A house? A home? So many memories. Marks on the wall as children grew. Graves in the garden of dearly loved pets. Digging and finding soldiers; spoons smuggled outside to dig with by naughty kids. The longest time I’ve ever spent in any home. As a child a year in one place was a long time.
But it’s a frustrating place. Faults seem to jump out. This needs painting. That needs holes filled in. Hardly seems possible so many of us lived here. Where did we all fit? I suppose they were all smaller then. Now they are all taller than me! Looking around many memories play at once. A small son too frightened to go upstairs alone. Friends who came there. A son who had a fight with his brother. The late night phone calls.
Can it really mean that much? It’s just four walls.
My son comes to visit. “Sorry love its such a mess," I say.
“Don’t worry its home," he replies.
I realise to him its more than four walls. It’s a comforting place. He wants it to stay the same. Just being here makes him feel safe. Puzzling! …It annoys the heck out of me!
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
Sunday, 28 March 2010
'Life Drawing' by Jan Lloyd
I clutched the painting tightly under my coat to protect it from the rain which had started dripping down. I was excited and pleased that I'd completed the class project to paint a view from a window and I felt sure this would be my entry into Miss Cartwright's good books. I had been at the Fenshaw Infant and Junior school for four years after moving to Delbury from South Wales in 1958. The school was situated at the end of a Victorian row of houses and only five minutes walk from my house. It was a tall imposing red brick building with high windows so the pupils would not be distracted by the outside world. The playground was split in two so girls and boys were separated during play time. The toilets were in an old brick building at the end of the playground and were cold and damp even in the summer months. Despite this seemingly archaic and austere environment I loved the school and had made many friends despite my initial fears on first arrival. My one and only remaining fear was the strict and severe Miss Cartwright who continually reminded me that I would never amount to much and would certainly never, ever, be as clever as my brother who she taught three years previously and was now at the local grammar school.
I arrived at the school breathless from running in an attempt to avoid getting too wet from the down pour. There was a buzz in the queue of children waiting to walk through the entrance. It was the last week of term before the summer holidays and my class were chattering about their various paintings and what they had chosen to paint. We finally reached our class room at the top of the building having taken our wet things off in the cloakroom. Miss Cartwright sat at her desk looking down at the assembled children with her beady eyes and proceeded to take the register. She had a very thick North Welsh accent and her words were pronounced in adenoidal tones which came forth through very red lipstick coated lips. Her cheeks were always covered in too much rouge and her hair sat like a dark mop on top of her head so she resembled a very fierce clown. The register completed, Miss Cartwright announced that we should place our paintings on our desks and await her judgement. I proudly placed my painting out before me looking straight ahead so as not to be put off by the competition. I had chosen as my subject, "A view from my bedroom window". My bedroom window looked out at the River Delby which flowed past the back of the house. I was never bored of looking at this beautiful scene which I awoke to every morning and would always gaze in wonder when I'd drawn the curtains just to check it was still flowing by and at the many seasonal changes which took place on the water. The various wildlife which lived here: ducks, swans, kingfishers, water rats and voles all enjoying the pleasures of the river. There before me was my creation of the pretty river scene which I loved to watch every day. Miss Cartwright drew nearer, I listened to her glowing comments bestowed upon the other pupils getting more excited as she neared my desk. She was then standing in front of me looking at my painting. Her face started to distort and I could see spit flying from her red painted mouth as she spouted distain at my work.
"What an awful mess, why have you painted the water brown? Water is blue." she hissed.
I felt my legs turn to jelly as she continued to rant about my painting. All I could think of was the colour of the river which I saw every day. “It is brown,” I thought, “it's muddy and brown!”
Miss Cartwright then held my painting up to the rest of the class and continued with my humiliation by stating that messy paintings like mine would be eliminated from the competition and proceeded to tear my picture into pieces. I was devastated to see my beautiful painting torn up and dropped into the litter bin. Some of the children stared at me, others dared not look as I fought back the tears which were stinging my eyes. Miss Cartwright then stood at her desk and announced the winner; it was Colin Hough, who'd drawn his garden with a dog in the foreground, entitled "Misty". He went up to the desk beaming and Miss Cartwright gave him a box of toffees. I sat looking down, hurt and confused. “The river is brown,” I kept repeating to myself, “not blue.....”
That was forty seven years ago now and a lot of things have happened since that awful day but I remember it vividly. My self esteem was shattered and I never felt confident about painting after that. I still live by the same river and it's still brown and muddy. Life was always difficult after that, I struggled to fulfil my ambitions because of Miss Cartwright's cruel comments. I failed my eleven plus, unlike my clever brother, married young, had two sons, divorced and worked at various jobs over the years. I now find myself at home with my partner, disillusioned having reached middle age and still dreaming about an exciting creative life but it seems to be passing me by and I still continue to clean, cook, wash and iron!
It was over a year ago, when I bumped into an old friend, Cath, and we got talking and caught up with the gossip. Cath was starting an art course and suggested I joined her, it would be starting in a week and there were still places left. All my fears of old started to creep over me and I made some excuse and said, "What would I be doing on an art course, I can't draw for goodness sake". Cath said she couldn't either but thought it would be fun. I went home feeling uplifted from our meeting but still not sure about joining the course; Miss Cartwright's fury loomed from my memory. The following day Cath rang me and tried persuading me again. She reassured me that I should at least try and that I could always leave if I didn't like it. Still feeling like that devastated school girl I felt the butterflies in my stomach thinking I would never be able to lift a paint brush again. But I suddenly found myself saying, “Yes” and heard Cath shouting, “Hooray!” down the phone. "I'll pick you up next Tuesday and don't worry it will be fun!"
Cath and I arrived at the class and walked hesitantly in and was greeted by the art teacher, a very bohemian looking character, called Frank Morgan. There were several women and one other man and they all seemed friendly and we introduced ourselves and sat back with eager anticipation. Our first assignment was an autumnal theme and were all sent into the garden to collect appropriate material. I chose some unusual coloured leaves and a pine cone. As we sat around drinking coffee and dabbling with our various pictures I felt a surge of enthusiasm. “I can do this,” I thought, “ I'm not that nervous little school girl any longer, I'm going to enjoy the moment!”
For the next term we continued to produce our creations which were met with positive feedback or sometimes constructive criticism. Over the weeks my confidence grew and my friendships with the rest of the group also blossomed. I realised from chatting to the people there that we all have a story to tell and our lives are not always what we dreamt of. One lady was struggling to care for an elderly mother, another had suffered a nervous breakdown. There were many more stories told over the months and we all helped one another through the ups and downs of life sharing our joys and sorrows and creating little masterpieces along the way. I realised all aspects of life was in attendance here and it helped put my life into perspective and made me realise I had nothing to complain about.
At the end of the year it was the usual practice to have an exhibition of work. My old fears and anxieties returned and started to panic about the viewers reactions and responses. Frank was continually reassuring and encouraged all of us to pick at least three pieces. I decided to put in three pieces of abstract work and busily made preparations. I had them framed and labeled and took them to the gallery where they were to be presented. Cath was there along with the rest of the group and we set about displaying our work. Although dubious about my contribution I couldn't help but feel proud of what we had all achieved through the year.
The opening night arrived and we waited nervously for the viewing public to come in to offer their opinions. We served wine and nibbles and it all seemed like another world but the night went well and most of the comments were positive.
We all had to take turns to sit for a few hours over the next fortnight should anyone want to purchase a painting. Cath and I duly took our turn on the rota and we sat patiently whilst people wondered in to view. Imagine my surprise when a lady started enthusing about one of my paintings. She was from New York and one of my abstracts was entitled "New York Skyline". The lady finally came to the desk and asked me if she could buy the painting and was leaving that afternoon so needed to take it that day. It was with utter disbelief that I removed the picture from the wall and packed it and then received money for it. My thoughts returned to the classroom where I had been so horribly humiliated all those years ago and felt a big surge of pride whilst I handed over the painting. Cath also sold a painting and we both went to a bar later and celebrated our new found fame. I now felt completely free of that horrible experience and was able to finally let go. I now realise that it should never have affected me so profoundly but the life stories at my new art classes had helped me to realise that. At last I could now move forward to a positive future having found an interest for just me!
I arrived at the school breathless from running in an attempt to avoid getting too wet from the down pour. There was a buzz in the queue of children waiting to walk through the entrance. It was the last week of term before the summer holidays and my class were chattering about their various paintings and what they had chosen to paint. We finally reached our class room at the top of the building having taken our wet things off in the cloakroom. Miss Cartwright sat at her desk looking down at the assembled children with her beady eyes and proceeded to take the register. She had a very thick North Welsh accent and her words were pronounced in adenoidal tones which came forth through very red lipstick coated lips. Her cheeks were always covered in too much rouge and her hair sat like a dark mop on top of her head so she resembled a very fierce clown. The register completed, Miss Cartwright announced that we should place our paintings on our desks and await her judgement. I proudly placed my painting out before me looking straight ahead so as not to be put off by the competition. I had chosen as my subject, "A view from my bedroom window". My bedroom window looked out at the River Delby which flowed past the back of the house. I was never bored of looking at this beautiful scene which I awoke to every morning and would always gaze in wonder when I'd drawn the curtains just to check it was still flowing by and at the many seasonal changes which took place on the water. The various wildlife which lived here: ducks, swans, kingfishers, water rats and voles all enjoying the pleasures of the river. There before me was my creation of the pretty river scene which I loved to watch every day. Miss Cartwright drew nearer, I listened to her glowing comments bestowed upon the other pupils getting more excited as she neared my desk. She was then standing in front of me looking at my painting. Her face started to distort and I could see spit flying from her red painted mouth as she spouted distain at my work.
"What an awful mess, why have you painted the water brown? Water is blue." she hissed.
I felt my legs turn to jelly as she continued to rant about my painting. All I could think of was the colour of the river which I saw every day. “It is brown,” I thought, “it's muddy and brown!”
Miss Cartwright then held my painting up to the rest of the class and continued with my humiliation by stating that messy paintings like mine would be eliminated from the competition and proceeded to tear my picture into pieces. I was devastated to see my beautiful painting torn up and dropped into the litter bin. Some of the children stared at me, others dared not look as I fought back the tears which were stinging my eyes. Miss Cartwright then stood at her desk and announced the winner; it was Colin Hough, who'd drawn his garden with a dog in the foreground, entitled "Misty". He went up to the desk beaming and Miss Cartwright gave him a box of toffees. I sat looking down, hurt and confused. “The river is brown,” I kept repeating to myself, “not blue.....”
That was forty seven years ago now and a lot of things have happened since that awful day but I remember it vividly. My self esteem was shattered and I never felt confident about painting after that. I still live by the same river and it's still brown and muddy. Life was always difficult after that, I struggled to fulfil my ambitions because of Miss Cartwright's cruel comments. I failed my eleven plus, unlike my clever brother, married young, had two sons, divorced and worked at various jobs over the years. I now find myself at home with my partner, disillusioned having reached middle age and still dreaming about an exciting creative life but it seems to be passing me by and I still continue to clean, cook, wash and iron!
It was over a year ago, when I bumped into an old friend, Cath, and we got talking and caught up with the gossip. Cath was starting an art course and suggested I joined her, it would be starting in a week and there were still places left. All my fears of old started to creep over me and I made some excuse and said, "What would I be doing on an art course, I can't draw for goodness sake". Cath said she couldn't either but thought it would be fun. I went home feeling uplifted from our meeting but still not sure about joining the course; Miss Cartwright's fury loomed from my memory. The following day Cath rang me and tried persuading me again. She reassured me that I should at least try and that I could always leave if I didn't like it. Still feeling like that devastated school girl I felt the butterflies in my stomach thinking I would never be able to lift a paint brush again. But I suddenly found myself saying, “Yes” and heard Cath shouting, “Hooray!” down the phone. "I'll pick you up next Tuesday and don't worry it will be fun!"
Cath and I arrived at the class and walked hesitantly in and was greeted by the art teacher, a very bohemian looking character, called Frank Morgan. There were several women and one other man and they all seemed friendly and we introduced ourselves and sat back with eager anticipation. Our first assignment was an autumnal theme and were all sent into the garden to collect appropriate material. I chose some unusual coloured leaves and a pine cone. As we sat around drinking coffee and dabbling with our various pictures I felt a surge of enthusiasm. “I can do this,” I thought, “ I'm not that nervous little school girl any longer, I'm going to enjoy the moment!”
For the next term we continued to produce our creations which were met with positive feedback or sometimes constructive criticism. Over the weeks my confidence grew and my friendships with the rest of the group also blossomed. I realised from chatting to the people there that we all have a story to tell and our lives are not always what we dreamt of. One lady was struggling to care for an elderly mother, another had suffered a nervous breakdown. There were many more stories told over the months and we all helped one another through the ups and downs of life sharing our joys and sorrows and creating little masterpieces along the way. I realised all aspects of life was in attendance here and it helped put my life into perspective and made me realise I had nothing to complain about.
At the end of the year it was the usual practice to have an exhibition of work. My old fears and anxieties returned and started to panic about the viewers reactions and responses. Frank was continually reassuring and encouraged all of us to pick at least three pieces. I decided to put in three pieces of abstract work and busily made preparations. I had them framed and labeled and took them to the gallery where they were to be presented. Cath was there along with the rest of the group and we set about displaying our work. Although dubious about my contribution I couldn't help but feel proud of what we had all achieved through the year.
The opening night arrived and we waited nervously for the viewing public to come in to offer their opinions. We served wine and nibbles and it all seemed like another world but the night went well and most of the comments were positive.
We all had to take turns to sit for a few hours over the next fortnight should anyone want to purchase a painting. Cath and I duly took our turn on the rota and we sat patiently whilst people wondered in to view. Imagine my surprise when a lady started enthusing about one of my paintings. She was from New York and one of my abstracts was entitled "New York Skyline". The lady finally came to the desk and asked me if she could buy the painting and was leaving that afternoon so needed to take it that day. It was with utter disbelief that I removed the picture from the wall and packed it and then received money for it. My thoughts returned to the classroom where I had been so horribly humiliated all those years ago and felt a big surge of pride whilst I handed over the painting. Cath also sold a painting and we both went to a bar later and celebrated our new found fame. I now felt completely free of that horrible experience and was able to finally let go. I now realise that it should never have affected me so profoundly but the life stories at my new art classes had helped me to realise that. At last I could now move forward to a positive future having found an interest for just me!
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
'The Ups and Downs of Life' by Maureen Bradley
Good things that have happened to me this week:
1. There was a knock at the door when I opened it there was the most beautiful arrangement of flowers that had been sent from my friend Ann in America to celebrate my birthday.
2. I went to sit for my twin grand daughters and Fay took her first steps.
3. I finished editing the church magazine and was pleased to take it to the printers.
4. I went to a meeting at the Mytton and Mermaid and enjoyed a wonderful buffet lunch.
5. I enjoyed the company of my daughter Alison and her dog Penny who stayed with me for a few days.
Not so good things that happened to me this week
1. I woke up with my nose streaming and knew I was in for a bad cold which although I am not ill makes you feel miserable.
2. I lost my glasses and it took me an hour to find them, they were under the bed.
3. I went to a supermarket at the other side of Shrewsbury. I got out of the car with my bags and shopping list, then realised I had left my money at home.
4. My daughter’s Labrador stayed and it took me a long time to hoover up her dog hairs.
5. I had a blood test and it took two attempts to find a vein. Not good!
1. There was a knock at the door when I opened it there was the most beautiful arrangement of flowers that had been sent from my friend Ann in America to celebrate my birthday.
2. I went to sit for my twin grand daughters and Fay took her first steps.
3. I finished editing the church magazine and was pleased to take it to the printers.
4. I went to a meeting at the Mytton and Mermaid and enjoyed a wonderful buffet lunch.
5. I enjoyed the company of my daughter Alison and her dog Penny who stayed with me for a few days.
Not so good things that happened to me this week
1. I woke up with my nose streaming and knew I was in for a bad cold which although I am not ill makes you feel miserable.
2. I lost my glasses and it took me an hour to find them, they were under the bed.
3. I went to a supermarket at the other side of Shrewsbury. I got out of the car with my bags and shopping list, then realised I had left my money at home.
4. My daughter’s Labrador stayed and it took me a long time to hoover up her dog hairs.
5. I had a blood test and it took two attempts to find a vein. Not good!
Monday, 22 March 2010
'Homecoming' by Rosie Pugh
The old woman sprang up as Ruth entered the room clutching a photograph. Mary did not need a picture to know who the young woman was. Tears escaped as she held out her arms.
‘I never thought we would ever meet again. Ruth, why did you take so long to return?’
‘Circumstances,’ Ruth replied, ‘I never wanted to come, but I had no choice. I couldn’t settle in that strange country. Our culture is so different from theirs. But how did you know me?’
‘Your eyes, they are so deep I would recognize you anywhere. You wore your hair differently then. You had it in plaits when you came here with your mum.' Mary paused and thought back to the old times. 'Do you remember your great uncle’s farm? Do you remember how we all helped with harvesting the hay. The children, including you Ruth, would dance on the pile of hay to help to bed it together. In the evening we gathered round the fire and your great uncle played the fiddle. What happy times we had together.’
As Ruth gazed through the window, flashes of memory flicked by. Tears welled up and, unable to hold back, she sobbed in Mary’s arms. Like a broken dam, there was no stopping; the pent up emotion broke through.
Ruth could see the tall mountains, they seemed as if they were welcoming her home as the sun shone above them. The forest near by was where as children she had played imaginary games. Wild fields that grew and knew no bounds with grass so high they hid from one another.
Mary looked at Ruth and knew that time was running out. Her heart felt heavy. She held Ruth close as if this was their last moment. To Mary, Ruth was like one of her own. Her lost child had returned.
‘I never thought we would ever meet again. Ruth, why did you take so long to return?’
‘Circumstances,’ Ruth replied, ‘I never wanted to come, but I had no choice. I couldn’t settle in that strange country. Our culture is so different from theirs. But how did you know me?’
‘Your eyes, they are so deep I would recognize you anywhere. You wore your hair differently then. You had it in plaits when you came here with your mum.' Mary paused and thought back to the old times. 'Do you remember your great uncle’s farm? Do you remember how we all helped with harvesting the hay. The children, including you Ruth, would dance on the pile of hay to help to bed it together. In the evening we gathered round the fire and your great uncle played the fiddle. What happy times we had together.’
As Ruth gazed through the window, flashes of memory flicked by. Tears welled up and, unable to hold back, she sobbed in Mary’s arms. Like a broken dam, there was no stopping; the pent up emotion broke through.
Ruth could see the tall mountains, they seemed as if they were welcoming her home as the sun shone above them. The forest near by was where as children she had played imaginary games. Wild fields that grew and knew no bounds with grass so high they hid from one another.
Mary looked at Ruth and knew that time was running out. Her heart felt heavy. She held Ruth close as if this was their last moment. To Mary, Ruth was like one of her own. Her lost child had returned.
'The First Baby' by Louise McClean
I was nineteen when I had my first child and though we hadn't planned to start our family so soon, accidents happen, and we weren't over bothered.
Having been the first grandchild and the first to marry, I now also produced the first of the new generation. This was a bit alarming as I didn't know the first thing about babies and the eyes of the extended family were upon me.
To help matters the baby, David, was a month premature weighing just five and a half pounds when we brought him home from hospital.
At the time (September 1953) we were living in Ulster in a little wooden house which had been a WW1 army hut. It was heated by a small coal burning stove in the living room. In this room we did everything except sleep - cooking, washing, the lot. There was no bathroom of course, but at least the toilet was indoors which was quite a luxury in those days.
So we brought this premature baby home in a wicker basket and laid him on the couch and gazed at him in awe. He slept for the next hour while we had a cuppa and we watched his every move lovingly.
As he awoke and began to cry I jumped into action. I was going to breast feed, naturally, but first I had to change his nappy. This was no easy matter with that huge towelling nappy and that great lethal pin and such a tiny baby, but eventually I did it and we settled down for our first feed at home, feeling quite relaxed.
It had seemed quite easy in hospital with the nurses at hand, but it wasn't so straight forward at home I discovered. He kept dozing off every few minutes and I struggled to keep him awake and sucking. After about half an hour I gave up and put him asleep into the basket. Fine, he slept for ten minutes and then woke up and yelled till his little face was bright red. So, I lifted him again, put him to my breast again, he went to sleep again, I put him down again and in ten minutes he was yelling again!
By this time I was at my wit's end. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I was an obvious failure as a mother and my husband was no help at all - useless in fact.
After about two hours of this I was in tears. My husband got on his bike and went to ask my mother what I should do. She arrived back with him but by then the baby was asleep with pure exhaustion and so was I! She did her best to reassure me, made a cup of tea and went home again.
This pantomime continued for about a week with me feeding non-stop, day and night and never managing to get out of my nightie. Eventually the district nurse came and seeing my exhaustion and my poor sore breasts, suggested we put the baby on a bottle (National dried milk in those days) and the problem was solved. I was obviously a failure as a breast feeder but by this time I couldn't have cared less. My baby was sleeping, well some of the time at least and life took on some sort of pattern and normality at last.
Looking back over David's first few months, it's a miracle he survived at all due to my ignorance. But survive he did and he turned out a really healthy, happy child who was six foot tall by the time he was fourteen so I must have done something right!
Life was a lot easier with my other three children who were all bottle fed from birth. They may have suffered some deep psychological harm because of this but who was caring- not me for sure! I'm all for the easy life.
Having been the first grandchild and the first to marry, I now also produced the first of the new generation. This was a bit alarming as I didn't know the first thing about babies and the eyes of the extended family were upon me.
To help matters the baby, David, was a month premature weighing just five and a half pounds when we brought him home from hospital.
At the time (September 1953) we were living in Ulster in a little wooden house which had been a WW1 army hut. It was heated by a small coal burning stove in the living room. In this room we did everything except sleep - cooking, washing, the lot. There was no bathroom of course, but at least the toilet was indoors which was quite a luxury in those days.
So we brought this premature baby home in a wicker basket and laid him on the couch and gazed at him in awe. He slept for the next hour while we had a cuppa and we watched his every move lovingly.
As he awoke and began to cry I jumped into action. I was going to breast feed, naturally, but first I had to change his nappy. This was no easy matter with that huge towelling nappy and that great lethal pin and such a tiny baby, but eventually I did it and we settled down for our first feed at home, feeling quite relaxed.
It had seemed quite easy in hospital with the nurses at hand, but it wasn't so straight forward at home I discovered. He kept dozing off every few minutes and I struggled to keep him awake and sucking. After about half an hour I gave up and put him asleep into the basket. Fine, he slept for ten minutes and then woke up and yelled till his little face was bright red. So, I lifted him again, put him to my breast again, he went to sleep again, I put him down again and in ten minutes he was yelling again!
By this time I was at my wit's end. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I was an obvious failure as a mother and my husband was no help at all - useless in fact.
After about two hours of this I was in tears. My husband got on his bike and went to ask my mother what I should do. She arrived back with him but by then the baby was asleep with pure exhaustion and so was I! She did her best to reassure me, made a cup of tea and went home again.
This pantomime continued for about a week with me feeding non-stop, day and night and never managing to get out of my nightie. Eventually the district nurse came and seeing my exhaustion and my poor sore breasts, suggested we put the baby on a bottle (National dried milk in those days) and the problem was solved. I was obviously a failure as a breast feeder but by this time I couldn't have cared less. My baby was sleeping, well some of the time at least and life took on some sort of pattern and normality at last.
Looking back over David's first few months, it's a miracle he survived at all due to my ignorance. But survive he did and he turned out a really healthy, happy child who was six foot tall by the time he was fourteen so I must have done something right!
Life was a lot easier with my other three children who were all bottle fed from birth. They may have suffered some deep psychological harm because of this but who was caring- not me for sure! I'm all for the easy life.
Thursday, 18 March 2010
'A Strange Affair' by Jan Lloyd
John's wedding was a strange affair! Not the normal nuptials we are all used to. No, John wanted something significant, an event which would be etched in our memories for ever.
John is someone who is commonly known as an anorak. He is a dedicated, earnest and no holds barred, train enthusiast. How could someone who stands out in all weathers waiting to photograph a particular steam train, who will rise at the crack of dawn to spot a particular engine pulling into a station, have a "normal" wedding.
So it seemed perfectly acceptable when I received my invitation to John and Rose's wedding to attend, not a church, but the Severn Valley Railway!
On July 21, 2007 I duly arrived at the station to board a steam train. Along with many other guests we squeezed into one of the carriages which had been decorated accordingly with flowers and ribbons adorning the windows and seats.
As the couple recited their vows and the ceremony progressed the train chugged along through pretty countryside at a steady pace. Steam spouted past the windows forming romantic puffs of clouds in the sky. By the time we reached our destination the couple were happily married and the guests were offered champagne. The reception continued on the train as we returned and a special wedding feast was served. The cake was a splendid concoction and was designed in the shape of, you guessed it, a steam train! The champagne continued to flow freely and lots of interesting photographs were taken to mark the happy event. Although it was tricky to remain steady as the train moved along the whole event was joyful but amusing at times.
The couple return every year to celebrate their anniversary and travel on the same route to remind them of their "strange" but romantic wedding day.
John is someone who is commonly known as an anorak. He is a dedicated, earnest and no holds barred, train enthusiast. How could someone who stands out in all weathers waiting to photograph a particular steam train, who will rise at the crack of dawn to spot a particular engine pulling into a station, have a "normal" wedding.
So it seemed perfectly acceptable when I received my invitation to John and Rose's wedding to attend, not a church, but the Severn Valley Railway!
On July 21, 2007 I duly arrived at the station to board a steam train. Along with many other guests we squeezed into one of the carriages which had been decorated accordingly with flowers and ribbons adorning the windows and seats.
As the couple recited their vows and the ceremony progressed the train chugged along through pretty countryside at a steady pace. Steam spouted past the windows forming romantic puffs of clouds in the sky. By the time we reached our destination the couple were happily married and the guests were offered champagne. The reception continued on the train as we returned and a special wedding feast was served. The cake was a splendid concoction and was designed in the shape of, you guessed it, a steam train! The champagne continued to flow freely and lots of interesting photographs were taken to mark the happy event. Although it was tricky to remain steady as the train moved along the whole event was joyful but amusing at times.
The couple return every year to celebrate their anniversary and travel on the same route to remind them of their "strange" but romantic wedding day.
Sunday, 7 March 2010
‘Where Did It All Go?’ by Maureen Bradley
Mary sits looking out of her flat window as the tide ebbs across the wide, flat sands.
‘What had Sue spent all the money on? It was a total mystery.’
Neither of them had married, but lived happily together in a house where they had both looked after their elderly parents and when their mother and father died they had continued to live together in the family home.
In time, Sue died of a heart attack and Mary visited the solicitor to see what she would inherit. When she walked into the office to see Mr. Snodgrass, the family solicitor, he told her to sit down as he had some things to discuss with her.
He looked very solemn and then startled her by saying, ‘I’m very sorry to tell you Miss Jenkins but I don’t think you’ll like what I’m going to say.’
Unfortunately,’ said Mr Snodgrass, ‘ the family home must be sold to clear your sister’s debts and there might just be enough left for you to purchase a flat.’
So Mary had to move to a one bed-roomed flat in not the most desirable part of the town. She now lives very simply and appreciates what she has. ‘It’s not what I want, it’s what I can do without, that matters.’
‘But where did all that money go?’ she thinks to herself, ‘Where did it all go?’
It is late evening and the setting sun glows a deep orange colour on the horizon.
‘What had Sue spent all the money on? It was a total mystery.’
Neither of them had married, but lived happily together in a house where they had both looked after their elderly parents and when their mother and father died they had continued to live together in the family home.
In time, Sue died of a heart attack and Mary visited the solicitor to see what she would inherit. When she walked into the office to see Mr. Snodgrass, the family solicitor, he told her to sit down as he had some things to discuss with her.
He looked very solemn and then startled her by saying, ‘I’m very sorry to tell you Miss Jenkins but I don’t think you’ll like what I’m going to say.’
Unfortunately,’ said Mr Snodgrass, ‘ the family home must be sold to clear your sister’s debts and there might just be enough left for you to purchase a flat.’
So Mary had to move to a one bed-roomed flat in not the most desirable part of the town. She now lives very simply and appreciates what she has. ‘It’s not what I want, it’s what I can do without, that matters.’
‘But where did all that money go?’ she thinks to herself, ‘Where did it all go?’
It is late evening and the setting sun glows a deep orange colour on the horizon.
'Kwaga Will Get You Sweetcorn' by Elisa Hill
The old woman sprang up. She thought to herself, “Why on earth is that cat scratching around in my garden? I don’t put bird food out any more." She ran out. The cat had a baby shrew in its mouth. She chased it away and the shrew escaped into the bushes. She went slowly back into the house. "Too cold to sit out there."
Most of her day was spent staring into the garden, watching the birds and their fights. She knew every one and watched them raising their chicks and flying away.
To the neighbours and their kids she was just the nutty old woman who lived with her daughter and shouted at cats. But inside her mind she relived her youth: the men she had known; the affairs she had gossiped about; her mother and her childhood in Dawley; her marriage to a Kenyan policeman and her life nursing..
A middle-aged woman stood and watched as her mother chased the cat. She knew her friends had thought she was crazy to keep her mother at home. “Put her in a care home, you deserve to live your life now the kids have their own lives." was the general consensus. She knew her mother was a shadow of the woman she had once been. All her life experiences -does she remember anything at all? What goes on inside her head. Who is she really? She was scared of the time when her mother would become incontinent. Her mother was already having nightmares and screaming at unseen people in Swahili.
A teenager looked up reluctantly from her laptop, "OK, I’ll stay with Nan while you go shopping; but I have to go out at eleven." Could she really cope with her grandmother any longer. She knew this dried up old woman, who was once vibrant, ran hospital wards, and lived through the Mau-Mau troubles in Kenya, was deserving of more; but she was so difficult to handle and imagined everyone was cheating her out of her money, accused her of having affairs and generally lived in a fantasy world. The young girl texted her friend, looked up and saw her grandmother escaping out of the back door again.
"The house boy hasn’t dug the pit. Kwaga will get you sweet corn for your tea."
Most of her day was spent staring into the garden, watching the birds and their fights. She knew every one and watched them raising their chicks and flying away.
To the neighbours and their kids she was just the nutty old woman who lived with her daughter and shouted at cats. But inside her mind she relived her youth: the men she had known; the affairs she had gossiped about; her mother and her childhood in Dawley; her marriage to a Kenyan policeman and her life nursing..
A middle-aged woman stood and watched as her mother chased the cat. She knew her friends had thought she was crazy to keep her mother at home. “Put her in a care home, you deserve to live your life now the kids have their own lives." was the general consensus. She knew her mother was a shadow of the woman she had once been. All her life experiences -does she remember anything at all? What goes on inside her head. Who is she really? She was scared of the time when her mother would become incontinent. Her mother was already having nightmares and screaming at unseen people in Swahili.
A teenager looked up reluctantly from her laptop, "OK, I’ll stay with Nan while you go shopping; but I have to go out at eleven." Could she really cope with her grandmother any longer. She knew this dried up old woman, who was once vibrant, ran hospital wards, and lived through the Mau-Mau troubles in Kenya, was deserving of more; but she was so difficult to handle and imagined everyone was cheating her out of her money, accused her of having affairs and generally lived in a fantasy world. The young girl texted her friend, looked up and saw her grandmother escaping out of the back door again.
"The house boy hasn’t dug the pit. Kwaga will get you sweet corn for your tea."
'Sleeping under the Table' by Jan Lloyd
As I gazed at the old photograph of my father I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness. The small, neglected figure stared out at the photographer with a careworn expression, as if inwardly pleading for help. It was a picture from an unknown world which I never knew about. It was taken before my father had been adopted and in a town of which I have very little knowledge. His mother had been forced to give him up when he was four years old and he told me, whilst still alive, of his bitter memory of being taken to the railway station and waving a tearful farewell to his mother. The train he boarded took him away from Hartlepool to a new life in South Wales but did not bring him the comfort of which he must surely have dreamed. He had been sent to an elderly couple who did not provide the loving home he so wished for; instead he spent more miserable years, always yearning for his real mother, with the painful memory of her waiting on the platform etched in his mind, as she watched the train take away her little boy.
The limited information I gleaned from my father was that his mother was single and could not afford to keep him when she became pregnant with his brother. This was in the early 1920's and he remembers the poverty and having to sleep under the kitchen table where the draughts from the back door sealed his watery eyes shut. His feet became deformed due to wearing ill fitting shoes and had to have numerous, painful operations to correct the deformities later in life. My poor father was greatly affected from this terrible wrench in his childhood and I believe he never recovered from the heartache he endured.
He did manage to find his real mother, who he was reunited with in later life but, unfortunately, a short time before she passed away. He thinks, too, that she had been greatly traumatised by her plight and although she was pleased to find him again could never recover from the loss of her first born. My father was also introduced to the brother he never knew and had some years of comfort in sharing the memories of time gone by.
One of my many ambitions is to trace my paternal family tree and find out about my grandmother and the hardships she courageously bore. I have a photograph of her which doesn't make me sad as she is smiling warmly at the camera and I see similarities in her face to mine. It makes me feel content and happy that she saw her son again and was able to take him by the hand and tell him she loved him and to see her name on the back of the photo, Mary Hannah.
The limited information I gleaned from my father was that his mother was single and could not afford to keep him when she became pregnant with his brother. This was in the early 1920's and he remembers the poverty and having to sleep under the kitchen table where the draughts from the back door sealed his watery eyes shut. His feet became deformed due to wearing ill fitting shoes and had to have numerous, painful operations to correct the deformities later in life. My poor father was greatly affected from this terrible wrench in his childhood and I believe he never recovered from the heartache he endured.
He did manage to find his real mother, who he was reunited with in later life but, unfortunately, a short time before she passed away. He thinks, too, that she had been greatly traumatised by her plight and although she was pleased to find him again could never recover from the loss of her first born. My father was also introduced to the brother he never knew and had some years of comfort in sharing the memories of time gone by.
One of my many ambitions is to trace my paternal family tree and find out about my grandmother and the hardships she courageously bore. I have a photograph of her which doesn't make me sad as she is smiling warmly at the camera and I see similarities in her face to mine. It makes me feel content and happy that she saw her son again and was able to take him by the hand and tell him she loved him and to see her name on the back of the photo, Mary Hannah.
Wednesday, 3 March 2010
'Daffodils in Dymock' by Joyce Hayward
One place I have become familiar with over the past twenty three years is Dymock near Gloucester where some friends of ours farmed on a large scale over Dymock and nearby Much March and Kempley. It is a beautiful part of Gloucestershire, on the edge of the Forest of Dean and home to many wild daffodils.
When the spring came I was never happy until we had made our pilgrimage to see the ‘daffs’. These dainty, pale-yellow flowers grew everywhere: in fields, in orchards where apple trees were hung with bountiful bunches of mistletoe, in ditches, on the roadside and in woodlands. One special place where they grew most prolifically was the churchyards of ancient churches, which in themselves were interesting and beautiful. In March, daffodils thrived everywhere, in their natural habitat, and special walks and routes were set out for visitors to the area.
Many years ago there was a special train from London which brought families to pick daffodils for the markets. What delightful work they must have enjoyed!
After we had completed our tour we would meet up and enjoy an evening meal with our friends. Our husbands, both farmers, would have a good and lively row about some trivial problem to do with farming.
Sadly, they have both died in the last few years; but when they were alive they gave us a sack of daffodil bulbs which we planted in our garden and so each year in March we have their blooms which help us to remember them and the beautiful place they lived in.
When the spring came I was never happy until we had made our pilgrimage to see the ‘daffs’. These dainty, pale-yellow flowers grew everywhere: in fields, in orchards where apple trees were hung with bountiful bunches of mistletoe, in ditches, on the roadside and in woodlands. One special place where they grew most prolifically was the churchyards of ancient churches, which in themselves were interesting and beautiful. In March, daffodils thrived everywhere, in their natural habitat, and special walks and routes were set out for visitors to the area.
Many years ago there was a special train from London which brought families to pick daffodils for the markets. What delightful work they must have enjoyed!
After we had completed our tour we would meet up and enjoy an evening meal with our friends. Our husbands, both farmers, would have a good and lively row about some trivial problem to do with farming.
Sadly, they have both died in the last few years; but when they were alive they gave us a sack of daffodil bulbs which we planted in our garden and so each year in March we have their blooms which help us to remember them and the beautiful place they lived in.
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
'Honfleur' by Rosie Pugh
Once I was on holiday in Honfleur and became bewitched by the place. As I walked among the tall buildings feelings of ancient times seeped through me.
It was a painter’s dream: the striking colours of the narrow houses and the beautiful boats moored in a fishing harbour that I bet could tell a tale.
Wandering the narrow cobble streets I found farmers in the market selling their wares: lettuce as large and green as the fields they came from; onions - white and red with garlic nestling by them; cheese of all kinds which filled my senses with their aroma and apples galore used for making the finest cider - calvados from the best apples in France.
Near by a boulangerie was selling fresh baked bread. I bought bread and cheese and sat on the sea wall, having my lunch, as I watched the world pass by.
I became aware of a tall building behind the farmers’ stalls: Sainte-Catherine’s Church was gazing down at me. It was made entirely of wood, except for the foundations and the plaster-covered bricks which filled the spaces between the wooden uprights. I was drawn to its large door; gently I opened it and ambled inside. I gazed around and the stillness of the church engulfed me. Music filtered through the space and the left side of the church was ablaze with candles of all sizes burning brightly. I walked across and I picked a candle of blue with the picture of Sainte-Catherine. My thoughts went to my family and the people of the world as I lit the candle. A last look; my eyes were drawn to the roof, it looked like the upturned hull of a boat. There was peace within those walls.
I returned to the harbour and sat at one of the café’s. I felt enchanted by what I had found and seen in Honfleur
It was a painter’s dream: the striking colours of the narrow houses and the beautiful boats moored in a fishing harbour that I bet could tell a tale.
Wandering the narrow cobble streets I found farmers in the market selling their wares: lettuce as large and green as the fields they came from; onions - white and red with garlic nestling by them; cheese of all kinds which filled my senses with their aroma and apples galore used for making the finest cider - calvados from the best apples in France.
Near by a boulangerie was selling fresh baked bread. I bought bread and cheese and sat on the sea wall, having my lunch, as I watched the world pass by.
I became aware of a tall building behind the farmers’ stalls: Sainte-Catherine’s Church was gazing down at me. It was made entirely of wood, except for the foundations and the plaster-covered bricks which filled the spaces between the wooden uprights. I was drawn to its large door; gently I opened it and ambled inside. I gazed around and the stillness of the church engulfed me. Music filtered through the space and the left side of the church was ablaze with candles of all sizes burning brightly. I walked across and I picked a candle of blue with the picture of Sainte-Catherine. My thoughts went to my family and the people of the world as I lit the candle. A last look; my eyes were drawn to the roof, it looked like the upturned hull of a boat. There was peace within those walls.
I returned to the harbour and sat at one of the café’s. I felt enchanted by what I had found and seen in Honfleur
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