Memories of Writing

I remember one day sitting on steps leading up to the back garden. I was about twelve. I had brought out a pad and pen, or probably a pencil, as fountain pens or pens we dipped into ink were all that we had. I was just sitting there looking at everything, and a butterfly hovered around me. This was the first instance that I clearly remember writing. I wrote a poem about a butterfly. I was so proud of it that I ran down multiple steps (our house was built on a hefty slope) to my dad in the garage to show him my poem. He was absolutely delighted with it and sad to say I have no idea what happened to it…lost for eternity.

I can’t remember any other instances of writing as a child.

The next instance I remember was when I had just suffered a miscarriage. I asked for pen and paper. By now, ballpoint pens were available, and I wrote about a doll called Esmeralda, and alas, those stories have also been lost. It took many years during which I taught, raised my family almost single-handedly, and studied in the early mornings before the household woke up. Time for leisure writing was nil.

It took my granddaughter Della to awaken the author in me. She was out on holiday with her parents. When they left to go back to the UK, she asked me to write to her. She was three. I pondered on how to write to her, and then inspiration! The Easter and Della series were born. I had given her a toy rabbit for Easter, and my son named it Easter, and then the creative juices started to flow.

 

Side Note That This Memory Stirred:

Pens When I Was in Primary School:

They weren’t quite quills but might as well have been. When we started school, we were not allowed to in pen. It had to be in pencil. When we got to Standard Two, I think we were allowed a dipping pen. Each desk had an inkwell which the teacher would fill with ink from a big bottle. You would dip the pen into this liquid. And use blotting paper to catch any surplus. Blotting the work as you progressed. I have no idea what the ink was made of, but as you got near the end it would stick to your pen in a glutinous mass, which would wreck your blotting paper. I think around standard 5 you were allowed a fountain pen. Most were Parker pens. I kept a bottle of ink in my desk and had one at home. The make was Quink. You would have to screw the main body of your pen off and then press a small metal bar to compress the ink reservoir (Over the bottle of ink, just in case you dislodged any remaining ink), then place the nib in the ink and release the metal clip. You were now good for several chores. I loved my fountain pens. I still have one of them packed away in a little case. Admired but not used.

Memories – A Look at Our Days in Banket Street

Each person had a job to do in the house.

Mom went back to work as a seamstress specialising in beadwork.

Aunty Maureen worked in an office, I think.

Uncle Bill was a blacksmith and had to leave very early to catch a train to his work. His job was to stoke the fire in the kitchen, which warmed water in the geyser for the rest of the family. He also stoked the fire in the stove so that it was ready for breakfast.

Uncle Len and Uncle Doug were in charge of the floor. I remember Uncle Len had a lovely system. He would slip his foot in the strap of the polishing brush, sit on a chair, or the couch, and rotate his foot with the brush.

I can’t remember what Ken and Bob did. They were the youngest of the boys, so they probably had a lighter workload. The girls, I think, generally helped in the kitchen. My job was dusting in the lounge. I know that Joan was my official babysitter.

Ma was in charge of the kitchen. My fondest memories of her are her sitting at the kitchen table. I remember a lot of us sitting around the table helping to prepare the veggies. My worst job was shelling peas. Remember, this was before frozen veggies became the thing. When you picked up a pea in its shell, you had no idea what was ensconced inside. You would crack the pea by holding it by the “seams” and squeezing until it popped open. Then you would scoop the peas out with your thumbnail. All too often, that thumbnail would scoop up a juicy, fat green worm. You learned to look before scooping. This brought up a distaste for shelling peas. So glad to have the frozen ones now. But sitting around the table with other family members brought on a lovely sense of family. Ma would often have to reprimand us for sneaking those sweet morsels into our mouths. She would say, “whistle while you work”, then she would know we are giving up all the peas for the family dinner.

I have a vague memory of an ice box, but I also remember stocks being bought in on an almost daily basis. I loved the spectacle of the Indian guy bringing his horse and cart full of veggies and fruit while his horse left a steaming reminder of the visit. In watermelon season, Ma would issue instructions to have a tiny triangle cut into the watermelon to check for the white. There had to be a thick piece of white for her konfyt. (Interestingly, I have just learnt that we throw away a valuable piece of the watermelon as the white has some amazing properties)

Ma was also in charge of the washing machine, which was housed on the first landing by the bathroom. With sixteen people in that house, washing was probably a daily task. The machine was a big barrel standing on four legs. I think it was filled via a hosepipe. I’m not sure where the water went afterwards, maybe through the window to the garden below, or maybe pumped into the bath. Straddled across the top of the machine was the wringer. I loved to watch pillowcases threaded through with the open end first. As the pillow case moved through the manually operated wringer, a bulge developed, which got bigger and bigger while it held water and air as the pillow case moved through the wringer. Oh! The delight when the bulge entered the wringer and air and water exploded with a satisfying pop.

 

Red Alert!

Jean sat in her stalled car. Nothing seemed to help. The car just wouldn’t start. It was 7pm and most people were probably still at home or had already reached their destination.

The road home had a particularly bad stretch which was normally quiet even when the rest of the city was in traffic jam status.

She dropped her head onto her steering wheel while she berated herself for being so careless.

Mike was always telling her to a) Be aware of your surroundings and b) Make sure that there are no emergency lights on her dashboard.

Now she was really aware of the vulnerability of her situation but how could she have known that that weird red light was a red alert that something was seriously wrong. She had decided that Mike would know what to do when she got home. But now…?

Her cell phone was in the boot but she could normally uses her car’s Bluetooth to make calls but now there was nothing – her car was not co-operating. It was dead and even when she turned the ignition key there was still nothing. She hoped her hazards would work.

If she decided to make a call, she would have to get out the car, walk around to the back, open the boot, and dig around in her voluminous bag to find her phone.

She looked all around – all seemed safe. She tentatively opened her door and it banged into a man who had come out of nowhere.

Now she was scared and quickly closed her door and locked it.

The man was prancing about outside, dancing around her car muttering strange sounds. She saw that he was in full African regalia. Maybe he was a witch doctor but what did he want from her?

Suddenly he rapped on her window, indicating that she must try to start the car. The car obeyed and started. She looked around to thank the man but he had disappeared as quickly and silently as he had arrived.

She wasted no more time and allowed the car to limp back home.

When she related her experience, Mike laughed at her and said that the “medicine man” had done nothing. That was the way of modern cars. Give it a rest and it will limp back home. But Jean knew deep down that the “medicine man” had helped her.  

 

Becoming Me

The sun was glinting on the sea causing the water to give off an almost blinding glare. As my eyes grew accustomed to the glare, I cast my eyes around. The ship was fully booked but the deck that I had discovered was not used by many people – most used the “social deck”. The one that was at the top of the ship. The one that had the pool, deck chairs, and ready refreshments. I needed the solitude that my quiet deck gave me.

I stood by the railing, clutching the urn. The urn that contained the happiest moments of my life. The urn that contained the saddest moments as well as the angry moments.

As I looked at the urn a feeling of peace started to descend on me. Soon I would rid myself of all the unwanted emotions in my body. Soon I would be ready to start my life as a different person with a different name and an identity that I could live with. Sarah Brown would be gone. Jill Inverness would step off the boat in Italy, ready to start a new life.

I opened the urn.

It was filled with my thoughts, a few material possessions, and my writing.

I looked around to make sure that no one was around and scrabbled in my bag for the lighter that would obliterate my old life. I placed the urn on the deck and slowly lowered the lighter into the urn as I ignited it. It was fascinating to watch the flames eating up my old self.

When the flames had died and my old life was now ashes, I lifted the urn above the railings and emptied Sarah Brown into the ocean.

Piccadilly Circus

I have heard that if you stand in Piccadilly Circus for long enough you will meet someone you know. Well I sincerely hoped that I would see Bob as we had planned this meeting last year already. Yeah we had chatted in between times, reminding each other of this anticipated “date”.

Bob and I had met at school. He arrived as an exchange student in my gr 11 year. I was asked to show him the ropes. An English guy arriving complete with British accent had thrown all of us girls into a tizzy. Brenda lorded it over us as her family was Bob’s host family.

Bobs complexion, hair colour and accent reminded me of my major crush, Prince Harry. I silently drooled over the prospect of showing him around. We had a bit of a fling but he was more interested in sport and became quite a  favourite with the rugby guys.

Now I was meeting him again. As I stood nervously waiting I realised I really didn’t know much about him. Of course we had chatted about college etc. but never anything meaningful.

My world fell apart as I saw him walking up to me hand in hand with the most handsome guy I had ever seen.

© Vera Alexander

 

 

My Get A Grip Moment

 

I stood looking at my classroom in total horror. The kids had virtually exploded. The furniture had exploded. There was mess everywhere. Sandwiches mixed with books. Twinkies wrapped around pens and pencils. Paper! Paper was everywhere.

How did this happen? How did I lose such control? This was my second week of teaching and the kids were monsters. My dream job was quickly becoming a nightmare. The kids had escaped and were rampaging around the school disturbing all the other more disciplined classes.

I sat at my desk. Head in hands trying desperately to hold back the tears. I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up. The headmistress stood there. I tried to get up but her gentle touch forced me back down onto the seat. I glanced at the door and saw my monsters calmly standing quietly outside. The head moved to the door and closed it. She pulled a chair up to the table.

“You really need to get a grip and teach the kids that you are the boss not them. I’ll help you today but you need to be firmer. You are not their friend. You are the one in charge.”

She went to the door and held it open until the last quiet, responsive kid had entered.

“Stand next to your desks. Look around you. Are you really that barbaric? You will stay in every afternoon this week under my supervision and you will clean every classroom and corridor on this floor. Windows, lights, everything.”

Horror appeared on all faces as the headmistresses words sunk in.

Taxing Time

 

Christmas is around the corner. This is the time of year when everyone takes a breather, even if for only a couple of days. Even those who are not Christians benefit from the pause at the end of the year.

I often wonder why the tax season coincides with this wind down as tax season winds me up.

I am an artist and financials scare me and send me scurrying away from the papers and paperwork.

Work also reaches a taxing time. Everyone wants their stuff finalised before the silly season.

So apart from the government taxing you, your feelings and emotions are taxed.

Where did the time go? Too much to do and this year you said you would be ready.

Christmas decorations have been up since October, reminding you that your feelings, your time and your wallet are all going through a taxing time.

© Vera Alexander