Walking and Thinking and Making Connections Between Then and Now

On my way back to my flat after a visit to the Coop, I walk past a little antique shop that opened recently and pause to look in the window. A treasure trove unfolds before my eyes. It used to be a second hand book shop many years ago, before I lived here, and I visited often. I lived a few miles away then.

I particularly remember one occasion, (the first time I was signed off work with depression, in my late twenties) buying a complete set of D H Lawrence short stories, the first one I read being Ticket's Please, and it just blew my mind. I had recently joined a reading group and this was instrumental in opening my heart to the absolute joy and wonder of literature. I also bought the complete Sherlock Holmes short stories and some poetry.

Very recently I bought a silver Parker pen and propelling pencil set, (in a brown plastic case and made in England) from the shop who's window now has me entranced. I bought it because it is very similar to the one that mum and dad gave me as a reward for passing my 11plus. It was either late 1971 or early 1972. 

I remember at the time dad was wearing his red waistcoat. I loved that waistcoat. It was a dark red and it was felt-like to touch. I wonder what happened to it?

I seem to recall he had a silver pocket watch at one point, but can’t be certain of that. I guess he was trying to cultivate a certain look, similar I suppose to the look I cultivate now. It definitely made an impression on me. He always made an impression.  

I also roll up my shirtsleeves like he used to, just one or two turns, and I have a tattoo like he does, of a small swallow on my left forearm.

I had it done while I was still at secondary school and he was in prison, perhaps as a way of holding on to the man I had already lost, that we all had lost, who if truth be told was lost himself, although I was far too young and hurt to realise that then, and have to constantly remind myself of it now.

He has been married now for longer than he was married to my mum, and has never been in prison again. His current wife has the same name as the Pyrenean mountain dog we used to have as children. She is a fine woman as far as I know her, which isn’t very well truth be told. I haven’t seen either of them for, what, thirty or so years now (apart I think from a brief half hour when they were visiting my sister about ten years ago). I stopped seeing him, intentionally, after a particularly painful weekend visit when our children were babies, over half my lifetime ago.

He is an old man now, and I am getting older. I hold no grudge and bear him no malice or ill will. He wasn’t the best father. I’m not sure I was the best son. As an adult I have had no relationship with either of my parents, having lost mum to cancer in 1979. She was 58. I was 18. Her and dad were already divorced and he had moved on. I am 55 now.

I was a child back then, with the weight of the world on my shoulders. I’m not certain I’m a man now, I just get on with life. Sometimes the depression rises and sometimes it’s quiet. It’s been a faithful companion, that’s for sure.

I return to the flat with my memories and essential provisions, tea and biscuits, and I sit and write. Me and the words I try to form into meaningful sentences, my relationship with literature deepening, growing. I am still learning.

I pause to sip my tea, an image still vivid. I think I will buy a red waistcoat.

Green

For the Green Party in Colchester, 10th birthday bash, held at the Waiting Room. I was invited to perform (what a privilege), and decided to write something especially for the occasion. In a desperate attempt to be original I called it this!

Green

Green is the colour of my son's wellington boots

that he lets me wear for wet dog walks

around the village green.

Green

is all around us

England: still the land of pleasant green

with its little villages

and football pitches

cheese and onion crisp packets

and leaf strewn ditches.

Though fast becoming wrapped

in a cloak of lifeless grey

the woodland sacrificed

for the motorway.

Green was the colour of my Dad's estate car

he would drive us to the swimming pool in it

and himself to the pub

(and back again)

and once on holiday to the Isle of Wight.

But we all know that a car

even a green coloured one

is not very green.

Green is the colour of Spring

those little shoots that appear,

heralding the start of

another year.

The sea is sometimes green

a pea is green

it's also the colour

of mint ice cream which

even on a rainy day

eases the cares of life away.

I always ate my greens

especially on a Sunday.

They're good for you Mum would say

and she was right.

But now we all eat too much brown

and white.

Mum sleeps with the green now

she has for some time now,

green is the blanket

for her long goodnight.

And that's all right.

That's all right.

What's The USE?

I paid another visit yesterday to the good folk of  The Minories Galleries to have a wander, take in the atmosphere and view their latest exhibition USE. Well what else would you want to do on a Saturday in Colchester?

The 'official blurb/information' is to be found if you click on the link above. Here is mine. Not particularly prosaic or wordy just plain and simple. I like it. As in really like it. It's delightful.

Against a backdrop of white painted walls we have collections of whisks, buttons, screws, hinges, coat hangers and, neatly displayed in glass cabinets there are salt and pepper pots, scissors, nut crackers, coffee stirrers and, wait for it, paper clips.


Shall I tell you why I liked it so much? Okay then, seeing as you asked so nicely.

Well my initial and overriding response was that it reminded me of being in my Dad's shed, with all the 'tools' in their place ready for use. The tools in this case being everyday ordinary household objects. The buttons, scissors and the whisks reminded me of my Mum. She used a whisk for cooking and knitted us all jumpers and cardigans. The final act being the sewing on of the buttons. I still have her button tin. Also, on the odd occasion I create an artwork (usually for my Daughter at Christmas) I add a button or three from that tin. It's a way of being creative and passing on a small piece of her. The screws and hinges the very things my Dad would use as he went about his livelihood, and nowadays my Son, both being carpenter/joiners.

I wanted to take a whisk down and make myself an omelette or a milk shake. Then build something that involved hinges and screws. Whilst I was at it I could hang up my jacket, stir my coffee and, erm, crack my nuts.

I was also struck by how much the older style of whisk, with the handles (Mum had a red one) one for holding and one for turning, were very similar to the hand-held drills we used to use for woodwork. Just replace the whisks for a drill bit. None of this namby pamby rechargeable nonsense, and probably why Dad (and Mum at times) had such a vice-like grip of his own!


Who'd have thought it, a collection of everyday inanimate practical objects nailed to walls or in glass cabinets invoking such rich, deep memories. Also just so lovely to wander around and spend some time observing.

But is it art? I hear you asking. Well yes, it is. More on that very question in another blog though as it's also something I have been pondering.

Do go along and have a wander around and decide for  yourself. You could also have coffee/cake/lunch/wine/beer in the Garden Cafe. You can even get married there. Crikey heck what more do you want?

Go on Go on Go on.....