Another birthday

It was Barry’s birthday on Monday and the day passed quietly. In the main, we have gone beyond the stage of buying gifts for each other. It is almost impossible to find something he hasn’t already got, and if he hasn’t got it, he has no interest in acquiring it.

Occasionally, I give him a bottle of fine brandy or port, but he rarely drinks, so the bottles last for a long time. I can find books to interest him, the one pictured here being an example. It is a book to dip into, I think, and we shall both enjoy it.

Otherwise, we each decide if there’s something we would like, we discuss it, it is agreed, and we buy it. It is not the most exciting way to bestow gifts, but it pleases us. Our joy in giving is mainly confined to seeking out presents for the youngest members of our family. There are currently seven under twelve years of age, with a new one expected in March.

Children and grandchildren called and sent messages to wish him a happy birthday. Charlie and Jack sang to him, which was sweet, and Gillian also serenaded him.

He had decided that a(nother) cordless electric screwdriver was something he would really like, and after much research - there’s always detailed research! – he selected one that satisfied his exacting requirements. Cordless electric secateurs were also on his wish list. They have arrived and have already been put to good use and declared excellent, relieving the hands of much hard work. An extension pole arrived today so that the many trees and bushes we have rapturously planted in the decades we have lived here can now be pruned and shaped and otherwise made good.

All these things are rechargeable!

I think the thing that pleased him most, though, was the appointment that was made, of which more anon.

                        Look at those lovely noses! I love dogs' noses.

Children!

Children!

Christmas children

 

Christmas children

                        A Christmas three-year-old with matching doll

Nothing can compare to the delight in a small child’s face when faced with the joys of Christmas. All is magical and wondrous, and their eyes grow rounder and brighter as each new glory unfolds before them.

They retain that innocence throughout their pre-school and Infant school years, from the ages of two until seven. As they lisp their way through whichever version of a Christmas story they are telling in their concert,  wise adult eyes grow moist. Even their teachers, who have guided and drilled them through their words and songs, often find themselves unexpectedly moved by the unworldliness of small humans who have not lived on this earth for long.

Nonetheless, there are moments of unforeseen hilarity. Mary, struggling up a slope, slides backwards, and Joseph gives her a hearty shove. The Three Kings/Wise Men, always misplaced in the Nativity, fling their gifts at the little family with a grunted blessing and hurry away to the back of the stage. The shepherds try to herd their sheep, who are in some cases much bigger than them, and the donkey’s headdress keeps slipping over his eyes. The cattle have got colds and keep wiping their noses and Mary is trying to look like a caring little mother while unceremoniously thumping the baby (doll) into the crib. The Angel Gabriel appears amidst a host of angels and one of the angels has an enormous, homemade pair of ungainly wings which threaten to make her overbalance, if they haven’t already put out a smaller child’s eyes.

The words of the carols are sometimes not explained, so children happily sing nonsense, like ‘highly flavoured lady,’ and ‘stay by my side until morning is night,’ and ‘poor as I yam,’ that last one heard even among recordings of the exalted King’s College choir.

Almost without fail, the children will search the audience for their parent or grandparent or aunt or big brother, and will wave to them, even though they have been told repeatedly not to. There is usually at least one child who hasn’t got a family member attending, and it’s so sad to see their distress growing as their lips tremble and tears spring to their eyes.

Among the very youngest children, there will often be one or two who will be overcome by the occasion and burst into tears or wet themselves – sometimes both at the same time – or simply refuse to go onto the stage with the rest of the ‘cast.’ The solemnity of the occasion will be lost on many, who will proceed to chat, pinch, adjust their neighbour’s costume and ignore all warning glares from supervising adults.

Some children sing with gusto. The following clip is one I have shared before which never fails to make me laugh. The older children can be seen trying valiantly to maintain the ‘glory’ of the moment, while the younger ones are torn between admiration and astonishment.

By the time term ends, the children will have ‘done’ Christmas multiple times and their excitement will know no bounds. Overtired, over-stimulated, they are prey to all the bugs around and frequently fall victim to coughs, colds, sore throats, diarrhoea and vomiting and will be in no fit state to enjoy the actual festival.

All too soon, the greatly anticipated ‘most wonderful time of the year,’ as the song informs us, is over. New Year celebrations are understated, unless you’re a Scot enjoying Hogmanay, and at the very beginning of January, the spring term starts.

The small, exhausted children, having had very little time to appreciate their new toys, or catch up on their sleep, are chivvied back to school, where they are reacquainted with their equally tired teachers, and life continues. The term of generously shared illnesses proceeds apace, worried parents telling each other that it’s important for their offspring to undergo these ailments in order to build their immune systems, and so they do.

The wheel of the year turns, and all too soon, Easter eggs and rabbits and other chocolatey delights cram the shelves of shops, at just the right height to attract children. Amidst all this, at school, the children learn about ‘Cheesus’ and try to absorb the meaning of new life. After all, they are still very new themselves.

The North wind doth blow . . .

 

The North wind doth blow . . .

 . . . except that it dothn’t. True, the wind was ‘from the North’ at one mile per hour or something ridiculous. That was fine by me. It was quite cold enough without it being shunted along at speed, and I was indoors, for goodness’ sake. The house isn’t hermetically sealed but most of the draughts have been denied access.

. . . and we shall have snow

Well, yes, we have had snow, not enough to write home about, but snow nonetheless. It came down in big, soft flakes, quite impressively, for a while. I noticed from my Reolink camera that it was settling abjectly and rather sulkily on the cars on the drive, as though it would rather be somewhere else.

 . . . and what will the robin do then, poor thing?

He’ll sit in a barn

To keep himself warm . . .

. . . well, he would, if he could find one that hasn’t been snapped up and converted at vast expense to make a desirable property for a human, but if he manages to find a vacant barn being used for its original purpose . . .

He’ll sit in a barn

To keep himself warm

 And hide his head under his wing, poor thing.

There are four more verses to this rhyme. The second one asks,

And what will the swallow do then, poor thing?

Oh, do you not know

That he’s off long ago,

To a country where he will find spring, poor thing.

The third and fourth verses speak of the dormouse and honey bee, both of which hibernate until the spring, and the final verse refers to children.

When lessons are done

They will skip, jump and run,

Until they have made themselves warm, poor things.

Much is made of the joy to be had in the snow – tobogganing, building snowmen, snowball fights, making snow angels. All such pursuits are great fun, but the cold! Who can forget the frozen fingers and the agony of warmth returning to icy hands and feet, the face flayed by bitter wind, nose pinched and cold, drawing arctic breath into aching lungs?

Snow is lovely, in small amounts, for a short while, for those who do not have to travel.

Today the wind is from the East-North-East at 4 miles per hour. The sun is shining fitfully and blue tits are busy in the garden.

Is there a poem that starts, ‘The East-North-East wind doth blow’?

A Life full of Animals - the final part

 

A Life full of Animals – the final part

I cannot leave this theme without paying tribute to the other animals in my life, the two-legged variety. I have chosen to use photographs of them as little beings, when they begin to resemble human beings, not the very smallest, newborn ones, when only the most besotted and closely-related  can truly say, 'Oh, how beautiful' and sound as though they mean it!

Naturally, my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren were stunning from the moment they were born, but they were the exception.

First. always and forever, is my husband. Here he is, at three years old, in India, where he lived for three years, He came back to the UK on a troop ship when he was six, better able to converse in Urdu than English. 

I debated whether I should include a photograph of myself, but I am another animal in my life. As the youngest of three, the novelty had rather worn off for my parents, so there aren't many snaps of me. However, here I am at the Festival of Britain in 1951, aged seven. I'm the one sitting on the well-fed pony.

Gillian appears next. A blue-eyed, corn-gold blonde, after the Cooke fashion, she looked nothing like me, a hazel-brown-eyed brunette, and for a while I wondered if I had actually had anything to do with her as everybody remarked on how much she looked like Barry. She grew up to be a very pretty girl, but not particularly tall (the Cooke influence) and is now a loving mother to two blonde blue-eyed daughters and a brown-haired blue-eyed son, and a grandmother to 4, soon to be 5, all with blue eyes and blonde hair.

 

                                                            Gardening

So delighted were we with Gillian that we embarked on a second child and Gareth was born twenty months later. Some people marvelled that a brown-eyed boy should be born to a blue-eyed father. Once again, where was I in the equation? Gareth grew into a handsome strong young man of 6’3” (the Mayne genes asserting themselves here) and is now a devoted father to three, two sons taller than him and a beautiful daughter, taller than her mother. All of them have wonderful deep brown eyes, and very dark brown hair.

 

                                                            Purposeful

Third in line came Susannah, a striking green-eyed ash blonde. Like her brother, she grew tall and is a loving mother to a blue-eyed dark blond boy.

 
Dreaming

After a nine-year delay, when we had forgotten what caused it, Bethan was born, a quietly beautiful brown-eyed blonde. She has two dark-eyed brown-haired sons.

 

                                                           Hobby horse

Then we move onto the second generation. 

Marnie, Gillian’s eldest

                                                          Birthday cake  

Her sister, Shakira (Kiri)

                                                        In the garden

Their brother, Callum

 
On holiday

Elliot, Gareth’s eldest child

 
Full of mischief

His sister, Eve

                                                            Curious

Their brother, Louis

                                       
                                                            At the helm

Susannah’s son, Frankie

                                                             Reading

Bethan’s elder son, Charlie

 
On the'phone

His younger brother, Jack 

A life on the ocean wave

Then comes the beginning of the third generation.

 Isla, Marnie’s elder child

                                                          Aye,aye, Cap'n

Fergus, her younger brother

                                                        Steering a course

Then there are  Shakira’s daughter and son, Ariella and Luca, but we have no individual photographs of them.

Finally, for the moment, there is Callum's daughter, Melia, still incubating and due to join the world in March . . .  and there will be others in the future, no doubt. 

What sort of world will these little people grow up into? Each generation faces problems which seem insurmountable but thus far, we have overcome them or adapted to them. Perhaps there is a kernel of truth in the saw, 'Where there's life there's hope.'

I see the formatting has gone awry in parts. It's a good thing I'm not possessed of the demons that demand perfection.

Talking, again

Talking to myself, again . . .

I have spent large chunks of time with small and larger children, my own and my own’s own and my own’s owns’ own. A constant barrage of ‘Why?’ and ‘No’ from earliest toddlerdom is followed by years of ‘How do you spell . . . ?’ and ‘What does . . . mean?’ and Where’s . . . ?’ interspersed with my homilies on subjects ranging from the inadvisability of wearing four-inch heels and bare legs in the middle of a cold snap to the wisdom or otherwise of sailing in a Force 9 gale.

There have always been animals around as well, mingling with children of various ages and sizes so of course they must be included in conversations. I reassure the birds as I set out their food and ask the fish if all is well in their watery world. There used to be frogs but they have disappeared, possibly having fallen prey to the rats, which in turn fell prey to Barry’s air rifle and, latterly, the cats. However, we still have newts, though we don’t often see them. The plants and trees are given encouragement and I marvel at the bees and congratulate them on their pollen-collecting skills. I even talk to spiders to ask them to please keep their distance. The dogs and cats are always with us and both of us talk to them all the time, probably more than we talk to each other.

There is little wonder then that I talk all the time.

Our children are grown and flown and when they visit everyone talks at once and no-one listens. The dogs and cats listen intently until they have been fed, watered or exercised, then they sleep. I know Barry hears me but often doesn’t listen (or register) for he inhabits another planet entirely so usually my words fall on deaf ears, or at least ears that are selectively deaf.

I can never understand people who say, ‘I didn’t know I’d lost my voice because I hadn’t seen anyone to talk to.’ I would know instantly and then ask myself why I was whispering.

Sadly, I don’t talk now, so much as mutter, as I complain about whatever or whoever has upset me. I am becoming – am already – a GOW. When did the muttering take over from the talking? I can’t put a precise date on it though it may have coincided with Barry retiring from work and spending more time at home. He always has at least three projects on the go at any one time and each activity requires a different set of tools/instruments which must be left out, ‘So I know where they are for the next time I need them.’ The ‘next time’ may be some days, or even weeks, away and meantime the stuff remains in place to gather dust and join the animals in the obstacle course that is ever-present, ever-shifting in my home.

Talking to myself

Talking to myself

In a bid to exercise what’s left of my grey cells I am revising some old posts. Here is a reworked version of something I wrote 11 years ago, ‘Talking to myself’.

Until I retired, I spent a good deal of my life talking to myself. Occasionally I disguised it as teaching. Usually, I taught older children, who had already learnt to conform to the conventions of school life (translation: ‘do as they were told’) but sometimes I was called on to work with younger children.

The most testing times were when I was with the youngest children, then called ‘Nursery’, now known as ‘Pre-school’. It could seem that the little children sitting at my feet were drinking in every word when what they were really doing was wondering who made the cracks in the ceiling, or why my hair looked young when the lines on my face clearly indicated that I was extremely old, just like their mums or, worse yet, their grandmothers.  Sometimes a small child would touch the polished surface of my shoe to see if it really was shiny or just wet. Once in a while an infant would whisper shyly, ‘I like your blouse’ or even, touchingly, ‘I like you’.

Children can be devastatingly honest when young and unhampered by conformity. One day a little girl of about 4 put up her hand to indicate that she wished to speak and when acknowledged, said politely, ‘Excuse me, I don’t like you.’ I cannot remember my response - I may have said something like, ‘Oh, that’s a shame, because I like you.’ Cringe-worthy, I know.

Often actions spoke more piercingly than words. Couching instructions in the form of requests – ‘Would you like to . . . ?’ could be answered by the child looking straight through me or shaking his head vigorously or turning his back and walking away. If the instruction/request involved three-dimensional items to be sorted, built, placed, the answer could be an eloquent gesture sweeping the items to the floor, or, if already on the floor, far and wide across the room. Nothing could be plainer – the child did not want to cooperate. If the instruction/request was repeated a little more firmly there were several possible outcomes:-

1: the child acquiesced and did as he was told asked. Result!

2: the child burst into noisy sobs and demanded her mummy.

3: the child repeated ‘NO’ with increasing vehemence until my ear drums were ringing, he had turned purple with rage and ended up having a full-blown tantrum, maybe even succeeding in making himself sick.

3: the child threw the items at the nearest adult (me) and possibly aimed a kick at my shins.

4: the child wet herself, indicating at the same time, by the volume of the flow, that she had not emptied her bladder since the night before.

5: the child soiled himself, indicating at the same time that he had consumed far too much fruit the previous day.

Any of these outcomes could happen very quickly but fortunately not often, though sometimes coinciding with a prospective parent/visitor being shown round ‘our family-friendly school.’

None of them was quite what was intended at the beginning of the ‘lesson’. As every parent knows, young children can be exhausting. Twenty or thirty of the same age can be a small but intimidating army.

I believed then, and still maintain, that the hardworking teachers of very young children deserve more generous pay than their colleagues at the other end of the age range, when students attend lessons (now known as lectures) voluntarily, can concentrate for more than 5 minutes, (all right, that’s debateable) are usually articulate and toilet-trained, can dress themselves and use a handkerchief and know that writing on walls is unacceptable. Pause here, while I consider this last statement – okay, they know it’s unacceptable but do it anyway, arguing the right to free expression.   

Delores at ‘Mumblings’ challenged us with a writing prompt. She said, 

Feel like having some fun with a writing prompt?
How many ways can you work the word 'sliver' into a sentence?
Maybe someone will write a poem.

This got me thinking so thank you for that, Delores. I need a kick-start in the mornings – or maybe just a kick.

Well, I just had to dish up some doggerel . . .

A sliver of liver

Makes small children shiver

When struggling to swallow

The unswallowable.

And all of a dither

Their tears start to slither,

Unstoppable river -

It’s horrible.

They gaze at the giver,

A look that would wither

The hardest of hearts -

Ineffable.

‘Just a sliver of liver,

To make you grow strong’,

The adult’s persuasion -

Implacable.

The sliver grows bigger,

And drier and harder,

It can’t be choked down –

Unspeakable.

If all children ate

The things that they ‘should’

They’d grow into giants –

Implausible.

(That got much darker than I intended!)

Why not meander over to 'Mumblings' and see what else is on offer?

Of dogs and children . . .

There’s nothing preferential in the order of subjects in the title – it just trips off the tongue better that way.

You may have registered my absence from the blog world, apart from a few comments here and there. I have taken up bed and breakfast duties - at least that’s what it has felt like for a few days.

It’s half-term in UK, a time when teachers sigh wearily with relief at the thought of a few days away from the demands of their students. The schools close for a week and the streets and shops are thronged with happy children and their sometimes fraught parents.

Gareth was scheduled to go to New York on business and as the trip fell in half-term Nina seized the opportunity to accompany him and visit friends in the city. Accordingly they asked if their children might come and stay with us for a few days. Naturally, we were delighted and so I drove to Buckinghamshire to collect them last Thursday. The car was filled with excited chatter as we returned to Berkshire, a lot of it being speculation about how much Bertie would have grown since they last saw him.

The dogs, Gus in particular, were delighted to see the children and made a big fuss of them. In their turn they greeted the dogs and were amazed at Bertie’s size.

On Friday, Eve and I went to the garden centre where she chose violas and cyclamens for our tubs. We intended to plant them but just didn’t find the time. Elliot and I went to the bottle bank to deposit glass bottles and jars.

In the evening Gillian and her children arrived. Paul was still working on their central heating – it’s an intricate affair with what seems like miles of copper pipes, comprising a solid fuel burner with a back boiler to provide hot water, heated radiators and under floor heating in their conservatory. It’s complicated and time-consuming simply because Paul can only work on it when he’s finished his day job working on other people’s replacement kitchens, bathrooms, boilers. It’s a busman’s holiday for him, poor man!

The cousins were very happy to see each other. The last time they were all together was in August when we went camping.  The boys slept together and Kiri and Eve shared a bed. Marnie found their giggling too much and invaded Gillian’s bed.

The next three days passed in a blur of children of varying shapes and sizes and dogs of different ages with Winston alternately cuddled by young humans or chased by puppies. The children swam in the pool – sometimes twice a day - and we walked in the forest each day. 

That was always a protracted affair with several people and dogs but the weather was beautiful, with warm sun and clear skies.

On Sunday evening we had a birthday supper for Marnie as it was to be her eighteenth birthday on Tuesday and she was going home on Monday. Despite Gillian’s best endeavours to leave early it was evening by the time they set off, having walked and swum and eaten together once more. We gave Marnie her present – a satnav to ensure she need never get lost in her car - and she used it in tandem with Gillian’s device on their journey back to Dorset.

After Gillian and her family had left, the house felt strangely quiet, although there were still two adults, three children, three dogs, one puppy and a cat. The dogs felt it, too. Bertie seemed quite bereft, having spent all his time with Buster, even sleeping with him at night in the puppy pen in our room. He made up for it by chasing Winston even more exuberantly than ever. Gus had missed playing with Bertie who had been completely absorbed in frolicking with Buster, so he was happy to have his playmate back.

On Tuesday, we walked to the village and played ‘guide dogs’ on the way. This game involves one person pretending to be blind and being guided by the others. I was amazed by the children’s wholehearted participation.  Louis was the first to play blind, and he shut his eyes and trusted his safety completely to his siblings. Elliot and Eve were the same in their turn.

After lunch the children and I took the dogs out. We left Bertie at home as he was very tired after the weekend’s exertions. The sun was shining in a blue sky when we began our afternoon walk but soon the heavens opened and we felt the full force of Nature’s power shower. Eve and Louis had hoods on their tops so were partially protected. Elliot and I had no head covering and were soon drenched. Fortunately there was no wind or we would have been chilled very quickly. We all had hot showers and a change of clothes when we got home.

The children knew that Nina was due to land on Wednesday and were up and packed very early in the morning. In the way that children approach these things they had forgotten about the clothes I had washed! They were so pleased to see their mum again and to be back in their own surroundings. Nina had had a wonderful time catching up with old friends but she had missed her children just as they had missed her. I know they enjoyed staying with us and spending a lot of time with the animals and we loved having them but there really is no place like home. 

Gareth flies into UK on the 'red eye' on Saturday and I know he will be relieved to be home once more.

I had forgotten just how much time is spent preparing food, clearing up after meals, washing, tidying, overseeing children. To think I used to do it automatically and go out to work full-time! Now my daughter and daughter-in-law execute the same tasks without even thinking about them. 

So now it’s just Barry and me and the animals again. Our house never feels completely empty but it was lovely to have young ones with us again for a while. Children fill a home in a way that no other beings can J 

Saying grace in a restaurant

I received this in an email from my niece and thought it worth publishing. If you’ve seen it before I hope you’ll enjoy it againJ Whether or not it’s true I have no idea!

Last week, I took my grandchildren to a restaurant. 

My six-year-old grandson asked if he could say grace. 

As we bowed our heads he said, "God is good, God is great. Thank you for the food, and I would even thank you more if Nana gets us ice cream for dessert. And liberty and justice for all! Amen!" 

Along with the laughter from the other customers nearby, I heard a woman remark, "That's what's wrong with this country. Kids today don't even know how to pray. Asking God for ice cream! Why, I never!" 

Hearing this, my grandson burst into tears and asked me, "Did I do it wrong? Is God mad at me?" 

As I held him and assured him that he had done a terrific job, and God was certainly not mad at him, an elderly gentleman approached the table. 

He winked at my grandson and said, "I happen to know that God thought that was a great prayer." 

"Really?" my grand-son asked. 

"Cross my heart," the man replied. 

Then, in a theatrical whisper, he added (indicating the woman whose remark had started this whole thing), "Too bad she never asks God for ice cream. A little ice cream is good for the soul sometimes." 

Naturally, I bought my grandchildren ice cream at the end of the meal. My grand-son stared at his for a moment, and then did something I will remember the rest of my life. 

He picked up his sundae and, without a word, walked over and placed it in front of the woman. With a big smile he told her, "Here, this is for you. Ice cream is good for the soul sometimes; and my soul is good already."

Poetry Jam Swim, swam, swum

 Swim, swam, swum

A child’s verse might read like this;

‘We swim and then we swam,

And we all swam in jam,

And I have swum with mum,

And I cannot do my sum,

And I wish playtime would come

And then I can finish this.’

While children may stumble

With language and number,

It’s easy to fix

When they’re only six,

But adults just flounder,

Seeking much sounder

Constructions and quick

Resolutions to counter

Solutions of problems they

Never intended.

More loans to atone

For the money they’ve borrowed

Lead only to furrowed

Foreheads and low moans

Till matters are mended.

Micawber’s advice

Is nice and precise;

Spend less than you make

And then you won’t quake

When charges are due.

Spend more than you take?

Your dreams will be raked

With worry and sorrow and rue.


'The rule is, jam tomorrow and jam yesterday - but never jam today' - except here!