This is why we celebrate Christmas and we should rejoice because, for those that believe, the birth of that baby set us free.
I have been reading Jane Brocket’s book The Gentle Art of Domesticity and she has written a chapter on vintage embroidery and the ubiquitous crinoline lady of the 1930s. I remember my grandmother Minnie still using this pattern in the 1950s and when I recently cleared my mother’s home I came across some pieces of my grandmother’s work that she had saved. These are now conserved in the family archive.
The pieces in the photograph were given to me by a friend and they are a charity shop find. I would say they probably date from the 1950s and how sad they are no longer with their family. I don’t want to cut them up but I’m frightened to use them in case they get stained. But what to do with them?! I feel they were made to be used and although the stitcher is probably no longer with us perhaps the greatest complement to them would be to use them so their work will be admired.
I’ve just spent a delightful morning helping out at a local Christmas Fair. The event, organised by Sarah Baxter at St Hughes Church, Baildon, was organised to raise funds to support disadvantaged people in the local community. This building is used as a community centre and offers space for services and groups that meet the needs of families living close by as well as supporting the local primary school and organising a food bank. What would we do without this kind of local support.
Though I must admit it was rather like stepping back in time to my childhood when events like this were commonplace and looked forward to. I can remember being given a small amount of money and let loose to spend it on whatever I wanted. This meant I was very choosy and took ages before I parted with my money. One of my favourite games was a sand tray filled with eggs. Now the vast majority of the eggs had been ‘blown’ and were therefore empty but if you picked up one that was hard boiled you won a prize. I also loved the ‘bran tub’ because this meant you won a prize every time. The prizes were only ever little trinkets but the thrill of delving around in the sawdust to find a wrapped gift, squishing and squeezing it to try and work out what it was before pulling it from the tub because once in the open air this was the gift you were committed to. I don’t ever remember being disappointed.
So today was a lovely day and I manned the book stall that from the off was incredibly busy with both adults and children buying books. I just love the sense of community with volunteers from the church and craft group and the local residents coming along to support their efforts. This is community spirit at its best.
And Father Christmas – even if it is only mid November!
The woman in the centre of this photograph is my mother pictured here with her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. This image, taken nearly ten years ago, shows a woman in the autumn of her life. She was in her early eighties, independent, still enjoying life, content in widowhood, a model of growing old gracefully.
Last week she left hospital to become a resident in a nursing home. No longer deemed to have capacity to make her own decisions the state took over. Before a minor heart attack and fall at the beginning of July she was frail but with the support of an exceptional care team she had been able to continue living in her own home.
My mum’s house was her palace. It was a simple two bedroom semi on a local authority housing estate but when we moved in in December 1961 it was brand new with an indoor toilet, bathroom and running hot water and, from my mum’s point of view the best thing, we were not sharing it with any other family. My mother loved her home, spent hours cleaning and looking after it, caring for her family was her work.
And now, in the space of three months, it is gone. The place that had been a constant, my parent’s home, the place of celebrations and refuge, no longer available to any of us. Filled with guilt my sister and I have cleared the house, emptied it completely and handed the keys back to the housing association.
And the worse thing is my mother does not know. How can we tell her that her home has gone forever, that her stay in the nursing home is not a temporary measure until she is well, that behind her back we have taken away the place that holds all her memories of my father, her children, her grandchildren. I always assumed that we would do this when she died, the last task we would perform for her. Somehow this feels worse.
The nursing home is lovely, she isn’t left on her own anymore, the staff are caring and she seems to be settling in well. So her immediate well being has been addressed. She is safe, warm, well fed, and yet……
I suppose for all people part of our maturing is to go through stages in our lives and this is just another stage on our journey. The cared for becomes caregiver, a reversal of roles.
My mother appears to be happy and content again and not once has she asked about her home. Nature has been kind perhaps but it’s sad she doesn’t seem to have any memories of the house and it’s her family that mourn its loss and more importantly the woman she once was.
Autumn comes early in the Aire Valley. Just as spring and summer start a month later the autumn arrives in mid August.
You can smell the start of decay in the gardens not helped by the ubiquitous overnight rain and heavy morning dew.
As you look across the valley from the park into Trench Wood the tops of the trees are beginning to turn colour.
This morning is humid and warm but the valley is shrouded in mist and the tops of the hills aren’t visible.
Welcome to the autumn – the season of mist and mellow fruitfulness.
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I had dreamt of what retirement would be. Would I be a powerhouse of volunteering, would I become a lady who lunched, would I rise at daybreak and spend my days in the garden, would I start new hobbies, rekindle old interests, read! Well, I can honestly say that it is all those things and much much more. I have worked since I was fifteen years old and did my forty-seven years so please don’t tell me my state pension is a ‘benefit’. I’m now enjoying all those years of hard work. May they continue for many years to come.
The photo is of a quilt top I’m working on for a secret present shhh. The pattern is Miss Butterfly by Janet Clare.
I have discovered that traveling at night, well in the early hours, is the best way to get from Yorkshire to London and back again.
By leaving between 2am and 4am the M1 is delightfully quiet with very few cars and lorries. A trip that can take five hours for a trouble free daytime journey can be reduced to 4 hours of empty road, easy overtaking and stress free driving as it once must have been before the roads became so congested.
Traveling this way means I don’t need to stop so I can’t describe the services at night. I admit I wouldn’t be that keen on stopping as the sight of a ‘getting on in years’ solitary female might raise a few eyebrows though I doubt I would have any problems. However, it is the fact that I can travel 250 miles without stopping that appeals.
So there are no amusing anecdotes about night time travel, no wry observations, just the pleasure of a long journey made easier by the lack of traffic that I wanted to share and to act as a reminder to myself that driving at night is not difficult and so much better than the nose to tail congestion of daytime motoring.
It’s the early hours of the morning here in Baildon, West Yorkshire and I’m sitting in bed listening to the wind driving the rain against the bedroom window. I used to think we had weather in London but here it is magnified, more intense, more defined, just more of it.
When I look across the garden at the trees on the bank in Midgeley Woods I can see the uppermost leaves starting to change colour yet the garden is still fecund and full of life. In the south it would be looking tired and ready to be put to bed for the year, not because the weather is any colder but because it would have given up the fight against the heat and drought, the artificial watering to keep it alive. Here spring then summer come late but the garden continues well into the autumn with plants coming into flower for the second time or flowering first time round. Okay, it’s been particularly mild for September but I have noticed this in other years since I have been here.
And when will the first frosts arrive? Well not for a few days at least according to the five day forecast. Only then will I change my containers from the summer to the winter bedding display. The greenhouse is registering temperatures in the upper twenties and not dropping below ten at night. The pelargoniums are still in full flower looking fresh and green if a bit top heavy and this is a problem with the autumn winds that have arrived today.
I will just have to get my head around the way the seasons start and finish later being content to not rush the winter in until it is ready. But it’s October in a few days and the nights are already longer than the days. It won’t be long before the earth will be iron hard with frost.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness – I embrace you.