good lord, I think I have a 'Susan'.....

my bath robe sleeves are folded up half way

toilet tissue stocks dangerously low

tweezers on the night stand

lottery tickets on my notice board

freezer full of amazing baked goodies

copious Tupperware

rice steamers/dutch ovens

toiletries, face cloths...

 

and a step stool

 

thank you!

woodbines in the kitchen

(Nan outside Coombe Avenue, Ensbury Park c1960.)

I prop my bike against the wall of a red brick house in Ensbury Park and mount the single concrete step to the side door. Saturday morning at Nan and Granddad’s has quickly become something of an institution now that I’m allowed to ride on the road. It’s 1969 and I’m twelve.

 

Without knocking, I twist the wobbly door handle and step straight into the kitchen. “Hi Nan. Hi Granddad.”

Nan beams broadly. She is standing at the sink shaving Granddad who has a hand towel wrapped under his chin like a child’s bib. He grins sheepishly, inclining his head in my general direction. One of his cheeks is white with soap. Nan places the razor on the draining board and wipes her palms down her apron.

“Cuppa tea, Paul?” Her soft Irish brogue is like singing.

“Please,” I say and perch on a plain wooden chair squeezed between the back door and the sink. Nan turns, almost on the spot, produces a cup, balances a small strainer on it and pours from a pot whose spout peeps out of a knitted cosy. Her woollen sleeves are frayed at the cuffs. She adds a splash of milk and stirs. “There,” she says gently, handing me the dark orange brew.

Granddad stands patiently, hands by his sides and fingers trembling ever so slightly. He is stripped to his vest, and his braces hang to his knees in loops. Nan picks up the razor and resumes shaving him. There are little rasps then she dips the razor in the sink and shakes it underwater. “Chin up, George.” She puts her fingers under his chin and tilts his head back, a little firmly, and starts scraping at his neck. “Nearly done,” she nods at me and gives that barely audible gasp, that short intake of breath with which she emphasises her points. I smile and sit waiting for this ritual to finish.

The kitchen is perhaps nine feet by seven and contains most of their needs: a gas stove, running water, a tiny Formica table, three unmatched chairs, an ancient radio and a window to the garden. In addition to the side door, there are two internal doors. One leads to the hall, the other to a small larder with shelves of tinned food. My grandparents spend much of their time here. The house is unheated but the chill is taken off this small space by body heat and the low flame which burns constantly from one ring of the gas stove. There is a stale atmosphere which I am used to by now, cigarettes, damp towels, unwashed clothes, potatoes and cabbage, the aroma of the elderly.

I hear a squeak as Nan turns the tap and rinses the sink. She pulls Granddad’s bib off, blots his cheeks and helps him into his shirt. Granddad puts his arms into his braces, turns and shuffles towards his chair. It is barely four feet away but he takes several tiny steps, his slippers scuffing the lino. He sits and sweeps the table with his hand, locating his Woodbines. I watch fascinated as he pulls one from the pack and places it between his lips. He holds a little silver lighter a few inches from his face and flicks it until he can feel its warmth then guides the unfiltered cigarette to the flame.

“Want one, May?” His voice carries a trace of his South London roots. He extends the pack into the room and she leans forward to help herself. Nan fires up too and soon the room is wreathed in rich, blue smoke. I observe their techniques noting that Granddad pinches his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, stroking off the ash with his pinky whereas Nan brings her whole hand to her face, fingers spread wide with the cigarette lodged at the base of the first and second finger. I tell them about school, about my brother and sister and my cousins. Nan is enthusiastic and Granddad smiles wistfully.

Now Nan stands and cuts fat slices of bread. She re-lights a spent match off the gas ring and opens the grill door on the stove. At the turn of a knob the jets hiss and she reaches in with the match. There is a little 'woof' sound and soon the smell of toasting bread and a lingering scent of gas join the fug. She settles back and switches on the ‘wireless’, a huge valve radio, all Bakelite and twill. There is a pause while the valves heat up then we hear the clipped tones of a BBC newsreader. He is telling the nation about the latest bombing targets of the I.R.A. Nan gasps quietly and shakes her head. “Oh, Paul... Northern Ireland.” It is what she always says, and it summarises Nan’s despair over her homeland without need for embellishment.

From time to time Nan pulls out the grill pan to check progress. I am hungry by the time she smothers the hot toast with butter and we all munch as we listen. The grim news bulletin gives way to the galloping theme music of ‘The Archers’ and for a few minutes we listen to the goings-on of a fictional farming family.

Nan switches the radio off and folds a newspaper to the racing page. She fishes a magnifying lens from her apron pocket, hovers it over the small print and begins to read aloud. The recitation of runners and riders is familiar and strangely comforting – the horse, the jockey, the trainer, the form in recent outings. Granddad gazes into space and listens to the litany for minutes on end, unaware of the blood spots on his shirt collar. He never needs a repetition and with the information in his head he stands, opens the door to the hall and inches to the telephone trailing his hand on the wall. We hear the rotary dial then he speaks slowly and clearly to the bookmaker.

Granddad scuffs back along the hall and soon he is back in his seat feeling for his Woodbines.

Nothing is rushed here. Life is slow.

flying the great divide

Roughly three thousand miles separate Canada from England and sometimes the distance makes itself felt more than others. Like when my father died last month or when my grandson Oscar was born. You either organise expensive flights or make do with the phone and emails.

This year I flew to England in January to spend three weeks visiting my sons and managed to see various relatives and friends too. I lodged with my dad which turned out to have been a good thing. When I flew back to Canada I was as sure as you can be that I wouldn’t be returning to England for at least a couple of years.

Dad’s death in September meant I dropped everything and flew home for his funeral, a sad affair but an unexpected opportunity to see family again.

My grown up sons are eager to meet their little Canadian half sisters and although I could have taken us all in September, the occasion and the lack of available time prevented it.

To put matters right I have just booked tickets for the four of us to fly to England for the month of December! Long-haul flights will be a struggle with Maisie at three and a half and Kathleen still under two but the timing is reasonable. Kathleen goes for (almost) free as she is not yet two and dad’s bungalow stands empty until it is sold, so we can stay there . Michelle’s current nursing course will be over and she has sufficient holidays left to cover the period we are away.

As usual I will try to visit as many people as possible in the four weeks we are there but this time everyone will be meeting the girls for the first time and some of them will be meeting Michelle for the first time. There’s a lot to organise and plenty to plan for. I feel a list coming on!

end of an era

What is supposed to happen when your father dies? There’s no definitive rule and I’m not given to public displays of emotion and not very much even to private ones, for that matter. Letting things simmer away inside is my way. I received the sad news earlier this month and clicked into action mode, organising flights to England and a hire car from Heathrow.

This news was deeply sad and quite unexpected, despite dad’s steadily declining health over recent years. His sudden departure was remarkably similar in speed to my mum’s a decade ago, though different in cause. After fracturing his hip in a fall at home dad slipped away over a two week period. There was a brief and encouraging rally after a few days but the outcome is so often grim for a hip fracture in the elderly and dad‘s weak kidneys and lungs succumbed to the effects of the trauma.

I flew home to visit last January and I am very thankful I did. I spent three weeks lodging with dad and although I was out most days visiting relatives, friends and my two adult sons, I still spent a good deal of time with him. He was more introspective than ever, more detached from reality and the modern world, more confused by technology yet he was still dad – not the dad of old, with sharp intellect, resolve and reliable memory but still dad, just about.

It’s ghastly the way time slowly robs us of our personality as we age. It’s as if we develop a new personality fit for each stage of life but the one we spend our final months with is a far cry from the one of our heyday.

Perhaps it’s that steady but inexorable shift, that winding down, which prepares those who are about to be left behind. I had watched dad’s decline from afar and sometimes up close so when the end came I was not devastated but able to appreciate the relative lack of suffering, the degree of dignity dad experienced up to the end. That’s not to say the scene my brother and sister witnessed over the final hours was not distressing, it was but dad was spared perhaps years of miserable institutional living. A stubbornly independent soul, he would not have taken well to living in a nursing home, nor to the daily routine of kidney dialysis.

The funeral service and requiem mass was very well-attended. Many old friends, cousins, nephews and nieces, grandchildren, in-laws and former work colleagues were there as well as his surviving brother and three children. A few days earlier I had composed a eulogy which I was invited to read aloud during the service. It was a little history of dad’s life and times, his achievements, his likes and dislikes and little details those who knew him would remember. I enjoyed giving it and I’m glad I did.

In no time at all I was aboard a Boeing 767 bound for Toronto then on to Charlottetown and being greeted my wife and daughters. Deaths remind us of our own mortality and the shocking brevity of life. They allow us an opportunity to celebrate the life of another in ways we seldom do in their lifetime.

Take nothing for granted.

then and now

In 1986 someone, I think it was my sister, pointed a camera at me during a family reunion. I remember grabbing my son Mike and holding him upside down by his legs in a show for the camera. Mike squealed and laughed a lot which is why heads turned to watch us. His brother Matt is sitting on his mum's knee smiling. The result was a snap I still enjoy looking at.

Yesterday, nearly a quarter of a century later, I decided to try and recreate that shot with my new daughters. Kathleen is a less willing participant, being one who hangs on for dear life whenever I lift her off the ground. Nonetheless she looks the part and even her sister Maisie is looking toward the camera.

orwell corner historic village

We have had several nice outings this summer and I'll be blogging about more of them soon. I'll start today with our visit to Orwell Corner Historic Village. This is a tiny community preserved as it stood a hundred years ago. The cottages and houses have gone now but the church, hall, school, shop, barns and forge still remain. There were display cases in the village hall housing period pieces like the dental equipment pictured above. There are more photos here.

Everything has been kept just as it was when it was a bustling rural community. The highlights for me were the school and particularly the shop. A huge wood stove dominates the single classroom and a print of Queen Victoria glares down from above the blackboard, stark reminders of how frosty the lessons would have been. The shop is stocked with original items from a century ago and equipped with ancient scales and cash register.

A creaky stair leads above the shop to a tailor's loft complete with looms, spinning wheels and dummies. The shopkeeper was dressed in Victorian clothes and provided a wealth of information about the village and its way of life.

There was just about enough to interest MJ. She enjoyed the horses and pigs but preferred chasing the ducks around the farmyard. The place was almost deserted despite it being mid August and the height of the Island's tourist season. It was rather nice having the place virtually to ourselves.

Kathleen Rose

Kathleen Rose joined the world on 6th Feb 2010 weighing in at 7lb 11oz. She's a slight, dainty little baby and seems extremely small compared with her sister. I can't really say yet which of us she resembles but I did catch a glimpse of my paternal grandfather.

She has a calm demeanour and a gentle little cry, all very different from Maisie. We were prepared for Maisie to explode with anger at Kathleen's appearance but she has accepted the new baby's presence with surprising grace. In fact she seems slightly nervous of her, as if aware of her fragility.

I haven't made a secret of hoping for a boy but I am very happy indeed with Kathleen! She's a miniature gem.

Maisie Jane

Born in the 8th minute of the 4th pm hour of the 8th day of the 4th month of the 8th year of the millenium. An auspicious date to step into this world. She might live a full century and will see incredible things. At fifty years my new daughter's senior, I hope I get to see some of them with her. We are here too.

Two boys and several girls

Our eldest son used to smile and bounce and chuckle while his dad was crashed out.

The baby above left home today. He has moved into a rented bungalow with his fiancée. All day they ferried possessions in boxes, peeling his life away from here. From the sidelines we watched as he sliced off chunks of his existence and put them in his car.

These two make a great pair and we wish them happiness. But events like this are tinged with sadness because they represent the end of a long period of dependence and life as a family. They will need to work out their way of living together and coping with the trials life brings. Over time they will uncover the people they really are.

Buying a first house is now almost impossible, the cheapest one-bedroom apartment here will cost over $250,000. Just as well I bought our current house ages ago, prices have outstripped incomes by a mile. Twenty five years ago I borrowed three times my annual salary, now that factor would have to be fifteen times! Almost unbelievable isn’t it? So today the young people rent while they wait for their inheritance.

The new breakaway family already has a head start, family and friends have generously chipped in, helping with all the necessary furniture, appliances and utensils. It’s up to the youngsters now to make a home of it.

I watched him grow from defenceless baby to 6 foot 3” adult in twenty three rapid years, then he’s gone. But I should not complain, I did just the same. I look forward to seeing my boy put into practice the skills he learned observing his mum and me. Cheer up though, I am sure we will see them often. They are only three miles away after all! This weekend it’s our twenty seventh wedding anniversary so we all meet up again Sunday for a meal out. (There is a saying about good behaviour shortening a life sentence. Maybe it illustrates why I haven’t been let out yet).

As for our younger son, he knows he’s well off at home so we still have his outrageous antics for entertainment. He is a funny, exciting, enthusiastic and optimistic guy. Most evenings a different car pulls up full of giggling young women to whisk him away to God knows where but he always comes home. The girls love his company and he has an army of great friends. He lives a full, fast life and tells us he loves us. He reminds me a lot of me when I was young. I’d rather he didn’t leave home yet, I’m not ready for that silence.

“Who do girls like, they’re boys.
Always should be someone you really love.”
Blur - Girls and Boys

Vegetarian Dilemma

Three posts in one day! What the hell's going on? Well I think I needed to do something to lift me from the dreadful low I've been suffering.

We are just about to leave the idyll that is home. Going out for a meal with my eldest son and his future inlaws.

They are nice people so I have been upstairs to hunt out my happy face. Honestly I would rather sit in front of the TV tonight and forget real life. Still one has to make an effort at civility and so I will. The rhododendron in my garden is from last year but I expect the blossom to return in the next few weeks.

Hark, I hear the throb of a customised Rover outside so that will be my son to pick us up. I hope the menu has something inspiring for a vegetarian. See you.

No lyrics today, I can't think of any.

An engagement to celebrate

Eldest son M proposed to his girlfriend G on Valentine's day. I think he must be an incurable romantic though I can't imagine where he get's that from! G is grinning from ear to ear and showing off her ring. Tonight six of us are out for a meal to celebrate.

Where did all that time go? It seems like only yesterday he was learning to walk and now he's ready to fly. Heck I'm getting all misty eyed but it is nice to have good news for a change.

Poverty in the 1970s

Memories of my father's father who was blind from childhood.

Firelighters best exemplify my Grandparents’ impecunious life though they relied on many different ways of stretching the pounds. In his world of perpetual darkness, Granddad prepared firelighters by the hundred all year round from piles of old Daily Telegraphs. He opened a full sheet and starting at one corner, rolled diagonally until he had a long thin tube. This he flattened into a strap, which he folded at the centre to make a “V”. Then he folded the strap repeatedly like a plait, finally tucking the ends in firmly.

As he worked an unfiltered Woodbine bobbed between his lips. He reached out and gently felt for both ends of the paper strap to ensure equal length was maintained. Boxes of these tight, concertina-like blocks lined the draughty hallway. They lessened reliance on more costly kindling wood. I mastered this skill too and in time produced work that met with approval. During the long winter months an open fire burned in the sitting room grate, kindled of course by the paper firelighters.

Excerpt from Memoirs Chapter 3 - 1969-1975“, In Verbo Tuo”