Picture for today.

If only they made motor bikes like this today! 500 cc. Long stroke.

Ah! Well!

Thought for Today

A receptionist at a dentist's told me her mother had died and I could sense her grief and I went home and wrote this because it could apply to any of us.

She died , at last, the other day,she died and left me sad.
I can't believe she's really gone and it's left me feeling bad.

She once was young and did the things that all young people do and then grew up and loved a man and then gave birth to me.
She held me close and cared for me to shield me from all harm ' til I could stand alone or so I thought, without her loving arm.

Throughout the years she watched me grow, with unspoken fears and pride. She watched as she grew old and then, our roles reversed, she let me care for her, loving me still, understanding my moments of impatience
and seeing me contrite, for she too had a mother once.

She may be gone but she will live always in my memory.

Her lovely face , her funny ways, the show of temper, her caring love will remain.

Grandpa's apples.

When, at this time of year, we went to stay at Gran and Grandad's home, the first thing we would do would be to run to the end of the back garden to see if there were any windfall apples. The ones we liked best, were, according to grandpa, named Corrianders. Small , red with light green patches and a lovely smell and taste. A few years ago I made enquiries and no apple of that name could be found but was advised that it was a Devonshire Quarrendon and I bought two little trees. This yearthey are overloaded with those lovely old apples. (the type dates from 1650) They don't keep and fall as soon as they are ripe but the taste and beautiful smell bring back the memories!
Talking of apples, I've got a very young Bramley seedling cooking apple tree which has it's first fruit this year. Five apples, not very big but a promise of apple pies in the future!
It's a lovely day today. Sunny and warm.

I just love my home.

Sammy

Yellow Moon.

Yellow moon please shine on this dark night.
This empty night like every night that lies before me.
Shine on me and light my dreams and let me see.
Share with me my secret world of love and joy and sorrow.
Perhaps your friend the sun will light my world tomorrow.

Sweet sixteen.

I remembered her today, again.
With that same, familiar, sort of pain.
Remembered her face and bewitching smile
that always lurked in those lovely eyes
that could see the truth and hated lies.
Those eyes that could spark with anger or laugh in jest
and stop me breathing and fill my chest
with a feeling I could not express.
The pain I felt again today.
To hold her hand would bring me joy
as we walked together, girl and boy.
So long ago, yet still her face I see.
Does she ,I wonder, ever think of me?

The Emperor Concerto.

Just been smiling to myself. The Emperor is about the only piece of classical music I know and I really know it because when we were children, my sister had this bit of music on six twelve inch
78 rpm records and an old wind up portable gramophone with a broken spring! I used to play this lovely piece of music by turning the turntable with my fore finger (which got worn away!) I think I got the speed about right! I used to raid my mum's needlework basket for needles, cutting them to the right length with pliars!

Poem by my daughter.

FAITH.

My children sit, under the elephantine branches of the great beeches.
They are looking for treasure.
Dappled sunlight bounces off the greenery and flits across their concentrated frowns.
As they scrape and push at the leafy soil, wholesome black earth fills behind their nails.
A glimmer of something, glass? Metal? Gold?
The search intensifies. Shoulders taut with exertion. Faith.
At last , a brown glass bottle is discovered from it's hiding place.
It's deep lustrous colour is treasure indeed, for them , in their plastic reality.
Fingers stroke the smooth, polished glass.
Confirmation that treasure exists, and dragons and happy endings.

Treasure too, for me, in this moment with my children.

My faith and a tiny memory of this day and a brown glass bottle.

Disconnected jottings.

I found this in one of my notebooks, written some time ago. Funny how thoughts and memories surface and it's nice, somehow, to share them.

When I was a child, staying with my grandparents, I loved the river and the search for
my grandfather,fishing, amongst the reeds. I remember his old trilby hat and his old , calm, face. What did he think about as he waited for the float to send a hundred rings across the surface?

At home , I remember the hot , soft , tar at the edges of the road on the walk back from school
where the teachers tried to break my spirit and make me believe I was worthless. I remember my wanderings in the countryside, the spring with the white sand boiling as the cold invisible water pushed it's way up to join the stream which wound it's beautiful way through the horsetails and willows to the old sheep dip where we splashed and made small bowls from the yellow clay of the bank. The wild strawberries. The goat's cave.

My shouting, drunken, father, unable to forget HIS drunken father and the smell of death
from the trenches at Yypres, frustrated at his inability to fulfill his fantasies , would compensate by terrifying his four misbegotten children and his wife whom he snared with his smiles and charm to satisfy his ego and lust. Did he know? Did he care that these helpless , puzzled mites
trembled in their beds at the sound of his heavy feet approaching the back door after another night of debauchery?
No wonder the tears fall as I think of the waste of it all, think of how nearly I followed his example. But I remember bare feet on warm grass and crystal streams , which are still there,
and I can't stop the tears. They keep coming out of my eyes.