Sunday 25 June 2017

Beach Mirror

Dear Reader,




                                                                                      Carpet bags




 On June 24th, 1874,  Francis Kilvert wrote in his journal  : 'Went to London by the 11.5 mail.  I left my carpet-bag at the Paddington Cloak Room and went straight to the Academy exhibition at Burlington House which I reached shortly before 4 o'clock.  There was a great press of people, 100 or more, round Miss Thompson's famous picture  'Calling the Roll after the battle of Inkerman'.  A policeman stands on duty all day by this picture from 10 o'clock till 6 in the evening saying, "Move on ladies.  Ladies, please move on".  I met Teddy in the Exhibition and we dined together at the Criterion.  Not a bed to be got at the Great Western Hotel, so I put up at the Norfolk.'

The carpet bag is a travelling bag made of carpet, usually from an oriental rug.  It was a popular form of luggage in the United states and Europe in the 19th century.  Invented as a type of baggage light enough for a passenger to carry, like a duffle bag, as opposed to a wooden or metal trunk which required the assisstance of porters.   In 1886, the "Scientific Amercan" described it as old-fashioned and reliable:  the carpet bag "is still unsurpassed by any, where rough wear is the principal to be studied.  Such a bag, if constructed of good Brussels carpeting and unquestionable workmanship, will last a lifetime provided always that a substantial frame is used."  I would love to own a carpet bag, it looks so exotic, beautiful, and beckons me to romantic places I would like to visit.

                                                                            *
The latest news on the seagulls misbehaviour is that they have been swooping on children at a school in North Wales, frightening them and their parents.  However, they need not worry unduly as the local council is "looking into it".
                                                                             *


Beach Mirror

I see myself, a young woman,
recognize the long skirt,
the three blonde children,
one on her hip,
two holding 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 gone by.
                                                                             *


Very best wishes, Patricia




Sunday 18 June 2017

Not One of Us

Dear Reader,

                                                                                     Greensleeves


I have read numerous articles about boarding school lately, and all its horrors. An author and journalist, Alex Rankin, has written a book called "Stiff Upper Lip" which tells numerous tales of woe, of beatings, of cruelty, of bullying, of not having enough to eat and the dreadful homesickness felt by the boys, and years later by the girls, when they were sent to boarding school.

I was sent to boarding school when I was seven and stayed at different ones until I was sixteen.  On the whole they were enormously unpleasant but by far the worst one was a convent I went to aged eleven, situated in Paris.  It was grim and cold and the nuns were strict and cruel.  I always thought after reading "Jane Eyre" that the Lowood Institution for poor girls, would have been almost civilized compared to my convent.  I slept in a dormitory with about forty other girls and we were allowed a bath once a fortnight.  A nun slept with us to see we couldn't escape, I assume, and morning prayers were at 6.30 am in the freezing chapel.

After getting very ill I was brought back to England and sent to a school in Ascot, Berkshire.  I did make a friend there so it wasn't so horrible as the last three I had been to, but I left with few happy memories of childhood, the teens, and boarding school.

                                                                            *

My husband is now out of Intensive Care and, Thanks Be to God, seems to be on the mend.  The last few weeks have been frightening and horrific, but the sun shines today and hope springs again in my heart.

                                                                            *

Not One of Us

A small figure at school in
a hot, strange land.  The
children left her alone,
she didn't speak their language
or know their games or rules.
She was not one of them.

Winter now and an English
boarding school, where the rules
were known, but not by her.
She was clumsy, wore spectacles,
couldn't tie her tie, dropped the netball,
couldn't master dance steps gracefully
to the music of "Greensleeves",
was not as asset, wouldn't do.
She was not one of them.

She simply asked,
why do the safely-grounded
hear the beat of a terrified heart
and seek to silence it?  Is the beat
too loud, something not understood,
something to frighten?
Are things better when the group
destroys the alien in it midst?

She never knew,
she was not one of them.

                                                                                *

With best wishes, Patricia

Saturday 10 June 2017

Realization

Dear Reader,
                                                                   Patricia Huth Ellis

                                                          
This week I will not be writing a blog, just a few words and a poem.  My husband has been taken ill and is in hospital battling for life.  We never know, do we, what is round the corner, as they say.  Enjoy every moment because life is precious, and short.

                                                                                  *

Realization

I am
part of the whole.

I am
in the first light,
the bird's first song,
the sun's first dart
through he curtain crack,
in the music of summer trees.

I am
part of the alpha,
the birth,
the awakening,
the growing and spreading,
the throbbing of life.

I am part of all suffering
hands blood-stained.
Part of the love
humanity shares and
of all good things.

I am
part of the omega,
the closing, the last light,
the call back from the dark
to the bright, eternal night.

                                                                              *

With best wishes, Patricia

Sunday 4 June 2017

Attic trunk

Dear Reader,
                                                                                   Vintage postcards


Postcards became popular at the turn of the 20th century, especially for sending short messages to friends, and were quickly acquired by collectors of pop culture, photography, and wartime memorabilia or local history.  Novelty postcards were made using wood, aluminium, copper or cork.  Silk postcards, often embroidered over a printed image, were wrapped around cardboard and sent in see-through glassine paper envelopes; these were especially popular during World War I.  In the 1930s and l940s postcards were printed on brightly coloured paper designed to look like linen.  In 1903, when the postcard cult was near its peak, the number sent through the post had grown nearly ten times since 1871, when the total had staggered the Post Office.  The total sent that year was over 600 million.  In 1905 alone it was estimated that the post offices of the world coped with over seven billion postcards!

I am really sad that postcards hardly ever fall through my letter box these days.  I did so enjoy getting postcards from friends in all sorts of strange places, and not so strange.  There was something very exciting about seeing a card on the mat, and wondering who had thought about you and from where.  And then there were the 'potential lover' cards so much looked forward to, and perused over and over again - perhaps to find some hidden meaning in the words about the weather, or the enjoyment of a book they had taken with them.  Emails, I think, are not the same at all; you can't pick them up and put them on the mantlepiece or place them under your pillow as I did with some of the postcards I received.

                                                                           *


Attic Trunk

Searching through her mother's attic trunk
she recognized a dusty, broken cricket bat,
saw a tiny knotted shawl that must have shrunk
and a youthful photo of Aunt Dora, looking fat.
She found silver shoes wrapped in a crimson gypsy skirt
and a purple box housing a worn-thin wedding ring,
a Spanish fan trimmed with lace and a grandad shirt
embracing faded love letters, tied with ageing string.
From sepia postcards she studied unknown folk,
and pulled out, lovingly, a greasy-tweed cloth cap,
her father's penny whistle, a badger carved from oak,
and brass rubbings, rolled up in a parchment map.
Precious things we keep are candles on our life's tree,
their discovery tells secret stories, provides a key.

                                                                            
                                                                               *

With best wishes, Patricia