A Fresh Start 19th February 2018

Jackie's contribution:       

It has always been my nightmare to be shut up in a closed space and not be able to get out.   The doors of my house are always open and I crave the open air.   Prisons for some unknown reason have always been a terror of mine.  Perhaps listening to Eve’s real life stories made this come to the surface or perhaps in another life (if you believe in this sort of thing) I was thrown into prison and left.  Who knows.   This recite is entirely fictional by the way.

When the door of the cell clanged shut and the rattle of keys faded to the sound of bolts slotting into their notches the noise resounded and bounced off the stained grey walls of the prison cubicle and into my brain.   
 Panic bile rose to my throat and I shivered feeling chilled as I would those weeks, months and years afterwards to come.      Winter, summer, spring I was continually cold a trembling cold that penetrated its fingers into my very bones and numbed my soul.  
Life in the prison was routine. Up at 6, line up,  breakfast of soggy bread and weak coffee, work an 8 hour day, five days a week in the  penitentiary’s industrial laundry processing linen with 50 other prisoners. 

 The roughness of the obligatory orange jumpsuit rubbed my skin raw in tender places;  I had permanent excema and the white cotton underwear provided no thought for femininity.   Womanly shapes disappeared without underwires in bras, forbidden for security purposes and delicate female shapes became straight up and down mummy likenesses.      My hair was cut short, no make up and femaleness was wiped out. Our  identity distressed and torn like an animal just after a hunt.     The wretchedness of it all overwhelmed and sunk me into dark despair.   
    In the workshop the noise was unbearable and the steam heat clogged up the air, became oppressive as I ironed sheets and towels day in and day out.  The grinding routine, squabbling, jealously, disputes between inmates.   And I was in for life.

True, I had tried to rob a bank and yes, unfortunately my finger had hit the trigger on the gun by mistake and wasn’t it unlucky that the lady in the red coat was in the way when I fired.   Jailed for life and it wasn’t my fault.  No, not really my fault just what you would call a poor life decision.    At the last minute the boyfriend had pushed a gun into my hands just before we entered the bank - thinking it was a dummy gun so I had used it as a tactic to distract the bank teller;          then sadly realised  it wasn’t made of plastic as I watched the blood patch expanding quickly on the woman’s chest wound.   My then fiancé  escaped hearing the gunshot and was now probably enjoying life with a family and friends doing the things that I was depraved of.   

One night the roommate was already on her bunk snoring so loud that a train wouldn’t wake her.   Locked in at 8 pm and a whole night before me.    One electric light hanging by a thread in the centre of the cell slightly swinging in the draft from the high window sent monster like shapes on the walls.    I was lonely.  Crushingly lonely, sitting in a big grey box locked up with myself and all the mistakes and shitty choices and nothing to distract me from the fact that I put myself there.

Those evenings lying on my back in the lumpy bed it started:  the thinking, dreaming, planning and wishing went round and round in my head preventing sleep but then I dreamt of when I would get out … it started with the same thoughts every night - a walk in a forest - stroking my dog - kissing my child and dressing up in real clothes.   Putting on perfume, make up and silky panties.    Wearing a skirt,  taking a shower in hot hot water with strawberry soap and washing, scrubbing forever to eliminate that acrid smell of prison off my skin.       I imagined all these things - smelt the relief of freedom and it helped me to survive just another day.
In my dreams after discharge, I would open a café on a corner street - decorate it with green plants and yellow walls.   Let the sunshine in and greet my customers with a smile every day … “A fresh start” was all I asked for.




Annemarie contribution:

A Fresh Start

All along the canal the villagers were out for a stroll after the church service.  The blue sky, the three windmills  and several barges were reflected in the still dark waters.  Today was the one day there was no work for many villagers; it was a day of prayer and leisure with only the majestic sails of the windmills working slowly, groaning in the gentle breeze.

Jacob walked along the canal path considering his future. Three years ago his father, a butcher, had decided it was time for young Jacob, the eldest of three sons to start work, also as a butcher.  Jacob, quiet and intelligent, had no desire to spend his life slaughtering and selling bloody lumps of animal flesh. His sole wish had been to continue his schooling and eventually become a teacher. After a fearful row he was put out of the family home with just a small suitcase of clothes and his few possessions. It was not so easy In 1916 to find other work in his home village. He was, however, fortunate enough to find lodgings with his best friend's family in Edam and so continue at school. He repaid their kindness by working for them in his free time but now he had finished his schooling and on this Sunday he was  sitting on the sluice gate pondering  his future.

From the direction of the town centre two young women walked along the towpath lifting their long, loose straight  skirts to avoid puddles. They were both wearing their Sunday best having been to St. Nicholas church in the morning. Neelie loved her life in Edam still living at home the eldest  of three sisters and two brothers. She had been forced to leave school at the age of twelve although she had pleaded with her father to continue with her education.

" Now, child, if someone comes into the bakery and buys 3 loaves worth 1 guilder 9 cents how much change will you give them from a 5 guilder note? " he had asked all those years ago.

" Oh, Papa, that's easy - 3 guilders 91 cents," Neelie had replied immediately.

"Well then, child you have no further need of school; you can help old Oma Box in the house and  in the afternoons you can work in the bakery with your brothers."

 And so she had until she found work in the pharmacy shop where her friend also  worked.

Sunday meant a bit of freedom, promenading along the canal in their best clothes, not in the skirts and coloured aprons and lace caps still worn by many of the older women of Edam and Volendam.

The two young women neared the young man, sitting pensively by the lock and Neeltje giggled to her friend,

"What a handsome chap! Who do you think he is looking so lost in thought. Hey, watch me!"

and she carefully let go of her lace handkerchief which fluttered gently, landing  in front of Jacob and the two girls continued on their way.  Jacob couldn't fail to see it; he picked it up and followed after the giggling girls.

"I believe one of you has lost her handkerchief, "  he said offering it to the girls.

"Oh, how kind and it’s my prettiest one. You must let us treat you to a coffee and tell us why you looked so sad and lonely sitting on the sluice gate," laughed Neelie.

Jacob and Neelie, both 18 years old, seemed to understand one another from the start and they continued to meet every Sunday after church. After a while with her father's approval they became engaged. Jacob divulged his dream of becoming a teacher but how unlikely it was as he had no money and it would take several years.

"Well, you listen to me, " replied Neelie, "I live at home, I help a lot at home and I work in the pharmacy so I have been able to save money. We get on very well and I would really like to help you with your dream. I am going to give you the money and whatever else I earn, to help you fulfil your dream and I won't take 'no' for an answer. In return you can help me improve my reading."

It was another five years before Jacob qualified and after a six year engagement they married in the old church of St Nicolas in the middle of old Edam. A few years later, after obtaining his headmaster's  certificate in Amsterdam they moved to a village along the Zuiderzee where the experimental reclamation of the inland sea was being constructed . It was here, and now with a toddler and young baby, that Jacob contracted an illness which left him unable to speak. His young wife was terrified he would lose his job - after all what good is a teacher who can't speak and how would he then support his family? Every day they waited with trepidation expecting the authorities to stand him down until  one day Neelie saw an advertisement in the newspaper:

'Wanted - teachers willing to take the opportunity of a lifetime. Experience a very different life and  teach in our colonial outposts in Indonesia.'

"Jacob,  Jacob , look at this. It may be just the answer. We could make a fresh start somewhere warm and it might cure whatever is wrong with you.  Nobody here seems to know what to do so it cannot be worse. And what fun to try something different!"

 Neelie was full of enthusiasm and hope although it took a little more persuasion for her gentle, quiet husband but in 1930, having said tearful goodbyes to her beloved sisters and brothers, Neelie, Jacob and their young family embarked on board 'Koningen der Nederlanden,’ on sea voyage halfway round the world, where Jacob took up his post as headmaster of a school on a Moluccan island. Neelie and their now three  children never tired of the gorgeous beaches, so-called sea-gardens or the blue mountains beyond the bay.  Later in Temangoeng, 'high in the Javanese mountains the children grew up hearing their mother sing from pure happiness, relishing the splendour of nature, the six high mountains surrounding the valley, the ravines, the perpetually smoking volcano Morapi.'*  Her husband's voice was fine again and their life was idyllic.

One day when Jacob was at home alone a salesman dressed in his dark European suit and just recently off the ship from Amsterdam, called to enquire the way to the traders in the town. He was hot and tired, his face sunburned and sweating from the unaccustomed sun and he was carrying a small leather case, gripping it tightly.

" Come in and sit down. You look exhausted and I am about to have lunch. How much better to enjoy it in the company of a stranger. Please join me, " invited Jacob.

After their meal and after hearing details of the voyage Jacob said to the man,

" Well, I have heard about your voyage, but you haven't told me what is in the case, what you are hoping to trade."

The trader  opened up his case to reveal an effervescence of sparkling from rows of diamonds.

 " Ja, it is my first trip out east so I am finding my way, " and he was about close the case when Jacob laid a hand on the lid.

" Stop, sir. That big diamond, the one with the yellow light, nestling by itself in the corner - how much would a diamond as big as that cost? I would like to buy it."

"Well, it is the finest I have but you have been so hospitable and treated me so civilly I can do a very good price. You will, after all, be my first customer."

When Neelie arrived home with the children she found  in the middle of the table  a beautiful, small leather box and propped up against it a note inscribed:

'For all those years you waited and helped me get my teaching degree.  Thank you.’

Opening  the box she blinked at the beautiful diamond winking back at her.

PS. That same diamond was buried in broad daylight, alongside other precious objects, in front of the Japanese guards during the family's wartime imprisonment and retrieved in Autumn 1945 by my 12 yr old uncle with the help and protection of a 3 British soldiers.

This a story for my daughter, Suzi who will be the next owner of the diamond and more important of a wonderful love story.

+ Quoted from my Uncle Just , Neelie’s eldest son.

A poem for all of us who love doing household chores

 Dust If You Must

by Rose Milligan

Dust if you must, but wouldn't it be better
To paint a picture, or write a letter,
Bake a cake, or plant a seed;
Ponder the difference between want and need?

Dust if you must, but there's not much time,
With rivers to swim, and mountains to climb;
Music to hear, and books to read;
Friends to cherish, and life to lead.

Dust if you must, but the world's out there
With the sun in your eyes, and the wind in your hair;
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain,
This day will not come around again.

Dust if you must, but bear in mind,
Old age will come and it's not kind.
And when you go (and go you must)
You, yourself, will make more dust.

Write a story with these words : Forest money corrupt painting stonemason

Angela's contribution:

He could see a couple were missing and assumed he'd unusually left them on site yesterday. Then as he went to climb in the cab he heard the sound of metal on stone - unmistakable to his practised ear. It was coming from somewhere in the forest, not too far away. Curiously he walked quietly between the trees and saw the hunched figure of a young, very scruffily dressed boy,  engrossed in his work, chipping at a piece of stone.
'Hey', he said and the boy jumped, springing up and clutching the tools to him.
'What do you think you're doing and with my tools you young thief'!

'Please guv, I didn't mean no 'arm I was jess practisin. Saw you doin' it last week when you was round our 'ouse workin.'

'Ah yes, I remember, you were watching, till your dad boxed your ears and sent you packing.'

I've left 'im and I ain't never goin' back.  He's always 'itting me.
Since me mum died it's been 'ell living with 'im.
I wanna learn what you do and maybe one day I can make stuff like you make, walls 'n that.

He looked at the boy, more closely now. He was thin with ginger hair and freckles. He had blue eyes, and  his hands, though dirty, were well formed, almost artistic looking.
'Look boy, you have to be an apprentice and it takes years to get really skilled.'
'I don't care 'ow long it takes, an' you can teach me, don't need to go to no 'prentice place.'
He looked at the boy and felt a flood of sympathy, remembering his own parents and how they'd supported him when he was learning the trade, full of misgivings and fear.
He found himself saying,
'All right lad, you can stay here for a bit and I'll show you basics but you've got to have a heart for this job you know, a feeling for the stone,  it isn't just a question of bashing it with a mallet.
The boy's face lit up and his whole frame seemed visibly to relax and soften.
'Ah fanks guv. I won't let yer down, you'll see!'

                  ***************************

The cottage in the forest looked little changed in three years.
Still unkempt and with the old banger parked randomly to one side.
There was just one noticeable difference though. Sounds of talking and the odd chuckle emanated from the open doorway.
Then a young adolescent strode out can in hand and crouched down at the river's edge. He sluiced water on his face before filling the can and disappearing back inside.
The man appeared dressed ready for work and called to the lad.
'It'll be a late one today, we're out at Smith's farm, he wants the job done by nightfall'
'Ok guv', good job it stays light till gone nine in'nit'
The man smiled to himself and a feeling of deep satisfaction filled his being.
It had been worth taking a chance on the boy.
Even though it had meant selling his painting to fund the apprenticeship.
It turned out his inheritance had been worth several thousand pounds. When  the first dealer he had seen, offered him peanuts he got a second opinion, rightly suspecting the first one to be corrupt.
As he watched the boy gather his own tools, carefully wrapping them in the cloth, he knew that his parents would have been more than happy to know they had inadvertently changed a life, enabling the boy to realise his innate creativity and for this precious skill to be handed down to the next generation.
The fact that he had acquired an apprentice, the best you could wish for, was just a bonus and one he valued more than he liked to admit.




' 


Jackie's contribution:
"Slow Tom" had been condemned to prison several times.   His father, the corrupt Sheriff of the town of Big Tree in Michigan saw to it that each time his beloved son was condemned he bailed him out or just set him free with no judgement.   There were regular reports of aggressions, car theft and even rape reported to the Sheriff but each time he bailed his precious son out of prison - patted him on the back and said “don’t do that again son”.     The town was well run, clean and the population wanted for nothing as the narcissistic Sheriff had money and didn’t hesitate to contribute personally to the welfare of the population with free school meals, bus trips for the elderly and a Christmas party with presents for the 5000 population  in the town.   In return the inhabitants turned their back on the Sheriffs son’s misdoings, slightly afraid,  that if they complained the flow of gifts and good things for their families would come to a halt.
Slow Tom was a big lad of 6 foot.  His nickname born out of a mental deficiency at birth, his hairy chest tufted out of his shirt and collar - he resembled a grisilly a big brown bear ready to swipe out to anyone that might be in his way and prevented him doing what he wanted.     His job as forestier kept him out of trouble  - most days.
But one man in particular was particularly careful to step out of Slow Tom’s way.  Jamie and Slow Tom had been friends of a sort in school and when Slow Tom started to sell drugs when he was only 12 Jamie found him clients through his parents friends and they started a business together.   By the age of 14 Slow Tom was dealing with dangerous people from other towns and they were starting to come into Big Tree and causing trouble.    Jamie wanted “out” and Slow Tom made him promise that if he let him out of the deals Jamie would forget their relationship had ever existed, never cross him, talk about him or condemn him.
Unfortunately for Jamie his parents found out about their trafficking and dealings and went to see Slow Tom’s parents.  Slow Tom was sent away to a reform school and never forgave Jamie thinking he had been the telltale.   He vowed to do him or his family harm one day .. Jamie lived in apprehension but as the years went by his marriage and children born he forgot about Slow Tom who eventually came home to Big Tree and set up house just next to Jamie’s farm.    Slow Tom became a renown stonemason and when Jamie asked him to build a small house for his eldest daughter thinking that this was a way of healing their relationship Slow Tom accepted with verve.        A few weeks into building the stone house, Jamie’s eldest daughter disappeared.  Out for a walk with their dog she just never came back and despite search party’s calling out for her night and day the dog and herself were never found.    Devastated, Jamie then sent his second youngest son to the city to see if his daughter had run away to live there but he never returned and Jamie plunged into despair shutting himself into his room,  his only activity was painting a portrait of his lost daughter and son.      On one Christmas morning when the family were usually full of joy the decorations up and the house smelling of turkey lunch Jamie roused himself to be with his family .   Overnight there had been a big storm and he went outside to check on any damage done.  The stone house, half built by Slow Tom had suffered considerable destruction.  Upon getting closer to the crumbling walls - Jamie gasped at what he saw, fell to his knees and began howling and wailing;    for there,  protruding from the rubble he could see his daughters shoe that she had worn the morning of her disappearance - a dog collar embedded in the grass lay next to it…. Slow Tom watched from his farmhouse window a malicious triumph gleaming in his eyes.



Paula's limerick:

There once was a stonemason’s sad wife

Who made money by painting her strife.

In the forest one day,

A young knight came her way,

And said, “Paint me, and I’ll corrupt you for life!”

"Over the moon"

Angie's contribution:

Over the Moon - or in other words delighted, chuffed, thrilled to bits, exultant,. How many times, especially in recent years, we hear this phrase. The sportsman achieving his goal, the employer on being promoted, the bride on her wedding day, the mother looking at her new born child, the lottery winner, etc. Infact all of us, at some time in our lives have been Over the Moon. Delirious with happiness, beside ourselves with joy. There is now though, perhaps more than ever before, an expectation that we should experience this emotion not just once or twice in a lifetime but at regular intervals and perhaps with minimum effort on our part. Maybe the phrase has been watered down in fact. Perhaps, to some extent, it is the invidiousness of adverts which underpins this expectation. If you buy the right sofa,  washing powder, bed, supermarket food, beauty product or even air freshener, you will indeed be Over the Moon. Bowled over by the comfort/brightness/cleanliness/ tastiness/ transformation etc. To the naive and gullible the other promoter of 'Over the Mooness' is the celebrity culture. The idea that once you are famous( no matter for what  or how earned) you will automatically be utterly happy. In spite of the stories they hear of celebrity downfall it is still seen by many as the magic elixir that will bring day long happiness and a life of luxury. Another, even more recent, is the social media phenomenon where the fortunate display their good news in words and pictures and the 'followers' emulate in droves, all vying to show the most exciting/ glamourous/ enviable/ unattainable/ just beyond reach portrayals of areas of their lives where they are 'over the moon ' Seeing the number of people now sleeping rough on our streets one wonders what would make them 'over the moon'. The obvious one, to be told they need never again be exposed to the elements, or suffer the ignominy of having to beg. Or hearing of all the immigrants dispossessed, widowed, orphaned and worse. Over the Moon? Just to be a family again in a safe place would be that and more. They have just raised millions of pounds in the UK with their TV appeal for the charity 'Save the Children'. We see films of children who have to act as carers to a single sick or disabled parent, children devastated by disease or deformity, children abused physically and mentally. Over the Moon for them? Just a normal healthy family life. This Christmas many people will be 'over the moon' having received the desired gift, partied, over indulged, dressed in shimmering finery and basked in the presence of their loved ones.  For whatever reason though, many will not. There will always be those whose lives did not deliver, from no fault of their own.  Life is not fair, more of a cosmic lottery. Ironic, since the cosmos is seen to be a complex and ordered system, the opposite of chaos. The Moon, one satellite orbiting planet earth. When the 16th century nonsense rhyme appeared, and the cow jumped over the Moon, little did they know how much knowledge man would acquire, how he would walk on the moon, and fly around it and be conversant with its structure. Those astronauts were indeed - over the moon. ______________________________________________________________ Jackie It was in the middle of the night when my family and myself finally managed to attempt to make the crossing.    The water was calm when we started out but the boat was for 6 people and we were 25  and didn’t know any of the other refugees.  I was only ten years old but I realised from the tension in my fathers face that this was a running for your life situation.   I clung to my mother and the small bundle she clutched that was my new baby sister.  I knew the boat was made of wood as I could dig my fingernails into the side of the railings when there was a particularly aggressive wave.  We huddled together as best we could and looked up at the sky, the moon gave little comfort playing hide and seek with us in the clouds as we prayed silently for a safe journey.  When the storm started up the boat began to rock gently back and forth with the waves -,  Chug chug and splutter we could all hear that the engine of the boat was having problems.   - a few sparks flew into the sea like stars in the sky of back home.     We had only been going for 30 minutes or so.   Then there was silence, a silence only broken by the wash of the waves against our fragile wooden vessel .   Then someone managed to start the engine and It was pleasant enough , I felt that the journey would be bearable;   but then  the wind gathered strength in minutes -  it became like a combination of a washing machine and eternal roller coaster.    The froth was spraying all around and constant water was coming over the top of the boat making it very difficult to see.  The ship was going up and down 30+ meters constantly.   We were all thrown against each other as  the ups and downs were accompanied by many jerks,  as waves on the swells pushed the boat around.   UP and down up and down…… This reminded me of home - of my playmates;  when my cousin and I had played with the old fallen oak tree using it as a see-saw, balancing on the stone in old Mary’s garden.    I thought of my cousin with envy now,  she was probably sitting outside her hut this very moment - drawing in the street dirt or playing with the pigs.    It was almost impossible to get real sleep;   those who called themselves “crew”  fell  into a halfway state of being part awake and part comatose.   Fear gripped me - I felt scared, so scared that I’m ashamed to say my bowels gave out on me  several times.  I wanted the voyage to be over - to arrive and put my feet on firm earth, I wanted the world to stop churning;  in the end I felt drained of all emotion except for the anticipation of arrival in a new country.  I heard someone say they had checked our location on the GPS on their phone and we were exactly between Turkey and Greece.    White foam sprayed and flew everywhere and looked like the soapsuds that Granny used to wash the dishes with at home.   Great gusts of wind gathered the sea and slapped us like wet sheets on the washing line.    By this time we were going up and down several meters constantly and my stomach was protesting - I felt dizzy with nausea and watched as my parents hung on to themselves and their possessions - mother clutching her newborn trying to feed her in the bouncing boat,  father straining to see in the blackness of the night.   Then the big one.   The wave of all waves - it was as high as mountain Glory near our village back home - water swirled down onto our small vessel - I can hear the cries to this day of horror and disbelief as it engulfed us entirely drowning our ability to hold on - pounded away human life and expectations - took away tiny possessions wrapped in paper or thin blankets - scattered family’s hopes and dreams. Years later, I sit in my comfortable room  - I have a job, a wife and my own child of 10 years old.   I have never been back to my country as the pain of loosing my family that devastating night to the fury of the sea is too much to bear.              The moon, only witness to my fate has my family imprinted on its face and I take comfort that one day I shall soar into the sky and over that moon to join them. _____________________________________________________________________________ I was on my honeymoon And it was the monsoon Clothes strewn and me in a swoon I didn’t see you at first ‘cause It was the afternoon Then like a balloon Shining on the lagoon Because, You see It’t was the month of June You shone so bright A reflection on my teaspoon And I looked up to my My new groom Who then used his spittoon And I raised my head And wished I was Over that moon ______________________________________________________________________ Over the Moon by Annemarie In the playground the whisperings, nudgings and furtive glances of the children were directed at Robert. He stood by himself murmuring: " Different...can't play properly. Different...can't play properly." Then the school bell clanged loud and clear, the children running, pushing and shoving to get into line before being called in to afternoon class....Except for one small boy, secreted behind the door of the boiler room. When all was quiet and empty he slipped stealthily behind the building, climbed the fence separating the small village school from the surrounding pastureland and sidled off along the edge of the field towards the wood. The trees were already black skeletal prints against a clear blue autumnal sky, the lower branches still clinging on to a few copper and bronze leaves, the ground below carpeted in amber and gold. Robert trudged to the gap in the hedge murmuring to himself all the while "Different...can't play properly. Different...can't play properly." He crawled through the brambles and undergrowth, thorns tugging at his clothes and reached a path which led to a clearing in the copse, where an old man sat on a stool, rhythmically shaving slivers off a long piece of newly sawn elm. Around him were hand-crafted chairs, a table and half-finished wooden objects. This was Robert's secret place, this was Robert's secret  friend. He crept into the clearing and watched while Mr Ackerman worked. When the old man had finished working the piece of elm, he lifted his grizzled head, looked at Robert and said, "Well, Robert, this is a surprise. You've not been for a while. No school today?" "Different...can't play properly. Different...can't play properly," murmured Robert. ”And why is that, young lad?" asked Mr Ackerman. Robert stood before the old man, staring at him. The eight-year old boy stroked the newly-shaved piece of elm and said quietly, "The other children say I am stupid. I can't play properly. I can't play properly. I can't do school. I can't do school. I don't want to do school." "Now listen here, young Robert, don't let nobody tell you you can't do anything. We are all good at something so don't you listen to those voices that tell you otherwise. Now let's you and me make something with all these beautiful things nature has given us."  And the old man gathered up various pieces of sawn wood, the scent of which still mingled with the Autumn air and he placed them on the soil in front of Robert. The boy put down his school bag. He carefully collected and stacked in size and in colour - gold burgundy, orange - the fallen leaves which spattered  the soil. He picked up the pieces of wood, sorted them into their different types and laid them in lines, all the time sing-songing to himself "Ash and elm, oak and sycamore, birch and willow,   Trees in the wood, trees in the gardens and trees in the meadow, " just as Mr Ackerman had sung and taught him their 'wood song'. From the lines of wood he had so carefully arranged he picked various pieces and formed the outline of a house. From the stacks of leaves he selected an especially large, deep crimson maple leaf for the door and four narrow, lime-green willow leaves for four narrow windows  He scoured round the cabin and from his found treasures finished decorating his house of wood. "Well, young Robert, isn't that the most handsome house ye've built! And all by yourself. Shall we now make a sign for your house?" Together they rubbed smooth a piece of ash, scratched Robert's name in another small piece of wood which they then attached to the newly prepared post and stuck it in the ground next to Robert's design. Then Mr Ackerman poured two mugs of homemade apple  juice and the two sat companionably by the open fire each lost in his own little world.    Meanwhile pandemonium had broken out at school with the discovery that Robert was missing. The playground teacher did not want to admit that she had taken her eyes off the children, particularly Robert, whilst she had a quick catch-up with Facebook and none of the children had seen Robert since playtime when ” he sulked, miss, and  went away because he can't play properly like we said". This was not the first time he had disappeared but it was the longest that he had been missing. His parents had been called and after several hours' search by all and sundry his father remembered the mysterious blocks of polished wood which had appeared in Robert's room and his son's fanciful tales of a very old man with a grey beard who lived in the middle of the wood. Setting off with his torch he followed a path from the back of the garden which led to the wood. In the mild moonshine night puddles from the previous day's rain were dark and mirror-like. He searched through the trees shining the beam here and there, calling his son's name. The father continued further into the wood and then in the stillness he heard a faint high-pitched voice and then low gruff tones. He followed the sounds, crunching twigs and leaves underfoot. The full moon was now higher up in the darkened sky and as he approached the clearing he saw a ramshackle cabin lit by the glow of a wood-stove fire. Outside he saw the silhouette of young and old against the moonlight as they both leapt in the air. The father stood very still watching, listening. "There you see, young Robert, you can do so many things. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise, " said old Mr Ackerman, as holding hands, the old man and the little boy once again jumped over the moon, so perfectly reflected in the big back puddle.

Story : A journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step

Angel's story:


A thousand miles, that's how long they told her the distance was. The space on earth between her and the mother she'd never seen. The authorities had been quick to point out all the disadvantages and risks of making this journey, Of finding out for herself what this woman was like who had given her away at birth and never once, in the next thirty years, tried to find out anything about her first born child.
It had taken Sarah a very long time to get to this point. The point at which she felt ready to face possible rejection for a second time in her life.
Her mother was not initiating this, it was her. The persistent nagging questions that had nibbled away under the surface her whole life, were now becoming more insistent, more intrusive, to the point where Sarah felt she must do something. She must take the initiative and try to see her biological mother , to find out once and for all why she was rejected, if the story she had been told was true and if by some miracle this woman longed to meet her but had not found the courage to try.

Like so many women it was not until Sarah herself had become a mother that her own parents, her bloodline, had really become a burning issue. Before that it was like a familiar little ache, always there, sometimes more noticeable but possible to forget. Since holding Emily in her arms seconds after she had emerged, slippery, warm and hungry, her need to know who had held her in that way became far more urgent.
When the midwife had asked her if there were many redheads in her family she couldn't say and later, when a doctor had tested Emily's eyes and asked if there was a history of shortsightedness in the family, she again felt that disassociation with her inheritance, her forebears.
It was these events in the end that had prompted Sarah to start the search for her biological mother and now, here she was, armed with the information, with a name and an address making it feel real for the first time. She had considered writing first but feared that rejection at the first hurdle might be a possibility she'd rather not risk.
So, here she was, packed and ready to leave for the airport, her husband Mike being his usual supportive encouraging self, having taken time off work to be with Emily. His advice had been realistic; don't expect too much. It's not always like you see on the TV reunion programs. Be prepared for disappointment.

As she felt the plane's wheels leave the ground and saw the landscape below fast dwindling into a patchwork of greens and browns she felt the first twinge of anxiety and slight loss of resolve. She was heading for the south of France a place she had never visited. Her French was limited to GCSE level and she was just depending on the natives having better English in the tourist area to which she was heading.

She had no idea why her mother had ended up here but she hoped very much to find out.
After what seemed to her an age but was actually less than two hours  they landed, and in no time Sarah, with no hold luggage to collect, was outside the terminal, embraced by the heat and light that accosted her senses.
In the midst of the turmoil all around her, with everyone seemingly talking at the top of their voices in an intelligible language, she managed to hail a taxi and show the driver the address.  He fed it into his sat nav. and they set off at an alarmingly fast pace. Sarah was to get a very quick introduction at first hand to the driving habits of the Marseillaise. Either they were inches behind the car ahead or she could feel the car behind almost bumper to bumper.
With her heart mostly in her mouth, she gripped on to her seat belt and was very relieved when they were forced to slow down as they headed to the centre of town passing the beautiful port and the church perched high above.

As they entered a narrow street with pastel coloured houses the driver pulled up upside a Boulangerie. Sarah was about to try to question the driver when she noticed the number on the wall, it was indeed the right address though she had had  no idea it was a shop.

She fumbled in her purse for the correct number of euros, probably grossly over tipping and then she was alone staring through the windows and seeing a woman serving behind the counter. She waited for the customer to emerge and then with a deep breath she entered the dark warm yeast scented interior. As the woman looked up Sarah caught her breath as she saw her daughter Emily in this smiling welcoming face.

 In those few seconds that it takes for the mind to register enormous truths Sarah saw that this lady too had recognised something in her face.

'Mon dieu!' She said automatically, 'ce n'est pas vrai!'

'So you know who I am?' said Sarah, not really daring to hope she was going to be well received, or even understood, her hands gripping the counter and her heart thumping in her chest.

'I see who you are but I cannot believe this is happening.  I have thought about you so much and for so long but I knew it was just a cross I must bear.'
She looked anxiously behind her.
My husband knows nothing of my past. I could never tell him.
It is hard for you to understand but he is from an old, very close and very proud Marseillaise family.
I can't speak to you here.

Sarah's heart was just flooded with relief. The only thing she needed to hear was that her mother loved and thought of her.

Just then a customer entered the shop.

'Can you meet me somewhere later this evening?' She asked quickly. 'This is the address of my hotel.'

'Yes, of course I'll try but it can't be for long.'

And so it was, that five hours later, Sarah sat in her room with the woman she never really thought she would ever see, side by side on the bed hungrily digesting each other's words.
Her mother had become pregnant by a young boy of whom her parents had not approved and she was forced to let the baby go which nearly tore her apart.
So angry was she with her parents that as soon as she could she had left home to au pair in France never returning and gradually losing contact. She had met her French husband as she bought the bread at his father's shop which had now become theirs. They had not been able to have children which had added to her mother's sadness and she had never once mentioned the baby she had left.
For Sarah to be able to tell her that she now had a granddaughter was for her a miracle beyond belief.
Every now and then one or other would burst into fresh tears of joy and they would have to embrace again.

All too soon Sarah's mother Judy had to leave for fear her husband Lionel would be suspicious.

It was agreed they could meet one more time before Sarah left.

In that second meeting they talked of how they might keep in touch.
Sarah was not going to lose this mother she had never known and against all the odds they would make it work.

She would go home but she would come back with Emily and Mike and they would find a way to become closer to this French family and Emily would get to know her grandmother in her exotic town with her French ways and with so much love to give this child, one she never knew existed and could never have hoped ever to hold in her arms as one day she would.



Annemarie's story:

Deep snow had fallen during the night and winter's skeleton black trees stood scribbled against a blanket of silvery grey sky. The woman lit the logs in the big brick fireplace and pulled out her latest piece of patchwork. She had used at least sixty carefully chosen different small prints, the colours subtle and the designs exquisite ( her daughter was afters all a textile designer herself. Six of each design made a rosette, all of which were linked together with one unifying colour. Most of the piecing together she had completed at her quilting club, where she went in actual fact to learn French from a lot of chattering women (to say nothing of eating cake and drinking fairly unpleasant caramel tea at the end of each session!). Now it was a race to quilt the patchwork, the wadding and the lining together with a tiny running stitch which more often than not involved stabbing her finger. As she stitched away she remembered three years earlier when Suzie had come over for five glorious weeks with the first granddaughter. Oh how adorable Lola was - all dimples - dimples on her face , dimples on her elbows and dimples at her knees as she kicked her chubby legs in the air. That had been a cold, snowy January, Lola just a few weeks old.

"Mum," Suzie had said "I've been given all these beautiful Liberty prints, two whole books of samples and everyone different and I thought you could show me how to make a patchwork quilt for Lola. I remember when I was quite young you started one for your mother but I don't think you ever finished it. We could do them together,"

The woman had rummaged in various boxes in the attic  and eventually found a bag stuffed with oddments of fabric, bits of patchwork half done and pieces merely tacked around paper  hexagons.The half-finished quilt had lain abandoned and forgotten for over twenty years. 

  She had pulled out the tangled, crumpled mess of fabric, picked up one of the loose hexagons and let a surprised gasp.

"Just look at this, Suzie. You won't believe it - the very first piece I picked up after all these years, just look at the backing paper and remember It was over twenty years ago with no thought of grandchildren or that we would be living in France.." She had held up the tacked hexagon of fabric and Suzie read written in bold letters on the paper backing, the name 'Lola', the paper having been cut from a French magazine.

"That is weird, "  Suzie had said. "Where would you even have got a French magazine and then to have your first granddaughter's name on the first piece you pick up twenty years later! It's not as if Lola was a common name then. It's  a double premonition; sends a shiver down my back! Well you can start me on mine and then you can finish yours. "

Together they had stitched and quilted and chatted through that cold January spell and Suzie had finished a beautiful cot quilt for Lola and the woman had finished after twenty odd years, the quilt for her own mother. It turned out to be be the present that had pleased her mother more than any other.

Now three years later the woman reckoned she could just about finish this quilt to celebrate Suzie's two children, before the family arrived for Christmas although her more knowledgable friends at the patchwork club estimated it would take a little longer.

Well she would just keep on stitching and stitching, keep on adding plasters to the pricked fingers so determined she was to complete it .

As she pushed and pulled the needle through the three layers she remembered aged six, sitting at the old oak table with her own mother learning to sew. She could see herself, head bent in concentration as her chubby fingers tried to hold the two pieces of fabric together and at the same time push the needle through from one side and almost simultaneously pull it out from the other side. There had been moments of frustration and  a few tears as she had  not been a patient child. Since then she'd stitched away at many quilts using favourite old dresses and shirts to make material memories for her own children, a wedding quilt for her brother and now this the largest so far for her own dear daughter. As she worked the thread through the patchwork, in, out in, out, she  thought she and her needle must have trudged at least a thousand miles from that first  step into patchwork at the old oak dining table fifty odd years ago, a thousand miles of shared memories to pass on to another generation. She pulled the last tiny knot through and  cut the thread  - the quilting was finished and she hurriedly folded it and hid it as she heard her husband open the door, an icy blast heralding the arrival of the young family. And yes, her patchwork friends were right - she had not completed the quilt.; just edge needed  binding but she had managed to add the names of her two grandchildren.

Eight word story September 2017

Story submitted by Angela:


They could not believe their ears! Their precious daughter had been allocated a place in the countryside!
All around them now in the heart of London was death and devastation. For the parents their was no choice but to stay, as thousands of others were and pray that they would somehow be lucky. That they would live to see the end of this horrific war and one day life might be normal again.

For their daughter though, this was a chance to ensure her safety and not have the constant fear of her short life being ended almost before it had begun.

When they told the ten year old Margaret that she was to leave next week with lots of other evacuees her response was of course to cling to her mother and beg not to be sent away.
Her pleadings had to be in vain for her own sake and she found herself a week later on the station with fifty or so other children all with their gas masks and little suitcases or in some cases just a large cloth bag, the best that could be found at short notice in poorer households.

Margaret had begun to see that their was no escape from the terrifying ordeal which was to befall her. Being a naturally positive child and of a sunny disposition she tried hard to be brave and not to show her dear parents the depths of her fear and feeling of loneliness. She hugged them both, smiling valiantly through her tears.
'I'll be ok Ma. Write to me won't you. Bye Dad'
She was the apple of her dad's eye and he fought back the tears as he watched her go.

The train trundled them out of London; gradually the tall grey buildings gave way to smaller houses, rows of them, and then things began to get greener and the space wider. There were fields with cows and little villages with church spires in the distance.

As they disembarked and stood on the station, name tags hanging from their necks, identification for prospective foster parents, they were a forlorn and sorry sight.

A kind looking lady came towards Margaret.
'Hello my dear, I think you are to be the new member of our family. My husband has the car nearby we'll soon get you home.'
Inspite of herself and the hole of emptiness within her being, Margaret  liked this lady and had never ridden in a car.

They walked outside to the waiting car and the lady helped Margaret into the back seat with her things.
'This is my husband Jack, you can call him Uncle Jack and I'm Auntie Johnnie.

There is someone else waiting to meet you at home whom I think you'll like very much.'
Margaret sat, nestled in the soft leather seats and looking out of the windows as they sped along the winding roads, finally turning into a narrow bumpy road and stopping near the end at a lovely black and white house with a big garden.  A path bordered with bright flowers led to the front door up three wide round steps with a porch above. Margaret, coming from her tenement building in central London had seen nothing like it in her life and if only her parents had been with her to share it, it would have been Nirvana!

Auntie Johnnie, ( it would be a while before she could call her that naturally) opened the door and all at once something black and white and furry flung itself at them, barking with joy.
'This is Susie Margaret! She is a Cocker Spaniel and just loves children'
Some more of Margaret's fear and tension melted away as she buried her face in the fur of this ecstatic little dog with the long floppy ears and fiercely wagging stump of a tail. She had always longed to own a dog, she adored them, but never in her wildest dreams did she think it would be possible.

'Come and see the garden my dear, Susie needs to go out side, and she will show you around'
They had now walked through the hall to the kitchen and as they walked out through the back door and onto a verandah, looking out over more green lawn than Margaret had ever seen, her last fears receded and she raced after Susie who had found a ball and was looking for someone to throw it.
All round the house they ran, because the garden did indeed surround it on all sides. Past the back gate, past uncle Jack's veggie plot back across the front lawn and arriving panting at the back door.
Auntie Johnnie had made orangeade to drink and rich tea biscuits. When she had finished it was time to be shown her bedroom, up the big curving stairs and into a bright light room with a pretty wallpaper on the walls and a big satin eiderdown on the  bed. It was so much more than Margaret had ever seen and  by this time her heart was bursting with so many mixed emotions.
She had not wanted to come here one bit and she could not understand why her parents had wanted to send her away.
Yet now, with this kind couple in their beautiful heavenly home it just might not be so bad and if her ma and pa could come to visit sometimes, that would be just wonderful.

She smiled up at the lady standing beside her with her hand gently on Margaret's shoulder.
'It's just perfect. Thank you so much. I was so scared and sad but now I don't feel so bad and I can write to my ma and pa and tell them everything'
' Of course you can and one day we hope they will come to see you and you can show them around can't you.'
There are terrible things happening in London and it's because they love you so much that they have sent you to us.

I don't have a daughter of my own and I am very lucky that they have lent you to me. I think we're going to have fun together and do lots of lovely things. We have nature all around us and their is so much you can learn when you walk in the woods or by the river or through the meadow. The birds and small creatures who hide away, the trees and wild flowers, they are all there for you to discover. We will make you a country lass before you know it!



 The grey haired woman leant back in her chair, the photo album lying in her lap. All those years ago and yet it seemed to her, as she was nearing the end of her life, only yesterday that she had first met that couple and entered their family.
As she had come to love them and belong to them she had slowly become a child of that place. Her life changed in every way. She had made new friends at school, begun to shine in some subjects and at sports and was adored by her foster parents.
Then one day it had all ended almost as quickly as it had begun. She'd had to leave all that had become dear to her and go back to the dreary greyness of her London home. She was a young teenager by then, a child no longer and she was utterly torn when the wrench came.
She remembered it being never the same again at home. She could not forget the comfort, the space, the light of the country. Her parents had found it hard to understand and were often hurt. They had had their own problems, left to endure the war and her father, injured in a bombing raid, was a shadow of his former self.

Yes, she thought as she began to drift into sleep, keeping her safe through the war had come at a huge price and the ripple effect of pain to all those affected was wider than could be imagined.
Yet, she had had a good enough life, modest in all ways but with love and affection and now and then some special treats to mark out the years.
Life is not fair she thought but making the best of what you do have and not hankering for what you can't was what counted in the long run. She saw herself, running again around the garden on that first day in the country, twirling around with Susie at her heels, twirling and spinning, laughing and looking up at the clear blue sky.



Jackie's story:

The dogs ears were trailing in the mud.  Burs, thorns and branches trailing under his tummy, mixed with dirt and gravel glued together with slobber.  His ears were in shreds having run through thorn bushes and brambles  -  blood and saliva made bloody patches on  the freshly cut grass in Mr. And Mrs Gobby’s lovely garden.

“Nobody” the pale pink orphaned rabbit was zigzagging for his life amongst cabbages, radishes, and around the gooseberry bush.  

By the time he had run three times round the garden - rabbit’s  tongue was hanging out of his mouth …his nose quivering with fear .  He could smell the sweat and hear the breathlessness of the big heavy dog pursuing him.   Several times he swerved just in time to avoid those yellow jaws with  foul smelling  breath ready to bite off his pretty bubbly tail - pink and fluffy from grooming just this morning.    Rabbit sprinted and dodged his stalker,  he could hear the heavy chomps and clumps of the dogs muzzle.    He could feel the dogs claws getting closer and closer digging into the earth as he stretched his short but sturdy legs and strained to catch the baby rabbit.    
In his haste he ran through and out the other side of the big blackcurrant bush that had grown as tall as a tree.    As Mr and Mrs Gobby didn’t like blackcurrants,  it was full of very ripe fruit dripping with juice  falling on the ground in a pulpy mass.
Meanwhile, back at the house, Mr Gobby had got up early that morning.  Unable to sleep the previous night thinking about that fox who had slipped through the hole in the bottom garden gate killing off two of his best egg laying chickens.  He was up at the crack of dawn determined to put a stop to this massacre that would surely get worse.   So armed with tools, he set off to nail up and secure that hole for good.   Just at that same moment he tripped over a very small rabbit running full speed who crossed his  path just before the rose bush.  Then, a pounding and thundering of paws deafened his ears.   Astonished he swirled around  just in time to avoid a large dog with long floppy ears baring down the path.   Teeth barred and fire in his eyes,  his slobbering drool  left a trail of silvery dribble hanging in the air in steamy droplets.

Rabbit rushed through the blackcurrant bush - turned around twice and was immediately covered from head to toe in the ripe black juice.   As he shot out of the other side the dog ground to a halt by the sight of a black  wet rabbit.  What had happened to the fluffiness - that pretty pink rabbit he had been chasing?    He sniffed and caught the rather acrid smell of blackcurrants, and his appetite disappeared in a flash.    It stopped him in his tracks.  
 Rabbit seized the moment  which gave him just enough time to dash for the hole garden gate.    Instinct told him that the big heavy dog wouldn’t stand a chance of getting through that splintered plank. 
Mr Gobby advanced with a determined step - the now black rabbit crisscrossed his path and Mr Gobby thought it was the fox - raising his hammer he slammed it down…..

Rabbit sat on his haunches,  nose trembling in delight,  he washed his paws and sighed once again.  He had attained Nirvana, tranquility and heavenly paradise. 

Short story theme - "I remember when"

Angie
Subject: I remember when

I remember when Easter was full of sunshine and my beautiful sugar egg had a window at one end to peep inside and see the chicks. When there were cowslips everywhere, and everything seemed fresh and yellow.

I remember when, playing in the field of Michaelmas daisies at the end of our road, I found a dead baby rabbit and proudly took it home to show my mother. How she shrieked and recoiled in horror that germs were being brought near her new baby, the precious bundle whose nappy she was changing.

I remember when I got into the school taxi on a whim, and passed my mother struggling up the hill pushing the big bassinet pram to meet me, as she always did. When the driver asked for my address I could only tell him, 'the house on the corner in the stoney road'. Perhaps the long wait for my mother's return, and the dread of her anger was punishment enough, memory blurs......... perhaps the kindly neighbour who found me crying by the back door helped to diffuse the wrath!

I remember when my grandma had her bed in our lounge. One day I saw her very old and wrinkled bottom as she was about to use the commode next to her bed.
She wasn't with us for very long before she died but she gave me two shillings to spend at the fair.
I remember the smell of carnations on the day of her funeral, they still smell of that day, seventy years on.

I remember when my mother was terribly upset because something very sad had happened to a pretty lady who lived with her husband in a big house down the road. She had a beautiful charm bracelet that jangled as she moved her arm.It was years later they told me she had shot herself.

I  remember when we went to the shops. The grocer's that had a wooden pillar which I swung round by one hand till I was dizzy, while my mother waited for him to slice his tight wire through the cheese.
I remember when, at those shops, I was terrified by the lady who pushed a pram with a witch inside. The pram was big and the hood was up but the witch sat upright, peering over a tightly pulled cover, just her pale white face, straight thin ginger hair and a brown beret. I utterly dreaded seeing that pram every time we went shopping.

I remember when, in spite of these fears, and even with the arrival of the new baby,  the days were full of sunshine, happiness and joy.

I remember when everything changed. We no longer lived in the big house on the corner in the stoney road, but in a tarmac road, in a row of houses all the same shape, with no fields anywhere and busy roads close by with red buses, trolley buses and people rushing to get to places, it was the town.

I remember when school changed from my small private house in grounds,  to a huge cold grey stone Victorian building, where you could get lost in the corridors and where boys fought till they bled in the playground. Where school lunches were so horrible I walked home but that meant another terror! I might see a man called Norman who grinned at me and talked rubbish and petrified me half to death!

I remember when I left that school after just one year to go to a very different one, just for girls up to eighteen, all in such an enormous building with a gallery around a huge hall and classrooms everywhere on two levels. With teachers who were very strict and prefects who had lots of power, and rules for everything, from which shoes you wore for what, to when you couldn't talk or run or eat or be late.

I remember when I started to have asthma. Breathing became a thing to have to work at, each breath an effort, straining to get enough oxygen but too tight to let the air out. Shoulders hunched and just walking was so hard when it was bad.

I remember when life was all joy before I was eight years old.
When I knew lots of the families in the stoney road. When Mr Petley the green grocer came every week with his cart and beautiful black horse and I could give him a carrot.
When my father pedalled home from work up the road from the station and wore long johns in the winter and sometimes brought me a new book to read.
When the two old ladies opposite, Miss Paidy and Miss  Durey came out every evening to call in their cat in their sing song way 'puss puss puss puss pussy'
When Mrs Morant, the widow who lived in the quaint and charming cottage by the woods, came to bring us red currant jelly she had made from her fruit and stayed for a chat with my mother.
Her daughter had died of a bad illness and she seldom saw her son but she was sweet and calm and gentle.

I remember when the end of childhood heralded the start of responsibility and pressure and expectation and reality. Unlucky are those who don't at least start with those years of freedom.


Jackie:



Letter to my Mother
Hi Mom,

Look at me!   I’m all grown up and I’m even so grown up that I can call myself a Senior person.    I have children and grandchildren of my own - they are your family too, although you are no longer there to see them. 

Since I saw you last I have had such a very full life - I’m now officially a permanent resident in my adopted country of France - a European citizen.  
I have put into practice all the things you taught me in our short time together.  I missed every second of your not being there though to help me on my way.

  I was working in a London hospital,  I was 17 years old and the Californian university, my life, my friends had all stopped abruptly when you became ill and we had to move back to England after having settled there 10 years previously. 
To work. 
I remember when Dad telephoned on that fateful day just a few days after your own forty forth birthday in 1968 to say that you had gone to join the God you had so intensely worshipped - the God you had said would save you had we prayed and prayed.   And so we did;   we went to Evensong, spent hours in the confessional, recited Hail Mary’s galore, attended low Mass then high Mass.    You had said that if I was good it would all work out and you would be saved.    But it didn’t turn out that way.    God must have been occupied with someone else that day.   I wasn’t even there to hold your hand as you had been there for me those growing years.
 My first job was in the typing pool of the Neurological Hospital in Queen’s Square, London.   It was grim.    Together with the fluorescent strip lighting - the bruised yellowing London sky barely showing through the only window high up on a cheerless ink-splattered wall,  didn’t compare to the Californian sunshine I had grown up with.
The clic clack of typewriters, the chainsaw sound of the return carriages at the end of every typed phrase,  as 20 or so women in that dim room  printed the fate of the hospital patients and deafened any feelings of homelessness. 
  

Mourning is private work and as I walked aimlessly round and round the London streets that day after Dad had told me of your death,  it was impossible to cry,  the reality of my grief was too unreal.
I kept “remembering when”;   our shopping days, my hand in yours, your sewing my clothes, you teaching me manners, the praying and more praying in church - your protecting my girlhood - our trips together youth hosteling - our walks and searches for crabs and pebbles on our travelled beaches. 

I ask myself  :   is it good to “remember when” ? - is it ok to go back into one’s past and cry a little - tie your stomach in knots with heart rendering frustration that all those years have gone by like a flash and looking back is so hard .  I can feel your gaze on me Mom, ( yes I can still say that word after all these years)  you are in spirit still attentively guiding me through my life .    Yet, I ask, is it so necessary to attach oneself to one’s past life to reflect and “remember when” … but then … listen …a soft tinkle of laughter comes fluttering down from above through my memory - floating down in and out of the years like the slow clearing of morning mist over the Golden Gate bridge and “I remember when” for a moment,  my tears flow.   This life goes on, I laugh, I cry,  but I will never say goodbye. 

Annemarie:


 I remember when...
>>
>> Andrea packed the car with her homemade lemon drizzle cake, Gran's favourite, and some velvety,crimson roses with an intoxicating scent. She popped a small overnight case in the boot and set off in eager anticipation. She had always adored her elegant grandmother. Some  of her friends' mothers  faced their twilight years with glum endurance, complaining about the young, drugs, sex and computers, whilst sat in their beige stretch slacks in their high-backed chairs watching endless replays of their favourite tv programmes. Gran on the other hand had her own Facebook page and with Andrea's help was committing her memories to print. She had led a colourful and eventful life but their seemed to be somewhat of a mystery surrounding her time as the ship's matron on a grand liner, which ran luxury cruises to China  back in the thirties and Andrea hoped to unveil the secrets.
>> Although it was almost a year since seeing her Gran looked as effortlessly elegant as usual and despite her eighty-six years, spry and agile as she welcomed her granddaughter with a beaming smile., her very short, funky haircut exaggerating the wonderful high cheekbones. She was wearing a pair of smart black slacks and over a black vest an unbuttoned blue shirt which exactly mirrored her still clear, nforget-me-not blue eyes.
>> "Well, my darling Andrea! This is a lovely surprise. And my favourite cake! We'll  have to tuck into that with a cup of coffee. The roses are divine and so fragrant. Now, you put your case upstairs - your usual room- whilst I make the coffee."
>> Five minutes later Andrea came downstairs and found her grandmother in the garden reading a book.
>> "Where's the coffee then, Gran?"
>> "Oh, Andrea it's so wonderful to see you. Of course I'lll go and make some coffee."
>> "And I'll cut the cake, shall I?" asked  Andrea.
>> She carried the tray with the delicate bone china cups, silver teaspoons and flower-patterned plates, which must have been at least as old as Gran and probably older, into the sitting room, the French doors opening onto the lush green garden.
>> " Gran, I do love that photo of you taken before you met Gramps. Where was it taken? You look so incredibly happy and far too young to be a matron!"?
>> " Oh, my dear, that was such a long time ago, when I was working on the liners. Only the very rich and well-heeled could afford to travel then. I really saw  the world - all quite different from now. That photo, I think, was taken in China and what a country! The petite Chinese women in their beautiful costumes, faded Russian countesses who'd escaped the revolution, stalwart English missionaries come to show the Chinese our ways , always thinking they know best...Hmmm!"
>> The old lady fell silent, her eyes seemingly gazing into a distant past.
>> "What was life like for you on the liner, Gran?" asked Andrea.
>> "Oh  Andrea, it's so lovely to see you! Would you like some coffee?"
>> "Oh, Gran, I've had enough, thank you. You were telling me about your life on the liner going to China ."
>> " Oh yes, I remember ...Peking , what a country China was in the thirties!  So many people and such diverse cultures. On the way out there the liner had  taken a new young doctor on board. All the nurses were in love with him."
>> "And were you too, Gran?" Perhaps this was the mystery in Gran's life, that had always been hinted at, thought Andrea.
>> "Was I what, dear?"
>> "Were you in love with the dashing doctor?"
>> "Which doctor, Andrea? "
>> "The doctor on board the ship to China, when all the nurses fell in love with him."
>> "Oh that doctor!  My he was a good looking young man. Tall, dark hair with a hint of auburn, eyes so deep and brown you could drown in them. I remember he had this scar like a tear, down his cheek. We all thought he must have got it in the War. Now I'm going to tell you something I've never told anyone before, Andrea, but I'm an old lady now, so I think the time has come to let you into my secret. Gordon was the love of my life. Now don't think I didn't love your grandfather. On the contrary we had one of the happiest marriages, so many interesting years together..." And Gran was off in another reverie, eyes  focussed again on some distant past.
>> "Tell me more, Gran. Did you not think of marrying the doctor? Is this something we should be noting for your book of memories? Gran..?"
>> Andrea waited , the old lady still lost in thought. She gently touched her grandmother's be-ringed, slender but slightly bony hand and her grandmother gave a slight star.
>> "Oh, Andrea, it's so lovely to see you. Would you like a coffee? "
>> "We have just had coffee, remember Gran. You were telling me about the love of your life, the doctor on board ship...? said Andrea.
>> "Yes, dear ...well, yes I remember ... when I was a young woman. I've never told anyone else. There was a new handsome young doctor on board ship and we fell in love, desperately in love. I remember when we reached Peking we spoke of marriage... Have I told you how wonderful Peking was in those days, the Chinese women in their traditional costume, poor Russian countesses who had escaped the Revolution with little but their furs and jewels. The city was split into different quarters, different nationalities in each."
>> "And that's where you fell in love with  the dashing doctor?" asked Andrea. She felt that at last Gran's mystery was unravelling
>> "What a wonderful time we spent there, I think about a week. I can still remember the scent of spices, the vibrant silks, the Chinese women shuffling along in their tiny shoes - how big and gauche I felt next to them. But Gordon didn't think so - we were so in love and we spoke of marriage..." and Gran once again retreated into her memories of the past gazing into the garden.
>> Andrea took the tray and dirty plates out and was washing them up when her grandmother appeared beside her.
>> "Well, Andrea, dear, what a surprise! What are you doing here and washing up? Who let you in ? You should have let me know and I could have baked a cake."
>> Andrea hesitated, wiped her hands dry and gently guided her grandmother back to the sitting room.
>> "But Gran, don't you remember? We've just had coffee and cake and you were telling me about your time in China with a gorgeous doctor."
>> "Was I, dear? I don't remember any doctor in China.  I do remember when I went to the doctor last week he asked all sorts of stupid questions about prime ministers' names and I had only gone to have a prescription renewed. Well let's have a nice cup of coffee and one of our chats. It's so long since I've seen you. Have I ever told you about the dainty little Chinese ladies in Peking?"

 
Monica: 

I remember when I went to my very first Dance/Ball with black tie and evening dress or cocktail dress.   The evening was magical in fact the most magical evening of my young life.   It was magical for me, for its youth, the innocence, the opulence of the damask napkins and the shining crystal glasses on the table.   
I hadn't been on the stud farm very long when one of the large wealthy farmers came down to give us a neighbourly call and suggested I might like to join the young farmers;   hence how I came to be at this magical evening in 1959.

The young farmers ball was held at the Tillgate Forest Hotel what we would now call a boutique country house hotel.

When he asked if I would like to come to the ball, to say I was ecstatic was an understatement.

A small problem of what to wear was a minor detail.   Something would turn up and it did.   My boss and her sister went through their wardrobes.   Something like the fairy godmother for Cinderella and we came up with an A line cocktail dress with a wide skirt.   The sort you wore with lots of petticoats.   I remember raiding the huge larder for bags of sugar to starch them with.    The colour of the dress was a cross between a light blue and turquoise in a silky taffeta material.  Shoes were found at the bottom of some enormous wardrobe and they almost matched the colour.   my first pair of nylon stockings was bought with my weeks wages and I had my hair done.  Helen my boss's sister did my nails.   Mr Beard the big farmer and his wife came to pick me up and guarded me all evening in the most discreet way.    I was introduced to all the table in the most natural way to all the farming bigwigs and the sons and daughters also.   Mrs Beard showed me where the powder room was and made sure I enjoyed myself.   I can still remember this large round table with the afore mentioned opulence.
The menu was for starter's a huge prawn cocktail and some sort of cream chicken dish but this is all I remember.   I do remember feeling a cross between a Princess and Cinderella.   We danced the Scottish reels and I recall the hefty farm boys stomping around getting completely tangled up and some of us girls lost with  complicated dance steps.   The Waltz was wonderful and gave me the Princess feeling again.   Before we left, I recall having my photo taken at the foot of the magnificent sweeping staircase which I must have somewhere amongst my photo albums.
Shortly after midnight Cinderella was duly taken back to the stud farm by Mr and Mrs Beard and I was on cloud nine for days afterwards.

EVE

I looked at the devastation caused by Katrina and was shocked,my dogs as well.I just got off duty,raced home to check the damages,it was beyond belief,a moon scape.People were walking around like zombies,the silence was deafening but for the helicopters above,assessing the damage.I stood in front of the remains of my lovely house,my belongins strewn all over the neighborood.I couldn't cry,just stood there and taking it all in,the dogs were upset,looking at me,ears twitching.I walked to Sandy's house,left a note on the door telling her I was at the Gulf Hills Hotel. We had 9 feet of water in the house which was built on a 13feet bluff,my car was full of water,all the doors, walls were gone everything destroyed,some of my furniture was  down the road,the trees were full of paper,flying in the wind saw a Santa Claus,dolls etc etc Some people died at the end of the street,refusing to evacuate,still I felt no real emotion,like a walking dead.The heat was unbelievable,about 40 degrees,100% hum idity.I looked a last time at my garden,nothing left,so much time spent working there.I went to the hotel where all the resident of Gulf Hills had been invited to stay. No other place to go, no water,electricity,  noAC and wearing the only clothes I had on my back.I started to think about the things I lost,pictures,clothes my purses and shoes etc. Went back to the jail,talked to the ,Sheriff, in a daze himself,told him my story,got some deputy clothes and kept my patrol car.They didn't see me for a week since I had to patrol the neiborhood because of looters and I was the only cop around.Everybody was armed and ready and drinking a lot,they all went back to their distroyed houses,salvaged the booze and bought it back to the hotel.    Unless you have been in such a situation you just can't picture it.We were all damaged by Katrina and it seems like yesterday, flashbacks etc I miss the states and MS but I don't think I could live through an other disaster like it. And sleeping in a room with 5 people and 2 German Sheperds was a bit much after a while.