Twilight - North and South

 

"Twilight - The soft glowing light from the sky when the sun is below the horizon, caused by the reflection of the sun's rays from the atmosphere."

We enjoyed a break away last week. A mix of visiting family and sight-seeing, with three things ticked off my wish list. Heading to the South Downs, we arranged an overnight stop near Banbury to break the long journey. It was great to catch up with family members we don’t get to see often enough and a good time was had by all. We all went to the coast, spending the day between Arundel, Brighton and Worthing.  The weather was better than expected, blue skies and sunshine, and very mild for late October. This was my first time on this stretch of the coast, apart from Butlin’s, Bognor Regis, when we’d only ventured out of the holiday camp once, briefly, to see the sea. My wish list included Brighton, to see the pier and the pavilion, so I enjoyed the drive along the coast which took in both of these and more. We strolled along the front at Worthing, pebbled beach and calm sea with the occasional wave breaking onto the stones. We had a leisurely dinner at a water’s edge restaurant, looking out on to the twilight seascape as the late afternoon became early evening. A beautiful end to a perfect day.

Looking out on to the sea and sands used to fascinate me when I lived in the pub on South Promenade. I loved walking on the beach or the prom with my mother when I was a child. It became for me, our special time together. Mum would take me across to South Pier for a game of bingo and a play in the amusement arcade, then we’d have a walk, sometimes up to Central Pier and back. It is an area I associate strongly with her, and always will. After she passed away, I took myself there to be alone with my thoughts, my sorrow. It had become a special place.  It was a place to think of happy memories, a place to release tears and a place to shout out in anger. Fresh air and freedom, in all seasons and all times of day, but mostly in the calm of early evening, a quiet sunset with the tide out,  then the twilight dimming my vision.

Homeward from the South, we spent a couple of days in Shropshire, visiting more family members, but sight-seeing on our own. This ticked off two things on my wish list, The Iron Bridge, which I’d wanted to go and see for ages, and the Blists Hill Victorian Town – a living museum – which I’d wanted to visit since seeing it on an episode of The Apprentice earlier this year.

Autumn Twilight,

On a south coast beach
Built of white pebbles
The crash of waves reach
Over the edge.

The daylight fading,
The Channel dark’ning,
Twilight sky shading
The horizon.

On a north west beach,
Miles of smooth, fine sand,
Evening seagulls screech.
Late colony.

The sky, pinkish grey.
Sea claims the sunset
At the end of the day.
Autumn Twilight.

PMW 2023.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Amber

Here it goes! I don’t know if it is a blog or a poem or a love child of both...

Amber comes from the Baltic coast. So do I.

The ancient legend tells:
The pine trees were crying.
Pine resin? Or tears…

And the cold salty water turned the tears into the amber.
I don’t know how long it took. Must be a very long time.
I was not there for so long. So, I don’t know.

In the summer the Baltic Sea is calm and lovely. Not being mad and spitting out the amber. 

We went to visit her just for paddles, swim and meditation.

That was in the childhood. 

We didn’t know it as meditation, we just looked in her colours and calmness and sometimes talked to Mama Sea. Particularly when heart was full of something heavy.

Maybe the amber was something precious but really heavy when accumulated in Mama Sea’s heart.

Maybe she really has a heart, which holds pine trees’ tears in it, till it becomes too much of them, too heavy? Then she releases them, the amber.

In the autumn, after the heavy storms we come back to the sea shore, walking slowly, looking for the uneven, rough skin stones, the amber. Picking them up, holding in hands, putting in pockets if too many of them.

And the taking them to school. Not to show to others! It’s not a secret, but we just take them there to make something.

We are so lucky to have a crafts teacher who knew what to do with the amber and all the tools, needed to turn it into jewellery. The necklace for mum, a brooch for grandma and more.

And I made them and more.

I sill remember how to do it.

Might do someday.

I am just asking to myself…..

Where is the amber?

In my hand, in my pocket?

In the Sea, in my heart, in the making?

I don’t know, I just hold it tight,

If I have some…

And feel all the sunshine, all the tears, all the strength

Of trees and sea and maybe me….

I am just wondering does our Baltic Sea still have those precious gifts?

Maija Ozolina

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Distilling - Mary Quant Socks

Everything I know about distilling will fit inside one tiny test-tube, with room to spare, so forgive me if I float off topic.

There was something we did in third year science at school which involved making a mixture of salt water then slowly heating it with a Bunsen burner – lots of science lab apparatus was fastened together for this experiment – steam turned into condensation which dripped from a tube into a flask as pure water, or rather, distilled water with the salt now removed. I don’t know what the object of this lesson was. My attention was distracted by the showing-up I’d just been given by my form teacher because of the socks I was wearing. I arrived at Science still in tears and being comforted by a couple of friends.

School was fairly liberal when it came to uniform. As long as we kept within the given choices, wore our ties properly tied and looked presentable, we were fine. The choice of socks was knee length, white or navy. This particular day I was wearing navy – with a pattern of Mary Quant flowers in the knit. Oh dear. I’d been to stay with family in Roehampton at half term and my aunt had taken me to London’s trendy shops where I got these lovely socks. They failed to appeal to my form teacher. First, he asked what team I was playing for then he pulled me out of line and told the rest of the class to look at my socks. This generated lots of mockery, more than I could cope with and to add to my embarrassment, I started crying. I think I took the teacher by surprise because I wasn’t generally thought of as sensitive, but neither was I considered to be a rebel. He pushed me back into the line with “Don’t wear them for school again.” I sobbed all the way to the science labs. Accumulated worries of home, family and school just burst in that instant, like they do when you’re fourteen, hormonal and half-orphaned.

Years passed, well, decades I suppose, and someone suggested I look up my school on Friends Reunited. I did, and amongst some recognised names from my year, was the form teacher. I made contact, mentioning the socks. It was ages before he replied. He was glad to hear from me, didn’t remember the sock incident, but did remember me as a clever girl with a talent for writing. Oh, that’s ok – probably mixed me up with someone else. By this time he had moved his family to the south of England and had become a parish priest in the Anglican Church, bless him. I was a Sunday School teacher in the Methodist Church so we shared common ground and we were on first name terms on our emails. He's at least twenty-five years older than me, so if he's still with us, I hope he’s still doing fine.

As for the science lesson, I copied notes from classmates and drew the set-up, as required. The socks remained at home, never mentioned again.

On our visits to various places in Scotland, we’ve looked at visiting whisky distilleries. One, in the Highlands somewhere, was quite big and we didn’t want to leave the dog in the car too long, so we gave it a miss. There is one at Bladnoch near Wigtown in Dumfries & Galloway which we decided to have a look at. The day we went, the distillery was closed to visitors, only the gift shop was open. The distillery remains on our ‘to do’ list.

I found this poem. It was in Seattle Magazine, USA, by Joseph O’Leary.

 

Whisky, Drink Divine

Whisky, drink divine!

Why should drivellers bore us

With the praise of wine

While we’ve thee before us?

Were it not a shame,

Whilst we gayly fling thee

To our lips of flame,

If we could not sing thee?

 

Joseph O’Leary

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well. Pam x

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Playing in the Band - Let's Rock

I wish I had a talent for music. A proper talent, not just the piano grades that my father’s expense and my reluctance to learn got me. That piano teacher was a horrid man. I spent years trying to wriggle out of going to his gloomy, unwelcoming house. I feigned illness on Saturday mornings, or stayed quiet and hoped my twelve o’clock lesson would be forgotten about but my ploys never worked and I would have to endure a miserable hour with the creep. And for all that, I still can’t play Fur Elise at the correct speed or Chopin’s lovely waltzes without constantly checking my finger positions. No confidence and certainly no natural talent, unlike some others in the family.

My son plays by ear. I was trying to get to grips with a Mozart piece on the piano in my usual slow, clumpy way. He just comes along and plays it, as easily as you like, because he knows the tune. I used to love hearing his electric guitar or bass coming down from his attic room. One day, he was belting out the intro to the Moody Blues ‘Story in Your Eyes’ and I nearly burst into tears at how perfect it was. His college was doing an entertainments evening and we, his parents, were invited to attend. We knew he was taking part, but didn’t know what he would be doing. I was unwell, full of a cold and full of appropriate medication to get me through the evening. I was not going to miss this event. He took to the stage. He was on bass, playing with a band. I recognised something he’d been practising at home.  They were excellent, well-rehearsed and ‘gelled’ together. I was relaxed into ‘Proud Mum’ mode when the scene changed and the spotlight was now on my son. The voice, I realised, was his, rocking 'Johnny B Goode' like a professional and making the stage his own. He was amazing. I don’t think I’d heard him sing since he was about seven. Here was a twenty-ish year old rock star making me tear-up like his first nativity. The things you miss when they grow up leave home and have kids. I think he’s still musical.

Our daughter is or was blessed with a wonderful, powerful singing voice. She reduced me to tears with a soulful rendition of Katie Melua’s ‘Closest Thing to Crazy’ in the car one day, just out of the blue. She had the same effect on her music teacher. She sang at home, so I heard her all the time and helped her to choose songs suited to the strength of her voice. Seeing and hearing her on stage held no surprises for me. I was ‘Proud Mum’ always, with lots of support. I’m sure I glowed with pride when others told me how her performance had blown them away. My response was always to say thank you and that everyone taking part was brilliant. She went on to do performing arts at college. These days, that fabulous voice is used for calling her children in from the garden or shouting for them to wait when they run ahead of her. I must ask her if she does much singing these days. What I’d give for her voice and a band to accompany me!

My wish came true, except it was my voice and I wouldn’t describe myself as a singer. I had a posh party for my sixtieth birthday a few years ago. As it was the ‘party to end all parties’ it was held at one of Blackpool’s finest hotels, I had live music from a local band and a nephew who is a professional musician. I wasn’t expecting to join the band on stage, but with some gentle persuasion (dragged up, no choice) and a compulsory funny hat, I found myself making a guest appearance. I think I was trying to sing ‘Rock the Casbah’ with the help of The Rattlers. I hope they were playing the same song. Someone somewhere has a video that I’ve never seen. Destroy it, please.

My own poem,

The Ballad of a Lady Jazz Singer

Jazz tempo piano and a bluesy guitar

It’s two a.m. in the Ritzy Bar.

Lorna sips gin through a long, curly straw

As she sits and waits, one eye on the door.

He said he’d be along to see her set

But he’d promised before – never made it yet.

Perched on a bar stool, cigarette in hand,

Minutes away from her spot with the band,

She leans a bit further back in her seat

And her red stiletto taps out the beat.

She’s laughing and swaying, about to begin,

Adrenaline rush, or too much pink gin.

She’s out of her mind, but not really crazy.

Her vision is soft-focus, smoky and hazy.

Tight black dress, short, strapless and low,

Only put on for this kind of show.

She clutches the mic stand, there’s a hint of a smile

Then she bangs out a song in her Joplin-esque style.

Heat and smoke hit hard on her throat

But she stays on key and keeps the right note.

Much clapping and cheering, the Ritzy’s alive

Lorna kept singing ‘til quarter to five

Then staggered out happy in the dawning new day

With her new bass playing lover leading the way.

 Pamela Winning  2014

Thanks for reading, keep safe and well, Pam x

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Silence - The Snort

I’m responsible for one of those family stories that might get passed down in history, creating mirth amongst future generations. Or, the whole thing might just disappear into oblivion and never be mentioned again, no chance. Whatever the future holds, I will tell the truthful story now and I will call it The Time I Broke the Silence, or The Snort, for short. It happened about ten years ago.

We travelled to London for a family wedding. Money was a bit tight at the time, but this was my eldest nephew getting married, the first born of the next generation and I would have moved heaven and earth to be there. I found ‘budget’ bed and breakfast accommodation at Tufnell Park which was close enough to Islington Town Hall where the ceremony was taking place. We only needed somewhere to sleep for a couple of nights. I had to keep reminding myself of that every time something was wrong. It was the worst place I’ve ever stayed. The fact that builders were on site, working inside with power drills and goodness knows what at all times of day was bad enough. No chance for some quiet time.  Light bulbs missing, wash-basin plug missing, electric sockets not working, leaky shower and mouldy toast at breakfast and no one wanted to listen to our complaints.  Dressed in our wedding finery, we had to pick our way across a semi-dark landing and reception area strewn with power cables and joinery tools. The only saving grace, there was just one, our car was safely parked in their enclosed yard.  I won’t name and shame, it was a long time ago and it might be different now.

     Islington Town Hall was bathed in warm sunshine. We mingled with everyone else gathered outside, embracing family and friends and happy to be part of this special occasion.  When summoned, we filed into the Council Chamber, silently taking our seats in the horseshoe shape that surrounded two ornate chairs for the bride and groom and a table full of flowers. Quite out of the blue, I started to feel emotional. The Council Chamber looked and felt like a cathedral. I looked up at the domed ceiling, blinking away tears. My head was full of memories, the baby boy who brought such joy into our bereaved family had grown into this handsome young man and was now about to be married.  I was not going to burst into tears, I really wasn’t. There was quiet music as the bride and groom took their places, then silence. I was overwhelmed and held my breath for fear of sobbing. I think I held it too long. I tried to calm down and breathe gently, but instead I let out a loud, massive snort.

     The noise seemed to echo round the circular building. I heard mutterings from the opposite side of the chamber. The lady next to me, who was the mother of the best man, turned herself right round to stare at me, nose nearly touching mine. I think she whispered her concern.  My husband was on my other side, but I don’t remember him speaking. My horrified daughter, a few seats along, was mouthing ‘God, Mum, was that you?’

     There was far too much laughter about it, later on. Bursting into tears might have been less embarrassing.

     Anyway, there it is, from the source, before anyone says ‘You’ll never guess what Nanna did…’

 

   Here is Desiderata, as true for today as ever,

 

 

Desiderata

 Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

By Max Ehrmann © 1927

 

Thanks for reading, take care and stay safe, Pam x

    

 

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Turn of Events - Roehampton, 1971

In my mid-teens, I loved going to London to stay with my aunt. Often, the whole family would go by car, but my favourite trips were the ones I made alone, on the train. I felt so grown up travelling InterCity from where ever we were living at the time. I would be met at Euston by my aunt, accompanied by my cousins who were young children, and we would head off to Roehampton and the large, detached house where they lived. Chatter, laughter and a bit of sibling rivalry would last for the entire car journey, until we all tumbled out on to the drive and raced for the front door. My cousins would want to hold my hands. There were three of them, so the two youngest had to hold one of my hands between them.

One of my visits took place during the Whitsuntide half-term in 1971. I have previously written about being uprooted from the familiar to the unknown when my father’s job meant a move to Cheshire. This little holiday was in the middle of that, so I was not at my happiest, though being with my cheerful, extended family brought me joy. My aunt had given me one of the big bedrooms over-looking the front garden. It was bright and welcoming, decorated in pale yellow with a grey satin bedspread and matching cushions. The printed cotton sheets were a jumbled mass of giant flowers in yellow, white and grey. I had fun with my cousins but I wasn’t expected to play with them all the time. The eldest was almost ten years younger than me and I wasn’t entirely sure where to fit in, but my aunt had it all organised.

The two of us had lots of together time, chatting over a coffee at home, or going out into London. I was completely spoiled by her generosity.

We wandered around Kensington and Chelsea, where my aunt bought me a flowery, summer dress from Biba and a smock style top in cheese-cloth and lace from a tiny boutique. She refused to let me donate my spending money.

Another day, we went to a hair salon, where I expected to wait with the magazines while my aunt had her appointment, but no, the appointment was for me. This was my first ever ‘cut and blow’ and I was delighted with my flyaway fine hair tamed into an easy, carefree style minus a few inches of straggles. We had a night on the town planned, so wearing my Biba dress and new sandals, we went to the theatre. It was a variety show with Tommy Cooper and was hilarious all the way through.

My week away was soon reaching an end and I was beginning to dread going home and returning to the school where I had no friends and no encouragement from teachers. The only thing I looked forward to was sending letters to my friends in Blackpool and sharing news of my time in London. I was about to be cheered by a welcome turn of events.

I’d spent the warm, sunny morning out in the back garden playing ball with my little cousins. After lunch, the eldest child and the middle one had been taken somewhere, the sunshine had turned to rain and I chose to have some quiet time in my room. I sat in the comfy armchair in the window, half-reading Animal Farm, for school, and watching the raindrops make perfect circles in the puddles as I twiddled with the necklace of love-beads I’d bought from Carnaby Street. The blossom covered tree branches hung low with the weight of water. Occasionally, I had another look at the essay I’d started to write, dismiss it and return to the book.

My aunt, with a sleepy looking toddler on her hip, came in smiling.

“There’s good news that I think you should hear right away.” She said. “Your dad wanted to surprise you, but he’s happy for me to tell you. You’re all moving back to Blackpool more or less immediately. He’ll phone after six to speak to you and tell you more.”

I burst into an emotional mix of tears and laughter. From feeling so miserable, I was the happiest girl ever.

 

A Haiku

A turn of events

Brought tears and laughter to me.
Emotional times.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Letters - Much More Than Pen Friends

I can’t remember the last handwritten letter I received, not counting notes in Christmas cards. The speed and availability of social media and email has replaced all that wonderful personal touch. Occasionally I get an envelope stylishly addressed by the neat hand of a cousin in Virginia. The contents will be a printed copy of family news, fairly short with a few photos placed in the text, the same thing sent to various people. Of course, I love it and read about the events across the pond with joy. Many miles separate our branches of the family tree, it’s great to be in touch but it’s not the same as a handwritten letter. We live in electronic times. My replies or ‘letters’ are always email.

Letters were my world for a while in my mid-teens. I was horrified to learn that we had to move and to Cheshire of all places. It didn’t make sense. There we were, all happy living in Dad’s dream come true, a pub on Blackpool prom, when out of the blue his services were required elsewhere and we all had to go.  My reaction was outbursts of tears, tantrums, slamming doors, and refusing to leave my friends and my school.  I begged and pleaded with him to speak to the brewery, the man at the top, whatever his name was, and get the stupid idea stopped. His expertise was needed in Cheshire, but we might come back, eventually. I tried another tack. The move would disrupt my schooling. We were halfway through the fourth year, preparing for my ‘O’ levels, I needed to stay put, so I would move in with my best friend. This was the best idea I’d ever had in my life, at this point. It was perfect. We could carry on going ice-skating together on beat nights and youth club on Fridays and I would continue to study hard, her mother would make sure of it. No. It wasn’t happening. My world came crashing down and I, with loud protests declaring complete hate for Cheshire and all who had brought his about, had no choice but to pack my belongings ready for the move. It was March. I was streaming with a heavy cold, as if the ordeal wasn’t miserable enough. We stopped for a meal on the M6 at Knutsford services and I tearfully called my friend from a payphone.

 

 It had been decided that we would write to each other, often, and we did. Letters went backwards and forwards between Blackpool and the place in Cheshire from myself and four others on a regular basis. Turquoise ink on bright orange, pink or lime green paper, such was the fashion. We used fountain pens and recorded our daily lives, news from school, family news, gossip about who’s in trouble for what. We wrote about our favourite music, pop stars, television, fashion and everything that filled our lives. The letters were my lifeline into the world I’d been forced to leave behind. They were so much more than just friends keeping in touch. I didn’t settle in our new place. I didn’t fit in at school, where everyone was ‘mod’ and into soul music, Ben Sherman shirts and two-tone fabric skirts. I was all prog rock, jeans, lacy blouses and beads. My family moved back to Blackpool after a few months. Nothing to do with me being rebellious, I promise. Dad had done whatever needed doing and the family could settle back into normality. I kept the letters for years after that and how I wish I still had them now. What an illustration of the lives of our mix of teenage girls in 1971, our opinions, worries, our hopes. We all went separate ways as we grew up and two of those friends have now passed away. I remember them all with fondness. Our letters kept us together when I was absent and to be included at that time meant a great deal to me.

As for Cheshire, I have returned to the town and the pub as an adult. It’s very nice, no teenage angst.

In later years, I was staying with my family in Virginia and loved to receive letters from my father. His beautiful handwriting on thin, air mail paper brought me news from home. And later still, when he was in the USA and I was here, our pale blue letters to each other flew the Atlantic on a weekly basis. I’ve kept all those.

I found this poem by Hugh McMillan

 

Here is a letter

come across the ocean

over the back of a world

curved like a whale.

I unwrap it, like tissue,

and sentences spill out,

as though the seal on a jar has broken,

coils of cornflower blue

on paper thin as shell.

 

I saw a sailor’s valentine once

in a museum in Nantucket Sound,

a mosaic of broken scallop

glued in a compass rose.

‘Writ from the heart’ it said.

Words come best like that:

in ink or blood,

when the source is from a major vein.

 

I read, and understand this much:

if ink sees off time and miles, then so must love.

                                                                                                       Hugh McMillan

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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