Their lives in a box

I have a shoe box containing all the photographs my parents took, from when they got engaged in 1922 until around 1956. Contact prints were so small in those days - (2-1/2 by 1-1/2 inches) - that it's not such a squeeze as you might imagine. I have dipped into these over the years, but now I have set myself the task of going through them systematically and scanning all the good ones into my computer.

I thought there would be good curiosity value in the pictures of the 1920s fashions, but I am finding something more profound happening as I immerse myself in the past. It is as though I am actually living alongside my parents, in a way that never seemed to happen even when they talked about their younger days, and I feel that I am beginning to know them better.

In the beginning were the loving shots taken of each other, having fun and showing off. When I realised I had got to the honeymoon pictures, three years after the engagement, I wanted to know where they were taken. On the folder was the name of the photographer and the town of Bognor. There was one snap of The Royal Hotel, and I was able to find it on the web, still recognisably the same now, 80 years later. Time stood still.

Note the 1925 swimsuits, both of them giving full body coverage! Soon after this, as all parents will understand, the pictures became filled with images of me, and later of my brother, and the pictures of each other became rarer, as the demands of family life took over. But their hearts didn't change, and in 1952 I took this picture of them together, still loving, as they remained to the end.

Blogging? Any fool can do it ...

Look at me ... !


Entering your website in a competition makes you think about what you are doing, and how it matches up to the other entries. Having looked at those in the category of Personal / Family / Blog, I see that some of them are websites, and some of them are blogs, or what are effectively a single page, reading down from the latest entry to the earliest. It would have been good to have a category solely for blogs, as they are so different in style from other websites.

A blog is not a finished thing. It depends, in my view, not so much upon design and layout, as upon content, which needs constant refreshment with new material. This is because it has the appeal of a serial story, a 'soap', or a regular column in a newspaper.

A blog does not have to be ‘on topic’ or ‘on message’ in any way, except as the whim of the blogger dictates. A blog can be a living, growing, changing thing from day to day, wide ranging and full of new ideas and images.

A blog is also essentially an interactive website, a meeting place where people can not only drop in and comment on what they find, but also get to know each other better, and extend the circle of their visiting. In this way virtual communities of like-minded people are formed, stretching right across the globe, and, one hopes, drawing us all closer together in common understanding.

These blog communities can also provide other benefits for the blogger. They can act as a sounding board for new ideas, for experiments in style, and for tentative efforts at more serious writing. I have also found them generous in helping with IT problems, and supportive in times of stress. They can even be treated as a sort of confessional - if you want to take the risk!

This is what my blog is for me:

A playground - where I lark about, relax, and have fun

A stage - where I perform, show off and can play many parts

A schoolroom - where I learn new things and widen my horizons

A party - where I meet people, talk a lot, and maybe flirt a little

A workshop - where I am creative linguistically, visually, conceptually

It is the breath of life to me now ...

"Cry 'Havoc!', and let slip the dogs of war ..."

Having asked on my Welcome page that viewers should “Love me, love my blog”, I ruminated on further possible connections between dogs and blogs. My train of thought went like this:

A blog is a man’s best friend, they say,

and every blog will have its day.

But it’s a blog’s life when you enter a website competition,

and in a blog eat blog world,

where contestants cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the blogs of war,

we look to mad blogs and English women to carry the day.

With the new Blogger, you can teach an old blog new tricks!

And if someone is needed to help a lame blog over a style,

I know a man who can.

So, shall we say “the little blog laughed to see such sport”

or shall we be saying “the blog it was that died”?

[Tongue-in-cheek emoticon]

Thought for today

Thinking today about my friend Lee's blog entitled 'A Curate's Egg', I wondered if his title refers to his blog, or to something else. I came up with this in haiku form:

~~~~~~~~

Life's a curate's egg

You can eat or you can starve

Which do you prefer?

~~~~~~~~

I hope you'll forgive my working with your idea, Lee.

Herts24 Web Awards

! WELCOME TO MY BLOG !

This is me ...

I am in my 80th year and I like to laugh

I like to hug and I like to dress up

And most of all I like to write

~~~~~~~~

! Love me ~ love my blog !

Roam at random, or choose from the list of topics in the sidebar

and if you want to vote for me

in the Personal/Family/Blog category

THE VOTING LINK AT THE BOTTOM OF EACH POST
IS NOW ACTIVE

The man I missed in Bollington

The babies kept coming...1, 2, 3, 4

My tribute to Michael

I haven't written much about Michael here, because we lived apart in recent years, and he would not really have understood about blogging, and so it did not seem appropriate while he lived. But I would like now to share something of him with you. Here is what I said in my tribute:

Michael and I first met at a Christmas Eve party in 1946, and I fell in love with him there and then.

For 60 years we have been part of each other’s lives, and I can scarcely remember a time when Michael was not a determining factor in what I was thinking or doing. I cannot imagine that this is ever going to change.

In these last sad months, while I have cared for him, as he has cared for me in the past, I have come to know Michael in a way that I did not do before, and that is very important to me. Even at the last he has added value to my life.

A man of determined independence, who gave freely to others but would ask nothing for himself, Michael met the indignities of his final illness, not only uncomplainingly, but with spirit and humour, refusing to become any less of the man that he has always been.

He spoke of me to others as “My Judith”, and despite his confusion, from time to time he would ask me: “And how are you doing in ‘all this’, dear – are you coping?” I feel his love for me more strongly now than ever.

Seven years ago, when the whole of our family came together for Michael’s birthday, we made a special book for him, in which each of us wrote our personal tribute. I cannot do better than read to you now what I wrote for him then:

Michael ~ For me you have always been ~

constant and dependable; patient, generous and forgiving.

You have supported and encouraged me in being my own person.

You have been strong for me where I have been weak, but prepared to follow where I could lead.

Together we have raised four splendid, loveable and loving sons, and reliably and equably, you have maintained the fabric of our family life.

For all of this ~ and for being hardy and long-lasting ~ I love you.

I missed you this morning ...

Last weekend I unexectedly found myself driving through the little mill town in Cheshire where we lived from 1960 to 1970. It turned out to be a very affecting experience.

I missed you this morning when I went back to Bollington
Chasing up the shadows of a time long gone
Missed you in the place where we made our first home together
Still looks the same though it’s forty years on

Missed you when I drove past The Olde Cock and Pheasant
Nice drop of Boddington’s - your favourite beer
Then past St Oswald’s where the boys were christened
The school and the corner shop - they’re both still there

Missed you when I stopped by our little farm cottage -
An Aga in the kitchen and nappies on the rail
And then at the big house we had to move on to -
The babies kept coming - now it’s up for sale

Missed you in the High Street where the shops are familiar
Then under the aqueduct and up by The Mill
Along the canal bank where the ducks are still squawking
And looking for White Nancy up on Kerridge Hill

You weren’t there to share with me our own special memories
I left it too long and you weren’t there to share
I missed you this morning when I went back to Bollington
I missed you... I missed you... you should have been there…..

[Local landmark White Nancy]

An aunt's-eye view of my wedding

My mother Barbara had a sister Fay who kept a journal for many years, and when she died I inherited 66 exercise books full! Her observation was acute, and her take on events and people was often entertaining. This is her account of my wedding in 1956, with a few comments by me.

Judith is married. It seemed a completely successful wedding - Barbara’s skill at giving parties never lets her down, she is a true Bragge.

I didn’t really like Judith’s dress; it seems such a pity not to have been a real bride when she had the chance. The material was so thin that I felt the frock was not decent enough to wear to church for a solemn ceremony. [But it was lined, except over the shoulders.] The hat, all white wide-brimmed and dipping to the left shoulder at the back was enchanting front view but nothing special seen from the back. Judith herself looked quite lovely; serene and self-possessed. She is actually shorter than Michael.

Mrs Burke had done the flowers in the church beautifully and Ruby Hutchison the ones in the hall even better - she had apparently gone round Alfrick demanding whatever flowers she wanted and simply taking them if the owner was out! John and Theo played organ and viola during the signing of the register. ‘Sheep will safely graze’ played so, in a small, old, country church, sounded inevitable.

Peter Moore took the service better than I have ever heard it taken and one knew already that he could not be less than someone. [He later became Dean of St Albans Cathedral.]

The highlight I thought was the man who announced the guests, highly efficient, he looked superb in a scarlet jacket. If I heard Barbara aright he is the toast-master for Worcester. Barrow’s had made the cake and it was exquisite; a pity they did not use the little one on top of the big one. It was so beautifully decorated that it seemed like something permanent. The flowers had been tinted to match the delicate cream-colour of the icing and the little leaves were pale gold.

There was sherry to begin with and soft drinks and afterwards champagne and then tea and coffee which seemed a little odd but catered for all tastes. The ten-seater bus which collected guests who came by train had a huge cardboard notice in the window saying
‘Alfrick Wedding Party’. When J and M drove away there was a dustbin lid and other ironmongery tied to the back of the car. Pink paper rose-petals were showered over them.
[Also chopped chaff from a local farm, which itched like crazy!]

Ursula invented a new ‘Old Saying’. If a cock is heard to crow during the wedding celebrations, as many times as it is heard to crow so many children will the couple have. Urs and I heard the cock crow 5 times! [And I did in fact have five pregnancies, though I lost one of them in a miscarriage.]

A general atmosphere of success and competence pervaded the wedding. It seems to me a very good thing to have a church service before all the gaiety. How solemn a thing a marriage is, how quickly made as far as the law is concerned.

Barbara should be very proud of a successfully organized event and we hope that the marriage it has launched will be as successful and happy. It is such a relief that Judith is married at last. [I was only 28!]


[Photographs by Harriet Crowder]

NOTE :: Click on the 'my life story' label below and all my autobiographical posts will come up on one page.

Haiku for a good friend

Permission to hug,

dear friend, how shall I seek it?

No need - you kissed me!

.

.

[Drawing by Mimi Noland, from The Little Book of Hugs by Kathleen Keating]

Atherosclerosis

Even elderly sclerotic blood vessels like mine have enough flow space left in them for the sap to rise a little on a day like today. The first real feel of spring was in the air when I went shopping in the local town. As I locked my car and set off for the centre, my spine straightened - (well, that must have been an illusion, but it felt like it) - and a spring came into my step. And lordy! lordy! what's this I'm feeling now? A surge of yearning? No, it's positively a sense of arousal..... and bang goes my hard won acceptance of age and increasing decrepitude.

Nobody even worth smiling at in my line of vision unfortunately.... which reminds me that I'm still trying to work out how to flirt in an appropriate way at the age of 79. But the mood of renewal sticks around for a while, and after printing out a statement in the bank, showing a debit balance, I go on to spend too much money on things I don't need. Shall I have lunch in town? No, better hurry home before I commit worse follies, either of expenditure or of misplaced sexual reawakening.

Tomorrow it will probably be snowing again, and I shall have to renew the struggle against the temptations of salty crisps, chocolate and Danish pastries. If I work hard at that, I might put my photo up on one of the online dating websites..... or I might not.

Do not resuscitate

I had the unhappy experience recently of having to stand by and watch the paramedics spend half an hour trying to revive a sick old man of 89, whose heart and breathing had stopped, but whose brain was still giving out an electrical signal. I knew that he had agreed with his GP that his hospital notes should carry the notation DNR, or “do not resuscitate”. It was his wish, in which his family supported him, knowing that resuscitation would be likely to leave him worse off than before.


But it seems that here in the UK, unless there is a letter from a doctor written within the previous two weeks, stating that the patient need not be resuscitated, the paramedics are legally obliged to continue trying, until not only the heartbeat and breathing have stopped, but the last electrical signal from the brain as well. If they have had no success after a certain time, they must take him to hospital where doctors can make the decision.

Is there no way to avoid this happening? I can understand the reason for such safeguards, but it seems unnecessarily distressing at an already painful time. If he had been in hospital they would have let him go, but it had been his wish to remain at home. Or if his GP had been sent for instead of the paramedics, he could have been left in peace and dignity. It is something to think about, if you are preparing for the death of someone you know. Here is a good framework to work with on this and related issues; I believe it originated in the British Medical Journal.

Principles of a good death

• To know when death is coming, and to understand what can be expected
• To be able to retain control of what happens
• To be afforded dignity and privacy
• To have control over pain relief and other symptom control
• To have choice and control over where death occurs (at home or elsewhere)
• To have access to information and expertise of whatever kind is necessary
• To have access to any spiritual or emotional support required
• To have access to hospice care in any location, not only in hospital
• To have control over who is present and who shares the end
• To be able to issue advance directives which ensure wishes are respected
• To have time to say goodbye, and control over other aspects of timing
• To be able to leave when it is time to go, and not to have life prolonged pointlessly
  
  

[Edited 06.01.08 - I wrote this piece to replace the two previous pieces, at a time when I had decided to delete them as too personal. I have now decided to restore them as the truer versions, but I am leaving this in place too. It has some interest as an exercise in writing about one event in two different ways.]

Principles of a good death

I started my blog to write about the realities of being old, and with the hope of breaking down some misconceptions and taboos. I know that I am writing rather a lot under this label at present, but but it's been a tough year for me in this respect. And there are certainly other people out there who are prepared to look at what lies ahead, and consider what arrangements, if any, they can make for the end of their life. I hope that the rest of you will forgive me, and move on to another post.

An earlier post reminded me of something I found on the web a while ago - ( I think it originated in the British Medical Journal) - which gives one a framework for thinking about this. And I believe that there is a move in the NHS for hospitals to develop their own protocols and care pathways for the terminally ill along the lines of these principles. I am trying to find out more on the web.

Principles of a good death

• To know when death is coming, and to understand what can be expected


• To be able to retain control of what happens


• To be afforded dignity and privacy


• To have control over pain relief and other symptom control


• To have choice and control over where death occurs (at home or elsewhere)


• To have access to information and expertise of whatever kind is necessary


• To have access to hospice care in any location, not only in hospital


• To have control over who is present and who shares the end


• To be able to issue advance directives which ensure wishes are respected


• To have time to say goodbye, and control over other aspects of timing


• To be able to leave when it is time to go, and not to have life prolonged pointlessly

Do not resuscitate

This is a distressing subject. I need to write about it because I am still distressed by what happened. And I think it may be helpful to others in a similar situation. But you don't need to read it, so give it a miss if you'd rather.

When my husband was in hospital for one of his fairly frequent recent visits, he agreed with his doctor that his notes should carry the letters ‘DNR’, for “do not resuscitate”. We were all relieved that he agreed to the notation, as we knew he was living on borrowed time, and that with his age and present state of health, resuscitation would be likely to leave him in a much worse state than before. Nobody talked to us, however, about what would happen in this connection if he died at home, as he hoped to.

When I got the call from his carer, to say that she thought he had gone, but had called the paramedics anyway, I was over at his house within 15 minutes. I made straight for the stairs so that I could be with him, but the paramedics turned me away, saying "We are doing all we can for him". The significance of those words did not register with me straightaway, and it was some time before I realised that they were trying to resuscitate him.

My pleas to them to stop were useless. The fact that nobody wished him to be resuscitated, including he himself, counted for nothing. Here in the UK, unless there is a letter from a doctor written within the previous two weeks, stating that the patient need not be resuscitated, the paramedics are legally obliged to continue trying, until not only the heartbeat and breathing have stopped, but the last electrical signal from the brain as well. If they have had no success after a certain time, they must take him to hospital where doctors can make the decision. Once I understood this I rang our GP at once; but thankfully, by the time he arrived, after half an hour's strenuous efforts to revive him, my husband had finally 'died' in their terms.

I can understand the reason for such safeguards, but I found it excessively painful at an already painful time. If he had been in hospital they would have let him go, and I could have sat beside him and held his hand. And perhaps while his brain was still bravely sending out its signal, although his heart had stopped, it might also have recognised in some little corner that I was with him. Instead I was barred from his presence, because in the bathroom where he lay there was not room for me as well as the paramedics.

And if it had been me who found him at home, and not his carer, perhaps, knowing his wishes, I could have sent for his GP instead of the paramedics, and we could have been peacefully together at the very last. It is something to think about.

[Edited 06.01.08 - I deleted this post for a while and wrote an alternative version, as I felt it was too personal. Now I have decided to restore it as the truer version. I have left the alternative version too (see 12th February), as the two together have some interest as an exercise in writing about one experience in different ways.]

The glass cow

I wrote here the other day about my collection of cows, and how I still needed to find a gold one and a glass one for my collection. Very soon after I was able to write here about finding a gold one on eBay, at the suggestion of my friend Pam.

After that success, I went straight on to look for a glass one, and almost immediately found this glass paperweight on offer, which is a straightforward representation of a cow, which is what I like, in a series the manufacturers Princess House describe as 'Pets'. Cows do not often feature in collections of pets, so I immediately bid for it, and was lucky enough to get it. Each of these two cows cost under £20, which doesn't seem too much, when I think what I have paid in the past (well over £100) for some antique pottery ones .

So once again I have Pam to thank ... except that now I am getting hooked on eBay buying again, and shall soon be spending too much if I am not very careful! But I haven't had a new addition to the collection for years, so I am well chuffed.

Butterfly brain

I have never been much good at sticking to one thing and seeing it through ... unless, that is, I get into really serious campaigning mode, to try to right a wrong, or bring about some necessary good. I have found myself caught up in such efforts several times since my retirement, and have invested a great deal in them. But when it comes to hobbies and pastimes, I am apt to flit and flirt and dabble and dally, but never to finish.

I attended a couple of craft workshops in the past year, and got all excited by what I produced there, rushed out and bought materials, and then left them sitting in boxes waiting for further attention. One was about making patchworks of fabrics which could be scanned to make greetings cards.

Another was about Kumihimo, the Japanese art of braiding. I came home and did a few more with leftover embroidery wools, bought a couple of starter kits ... and stopped.



Also I have a drawer full of favourite fabrics, many of them from clothes which I couldn't bear to throw away, which I want to make up into covers for scatter cushions to have around the house. I made two for my first granddaughter, two for myself and then, once again, I stopped.


Then there are all the computer projects: my autobiography, which has hardly got into gear yet, though writing for my blog is helping. But I have a huge list of topics I want to write about but haven't got around to yet. And the photographs: CDs for my sons with pictures of their mum and dad, and CDs of each of the boys with their own families; and an archive of ALL the old family pictures I have inherited, which means hours of scanning.

And I am not keeping up with my photographic blog either, nor all the online email groups I have joined, nor all the blogs I like to visit, and..... and..... and..... HEEELP!!! i'M ...... loo.....s..i...ng...i...i....i.......i.............T =:O =:O =:O