A Winter's Tale

 Here we are almost at the end of another year and like many, I find it a time for reflection. I don't think any of us need another reminder of what a different or difficult year it has been. We have all faced challenges, some more heartbreaking or devastating than others, so in many ways I am fortunate. Plans for the year didn't materialise, we didn't see friends, our family or our three new grandchildren as much as we would have liked but overall things are okay. And on the plus side, I have learned new skills by taking my teaching online and have started a new venture with the podcast with Izzy. Both things that probably would never have happened without the pandemic. In fact planning, or lack of, is the subject of the third episode of our podcast, Izzy & Gina... in stitches, which you can hear from Thursday 31st December as we attempt to wrap up this year. We also talk about our dogs and I mention a little foray into writing...

Which brings me neatly to the real subject of this post... writing. Along with my other creative pursuits I enjoy putting pen to paper now and then. I've often kept diaries, I've written here for more years than I remember and I've even written a pantomime but I've never really attempted a story, at least not since I was at school. So during a short writing course from Beth Kempton just before Christmas, where we were encouraged to write a short winter story based on a memory, I came up with the following. I have debated whether to share this as it feels incredibly exposing, but there seems little point in writing a story if no-one gets to read it. In the words of Seth Godin "It doesn't count if you don't share it". 

So here goes. It is entirely true and I hope it will bring a smile to your face at the end of this strangest of years. Please leave me a comment and let me know what you think. And let me sign off for the year by wishing you peace, hope, good health and love for 2021. Thank you for being here.

A Cautionary Winter's Tale

It was one of those winters of childhood memory, where you always wake to a world cloaked in muffled silence, enveloped in a blanket of snow. Of course, most winters were not like that at all, and just like the endless hot balmy summers we recalled from our youth, they were merely imagined memories, given rose tinted spectacles with the passage of time.

 

But this particular Christmas we really did wake to find there had been a heavy snowfall during the night. It was a late start with the adults weary from the celebrations of the evening before but us children couldn’t wait to get outside. Donning hats, mittens, scarves and boots we wrapped up ready to go and play in the road, in the days when it was safe to do so. The overnight snowfall had been so heavy it was unlikely there would be any traffic on our quiet street anyway.

 

Snowballs were hurled, landing on our necks sending trickles of icy water down our backs as we shrieked in mock outrage. Snowmen were built as we rolled huge balls up and down the street, gathering layers of clinging wet snow speckled with grit. We lay on the fresh unspoilt snow in the front gardens making ‘angels’ with our arms and legs. We played for what seemed like hours, until our ears and noses were tingling and our fingers became so numb, we could no longer feel them, encased in their mittens coated with clinging clumps of ice.

 

Back inside our wet outer garments were discarded, leaving puddles on the floor and soggy damp wool was draped over heaters to dry, as my mother boiled up a kettle to make us hot blackcurrant drinks to warm us up. As we sipped the steaming hot mugs of blackcurrant cordial there were cries of disgust. 

“This tastes really strange”, “It’s horrid”, “There’s not enough Ribena in this, you’ve made it too weak”

Mum emptied the bottle, adding extra cordial to our mugs, in an attempt to improve the flavour but it didn’t help much. It became sweeter but still tasted disgusting.

 

And then my uncle Dave, ex merchant navy, appeared, taking in the scene of complaining children with their hot drinks and realisation dawned. 

“You didn’t use that half bottle of blackcurrant I left on the sideboard, did you?” He asked my mother. 

“Yes, thought it best to use that up before opening a new bottle.”

“Ah… I mixed that with my rum last night!”

 

Fortunately, none of us had drunk more than a sip or two and none of us actually liked the hot rum and black, but the story was told for many years about the time all us kids all got drunk on uncle Dave’s rum!

 

*****

You can read another one of my forays into writing here.

A Literary Festival

One of the best things about village life is the wonderful range of entertainment and activities that are on offer. There is everything from sport, live theatre and music to quizzes, films and social suppers. Last weekend saw the very first Literary Festival to be held in my now ex but neighbouring village which gave me the ideal excuse to escape the unpacking of boxes.

There was a fabulous programme of speakers and interviews, each with a local connection plus we were treated to a generous ploughman's lunch with wine.

The first speaker was Christine Adams who told the extraordinary story of her ex-husband's aunt, May Savidge, who following a demolition order, single handedly moved her medieval home, literally beam by beam, brick by brick and nail by nail, 100 miles from Ware in Hertfordshire , to rebuild it in Wells next to Sea in Norfolk. She worked on it for twenty three years but never completed the task. However she left the house to the family and Christine took on the task of finishing it. Christine's story is just as remarkable as May's and she is a natural story teller. I had been fortunate enough to meet Christine a few years ago and found her story so engaging I immediately bought her book "A Lifetime in the Building" (now renamed Miss Savidge Moves Her House) which I can thoroughly recommend.

After our excellent lunch we were treated to a recital of poetry by award winning poet Tom Weir who grew up in the village. (I remember him when he was a small boy.) In all honesty I don't really understand most poetry, it goes right over my head and especially I find it impossible to read. But listening to Tom explain the reasons for writing some of his verses, with his wry observation and gentle humour and then hearing his recitals from two of his collections, I feel I could be converted. It was powerful and at times emotional but made us laugh too.

    

Next followed a lively conversation between Sarah Harrison, Jenny Chapman and Jim Prothero. The festival was the brain child of Sarah Harrison, a successful local author. Jenny is an author and journalist and Jim has recently self published his first novel although he also has a children's book and several screenplays under his belt. He describes himself as an author in a bricklayer's body! They spoke about the trials and tribulations of getting published as well as the importance of setting aside regular and achievable chunks of time to write.

The day concluded with Sarah interviewing Sarah Shaw about her book. The Secret Diary of a 1970s Secretary. I have known Sarah a long time, as our sons were friends back in primary school and we were in the local Am Dram group together. When Sarah was packing up her house to move to Dorset she discovered a diary in her loft dating back to 1971 when she had started work for the BBC. She typed upthe diary and self published it as an ebook and although I had downloaded it to my Kindle I couldn't bring myself to read it immediately. What if I didn't like it... what would I say to Sarah? But after a lunch date Sarah asked me what I thought and  I decided that I really did need to bite the bullet and read it. I started that afternoon and two days later I'd finished it. I loved this book and by the time I got to the second half I couldn't put it down. Not only does it tell the story of 19 year old Sarah's time working as secretary for the BBC and living in a run down hostel in London, it also conveys the era perfectly giving a wonderful picture of the food we ate, the clothes we wore and the music we listened to at the time. But the book's success is largely down to the story woven against this backdrop, that of  the blossoming but unlikely romance between Sarah and the lift operator at the BBC's old Langham building. It is written with great humour and honesty, with a brilliant eye for detail that took me right back to 1971. And it is not only now available in hardback and paperback but there is due to be a dramatised TV programme too.

It really was a brilliant day and I love that it was called the first Steeple Morden Literary Festival with promise of more to come in future. Of course that remains to be seen as village events such as these rely so much on the hard work and good will of many volunteers and without support they cannot go ahead. And if there is a single negative comment to be made it was the lack of local support for this amazing Litfest. I didn't count the numbers in the audience but sadly it felt sparse, with several of those attending coming from afar. I'm not sure why more local people didn't turn up and give their support, maybe they thought it wasn't for them but all I can say is they missed a treat because it was a wonderful programme of speakers and conversations that was entertaining, uplifting and inspiring.

At the end, a friend asked if I ever think I would like to write, which I dismissed with a the comment that I don't think I have any stories in me. But when she suggested that my Instagram feed makes interesting reading it occurred to me that I have actually been writing for twelve years in this blog! Mostly stories with pictures, sometimes diary, sometimes general observations about life with a large dose of cake thrown in for good measure, but writing nonetheless. And that prompted me to write this post!

Talking About Words

Well that was a longer than intended break from my blog for no reason other than I seem to run out of time each day. I've been busy this past month following the 100 day goal with The Business Bakery, trying to build up my on line shop and increase sales for my little art business. I have been developing several more on line tutorials, which I will be back to tell you about soon, so there has been plenty of writing, plenty of words but just not here.

I have also been off with my girls to give some talks recently. I have given talks to groups for several years now. Once upon a time  I wouldn't have ever dreamt I would be doing something like standing up talking about what I do in front of an audience  yet it has become one of the favourite parts of my work.

I am always convinced beforehand that no one will want to listen to me and I'll bore the pants off everyone, sending them all to sleep. Actually, given that my audience consists largely of women of a certain age, and we are mostly in darkened rooms in the early evening, invariably there is at least one person who nods off half way through which sends me into panic mode. Never mind all those who remain awake and listening... I rush through my talk fixating on the snoozing individual... thankfully no-one has ever started snoring yet... praying they don't fall off their chair... convinced I must be totally boring, yet still I love it. I love the buzz and the adrenaline rush... and if I'm honest I love that feeling of holding an audience captive, even if they are asleep!

I do sometimes have a problem with words though and can be mid sentence knowing exactly what I want to say when the correct word hovers just out of reach... and I have been known to use a completely wrong word on more than one occasion. (Frequently if I'm honest!) The same goes for common phrases or idioms too. I get them muddled up, confused or only half finished. Only the other day I was talking about our estate agents and the progress (or lack of) on our house sale (not during one of my talks I hasten to add) and I wanted to say they had taken their finger off the button... or possibly they had taken the pot off the boil. But instead what came out was they had taken their finger off the boil! Fortunately most people are too polite to laugh out loud and point out the error of my ways.

I might be a bit worried about this tendency if I hadn't done it all my life. And it's not just me as the youngest two sons also have funny ways with words. Joe would always invent words as a child (and still does). He would combine words together or completely make up new words that were often hilariously funny and usually much better, more descriptive and oddly more appropriate than the original words. Of course at the time I always thought I would remember them but I don't and now wish that I had written them down. And Jacob, being on the autistic spectrum always struggled with phrases and idioms. Try explaining "it's raining cats and dogs" to a four year old who takes everything literally. As a result he would often come up with his own off the wall made up versions. 

As well as writing tutorials and talking to embroidery or quilting groups, I have also designed and stitched some cards that I've had printed so that other people can write their own words.

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Despite being able to stand up and talk about myself and my work for nearly an hour it's the self promotion part of running my business that I find the hardest, but I guess there's not a lot of point in getting cards printed if I'm not going to let people know where they can buy them... which is here since you ask!

Written words, spoken words, made up words and even the wrong words at the wrong time... I actually enjoy them all. And if you belong to a group who would like to hear me talk then please do get in touch and I'll visit you with my girls and my incorrect words.

My talk is all about stories... the stories of women's lives and the artwork that they have inspired... and words of course. How are you with words?

Off Piste

This is not my usual type of blog post but I hope you'll bear with me, even though it might be a bit wordy... depending on how fast I type! A few weeks ago I signed up for a free on-line Winter Writing Workshop with Do What You Love for Life. Despite having kept this blog for over ten years, written a pantomime, edited our village newsletter for the past year and  having always written diaries I don't think it has ever crossed my mind to consider myself a writer. But I quite liked the idea of the challenge of a week of writing prompts. On day five we were looking at the value of critisism and rejection which included watching Oprah Winfrey interview J. K. Rowling. Our writing challenge for that day was then to write a 30 minute* blog post on "What Oprah Winfrey has taught me"

To be fair we could choose another public figure we admired but I liked the challenge of writing about Oprah Winfrey, especially as until last Saturday I don't think I had ever thought an awful lot about her. I knew she had been a tabloid style chat show host with a hugely successful show, but beyond that I knew very little. The only time I've ever seen her before was in the film "The Colour Purple" in which she gave an excellent performance gaining an Oscar nomination but I could hardly claim that had taught me anything. 

But I thought her interview with J. K. Rowling was totally captivating and it had me fascinated for the entire conversation. She showed such a connection, empathy and genuine interest in her guest that I was determined to find out more and so I did what all good writers should do and that was some research. I was  surprised by some of the things I discovered. Oprah was born into poverty in rural Mississippi in 1954, to an unmarried teenage mother. She was raised in turn by her maternal grandmother, her mother and then her father. She suffered abuse in her childhood and became pregnant aged just fouteen but her only son died in infancy.

Whilst still at school she got a job in local radio and despite all her disadvantages she excelled at school and won a scholarship to Tennessee State University. Her career in local media took off and her meteoric rise to host the most popular TV talk show ever, was rapid. She has gone on to write books, produce, act and has become a media proprietor. Not only is she cited as the richest African-American she is also ranked as the greatest black philanthropist in American history, supporting numerous educational causes and relief efforts. There is no doubt her life has courted much controversy but I was struck by her openess and generosity of spirit. She has risen from her own disadvantaged background to show strength, overcoming adversity and going on to help others do the same. So to answer "What Oprah Winfey has taught me" I think it is that despite where we come from, despite our mistakes and our flaws, we can constantly learn and grow aspiring to be the best version of ourselves possible. In her own words "Step out of the history that is holding you back. Step into the new story you are willing to create". It has also been a lesson not to make judgements without being informed. I  could have quite easily dismissed Oprah Winfey as just another over-hyped celebrity... I would have been wrong.

So that was my blog post for this particular writing exercise and I would be interested in your feedback, because it feels a bit scary going off piste like this and away from the safety my usual subjects like cake and knitting! Are there any public figures you admire? Who would you have written about?

* This actually took longer than thirty minutes but I was too absorbed in the process to stop writing.

Why I do what I do: Blog Hop

I was recently asked by Penny from Planet Penny would I mind joining in with a Blog Hop... a sort of "Why I do what I do" type of meme. I don't usually join in with these sort of things, not because I mind answering the questions or whatever, but because I don't like to have to pass things on. It feels too much like a chain letter... or those facebook things where people claim to know who their true friends are by those who will re-post. I never re-post those things, ever, I tear up chain letters... and I won't pass on the blog hop to other bloggers. It makes me feel uncomfortable. But Penny was okay with that, so I'll answer the questions and join in anyway... just in case you might be the least bit interested!

 

 

1. What am I working on?

Loads of things... there's knitting and crochet on the go (several pieces), half finished machine embroidery which I suppose is my real "work"(more of that later), not to mention the odd quilt or two. But what is actually on my kitchen table today are various cake books because I've been asked to make an 80th birthday cake this weekend... for a fabulous Frenchman who cycles and plays tennis, has been an active and hilarious member of our local amateur dramatics group, still goes to work at the craft market in Covent Garden at weekends and generally acts about 60 years younger than he is! I've looked at so many ideas and seen so many images on Pinterest that my head is spinning but I think I know what I'll do. I'm keeping it simple and have put aside all ideas of tennis racquets and Frenchmen on bicycles... I'll show you when it is done!

 

2. How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I'm not sure my work fits into a genre... maybe "machine embroidery" can be considered a genre, I'm not sure? In which case it is not unique as there are others of similar style. But although other people tell me they can identify my style, I'm not entirely sure I can. I think it is quite an eclectic style depending on what I'm trying to achieve. Not easy to answer that one as you can probably tell!

 

3. Why do I create/write what I do?

I think it is in my genetic make up to create... I have to do it. I need to do it! It can be anything from knitting, drawing, gardening, cake making, embroiderery to writing but if I'm not creating or making with my hands in some way or another every day, I get very restless. I have always done it for as far back as I can remember... there were dolls clothes, little hand made books full of secrets, and miniature gardens for fairies (anyone else do that or is it only me?) The writing is a more recent creative endeavour. I suppose I have always jotted things down in diaries and suprised myself when I was writing essays for my degree in that I really enjoyed researching and writing. But the blog has turned it into something more creative for me. It is a way to connect and share with like minded people, a way to get feedback (we all like that reassurance, don't we? )and a method to sort out my ideas in my other creative pursuits. I can't imagine not writing my blog.

 

4. How does my writing/creative process work?

This really does depend on what I am working on. My machine embroidery work has various starting points and can be triggered by words and text as in the pages of my lace book pictured above, or from pages in my sketchbook as in this recent work based on Dia de los Muertos images - I'm still working on Frida Kahlo ideas! You are getting to see this in a still very rough stage and I will continue to stitch into it and adding to it until I achieve the effect I am after. Then I'll be ready to show you again!

My writing process is entirely different and is almost always visually inspired. I never really have a clear idea of what my next blog post will be. Sometimes I plan them ahead in my mind and then the days pass and they are not relevent any more, occaisonally I write two or three at once and schedule them but there is no real pattern. Mostly I take lots of photos of the various things I am working on or places I have been and then write as the moment grabs me. Most of the photos never get used! This post was particularly difficult because it was the questions that have prompted it and not the visual images.

 

So those are my answers for what they are worth. I won't pass this particular baton on, but if you would like to take it up just let me know and I'll add your blog post to the few I've that added below that have gone before me. There are some fascinating posts and interesting reading so do take a look!

 

Penny at Planet Penny

Claire at Mrs Brown Makes

 Sue at The Quince Tree

Annie at Annie Cholewa

Jessica at The Rusty Duck

Amy at Love made my home

Anny at Dreaming in Stitches

Sarah at Mitenska