Every mother who has more than one child under the age of ten has, willingly or - most likely - unwillingly, had to be a referee. I had to wear that hat again last night.
It had been a good day. With my grandchildren's physical energy dissipated by several hours of swimming, followed by some time at the local library and then a lively spell on the trampoline, I wasn't at all bothered when both Mum and Dad departed on well-deserved, separate nights out. I completely forgot that tired eight-year old Irish triplets quickly fall out with each other.
They should have been in bed, and would have been had it been term time, but Mum and Dad had allowed them to stay up to watch a special movie, on the stipulation that they were "good for Nanny". Half-an-hour after their parents departed, there all three stood at the top of the stairs, arguing about who should sit where, nudging and poking out their tongues, and generally being obnoxious to each other.
I wanted to spank all three. Lord, how I wanted to spank them. But spanking wasn't an option. First, I hadn't the energy to run up the stairs even. And who would I have spanked first? They were all three equally guilty. Had I been able to grab one of them and dusted his pants, I would have been too exhausted to deal with his siblings who would have gotten off scot free.
Another thing. Spanking would have generated enough noise to waken the neighborhood, let alone the visiting tantrum-prone two-year-old and his exhausted mother sleeping across the landing. But I had to discipline them somehow. Sending them to bed wouldn't have worked because the boys sleep together and the girl always finds an excuse to go in and visit them.
I postulated that, if they weren't near each other, they wouldn't see the sneers and other face-pulling, or be in reach of jabbing fingers, so I separated them. Fortunately this is a big house. I made the chief troublemaker (the wide-eyed innocent "Who, me?" girl twin) come downstairs and sit on the couch. Her punishment was that she couldn't watch TV at all because the lounge TV has mysteriously gone on the blink. I sent one boy into his Dad's office, where he could play on the computer, and allowed the eldest to stay in his parents' bedroom to watch the promised movie. Okay, so it wasn't fair. But that was the best I could come up with. And that was how they stayed until Mum came home and took over. By that time I was too frazzled to sleep and I let off steam playing solitaire on my computer.
How would you have coped? If you have any suggestions, I'd love to hear them ... for future reference.
Welcome!
Friday, June 26, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Unforgettable...
I loved that song, particularly when Nat King Coles sang it, and still do. It was running through my brain when I woke up this morning - Heaven knows why - but from there it was only a short step to recalling moments that are forever imprinted in my memory.
To my surprise, I realised that most of them were frightening ones, like the time my little boy and I were separated in a swirling crowd that was hell-bent on finding a Christmas bargain in jam-packed Regent Street. We were headed for Hamlys huge toy store, along with - it seemed - the whole multi-million population of Greater London. One minute he was next to me. The next, he had vanished. Heart pounding, shouting his name, I retraced my steps. Fortunately my son had inherited his father's common sense. He had stayed in one spot, looking the way I had gone, certain that I would come back for him. Relief overwhelmed me and I nearly smothered him when I hugged him. Gasping for air, he ducked his head under my arm and protested "Give over, Mum."
Then I recalled peering down a fifty foot access shaft into a nearly-completed waste water treatment plant that would serve the budding community in which we lived outside Perth, Western Australia. Three of my children (the youngest, only seven years old) claimed to have climbed down that ladder to see what was happening at the bottom. The shaft was in undeveloped outback, about half a mile from our new home, a long way from the actual treatment ponds and unfenced. What if one of my precious children had fallen, or if there'd been heavy rain while they had been exploring? ... Let's not go there. There are some things too terrible to think about.
Unbidden, came a distant memory from when I was about four which frequently surfaces in quiet moments. A memory of a flickering yellow butterfly of flame spreading its wings over my younger sister's foot after a red-hot metal sheet had fallen on it. I shudder and push the memory away. Then I recall the period, two years later, when we three girls spent some time in a branch of the National Children's Home and Orphanage in the beautiful West Riding of Yorkshire. Dad was serving in the Army and we had been taken away from our mother because of her neglect. Our little brother had gone to live with an aunt who had two boys of her own.
Those were closely-controlled but happy years. I remember singing with the other girls in our House while walking about a mile in crocodile to the Methodist chapel we attended on Sunday mornings. In the summer time we wore straw bonnets and the prettiest summer dresses donated by Friends of the Orphanage. The chapel was small but exquisite. Light poured through the stained glass windows, and multi-colored beams glanced off the highly polished brass fleur de lys mounted on the end of every pew. The font and pulpit were of stone, inset with pink and grey marble panels, while an arch soared over the altar emblazoned with the words "Worship the Lord in the Beauty of Holiness". There was a special atmosphere about that little chapel. It was alive and vibrant and I loved going there. We attended another chapel on Sunday evenings within the grounds of the Home when only the inmates attended. My favorite hymn, which of course we always sang in the evenings, was "Hushed was the evening hymn, the temple courts were dark. The lamp was burning dim before the sacred Ark, when suddenly a voice divine rang through the silence of the shrine."
My mood having mellowed, I progressed from happy memories to inspiring ones. I remember the first time I heard Simon & Garfunkel sing "Bridge Over Troubled Water". I played it over and over. It wasn't only the words that impressed me but the music. So many instruments, such a wonderful score, with the crescendo at the end flooding my senses.
I cannot claim that any book has impressed me the way the first hearing of that song did but, when I was forty years old, I came across a poem so beautiful, so full of joy, it took my breath away. I recited it often, choking up every time I reached the last few lines. And I still do. It is particularly poignant because the young airman who wrote it died shortly afterwards in a tragic, unnecessary accident. I use John Gillespie Magee's poem as my benchmark but my poetry has never come anywhere near its quality. Here is John's poem. I hope you will agree that it is 'awesome' in its proper, non-trivial sense of the word:
HIGH FLIGHT
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark or ever eagle flew.
And while, with silent lifting mind, I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
Unforgettable. Totally unforgettable.
To my surprise, I realised that most of them were frightening ones, like the time my little boy and I were separated in a swirling crowd that was hell-bent on finding a Christmas bargain in jam-packed Regent Street. We were headed for Hamlys huge toy store, along with - it seemed - the whole multi-million population of Greater London. One minute he was next to me. The next, he had vanished. Heart pounding, shouting his name, I retraced my steps. Fortunately my son had inherited his father's common sense. He had stayed in one spot, looking the way I had gone, certain that I would come back for him. Relief overwhelmed me and I nearly smothered him when I hugged him. Gasping for air, he ducked his head under my arm and protested "Give over, Mum."
Then I recalled peering down a fifty foot access shaft into a nearly-completed waste water treatment plant that would serve the budding community in which we lived outside Perth, Western Australia. Three of my children (the youngest, only seven years old) claimed to have climbed down that ladder to see what was happening at the bottom. The shaft was in undeveloped outback, about half a mile from our new home, a long way from the actual treatment ponds and unfenced. What if one of my precious children had fallen, or if there'd been heavy rain while they had been exploring? ... Let's not go there. There are some things too terrible to think about.
Unbidden, came a distant memory from when I was about four which frequently surfaces in quiet moments. A memory of a flickering yellow butterfly of flame spreading its wings over my younger sister's foot after a red-hot metal sheet had fallen on it. I shudder and push the memory away. Then I recall the period, two years later, when we three girls spent some time in a branch of the National Children's Home and Orphanage in the beautiful West Riding of Yorkshire. Dad was serving in the Army and we had been taken away from our mother because of her neglect. Our little brother had gone to live with an aunt who had two boys of her own.
Those were closely-controlled but happy years. I remember singing with the other girls in our House while walking about a mile in crocodile to the Methodist chapel we attended on Sunday mornings. In the summer time we wore straw bonnets and the prettiest summer dresses donated by Friends of the Orphanage. The chapel was small but exquisite. Light poured through the stained glass windows, and multi-colored beams glanced off the highly polished brass fleur de lys mounted on the end of every pew. The font and pulpit were of stone, inset with pink and grey marble panels, while an arch soared over the altar emblazoned with the words "Worship the Lord in the Beauty of Holiness". There was a special atmosphere about that little chapel. It was alive and vibrant and I loved going there. We attended another chapel on Sunday evenings within the grounds of the Home when only the inmates attended. My favorite hymn, which of course we always sang in the evenings, was "Hushed was the evening hymn, the temple courts were dark. The lamp was burning dim before the sacred Ark, when suddenly a voice divine rang through the silence of the shrine."
My mood having mellowed, I progressed from happy memories to inspiring ones. I remember the first time I heard Simon & Garfunkel sing "Bridge Over Troubled Water". I played it over and over. It wasn't only the words that impressed me but the music. So many instruments, such a wonderful score, with the crescendo at the end flooding my senses.
I cannot claim that any book has impressed me the way the first hearing of that song did but, when I was forty years old, I came across a poem so beautiful, so full of joy, it took my breath away. I recited it often, choking up every time I reached the last few lines. And I still do. It is particularly poignant because the young airman who wrote it died shortly afterwards in a tragic, unnecessary accident. I use John Gillespie Magee's poem as my benchmark but my poetry has never come anywhere near its quality. Here is John's poem. I hope you will agree that it is 'awesome' in its proper, non-trivial sense of the word:
HIGH FLIGHT
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of Earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark or ever eagle flew.
And while, with silent lifting mind, I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
Unforgettable. Totally unforgettable.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Why is this blog called 'Hobbies Recycled'?
In November, 2008, I explained why this blog had its title. That was so long ago that I thought I'd print it again, just to show what a dilettante I am. Here's what I wrote. I thought it might amuse you.
Off I go again ... or do I?
Oh dear. I'm having that old, old feeling. It comes around every so often and usually means I'm about to abandon the hobby that's been monopolising my time and my purse. Try as I might, I can't whip up the enthusiasm to finish my book(s). I wish I hadn't told so many people that I was writing a trilogy. If I hadn't, I wouldn't be fielding questions like "How's it coming along, then?" or "When can I read the middle book? You must have nearly finished it by now."
Let's see. As a newly-wed, I started writing - mostly limericks -which were published in the local newspaper. After that, I took a writing course and submitted a script to the BBC (which they kept for weeks, before it was returned. Someone had written a similar episode and the BBC had chosen theirs - boo hoo!). After that I submitted a story to Family Doctor about my little boy nearly dying in the bath. It was accepted. They sent me eight guineas and asked for a photo of my little boy. I didn't have a camera so I asked the local paper to take a photo for me. Imagine my dismay when my manuscript came back with a curt note saying that my story could not be used because the gist of it had been printed in the paper! Of course, I had been burbling about the accident while the photographer was taking the picture, never dreaming that he would use the story. That put me off writing and I turned to something else.
The 'something else' was knitting children's helmets. To make them you had to use one very fat needle (size 2, I think it was) and a small needle (size 10 or 11). Of course, as I never do anything by halves, I soon had a huge pile of loopy helmets, having spent the rent money on the wool, convinced that I would make a profit, but I had jumped on the loopy hat bandwagon too late and the in thing then was a long scarf. Even my children wouldn't wear my hats. They wanted a scarf, like everyone else. I ended up taking the hats to a charity shop.
I then turned to reorganizing the garden. What was I thinking of? The wilderness at the end of our long garden had been kids' heaven and they didn't take kindly to my shooing them off to grow brussel sprouts and onions (which they hated) and strawberries which ran riot, the runners threatening to strangle all other vegetation in the area. Needless to say, the kids got their patch back with the bonus of wild strawberries every June and I went back to writing. I had a poem published in Dance Magazine.
Then hubby and I made friends with two American airmen. Their wives gave me some McCalls magazines promoting all sorts of hobbies. I started making candles and spent another small fortune on a candle-making course (still have the diploma), different waxes, moulds, etc.. Soon I had a wonderful display but my kitchen was a disaster. Have you ever tried getting rid of candle wax? It's a near impossibility. My husband complained about the waxy taste of his sausage and mash and, in a fit of temper, threw out all my utensils and bought new ones. There went the rent money again! I sold a few candles, breaking my heart while doing so - they had taken me hours to make and each one was my special favorite, but the rent got paid. Then it dawned on me that hubby really wasn't keen on my hobby so I packed up wax, wicks, decorations and moulds and sent everything to my sister. Of course, she made a fortune selling her candles.
Back to writing again with the result that two humorous pieces were printed in the British Sugar Beet in-house magazine, after which (with another baby on the way) I used my typing skills to work from home for my brother-in-law. Couldn't use any of my rampant imagination because I was just typing his invoices and keeping his books. I tried scribbling a few stories in various notebooks but got that feeling - the one I'm having now - and went back to knitting.
Being me, it wasn't just any old knitting. It had to be the hardest kind. I opened an account with Sirdar and bought chunky Aran yarn by the bale. I advertised in the local paper, offering one shilling and twopence for every ounce knitted up and soon had over twenty people knitting for me. They had to knit the garments but not sew the pieces together. Some knitted beautifully, especially the older women, but I spent several hours correcting the work of others who had twisted cables the wrong way. Then I assembled the garments, sewed on any necessary buttons and the "Handmade by Melaknits" label, and wrapped them into plastic bags.
It looked as if I had hit the big time. Orders rolled in - garments weren't knitted on spec - and I began to make a small profit. I weeded out the careless knitters and reduced my knitting pool to a dozen women I trusted to do a good job. I knitted, too. Permit me to brag a little. I didn't just knit from a printed pattern; I created my own sweater patterns and they were very popular. Our American friends drooled over them and suggested I tried selling them to a mail order company. Full of optimism, I packed four sweaters into a bag and, accompanied by hubby who took the day off work, we arrived at the London office of Sears Roebuck. The buyer was over the moon when she saw the sweaters. "Can you send us four dozen each by November, ready for the Christmas catalog?" she asked. My heart sank. November was only twelve weeks away. It took at least 32 ounces to make each sweater and it took over an hour to knit up an ounce. And that didn't include the time needed for inspection and assembly. Sadly, I shook my head. She shook hers sadly, too, and it was a very subdued husband and wife who traveled back to Peterborough. Needless to say, I let my knitting business die and sent the remaining wool to another sister who still has some of it to this day.
Horticulture called again. Or rather, sericulture. I had moved to a flat with a small yard outside. Of course, I was very hard up and needed a second income. I decided to raise silkworms. Once more I splurged the rent, adapting the tool shed so that it could house larva trays and bought an expensive white mulberry bush after visiting Lullingstone Silk Farm (which produced the silk for Princess Diana's wedding dress) to view the silkworm-raising process. I decided to "start small". You can't start smaller than a six-foot by four-foot shed and one bush. I approached the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations in Rome, who provided bulletins that gave detailed instructions on raising silkworms and reeling their silk, and approached ICI for free samples of Pruteen, a possible alternative diet to mulberry leaves. ICI gave me the Pruteen but said 'no' to my request for a grant. That was just as well. During a spell of nice, sunny weather I put the mulberry bush outside in the yard. The next-door neighbor's cat peeed on it, all the leaves dropped off and that was the end of another hobby.
And so it was back to writing my book with spells of doing other things in between like researching the family history. Gardening and knitting butt in now and again, but mostly my free time is spent in front of my computer. Now you know why this blog is named "Hobbies recycled".
Off I go again ... or do I?
Oh dear. I'm having that old, old feeling. It comes around every so often and usually means I'm about to abandon the hobby that's been monopolising my time and my purse. Try as I might, I can't whip up the enthusiasm to finish my book(s). I wish I hadn't told so many people that I was writing a trilogy. If I hadn't, I wouldn't be fielding questions like "How's it coming along, then?" or "When can I read the middle book? You must have nearly finished it by now."
Let's see. As a newly-wed, I started writing - mostly limericks -which were published in the local newspaper. After that, I took a writing course and submitted a script to the BBC (which they kept for weeks, before it was returned. Someone had written a similar episode and the BBC had chosen theirs - boo hoo!). After that I submitted a story to Family Doctor about my little boy nearly dying in the bath. It was accepted. They sent me eight guineas and asked for a photo of my little boy. I didn't have a camera so I asked the local paper to take a photo for me. Imagine my dismay when my manuscript came back with a curt note saying that my story could not be used because the gist of it had been printed in the paper! Of course, I had been burbling about the accident while the photographer was taking the picture, never dreaming that he would use the story. That put me off writing and I turned to something else.
The 'something else' was knitting children's helmets. To make them you had to use one very fat needle (size 2, I think it was) and a small needle (size 10 or 11). Of course, as I never do anything by halves, I soon had a huge pile of loopy helmets, having spent the rent money on the wool, convinced that I would make a profit, but I had jumped on the loopy hat bandwagon too late and the in thing then was a long scarf. Even my children wouldn't wear my hats. They wanted a scarf, like everyone else. I ended up taking the hats to a charity shop.
I then turned to reorganizing the garden. What was I thinking of? The wilderness at the end of our long garden had been kids' heaven and they didn't take kindly to my shooing them off to grow brussel sprouts and onions (which they hated) and strawberries which ran riot, the runners threatening to strangle all other vegetation in the area. Needless to say, the kids got their patch back with the bonus of wild strawberries every June and I went back to writing. I had a poem published in Dance Magazine.
Then hubby and I made friends with two American airmen. Their wives gave me some McCalls magazines promoting all sorts of hobbies. I started making candles and spent another small fortune on a candle-making course (still have the diploma), different waxes, moulds, etc.. Soon I had a wonderful display but my kitchen was a disaster. Have you ever tried getting rid of candle wax? It's a near impossibility. My husband complained about the waxy taste of his sausage and mash and, in a fit of temper, threw out all my utensils and bought new ones. There went the rent money again! I sold a few candles, breaking my heart while doing so - they had taken me hours to make and each one was my special favorite, but the rent got paid. Then it dawned on me that hubby really wasn't keen on my hobby so I packed up wax, wicks, decorations and moulds and sent everything to my sister. Of course, she made a fortune selling her candles.
Back to writing again with the result that two humorous pieces were printed in the British Sugar Beet in-house magazine, after which (with another baby on the way) I used my typing skills to work from home for my brother-in-law. Couldn't use any of my rampant imagination because I was just typing his invoices and keeping his books. I tried scribbling a few stories in various notebooks but got that feeling - the one I'm having now - and went back to knitting.
Being me, it wasn't just any old knitting. It had to be the hardest kind. I opened an account with Sirdar and bought chunky Aran yarn by the bale. I advertised in the local paper, offering one shilling and twopence for every ounce knitted up and soon had over twenty people knitting for me. They had to knit the garments but not sew the pieces together. Some knitted beautifully, especially the older women, but I spent several hours correcting the work of others who had twisted cables the wrong way. Then I assembled the garments, sewed on any necessary buttons and the "Handmade by Melaknits" label, and wrapped them into plastic bags.
It looked as if I had hit the big time. Orders rolled in - garments weren't knitted on spec - and I began to make a small profit. I weeded out the careless knitters and reduced my knitting pool to a dozen women I trusted to do a good job. I knitted, too. Permit me to brag a little. I didn't just knit from a printed pattern; I created my own sweater patterns and they were very popular. Our American friends drooled over them and suggested I tried selling them to a mail order company. Full of optimism, I packed four sweaters into a bag and, accompanied by hubby who took the day off work, we arrived at the London office of Sears Roebuck. The buyer was over the moon when she saw the sweaters. "Can you send us four dozen each by November, ready for the Christmas catalog?" she asked. My heart sank. November was only twelve weeks away. It took at least 32 ounces to make each sweater and it took over an hour to knit up an ounce. And that didn't include the time needed for inspection and assembly. Sadly, I shook my head. She shook hers sadly, too, and it was a very subdued husband and wife who traveled back to Peterborough. Needless to say, I let my knitting business die and sent the remaining wool to another sister who still has some of it to this day.
Horticulture called again. Or rather, sericulture. I had moved to a flat with a small yard outside. Of course, I was very hard up and needed a second income. I decided to raise silkworms. Once more I splurged the rent, adapting the tool shed so that it could house larva trays and bought an expensive white mulberry bush after visiting Lullingstone Silk Farm (which produced the silk for Princess Diana's wedding dress) to view the silkworm-raising process. I decided to "start small". You can't start smaller than a six-foot by four-foot shed and one bush. I approached the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations in Rome, who provided bulletins that gave detailed instructions on raising silkworms and reeling their silk, and approached ICI for free samples of Pruteen, a possible alternative diet to mulberry leaves. ICI gave me the Pruteen but said 'no' to my request for a grant. That was just as well. During a spell of nice, sunny weather I put the mulberry bush outside in the yard. The next-door neighbor's cat peeed on it, all the leaves dropped off and that was the end of another hobby.
And so it was back to writing my book with spells of doing other things in between like researching the family history. Gardening and knitting butt in now and again, but mostly my free time is spent in front of my computer. Now you know why this blog is named "Hobbies recycled".
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Learning new tricks
They say you can't, but I aim to prove Them wrong. Did you see my new counter? I installed that myself (with considerable help from my friends) but I did it - not my daughter, or my son-in-law or my friend. I did it. And last night I downloaded a driver for a different printer that I have been given. Not content with that, I also bought new anti-virus software and downloaded it on my own. It wasn't easy. I had to uninstall the old anti-virus first and I had collywobbles about the whole process, but everything seems okay. Now for the acid test. Let's see if everything works tomorrow. I haven't forgotten that pride often comes before a fall.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Struggling
Maybe it's because I'm getting old but I'm not managing time very well these days. We're not even through the first full week of the vacation and I'm running out of ideas that don't cost money. I'm scheduling one day a week at Sports Connection where the kids can bounce to their hearts' content but that's going to be a $500 layout by the time the vacation ends - $500 I would rather use on other things. But that's the price of a few non-supervisory hours. Thank goodness for the pool in this community. That keeps the children occupied for several hours most mornings but it doesn't give me much of a break. I tried taking my notebook with me to the pool but haven't used it yet. Too busy watching the grandchildren. Last Friday afternoon someone else's child nearly drowned. Nobody saw her fall in. That's not going to happen to my two little would-be fishes or to the bigger one who can swim but is far too confident for my liking.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Should have, could have, would have
Here we are, nearly at the end of May, and my 'free time' is running out. After this weekend and two and a half days into June, the long school vacation starts. I had such good intentions when the Christmas vacation ended. I vowed to write at least 1000 words a day. I hadn't reckoned on joining the Christian Writers Guild, writer's block, children falling sick and having to stay home from school, writer's block, interesting books coming onto Borders' book shelves, writer's block, my computer dying on me, etc., etc. Oh, and did I mention writer's block? I must have sketched out half-a-dozen outlines between January and now but I haven't followed any of them. When it comes time to sit down and write, somehow I haven't been able to summon up the enthusiasm. Well. I've only myself to blame. No good thinking should've, could've, would've now. I'll keep my notebook handy and scribble in it whenever I can. Then, come the middle of August, I should be raring to go again.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Coincidences
I've just finished reading two children's books and enjoyed them both. The first, The Lightning Thief, is a romp through Greek mythology and reminded me/taught me a lot about the myths. When I picked up the Newbery Medal winner, "Walk Two Moons" I didn't expect to find any mention of gods in there - a few Indian (not Native American, as the author likes to put it) maybe, but not Greek. However, on page 155, I met Zeus, Pandora and Prometheus again. I'm just wondering whether writers as a whole are turning towards the oldest tales for new inspiration.
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