A Grimsby Fisherman's Wife, Mrs Ethel Richardson

 Dear Reader,

I have been reading this week from The Spectator magazine an article about what makes us fat.  Those of us who are.  I have been tackling weight problems all my life and although some of the diets have worked and some have not, in the end after a few months, I am back where I started.  But finally at the age of eighty I have discovered what I must do to loose weight easily and not return to former size.  I bought a book about calories, every food you could possibly imagine is listed.  And all you have to do is find out how many calories you can eat each day for weight loss.  I can only eat 700 calories each day which is bad luck as I know women are supposed to eat 2000 calories a day to be healthy and thin.  Well I have now lost one and a half stone and counting.  Give it a try if you feel overweight.  It really works.

                                                                        *

On September 1st, 1800, from Grasmere, S.T. Coleridge wrote 

'The beards of thistle and dandelions flying above the lonely mountains like life, and I saw them thro' the trees skimming the lake like swallows.'

On September 1st, 1823, William Cobbett in Kent wrote:

'From Tenterden I set off at five o'clock, and got to Appledore afer a most delightful ride, the highland upon my right, and the low land upon my left.  The fog was so thick and white along some of the low land,that I should have taken it for water, if little hills and trees had not risen up through it here and there.'

                                                                        *

 

 A Grimsby Fisherman’s Wife

Mrs. Ethel Richardson

 

 

 

During the day she knitted

her life into rough wool sweaters.

Fear of north east gales,

- more forecast -

fear of no return,

and Friday night beatings,

were turned with a collar,

stitched with sober wools.

Knit one, purl one.

 

Men known to her, sea-taken;

the grief of loss for

a babe or two; and

winter storms and

treacherous rocks that

albatrossed a fisherman’s life,

were knitted into sleeves,

into polo necks.

Knit one, purl one.

 

At night from her narrow bed,

she knitted dreams of exotic places

warm from the southern sun.

She danced on beaches, cockle-free

and knitted love

into her dream sweaters,

with wools, brightly coloured;

corals, blues, pinks, and red.

By night she knitted pumpkins.

Knit one, pearl one.

 

 

*

 

 

With very best wishes, Patricia.

 

Photograph by Nikki Moran.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

 

 

 

Praise

 

 

Dear Reader,

 I really love this photograph.  It seems to me that the 'open road' and its possibilities are what we all, at some time in our lives, long for.  A way out of where we are.  I have often read about people who spend their lives dreaming of a cottage in the country with roses round the door.  But I suspect very few people get one and their life is a bit of a disappointment as a result.  

I think all the characters in my favourite books live down the road in this photograph, and can imagine Mr.Toad in his yellow caravan just round the bend.  Ratty and Mole will probably be walking alongside to keep Mr. Toad company and, of course, to keep him under control.

                                                                                *

 

From Gilbert White, 1787, August 26th in Hampshire.

'Timothy the tortoise, who has spent the last two months amidst the umbrageous forests of asparagus-beds, begins now to be sensible of the chilly autumnal mornings; and therefore suns himself under the laurel-hedge, into which he retires at night.  He is become sluggish, and does not seem to take any food.'

From William Cobbett, 1826, August 28th in Wiltshire.

'(Five a.m.) A very fine morning.....My horse is ready; and the rooks have just gone off to the stubble fields.  These rooks rob the pigs; but they have a right to do it.  I wonder (upon my soul I do) that there is no lawyer, Scotchman, or Parson-Judge, to propose a law to punish the rooks for trespass.'

   

 

                                                                               *

Praise

She always tried to be good
did her best in everything she did
but her best wasn't good enough

her mother was too busy
meeting drinking friends
her father didn't notice
he was too busy making films

and they didn't seem
to know about praise

but praise is so easy to give
and so difficult to get
why can't people see that
a word or two can change
a whole life view

can turn a bad black day
into a day to remember
when your heart fills
with love and thanks                                                    *

With best wishes, Patricia 

 

Photograph taken by Nikki Moran.

I glimpsed a child

 

 

                                                                      Iraqi children

Dear Reader,

 

The hot weather this week was too much for me.  I shut all the curtains and blinds and sat in the sitting room in the virtual dark, with a fan on. I don't think the great heat suits the make up of some English people. For myself I never sit in the sun but if its rays do descend on me, I simply get red blotches and a headache.  So I was very glad when the thunderstorms came and with them the rain and it got cooler.  I can imagine what people waiting for the monsoons feel and why they are so delighted when the rains finally come.

                                                                                      *

I wrote today's poem when I read about the appalling time the Iraqi refugee children were having, with little food and often without parents, who had died or disappeared. I often thought about them and swear I saw one in my kitchen, she seemed so real to me.

                                                                                       *

From Dorothy Wordsworth's journal, August 22nd 1800 in Westmorland 

 'Very cold.  Baking in the morning, gathered pea seeds and took up - lighted a fire upstairs....Wind very high shaking the corn.' 

                                                                                        *

I glimpsed a child 

on the kitchen chair

feet dangling 

legs swinging

 

large brown eyes stared

from a dusty pale face

she didn't smile or speak

 

about seven years old I thought

Syrian perhaps or Iraqi

her clothes once pink and green

now mud stained and torn

 

her silver bracelets sparkling

in the sunlight

 

I made her Moroccan mint tea

offered her cake

kissed her cold cheek

dried her tears

 

I fetched more sugar

but on return I saw

the chair was empty

the child gone

dissolved in the morning air

 

                                                                              *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia

Beach Mirror

Dear Reader

It seems to be a truism that everybody loves being on a beach. Something about the sea speaks to us and we are drawn to it. I used to spend the summer holidays on the beaches of North Norfolk and fell in love with that beautiful and special part of the world. To get to the beach I particularly liked there was a fairly long walk over the dykes to get there. So of course there were very few people about and I could enjoy a large sandy beach having climbed over the dunes which were in abundance. The poem I have put on the blog this week is very much something that happens to me, even today, when a young mother walks by me on a beach with her three children, reminding me of myself a long time ago. We were due to go to Lyme Regis in May but of course the holiday had to be cancelled due to you know what. Still we have booked again in September so with luck we will be able to go there and enjoy the lovely town and seaside.

*

From Dorothy Wordsworth, 1800 in Westmorland

'Rain in the night. I tied up scarlet beans, nailed the honeysuckles, etc etc.....I pulled a large basket of peas...
A very cold evening."

From Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1877 in Devon

'Pretty farmyard - thatch casting sharp shadow on White-wash in the sun, and a village rising beyond, all in a comb; sharp shadows, bright clouds; sea striped with purple.

Beach Mirror

I see myself, a young woman,
recognize the long skirt,
the three blonde children,
one on her hip,
two holding her hands,
all laughing, hugging, arguing,
her hair dancing in the wind.

Swirling thoughts about time past
consume me.
I kick at pebbles,
pick up oyster shells,
gaze at the everlasting point between sea and sky.

I have aged, certainly,
but, feeling the warmth of the sun,
watching the sea and the tides,
it seems these things,
are ever the same as they were,
all those years ago.

*

Very best wishes, Patricia

Spring Fair

Dear Reader,

One of my young daughters, back from India, came to a country fair with me.  The fair was in Herefordshire, by the river Wye and we were to have stayed in a B&B in the local town.  But having wandered about the fair for an hour or two, the daughter probably thought it would be more fun without her mother on her arm, and left me.  I spent the night, worrying in the B&B, and the daughter came back at breakfast.  When questioned of her whereabouts the night before she said she had slept by the river

till dawn broke.  Ah well...we were all young once.

                                                                                    *

I have been reading about the start of WW II, and the Duke of Windsor's abdication, so that he could marry a twice divorced American woman called Wallis Simpson.  It is a true story of passion, and all that goes with it, especially if you were born to be a king, and decided you didn't want the role.  They married and were exiled to France.  They were very spoilt and snobbish and I would think thoroughly unpleasant.  They went to stay with some friends outside Paris who already had gardeners, gamekeepers, twenty-four indoor servants and a butler but that wasn't enough for Wallis.  She wanted a pastry cook, sous-chef and a scullery boy, a second butler and footman, four maids and two charwomen, five laundrywomen, more gardeners and extra chauffeur, a telephonist, a number of golf-course workers and a gatekeeper.

I find it difficult to imagine their lives.  I used to have a cleaner who came in once a fortnight to hoover mainly but sadly I had to ask her not to return whilst lockdown was in force.   And so now Francis and I do everything in the house and in the garden.  And we are perfectly happy, laugh a lot and enjoy ourselves.

I wonder if they were happy with their lives, but I imagine not.

Wallis is purported to have said:  'You can never be too thin or too rich.'   What a ghastly woman.

                                                                                  *

Spring Fair

The young girl

and her mother, holding hands,

hurry down the hill

where the bright lights beckon,

see the big dippers hurtling,

painted horses swirling, yellow

swing boats diving, swooping,

smell the grease and diesel

hear the loud beat of music,

the children's screams.

Young men of the fair

long-haired, dark, a little wild,

eye the girls with bright,

knowing looks.

The air if full of restlessness, of quickening,

an urgency to act,

before the end of the night,

when morning light will move them on.

Dusk falls, the young girl drops her mother's hand,

stirred by the primal desire of early spring.

Running silently she disappears into the night, eager,

to share what ancient fires of life can bring.

                                                                                 *

With very best wishes, Patricia