Author: farleyrose59

Biting the Dentist’s Finger

farleyrose59 5 Comments
alan_rickman

Photo: Marie-Lan Nguyen

It must be a relief to the Queen to have got to New Year’s Day, and Paul McCartney is surely feeling thankful, too. Many other familiar figures haven’t been so fortunate this year and I for one, will particularly miss Alan Rickman and Leonard Cohen. But making it to the finish line of 2016 is no protection against the inescapable process of ageing, and Buckingham Palace recently announced that the Queen is reducing her workload. It came as a surprise because she has been monarch for so long, but to step down as patron from just twenty-five of her six hundred favoured organisations, seems entirely reasonable— in her ninety-first year, she of all people has earned the right to slow down a bit.

This year, the ageing process has had a big impact on my own family and I’ve written previously (The Old Man and the Pea, Enhanced Eating, Beginning, Middle and End), about the 96-year old gentleman who lived for many months in my sitting room. This July he became my father-in-law and a few months later we moved to the house that was refurbished with his needs in mind. The garage has been converted into a bedroom and separate wet room for him, but sadly he has been unable to make much use of them. A brain bleed in the summer exacerbated his confusion, and by the time we moved, he had descended into dementia with disturbed nights, falls and agitation. This autumn it became clear that we could no longer cope, and he went to live in a nursing home a few miles away. We’ve had inevitable moments of sadness and doubt but we know that he needs professional care, from trained staff who have all the right equipment and can care for him around the clock.

frank3

We visit regularly but the variability of his condition means that we never know what to expect. Some days he is unable to walk and the carers use a hoist to move him. On other days, he sets off down the corridor at quite a speed, a small white-haired figure hunched purposefully over his walking frame. There have been occasions when we’ve sat with him and he has barely responded; some when he has produced long fluent-sounding sentences that make no sense, and others when he has been chatty and business-like as if trying to regain some control over his life. ‘Now, what’s going on?’ he asked briskly on a recent visit, ‘Are we waiting for the paperwork?’

At the moment he is fairly lucid and can recite long stretches of the poetry that he learned over seventy-five years ago as a young man. But it’s all rather patchy and he couldn’t make much sense of the recent festivities. ‘I’m having trouble placing Christmas. It’s some kind of religious thing, isn’t it?’

christmas-bauble

The good days are to be treasured and sometimes he dredges up surprising memories. I was sitting with him a few weeks ago, when he told me a story about his sister, Betty: ‘The dentist stuck his finger in her mouth, and she nearly took the end of it off. The police wanted to prosecute…’ ‘How old was she?’ I asked, unsure whether I should be conjuring up an image of a naughty 6-year old or a skittish pensioner. But he couldn’t remember and that was the end of the story. ‘Where is she now?’ he asked.  ‘She died,’ I said and then regretted being blunt, as he looked so sad—like he was hearing the news for the very first time.

Not only do we see a lot of Frank, but we’re becoming familiar with the other nursing home residents, too. We try to make polite conversation but usually get little response. One old lady sits at the dining table in baggy clothes, with her hands tidily in her lap. She has club-cut, chin-length grey hair and when we say hello, she stares at us. ‘What’s my name?’ she whispers in quiet desperation.

hands

It’s reassuring that we turn up unannounced at different times of day and the home is always the same. The staff seem kind and the cook told us recently that Frank asked for apple pie, so she made a little one, just for him. He’s not sure where he is, but does acknowledge that he’s well looked after.

I’ve learned a lot from Frank. I’ve heard his stories of being in the Army during the war, of being in Burma, and of building a successful career in South Africa. He achieved the highest marks in the country in his engineering maths exams, and he raised a clutch of good, kind children. Yet it seems extraordinary to me that until he came into my life, I’d lived for fifty-six years with virtually no exposure to this world of age-related decline. My own parents didn’t live long enough for that. It’s frequently hidden away behind the doors of nursing homes but it’s increasingly likely to have an impact on all of us in one way or another. Recently, dementia overtook heart disease as the leading cause of death in England and Wales.

Over the past year, more than ever, life seems to be galloping along so I want to make hay while it’s sunny. I read recently that one reason why time seems to go faster as we age is that we have fewer novel experiences. Repetition and routine simply don’t stand out in our memories. Last January I resolved not to feel guilty and for some of the time I managed to keep this sentiment in mind. Now it’s time for another resolution and there are still a number of treats waiting on my list. Amongst other things, I hope to visit St Petersburg and Dublin, to do some family history research, to listen to more of the top 100 albums, and to continue walking the glorious South-West Coastal Footpath. There’s nothing I can do to slow time down and no-one, except Benjamin Button ever got any younger. But maybe…just maybe…with a few new experiences it might be more of a trot and less of a gallop.

Happy New Year.

new-year-2017

How to Eat Your Christmas Tree

farleyrose59 2 Comments

lanzarote1

Last week we escaped the December chill and snatched a week in Lanzarote. It had never particularly appealed to me, but it turned out to be a strange, unearthly place, and we loved it. Volcanic eruptions have shaped the island and at least a quarter of it is covered in bare, craggy lava. We walked along the black sands of secluded coves, ate in a restaurant where the food is barbecued over a volcano, and descended deep into the earth to explore cathedral-like caves. The more predictable pleasures were the golden beaches, the warm ocean and the delicious Spanish food. As I write this I’m remembering that this time last week I was in a summer dress, squeezing lemon over a plate of superbly fresh fish, and watching the surfers ride the breakers.

But all good things must come to an end and my attempts to forget the Christmas preparations were dashed on the plane coming home. I flicked through the EasyJet magazine and came across an article about the Italian food laboratory, Wood*ing. It does research into wild food and had some unusual suggestions for festive delicacies; in particular, how to make good use of your Christmas tree. I learned that the needles are ‘citrussy and bitter’ and can be used in place of rosemary; that pine cones are ‘perfect for making soup’; that the sap can be ‘whisked into risotto or pasta’; the inner trunk can be dried out and ground into baking flour, and most exciting of all I discovered that you can boil fresh bark with salt and oil to make a ‘tasty broth’.

christmas-tree-1

Hmmm, I’m not sure about that. Our family Christmas has tended towards the traditional. For many years, Christmas lunch had a fixed formula: turkey, roast potatoes, roast parsnips, sausage and bacon rolls, carrots, peas, Brussels sprouts, stuffing, bread sauce, gravy, Christmas pudding, mince pies, brandy butter and cream. Always followed by a family walk into the dying daylight, and games in the evening. We stuck to this rigidly because it was our own particular way of doing things; our set family culture. But when I met my new husband and we took our first steps towards becoming a blended step-family we faced some challenges. Not unreasonably, they had their set way of doing things too. Family culture is a strong force. It’s about familiarity and security, and it’s also an expression of identity.

Last year was the first time that we celebrated together as a new family and my husband and I tried to find ways to keep both styles of Christmas alive. But it was much harder than we anticipated and whatever we suggested resulted in someone feeling hard done by. We struggled to decide what to do about this unavoidable need to adjust, and then hit upon what we thought was a brilliant idea. Instead of clinging to the old, we would start to make a new family culture and do something completely different: a Christmas curry. Everyone concerned enjoys spicy food, and it would provide an opportunity to make lots of different dishes spanning a range of tastes and dietary restrictions. And given that these restrictions include gluten-free, dairy-free, potato-free, cashew-free, orange-free, and meat-free, then this seemed an excellent solution. Unfortunately not everyone agreed. Initially, our suggestion triggered mutiny and we were flummoxed, but the upset did settle down eventually and the alternative lunch was a big success.

curry

This year our main family gathering will be on December the twenty-third, as that’s the day that we can all make. We wondered about doing curry again but were inspired by our recent holiday and so 2016 is going to be a Spanish Christmas. Everyone can help with the preparation of tapas and I want to recreate the fried Padron peppers that we enjoyed, softly green and bitter and sprinkled with sea salt. There will also be a fishy paella, and then almond cake and even some turron ice-cream if I get myself organised.

I can’t pretend that change has been easy. I was comfortably set in my ways and six years ago if anyone had told me that my life would be so different now then I would have been appalled and scared. There has undoubtedly been loss, but there has also been a great deal of gain. Our family is unexpectedly enhanced. We have welcomed new members, and they have welcomed us. And now that we are establishing different grooves I’m enjoying the challenges of responding to the new. After all, it’s not just second marriages that throw up these complications; family culture changes naturally anyway, as children grow up and introduce partners into the mix.

paella

Right now, there’s plenty to do. The sunny memories of our lovely holiday are fading and instead my head is crammed with Christmas lists. Amongst the many ‘to-dos’ is the thought that we’ve got no decorations up yet and several rooms are still cluttered with half-unpacked boxes from our move. I want it to be a special celebration this year as it’s our first married Christmas and the first in our new home. If that’s going to happen then I need to get busy as we have a full house from Thursday evening.

And there’s a particular problem to solve—where to put the Christmas tree. With so many people in the house, there’s not a lot of room. Perhaps we’ll just have to eat it, after all.

christmas-greetings

Retuning

farleyrose59 2 Comments

music-2

A couple of months ago, I realised that even though I love music, my range is embarrassingly limited. I’ve never knowingly listened to a Bruce Springsteen album all the way through, or a Velvet Underground, or a Leonard Cohen, or even a Bob Dylan. And as with other things recently, I’ve been getting that nagging feeling that life runs out eventually and I want to colour in some of the pictures before it’s too late.

I’m not sure how these huge omissions happened. Music was with me all the time as a teenager but then I got involved in other things, and it got buried under marriage, work, and raising children and goats. I forgot who I was in so many ways.

music-3

When I was young, it was all about being the same as everyone else. I listened to Pink Floyd, Focus, Cat Stephens, and The Moody Blues, and loved them. But I couldn’t admit to my friends that I also loved the quirky wit, spectacular timing and fabulous orchestration of Frank Sinatra. And years later when the children developed their own musical interests, they were decidedly prescriptive about what we could listen to.

Now I want to know what I like.

So, I’ve started out on a project to broaden my knowledge and as usual I’ve turned to a list for support. I looked at several but opted in the end for Channel 4’s 100 Greatest Music Albums. It offered just what I was looking for, which was a wide range of styles and lots of different artists. I could get into many arguments about the order of the list, the omissions and inclusions but to do so is to miss the point. There are more than 37 million songs on iTunes and that’s a fraction of those available in the world. Where would I start without a bit of guidance?

music-4

I began with Number 1 and so far have listened through to Number 10. I’m fully intending to get to Number 100. My initial look at the list was enough to identify it as being what I wanted but then I instantly forgot what was on it apart from the first and last (OK Computer by Radiohead, and Dare by the Human League). So an added bonus is that each step is a surprise. When I’m ready for the next one, I email my son, who looks it up for me. And as he’s knowledgeable about music it’s fun to chat with him about what I discover. It’s a semi-shared treat.

So far it’s done exactly what I’d hoped for. It’s challenged my prejudices and filled in some gaps. I struggled a bit with Radiohead. They sounded dark and dystopian. But I persevered and after a few days I realised that I was humming something unfamiliar. It was one of the more challenging tracks and somehow it had got under my skin and infiltrated my brain. In his book, 31 Songs, Nick Hornby writes about ‘courting a new song’. And that’s just how it feels. There’s an initial wariness and then sometimes I fall in love unexpectedly and can’t get the new song out of my head. It becomes what he describes as a ‘narcotic need’ to hear it again and again. But it’s a harmless need, and as he says, it’s ‘one that’s easily satisfied.’

Since then I’ve given time to U2, Nirvana, Michael Jackson, Oasis, and Madonna. I won’t burden you with all the details, other than to say that I’ve fallen in love with a few songs but liked U2 least. I enjoyed renewing my acquaintance with Dark Side of the Moon, Sergeant Pepper and Revolver but as I know them all inside out and back to front they were too much within my comfort zone to give me what I want right now.

music-5

When Henry told me that Number 9 was Appetite for Destruction by Guns ‘n Roses I sighed and wondered why I would put myself through listening to something that is so clearly outside my taste. But that’s where I was wrong. At first it sounded awful but gradually the miraculous process happened. I was making the bed and found I was humming one of their tracks complete with swear words and brief stops for a head bang.

I never know what’s going to come up next: soul…reggae…country…rock…grunge…folk…rap… It’s addictive. Every time I find a new song to love, I can’t believe there will be another one but there always is. And as with books, places, films and people, it’s not always the ones I expect to like, who worm their way into my heart. That’s one of the things that makes it so rewarding.

A Truth That Should Be Universally Acknowledged

farleyrose59 5 Comments

 

anti-trump_demonstration

Photo: Anthony Albright

A few weeks ago I completed something that has been on my list for a long time — reading all of Jane Austen’s novels. I’ve written previously about the trouble I had in getting through Mansfield Park, but on the fifth attempt I managed to finish it and surprised myself by liking it best of all. For those who are similarly list-minded, then Emma came in at number two.

Having done that, I decided to round off my treat by having an indulgent morning out, visiting her home in the village of Chawton. It’s where she wrote and published most of her novels, and I enjoyed the twenty-mile drive through Hampshire countryside with its great sweeping fields stretched out red-gold in the late autumn sunshine. It’s an intimate little house and I spent a gentle, but interesting couple of hours there delving around in the relics of her life and watching a short film. In one of the rooms, I stood next to a small round table where she wrote, and I read that a nearby door had a useful creak, granting time to hide her manuscript whenever anyone approached. I learned, too, that by the time she left school at just eleven, she’d already been sent away to schools in Oxford, Southampton and Reading.

chawton

Photo: Colin Park

Afterwards, at the café, opposite, I sat outside with a warming bowl of vegetable chilli, and my hands cupped around a large coffee. It was a still moment in an otherwise busy week, and I reflected on some of the things I’d learned from reading these novels. So much was unfamiliar. This was a rigid world where the simple act of wearing pearls or diamonds in the morning could result in being labelled a woman of questionable moral virtue. Genteel society allowed for morning calls with the presentation of a visiting card left on a special tray, but these calls were short, with typically just fifteen minutes of polite conversation in the drawing room. Everyone knew the rules and adhered to them. And I realised why shrubberies make so many appearances in Georgian novels. In a constrained society where all eyes were upon you, they provided a place where couples could find some privacy.

pearls

But one of the biggest differences between then and now is the general attitude to women and our role in the world. In Jane’s society, men read the serious histories, newspapers and biographies of the day, whilst women were expected to look charming and to read nothing more taxing than a genteel novel. Marriage tied women to the whims of their husbands, but in some respects it was also a key to freedom. As Jane herself put it, “Marriage is the best preservative against want.” Charlotte Lucas in Pride and Prejudice holds her nose and marries the repellent Mr Collins in order to escape the old maid’s duty of caring for her brothers.  We all know the opening line of that novel “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”

The view of an independent woman might be quite different today and I like this twenty-first century version of Jane’s famous opening line—“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman is capable of building her own good fortune.” Women have come a long way in the past two hundred years.

women-5

Now in these three weeks since my visit to Jane’s house, the world seems to have shifted. I wore my lucky knickers on November 8th but it did no good. The American election was a shock. In a short while, Trump will be the most powerful person in the world. This is a man who was the co-owner of Miss Universe, who told a woman she was disgusting for breastfeeding, who is anti-abortion and therefore believes that women do not have rights over their own bodies, who has made thoroughly creepy comments about his own daughter, and who has many claims of sexual assault against him. Such accusations are a constant risk for anyone in power but he dug his own grave on that one when he was filmed bragging about “grabbing women by the pussy”. “When you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything.” Yet despite all of this he was elected democratically. It’s interesting that non-white women were less convinced, with only 3% of non-college-educated black women voting ‘Trump’. But I find it astonishing that 45% of the college-educated white women who voted, put a cross next to his name, whether holding their noses or not, and that a massive 64% of their non-college-educated counterparts did the same.

In a few years we might look back and think we haven’t come so far after all.

corset

Lucky Knickers

farleyrose59 3 Comments

knickers

We’ve still got builders working busily round us as we settle into our new home. They’re finishing off various bits and pieces in a very good-humoured way and I’ll miss them when they move on. Usually we manage not to trip over one another too much but the other day I was on my way to the dustbin when I realised that the path was blocked. I could have simply ducked under the ladder that was propped against the wall but instead I chose to wait patiently whilst Paul the builder finished sawing a piece of wood. As I stood there holding a bag of rubbish and getting wet in the drizzle, I wondered whether I could dispense with my superstitions—I’m embarrassed to say that I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Old habits run deep and these have been passed to me through my mother who was full of odd notions. She wouldn’t open an umbrella in the house, she threw salt over her shoulder, and she said that if you accidentally put your clothes on inside out then you mustn’t take them off and put them on the right way. I’ve never been convinced by that as I don’t recall her ever going out and looking strange. Perhaps she just gave lip service to that one.

magpie

Annoyingly, I acquired a new superstition a few years ago when a friend told me that failing to greet a single magpie brings bad luck. At the time I was in the midst of some tricky life events and didn’t dare risk making them worse so although it was something new to worry about, I started doing what my friend does, which is to salute them. It quickly became a reflex action and suddenly these imposing black and white birds seemed to be everywhere, hopping about like lone delinquents. Then I met the man who is now my husband. As we drove through the New Forest on one of our first dates, I was aware out of the corner of my eye that he was looking at me curiously. We were both wary at this early stage of our relationship, and eventually he asked why I kept jerking my arm up to my head. We stopped for a drink in the garden of a pretty little pub and I tried to explain. But it sounded silly and as a confirmed scientist he was bemused.

Of course I know rationally that superstition is nonsense. It’s just a collection of odd habits and an unquestioning trust in magical beliefs. The psychologist, Professor Richard Wiseman found experimentally that people who use superstitions to ward off bad luck were no luckier than those who were not superstitious.

ladder

Perhaps it’s time to drop the funny habits and salutes. Particularly as some of Wiseman’s other research into luck is thought-provoking and much more useful. He got people to rate themselves as either lucky or unlucky and then compared them. The reality of luck is that people who believe they’re lucky aren’t inherently luckier than those who consider themselves unlucky. They’re no more likely to win the lottery, for example, because that’s simply down to probability. But where the difference between ‘lucky’ and ‘unlucky’ people starts to matter is in the way they create their opportunities.

People who believe they’re lucky have different personality characteristics from those who feel unlucky. They’re more extrovert so they keep in contact with people better, smile more and make more eye contact. These social skills create opportunities. ‘Lucky’ people are also more open. They welcome unpredictability and are not bound by conventions. As such, they tend to travel more and to welcome new experiences. Wiseman describes a man who noticed that he always talked to the same kind of people at parties. So he decided to disrupt the routine, make life more fun and create new opportunities by thinking of a colour and gravitating towards people wearing that colour. At one party he only spoke to women wearing red, and at another to men wearing black.

Even those ‘lucky’ people who have real bad luck, tend to turn it round. I saw this with a dear friend who was dying of a dreadful disease. She never asked, “Why me?” Instead she said in her final days that she felt very lucky because she was surrounded by love.

obama2

I recently watched Inside Obama’s White House and there was a wonderful moment when Obama had to struggle with a difficult decision about healthcare. ‘You’ll need to be lucky for it to work,’ said his advisers. He stood still for a few moments and stared out of the window. ‘Where are we?’ he asked. ‘Sir, we’re in the Oval Office,’ came the reply. ‘And what’s my name?’ he said. ‘President Barack Obama,’ replied the aide. ‘Then I feel lucky every day,’ he said.

The United States of America is going to need some luck on Tuesday and I for one, am not taking any chances. I’ll be saluting those magpies, keeping my fingers firmly crossed and wearing my lucky knickers. I only hope that Hillary’s wearing hers too.

hillary

Dances with Goats

farleyrose59 1 Comment

cat-2

This week I was walking home and met a couple of cats. The first sauntered across the pavement, arched its back, yowled and invited me to fuss it. I can’t help but feel honoured when a cat deigns to talk to me so I stopped and stroked it but within seconds it got bored and wandered off to find someone else. Later, when I reached the golf course at the back of our house, a second cat darted out of the long grass and wound itself round my feet.

At the moment I have no animals of my own but there was a time when I had rather a lot. There were cats, dogs, chickens, geese, goats, and from time to time some lambs and pigs. We had a bit of land and in the morning I would lead the two goats down to the tangled woods where they would browse contentedly all day amongst the brambles. In the evening I would bring them back to their shed and lock them up for the night. That was the general plan but sometimes life didn’t go smoothly and I’d get distracted and forget to collect them. Then I’d wake up in the small hours and lie there feeling guilty. Goats hate getting cold and wet, so eventually my conscience would propel me out in my dressing gown; across the dark field and through the gate by the stream. There, Gwyneth and Mirabel would appear from amongst the shadowy, crowded trees, full of curiosity. What inevitably followed was a merry dance as I attempted to attach them to my rope and they did their best to trip me up.

goat1

Life’s a bit different twenty years on. Not only do I have no animals, but the children have grown up, and I live in a city. Several times recently I’ve crept out in the dark in my dressing gown but this has been for entirely urban reasons. The garage in our last house didn’t lock properly and as there had been a spate of petty burglaries we used to drive the car down the back alley and park it across the garage door to block it off. A few times we forgot and had to go out late at night to do it. Each time as I walked along the alley back to the house I’d remember the goats and be grateful that I no longer had to get involved in a moonlit rope dance. All I had to do was park my car, lock it and go back to my nice warm bed.

My joy at no longer having to do this, makes me wonder why I did it in the first place. I liked the idea of keeping animals and raising our own meat in an idyllic country setting. But the cold, muddy reality was a challenge. It did create a rich mine of family memories which we all relive when we get together, but I do wonder if I might have been more ‘me’ if I’d done something else.

who-am-i

Often life doesn’t allow us to have free choice, but there are mixed difficulties in even getting to the starting point of knowing what we want. It’s all too easy to get stuck in a role that bends us out of shape. Sometimes we’re not honest with ourselves. We might aim for a fantasy lifestyle, or make choices that are driven by how we want others to see us. I look back at the goat days and wonder whether I knew myself at all. It’s only been in recent years that I’ve started to remember what I love and to explore what I really want. The treats have played an unexpected part in this. They’ve been experiments in identity.

Some of the things I’ve done have forced me to confront the truth that I’m not brave, sporty or good at sewing. I never was and I may as well accept now that it’s unlikely to change. Other treats have reinforced that I love films, cooking, walking by the sea, and travel. I’ve also discovered a few new pleasures—jazz, live music, birds, industrial history and urban landscapes.

factory-1593842__180

I hope I’ll never stop trying new things. But maybe with age I’m getting better at choosing the kinds of things that I like. It’s also worth remembering that it wouldn’t be real if life was all perfect—we need challenges, wrong turns and changes of heart. They write the novels of our lives and make us who we are. I talked last time about my favourite words—kitten, elastic and home. Every list has a counter-list and I’ve only just started to wonder what my least favourite word might be. I think that a strong contender has to be ‘regret’. The goats were frustrating and exhausting but on balance, I don’t want regrets and I’m glad to have had these experiences—it’s just the way things turned out. Nonetheless in the spirit of getting to know myself better, I’m going to hang onto the thought that these days I much prefer a backstreet city alley to a dark, slippery field.

And that issue of exploring who we are brings me to another in the chain interview series. This week I interviewed Maria who talked about her life in drama, her inspiring work and her mid-life treat.

maria-leaf

Home Thoughts

farleyrose59 12 Comments

flowers-983905_960_720

I’m keen on lists but am well aware that this divides people – many of my friends and family avoid them at all costs. But for me it’s a love affair. I even wrote a book about a list. And I particularly like ranking things—I just can’t seem to help it. For years my favourite book and favourite film have been unchanged. There’s something about knowing that Remains of the Day and Cinema Paradiso are important to me that helps define who I am. The Great Gatsby and Don’t Look Now are my second-favourite book and film; 101 Dalmatians and The Shawshank Redemption come in at number three, and Far From the Madding Crowd and The Railway Children are at number four.  I could go on…but there’s a strong chance that you’re not as keen on rankings as me, so I’ll stop there.

“Which do you prefer?” I asked my husband when we first met – “Beatles or Stones?” He looked mystified and said
“Can I have both?” He’s of the non-ranking persuasion.

kitten

I’m aware that I might take my obsession too far and for years have even been able to say what my favourite word is. For a long time it was ‘elastic’. I just loved how it sounded so stretchy. Then I moved on to something altogether more heart-warming—‘kitten’. That’s been my favourite word for quite some time now. Then the other day I read something that the Little House on the Prairie author, Laura Ingalls Wilder once said: “Home is the nicest word there is”.

I’ve been thinking about home a lot over the past few weeks as I’ve just moved house—again. This will be my seventh home in twelve years. The moves have been triggered by changing circumstances—financial ruin, divorce and then a different life in a new city. But I’d like to feel settled now—at last. The dictionary definition of ‘home’ is ‘the place where one lives’. But it’s so much more than that. I was watching a David Attenborough documentary the other day – one of my treats – and he said in relation to animals that a home is somewhere to feel safe and comfortable.

The Danish art of ‘hygge’ has been in the media recently and has inspired a number of books. It’s not about wealth or possessions but it’s about making life good in simple ways. We’ll each have our own version of this. For me it’s hot porridge with maple syrup and cinnamon, fragrant coffee in the morning, candles, fresh flowers, rose-scented bath oil, and reading a good book with a soft blanket, open fire and ideally a piece of fruit cake on a pretty china plate.

candles

Our new home has been completely renovated and is all ready for some hygge. The builders have been working on it for six months. There’s a new kitchen, French windows in the bedroom and it’s freshly painted throughout. It feels light and bright and my heart gives a skip each time I come back to it. It’s also wonderfully clean.

In recent years life has felt overwhelming at times so that day-to-day housekeeping has been an unwelcome drudgery. I’ve much preferred the treats. Sometimes I’ve felt like it’s less effort to move house than to clean it. The grime and the dirt seem to get everywhere in a most tiresome way. And what is this dust that settles on every surface? It’s popularly believed that dust is predominantly dead human cells but I read recently that most of these go down the plughole when we wash. Instead it’s more about pollen, the husks of insects, pet hair, soil, tiny particles from outer space, and pretty much anything else that is very, very small.

pollen

This week, my sister-in-law has been visiting from Australia. We asked what she would particularly like to see and she said, “An English castle and a pub.” So on Tuesday we had lunch in a proper English pub, sitting outside in the thin autumn sunshine and then we went on to a nearby National Trust property, Hinton Ampner. It’s not quite a castle, but it is a beautiful example of a classic English home. I liked the gentleman’s bedroom—and especially the breakfast tray laid out with a boiled egg, fine china, silver cutlery and a folded linen napkin. I imagined breakfasting there whilst gazing out over the walled gardens and Hampshire meadows. The seductive charm of this hygge fantasy even overrode my aversion to boiled eggs.

hinton_ampner_view_from_churchyard_-_geograph-org-uk_-_796397

Photo: Chris Gunns

Some areas of the house were inaccessible as it was having its annual deep clean. We peered through doorways into rooms where odd-shaped furniture sat shrouded in white cloth. With so many treasures the cleaning has to be done in a very precise and ordered way. Everything is inspected carefully and particular attention is paid to any insects that might cause damage. Then the housekeepers get to work on the dusting using hogs hair brushes. Unlike normal hair, hogs hair has multiple split ends which give it plenty of spring so that it’s gentle but firm on delicate, creviced surfaces.

I looked at the information boards with interest. Perhaps this is what I need in my new house—a hogs hair brush and an annual deep clean. That way the pain could be concentrated into a few days. I might even be convinced that it’s easier to clean than to move. I do hope so as I’d like to stay here for the forseeable future.

Home—it really is the nicest of words.

home-1

Beginning, Middle and End

farleyrose59 6 Comments

mima-university

Molly, my youngest, went off to university this week and this set me thinking about the cycle of life. I’ve had the odd brief message, just enough to know that Fresher’s Week is going well and that she’s making friends and getting used to living in London. This has nudged my twenty-eight years of parenting into a new phase—being there for them, but not all the time. People often talk of empty nest syndrome but right now even though she’s gone, the nest isn’t empty and that’s because my father-in-law Frank lives with us.

Molly is eighteen, I’m fifty-seven and Frank is ninety-six. That means that I’m positioned right in the middle – thirty-nine years older than one, and thirty-nine years younger than the other. In looking at these two members of my family I get a sense of what has passed and a taste of what the future might hold.

1920-gramphone

We brought Frank to live with us fourteen months ago and hoped to spend some happy times with him. We managed that quite well up until the Spring—pushing his wheelchair across the Common to the pub, lunch in the sunny haven of my little garden, meeting up with friends, and having him there for family meals and celebrations. But he is very old and frail. Over the past year he has had three episodes of pneumonia, umpteen urine infections, several falls, two brain bleeds, seizures, his voice is reduced to a croak, and there is ever increasing deafness, loss of vision and confusion.

It’s been hard for him to give up control. We’ve tried for as long as possible to keep him doing things independently but he now needs help with almost everything. He gets very frustrated at these losses. “Don’t worry, we’ll look after you,” I’ve said at times, thinking it was reassuring. “Why can’t I do it myself?” he’s replied. And he’s then repeated that question over and over again. “Because you are old,” we say, but it doesn’t seem to help.

clock-2

I’ve realised through being with him that’s it’s crucial to know where we are in time—the season, the day of the week and most vital of all, the time of day. I can only imagine that without this knowledge it would be like floating in space with no anchor. Frank has a talking watch and presses the button throughout the day and night. But it doesn’t always give him what he needs. “What time is it?” he’ll ask, his face full of barely suppressed fear. “My watch says it’s one. There are two one-o’clocks in the day aren’t there – after lunch and at night. Which is it?” There’s little we can do to reassure him. We tell him and two minutes later he has forgotten.

So much of his body and his mind have suffered erosion. But his hair remains—thick and white.  A carer said on washing and dressing him for the first time, “I’m really sorry but I’ve made him look a bit punky.” “Don’t worry,” we said, “It always looks like that.” I enjoy imagining his mother back in the 1920s—a woman I will never meet being exasperated with her small son’s hair as she gets him ready for school. I’m bonding through the ages with her; mother to mother.

bird-hair-2

We’ve met many good people in this year of living with Frank. The NHS and Social Services have been wonderful. Various carers come to get him washed and dressed and this week one of them offered to sit with him on her day off so that we could have some time together. “I don’t want any payment,” she said. “Just a cup of tea and a biscuit.” We happened to know that she is working fifteen days in succession. We couldn’t let her use her day off like this but the offer was undoubtedly genuine. Our friend Sheila regularly makes us meals and is sitting with Frank this weekend as we move furniture and boxes into our new home. And there was the elderly care consultant who came to see us in June and said gently what we had been denying to ourselves. He has progressive dementia. And in these past few weeks it has progressed very fast. He is lost in a world of agitated pacing and unintelligible rambling.

When he first came to us we considered finding someone to come and chat to him about the war. This was the formative period of his life and the one that he referred back to when other memories had gone. Then we realised that anyone who was able to chat about the war would themselves be in their nineties. As a child I knew plenty of people who remembered the First World War, let alone the second one. Now they are all gone. Life passes quickly. I don’t want to waste a moment.

future-past

Word Journeys

farleyrose59 4 Comments

united-states-map-1137085__340.jpg

I was at a large branch of Sainsbury’s this week, and one of the items on my list was a pack of pens. I wasn’t sure where to find them so glanced up at the signs hanging from the ceiling and was surprised to see one that said ‘Stationary’. “Look at that!” I said to my daughter, Molly who was helping with the shopping. “A major company and they can’t even spell. It’s ‘ery not ‘ary”. An elderly man overheard my rant and chipped in. “Yes, it’s like the apostrophes,” he said. When I thought about it later I couldn’t be sure whether he was supporting me with my gripe or mocking my pedantry.

But does the spelling matter? A lexicographer from the Oxford English Dictionary seems to think it does. She argues that the words ‘stationary’ and ‘stationery’ have totally different meanings and that to use them wrongly causes confusion. In truth, there probably aren’t too many situations where serious confusion could occur – most schools have a stationery cupboard but these don’t usually move about so it’s rare that people need to comment on their state of stationariness. However, I’m all for linguistic propriety so am happy to go along with the opinion of the OED.

dictionary

This got me thinking about the origin of the two words and I discovered that they both come from the Latin ‘statio’ which means a standing place. Stationary, in the context of ‘still’, appeared in the English language in the Middle Ages while the word, ‘stationer’ was used to refer to traders who set up permanent stalls selling books and writing materials, generally next to a university. These stationary stationers were the exception at that time as most traders were pedlars who travelled around the countryside, selling their goods at fairs and markets.

pedlar

Another connected word is station—where one stands to wait—and I stood stationary on several stations last Monday. I was returning to Southampton after doing some work in Kent and decided to take the slightly longer but considerably cheaper route that avoids London. It did involve three changes but I didn’t let that deter me. However, it turned out to be an error of judgement when the journey of about a hundred miles ended up taking five and a half hours. Umpteen connections were cancelled and announcements were made citing trespassers on the track, signalling problems, an emergency up the line, and a member of staff who was unable to get to work. Each time, the announcer said very politely that Southern Railways was sorry for any inconvenience, before adding the further good cheer that there was a strike planned for Wednesday and Thursday.

With commuter journeys, it’s the arrival that’s the goal. But leisure trips are another thing altogether. The journey itself can be the purpose and a treat in itself. Travelling by train across America is one of the big treats on my list and as yet I’ve no idea when I’ll be able to do it. Planning is part of the fun, though, and so I’ve already done some preparatory research. At some point I shall have to decide whether to travel coast-to-coast via Chicago or New Orleans. At the moment I’m leaning towards Chicago.

chicago

I’m pre-disposed to love the railways as I travelled to school by steam train including, for a brief period, on the famous Flying Scotsman. Not many people of my age can say that. The railway line alongside my school was closed by Dr Beeching in the 1960s but then bought by the Dart Valley Railway which runs steam locomotives and carriages as a tourist attraction. The trains would puff past as we schoolgirls ran up and down the hockey pitch on misty mornings. I loved the sulphurous choking smell of the smoke. And there’s something mysterious about old trains with their narrow corridors, and secluded compartments with slide-up windows. They rattle along and whistle, passing through tunnels with the sounds and the darkness offering dramatic opportunities. Hitchcock demonstrated these brilliantly in The 39 Steps, Strangers on a Train and The Lady Vanishes; all recent treats—see Murder, Blackmail and Other Stuff.

flying_scotsman_in_devon_1976

Photo: Symonds Family Archive

Last Monday as I waited for several delayed trains, my mind wandered idly and I started speculating about the origin of the word ‘train’. I discovered later that it derives from the French for ‘to draw along’. So you can have a train of people or a train on a dress, and the first trains were known as ‘trains of carriages’. Oddly, the word ‘train’ was also once used to mean ‘delay’ because of the sense of ‘drawing things out’. I realised that in the same way as stationary and stationery have an unexpected connection and have been on a linguistic journey together, then so have trains and delays.

The trains and delays were too closely connected this week on my slow commute. But hopefully, an American train trip will be quite different and delays could even be opportunities. That’s an essential difference. Goals are all about standing on stations, fretting and longing to get to your destination. Treats are all about the journey.

Someone to Poke

farleyrose59 1 Comment

siblings 1

I’ve been thinking a lot about siblings this week because of an important anniversary in our family. ‘What do you like about having siblings?’ I asked Molly the other day. ‘Having someone to tease,’ she said. ‘And when I was little there was always someone to poke on car journeys.’

Over the years there’s been a lot of research into parent-child relationships but sibling relationships have only attracted serious interest more recently. And yet they’re clearly very important. Psychologist Daniel Shaw put it well:
“Parents serve the same big-picture role as doctors on grand rounds. Siblings are like the nurses on the ward. They’re there every day.”

siblings 3

There are benefits to being stuck with siblings. Constant arguments make for choppy family life so you have to negotiate. A Canadian study found that on average, siblings aged two to four years, have some kind of conflict at least once every ten minutes. As they get older the conflicts usually get less frequent—but things don’t always work out well.  Noel and Liam Gallagher are famously distanced brothers. When asked about an Oasis reunion, Noel said that “It won’t ever happen unless they do it without me,” adding modesty, “but without me it would be rubbish.”

My four children squabbled a great deal when they were little but I’m relieved to find that they get on well as adults. Past offences are mostly forgiven, though they’re not all forgotten. Molly is the youngest and once said wistfully, ‘All the accidents I had when I was little were Henry’s fault.’ She then reeled off a list of episodes that I’d pushed conveniently to the back of my mind. Suddenly they all came rushing back. The ‘being up a tree incident’ didn’t end well nor did the time he pulled her out of a bunk bed on a barge. And there was the occasion when he told her to ride ‘no hands’ on her bike as she whizzed down a hill for the very first time.

Siblings plus partners at graduation

In amongst all the falling out and making up, siblings are in a unique position to provide support when there’s family trauma. They can often appreciate what their brothers and sisters are going through in a way that no-one else is able to do. But not everyone has a sibling. Average family size is gradually shrinking and in the UK it’s increasingly common for parents to have just one child. As with all human activity people are quick to try to argue about which situation is best. But this seems pointless. Not everyone has a choice about the number of children they have and those parents who actively choose to have one child do so for their own particular pragmatic or economic reasons. And there are advantages to being an only child like getting undivided parental attention and more exposure to adults. You also learn from an early age how to be happy in your own company.

I feel as though I have a foot in both camps as my upbringing was similar to that of an only child but with some sibling benefits. My sister is twelve and a half years older than me so I didn’t get the experience of squabbling, sharing secrets, or swapping make-up. Instead she was like a second mother and had more formative influences on me than anyone else.

siblings 4

There’s been a lot of speculation about the effects of birth order ever since Adler linked this to personality in 1928. Oldest children are popularly believed to be assertive and conformist while youngest ones are rebellious and adventurous. But this is not substantiated by research findings. It’s possible that what are interpreted by parents as personality traits, are in fact an effect of age rather than of birth order. At any point in time, the older child has simply had more experience of life and so will be seen as different from their younger sibling. It’s hard to view them equally. It seems logical that birth order affects each individual within their particular family situation, but at the moment there’s no evidence to suggest that you can extrapolate this more broadly and call it a personality trait rather than a behaviour pattern.

These sibling behaviour patterns are deeply rooted. I know a family where the brother never married and the three sisters all outlived their husbands. In their seventies when they were all single once more, the four siblings went on holiday together. I was amused to hear one of their daughters recount with exasperation how they reverted to the same kinds of squabbles that they’d had as children.

sibling 2

Throughout life it’s easy to slip into old familiar roles within your family group even though you might behave quite differently in the outside world. Emma’s flatmate went to visit her younger sister who had just spent her first term at Cambridge. This younger sister was a successful student and managed her life perfectly well. But as they walked and walked and walked, the visiting older sibling eventually asked where they were going as she’d never been to Cambridge before. Her younger sister looked astonished and said, ‘I’ve no idea, I was following you.’ I can relate to that. For as long as I can remember, a defining role for me has been as a younger sister and I slot into that easily. I’ve turned to Bonnie when life has been difficult and feel fortunate that she’s always been there.

I started this post by mentioning an important family anniversary. Happy Special Birthday to Bonnie. I may be quite grown-up most of the time but just for you, I’m happy to be a little sister.

Sockl_&_Nathan_Birthday_Card_c1895