Saturday, August 1, 2015

Where my grandparents lived.

This was a couple of paragraphs I wrote just before attending my mums funeral. I know Cotesbach so well that I didn't need to be there to know what it looked like. I could almost feel the air and smell the area before I left Wales for this trip. I think I wrote this in preparation for the day, just so I could cope better.

He stood there by the village pump.  It was all so familiar, but it was all so different.  The quiet hamlet was still, as always; bypassed since before he first came here a child, and few additions since he were a wee young'un, when a row of semis were built along Main St. just beyond the small Norman church, opposite the rectory.

It’s not one of those perfect idyllic scenes, no duck pond, and no half timbered, thatched pub.  The “village” hall behind him was new enough that he remembered coming to visit his grandparents one summer to find half the green had been replaced by a building site, and by the time he visited for Christmas there was a low modern building surrounded by an awkward gappy hedge of young cypress trees.  Now the brick had thirty plus years of soot, and weathering to take the shine off it, and the building was obscured by tall luxuriant trees.

Though the playing field to the left of the hall had provided hours of fun, the adventures had been had on the right in his gran-dad's garden.  It had been a large plot of land with a pig sty, a glasshouse which in the summer had the bitter air of green tomatoes, and several sheds filled with rusting tools, smelling of dust, soil, paraffin, oil, mowers and rotovators.  In the orchard at the back of the quarter acre lot there had been a chicken run, where pullets and bantams strutted and clucked.  Fed on millet, mash and windfalls they paid with golden yolked eggs, and when the eggs came no more, nana would have them for the pot.  That land was off limits now.  Nana and grandad had a bungalow built there for their final years.  When their estate was settled the lot had been divided and sold.

By the pump was a modest semi.  That was where his mother had been born and raised.  That was the first place he’d spent the night away from home; where he’d learned to set and light a fire; where he’d woken, not to the sound of a dustcarts yawning hydraulics or city buses diesel purr, but to the soft baaing of sheep, and the lowing of cows.  This was the house where the food tasted smoky since grandad had always insisted that they use the range; anything cooked by gas tasted of, well gas of course.  Vegetables were boiled soft, potatoes softer and meat was thin and chewy.  Toast meant a tanned face as you sat on the hearthrug and held your bread inches above the late evening coals.  A tanned face, flushed with heat, but your feet cold from the draught as the fire pulled air into the house under the doors and through the gaps and cracks in the steel framed windows.

The last time he’d been in the village was a lifetime ago.  It had been a funeral.  Grandad outlived nana by a few years, they were buried up the street, alongside an uncle.  That was where he was going today, to say a final goodbye, this time to someone too young for such a parting, but someone who deserved the rest and peace.  His mother was coming home, to the place and people she loved.

Monday, April 21, 2014

Smiles

You know that feeling inside when you are pottering around some small town on a lazy afternoon.  The day is your day, and you are doing your thing; So you have this casual euphoria going on, the type that tends to a ease a casual smile onto your face, and make even the light drizzle conspire to add to the quaint beauty of the stone walls, and peeling paint on the window frames and iron railings.  So you understand this mood I’m talking of.  

You will also know that curiosity which will make you turn down that narrow alleyway, the one that slopes encouragingly towards the river, and you will know that sudden joy when the sun comes out to reveal a small walled garden. A red brick walled yard filled with terracotta pots pouring geraniums over the wall and floor, and the old butchers bicycle with its basket replete with goofy faced pansies or the rusty pram used as a planter full of snapdragons. Good, we are in the same place.  That smile on your face.  The one right then. That is the smile she always wears, and when I look at her face I feel like I too am stood there in that quiet alley, the walls ashine from the recent rain, and the plants green and fresh, their colours so alive.

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

Corks

I threw away the cork this morning. That’s the cork from the champagne we used to see in the new year. As I threw it away I thought of all the corks I have kept, I could have kept, or never had a cork for to keep. Back in Britain when I was sorting through my things at my parents house I found an old cork. It was the one for my 18th, or was it my 21st, but there it was, unlabelled in a box of loot and booty. Not knowing which birthday it was for, that cork didn’t really lose any worth, but it just felt worthless holding on to.


So the catalogue of corks, those I have, haven’t and never have had:-


18th Birthday. This was a quiet birthday with mum, dad and Helen, just before she headed to University, and so I assume Stewart would have been there too. I got my second stereo, midi cut with a linear tracking two speed turntable. I guess the venue for dinner was The Trooper in Christleton, just outside Chester, that was our de facto celebration restaurant. I might be wrong, it might have been out at Tarvin, or Tarporley in a small country pub. Since University starts in October I am sure Helen was there. The stereo was a Fisher, and replaced my old Bush.


21st Birthday. This was a lot more public. I had a Christmas dinner with some college buddies, and a couple of friends from High School. I don’t remember Helen being around, but she was working by then.


Graduation. Well, there was no champers. Mum and dad took me, and my friend Paula for a nice dinner in Chinatown after the formal ceremony in the Free Trade Hall. I remember it was a good meal, and when we were browsing the shops in Chinatown after there was a rack of Asian Playboy magazines, and Paula teasing me about how I’d probably want to have a look in them.


Engagement. It was New Years Eve 1994 when we formalized everything. I say 1994, because I first came to the US in 1993, and David was born in 1997, implying marriage in 1996, and so, since we had a year of betrothal before, and it was New Years Eve, in Chianti’s restaurant in Merced, on our way home from a day in the snow in Yosemite. I don’t remember that cork, or if we had sparkling wine. I just remember the look of joy on the faces of the people at the next table. It wasn’t a surprise engagement, but we didn’t know that morning we were going to formalize it before the year was out.


Wedding. This must be in the box with the guest book and the photo album. I remember the wedding fell flat in many regards. We had to choose to either marry in America or the UK. It was easier for my immediate family to travel to the US then for Evelyn’s to go to the UK. This made for a smaller congregation, but freed us up for a civil ceremony in a romantic location. It rained in the morning, but dried for the ceremony. I remember my mum was very impressed, but like all couples, in retrospect, we kinda wished we could have took the money and added it to a down payment and got into a house sooner.


Wetting the baby’s head. Sure, this should have happened, but I was on the sympathy wagon through the pregnancy and while he was on the breast. The actual day was very tiring, Evelyn going in for induced labor about 3pm, and after a stressful, sleepless night, going for a C section 22 hours later. Evelyn got some rest, but I had to carry on, straight into new dad mode, not getting any sleep until after visiting that evening. I was allowed to stay in the hospital for a couple of nights. Not having the kids christened or baptized meant we never really got a formal welcoming for the bairns.


Wetting the other babies head. Well, everything moved so quick. From Evelyn asking me to stay to breakfast and not rush off to work until he was in my arms took less than 3 hours.  We were busy with a toddler, a baby, my mum there to help us out, and my busy work schedule.  No time to party, just plenty of cups of tea.


Romantic getaway weekend.  There’s only been one of those since the kids arrived.  I guess at some point there should have been champagne, but we elected to stick to margaritas, tequila, beer and Southern Comfort.  Oh, there was a night away from the kids, and Asti was consumed then.  It felt like a second honeymoon in some regards and a second date in others.

I guess since I left home properly (excluding college) I have had 20 New Years, only one was at a friends, and only one had my parents around.  I don’t always get bubbly, New Years has mostly been a quiet holiday in this household.