Palm - A Shiny Shilling

 “Cross my palm with silver and I’ll tell your fortune. Cross my palm with gold and it will certainly come to be. Cross my palm with iron and you won’t live to see daybreak.”

Mara Amberly – Her Gypsy Promise

Blackpool is well-known for fortune tellers. For as many years as the Golden Mile has stretched between the piers, clairvoyants have worked from inside curtained cabins advertising their gift of seeing into the future. A visit to the promenade or piers would include a palm reading or a studied gaze into a crystal ball for anyone eager to find out if something important is about to happen to them. It’s part of traditional Blackpool fun.

Crossing the palm of a new baby with silver was seen as a way of wishing them wealth, good health and the best possible start it life. I watched as my baby sister had a shiny shilling put into her tiny hand by a well-meaning person, a stranger to me. I was seven and a half. Anne could keep the shilling, but I really coveted the lovely plush bunny she was given by the same person. Nothing for me. I expect she received gifts from lots of people who didn’t acknowledge me, but that’s the one I remember. I could probably go to the exact spot where it happened, in the lounge bar of the Boar’s Head on Preston Old Road, Blackpool. I was a proud big sister. I still am. This was one of those moments that stays in the memory forever, so I’ve always given something to an older sibling, not just the baby.

The Psychic’s Dilemma

I’m a psychic, true, with visions grand,
But rent’s due, and I need a hand.
Cross my palm with silver, yes, it’s true,
I’ll conjure love for you, and a new shoe!

No gold for romance, no, that’s not the deal,
Just enough for groceries, a more practical appeal.
So if your heart yearns for a love connection,
Bring silver, and I’ll give you a pre-packaged affection!

Anon.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Light in the Darkness - Shine, Jesus, Shine

I was born into a Christian family. It was a mix of Catholic and Protestant and some had a stronger faith than others. I was baptised in a Church of England church, but my Sunday Schools were always Methodist. One was a strict Wesleyan Chapel that could not accept monetary gifts from my father, a publican. I have always had my faith, never faltering in my darkest of days, and believe me, I have pulled through some dark, hard times. I believe in ‘each to their own’, respectful of family and friends beliefs, non-beliefs, thoughts and preferences. If I have a grandchild sleeping over, they always get a ‘night-night, God bless’.

My christening gifts included a C of E Book of Common Prayer and a bible with my initials on. These were from both sets of grandparents, I think. As a child, I was fascinated by the picture inside the prayer book, ‘The Light of the World’ by Holman Hunt, and found the person, who I later learnt to be Jesus, a bit scary looking. The light in my darkness. 

Our recent stay in Dumfries and Galloway got off to a confusing start when there was a mix up concerning our accommodation. We’ve stayed in the same lodge so many times that we consider it to be our own. It took a few moments to accept that it was occupied. All turned out fine. There are only six lodges spaced between trees and shrubs, all very private and all much the same. We soon found ours. It was only tea-time, around five, but dark already. This is a recognised Dark Sky area and glancing up, I couldn’t believe my eyes, especially my peculiar eyes. The sky was full of more stars than I’d ever seen, sparkling brightly, some tiny, some big, millions of them. We stopped unloading the car and switched off the lights and torches we were using, and just stood, staring at the sky. I could actually see them, my eyes, with problem vision giving me a struggle to focus all the time, could process this wonderful night sky. The most amazing lights in the darkness.

On Christmas Eve, my daughter and I took her three children to the Christingle service at our local church. The children had been before to various services and to Christingle last year, so knew to sit quietly. After a while they were a bit fidgety. Matilda had seen a classmate across the aisle and wanted to sit with her, but was too shy to move. The boys, who had been sitting together, now had their mother between them and the threat of no Christingle orange. There was respite in the chance to sing as a well-known hymn began. As we stood, I heard one of the boys say ‘It’s Nanna’s God bless you song’ as I popped Matilda to her friend, with a ‘thank you’ to her Nanna who is a friend of mine. Shine, Jesus, Shine. I used to choose it a lot when my children were small and part of my Sunday School class. With all the children joining in the chorus, it must be a popular hymn from school assembly. A little later a loud chorus of ‘Sing Hosanna’ was raising the roof. At the end, all lights were switched off and flames from all the Christingles flickered around the church as everyone sang Away in a Manger. Beautiful lights.

A light in the darkness, a light at the end of a tunnel, a flicker of hope, that cloud with the silver lining. There is always hope for everyone, faith or not.

No poem today, sorry, but thanks for reading. A Happy New Year to everyone. Pam x

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Walls - Bricks and Ice Cream

Watching ‘Countryfile’ on Sunday evening, I was spellbound by the on-going discovery work at Vindolanda, a Roman fortress near Hexham in the north-east of England and close to Hadrian’s Wall. If my memory serves me right, Hadrian’s Wall stretches from the Solway Firth on the west coast for eighty-four miles to Wallsend on the east coast and for all the times I’ve travelled to Scotland, I’ve yet to see a stone of it. I should make the effort. Many times I must have been in touching distance. Perhaps a detour to Hexham is needed?

Last week, we were on the ‘Nine of Us Went to Butlin’s and Survived’ tour. Some of us are still shattered. Some are mentally planning a return and others are in awe at the magical time we shared making memories. Two grandchildren, aged 7 and 6 were watching others on the climbing wall and were keen to have a go. The others were too young, but could cheer loudly from the side lines. I watched, heart in mouth, then, as they gained confidence after two or three attempts, I began to relax and film them. The one I expected to climb up like a rat up a drain turned out to be more timid, though he did well. His cousin, watched, figured it out for herself and got on with it. Girl power! Neither of them reached the top, but they smashed it for themselves and as they basked in their achievement, I was able to breathe normally again. Of course, they were harnessed, helmets on and fastened to safety lines, but nannas do worry.

Almost thirty years ago, we had an extension built to give us a workable sized kitchen, an improvement to the tiny space we had. Somehow, I made New Year’s Day roast dinner for fifteen people in there. Physically I’m a bit bigger now and I doubt if I’d be able to turn round in it. We’ll never know. Watching each step of the new kitchen come to life was exciting. The walls took shape, the windows – one in the wrong place, but I could rearrange the interior plans – everything was massive and amazing. It ceased to be fun when it was time to link into the house. Being October, it was chilly when the outside wall was taken down and no amount of covering and protecting saved everywhere else from the debris involved. This was the stressful stage that had me almost climbing the nice, new walls.

‘Wall’s’. I could recognise the ice cream sign long before I’d learnt to read. Williamson Park in Lancaster was my stomping ground when I was four. I would roll or run down the grassy hill below the Ashton Memorial to be caught in my dad’s arms and swung round. A little bit further along the path was a wooden kiosk selling ice cream and drinks. I would have a cornet, Dad would always have a wafer. Sometimes he let me have a small bottle of Lucozade, but usually it was ice cream with the promise of a drink of blackcurrant and lemonade from behind the bar when we got home. Oh, the daft things that reside in my memory. We had a pub near the railway station, my aunt and uncle had one in the town, soon to be joined by my grandparents who had retired from their pub in Sale. Sweet times.

I found this poem about Hadrian’s Wall,

The Great Wall of England
A poem for kids by Jon Bratton and Paul Perro

When the Romans conquered Britain
Thousands of years ago.
They built towns in England and Wales,
They didn't want Scotland though.

The Scotsmen and the Romans
Did not get on at all.
To stop the Scots from stealing sheep
The Romans built a wall.

It stretched from Solway Firth in the west
To the Newcastle in the east.
To build it they used many stones,
Millions, at least.

The Emperor who was in charge,
(Hadrian was his name)
Did lots of things during his reign
But the wall gave him lasting fame.

It took fifteen years to build it,
Things took longer back then.
Hundreds of horses pulled the carts
There were thousands of working men.

They built forts and towers as well
They built them very tall,
So the Romans could see the Scots
Who tried to sneak up to the wall.

The Romans stayed in Britain for
Hundreds of years, altogether.
I wonder why they stayed so long?
It couldn't have been the weather.

That the wall was built to last
Would be a fair thing to say.
It was built thousands of years ago
And is still standing today.

Indeed, from all around the World
People come to see it.
There's always a tourist around
You can almost guarantee it!

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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The Magic of Miniature

I’m not quite sure where or when my fascination with all things miniature began. 

I wonder whether it was the love of my grandma’s button tin, lining up the buttons in various combinations as pupils in a classroom, bossing the poor buttons about - a much easier job than actual teaching, as I discovered some forty years later. 

Or was it the visit to the model village, one Sunday when I was about eight? My dad worked twelve hour days, six days a week, so family trips out were a rarity, as they were for many children growing up in the fifties.  One Sunday we were all bundled into the car and driven, for what seemed like hours (I’ve just checked - it’s still there - and it was only 30 miles away), to a model village in Beaconsfield. There was great excitement as we marched around the paths like giants, gazed at the cricketers, forever destined to remain mid bowl, mid bat or halfway to a catch; and cocked our ears to listen to the church bells with a wedding in full swing, tiny bride and groom clinging to each other with fixed smiles for the photographer, bridesmaids clutching their chipped and faded bouquets. 

My brothers became bored and soon started to mess about, but I was absolutely mesmerised. Not only did I love seeing all these tiny scenes, but I actually wanted to shrink down and be in them. I wanted to tiptoe across that little bridge, pick up the miniature fishing rod and dangle it in the river to catch a tiny pot fish. I wanted to be in that school playground with the skipping rope that didn’t turn, holding hands with the children in a circle that never moved. I wanted to climb into the fire engine and switch on the flashing red light, have a nosy in the police station, run across the tiny fields and stroke the sheep.  With hindsight, I realise this was an idealised view of England and its green and pleasant land, especially when people were still living on bomb sites, rebuilding houses after the war, and residing in prefabs. Maybe this was its appeal?

I remember that day as if it were yesterday. It didn’t finish with the Model Village but continued with a visit to a silk farm in the afternoon. What a feast of a trip that was, all the more memorable for being so rare. I’m sure the last thing my dad wanted to do on his one day off was view a model village, sit in the car with a picnic and go on to a silk farm, but I did tell him, several times over the years, how much that trip had meant to me. 

I have always been an avid reader and at about this time I was reading ‘The Borrowers,’ a series of books about a family of tiny people who lived behind the skirting boards of a big house. They ‘borrowed’ things they found around the house to make clothes and furniture. Again, I was mesmerised by this magical idea and longed to find such a family in my own house. I remember dreaming that I’d shrunk and could get through the tiny door and into their miniature rooms, sit at their tables with tops fashioned out of buttons, on chairs made of matchsticks.  I don’t know what it was but I was truly hooked. 

Not long afterwards, my granddad made me a doll’s house, complete with carpets, wallpaper and even lights that switched on and off.  I spent hours redesigning the rooms, moving the furniture about and positioning the family at the piano, on an armchair or in bed. And during that time I was completely and utterly lost in that tiny world.  I kept the dolls house for years, and, when my children were old enough to appreciate it, out it came.  I had high hopes of a repeat of my fascination but it wasn’t to be. Both sons and a daughter were madly into football. Small houses were of no interest, and even I had to admit it did look rather battered and dated.  

I often took the children to the Model Village in Blackpool but I soon realised that it was more for my benefit than theirs. They were much more interested in getting an ice cream than looking at the tiny scenes, and, eventually, I had to admit defeat. 

In one final attempt to convince somebody else to appreciate the magic of miniature I bought a second-hand dolls house a few years ago for the grandchildren. At great expense I fitted it out with furniture and a little family. I intended to redecorate and lay new carpets, but like many of my projects (and even our own house) it never happened. The family could live in squalor, I hadn’t got the time nor the energy for DIY. I positioned the house in the middle of the room, everything arranged beautifully. The grandchildren came in, asked what it was, and gave the family a perfunctory shuffle around before asking if they could watch Peppa Pig on granddad's computer.

 

Now, I revel alone in my magical miniature world. I couldn't get rid of the dolls' house, it still sits in the corner of the room, and every so often I peer in, wondering what the little wooden family is up to.  I'm sure I heard the sound of a tiny piano the other night...

At Home with the Woods by Jill Reidy

In the middle of the night

As everybody sleeps 

Mrs Wood climbs out of bed 

And down the stairs she creeps

It’s time for more adventures 

Outside the wooden house

She pokes her head around the door 

As quiet as a mouse

Slippers on, she tiptoes out 

Her eyes and ears alert

A wrapper here, a hankie there 

Enough to make a skirt

She fills her little bag with bits 

Scattered on the floor 

Some raisins, grated cheese and crumbs 

A meal for five for sure

She hears a snore, a bed spring creaks

It’s nearly end of night

Time to take her haul back home 

Before the room gets light 

The humans rise, descend the stairs

Those mice are back, says he

I didn’t sweep the crumbs up

Now there’s nothing here to see.

Thanks for reading......Jill

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Miniature - Small and Perfectly Formed

I’ve been fascinated by my friend’s collection of dolls houses since I first saw them a few years ago. They take up the longest wall in one of her upstairs rooms. I think there are six of them, various sizes, set out on a deep shelf with drawers beneath. The drawers hold all the tiny bits and pieces not in use and items to make things or decorate with. Some of the houses have beautifully made gardens. There is a kitchen garden with vegetables growing perfectly. The inside of the houses are set out and decorated according to the time of year. It was summer one year when I was calling in to water plants and keep an eye on things while my friend was on holiday. The miniature street looked warm and sunny with open windows and a picnic on one of the lawns. I’ve seen it all decked out for Christmas, complete with tiny coloured lights and the whole thing looking splendid. It is a fabulous hobby and I used to fancy getting an Edwardian townhouse and setting it up in ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ style, or making an old-fashioned pub with a nod to my background.

The area I was keeping free for such a project became the ideal place to house the gerbils. We had two in an open fish tank filled with wood chippings, fluffy animal stuff like cotton wool and usually an empty loo roll or kitchen roll to play with. They liked running through them as if they were tunnels. When fed up with them, they ripped them into strips and added them to their nest. My children were still at primary school. The cats had gone to cat heaven, as had a couple of hamsters and we hadn’t yet introduced a family dog.

By the time the gerbils expired, so had some of my eyesight and twiddling with miniature furniture and tiny household items was beyond me. I was and still am interested in my friend’s hobby and I find pieces to gift her. One of the many Christmas trees is a present from me and we found some cakes and bakery things in a specialist shop while on one of our jaunts.

A special gift from my friend to me is something I will always treasure. She turned an ordinary shoebox into a miniature living room for me, putting in my favourite things, even a photo of my husband and I hanging on the wall. I was speechless at the time and I still love it as much as I did then. It is me. I think the knitting has fallen off the chair a few times over the years, but it’s fine, and the DVDs, CDs and books, she knows me so well.

Jane Eyre. Good choice. It would be that or Wuthering Heights, or Rebecca, but I’m glad she chose a Bronte for me. I’ve loved all of their books and I’ve been fortunate to enjoy many visits to Haworth Parsonage. One visit was in the summer of 2005. It was 150 years since Charlotte’s death and a special exhibition displayed some of her clothing and personal belongings. At only 4’6” tall and slim, she was very petite. Her outfits were almost miniature versions of her sisters’ attire. Her boots and bonnets, like those of a child’s. Luckily for me, the hand-written miniature books, at least some of them, were on show.

When the Brontes were children, their father, Rev. Patrick Bronte, gave them a box of wooden toy soldiers. Each child chose their own soldier, gave them names and made them into characters for what became the stories of Glasstown. The children branched out, Charlotte and Branwell wrote about Angria, and Emily and Anne wrote about Gondal. They wrote their stories in tiny script using fine nibs and magnifying glasses then made them into little books for the toy soldiers to hold. Not all have survived, but I’m glad for what has been saved.

I need another visit, when we can.

My poem,

Perched on the chilly window seat
She looked down, watching the mourners
Moving slowly with the coffin,
Listening to the solemn drum beat
For the second time that morning.
Squinting through the grey, wint'ry mist
Beyond the gravestones to the church
Her whispered prayer clouded the glass
And she drew a 'C' in her breath,
Just as Branwell beckoned her down
To write Angria's next chapter
For their soldier's miniature book.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, stay safe, Pam x

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