.

One of the pubs our family had on the front was a former hotel, full of empty rooms. Most of these rooms were on the floor above our living accommodation and was out of bounds to me and my friends for safety reasons. On the same floor as us but separate to our flat was a corridor of about six former hotel rooms. Two of them were empty until my paternal grandfather moved in with us for a while and made one a lounge and another his bedroom. My dad used one for a spirit store (drinks, not ghosts), one was a guest room where my other grandparents stayed on their frequent visits and one was Joe’s room. Joe came with the pub. He was a live-in member of staff, of some very senior years, and when not working, kept himself to himself apart from watching the Saturday afternoon horse racing on our television, full volume due to his impaired hearing. Once a week my mother or Kathy who looked after us all, made him his favourite steak and cow-heel pie. He was a lovely man and we were sad when he died. I believe he was ninety, or thereabouts. I would guess it was a couple of years after Joe had passed when someone played a trick and scared the living daylights out of me. At some point, I moved into what used to be Joe’s room. The corridor was always a bit dark, but enough to see my way. One afternoon, as I came out of the room, there was a white, waiter’s coat floating in the air.  I screamed as terror gripped me and my dad came running from the nearby kitchen. It was all supposed to be in good fun. It might even have been Halloween. The jacket was on a wire hanger hooked on to a light-fitting. I recovered, eventually.

For a short time, my father took over The Old Hall at Sandbach and we moved to live there. I mention it by name because it was featured on the TV programme ‘Most Haunted’. We were aware of a ghost. Nothing scary, just a woman in a crinoline dress with her hair piled high. She vanished as soon as she appeared and always in the restaurant at night. She wasn’t mentioned in ‘Most Haunted’ but Derek Acorah and his team found plenty of other paranormal activity that we weren’t aware of or been told about.

When our son was about three years old, he had what we recognised as night terrors. The first time it happened I was terrified. It was the middle of the night and his screaming woke me up suddenly. I was out of bed and in his room in a nano-second, heart pounding. He was sitting up, unaware of me, staring ahead, screaming and crying. I rocked him, calmed him down and settled him back to sleep, somehow, while filled with terror myself. The look of fear in his face unnerved me more than anything, like he could see something I couldn’t. Luckily, there weren’t many episodes.

With all this in mind, I suppose it’s odd that I would happily spend a couple of evenings on ghost hunting tours with my friend. We had a fascinating time at The Grand Theatre in the dark and the talk from the organiser explained things that had happened to both of us at separate times on visits to see productions. When the opportunity to do something similar at the Spanish Hall came up, I was full of enthusiasm. Unfortunately, some of it was so scary, the experience was overwhelming fear.

My poem, which features in The Dead Good Poets Haunted Blackpool,

A Ghost Tour in the Spanish Hall

An evening in the Spanish Hall
Fun-time promised for one and all.
Exciting times for you and me,
Paranormal activity!
Hopes and desires, all are risen,
Someone’s speaking, we must listen.
“Enter the rooms with open mind,
And be prepared for what you find.”
The semi-darkness of torch-light,
Anticipation of the night;
Wondering what there might be here
To chill us with delight or fear
We heard a strange and weird sound,
Quiet growling from underground.
Distant laughter, joyful patter,
Ghostly party fun and chatter.
Chink of glasses, bell-like tinkle,
Passing orb gives us a twinkle.
We crept across the ballroom floor
To where we hadn’t been before.
A woman beckoned from her chair.
As we approached, she wasn’t there,
Just vanished, like she’d never been
But we both knew what we had seen.
And later, on the wide stair case
I froze as something touched my face.
I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t shout;
Someone was with me, there’s no doubt
When we sat in the back-stage room
We both smelt dated perfume
Like musky lavender and rose
Stagnant, lingering in repose.
And that mirror! I dared not see
The presence sitting next to me.
I felt their breath upon my cheek
And could not move, too scared to speak!
I must now be most explicit,
Show respect to restless spirits.
Never ridicule, tease or taunt.
It might be you they’ll come to haunt.

PMW 2012
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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Treasure

In childhood the first seeds of taste are planted, and it seemed to me as a boy that Treasure meant possessions, material wealth, mainly as a result of Treasure Island being read to me by my father. The idea of treasure being holdable in a buried chest found only with the right map stuck with me until my father died in July 1953 during the night of an unexpected fatal heart attack. Then I began to realise that TREASURE we value most is not a jewelled fate, but much more about the people we love. It was not until I went on in my late teens to study David Hume and other philosophers as part of my university undergraduate course that I found this realization described so well by David Hume facing the inevitability of death considered in similar circumstances. This week I discovered that Oliver Sachs (in his recent article for The New York Times) finds Hume equally helpful:

He writes about decisions he has made since a diagnosis of untreatable liver cancer - "I have to live in the richest, deepest, most productive way I can. In this I am encouraged by the words of one of my favourite philosophers, David Hume, who, upon learning that he was mortally ILL at age 65, wrote a short autobiography in a single day in April of 1776. He titled it “My Own Life.” 'I now reckon upon a speedy dissolution,' he wrote. 'I have suffered very little pain from my disorder; and what is more strange, have, notwithstanding the great decline of my person, never suffered a moment’s abatement of my spirits. I possess the same ardour as ever in study, and the same gaiety in company.' "

I do not believe I have ever properly "got over" the shock of the death of my treasured father all those years ago, and I hope all of the "best bits" of him live on in me - our children are our major gift (or curse) to posterity, and bringing up our son (my stepson) is certainly what I count my own major achievement. I wish that our daughter, Rebecca, had lived more than her mere four years, as Rebecca was certainly our second treasure after Damian.

To complete my homily, real treasure in life I feel is NEVER to suffer "a moment's abatement of (one's) spirits", though the four or five years after Rebecca's death in 1985 were very hard to bear, and not everyone is fortunate to accept from childhood that life always appears too brief when we lose those we love.

My father rose to be a Warrant Officer First Class in the RAF of the 1930s and 1940s and I try to live by his motto - Onward and Upward. What I treasure most is the life that he and my mother gave me.

CJH February 2015

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Bah Humbug.

When I opened up our online calendar this week and found the theme set as Bah Humbug, I must admit I felt a little saddened.

I know who this miser is. I know he will have relished the idea of making me, Mr Christmas (who has somehow been roped into a Santa role on Christmas Day) write something anti festive but I’m not going to do it.

Today opened on a negative. I had the humbug news, got to work (late) in the rain and promptly got the news a paper round needed covering. I’d no sooner started tutting at the headline “2000 ten year olds arrested”, which I would say excessive and mostly if not completely avoidable, when the hailstone came. This was not a great start to the day.

From nowhere, something changed. As I re-entered the shop a familiar tune rang out from the counter. Bells. A tin whistle. A credible Irish singer. That’s right readers, the Pogues were playing out- shamelessly spreading the Christmas spirit. For a while it didn’t matter that the Israelis were tearing up strips of Jerusalem, for a while it didn’t matter that England’s own green hills were being divided amongst the coalition’s various business associates. For three minutes Margaret Thatcher could have walked in there, iron lung on a trolley behind, and I’d have tried to do a bit of a jig.

I’m sorry Ash. The theme this week is Bah Humbug but with the tree up, the twinkling fairy lights and the film fest I’ve already started (4 and counting), you’ve got no chance. Instead, have a Christmas ditty.

Christmas Chores.

This Christmas, I'm dressing as Santa

I've been tied in, with no escape clause

I was told of the task by the other

She who must be obeyed, her indoors.

So I'll Ho Ho Ho in with a beard on

Spreading joy with the goods in my sack

I'm planning on not being rumbled

For I'd never hear the end of that.

So itchy or not I'll be wearing that suit

with a cushion for stuffing, polished black boots

the family are in, we're all playing cahoots

convincing me it's for the children.

Thanks for reading, Shaun. 

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An Adventure in Blackpool, 1991

I didn’t grow up in Blackpool...

I spent the first 9 years of my life in Coventry before moving to a small village in Bedfordshire. Therefore, I know what it’s like to come from a place that is stigmatised by non-habitants. I was used to hearing the South’s negative opinions about my Midland home, ‘It’s an ugly concrete breezeblock,’ people would say. And shy me would stand as tall as I could and defend my City. I’d explain how Coventry was bombed during WWII, that concrete was the cheapest and quickest way of rebuilding – of rising from the ashes.

I was proud of my hometown, of my roots, and I could see things that most outsiders missed. I could see the Coventry Cross (made from the timbres of the destroyed cathedral), which stands in the ruins as a symbol of peace. I could see the old silent monastery, which coined the expression ‘Sent to Coventry’. I could see the grade II listed Tudor buildings down Spon Street. I could see the Godiva clock, which we’d stare up at on the strike of the hour and watch Lady Godiva riding her horse as Peeping Tom emerged from the window above. I could see our three spires, defiant and proud.

You’re probably wondering what any of this has to do with Blackpool, well, when I was seven I saw a Blackpool that most outsiders miss. I went on an adventure that allowed my independent spirit to stretch its wings...

We (my parents, my younger sister and I) were staying in a four-berth caravan at Newton Hall, Staining. It was July and the British weather – for a change – was behaving itself. My sister and I ate breakfast; we fought over the free toy in the cereal. We fought over who used the yellow pencil crayon first, we fought over whose socks they were, and then we fought some more.

Today has been cancelled, said Mum. She sent us both off to bed, my sister went into one bedroom and I into another. We were to stay there until we learnt how to be civilised.

However, I had a different plan. I decided that it was too nice to remain inside. Therefore, I decided to go out...

Now, I wasn’t a particularly rebellious child, nor was I very confident, but I was bright with a rather prominent independent streak. And I knew that holidays were for doing things, for exploring new places, and for being outside. So at the time – as I sat on the single bed feeling sad – my decision seemed to make sense.

I grabbed my ladybird rucksack, and quickly packed it with a few essential items: a cardigan (in case it got cold), Sunshine Bunny, a book, a pack of Opal Fruits, a hat embroidered with butterflies and two five pound notes. I opened the caravan window as wide as it would go, before jumping out and beginning my adventure.

When I could, I followed the brown signs for the promenade, and when I couldn’t, I just let instinct lead me. I stumbled upon the zoo. I saw penguins and lions and antelope and ostriches and camels through gaps in the fence. I brought an ice cream (one of those white Mini Milks) and a carton of orange juice from Stanley Park. I read a chapter of Barrie’s Peter Pan by the boating lake. I played on the swings.

The walk to the promenade seemed like a very long way. I made up games in my head to distract myself, and eventually I was standing on the bustling sea front. I was a little scared, initially, so I counted to twenty. By the time I reached fifteen, I felt much better.

I skipped on the sand without shoes. I paddled in the Irish Sea. I tried to make a sand-snake, using only my hands. I wrote ‘Lara’ in big letters on the damp sand under Central Pier. I treated myself to a pound of 2ps, and spent them on the arcade slot machines. I walked back to the caravan site...

Poetry is about seeing what other people miss. It’s about being brave, taking a risk, pushing the boundaries. It’s a lifelong adventure that allows you to feel free.

Thank you for reading,
Lar

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Blackpool Born & Breed

I’ve spent the last week watching a pub come down, brick by brick. Happy memories, strange memories and those I never want back are crashing to the ground with the swing of a mechanical arm. Whilst this is hugely thought provoking, I suspect this is also the reason that I have been cut off from the world.

That said, the show must go on and, internet or not, phone line or not, I’m not about to be the one to let the side down and ‘not blog’...

This week’s theme is Blackpool. Ashley’s choice I believe and a rather appropriate subject to round off the first run of themes (one a week, six regular writers). For what it is worth, I love this town. Many will disagree and you are more than welcome to act upon that and move out but, for a local lad, I feel a real connection with the place.

For that reason then, I am going to take this opportunity to talk about both poetry and spirit here this week. In the wake of the appalling scenes up and down the country, you don’t need another opinion about rioters. To be honest, I don’t really know where I stand on the rioters anyway; whilst I don’t support mindless violence, thieving or vandalism as a general rule (and part of me wants the toerags stripped of any state-funded privileges, strung up on gallows and/or introduced to excessive community service orders stretching over years and years), something about the infectious wildfire spread of horror suggests to me that many young people feel swept aside, even failed by society.

Blackpool, I am happy to report, doesn’t seem to be in tune with these people. The aggrieved here either have too much money and made a trip to Manchester or simply thought better of it. I seriously doubt there was a ‘cup of tea’ moment involved. It has been one of those weeks when I was proud of our teenage mothers (indoors, minding baby of an evening), hooded kids and alcohol fuelled revellers... It seems everyone just got on with business as usual. We still though, have a voice, we are still people and we still want to be heard. As Blackpool FC, still licking the wounds of relegation, opened their home campaign yesterday, the mental fan next to me offered up some absolute beauties for chants.

“No wonder Preston went down...” he sang, before closing up and realising there was no obvious next line. “Ferguson, you did a great job at Preston,” came the next offering, again to taunting looks from his friends. It wasn’t an Obama speech, a Cameron sound bite or much more than a thought really. Still, he had a go at starting new songs and having his say- he got me thinking on the walk home.

Typical of Blackpool, he was trying to do something. He saw a light that was going out and eventually (conforming to the normal words) it caught on. He kick started the atmosphere again and started a chant. You tell me that this is not what poetry is about. To have a feeling, a belief, a new way of expressing something AND to have the desire to get it out there- for my money, that is where poetry should be going.

Barnsley have a Resident Poet. Whilst I doubt that the Tangerines are even remotely interested in having a poet, how good an idea is that. Someone at a meeting (a literature festival meeting, actually) said ‘Blackpool didn’t understand Wendy Cope’ not too long ago. I let the point pass at the time but it still eats up at me. Still, the woman in question strikes me as the type to agree whole-heartedly with the Forward Prize shortlist for the year... nobody under 50, not white, not male can have anything to say. She lives in the area- I doubt she even understands poetry herself, let alone anything that could be branded Forward!

As I said earlier, I live in Blackpool. The thirteen or so million tourists a year that come here might not give a hoot about the locals but I sure do. The government might not care how we get on so far away from Westminster but I sure do. With so much talk about the ‘broken society’, I am just thankful that we have our poetry group and with that, somewhere to really make a point heard.

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