Lesson Unspoken

 

Lesson Unspoken

1950s children were to be seen and not heard, and on occasion it was preferable not to be seen either because if you were in sight you were usually ‘in the way’ and within range of a ‘skelp’. It was difficult to stay out from under foot in a three bed-roomed house with an extended family that included five adults.

It was still dark. I knew it wasn’t time for me to be up but the orange glow from beneath the door told me somebody was on the move and I wanted a drink. So I got out of bed and sneaked along the landing quietly so as not to wake the whole house. I was still learning at that stage not to ‘wake the whole house’ because of some nightmare or pain in my tummy. I heard voices as I took to the dark stairs on my bum. I pushed on the combed varnish of the living room door. It still smelt like Christmas – Christmas, the after-burn of town gas, burnt toast and peat briquettes.

There were indications enough, even for a five year old, that my presence would be an intrusion. The clashing of dishes in the sink. Mammy was in a bad fettle. As I neared the kitchen, there was a lull in the argument. So I slunk silently to the door, leaning my cheek on the hard jamb, half hidden, shivering in my pajamas, barefoot on January-cold linoleum, and I listened -- despite the conviction that, were I discovered, Mammy would be cross. Daddy was hardly ever cross. But then Daddy was working away all week, and Daddy didn’t have the bother of us.

“I have to go to work.”

Silence indicated she’d already had her say.

“I have to.”

Cups clattered. She had her back turned to him. If he had; he’d better get on with it.

“Okay. I’m going now, alright?” He opened the back door. “Are you really not for saying goodbye?” He put down his dufflebag and went back to where she stood at the sink. “Sure, I’ll see you on Friday.” He planted a kiss on the side of her head since that was all she offered. “Okay. So… I’m away then.”

Turning briefly by the back door, he noticed me skulking by the door, crouched down, waved his fingers, smiled and was gone.

I seized the opportunity to ask for that drink.

“How long have you been standin’ there?”

Oops – cross voice!

“When it’s time to be up, I’ll tell ye! Away on back tae bed,” and she aimed a bussock at my behind for good measure. I was away before the hand connected.

When the police came to the door that night, to tell us that Daddy would not be home on Friday, or any other Friday, we each felt our own kind of forsaken. Maybe she thought his heart had failed (it was a congenital condition) because of her coldness; iced right up and broken clean in two after that morning spat. The grown-ups uttered quiet euphemisms and shed tears. The family Doctor laced the tea with whiskey -- the only warm spot in that grievous day and in many an abandoned day to come. 

There are times darker than January and things colder than linoleum.

Oonah V Joslin

First Published in The View From Here magazine

A Christmas Poem for 2023

 

Patterns of Christmas Past

How life is stretched now, seven decades deep.

All those glittering cards scattered through time,

shards of people past who rest now asleep,

memories needle sharp, picked out in pine

that pierce the past and make the future weep.

There is a santa claus in every year,

his sack packed full of bitter, sour and sweet,

who brings this rueful smile, that happy tear,

baubles we lost, traditions that we keep

alive. The Christmas jumpers that we wear

remind us our good shepherds watched their sheep

and looked in proudly from the frosty air

and wished us warm and snuggly in our wraps,

hand knitted, stitched in plain and purl, with care.

Oonah V Joslin ©2023

On Angel's Wings

On Angels’ Wings

first published in Static Movement

Gabriel floated on a favourite cloud, knitting with silver needles. He found it quite therapeutic, though it was also part of the job. When he’d finished knitting his wings, it would be time to call time.

It wasn’t entirely up to him when that would be. He couldn’t knit his wings any faster than he could get hold of the materials, and the yarn was spun on Earth. Mankind had started spinning yarns long ago when they’d refused the gift of innocence and needed to cover-up. Since then they’d rejected many of the best gifts on offer, preferring the packaging. They had discarded reason in favour of woolly thinking and had substituted vanity for truth, sex for love, fragrance for freshness.

One day Gabriel would take flight on wings of innocence, reason, truth, responsibility -- the off-cuts of ingratitude – all the stuff man threw away. These unwanted things would bear everything to its destiny. Heaven wastes nothing.

In the beginning there had barely been enough to knit with, but recently supply had exceeded demand. Increasingly, human beings seemed only to value things that brought intense sensation or immediate gratification. They no longer cherished a moment for itself. Packaging was paramount.

So Gabriel’s wings grew and shone ever more brightly day by day. They glowed white with all virtue – light and pure as the air that had been displaced by pollution. His golden threads came from the tones of sunsets never contemplated and fruits not forbidden but left uneaten: pleasures spurned. Soft grey tones were woven from dove’s breast, beneath which beat sacrifice and freedom now disdained in equal measure. Magnesium bright, his needles clacked and scattered light for all to see but so few looked to heaven any more and that was up to them.

Soon he would don his ceremonial wings and place the golden trumpet to his lips and shatter time. He would pull on the little superstring by his feet and all would unravel and return to the light.

The Archangel admired his new wings. He passed no judgments. The choice was not his to make. If a DIY universe is put in the hands of those who will not follow the maker’s instructions, the outcome is perhaps inevitable. 

Halloween Greetings

Paws for Thought

I wish I could sleep

as a cat sleeps

all soft and paws

the whole being

an entity of pause

I wish I could sleep

like that – like a cat.

February 2023: Catching the Wind at Candlemas

My year never begins in January, remembered as the month in which my father died. This January my eldest sister Annabelle passed away too. Noel's half brother also passed on the same day.  

Annabelle was 17 when I was born, very pretty and she wore such lovley clothes! Clothes were elegant in the late fifties. I just about remember her wedding or at least my mother trying to keep me from disrupting it too much. I was only 3 after all! She was a very supportive big sister and on many occasions more of a mother figure to us 3 youngest siblings. 

                   Annbelle and Hubert on their wedding day with my Grandparents

My Grandmother died 45 yrs ago on 11th Feb. I know this because I had just left Ballymena to take my first teaching post in Cardiff when I received the news. In the photo you can just see Margaret, the bridesmaid and Esme was the little flower girl.

I didn't think of it as a great adventure. I was terrified really! Never lived in a city before! But I met up with Noel and we had our first date later that month and we never looked back. February is a welcome friend. It brings with it snowdrops and crocuses, if we are lucky, even daffs, and it's light until 5pm. I greet it with a smile of relief. It's not that Winter is over but it is beginning to be over. The yellow jasmine that has been in bloom since November, is now losing it's flowers and the nithering north winds pull at them, as if to set them free. 

February always feels like being set free. The sun just about warms our bones. So as I remember my sister, I'll heed the warmth and feel thankful and hopeful and share with you this little poem which really wrote itself from observation, (those are mostly the best poems!!!) and is therefore one of my favourites.

In February 1992 we made the first move towards living in Northumberland. I did regard that as an adventure! 

February is a time of new starts and who knows, after the covid doldrums of the past couple of years, maybe I can once more catch the wind.

Catching the Wind

 

Dainty, yellow jasmine flower,

 

                                                      tiny fairy skirt,

 

twisting in the twilight air,

                                                     quite the little flirt.

 

Toying are you with the dark;

                                                     finished with the day?

 

Darting this way, flutt’ring that;

                                                      can’t you get away?

 

Star-struck in the gloom of dusk;

                                                      I see how you’re pinned;

 

Caught there on a spider-line,

                                                       a lure to catch the wind.

First published by The Shine Journal 2007

Subsequently published in The Linnet’s Wings

Goodbye to 2022

I haven't written very much this year, or sent much for publication but I will leave this little memoire from childhood to round off the year and wish you all a Happy and Healthful 2023.

A resurrection in raspberries.

As we spilled out of the town hall, ears tingling with carols, jollity followed us, trinkled along wet streets and trickled in rainbow hues down slushy gutters. Friends, strangers, even old enemies it seemed, greeted one another with Christmas cheer.

Church Street, criss-crossed in multi-coloured bulbs, glowed with pride, its shops festooned with holly wreaths. Even the Brother Archie’s plate glass window bristled with festive sprigs among the Stanley knives, glass baubles glinting out among saws and planes. All was a-sparkle of splintery tinsel and fairy lights. Outside grocery shops, recently cut trees awaited another incarnation, an indoor, scented life among the tangerines and puddings.

As light faded to a glimmer, a single gap in the commerce reined in all sound. The old churchyard lowered black, sucking the celebration from the street. In there was full of people so long dead, they were deaf to Christmas bustle and their dark absence made the lights seem all unreal. I quickened my pace past those wrought iron gates where no tomorrow ever comes. And soon enough the town centre dwindled to narrower streets and darker lanes, and I felt suddenly alone and hurried homeward all happed up in hope.

But I knew life would return to that dank place of runkled graves and dilapidated stones, whose illustrious names, time had all but erased. When the sun was once more at its height, a little taste of heaven would spring up out of decay. We’d walk there, and our eager little hands would reach in through the black surround of the old grave by the crumbling tower, and we’d fill our Sunday hats with soft, ripe fruits, and buy ice cream on the way home, to share the biggest, sweetest raspberries you’ve ever seen. Though, it might have scunnered some to know where we came by them, sure, the grave is silent and we didn’t have to tell. Year after year, this miracle occurred. I never knew his name, our benefactor, but I have never forgot the lessons in hope his grave taught:

True light shines brightest in the darkest times.

The greatest gifts are always freely given and received.

Each day we live’s a little taste of heaven.

Oonah V Joslin 2022

Visiting the War Graves -- 8th November 2022

It is always our privilege to visit the grave of our friend Wojtek Jacobson's brother Andrej at this time of year and so once again we took a walk through the war graves at St Mary's Churchyard on this Autumn day and left a little tribute in remembrance and with thanks for friendships and to those who, like Andrej died far from home. 

There was evidence that the November service on the first Sunday had taken place, in the little candle that had been placed there. Pity it's plastic I thought... But then my own poppy was plastic too. 

Note to self -- must do better.

July 2022 -- Not quite a 'fluffy kitten' story but it's close

We saw a whippet the other day at Newbiggin by the Sea disappear into a hole he'd dug in the sand and it kinda reminded me of this story which I humbly offer to anyone who would like the hell outa here!!!

Mungo’s Hole

A dull Winter’s day on a familiar windy beach is not the place one thinks of for the spectacular to occur. And certainly Joe had no expectations of the day; porridge for breakfast, sandwich for lunch walking the dog, the usual Monday leftovers bubbled and squeaked. He reflected on the down side of being a dog owner as he got blown along the beach in a northerly gale.

Mungo ran ahead, stopped and began digging in his favourite spot. It was a mystery to Joe why he did this but, if it kept him happy. Joe sat on a rock and dug his gloved hands deep into his pockets. It was starting to sleet.

Why hadn’t anything exciting ever happened to him? 
What happened about that millionaire lifestyle, glamorous girlfriends, fast car? 
Where was his dream job, his winning ticket?
How had his life collapsed into this – retirement nothing?
Bloody dog. Bloody January. Bloody wind.

After what he considered sufficient digging time, he got up, pulled his hood over his woollen hat, happed his long scarf closer around him and prepared to turn into the razor sharp, sand-blasting wind for the trudge back, and he whistled for Mungo to follow him. Only Mungo had disappeared completely in the sand.
“Mun-go!” the last syllable climbed into the wind and was whipped away by whatever universal forces. “Mungo!” he barked sharply.
Nothing for it then, but go fetch him and put him on the leash. But when he got to where Mungo was – Mungo wasn’t.
There was a hole. A huge hole. A bigger-than-Mungo-could’ve-dug-in-a-lifetime hole, but no Mungo.
“Mungo?” Joe peered into the hole.
There was no sign of the dog and the depths of the hole looked bright, bright and bottomless. Unfathomable.
Joe wandered up and down the beach, the dunes, the rocks, calling, whistling, calling. Eventually he went back and looked down the bright hole and sat a while at the edge with his feet dangling over the side, wondering whether to commit. But the tide was turning and where the hole was, would soon be covered by the sea, and he had to do something.
Who do you phone about a bright hole and a disappeared Staffordshire terrier?

“Can you take us to exactly where this hole is, sir?” asked the police.
“Are you quite sure your dog was still in there?” asked the fire service.
“Is it a hazard to the public at large?” asked the environmental agency.

Yes, yes and yes.

As they questioned, the tide was encroaching.

By the time they all met up at the hole, the sea was streaming into it like a huge waterfall with rainbows forming at it’s top, lifting spray high into the air. They cordoned it off. The hole was investigated, as far as it could be investigated. It was indeed bright when the tide was out and seemingly bottomless, and that was that until some days later and the phone call came. Soon after, the press arrived at Joe’s door, cameras, flash photography, the lot – and Joe was still in his pyjamas. This was not the moment of fame he had envisaged.

“New Zealand, yes.” FLASH! “Apparently some fishermen.” FLASH! “Yes, I’ll be flying to Dunedin as soon as I” FLASH! “No – he was just digging. He likes digging.” FLASH! “Of course. Tremendously exciting.” FLASH!

Joe was all over the news – in his pyjamas. The headlines didn’t mention Joe, however.

MUNGO’S JOURNEY THROUGH THE CENTRE OF THE EARTH
Cornwall to New Zealand in a flash! 
HOLEY MOLEY – Dog Gone Amazing.

After that the phone didn’t stop ringing. Morning TV. Chat shows. Radio interviews. Dog food companies – they all wanted a piece of the action – offered to pay his fare to New Zealand, first class of course, for an exclusive photo shot of the reunion. Joe turned a lot of them down – unless there was mention of money of course. And after all, he had to conserve his energy for a very long trip!

Mungo, in the meantime, a little confused but no worse for the wear, was being utterly spoiled by his hosts and he didn’t turn down any offers. He had mysteriously appeared atop a water spout south of South Island, was rescued by some fishermen who took him to Dunedin where he became the centre of attention.

The water spout appeared with tidal regularity and, now the hole was of real interest to science, the entire beach was cordoned off. There was even talk of militarising PROJECT MUNGO as it was now called. According to financial forecasts

“This could be one of the most exciting transport systems ever discovered.”

It was a potential goldmine. People were already buying tickets to be first through Mungo’s Hole. And maybe there were other such places worldwide just waiting to be discovered.

As he packed, Joe was thinking how he could have done without all this excitement at his age, let alone having to traipse all the way round the world. Well, whatever happened, from now on Mungo was staying on the lead. No more digging.
Bloody media! Bloody dog!
Still, there was a bright side. At least it was Summer in New Zealand. He hoped it wouldn’t be too hot. He wondered what sort of food they ate there? Maybe he’d like it. Maybe they’d stay!

Joe got to thinking on the long flight. How strange, a day with so little going for it, can turn from a familiar walk on a windy beach, to a conduit to the other side of the world. To have unearthed something so mysterious, something so undefined, was a miracle but perhaps not the miracle it seemed. Joe found he didn’t want fame, money, fast cars or women. And if this was excitement he wasn’t in any danger of liking that either. No. He just wanted Mungo back.

The End

Friday 13th May 1977 -- Friday 13th May 2022 -- Lucky for some

Yes, folks it's 45 years to the day since Noel and I first said hello. In Portrush. Very close to here, where I was living in the upstairs flat at the time as a student. 

54 Causeway Street

He'd come to visit a mutual friend and had a terrible journey from Belfast in the midst of the final day of a loyalist strike! None of the buses were running and the entire province was very tense. By the time he got to us, he was totally frazzled and not a little scared plus a wee bit sea-sick so I said he could sleep on the living-room floor.

 At first this didn't seem, from his point of view, the momentous meeting it was. From my point of view, I took one look at him and thought, "I'm going to marry him." Now for person who doesn't believe in romance, that is a momentous thing! And it didn't take many conversations to confirm my certainty that this was, indeed THE ONE.

There were quite a few obstacles in the way but without planning it all, I ended up with a job in Cardiff and by the following 13th May, we were, as we used to say in those days, 'an item'. 

We've hardly stopped talking since.          Never a cross word! 

We've bought Champers to celebrate and we'll probably babble all the way through the bubbles! 

Always remember

Looks fade but a good conversation can last forever.

St George's Day Poem: George and the Gateshead Worme

Character Colours: Please read it aloud using character colours as a guide to voice changes.

Narrator Worme Thane George Maiden (Hiss and Boo) on cards held up for audience

George and the Gateshead Worme – by Oonah V Joslin 2016

There was a worm lived in Gateshead
in the once-upon-long-ago
with vicious scales and big long nails
a fiery wake that wreaked of death
he carried plague on his foul breath
for he had come up from the SOUTH (boo)
at least that’s how the legend goes.

I’ll eat you all. I’ll ssscorch your town.
I’ll burn your buildingsss to the ground.
I’ll make you plead and beg and weep
unlesss you bring me sheepsss to eat. (hiss)

People complied, what could they do?
‘Til one day all the sheep were gone.
The Worme demanded calves and hogs
horses and asses, cats and dogs,
fowl by the dozen – since they’re small
he downed them whole – feathers and all
and when the livestock was all gone
there was a meeting in the toon.

I’ll eat you all. I’ll ssscorch your fieldsss
I’ll burn your cropsss to cindersss. I’ll
make the river bubble and boil
unlesss you bring me girlsss and boysss. (hiss)

The squire stood there and the thane in
fine threads with haughty demeanour
they’d had turtle doves for breakfast
roast swan and peacocks for dinner
tomorrow they’d have guinea-fowl.
They weren’t getting any thinner! (boo)

We have been forced to make a deal
in these wretched and austere times
with the Worme of Gateshead, people. (boo)
And the Squire wrung his noble hands.

Though it pains us as it pains you
to give in to this vile bully,
we have been forced to make this deal.
You must understand this fully. (boo)

From this day we must deliver
a child a week to The Worme’s lair (hiss)
We’ll draw lots for the sacrifice.
Indeed! I think that’s very fair!

And though the towns folk booed and hissed
the Thane and squire didn’t hear
for they were spirited away
by henchmen – and partook of beer
before going their separate ways
to their out-of-town fortresses.
The first lot fell on gypsy folk
who cursed the Worme that it might choke.

Now and again The Worme came down
just to intimidate the town
swooping and snooping, breathing flame
and he observed the squire and thane
feasting together in the tower
and the squire’s daughter, plump, well fed,
was slurping broth and chomping bread.

Do you really think you can cheat
a dragon with sssuch ssscrawny meat?
Thessse ssskinny children of the poor
are but a morsssel. I want more.
Sssquire, I will have the best you’ve got
and to your daughter fallsss that lot! (hiss)

The squire now wrung his hands for real
he knew there could be no appeal.

Sir George (Huzzah!) was travelling from the south
he was a brave and fearless youth
a knight whose armour shone with truth
he’d heard tell of this Gateshead Worme (hiss)
and thought that it could do no harm
to offer succour to the town
since they were suckers anyway…

Good Knight, as Squire I beg, won’t you
save us from this most evil Worme?

I’ll think about it – here’s the price
you all must pray to Jesus Christ.

He’s eaten all our cheeses too!
The thane was not the brightest coin.
I mean if you become Christians (what dorks!)
I’ll save your daughter and your town.

No problem! Anything you say.
But it’ll have to be today
to save my beautiful daughter
from inevitable slaughter.
She’s up there now you see. Hurry!

Young George leapt on his faithful steed
with his trusty sword Ascalon
and to Gateshead he rode with speed
to find the poisonous dragon.
He glittered in the noonday sun
his hilt with garnets shone and gold.
I will smite thee, O Worme! he cried. (Huzzah!)

The Worme replied, Oooo Aren’t you bold!
Nothing will keep me from my catch
I’m just about to do my worssst
maybe you’d care to ssstay and watch?
or maybe I should cook you firssst! (hiss)

The dragon’s fiery breath surged forth.
The maiden gave a screech of fear. (weak cartoonish screech for HELP)
George thrust his sword into its heart.
Down from his blade a droplet fell.
Up from the ground grew a red rose.

You saved my life the maiden swooned,
you are my hero. You’re a saint.
When I get out of this armour
lass, I think you’ll find – that I aint!

Being well travelled I suppose
there’s always dragons to be killed.
The story goes George plucked the rose.
Saints are allowed some – latitude
for it’s well known – Maids everywhere
have ways of showing – gratitude. (One last HUZZAH! From all the readers)

April 2022 -- Thirty Years Ago... Moving Times

Me at 38

It's hard to believe it was 30 years ago on Apr 14th since I moved to Northumberland. It was the second big move of my life. The first was from N. Ireland to Cardiff, 14 years previously, with only a trunk and a suitcase to take up a new job.

Noel had been here since February and I was left to work my contract out and pack up the house. It was a lonely time, eased by the kindness of good friends like Alun and Mary Norman. Luckily I had a bit of help from Krissy Kirby (Smith) on that final day. It would have been grim had nobody else been there. 

As it was, Pickford's loaded all our belongings of 14 years, into the van, I hoovered, locked the door of our house in Port Talbot and left to spend my last evening in Wales, in Swansea, with family. The next morning carrying only an overnight bag, I took the National Coach to Newcastle via Birmingham and Noel met me some eight hours later at Gallowgate bus station. It was Eastertime so we had to wait a week for the keys to our new pad in the grounds of St Mary's Hospital, Morpeth and for our stuff to be delivered. It didn't really matter as long as we were back together! 

It was a lovely house in the grounds of a Psychiatric Hospital, surrounded by trees, red squirrels and rabbits, views right over the Northumberland countryside to the south, lots of fresh air -- just right for the stress I'd been under. It no longer exists because it was demolished when the hospital closed, but we both remember 2 Southview fondly.

And looking back on things now, I couldn't be happier with the turns my life took. I don't suppose I count as Northumbrian yet but most of the time I feel at home and I have now lived longer in Morpeth than anywhere else in all my life. That has to count for something. In any case, we have little intention of ever moving again. It inspired a story though and some good 'moving tips' actually if you would care to follow the link below.

                                                        STORY: Moving Times

It is a hard enough thing to leave a place voluntarily, to have time to do it, to have another place to go and to know the people you love are safe. Let's spare a thought this Easter for those millions of refugees who have had to leave everything behind, including people they love, in a war zone. I can't imagine how that must feel.

.

April 2022 -- Palm Sunday -- Andrej Jedlina Jacobson

 We don't necessarily go to St. Mary's Churchyard on Palm Sunday because it's so busy that day but this week we made our visit to Andrew's grave in advance. 

The war graves are always beautifully kept and the aspect is pleasant. The trees that blew over in storm Arwen have been removed and if anything it has opened the cemetry up to more light. Rabbits were chasing across the paths when we were there -- a lovely sight!

I believe Andrej Jedlina Jacobson, brother of my friend, master Yachtsman Woytek, would have been 100 this year. I can't remember the date though. I would love to know it. He was only 24 when he died of TB in Morpeth Cottage Hospital. He wanted to be a doctor like his father and he was a keen artist too.

Their brother Ebbig is buried in Glasgow. Their father is buried in London. Their mother was a survivor of Ravensbruck. I think of them all when I stand there at the grave. 

I think of all the families affected by war. It is so very sad. And on this occasion too, I thought of all the young men in the field of war in Ukraine and those who have been forced to leave, people they love and the land they love, and seek refuge among strangers.

I pray for an end to war and that all my friends everywhere will have a peaceful Easter.

My Sister's Diamond Wedding

 

I Remember You

31^st March 1962

Well, I remember being in the way all morning! Being in the way and with all these people around. I’m sure I didn’t really know who half of them were! I remember getting all dressed up in my little blue nylon dress, I think there was a bolero involved, lacy gloves, silky soft ankle socks with a double blue stripe round the top and darling pearlised shoes with a button on the side. I was very chuffed with those. Of course there was the compulsory hat, with elastic to go round your chin, ostensibly so it wouldn’t blow off, but I think hat-elastic was actually a form of torture!

Plus I had to sit beside Mammy – and keep still – and behave in church. Where were the sweets? I don’t remember any sweets! Keeping still was only bearable with sweets!!

The dress

After the ceremony, which took aeons by the way, there were photos. Lots and lots of photos! I think they must have used an entire roll – cameras in those days required rolls. Margaret of course, looked very beautiful. Her dress was a gorgeous cloud of lacy white wonderfulness! Bouquet bigger than her head! Raymond looked impossibly tall and handsome in his uniform.

Our nephew Robin who was four at the time

Later I remember waiting, on the pavement outside Davison’s Cafe – we waited – and waited -- and waited, and an icy wind blew from the direction of Church Street, straight up our nylon dresses. That wind wasn’t taking prisoners! My knees were bluer than my dress. A few flakes of snow began to fall on our straw hats. Our pearl shoes froze to the pavement and I heartily wished I was wearing my school vest, liberty bodice, cotton blouse, chunky knitted cardy, blazer, box pleat skirt, blue bobby socks and industrial strength navy knickers. They knew how to dress you for school in those days! Weddings were a different matter. I tell you, if there was a bolero involved, it didn’t earn its keep.

Signing the Register

At last, when the door opened, we still had to wait – for the bride and groom to arrive and go in first, as is tradition. Traditions are very over-rated if you ask me!

From upstairs wafted the irresistible aroma of good vegetable soup – warm, comforting, yummy vegetable soup! Torture I tell you!! But in the end we got in, and got fed, and all was bliss for both the wedded and the hungry.

Aunt Georgie Bell, Mrs Hinks, Mammy, Christine, me and Esme.
Uncle Sammy gave the bride away.

I remember 31^st March 1962. I was seven. And Frank Ifield’s ‘I Remember You’, is the song I associate with Margaret and Ray. But most of all I remember that delicious smell that wafted down, as if from heaven above to the poor souls below, in their elasticated hats, with their wee frozen legs.

They do say, “Give me a child ‘til he is seven….” Well can I vouch for it; it’s true! I haven’t changed that much in all these decades. Given the choice between moments of high romance and vegetable soup, I’ll still take the soup any day!

All the close family

Margaret and Ray, 

Congratulations on your 60 years together.