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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Don't Let The Balloon Burst

Believe me, you don’t know the meaning of the word 'stress' unless you have taken a buggy, a large suitcase, a backpack, a handbag, a carrier bag full of snacks and games, a comfort blanket and three children under four on a two hundred and fifty mile train journey (with, not one, but two changes). If you haven’t wiped noses, hands and bums at least thirty times on that journey (and this before the advent of convenient baby wipes), picked up off the floor, crayons, half eaten sandwiches, squashed grapes and the sausage roll that nobody wanted; taken those desperate children several times to the fascinating (smelly) toilet, so that they can tell you they ‘don’t need to go now,’ as you sit wearily upon the lav, and watch in slow motion as they fight over pressing the button that quietly opens the door to reveal you in all your glory to the suited and booted businessman waiting in the corridor.  No, unless you have done that journey, under those conditions, please don’t tell me you know what stress is. 

Alternatively, if you have no children and are feeling pretty smug about it, then ponder for a moment on technology.  Just last week, as I was attempting to upload a couple of hundred images to my Mac, it first flooded  the screen with yellow triangles, warning about misdemeanours I’d committed and mishaps that would befall me (none of which I fully understood and some of which were downright baffling), and then, very dramatically, froze before displaying a language consisting entirely of question marks. After a few moments of puzzled frowning, and muttered expletives, I tried to restart the machine. The screen went black and despite several attempts to coax it back into life, it refused to do anything but remain defiantly dark. I knew this day was coming. I’d been chancing my luck for the last few months, overcoming problems on a wing and a prayer. Things weren’t looking good. The next few days were filled with the kind of stress that comes with panic.  I was desperate not to lose images and documents and programs and apps.  When I got a (very short) window of opportunity before it all crashed again, I frantically moved everything possible onto the External Hard Drive.  I won’t go into the details, mainly because I can't remember them, but suffice to say, I had three full days of stress and anxiety over that Mac.  By some miracle, I managed to pull it all back, but by that time I was not only stressed to the point of feeling ill, but also exhausted through hours of trial and error. 

A Novel Screen?

There was only one thing more stressful than dealing with my own technological problems, and that was sorting out my 92 year old dad’s.  He did so well to even get on the computer at his age, not to mention sorting bank transfers, writing essays and emailing friends, but if anything went wrong he was flummoxed.  As he lived over two hundred miles away and didn’t know his archive from his El Capitan it was an afternoon’s job, requiring supreme patience.  There were times when my stress levels were through the roof, as I saw time ticking away and heard my dad saying for the third time, ‘but which one is the address bar?’ or ‘how do I move onto the next line?’ And once, woefully, ‘but now the screen’s gone sideways!’  I always kept my patience and didn’t let him know I was stressed but it was an effort - and my poor husband got the brunt of it once I came off the phone after a couple of hours.

I’ve always been a pretty stressy person. I’d love not to, but I worry about almost everything.  I’m convinced there’s some sort of cavity in my head that is there exclusively for problems. No sooner do I get rid of one worry than another takes its place. That Problem Cavity must always have to be filled, and believe me, that’s one problem I don’t have - filling it. I’d love to be one of those laid back people like my husband, who floats along, batting away worries like annoying bluebottles. I’ve decided that I now take on his worries as well as my own. I’ve also realised, as time’s gone on and the family has grown to include children, grandchildren, great nephews and nieces, that the bigger the family, the more stressed I become.  I love my family dearly, and we’re all extremely close but there are more and more people to worry about.  I put it down to a vivid imagination.  Somebody only has to be five minutes late and I’ve got them kidnapped by a knife wielding maniac, under a bus or down a ravine, and I’m ordering wreaths for their funeral. 

That’s extreme, and I’m happy to say that these days I do try my best to keep my stress levels under control.  When I was really ill with depression and anxiety several years ago, I visited an amazing psychiatrist, who, I would say, saved my life.  One thing that  sticks in my mind, is the balloon analogy, and although it didn’t work instantly, it’s something I always think about if things start getting too much. 

There comes a point in all our lives when we need to let some air out of our balloons.

Here's my poem:

Don't Let the Balloon Burst

He looks at me over half moon specs

Fleetingly, I think 

he looks like a caricature of what he is

A psychiatrist 

Kind eyes, no real humour

but then none here either

‘Your head is like a balloon,’ he says 

in that calm, quiet voice 

I would laugh in other circumstances 

‘The air going in,’ he continues

‘is the stress’ 

I don’t have the energy to nod 

‘If you don’t let some out…’

I stare at a mole on his face

waiting to hear what could happen

‘The balloon will burst.’ 

I nod

I don’t want my balloon to burst

‘No more air in - let some out,’ he whispers

I drive home, my balloon still full

Imagining the bang.

Thanks for reading, Jill

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Stress - Des Res Near the Park, Anyone?

 

It is said, and I believe it, that moving house is one of the most stressful things to deal with. I have moved seventeen times and would dearly like an eighteenth. I know we’ll simply have to bite the bullet, throw caution to the wind and go for it, otherwise we’ll be here for another thirty-odd years looking at the same neighbourhood. Actually, we probably won’t, unless we both live to some great age, defining all medical issues. That’s why we’ve got to move now. I’m feeling a bit stressed now at the thought of it and wish something would happen to make it easier. Ideally, we could buy a property without waiting for a sale on ours. Perfect. Modern static caravans are breathtakingly stunning with all mod-cons, but we want a house. Besides, where would we put all our stuff? I’m having another stressful shudder. We will have to downsize, I know that, it’s how to do it efficiently. What a struggle. We’ve lived here over thirty years, two became three, became four then more often than not, five. Now we’re down to the two of us again. I can’t gauge portion control in the kitchen just for two, so there’s no chance of me deciding if we need three televisions and a cupboard full of bath towels. Books are completely out of any conversation, no reduction necessary, they are all coming. They are not being boxed up until we have a moving date. A moving date, that’s so scary, because where to? It has got to be Scotland. This move has got to be a proper relocation. I’m not packing up to move to a bungalow two miles away. All the stress has got to be worth my while.

I remember feeling stressed when I moved here and nothing could have been easier. Piece by piece we brought things from my little house in Layton. Anything not needed stayed behind. Eventually that little house went on the market and was sold. I should have kept it and rented it out – hindsight is a wonderful thing.

Long before that, there was the escape from a nasty landlord. Nothing illegal, rent paid up to date, just a horrible, creepy man. All my worldly goods crammed into two cars, mine and my father’s.  It had to be done in a few hours to avoid confrontation. We managed. My things were stacked in Dad’s garage and I took up residence in his spare room. The stress involved here was waiting for my passport to come through the post, which it did, just in time, otherwise I would have had to go back. It was good to leave the key and no forwarding address.

This time I will leave a forwarding address, otherwise I’ll have no visitors and friends will always be welcome. Anyway, while I’m nervous, twitchy and trying to attempt a positive step forward into the unknown, I’ll just close my eyes and relax for a moment.

My poem:

The imagery behind closed eyes
Is of a quiet, peaceful scene.
Outside, the wint’ry, dark’ning skies
Hide the cosy, Crofter’s cottage.

A Heavenly place where I’m free,
It’s time to relax and return
To the open book on my knee
And glow from the log-burning stove.

By the window, my armchair,
With plumped up cushions and a throw.
A resting place, for moments rare,
Like now to bring me back to earth.

A momentary stress release,
A daydream of hope and wishes,
Until I’m rested and at ease,
Feeling ready for the next thing.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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One Big Fat Decade of Happiness

Somebody asked me recently whether I liked 80s music.  It took me a few moments' contemplation before I realised I wouldn't recognise 80s music if it blasted out at me from one of next door's noisy barbecues.  "New Romantics?" I asked, tentatively, "Adam Ant?"  He nodded.  I changed the subject, feeling slightly vindicated.  It took me a minute, too, to realise why 80s music was - well, not music to my ears.  Anybody who has recently had a baby knows that music, like reading, conversation - and pretty much everything else - becomes irrelevant.  Never mind, 'All You Need is Love.'  Actually, all you need is sleep.  And lots of it. 

With not just a new baby, but also a toddler and a three year old, I spent the beginning of the eighties knee deep in nipple shields, pureed parsnips, endless terry nappies, cereal box monsters, Calpol, Paracetemol, wellies, tissues, wet flannels (pre proper wet-wipe era), swings, roundabouts, toddler groups, play school, nursery, school and desperate phone calls to my mum in London.  Oh, and anti-depressants.  This was far from my best decade.  It was the decade of tears where everything fell apart, when I should have been happy in my new role of motherhood, but somehow, everything that happened during that decade was tinged with worry, despair and the big black dog that would not let me go.  Music was well down on my list of priorities.  Keeping alive and relatively sane was at the top.  

If you're reading this, you'll see that I at least achieved the former.  

When I was invited back recently, after a couple of years' absence, to write a guest blog, I thought this would be one of the easier titles.  My first thought was the sixties, my teenage years, the Beatles, hot pants, mini skirts, thick black eyeliner, false lashes, off to Art College, the excitement.  Yes, that would be my best decade.  But, hang on, what about the awful teenage angst?  The boyfriends (or lack of them)?  The spots, the boredom at school, the waiting by the phone at night, the tears? How could that really be the best decade?

OK, so the best decade must have been the seventies, more Art College, meeting the future husband, more Beatles, marriage, a baby and another on the way.  But.....I'm forgetting the way reality often suffocated dreams: living together, arguments, mice in the basement flat, money, the stresses of finding jobs and keeping them, they all conspired to cause friction and anxiety.  Dickens was right, 'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times'.

I've got sixty six years to look back on.  That's a fair few decades.  I realised, after some reflection, that it's difficult, if not impossible to choose the 'best decade'.  There are good parts and bad parts to each one. My eight years of the fifties are mainly filled with rose coloured images: playing out, endless hot summer days, the park, the freezing cold outdoor Lido on a Sunday morning with dad, seaside holidays with our cousins, my baby brother being born, and skirts and dresses appearing magically at the end of my bed after  mum had sat up into the early hours finishing a hem or threading elastic through a waist.  But there is also the smell of baked beans and meat pie as I enter school in the mornings, my stomach churning at the thought of another anguished lunchtime, there is the untimely death of a classmate, knocked down by a car, and the shock and confusion that follows, there is some bullying by the girls I thought were my friends.

I realise I haven't got a 'best decade'.  I haven't even got a best year, a best month, a best week or a best day.  What I have got is an awful lot of best moments: those moments that come at you, unbidden, with a wave of pride or happiness: my dad walking me down the aisle, the children's births,  driving over the Yorkshire Dales as the sun set in the distance, my eldest son's passing out from the RAF as the planes swooped in formation overhead, my daughter's from the Police, hats flying up in the air, my youngest son's graduation, finishing the Coast to Coast bike ride, learning new skills, numerous family celebrations - and the funerals, that, although inevitably sad, nevertheless gave us the opportunity to get together and celebrate a life.  

I'd love to have a best decade.  Maybe that is yet to come. Meanwhile, do you think I could have patchwork of all the best bits in my life up to now? 

All cobbled together in one big fat lump of happiness.  Now that really would be the best decade. 

How to make The Best Decade

Take one New Year's Eve kiss
And place it carefully in a bowl
Cover and leave overnight
Add a litre of laughter
And stir well
Sprinkle on the best love you can find 
Let it soak in
Whip up events of choice
Happy ones if available
And add to mixture
Whisk in a couple of adventures
And a challenge (any size)
Some Christmases and birthdays 
Add a large bundle of hugs 
More kisses (various types)
And a drop of tears 
Stir for about six months 
Leave the mixture to rise
This is the beginning of your decade
Check every two years
And adjust quantities if necessary
At the end of the decade
Check once more
The bowl should be empty

Repeat once every ten years on New Year's Eve 


Thanks for reading..... Jill 

  

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Family Patterns

It’s good to have a break from the usual work pattern and enjoy the extra day off that a Bank Holiday Monday brings. An extra hour in bed is a welcome rest. It’s nice to relax and make the most of some uninterrupted thinking time to ponder options. Stress kills, someone reminded me recently. I didn’t need reminding. I’d been winding myself into a tightly coiled spring for a long time. Something had to give, and it did. My ‘work-life balance’ fell short of balance and weighed heavily towards the misery that work had become. A pattern had formed. Each week was spent waiting for the weekend, then the weekend was spent dreading the following week. The long winter and a lack of daylight made my feelings worse. Now spring is here, I wake up to the sun filtering through the bedroom window blinds. I can think clearly about making changes in the future, look forward to an addition in the family and gain some mental strength from my background. 

I was brought up in a close, resourceful family where the women were homemakers. From an early age I was taught sewing and knitting by my mother and both grandmothers. I’ve usually got a project on the go and an idea of what will be next.  It’s currently the non-stop manufacture of baby clothes. The other night, my pregnant daughter sent me a Facebook message asking if I would knit something. She included a photo of a child’s jacket with teddy-bear ears on the hood. It was knitted in something soft and fluffy.  My collection of patterns dates back decades but I had nothing like that. The ones I’ve inherited are priced in ‘old money’ and instantly recognised as my childhood clothing. I tried to have a ruthless sort-out once, but I couldn’t bear to part with any of them. With some guesswork and the benefit of my own experience, I found a pattern and the fluffy wool online, and ordered it straight away. I can’t wait to make it for my grandchild. 

My daughter hasn’t followed the family pattern of needlework experts, despite my best efforts. We spent many hours, side by side on the sofa as I patiently taught her to knit. We were aiming for a small blanket of assorted coloured squares. I rescued her dropped stitches and decreased the additional stitches she managed to include until a reasonable square was produced, but the blanket never materialised. Her talents are in other areas. She can make a great cake, for one thing and she’s far more interested in developing culinary skills than I ever was. Her DNA leads her towards practical skills and anything creative is a world away from needlework, but she carries the pattern of the family in her upbringing, all the same. 

There are big changes ahead which will include improvements to my work-life balance. I would love to return to being the homemaker I used to be when the children were young and when the time is right, I will. For now, re-evaluating my current situation will be a step in the right direction.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam.

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Who turned the light off?

I’m a little overwhelmed at the moment by the amount of work that I need to do for my MA... And the perfectionist in me isn’t making it any easier.

Anyway, I sat down last night with no idea about what I was going to write for this week’s theme. I started four posts and abandoned them all – and then, surprisingly, I started to write the beginning of (what I think might be) a short story. I don’t know if I’ll ever get round to finishing it – but I’ll share what I have so far...

Who turned the light off?

Light is what they tell you to believe in. They tell you that things will get lighter, brighter, that it won’t last forever. They say that someone has just switched the light off, and that someone will be around shortly to switch it back on. They try to convince us that there is hope, that we each have futures, but we don’t believe them.

We sit in our own private darkness every day. Some sit in the dayroom, chain smoking in front of a flickering TV, others pace up and down the corridors counting the number of stains on the carpet and a few don’t even manage to rise from their dormitory beds. But the new girl is different; for a start, she’s younger than the rest of us. Sixteen, I think they said.

You can tell she’s met the darkness. She has that same look that we all have – like you’re balancing massive invisible crates on your back, or like you’re about to fracture into a thousand pieces.

It’s not long before the whispers start – people guess: pills? blade? rope?

When we get our first proper look at her, we all glance, firstly, at her neck – clear – and then her wrists – also clear. Firefly, whose real name is Amber (but only they us it), is the first to talk to the new girl.

“So was it pills, like, paracetamol?” she says

The new girl is sat cross-legged in a corner – writing something in a small grey-covered notebook. She doesn’t react to Firefly’s question, she just continues writing. These are the second and third things that make her different to the rest of us: she writes, sometimes for hours, and she never talks. We decide to nickname her Shush.

Thank you for reading,

Lara 

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