Following on from thoughts of food that I wrote about a little while ago.

Morning tea.                                                          

 I take the tray from the cupboard under the sink, the one mother in law passed on to us. Being precious to her, crafted in marquetry with a beautiful leaf design by her great uncle Horace around 1900, she proudly brought it out only for special guests.  

                We’ve used it habitually every morning since my husband retired, for our tea.   One tea bag is enough but it has to be PG tips, into a pot that I bought in a charity shop some years ago. I was attracted firstly by the size,  bigger than the norm, and then by the Red Rose pattern that reminded me of when we were courting. 

We like not to be disturbed, but today as I stare sleepily out of the window while waiting for the kettle to boil, the phone rings and my daughter, Kate, wants advice from mum while she walks to work. It’s her favourite time to ring.

Ten minutes later it’s back to the tea.   I cover the pot in a tea cosy that was specially made  by my daughter Emma, for our fortieth anniversary and which has pictures of our wedding day cleverly woven into it. Two cups and saucers with a similar design to the pot, but with “Ruby Wedding” written on them, sit next to a small, plain white jug.  I have lots of jugs. I get it from my Dad. He collects small jugs. He’s very fussy and they have to be bone china, as do the cups and saucers. I was teary eyed  when I visited then last week and saw that at eighty two,  he  still takes a tray of tea up to mum in the mornings. Something he’s also done since he’s been retired .

          We settle our morning bones into the welcome sofa to drink our first cuppa, with me reading the daily meditation. Half hour of peace, breathing deeply to find the place where the I becomes the we of a newfound joy for today.  There’s another interruption as my son stands tall and lanky in the doorway and asks for money for the bus.  And can Suzy come and stay. As I try to work out whether or not it would be convenient Peter has said yes and Dom is out the door like a bullet, knowing that there’s always a possibility I will override his father. Today though I breathe a sigh of relief and calmly sip my tea.

I Love Living by the Sea

18th Sept 2107

Something I wrote three years ago. Since then we have walked many times for many miles along the coast.  I can't believe I felt my body wasn't up to it, but that was then . It's not so easy now to go for that cuppa on the beach as it's fifteen minutes walk away . Then it was less than a minute - just a few steps between us and the shore . I do miss that .

14th Sept 2014
A post that should of gone out in July:

A nice memory, especially as the summer is ending.

There are so many good things about living where we do.
So we were up early this morning and out for a walk at 7.00am.
there is the possibility of going for miles along the coast
with the view constantly changing , giving new delights.
The balmy sea breeze brings seeps its magic into a willing  mind
With each breath a memory captured , held for future
fantasies.

But the many seasons  have aged  the bones of this
once agile body, giving it cause to go steady
 legs, once eager to stride out in adventure now complain,
seeking respite.
So we curtail the long walk,  ignoring  its promises and turn
for home,
decide to sit on the beach with cup of tea and enjoy
 the rest of the hour we've allotted ourselves .
waves, in timely motion,  bring in the tide and plenty of seaweed
the vast expanse of ocean claims our spirits,
 energises, refreshes.
Then he goes for a swim, while I look on and think
I should have worn my costume
and joined him.
Back for breakfast.

Two poems

19th September 2019

I can't believe this was 5 years ago. Where does the time go?

Must get and write some new poetry.



23/07/2014
Went to a great afternoon at the Gulbenkian - a Masterclass with the amazing Joelle Taylor, poet extraordinaire!!!

She describes herself as :
 poet, spoken word artist, playwright, novelist and cultural terrorist(not sure what that means).
You can find her online.

So, here are my two poems from that day. I did some collaborative pieces too but will only post my own for now.

JUMP
 Smoke seeps into the skin of waiting saviours,
creeping into their nostrils,
They call to her,
"Come on, you can do it, we'll catch you.."
"I can't, my baby," She screeches,
ghostly, with the voice of her ancestors,
"Take her first!"
She throws the startled creature through the air,
Limbs like sticks, wide eyed.- he travels in slow motion,
Plop, into the arms of a burley bear of manhood.
Again they call, cheer her on,
Now she jumps, relief that she has already gone before.
A flatfish, splayed, limbs free, she falls,
into the outstretched arms of the guilty,
While the building burns on.


Scaffolding

This old building needs restoring,
After long grey years,
Scarred with use and abuse.
It's concrete slabs crumbling,
It's broken windows of shattered dreams ,
Vacant eyes staring.
Shape a scaffold with crane and forklift...
And mascara  ...
Cover the cracks, the tracks
Made by tears that smacks
of fears -
who hears anyway.
Fill in the holes of memory loss,
Though no one  gives a toss,
That it's going that way.
Repaint the facade of this body .
Scrub white the green slime ,
The pain of disappointment,
And stand tall again,
Proud to be noticed.

Hope you liked these.

I want to write another poem about war.
I have an idea. Just need to do some research.

Food

At last, I am able to access my blog. Such a faff having to remember passwords, different email addresses  etc . There must be an easier way. And every time I write things down and "save" them, because I am so forgetful, I forget where I have put the written reminder. ARRRGGHHH !!!!.

Well, anyway, I'm here now.

I wanted to tell you about the exercise we had for last week in our Creative Writing group.
It was the topic of FOOD.
Well, all those who know me know that that was right up my street.
And there were so many places you could go with it.
Historic, national, nutritional, nurturing, psychological, emotional etc etc.

It got me thinking about so many things, from growing your own veg and how delectable they taste - sweet and fresh carrots and tomatoes, beautiful earthy beetroot, young tingly peas.
Then having to go on a diet with less saturated fat because of cholesterol. Worry about family members eating too much or too little.

Such a lot of our life revolves around food.

Well, I did write something as I found that for me the main thing was what food means to my memories of relationships. So here it is:

Food                                                                                    

Thinking of food brings to mind a gustatory feast of memories. From the strong sense of nostalgia with bacon, cabbage and flowery potatoes dripping with lip smacking Irish butter and accompanied by brown sauce,  reminding me of my grandmother, to Sunday roast at my parents where the delectable aroma of beef wafted from the kitchen and we felt comfortably bloated after eating too much. It was my mother’s custom to entice us with a hearty meal, especially since she’d gone hungry as a child herself. This happy family time around the table was her way of loving. I also like to nourish the family well and enjoy nothing better than seeing as many as possible gathered round our table.

An all inclusive holiday in Turkey with husband and three teenage boys with hollow legs was definitely all about the food. Such choice and variety in itself was a treat but best of all, it was relaxing for me and whilst they ate as much as they liked they  never once asked “what is there to eat?” .

Camping Toast.

Crouching, huddled together, still as stone, we watch the deer. Our breathing, quiet and shallow is the only sound.  It is the first week of June and we are on our annual camping holiday in the New Forrest. We were up with the sun, wellies on, trudging through the dew, the silence only broken by the crackling of twigs underfoot. Gently we creep through the clearing.  There’s never anybody about at this time of the morning and we love to get that fresh, healthy start to the day.  

After an hour or so wandering in the woods, spotting wildlife and walking by small brooks we return to the tent. It’s early and people are still asleep. We all get busy – one fetches water, one finds the bread, another, the butter and knives. The kettle boiling, Dad starts toasting. The trivet is old and rusty now but does the job well. It takes three pieces at a time placed precariously against it. Sometimes a piece falls off. Often Dad has to move the slices around so that they are more evenly toasted. Our mouths water as we inhale the charcoal, smokey smell and we eagerly wait to eat.  Butter melts quickly into our delicious, hot breakfast. As we bite into each slice, some parts dark and crispy, others white and soft, the velvety delight drips down the side of our mouths whilst we try to save it with fingers that now taste rich and creamy.

There is nothing like it. Children who don’t eat toast normally, ask for more until we run out and promise to buy twice as much tomorrow, especially as Dad got only one.  Just saying the words “camping toast” in the family setting , stirs up, years later, longings for that close, warm time we had  together.

Hope you like it. 

Don't forget to share my blog and make a comment at the same time. What is your relationship with food???

Housework

Hello everyone.

At the day for Creative Writing I went to in Broadstairs a couple of weeks ago the theme of memoir and thinking about the past brought to mind some memories that I have since been working on.
It's funny how you can look back and observe details that are just snippets of life going on.
Anyway, one of the things that I remembered was the whole thing of working in the home and how different it was for women before the advance of appliances that made the work easier.
Every day had a specific job allotted .  Monday - washing, Tuesday - ironing,  Wednesday - mending, Thursday - cleaning, Friday - shopping, Saturday - cooking and Sunday a rest as it's the Lord's day.
This routine, very sensible and practical is what I learned when I went to live with my mother in law.
It was all very new to me. My own mother had stepped into the 20th century and we had a machine , a twin tub I think, for the washing and she certainly didn't have the same routine for work in the home that mother in law had.
Thinking of theses things and having to write something for the Writers Workshop last week I produced two small pieces.
We had set ourselves the task of writing a complete piece in exactly 100 words. These are mine:

                                                  Early Risers                     

5.0am start - Six buckets of water,

Fill copper - light.

Add soap shavings - Sunlight Carbolic,

A bit of soda to prevent scum.

It’s Monday- washing, the entire day.

New to me - we had a modern machine.

But, it’s mother in law’s routine.

Whites in first – boil,

Windows open to get rid of steam.

Next coloureds, lastly work clothes.

Wooden tub for hand washing

Washboard for more soiled items.

All laundry rinsed and fed through rollers of mangle.

Tired satisfaction...

No time for anything else.

Even dinner is cold meat from yesterday

With bubble and squeak from leftovers.

100  Words

Ironing

Keeping everything normal, Sheila starts ironing.  It is Tuesday, after all. She’d kept up the regimental routine her mother in law had instilled in her all those years ago. Each day had its particular job - Monday, washing day, Tuesday, Ironing, - a useful distraction on this significant day.

Robot like, she picks up his shirt, the one she bought him last Christmas.  She knew then that she would be here today.  The iron sweeps backwards and forwards. Smiling, she plans how she will go to the greenhouse later and dispose of his body and his mug containing the evidence. 

                                                                

                                                                    100 Words

That's all for now folks. 

Sun, sun and more sun ... wonderful .

Another great, but extremely busy, weekend. Jo and Paul down to visit. The sun was shining the whole time and my favourite image is of seeing Jo, Paul, Peter,Mike and Mary swimming in the sea at seven in the morning. I went in, well, up to my waist. Although the air was  warm the sea was icy cold. More courage needed , I think. The colours of the sea so vivid, we could have been in any Mediteranean country, but , no we were just a minutes walk from the house. This is one of the main things that make it hard for me to envisage moving.It's just as if it is our private beach, especially as you see no one at that time of day. Feel so blessed to have this so near.
They all, then went off to Jos Bay with Liz, Ben and children. We were going to join them later at the house as we'd been invited to a friend's daughter's First Holy Communion. What a great few hours spent with friends reminiscing and enjoying each others company.These times make me think that, yes, I have become part of the community and I am putting down roots, albeit slow at first.


It was El's birthday on Sunday too and we had the most gorgeous impromptu BBQ with leftovers from Lizzie's do the evening before with some added extras that made a delicious accompaniment.

Sun, sun and more sun.... wonderful.

Thinking about the Race For Life now. I know I have to get on and get fit but it's not going well.
I hurt my back a couple of weeks ago and I'm finding it difficult to walk, let alone run. Oh, well, there's time yet. Any advice would be welcome.

Catch up soon folks....

Oh, look what I managed to do. 

Ok, more of this later.

Poems

      

A few poems I wrote recently:

Secret Dreams:  

                                               

Through the corridor - dark -  long,

Doors on either side,

Each one asking to be opened

Hand on handle, gently press,

Push open - only a little.

Is there treasure to be found inside?

No, darkness has only shadows,

A chill recalling

Cobwebs falling,

Can’t stay here, bleak memories,

Try more doors

Every room the same, until, a seed of promise,

Light creeps from under one door

Slowly, hope edges forward, enters,

Looking for joy that once it knew.

Brightness reveals

 Secret dreams, unmasked,

Long hidden - radiant still.

Have you Cancelled Tomorrow?

You walk with your buggy,

The same every day,

Past the clock tower to the supermarket

Neighbours wonder  - How do you manage

On your own with your precious gift,

Fair, like you, 

You,  still a babe yourself - 15 maybe?

 With your bag of shopping tied to your buggy,

You return, linger in the park

Sit on the swing with baby on knee, singing.

Have you no other waiting for you?

Have you cancelled your own tomorrow,

Given up your secret dreams,

Or postponed them, for now?

Homeless?

Outside the bank,

Head bent, unshaven, saggy, shabby, you slump

Skin a jaundice colour, hair matted,-grey- greasy.

How long do you wait

What do you think

Where do you call home?

People throw money into the cup at your feet,

As they look the other way.

Do you ever lift your head into the air,

Breathe the joy of the new day?

What misfortune placed you here today.

Maybe once, you had a wife, a profession,

Children maybe, who no longer know you,

And dreams of a future,

What is your secret?

I'm trying to work out how to post pictures on my blog. Anybody??

Hope you liked the poems.

Wonderful weekend

What a great weekend. Sat morning spent time with some of the grandchildren at their school jumble sale - they love rummaging.
 Even found myself a couple of bargains - a fancy cake stand ( have to have friends for tea) and a little white cardy to go with my summer dresses. I was extremely pleased with myself. Unfortunately the fashionable purple trousers didn't suit me at all - just as well I tried them on.

Sat evening was amazing too. I got to read three poems at a great event held at Beach Creative. It brought together a number of arts disciplines - there were poetry,music , photos and drama - all focusing on war . It was terribly up market. And I had a fabulous response to my own poem, "Telegram". Oh, and of course, there was some wine. Always welcome !

Sunday proved to be just as enjoyable as, after Mass in the morning where it was my turn to read, Peter and I met the grandchildren and mum and dad on the beach in Tankerton. Such a pleasure to paddle whilst holding the hand of little Lily-Mae, soft and trusting. Only problem was, she wanted  to go further and further out into the great blueness. Needless to say I got a wee bit wet. We left them drinking in the sun and went home to get dinner before our next adventure.

Canterbury- the Jolly Sailor: 
What a delicious evening we had with lots of poets.
And , again, I got to read my war poem. It's so topical at the moment so I am making the most of it.

If any of you read and think you like to comment, please feel free.
It would be great to get into discussion .

OK, enough waffling, back to writing.

Didn't go to poetry workshop today. There just didn't seem to be enough time. But then I was greatly cheered when  a magazine asked if they can print my comment and will I send them my address so they can send me money, if I don't mind. Well, I don't mind at all. So, this time I was told the issue number too, which is good as I don't normally get to see them, not buying the magazines.
I would probably have to spend £15 a week if I was to buy all that I post to.
Anyway, it is a little bit of a lift when they take them.
Off now to practice reciting my poetry for tomorrow night.

Reading to children

This was the question posed by People's Friend this morning:

A new survey has named "Snow White" as the nation's favourite fairytale, and the Evil Queen as the scariest fairytale character. Just as scary, in our opinion, is the finding that two thirds of parents don't read to their children every night! Do you think it's important to read stories to children? And what's your favourite fairytale?

And of course I answered. I mean, I feel really strongly about the reading to children thing.
And I can't believe that so many parents don't read to their children. 

 My answer:

The importance of reading to children can't be emphasised enough for me. It is so much more than reading children stories. The time spent in a comfortable embrace with a parent, the tone of voice, the language repeated and then learned, the issues discussed afterwards. Reading to children is an invaluable part of their development. My own children, adults and parents now themselves still love me reading to them, especially poetry. We have some family favourites, one of which is the May Queen, by Tennyson. Yes, I would say to mums, one of the best things you can do is to read stories to your children. My boys still love all Michael Morpurgo's books, especially Kensuki's Kingdom.

I do have some happy memories of enjoying books together when all my children were growing up. I used to look forward to it immensely. I never just kept it for night time. I could be persuaded to read to them at any time of day. Some days when there was no school and we were into a story we would spend the whole day, with limited refreshment breaks, living in another world together.  

Answering this question has made me realise how much I miss that time. It was such fun and so therapeutic. 

I do have the grandchildren to read to now, but it's not quite the same. 

It is a parent and child bonding thing I think. 

Right, saying goodbye . Going to try and write a poem. Let you know how that goes next time.