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.